Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart (81 page)

Tymia's shrieks had turned into moans of fear, but from the sound of them Blind Seer had not killed her. Scuffling in one corner told that either Doc or Wendee or both still occupied the other guards.

Light
, Elise thought.
We need light
.

She fumbled her way toward the trapdoor, hoping to find Doc's kit there. He kept candles for emergencies, along with flint and steel. Elise was no great hand with a tinderbox, but she had learned to manage on campaign.

Then, as if in direct answer to her unspoken wish, there was light. Grateful Peace stood in a doorway, a three-pronged candelabrum in one hand.

By the triple candlelight, Elise saw that Blind Seer crouched over Tymia. The guard was nearly mad with fear, but offered no immediate threat.

The remaining female guard was out cold. Wendee and Doc stood equidistant from the crossbowman, apparently unsure in the darkness how best to close.

When the candlelight flooded the dark room, the man turned to face this new threat. His cocked bow followed his motion as might a pointing finger. When the guard saw a stranger, he pulled the trigger.

Peace screamed and staggered. Once again, there was darkness.

T
he wolf-woman limped into the sheepfold sometime before dawn. Elation and Bold had stayed with her much of the way. They said they didn't trust her sense of direction, but Firekeeper knew that what they didn't trust was her temper should she encounter anyone. Ever since Lady Melina had tricked her, the wolf-woman's self-loathing had grown so that anyone who crossed her path might well be hurt.

And Bold had made things no easier for her by insisting that Firekeeper carry the ring. The crow's reasons were completely practical. Small as it was, the ring was still an encumbrance the bird did better without. Firekeeper could hardly refuse such a simple request, but she couldn't help but feel that
she
would be better off without it as well.

Or was it that she still couldn't escape the dream that she would be better
with
it?

The moonstone grasped in the beast's jaws had seemed to shine with promise, speaking to the wolf-woman in Lady Melina's voice, reciting the wonders that could be Firekeeper's for the taking. Firekeeper had stuffed the ring deep into a trouser pocket, but if she didn't guard against it, she could hear the voice: wheedling, promising, tempting her to betrayal and theft.

To distract herself, she concentrated on the pain in her hip, on the cold leaking through her boots, on the image of Blind Seer lying bloodied over the doorsill into the tower room. These things silenced the voice—at least a bit—but did nothing to sweeten her temper.

The peregrine and the crow had traded off keeping an eye on their human, each taking some time to hunt. The crow, scavenger and carrion eater that he was, had fared far better than the falcon. However, though lacking the excellence of an owl's night vision, the peregrine had managed to startle a rabbit.

Firekeeper had no stomach for the fare when Elation brought her a portion, nor did she accept the hot honeyed tea that Edlin held out to her almost as she arrived. Instead, she looked around, noted that her pack was shy several members, and growled:

"Where are they?"

"I don't know," Derian replied. Unlike Edlin, he seemed to sense her anger. "I wish I did."

"Bold say," she indicated the crow with a toss of her head, "they go into tunnels again. They should be here."

"Don't blame me!" Derian snapped.

Firekeeper felt her lips curling in a snarl, then looked more closely at the redhead. Derian's fair skin was almost translucent despite its weathering. Grey circles beneath his eyes spoke of a wakeful night—and of worry.

She bit her lip.

"Blame me. Lady Melina get away. Bold get ring, but I let her go."

She dragged her cold fingers across her face, feeling the red weals she left behind them though her nails never touched the skin. It reminded her of the paint she'd scoured away with sand and ice water hours before. She could still feel the traces clotting near her hairline like old blood.

"I must find them," she said, "before Lady Melina do."

Edlin rose, setting his mug by the fire.

"Let me come with you," he said eagerly.

"No."

She was gone before even his ready lips could shape another phrase. Only when she was out in the snow once more did she realize that she had no idea where to look.

Bold dropped from the sky.

"
Let me scout
," he said. "
I'll head back toward the city. Why not call for the wolf
?"

