Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart (26 page)

Is it lucky or unlucky for the bride if it rains on her wedding day
? Derian mused.
I never can remember. Looks as if tomorrow will be bright enough
.

Passing through the gates into the walled section of town, he walked along some of the trade streets, glancing at the wares laid out on display. Along Weaver's Row doors stood open so that the workers at their looms could enjoy the pleasant daylight. Derian exchanged casual greetings here and there, enjoying the friendliness.

Turning along Blacksmith's Way, Derian noted that the last of the active smithies was gone, moved outside the walls because of the neighbors' complaints about the noise and smoke. There were shops here instead, some selling ironwork but others selling a mixture of goods. Many of the shops had been converted completely to residences—though many of the shopkeepers had always lived above their shops.

I recall Tannery Row has gone much the same way
, Derian thought,
despite the guild's complaints. Still, the air is kept fresher with the smellier trades outsides
.

He was heading for the Market Square when he heard a dull, almost monotone, but somehow musical sound: the plunk-plunking of someone alternately plucking and strumming on a fat-bodied guitar.

Derian's head snapped up like Roanne smelling hot oat mash. This was a sound he hadn't heard in far too long, the sound of a street musician absorbed in his woes. That the same instrument could be played far more dexterously—made to ripple and sing like a laughing brook or trip through all the dances ever danced—didn't matter to Derian.

This was a music engendered in the dark reaches of the heart and soul. It took its rhythms from the slow beating of the pulse and the dragging of reluctant breath. It had never set the pace for sailors at sea or for farmers bringing in the harvest. It was city music, introspective and forlorn.

In short, it fit Derian's mood perfectly.

He found the musician seated cross-legged on a low bench outside a tavern that had closed for the slow hours of the afternoon. A depressed-looking dog, lean and black with drooping ears and large brown eyes, lay with its head on the man's well-traveled boots. It raised its head as Derian came close, then lowered it with an audible sigh.

The musician didn't look up as Derian approached. He was a scraggly fellow with hair of an indifferent brown pulled back into a loose queue. He was neither bearded or clean-shaven but rather looked as if he'd forgotten which style he preferred and had settled for something halfway between. The clothes he wore were grubby with street grime and mud, but not greasy.

His guitar, however, was spotless, rubbed to such a shine that Derian fancied he could catch the scent of the polishing oil. An empty tin cup rested by the musician's feet with a worn token set in the bottom as a hint to potential patrons.

Derian leaned against a wall, thrust his hands into his pockets, and listened. After several minutes, as if at last realizing he had an audience, the man started to sing. His voice was rough and slightly cracked but like his plunking on the guitar oddly melodious.

Unlike most of those who sang for their supper, this man didn't launch into a tale of heroism or popular legend. Instead he began:

She left me in summer, when the sun was bright

But without her lov'n, I was cold as winter night.

I forgot how to smile, forgot how to frown.

My heart she had frozen, like snow on the ground.

The musician moved his lament into autumn, when the abandoned lover couldn't see the beauty in the colors of the trees or smell the rich scents of the harvest. Only beer gave him some comfort but left him:

Wish'n I was dead, with a pain in my heart

and an ache in my head.

By winter the musician was warming to his theme, growing more passionate as he crooned about the beauty of ice and the softness of snow, the embrace of sleet and the glitter of cold.

Derian tossed a couple of tokens into the musician's cup and turned away before the song could pass through spring and return to summer. He didn't want to know if the unknown subject found redemption or some chillier and more permanent peace.

As he continued his way to the Market Square, Derian hummed the infectious lament to himself.

You can't call it a tune really or even a melody, but it's music nonetheless
, he was thinking when a voice called out his name.

"Derian!"

The voice was female, robust, and terribly familiar. Derian looked up from his contemplation of his boot toes and saw a rounded figure swathed in cloak and shawl, a basket over her arm, waving to him from across the Square. There was no market today, so nothing impeded his getting a clear look at her: Heather the baker's daughter, the girl he had been walking with before he'd been hired by Earl Kestrel.

