Wolf Hunting (9 page)

The light was brighter still up ahead, bright enough that Firekeeper could see Blind Seer as a shaggy outline, though the greys and browns of his coat hardly differed from shadow. Ahead of the Royal Wolf, Truth, either more in the light or the brighter hues of her coat giving the illuminated blocks more to show, was visible. The jaguar was sniffing at something set in the wall, pawing at it as a kitten might a mouse hole, her muscles tight with mindless frustration.

Firekeeper joined the pair, standing in back of Blind Seer, aware that the wolf would do better at stopping Truth if the jaguar’s frustration should turn against them. From this vantage she did her best to understand what was before her.

Truth—or Truth’s body, for Firekeeper felt certain that body and mind were still not united—stood before another chunk of tarnished silver. This one was set flush into the polished stone of the wall, as if it had been built in when the surrounding room was made.

Although the silver block was tarnished black, Firekeeper thought she could see motion within, as if dull black was giving back a reflected image of the jaguar who stood before it. Instantly, Firekeeper understood. This was another door and Truth’s spirit was on the other side, almost close enough to be joined with her physical self.

“Does this mean more moonlight and song and days of polishing?” Blind Seer growled. His hackles were up, making him seem much larger and much more dangerous. “Does this mean more bloodshed?”

“Perhaps,” Firekeeper temporized, “but shove Truth away for me and let me try something.”

“I will not let you harm yourself,” Blind Seer rumbled. “Promise me. No more cutting.”

“No more than has already been done,” Firekeeper promised.

So Blind Seer stepped forward and shouldered the jaguar a few steps back from the blackened block of silver. Truth did not resist. Perhaps she sensed that the wolf was trying to help her. Firekeeper was glad. A fight between the pair would have been ugly indeed. As soon as she could, Firekeeper slid herself into the narrow space between Blind Seer and the wall.

Deftly, she unbound the blood-sodden rag from about her thigh. It was damp enough to dapple droplets onto the floor, and make the knot hard to untie.

Once Firekeeper had the cloth free, she rubbed the bloody thing against the tarnished silver block. Almost instantly there was a transformation. The blackened metal soaked up the wet blood, seeming to drink it. Where the rag touched the block it left behind a surface that was not only shining, but rapidly becoming transparent. Then it was not there at all.

A breeze moved the air in the enclosed chamber, carrying with it a form as tenuous as moonlight. It leapt over Blind Seer, and sank into Truth. The jaguar trembled from head to tail, stiffened, then crumpled onto the floor as if her paws could not bear the added weight of her soul.

Firekeeper felt the air around her eddy, then still. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that the opening had closed once more. Only a shining square of silver remained, twisting the reflection of her worried frown into a mocking leer.

AS BODY AND SOUL REJOINED, Truth fell into darkness, and in that darkness the mocking-voiced one waited. Yet there was no mockery in his voice now, only a dreadful sincerity that commanded her full attention.

“They are going to ask you about this place,” the voice said. “Tell them what you know.”

“I know nothing,” Truth said, sulkily. “Who are you?”

“A friend,” the other replied. “Haven’t I proved it? All I ask is for you to remember what I did for you—consider that later.”

“Later?”

“Trust me. You’ll know exactly what I mean.”

“You ask for a great deal of trust.”

“I led you out, didn’t I?”

Truth felt her body around her, aware of heartbeat and breath as never before, and was forced to agree.

“Remember,” the voice said. “And now, I will let you awaken. Until we meet again, Truth.”

“Again?”

“Surely you know all things are possible, O gifted one.” The mockery had returned to the voice. “And the omens favor some things more than others.”

Truth sensed that the source of the voice was gone. In another breath, she smelled—really
smelled
—others around her. There were sounds—real sounds—and she knew them for voices. She opened her outer lids, and the light was not too bright.

Opening her inner lids, she pushed up to rest on her paws and breastbone, aware how limp and sore her muscles were, but then—images from her body’s memory flooded her mind—she had hardly moved for days now.

“I’m thirsty,” she rasped.