The crow's suggestion was a good one, but when Firekeeper howled, there was no reply—none but Edlin's faint shout from behind her. Determinedly, Firekeeper began to trudge back toward the city. She did not take precisely the route she had before—that one had begun on the east side of the city before tracing its way south.

Now she angled her way somewhat to the west. She knew that Elation and Bold had both made periodic checks along the road as they hunted. They would have seen the others if they were along it. Bold would check again now.

The sky gained not so much color as the underglow of approaching light as Firekeeper slogged on. Long ago, she'd learned how to ignore pain, but she was all too aware of the inconvenience offered by her shortened step, her many bruises. She began to regret refusing the hot sweet tea.

That was a human act, not a wolf one
, she sneered at herself.
Since when has a wolf refused to eat? What are you becoming, Little Two-legs, neither human nor wolf but the worst of both worlds
?

The lightening sky took on the pale hue of the moonstone, taunting her with the possibilities she had refused. She raised her head once again to howl her desperate cry.

At first, when the answer came, she could hardly believe it Then, forgetting the pain in her hip, Firekeeper began to run, howling again and again as if somehow Blind Seer might lose her.

G
rateful Peace did not so much come conscious as come aware, and even that awareness was marred by a certain sense of unreality. He was upright and moving—apparently without his own volition, and with a strange jolting motion.

His legs were splayed and warmer than most of him, which was very cold. His back was less cold than his front and leaned against something that vibrated at a different tempo than the jolting motion of his forward progress.

Almost as soon as he was aware of these things, he was aware of considerable pain in his upper body in the vicinity of his right collarbone. His right arm hung very limp, so very limp that he found himself wondering if it had been immobilized. Trying to move it, though, set his head to racing and his heart to pounding with such ferocity that he nearly blacked out.

When the red and purple pounding in his head relented, Peace decided—a deliberate decision of which he felt rather proud—to open his eyes. He was met with a wash of pale colors: white, grey, a touch of blue.

Early-morning light
, he thought.
I am out-of-doors. Someone has taken my glasses
.

A moment later, he registered a bit more.

I am on a horse.

He realized then that two rode the horse: himself and someone he was leaning against. That other one balanced Peace against himself, a thing that seemed to take all his energy. The shaking Peace had felt was nothing so simple as the other's breathing. It was the bone-deep trembling of pure exhaustion, exhaustion so deep that it demands sleep and keeps it at bay only by absolute will.

Sir Jared
, Peace thought,
holds me on this horse though he himself is almost too tired to sit straight
.

He listened. The motion of the horse was accompanied by a rhythmic crunching, not perfectly matched, however. Years of building from sound the pictures his eyes could not see offered him a tentative explanation.

The women walk at the horse's head, breaking the snow and guiding it. The wolf may be with them, but if it is, I wonder that the horse is not more restive.

"Where…" he croaked, and discovered then that his mouth was so dry that he could hardly shape a sound.

From behind him, he heard Sir Jared's voice, flat with exhaustion, call:

"He's coming around."

The horse was permitted to stop then. It didn't seem much to mind. A brisk crunching in the snow, and Lady Elise's bright young voice asked:

"How are you?"

Peace moved his mouth but no sound came.

"Wait." Then, "Open up."

Snow was put gently into his open mouth. It melted so rapidly, Peace suspected he was feverish. Like a baby bird, he opened his mouth in mute entreaty.

More snow came until his mouth was no longer dry.

"Thank you," Peace croaked. "What happened?"

"We're out of the guardhouse," Elise replied in a brisk tone that told him she was not saying everything. "Don't worry, we didn't kill them, though that Tymia's going to hate wolves forever. We locked them in their own cells. Someone should come along and let them out eventually, I guess."

She was speaking too fast, too brightly, leaving something out. Peace hadn't been a watcher for this long without learning to hear the unspoken behind the words. He didn't press.

"We stole a horse—they only had one, probably for delivering messages—put you two aboard. We're staying off the road, but I'd guess we're almost to the sheepfold."

Her tone said quite clearly that Lady Elise didn't have any idea where they were or how far they had come.

