Wolf Hunting (34 page)

“So,” Firekeeper said, “we will not move on. We go there and we look very closely, checking for every detail.”

“But with care,” Blind Seer said, his hackles rising. “With tremendous care.”

XVI

FIREKEEPER RUBBED HER HANDS across her eyes as if in doing so she could clear her mind of whatever it was that intruded upon her thinking. It didn’t work. Images of fire and of clawing briar invaded her thoughts until they became almost more real than the grass that prickled the soles of her bare feet and the sun upon her face and hands.

She straightened. Very well. Fire she knew and respected. The briars she had defeated. She would continue on and find what was in that copse—find and either learn why she should respect it, or defeat it.

Although no words had been exchanged, it seemed to Firekeeper that Plik and Blind Seer were both awaiting her decision. When she stepped out, they did so as well, Blind Seer to point, then Plik—for Firekeeper’s greater height would block his own ability to see—then Firekeeper.

In this way they crossed the intervening distance, closing until Firekeeper could identify the various trees by the shapes of their leaves and the pattern of their branches. With each step, the sense of apprehension became more powerful and, oddly, for Firekeeper, easier to put aside. She was far from fearless, but she did not possess the human tendency to dread in abstract.

This is a trap for humans, not for wolves
, she thought, looking over to where Plik advanced, his short legs never faltering in their steady pace,
nor for maimalodalu, though I think Plik is having a more difficult time than Blind Seer and me.

She thought no less of Plik for his fear. Fear was a good thing, except when it crippled you, and Plik was not crippled.

As forests were judged, this one was very small, yet it contained a wide variety of species of trees. There were several towering oaks, maples with their broad-palmed, sharp-tipped leaves fluttering in any passing breeze. The spear-point-tipped leaves of elms, fan-like hickory, needle-tipped holly, and sassafras with its thumb-like lobe were all well represented. The understory was filled with brush, some in fruit. The shady places were carpeted in thick moss.

Two things were missing: any small creatures, winged or not, and the briar that had been so omnipresent in the borders of the forest land across the fields.

“There’s something wrong here,” said Firekeeper at last, “and not just that the little creatures are so silent.”

“No,” Plik agreed. “I have been wondering—where did such variety of plants come from? I could understand that if this copse was closer to other plants, but out here? Acorns do not fall far from the tree, so you do not find oaks away from oaks. Unless some creature carries them, there should be a grandmother oak. Now, I suppose this could be an oak forest, and the other plants later intruders, but then the oaks—or at least a few oaks—should be well ahead of their fellows. These all appear to be close to the same age.”

“And the scents are wrong,” Blind Seer said. “When I sniff for the bitterness of oak, or the sweet-sour scent of maple, then it is there, but if I do not try to isolate it, then there is simply the scent of ‘forest.’”

Plik sniffed. “I catch the same scents. Very odd.”

Firekeeper had been thinking hard about this; now, almost without thinking about what she did, she dropped back several paces, as if the trees might hear her and take some sort of action.

“This is like an idea of a forest,” she said at last, “a human idea, and the idea of a human who does not know forests well or think about the fashion in which they grow. Holly Gardener would never think this is a forest. I do not think Race would either. It startled us enough for us to slow and not plunge in. Would it have stopped Derian or Harjeedian? I think not. Like the other—the apprehensions—this is a human trap, meant for any humans who were not dissuaded by the sensation of fear.”

Blind Seer raised his head and studied the copse.

“Do we walk in then? Enter this trap? Or is this where we turn around?”

Firekeeper considered; then she unslung and strung her bow.

“If you do not mind, I am thinking of something in the middle of these two things. I could fire an arrow into that greenness and we could all track its course.”

“And see what it tells us,” Plik said. “Something might come rushing out, but …”

“But then we can bite it or talk to it,” Blind Seer said. “The more I look at this copse, the more I think of paintings I have seen in human homes. At first the representation seems right, then you start noticing what is not, and before long the very flatness of the thing is its most salient point.”

