Through Wolf's Eyes (11 page)

"How long has she been here?" the earl asked, studying the woman speculatively.

"Since midmorning, sir."

"And has she spoken?"

"No. We've tried talking to her, but she only makes
sounds—whines and growls." That had been both disappointing and a bit
frightening. Derian brightened. "She's a wonderful mimic, though. We've
been communicating a little by signs."

"Communicating?" The aristocratic brow arched.

"Like about the shirt," Derian replied, "and we offered her something to eat."

"Ah!"

"She eats like a wild animal," Derian admitted. "I've seen neater pigs."

"Mm."

Earl Kestrel's attention was only partially on the
conversation. His gaze never left the woman; however, as hers never
left him, the clinical investigation seemed less rude. She had taken a
position a few steps from the center of the camp, carefully leaving a
line of escape open behind her.

Kestrel bowed to her. The woman did not respond in
kind. Indeed, Derian fancied she looked vaguely disdainful. Kestrel may
have reached something of the same conclusion, for he frowned.

The other three men also had been studying the
visitor but more covertly, aware of the penalties for usurping the
earl's rights. Derian heard Race comment softly to Ox:

"She doesn't look much like a noblewoman. Acts like one though. There's not a humble bone in that body."

Ox chuckled softly. "I'd noticed that myself."

"She's healthy-looking," Doc said, "despite all the
scars. She has a fresh cut on her arm, but it shows no sign of
festering. Someone's taught her basic hygiene."

"She is cleaner than I'd expected," Race admitted.

"I'd love a chance to examine her," Jared said,
raising his voice slightly to include Derian in the implied question.
"We might get a better idea of her age then. From what I can see from
here, she's not overfed, not precisely undernourished, but there's
little fat on her."

Derian, keeping his own voice soft, said, "She's very
cautious about letting anyone close. I don't think it's fear of being
touched as much as fear of being trapped."

Ox nodded agreement. "She was interested in touching
us: my beard, Derian's hair, the fabrics of our clothing, but she
wouldn't accept anything but the lightest pat in return. Even then, you
could tell she was letting us out of good manners."

"Interesting," Earl Kestrel said. "Very well, Jared,
your examination will need to wait until she trusts us more. She has
accepted clothing and food, so we are well on the way. I will not have
these advances damaged."

As if
, Derian thought indignantly,
you had anything to do with those advances
.

"Secondly," Earl Kestrel continued, "we cannot go
about simply referring to this young woman as 'she.' There are very
good odds that she is Lady Blysse. Address her accordingly."

" 'Lady Blysse,' " Doc offered, the slightest of
grins on his lips, "is a bit of a mouthful for daily use. Given her
father's standing with the king and her own probable age at the time of
the fire, she was most likely merely called 'Blysse.' I suggest we do
the same."

Earl Kestrel, who had been a stickler for protocol even on the trail, glowered at his cousin and Doc hastened to clarify.

"I mean no disrespect, Norvin," he said, emphasizing
his own point by using the earl's given name rather than his title,
"but if we hope to awaken her memories of herself and
of language, we don't want our first lesson to be too complicated."

Norvin Norwood, Earl Kestrel, nodded. "I concede the point, Jared. She will be addressed as Blysse."

The young woman had listened to this byplay with
apparent interest, but showed no recognition of the name. Derian
sighed. As ever, Earl Kestrel had his own best interests at heart.

"She looks well in that shirt," Jared said. "Is the
hide you said she was wearing anywhere about? I would like to examine
the tailoring. It might give us a clue as to whether she has a
companion or two hidden away."

"I set it over there," Derian said. "I thought she
might want it," (he remembered the rapidity with which she had snatched
the belt from his hand), "but she lost interest in it as soon as she
had figured out how the shirt went on."

Doc crossed to examine the hide. Blysse's jet-black
gaze followed his movements, but, though she seemed completely absorbed
in watching Doc, when the earl took a step toward her, she sprang back
without turning her head, without even apparent volition.

"Like an animal," Race muttered. Then, "My lord, I'll go get these fish ready for the fire."