"Blind Seer," Wendee Jay added, her voice coming from somewhere near the horse's head, "went to find the others so they won't worry."

Remembering the stitched-together hulk of half-blind wolf, Grateful Peace didn't think that the hope in Wendee's voice was merited in the least. Probably the brute would go find a cave or fluffy snowbank and sleep off his injuries. Still, dogs were known to be very loyal. Maybe wolves were, too.

"My glasses?" he asked.

"Broken," Lady Elise replied apologetically, "when you fell. We kept the pieces, but there hasn't been time to try to mend them."

"Of course," Peace murmured. He was drifting off again. Fighting sleep didn't seem worth the effort. When the horse started moving again, he struggled with an idea, but all he could manage was a vague notion that fear held the shape of pigeon wings.

T
he wolf proved himself worthy of the others' belief in him. Sometime later—Peace wasn't sure how long—Peace became aware of Lady Blysse's husky voice.

"… to him?"

There was horror and pity in her tones. Then he learned of whom and of what she spoke, and the horror and pity became his own.

"We were ambushed in the guardhouse at the end of the sewer," Lady Elise said. The horse had not stopped its forward motion. "Or something like that. We tried to sneak in and found they had an alarm rigged up. We fought them."

Peace could hear the pride in her voice.

"We wouldn't have done too well if three of them hadn't been half-dressed and fresh from bed and the fourth hadn't been dozing. It was dark and just when we needed light the most, Peace came up with a candelabrum."

Wendee took up the tale.

"Doc and I had been trying to get near this one fellow, but, well, Doc was pretty beat and I was… well, scared because I knew the man had a crossbow."

"Good to be scared, then," Firekeeper said seriously, and Peace had the eerie feeling that she was looking at him.

"The bowman," Wendee continued, "turned when he saw the light. I don't know if he fired on purpose or whether his bow just went off."

"On purpose," Elise said definitely. "Doc said so."

"But he fired. His aim wasn't great, but…"

Her voice trailed off.

"I see," came Firekeeper's voice.

"Grateful Peace dropped the candles then," Wendee went on, adding with a true sense of drama, "and only pure luck kept them from dropping in the lantern oil."

"That was across the room," Elise corrected.

"Anyhow," Wendee said with a faint note of reproof in her voice, "Doc and I jumped the last guard. I grabbed him and Doc kicked his feet out from under him. The guard went down hard…"

There was a nervous giggle.

"With me still on top of him. That knocked him out cold."

"I'd gone over to Peace," Elise said, taking up the thread, "and I saw right away that things were both better and worse than we'd thought. He was out cold, not dead as we'd thought, but the reason he was out was that the arrow had caught him right where it opened up the artery into his arm. When he'd fallen, he'd shattered so many bones…"

Peace listened horrified, heard her swallow, and add almost apologetically.

"He really isn't very young. Bones break more easily when you're older. Doc felt if we tried to save the arm, we'd lose the man for sure. As it was, Doc nearly killed himself saving Grateful Peace. He was already so weak."

Peripherally, Peace heard the narrative continue, describing how Wendee—with Blind Seer as enforcer—had imprisoned the guards and found a horse, but he couldn't keep his attention on what was being said.

His arm? But he could feel it! It was a little stiff, it ached, but they couldn't have taken it off! He could feel it!

Even as he tried to convince himself otherwise, Grateful Peace knew the truth. His right arm—his drawing arm—the arm that had been his way to prosperity and prominence…

His arm was gone.

And then, as if things could not be worse, Peace remembered why fear had the shape of pigeon wings.

W
arned by Bold—or at least by Bold's reappearance, and Derian was becoming very good at guessing what frantic hopping up and down combined with hoarse cawing might mean—Derian and Edlin had the mules reloaded and the horses tacked up by the time Firekeeper returned with the remainder of their company.

Pale morning light showed them for what they were—injured, exhausted, and completely unsuited for a further press, but press they must. Even had any been inclined to stop, the words Grateful Peace forced out between fever-swollen lips would have enlivened the most exhausted blood.