PLIK HARDLY KNEW whether he was relieved or not when Firekeeper emerged from the dark rooms behind the silver door, the limp body of Truth hanging heavily in her arms. For a moment, he thought the jaguar was dead, even though his nose caught none of the staleness of death.

When Truth awoke, and even spoke and drank, Plik felt joy and relief, but no abatement in his confusion. Blind Seer’s account as to how Truth’s spirit had apparently come forth from a silver block did not help much. Plik pressed back confusion by concentrating on immediate problems.

“Can someone,” Plik said, “tell me what is behind that silver door other than a room with a silver block set in the wall?”

Firekeeper still stood in the doorway, obviously determined that the silver door would not slam shut without warning.

“We did not see much,” the wolf-woman said, “for our attention was on Truth, but the door seems to open into a suite or apartment. I think we might risk another, closer look. Blind Seer and I neither saw nor smelled any stranger.”

She looked at Truth for confirmation.

“I think exploring should be safe,” the jaguar said, “but let us make certain someone stays to hold the doorway. It does not like being open—and I think opening it again will be difficult, at least until the moon is right.”

That reminded Plik of another question. “Firekeeper, what made you think of using blood to finish the opening ritual?”

Firekeeper’s dark eyes were troubled. “Remember last year? What Shivadtmon did? What Dantarahma is said to have done? These involved blood, so I thought …”

She shrugged, and obviously did not wish to say more. Knowing her aversion to magic—indeed, sharing it after what he had seen—Plik did not press her further, though every part of him wanted to argue with her rather than be in sympathy. Instead, he looked at the jaguar.

“Truth, how did you come here? I cannot believe it was mere chance.”

The jaguar lifted her head. “I was guided here, and before you ask, I have no idea who that guide was, nor for what purpose he took pity on me.”

“He?” Firekeeper asked, her husky tones focused and fierce. “Then you saw him?”

“Never,” Truth replied. “I heard him—a voice, sweet but mocking. He had the arrogance of an eagle screeching contempt at the land-bound.”

Plik heard Rascal—safely above the trench—add, “Or a jaguar in her Year.”

Truth did not hear, or if she did she did not choose to comment. “That voice was the one solid thing in … Do not make me remember where I was when I first heard it. I admit, I am afraid of being drawn back. There was a voice. It called me to it. I followed and found myself in this place, but locked behind the silver block. The voice’s owner did not bring me through, but told me that there was a door, and if that door was opened I would be united with myself again.”

“And did he name me as the door opener?” Firekeeper asked.

“He might have,” Truth said. “Yes. He did. I do not recall asking for you, but I suppose I must have done so, for you are here, and I am free.”

Blind Seer growled. Plik thought he did not envy the owner of the voice that had spoken to Truth—no matter who he was or what power he might wield. This voice had earned Blind Seer’s enmity, and the blue-eyed wolf would be a deadly opponent.

Something you should remember
, Plik reminded himself.

“Could this place be a tomb?” Truth said, so hesitantly that Plik could hardly believe it was the jaguar who spoke. “I remember a little of when it spoke to me. I thought I might be dead and a ghost, and that the Voice was another ghost.”

“Tomb?” Firekeeper said. “I know graves, but tombs?”

“Those who came here from the Old Country sometimes built houses for their dead,” Powerful Tenderness explained. “The tradition is not common anymore, for it takes much labor, and the modern Liglimom celebrate the living, and remember the dead in their traditional lore, not by sacrifices. I am surprised that those of the Gild-crest lands do not build tombs, for I believe Derian Carter said they worship their ancestors.”

“I know little enough about that,” Firekeeper said. “They do give them grave offerings, but I don’t believe they build them houses. I think the shrines within the homes of the living serve that role.”

Blind Seer sniffed at the darkness behind the silver door. “Tomb or something else, we will not know unless we go and look. Who goes with us?”

“I would like to inspect that suite,” Plik said. “It and the root cellar into which Rascal fell seem to be the only traces left of what once stood here—and of whoever lured Truth to this place. I see a faint glow. Is there light within?”

“Some, farther in, in rooms to the back,” Firekeeper said. “It is the old kind—the glowing blocks, but so dim that it carries not very far. A lantern might be useful—even though your night vision is good. I think you might find things to read.”

