Wolf-Speaker

Daine introduced the young wolves to her friends. The pups came to accept Numair, the horses, and Cloud, but nothing could make them like the young dragon. When she went near them, they would run to hide behind an adult wolf. At last Kitten turned grey, the colour that meant she was sulking, and waddled over to the pond. There she played with stones, pretending to ignore everyone.

Why is she sad? asked Russet. They are pups. They don’t know any better.

‘She’s no more than a pup herself,’ Daine replied. ‘I can’t even talk to her as I could to her ma. She looks big, but as dragons go she’s a baby.’

I see. Getting up, the red-coated wolf trotted over to the dragon and began to paw at her rocks. Soon they were playing, and Kitten’s scales regained their normal, gold-tinged blue colour.

Daine was wrestling a stick out of the jaws of a pup she had decided to call Silly when Brokefang came to say, We hunt. Since the pups accept you and Numair and the horses, will you guard them?

‘We’ll be honoured to guard your pups,’ Daine told him.

The pack left, and Numair began to cook as Daine groomed the horses. The smell of frying bacon called the pups to the fire, their noses twitching. The new scent cancelled some of their fear of Kitten: as long as she kept to one side of the fire and they to the other, the young wolves didn’t object. When the first pan of bacon was done, Numair gave in to the pleading in five pairs of brown eyes and one pair of slit-pupilled blue, and doled it out to his audience.

After Numair, the pups, and the horses went to bed, Daine lay awake, listening to the chatter of owls and bats. At the fringe of her magic she felt immortals pass overhead. They weren’t Stormwings, or griffins, or any of the others she had met before. She sensed she would not like these if they did meet. There was a nasty undertone to them in her mind, like the taint of old blood.

The pack returned not long after the creatures’ presence faded in her mind. Was it good hunting? she asked Brokefang silently, so she wouldn’t disturb Numair.

He came to sit with her. An old and stringy elk. He gave us a good run, though, he replied. Cloud says you are trying to fit into her skull. It sounds like an interesting thing.

I tried it once, said Daine. Cloud thinks I might do better with wolves. I would have asked before, but I needed to rest first.

Are you rested now? he wanted to know. I would like you to try it with me.

She smiled and said, All right. And thank you.

Must I do anything in particular?

No. Just wait.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, let it out. Sounds pressed on her: Numair’s snore, Short Snout’s moan as he dreamed of rabbits, the pups chewing, Battle washing a paw. Beyond those noises she heard others belonging to the forest and air around them.

She concentrated on Brokefang until she heard fleas moving in his pelt. He yawned, so close that it felt as if he yawned inside her ears. She listened for his thoughts and found them: the odour of blood from his kill, the drip of water from the trees overhead, the joy of being one with the pack. Brokefang sighed—

Daine was sleepy; her belly was overly full and rumbling as it broke the elk meat down. She could see young Silly from where she lay; he was asleep on his back with his paws in the air. She crinkled her whiskers in a silent laugh.

The smells, the sounds. She had never been so aware of them in her life. There was the wind through pine needles, singing of rocks and open sky. Below, a mole was digging. Her nostrils flared. Here was wolf musk, the perfume of her packmates. There was the hay-and-hide scent of the horses-who-are-not-prey, enticing but untouchable. A whiff of flowers, animal musk, and cotton was the girl-who-is-Pack. She looked at the girl, and realized she looked at herself.

It was a jolt to see her own face from the outside, one that sent her back into herself. Daine opened her eyes. ‘I did it!’

Numair stirred as the pack got up. ‘You did what?’ he asked sleepily.

Brokefang washed Daine’s ear as she explained. ‘I was Brokefang. I mean, we were both in Brokefang’s mind. We were wolves – I was a wolf. It was only for a few minutes, but it happened!’

The man sat up, hugging his knees. ‘Good. Next time you can do it longer.’ He looked at Brokefang. ‘Did it hurt you the way it hurt Cloud?’

No, the wolf replied as Daine translated. We will do it again.

The girl yawned and nodded. At last she was sleepy. ‘Tomorrow,’ she promised, wriggling down into her bedroll.

Brokefang yawned when she did. Tomorrow, he agreed, as sleepy as she was.

When she woke, it was well past dawn. Numair crouched beside the pond, with Kitten and the pack behind him, watching what he did with interest. Faint black fire dotted with white sparks spilled from his hands to the water’s surface, forming a circle there. At last he sighed. The fire vanished.