Firekeeper chose an arrow meant for hunting birds. The head was light and small, more easily replaced than some of her others. Moreover, if there was a creature or human watching from concealment, she did not wish her test shot to cause any great injury.

She drew back the string, seeking to let the shaft fly as long a distance as possible. She gave no warning before she loosed. Plik and Blind Seer’s watchful readiness was almost a tactile thing.

The arrow flew straight on the course she had set for it, over the small shrub growth, between two maples, then into a thick clump of saplings. She was not looking to hit any one thing, but to hit several small things.

The result was remarkable.

When the arrow hit the first bit of greenery, the leaves tore as they should, but Firekeeper would have sworn that those in the next clump tore slightly more slowly, and those behind more slowly still. The difference would not have been seen except by one looking to find it, but to her it was a certainty. When she turned to Plik and Blind Seer, she saw from their expressions that they too had witnessed the anomaly.

“The sound was wrong, too,” Blind Seer said. “I would swear there was none at all until after the arrow had begun its passage through the clump of saplings.”

“I don’t know what this is called,” Firekeeper said cheerfully, keeping her bow strung and selecting a heavier arrow. “But I think it is something we can tell the others.”

“Then we are returning?” Plik asked.

“I think that is wisest,” Firekeeper replied. “We have something to tell, and I have no good plan for what we should do next.”

“I thought,” Plik said, gesturing at the arrow in her hand, “you were going to shoot again.”

“Only,” Firekeeper said, staring into the tangle of apparent foliage, “if someone comes out after us.”

TRUTH WAS ALMOST LOOKING FORWARD to the Meddler’s next invasion of her privacy. She’d thought of a few questions she wanted to ask.

“I have been wondering something,” the jaguar said, knowing that to exterior appearances she was among those asleep in their camp. Derian was on watch, and if she concentrated she was aware of his soft-footed patrol at the camp’s edges. “How did you manage to manifest a body for yourself? Those who imprisoned you left you with very little. My understanding is that nothing can be made from nothing.”

“I didn’t quite have nothing,” the Meddler replied without a trace of the evasion she had expected. “I had a great deal of ability and a certain amount of personal power—the same qualities that so frightened those I would have befriended. Using these qualities, I could make myself a short-lasting version of a body. From this I would take blood. I would use that blood to create food to further sustain the body. Drink there was aplenty. Living, running water provides a special sustenance, separate from its purely physical qualities—and those are essential enough. What I did was not easy. It was very painful, but I managed to manifest. Later, I even managed to store some power for future use.”

“You used your own blood?” Truth thought of things she had learned about those who used blood to create magic and her tail twitched. “Are you then a sorcerer?”

“Yes. What else did you think I was?”

“Until a short time ago,” Truth said, “I thought you a manifestation of my own returning insanity. Then Plik told us you were some sort of god. Then you told me the circumstances of your captivity, and I decided that I had no idea what you were.”

“So you asked, a levelheaded thing to do, one that demonstrates just how very sane you are.”

“Your flattery is never without reason,” Truth said. “What is it you desire?”

“My flattery is never without truth,” the Meddler said, “and as for what I desire … I desire to teach you a skill you will need quite soon. By sunrise tomorrow—if they are careful—your three scouts will return with an amazing tale. I wish to teach you something that will enable you to go where otherwise you cannot.”

“Does this teaching involve permitting myself to be disembodied?”

“Only briefly.” Reassurance dripped from the Meddler’s voice. “And you will not ‘be disembodied.’ You will disembody yourself.”

“Agreeing to accept your teaching was our agreement,” Truth said. In her dream she rose and stretched. “Therefore, I agree.”

The Meddler reached out a hand and stroked her between her ears. “Oh, honorable creature, if only you believed in my honor as much as you do your own.”

Truth stared at him, keeping her burnt-orange eyes unblinking. Then she said, “Shall we begin our lessons? Perhaps as you teach me, you can tell me why you wish me to go where otherwise I could not. Indeed, you can start with telling me to where I am going.”