"Heather," he said, bending to bestow a chaste kiss on the round, red cheek she held up for his salute. "How are you?"

She smiled up at him, her bright smile tinged with something wicked.

"Well enough, Merry Deri." Her smile became arch. "I'm betrothed now, or will be as good as, by the end of next moon-span."

Derian recalled that like him Heather had been a cold-weather baby. She'd be nineteen next month and old enough for a completely respectable betrothal. The fact that they both were on the verge of legal adulthood had added a certain very interesting tension to their strolls—and to the occasional visits to her father's flour shed or to some infrequently used barn.

As Heather gossiped amicably about their mutual acquaintances, Derian recalled their time together. Heather hadn't been a tease, not quite, for she'd made clear that a public promise of marriage was her price for letting him get any farther than the inside of her well-rounded blouse.

Derian might have given her that price, too, but he was a bit more experienced than Heather imagined—or she wouldn't have risked tempting him. There had been a girl or two who worked around the stables who hadn't been adverse to a roll in the hay with the boss's son. Their willingness had kept him less than desperate and so free.

"You know, Deri," Heather was saying, a change in her tone bringing him back to the present. "I liked you quite a lot. I cried myself to sleep at night for weeks when you rode off west with Earl Kestrel. Cried and cried."

"I'm sorry," he said awkwardly.

"I thought you'd get eaten by a bear or something," she continued, shifting her basket from arm to arm.

Derian politely took it from her. It was heavy with fresh-baked loaves, wrapped against the chill.

"Can I walk you wherever you're going?" he asked.

"I'm delivering these to the Archer Manse," she said. "I'd be glad for the company."

Elise's house
, Derian thought.
And I have an invitation to call
.

He resolved to keep his hat pulled well down over his hair and slouched a bit, shuffling his feet against the cobbles.

"My father," Heather said, "told me that you'd come back alive, but you'd never come back to me. He was right enough."

"You," Derian said indignantly, "refused to see me when I called!"

"I did," she sniffed. "I wasn't going to cheapen myself walking out with a fellow who was living with another woman—seeing her stark naked by all accounts."

Derian shrugged. That had been true enough. He hadn't really been living with Firekeeper, but he'd seen her naked often and had found it embarrassing rather than stimulating.

Still, he didn't bother to defend himself. He had no desire to resume his relationship with Heather—or to anger her almost-betrothed. Heather wouldn't be above teasing her fellow with the threat of a rival, just to make sure that her sweetheart cared.

"Father said," Heather prattled on, "that if I waited for you it would be just like it had been for him and your mother."

"My mother!" Derian was astonished.

"Sure." Heather was delighted at having information he lacked. "Didn't you know that they were sweethearts? Daddy still says that she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. Makes Mother right annoyed at him, but it slips out from time to time, especially when he's had a cup too many."

"My mother and your father?" Derian repeated more calmly. "Really?"

"Sure, back when they were younger than we are now, seventeen, maybe," Heather said with the loftiness of her almost nineteen years. "You mother had bigger dreams than being a baker's wife, though. She dumped Daddy when he got serious about her and eventually married Colby Carter. Guess she was right about
his
prospects. They've made a real business out of just a few carts."

Heather sighed. "And my father is still baking bread and so that's what my husband will do, too. I'll be baking babies in
my
oven and delivering loaves."

"There are worse things," Derian offered awkwardly.

Heather gave him a defiant smile, but there was something ugly beneath the grin.

"Lots worse, like being a boot-lick for the nobility or a kennel keeper for a naked girl who eats raw meat. At least
my
husband will be his own man."

She tugged her basket from his arm and tore off down the street. Derian stared after her, too astonished to be angry or even hurt. That would come later.

Distantly, he thought he could hear the guitarist plunk-plunking away.