‘What was that?’ Daine asked, dressing under the cover of her blankets.

‘There’s an occult net over the valley,’ he said, grimacing as he got to his feet. ‘It’s subtle – I doubt many would even sense it – and it serves to detect the use of magic. It also would block all messages I might send to the king. To anyone, for that matter. And since this valley is hidden beneath the aura cast by the City of the Gods, no one outside can even tell the net is here.’

‘Wonderful,’ she said dryly. ‘So Dunlath is a secret within a secret.’

Numair beamed at her. ‘Precisely. I couldn’t have put it better.’

‘And this net – will it pick up any magic?’ she asked, putting her bed to rights. ‘Will them that set it know you just looked at it?’

‘No. A scrying spell is passive, not active. It shows what exists without influencing it.’

‘What’s here that’s so important?’ Daine asked. ‘Stormwing patrols, two forts, a magical net – what has Fief Dunlath got that needs so much protecting?’

‘We need to find out,’ Numair said. ‘As soon as you’ve had breakfast, I think we should see the northern part of the valley.’

She ate as Numair set the camp in order and saddled Cloud and Spots. Mangle agreed to stay with the pack after Daine convinced them – and him – that he was to be left alone. The girl then offered the carry-sling to Kitten. The young dragon looked at it, then at the still-nervous Mangle. She shook her head and trotted over to the pack horse, clearly choosing to stay and keep him company. With the small dragon by his feet, Mangle relaxed. Daine, who knew Kitten was well able to protect herself, relaxed as well, and mounted Cloud. Brokefang, Fleetfoot, and Short Snout led the way as she and Numair followed.

The group used a trail high on the mountainside, one that was broad enough for the horses, and kept moving all morning, headed north. Daine listened hard for immortals, and called a halt twice as Stormwings passed overhead.

Stop, Brokefang ordered at last. We must leave the trail here.

We will hide, Cloud told her, with Spots’s agreement. Don’t worry about us.

Afoot, Daine and Numair trailed the wolves through a cut in the ground that led up into tumbled rock. Brokefang crawled up to the edge of a cliff, Fleetfoot and Short Snout behind. The two humans kept low and joined them. Lying on their bellies next to their guides, they looked over the edge of the cliff.

Few trees stood in the upper ten miles of the lake’s western edge: most lay in a wood between the fort structure and the river that flowed into the north end of the lake. Much of the ground between that fort and their vantage point was heaped into mounds of dirt and rock, some of them small hills in their own right. The only greenery to speak of was patches of scraggly weed.

Roads were cut into the dirt, leading down to deep pits that lay between the mounds. Men and ogres alike toiled here, dressed in loincloths and little else. Some pulled dirt-filled carts out of the pits. When they returned with empty carts, they vanished into the black, yawning holes of the mines.

Wherever she looked she saw ogres, aqua-skinned beings that varied in size from her own height to ten or twelve feet. Their usually straggly hair was chopped to a rough stubble that went as low as their necks and shoulders. They had pointed ears that swivelled to catch any sound, bulging eyes, and yellowing, peg-like teeth. She was no stranger to their kind, but most of her meetings with them had been fights of one sort or another. This was the first time she had seen any used as beasts of burden, or as slaves. All of them appeared to be at the mercy of the armed humans who patrolled the entire area. One ogre, a sad and skinny creature, slumped to his knees. Three humans came after him, their whips raised.

Daine looked away. On her right was the lake. Barrack-like buildings, some big enough to house ogres, had been erected of raw wood on the near shore. Between them, human and ogre children played under the watchful eye of an ogre female. The fort on the town’s north side was well built and, to judge from the many tiny human figures that came and went, well manned. Boats lay at docks on the lake between town and fort, guarded by men.

She closed her eyes, listening for animals. In the pits she heard only a few rats and mice. Every other animal had fled the zone of destruction, and its fringes were loud with battles fought over every bit of food. In the lake she heard death. Filth lay in the water: garbage from the town and fort, waste dirt from the mines. The fish gasped for air in the lake’s northern waters. Their kinfolk in cleaner water went hungry as food sources died.

Brokefang stuck his cold nose into the girl’s ear. I told you, he said.