So there was a delay while lanterns were brought from the camp. Then Firekeeper offered to carry Truth up to a more comfortable place than the trench before the door, but the Wise Jaguar refused.

“I am too weak to walk with you,” she said, “but my hearing is very good, and I can follow what happens from here.”

“And I,” Powerful Tenderness said, suiting action to words, “will be the doorstop. Even if some force beyond what is natural tries to close this door, I think I am strong enough to stop it—at least long enough for you to get out.”

Firekeeper looked at Plik. “Blind Seer and I will go with you. Between us three, we should find all there is to find.”

Young Rascal did not even ask to cross over the threshold now that he knew his pack mates were safe. Indeed, he seemed quite relieved when Blind Seer set him as sentry above the trench.

The wolves entered first, then Plik, holding the lantern. He had the wick turned low, so as to not spoil his own night vision, and was resolved not to turn it up unless needed. Fire and enclosed spaces were not a good combination.

The dull yellow-red glow provided enough light for Plik to see that he stood in a small entry foyer. Only one at a time might pass through this space, and he wondered at that.

His bare feet touched the rough tiles set in the entryway. When he looked above, he saw an odd “candelabrum,” set with quartz crystals where wax candles should have been.

A sorcerer’s light, then, but one from which the power was long gone. Plik wondered at this, too, but passed on, hoping for clarification in the larger rooms.

“There are four chambers,” Firekeeper said as Plik came out of the entryway. “One seems to be for sleeping. The other three …”

She shrugged, and Plik was reminded that in the ways of humans Firekeeper might know less than he did for all she looked so much like a human. Certainly, he knew more of the customs of the Liglimom.

“No cooking place?” he asked. “No place to wash? Is there any place that smells as if a body is enshrined there?”

Blind Seer padded in. “One chamber does have fresh water flowing through it. Another chamber holds a faint scent as of food and fire, but there are none of the pots and kettles humans seem to need to make their food. No body, but then bones have little smell once they are dry. It is a very odd place.”

Plik had to agree, and the oddity of the place increased when he had made his own quick tour. He did not think the place had been a tomb. There was no urn nor coffin, no sarcophagus nor niche. No statues, paintings, or other aids to remembering the deeds of the deceased as one would expect. He supposed the place must have been an apartment, but if so, it was the strangest he had ever imagined.

The water chamber could have served for bathing and elimination, but other than a large bowl carved from blue-grey slate it lacked the usual fixtures. There was an iron brazier in another chamber, but rather than coals it held chunks of dark reddish stone—another quartz, he thought.

Fire had been made here, but as with the light in the entryway, it had not been a natural fire. Whoever had dwelled in—or had been imprisoned in—this place had been a sorcerer then, and a sorcerer of no mean power if he, or she, had used magic to supply light and heat and possibly, for not even the wolves’ keen noses found any larders, food and wine.

Was this a sorcerer’s retreat then? Or perhaps a sorcerer’s prison?

Plik shared some of his conjectures with his companions, ending by saying: “But I only felt the slightest vibration of active magic here, and that more of the sort stored in amulets. This place is rife with the tools of magic—more so than I have ever seen in one place.”

Firekeeper frowned. “But you have seen magical tools in the past.”

“A few, like the light stones,” Plik said, “but in this land, as in the north, magical artifacts were destroyed following the coming of Divine Retribution. Those we have at Center Island would not still function today except that Sky-Dreaming-Earth-Bound had some gift for handling energies. Now that he is dead, I suppose they will darken again.”

At his words, Plik was pleased to see Blind Seer’s hackles smooth—at least a little—and Firekeeper’s hand move deliberately from the hilt of her knife. Whether he had soothed the two northerners or merely shamed them, still he felt he had defused a potentially destructive situation.

“There is a secret hidden here,” Plik went on. “I am sure of it. There are a few books in this room”—they stood in the first room—“and in the room with the silver block. I could read those …”

He heard a faint sigh from Firekeeper, and knew he was pressing her patience. He must remember she was not human and that being underground would not be natural for her.