She left me in winter
…

M
orning came early this high on the shore of Lake Rime, for there were no mountains in the east to block the sunrise, but Firekeeper awoke even earlier than the sun. The wolves uncurled from sleep at her motion and there was no need for speech among the three.

Together they slipped into the woods and hunted, bringing down a young buck too stupid to be allowed to breed since he had stayed in the vicinity of what even Firekeeper's nose told her was an improbable and even contradictory host of scents.

She used flint and steel to strike sparks for a fire, and lightly grilled a steak cut thin.

"Mother," she asked the One Female, "who taught me to cook my food?"

The One Female looked up from gnawing on a thighbone. There was a sharp crack as she broke it to expose the marrow within. Her silvery fur was all over blood, not only muzzle and throat, but chest as well.

"You have done so for as long as I have known you. Isn't such practice the human way?"

Firekeeper sensed an evasion, but didn't press. She had held her question until the wolves had reached what humans might call dessert, knowing far better than to distract a feeding wolf.

By the time the thighbone was cleaned, her own meat was broiled to her satisfaction and she kept her silence while chewing on thin slices of the hot, rare venison. It was tough, but not impossibly so, for the buck had not yet lost all of summer's fat.

By the time Firekeeper had finished eating, the sky as glimpsed through the interlaced tree branches was streaked with pink and yellow. The wolves were willing to let the crows and jays pick at what remained of the buck. In truth there was not much. Several days of dining on rabbits had given Blind Seer an appetite for a solid meal.

"Wash," the One Female ordered. "The others will be waiting impatiently."

Firekeeper asked, "Mother, are we then important that they must wait on our pleasure?"

"We are," the One Female replied, "no more important, but no less, thus they can no more order us about than we can them. We do them the courtesy of joining them, they of waiting until we are fed."

"It is unwise," Blind Seer quoted unexpectedly from the store of proverbs the wolves used for teaching pups, "to talk with a hungry wolf."

Firekeeper nodded and loped beside the silver wolf and the grey to where the waters of Rimed Lake waited still and shining in the dawn light. The wolves waded in directly, snapping at the thin shell of ice and drinking in great gulps of the chill water.

Hesitating only to strip her clothing from her, Firekeeper stacked the pieces, placing her Fang on top where she could easily reach it. Water would do no kindnesses to the tanned leather of her vest and breeches, and even the fine blade that had once belonged to Prince Barden was not immune to rust.

As she stood poised for the plunge, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a side pool that had returned to tranquility after the wolves' games.

Her hair, grown longer since she left the wilds to live among humans, was matted and poking out at odd angles—no wonder, since she had neither combed nor brushed it since leaving Revelation Point Castle, but only made certain that the longer ends remained pulled back into a queue.

She had lost weight as well, though she was far from the slat-sided waif who had first crept out of the forest to speak with Derian. The small, rounded breasts that had developed after she had begun to eat more regularly remained, as did a certain healthy sleekness.

Nothing but great magic would alter the scars that stitched her hide, nor did she particularly desire them gone. They were the price she paid for being a hairless wolf. More would she have preferred fur and fangs and four strong legs and a voice that could howl across the void to shake the moon in her dance.

A buffet of icy wind across her naked body interrupted this momentary introspection. Firekeeper dove into the clear waters of the lake, cutting the surface as cleanly as did the waterfowl from whom she had learned the maneuver.

Ignoring the cold was impossible, so she accepted it without dreaming of hot baths as a human might. Instead she grasped handfuls of black sand from the lake bottom and used them to scrub the blood and trail grime from her hide.

Despite vigorous finger combing, Firekeeper could do nothing about the knots and snarls in her hair, so after she had shaken and danced herself warm and fairly dry, she dressed, noting woefully that all her garments could use a good cleaning.

Then she used the Fang to crop her hair short once more. The blade bore a keener edge than even the razor Derian used to shave and she honed it frequently, thus managing a neater end result than ever before. She cropped the hair shortest near her face, allowing herself to retain some longer strands near the back, which she gathered into a defiant little tail with a piece of faded black ribbon.