‘Those are mines,’ Numair commented, his voice low. He unhooked his spyglass from his belt, opened it, and put it to his eye. ‘But what are they for? The opal mines around here were emptied nearly half a century ago.’

‘What are opals?’ asked Daine.

‘They are used in magic, like other gemstones. Mages will do anything to get opals, particularly black opals.’

Daine was puzzled. Since her arrival in Tortall she had seen all kinds of precious stones, but not those. ‘What do they look like?’

Numair lifted a chain that lay around his neck, under his shirt. From it hung a single oval gem that shimmered with blue, green, orange, and gold fires. ‘Opals are power stones. Black ones like this are the best. They store magic, or you may use the stone to increase the strength of a spell. I saved for years to purchase this. Emperor Ozorne has a collar made of them – six rows, threaded on gold wire. He has a mine somewhere, but he guards the location even more carefully than he guards his power.’ He glared at the mines. ‘Surely we would know if opal dirt were found here once more. Dunlath is a Tortallan fief.’

The ground shook last autumn, Brokefang said. See the raw earth on the mountains, behind the fort? Cliffs fell there. In spring, when the pups were new and still blind, a mage came and exploded holes where the pits are now.

‘Let us speculate,’ Numair said when Daine finished translating. ‘Something of value – opal dirt, for example, or even gold – was seen in the fallen cliffs, after the earthquake. The lord of Dunlath sent for a mage with blasting expertise, doubtless a war mage, on the chance he would uncover more – and he did. It may be the same mage who destroyed the Ninth Riders. But who buys what is taken from the land? It isn’t the king, or he would have told us.’

Daine looked back at the mines. The ogre who had fallen was on his feet again, blue liquid – his blood – coursing down his back in stripes. ‘I don’t care if they are ogres,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s slavery down there, and we aren’t a slave country.’

‘It appears they are expanding, too.’ Numair pointed over Daine’s shoulder. Here, in a direction she had not looked before, humans and ogres with axes were hard at work, cutting down trees and dragging the stumps from the ground.

Now you see why we need you, Brokefang said, baring his teeth as he watched the tree cutting. This must stop. It will stop. Soon there will be no game, and everyone here will starve, even the ones who ordered this.

‘We need to learn more,’ Numair replied. ‘We need to speak with those in charge, in the fief village and the castle. Then I want to get word to King Jonathan. Something is badly amiss.’ He inched back into the cover of the trees, Daine, Fleetfoot, and Short Snout following.

Realizing Brokefang had not come with them, Daine looked back. The chief wolf stood on the cliff, his fur bristling, his ears forwards and his tail up as he growled defiance at the ruin below.

On their return to the campsite, Daine let the others go ahead as she took her crossbow and went hunting. She was in luck, finding and bagging two plump rabbits soon after leaving the trail.

Human friends often exclaimed to see her hunt. They seemed to think, because she shared a bond with animals, that she ought to go meatless.

‘That’s fair daft,’ she had said when Princess Kalasin mentioned it. ‘Some of my best friends are hunters. I’m a hunter. You eat what you’re made to eat. I just make sure I don’t use my power to bring game to me, and I stop listening for animal voices with my magic. I close it all off.’

‘You can do that?’ Kally had asked, eyes wide.

‘I must,’ Daine had replied. ‘Otherwise my hunting would be – dirty. Vile. When I go, I hunt like any other two-legger, looking for tracks and following trails. And I’ll tell you something else. I kill fast and clean, so my game doesn’t suffer. You know I can, too. I almost never miss a shot.’

‘I suppose, if that’s how you do it, it’s all right,’ the girl had said, though she still looked puzzled.

Daine had snorted. ‘Fairer than them that kill an animal for its horns or skin, so they can tack it on their wall. I hunt to eat, and only to eat.’

When she reached the camp, it was nearly dark. The pack had gone, leaving Russet, Numair, and Kitten with the pups and horses. Once Daine appeared, Russet left to hunt for himself. Numair, who had started a pot of rice, smiled when he saw her, but he looked preoccupied. From experience she knew it did no good to talk when something was on his mind, so she let him be.

Once her rabbits were cleaned, spitted, and cooking, she groomed the horses and Cloud, oiled rough patches on Kitten’s hide, and wrestled with the pups. She ate quickly when supper was done, and cleaned up without bothering Numair. He wandered to the opposite side of the pond, where he stretched out on the ground and lay staring at the trees overhead.