“You came here in search of the twins,” the Meddler said. “What I will teach you will make it possible for you to reach them.”

MUCH OF WHAT THE MEDDLER EXPLAINED to Truth that night made sense with the sort of logic available only in dreams. She learned to separate some essential element of herself from her body in a fashion that was similar to what she had used to find omens, but was in key ways quite different

From this point, she needed to learn to move within glimmering golden green spaces that were frighteningly familiar. From this she knew she had stumbled into them during her time of madness.

In these places Truth encountered Bitter.

The raven looked far better here than he did in the camp where he slept in his makeshift nest, wakening only for his regular feedings, then slipping back under again.

Here he had both eyes, and Truth wondered if he was aware of his loss. Almost as quickly she resolved that she would not be the one to tell him.

“Hey, jaguar,” the raven quorked, his voice here familiar and throaty. “Did you bring me to this place? I can’t seem to find my way out.”

Truth blinked at him, then decided that a partial answer would serve. “I did not bring you here. I think you brought yourself here.”

“Why would I do that? I am needed. Lovable would worry.”

“You were injured,” Truth said. “Do you remember nothing of that?”

Bitter preened the flight feathers on one wing. “I do remember something. Briars, wasn’t it? Yes. I remember …” He shuddered and puffed out his feathers so he was twice his usual size. “They would have strangled me, but Lovable kept clipping them back. Did she fly?”

Truth was puzzled. “She escaped if that’s what you mean.”

“Close enough. I remember telling her to fly. I’m glad she listened:”

The raven’s feathers suddenly went sleek and flat. His wings flew wide as if he was about to fly away from some threat.

“Truth, did I die? Is that why I am here?”

“You are not dead,” Truth reassured him, “but sorely wounded. Perhaps you fled here to leave the pain in your body.”

“I was wounded that severely,” the raven said, not as if asking, but as if confirming something he already suspected. “That severely.”

“Lovable will miss you,” Truth said awkwardly. She never quite knew how to discuss pair bonds. “She watches over you, waking and sleeping.”

The Meddler, whom Truth had not been aware of all the time she was speaking with Bitter, was there. He looked like a human, his hair thick and grey as old stone, but other than this he looked no more than of middle years. He hunkered down on his haunches to come level with Bitter.

“Let me be honest with you, Bitter.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the one you helped set free from imprisonment, the Voice that guided Truth from madness into sanity, the ally who helped Firekeeper win her battle against creatures given life through briar thorn and blood magic.”

Bitter flicked head feathers up to make little horns on his head. “You are the one Plik calls the Meddler.”

“I cannot deny I am a Meddler,” the other responded. “I wish you would believe I am your friend. I am going to tell you something now, and if that is meddling, well, so be it. You are here in this place for the reason Truth suggested. Your spirit could not bear the pain of your wounded body, however, you had reasons not to die.”

“Lovable,” the raven croaked softly.

The Meddler did not acknowledge this private confession, but went on. “Your friends have kept your body alive to this point, but without your spirit it will fade and die. The longer you remain away in any case, the less complete the healing will be. If you wish to live, if you wish to fly again, you cannot remain away.”

“And if I do not return?”

“Your body will die, but your spirit may remain trapped here. This is a more pleasant place than that into which I was condemned. Some, like Truth here, may pass through from time to time and give you company. Most of the time you will be alone, though:”

“And?”

“I cannot say. You may fade into gradual death. You may persist without any sense of who you are. You may retain a sense of identity. You may go insane. Remain here long enough and you will encounter spirits who have experienced all these things. Not all of them will be pleasant to meet—in fact, most will not be.”

Bitter fluffed his feathers, sleeked them flat, and began hopping about.

“Sorely wounded,” he said to Truth.

“Very.”

“Immense pain,” he said to the Meddler.

“Enough to separate body and soul,” the human replied.

“Flight?”

“If you return before the muscles stiffen and weaken much further. You lost a great deal of blood.”