"Go," Earl Kestrel dismissed him. "The rest of you
may go about your tasks as well, but do not come near Blysse. Do not
make any loud noises or sudden motions. We wish her to feel safe."

Everyone murmured acknowledgment.

The earl continued, "Derian Carter, come stand next
to me. I have noticed that she uses you as a touchstone. If we are
together, she may be willing to approach me."

Derian did so, almost hating himself for the
subliminal thrill he received from standing shoulder to shoulder with a
nobleman. Always before this, in small ways and subtle, the earl had
kept his distance from the commoners in his expedition.

Blysse didn't seem to notice, but by now Derian was certain that she missed little.

"What are your conclusions about her attire?" Earl Kestrel
asked Doc impatiently, for his cousin was staring at Blysse rather than continuing his examination of the hide.

"She could have done the work herself," Doc said, his
deliberately soft tone almost idle but holding beneath it a suppressed
excitement. "It is the most simple of constructions, rather like the
dresses young girls make for their dolls. The hide—it's elk, by the
way, and I wonder how she killed an elk—has been tanned, though badly.
It is in one piece; nothing has been stitched on. A hole has been cut
in the center rather larger than her head—I expect she didn't like how
the rough leather chafed her neck. The rest has been trimmed so that
the movement of her arms would be unimpeded.

"This belt," he lifted a twisted piece of leather, "must have closed it somewhat at the sides, if poorly."

"That's right, Doc," Derian confirmed.

"Derian," Jared asked, the quiet excitement now
rising into his voice, "did you give Blysse anything other than the
shirt and belt?"

"No, Doc."

"Not the knife?"

"No. She had it with her. Never even put it down. Held it in her teeth while she was changing."

Both Doc and the earl glanced at him when he said that, but mercifully, this once Derian didn't blush.

"So you haven't gotten a good look at it," Doc
continued. "Then you probably didn't notice that, worn as the sheath
is, it is of superlative construction, hardened leather with metal
reinforcement. Stamped onto it, I believe, is the crest of the royal
house."

"Oh?" Earl Kestrel's grey eyes shone as he understood
the drift of his cousin's thoughts. "I cannot see it from here. Is
there anything else?"

"Yes," Doc said. "Set into the pommel is what looks
like a cabochon gem, a garnet, I'd guess, though it's too filthy for me
to be certain. I'm certain I've seen the like before, when hunting with
Prince Barden."

Suddenly Derian looked at his discovery with new eyes.
Until
this moment, he hadn't believed in the earl's dreams, but now it seemed
quite possible that this dark-eyed lady of the forest might well be the
heir to the throne of Hawk Haven.

F
IREKEEPER HAD SLIPPED AWAY
to spend the good night with Blind Seer, but before dawn pinked the
sky, she crept back again, so silently that even the spotted not-wolf
didn't note her return. Lifting the edge of the shelter the two-legs
had given her, she crawled back inside and sat on the soft things they
had heaped as a sleeping place for her.

She was full from hunting, weary from running,
howling, and wrestling with her pack mate. In the dim light that
penetrated her lair she saw that her new garment was covered with tiny
twigs, bits of leaf, and other forest matter. Fastidious as any wolf,
she stripped the shirt off and was pulling the mess from the fabric
when sleep took her.

"One character, one sound," a pleasant, melodious female voice says. "Put them together and the words will talk to you."

Tamara looks down at the slate uncertainly. Sweet
Eirene has made marks there with a bit of chalk. Tamara recognizes some
of the marks, but fitting them together into sounds still bothers her.
She feels hot and foolish as she tries, her lips fat and heavy. Her
only comfort is that Blysse seems no more enthusiastic than she.

"Mama," Blysse demands, "we want to go outside, Tamara and me."

Outside! Sunlight dappling through the trees. Springtime flowers scenting the air.

"Tamara and I." Sweet Eirene corrects her
daughter patiently. She shifts baby Clive to one arm, opens her blouse
to nurse him. "After you have sounded out what is written on the slates
you may go out."