Russet came back, grinning. All that was left of a pheasant who had not seen him in the brush was a handful of bright feathers in his fur. He panted as Daine pulled them out, then licked her face.

‘Would you help me do something?’ Daine asked, and explained the badger’s lesson.

It sounds interesting, the young wolf answered. What must I do?

‘Nothing,’ the girl said. ‘I have to come into you.’ Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and let it go. All around she heard familiar noises. Numair had gone to sleep. Cloud drowsed where she stood, dreaming of galloping along an endless plain. Kitten sorted through a collection of pebbles, muttering to herself. Daine closed out everything but Russet’s sounds: his powerful lungs taking air in and letting it go, the twitch of an ear, the pulse of his heart.

She drew closer and closer until his thoughts crept into her mind. On the surface were simple things, like the shred of pheasant caught on a back tooth, the coolness of the packed earth under his body, his enjoyment of being with her. Below that was the powerful sense of Pack that was part of any wolf, the feeling of being one with a group where everything was shared.

The change from her mind to his was gradual this time. It felt as if she were water sinking into earth, becoming part of him in slow bits. When he blinked, vision came in blacks, whites, and greys, and she knew she saw through his eyes. Her ears picked up the tiniest movement, from the scratch of Kitten’s claws on her pebbles to the grubbing of a mouse in the reeds. He inhaled, and a rich bouquet of odours came to her: the individual scents of everyone in the clearing, wet earth, pines, the fire, moss, traces of cooked rabbit and plants.

He sniffed again, and caught a whiff of scent from the trench Daine and Numair used as a privy. The girl was amazed. She disliked that smell, and had dug the trench far from the clearing where they ate and slept on purpose. She certainly couldn’t detect it with her own nose. Not only could Russet smell it clearly, but he didn’t think the trench odour was bad – just interesting.

Silly galloped over to leap on Russet’s back, and Daine was back within her own mind. ‘Thank you,’ she told Russet in a whisper.

Thank you, he replied, and trotted off to romp with the pups.

She stretched, not quite comfortable yet in her skin. The change to her own senses was a letdown. As good as her ears were, they were not nearly as sharp as the wolf’s, and her nose was a poor substitute for his. While she was glad not to be able to smell the trench once more, there had been plenty of good scents available to Russet.

‘At least I see colours,’ she told Kitten. ‘That’s something.’

The pack returned with full bellies as she was banking the fire. They had fed on a sheep that had strayed from its flock, reducing it to little more than a handful of well-gnawed bones.

Daine frowned when she heard this. ‘But that’s one of the things that make two-leggers hunt you, when you eat their animals.’

They will not find out, Brokefang said calmly. When you ran with the pack before, you warned us about human herds. We cannot stop eating them. They are slow, and soft, without hard feet or sharp horns to protect them. What we can do is hide signs of the kill. We sank what was left in a marsh, and we dragged leafy branches over the place where we killed, to hide the blood.

Instead of reassuring her, his answer made her uneasy. Here was more unwolflike behaviour, a result of the pack’s involvement with her. Where would it end? She couldn’t even say the change was only in Brokefang, because the rest of the pack helped him. She had to think of a way to protect them, or to change them back to normal beasts, before humans decided the Long Lake Pack was too unusual – too dangerous – to live.

That plan would have to wait. The badger’s lesson had tired her again. She went to bed, and dreamed of men slaughtering wolves.

In the morning Daine and Numair rode to the town of Fief Dunlath, leaving the wolves behind. Reaching the village at noon, they entered the stable yard of the town’s small, tidy inn. Ostlers came to take their horses. Dismounting from Cloud, Daine took the pack in which Kitten was hidden and slung it over her shoulder, then followed Numair indoors. They stood inside, blinking as their eyes adjusted from the sunny yard to the dark common room. In the back someone was yelling, ‘Master Parlan! We’ve guests!’

The innkeeper came out and bowed to Numair. ‘Good day to you, sir. Ye require service?’ he asked with a brisk mountain accent.

‘Yes, please. I’d like adjoining rooms for my student and me.’

‘Forgive me, mistress,’ Parlan said, bowing to Daine. ‘I dinna see ye.’ He looked her over, then asked Numair, ‘Ye said – adjoinin’ rooms, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Numair replied. ‘If there’s a connecting door, it must be locked.’

The innkeeper bowed, but his eyes were on Daine. ‘Forgive me, sir – locked?’

Daine blushed, and Numair looked down his nose at the man. ‘People have sordid minds, Master Parlan.’ Despite his travel-worn clothes, he spoke like a man used to the obedience of servants. ‘I would like my student to be spared idle gossip, if you please.’

Parlan bowed low. ‘We’ve two very nice rooms, sir, overlooking the kitchen garden. Very quiet – not that we’ve much excitement in these parts.’

‘Excellent. We will take hot baths, as soon as you are able to manage, please.’ A gold coin appeared in Numair’s hand and disappeared in Parlan’s. ‘And lunch, I think, after the baths,’ added the mage.

‘Very good, sir,’ the man said. ‘Follow me.’ He led the way upstairs.

Kitten wriggled in the pack, and chirped. ‘Hush,’ Daine whispered as Parlan opened their rooms. ‘I’ll let you out in a moment.’

The room was a small one, but clean and neatly kept, and the bath was all Daine could hope for after weeks of river and stream bathing. The food brought by the maid was plain and good. Daine felt renewed afterwards, enough so that she took a short nap. She was awakened by a scratching noise. When she opened her eyes, the dragon was picking at the lock on the door between the two rooms.

‘Leave it be, Kit,’ Daine ordered, yawning. ‘You’ve seen locks at home.’

The young immortal sat on her haunches, stretching so that her eye was on a level with the keyhole, and gave a soft trill. The door swung open to reveal Numair in a clean shirt and breeches. He was holding a piece of paper.

‘Did I know she could do that?’ he asked with a frown.

‘No more did I,’ retorted Daine.

Numair glared at the dragon, who was investigating his room as thoroughly as she had her own. ‘That door was locked for a reason,’ he told her sternly. To Daine he added, ‘Though actually I do need to speak with you. We’ve been invited to dine tonight at the castle.’

‘Why?’ the girl asked, rubbing her eyes.

‘It’s typical of nobles who live out of the way. A newcomer is worth some attention – it’s how they get news. I don’t suppose you packed a dress.’

Since her arrival in Tortall, when her Rider friends had introduced her to breeches, she had worn skirts rarely, and always under protest. When the village seamstress showed her the only gown that would be ready in time, Daine balked. The dress was pink muslin, with lace at collar and cuffs – a lady’s garment, in a colour she hated. She announced she would go in breeches or not at all.

Numair, usually easygoing, sometimes showed an obstinate streak to rival Cloud’s. By the time their escort came, Daine wore lace-trimmed petticoats, leather shoes, and the pink dress under a wool cloak to ward off the nighttime chill. A maid had done up her stubborn curls, pinning them into a knot at the back of her neck. Kitten’s mood was no better than Daine’s: told she could not go with them, the dragon turned grey and hid under the bed.

Their escort came after dark to guide them across the causeway to the island and its castle. Ostlers took charge of Spots and Cloud, and servants took their cloaks, all in well-trained silence. A footman led them across the entrance hall to a pair of half-open doors.

Behind those doors a man was saying, ‘… know wolves like th’ back of m’hand. I tell ye, these have got to be werewolves or sommat from th’ Divine Realms. They don’t act as wolves should act. See this? An’ this? Laughin’ at me, that’s what they’re doin’!’

‘My lord, my ladies,’ the footman said, breaking in, ‘your guests are here.’ He bowed to Numair and Daine and ushered them in ahead of him. ‘I present Master Numair Salmalín, of Corus, and his student, called Daine.’

They were in an elegant sitting room, being looked over by its occupants. The footman announced, ‘My lord Belden, master of Fief Dunlath. My lady Yolane of Dunlath, Lord Belden’s wife and heiress of Dunlath. Lady Maura of Dunlath, my lady’s sister.’

Numair bowed; Daine attempted a curtsy. Yolane, in her thirties, and Maura, a girl of ten, were seated by the hearth fire. Though introduced as sisters, there was little resemblance between them. Yolane was beautiful, with ivory-and-rose skin, large brown eyes, a tumble of reddish brown curls, and a soft mouth. Her crimson silk gown hugged a trim body and narrow waist; deep falls of lace at her wrists drew the eye to long, elegant hands. Diamonds glittered around her neck and at her earlobes. Maura was painfully plain, a stocky child with straight brown hair, attired in a blue dress that fit badly.