Tamara looks through the open window with
longing, but reluctantly obeys the woman. At least Sweet Eirene keeps
her deals, not like some of the other grownups, who seem to believe
that the little girls have no more memory than chickens.

Blysse, though as willful as any doted-upon
child, seems to know that this is not a time to argue with her mother.
Mumbling their attempts to each other, the girls bend their heads, one
fair, one dark, over their slates.

"Dog and Hog run with Frog," Blysse announces after a few minutes.

Sweet Eirene smiles at her daughter. "Very good, Blysse. Now, Tamara, what does your slate say?"

"The big pig can dig," Tamara sounds out carefully, wondering why anyone would want to know something so stupid.

"Very good, Tamara." Sweet Eirene offers Clive
her other nipple. "Since both of you girls have worked so hard, you may
have two strawberries each from the bowl in the pantry."

"Thank you, Mama." Blysse says, hopping down from her chair and running with pattering steps to open the pantry door.

"Thank you, ma'am," Tamara echoes, taking the berries Blysse thrusts at her with pink-stained fingers.

The strawberries are still sweet in her mouth.
She sits on the ground outside Blysse's cabin, playing dolls with her
friend. Distantly, she hears Barden come inside from the fields.

The prince's boots thump solidly against the new
plank floor. A scraping sound is the slate being pushed to one side. A
clunk is his heavy pottery tumbler being set on the table.

"It's a beautiful day, Eirene," he says. "Too beautiful to sit indoors and tutor little girls."

"They need to learn how to read, Barden," Sweet Eirene
replies. Her voice twangs a little under its gentle melody. They argue about this frequently.

"Let them play," the prince urges. "There's no
need to force them along. We have few enough books and they're only
four years old."

"Blysse will be five in a few moon-spans. At her age, I could cross-stitch my alphabet. She can barely recite the letters!"

"She can lead a horse, feed a chicken, and tell a
weed from a seedling." Barden's tone is affectionate. "Her education
must needs be different from that of a lady of Kestrel."

"Maybe." Sweet Eirene's voice is no longer so
sweet. She sounds determined. "Barden, I swear that these children will
not grow up like wild animals!"

Wild animals, animals, animals
. . .

The words echo through Tamara's head and she is
kneeling on the ground next to her mother. Mama holds a furry grey ball
in her lap. It stares fuzzily at Tamara from cloudy blue eyes.

"Careful, Tamara," Mama says when Tamara reaches to touch the puppy. "This is a wild animal, not one of your toys."

Tamara pats the wolf puppy very, very carefully. "Wild, Mama? It doesn't seem wild. What is wild?"

"Wild is not obeying humans," Mama says after a moment. "Wild is that."

"Wild," Tamara tries the word out. "Wild. Wild wolf. Will the wild wolf bite me?"

"If you poke it or hurt it or tease it," Mama says, "and well it should. But its mother might bite you even faster."

Tamara senses rather than hears the she-wolf
emerging from the brush. Her grey head is taller than Tamara's dark
one. Her yellow-brown eyes study the girl; then her fanged mouth opens
in a panting smile.

"Wild," Tamara says, putting out her hand to pat the wolf. "Wild."

She throws back her head and pipes a thin howl.

Wild.

* * *

F
IREKEEPER AWAKENED SLOWLY
from her dream, feeling it clinging to corners of her mind dense as fog
and just as impossible to grasp. The garment Fox Hair had given her was
draped across her thighs, puppy-fur soft.

Suddenly she was homesick. Confused and forlorn, she didn't know who she was homesick for. Her pack? Mama? Blysse?

The loud clang of the iron pot being slung over the
camp-fire brought her fully awake. Gratefully Firekeeper pushed
homesickness away with anticipation and curiosity.

From outside her shelter, she heard Fox Hair calling in a low voice, "Blysse? Blysse?"

This word was followed by other sounds that almost,
coming as they did on the heels of her dream, made sense. So Firekeeper
yapped a greeting and pushed her way outside. Fox Hair smiled greeting
in return. Then, to her astonishment, his face turned as red as the
setting sun.