

### The Rise of the Fire Moon

By Aoife Fallon

Copyright 2012 Aoife Fallon

Smashwords Edition

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***

For my dad, the best storyteller I know.

***

Table of Contents: **(select title again to return to top)**

Prologue

1. Aftermath

2. The Renegade

3. Cinders

4. The Outsider

5. The First Tale

6. Alpha's Captive

7. The First Hunt

8. Reflections

9. Sunrise

10. Assessment

11. River's Ally

12. Placement

13. The Deer

14. The Second Hunt

15. Blacksky

16. Blood and Bargain

17. Retaliation

18. The Third Hunt

19. Yew

20. The Renegade's Forest

21. Fire Moon

22. The Second Tale

23. Falling

24. The Last Hunt

25. Balance Upset

26. Dissent

27. Retracing

28. Storm Clouds

29. The Last Tale

30. Full Moon

31. Fire Scatters

32. River Daughter

33. Arwena

34. Healing

35. Ashes Mend

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Prologue

The mother wolf knew little about plants, but what she did know was fatal.

On the second day of summer, she brought her pup with her when she ventured into the crackling forest for the fourth time since the trial. The trees all had baked beneath the sun; their heat-browned leaves were wrinkled as dry, hairless skin, and the trunks around her had bowed and contorted themselves into strange shapes as figures bent in prayer. A prayer for rain, perhaps.

She had prayers of a different sort, none of which had any hope of being answered. She no longer believed in The Spirits of her pack, but she did believe in the red berries. The red berries were certain, sudden, glittering and confident in ways The Spirits had not been. There was not a doubt in her mind that, if she prayed to the red berries, her prayers would be answered.

"Mother," the little brown pup said, batting at an empty crayfish shell that met his path. "You are still sad, aren't you?"

"I am very sad, Tir," she said in reply. She did not look at her pup. Her green eyes were hollowed as the crayfish shell her son had kicked, but a manic glint had stolen into her expression. "There is no mother under the sun who would not be sad in my situation."

The pup nodded, though his ears were flattened in a dissatisfied manner. Tir did not understand why his mother had woken him up so early and taken him out to the forest, but he felt it would be best to be quiet. She was in a strange mood.

The pair came to a halt. When the pup raised his head from the dusty ground, he saw a tree like none of the others around it. It was stunted and thick-trunked, twisted in odd positions like an armful of snakes escaping the cracks of the earth. Black-green needles grew in a protective mesh around its scabbed bark; they were dry and weak in the drought, but sharp enough that the fallen ones pricked his paws. Red berries glinted like beetles' eyes from the tree's depths—blood-stars in a withered sky, smooth and soft and beautiful in a terrible way.

"You have seen this tree," the mother said as she padded up to it and nosed one of its branches. Tir flinched as the dry needles fluttered down and sank into his mother's filthy brown fur. "Have you played beneath it?"

"No," the pup said. "Father forbade us."

The pup's father was the alpha of the pack, a raven-furred wolf named Misari. He had indeed warned the pups to avoid the red-eyed tree, but the warning was useless. What pups would want to play under such a thing?

"Misari," the she-wolf said in a rush of bitterness, her voice harsh. The needles tumbled from her matted fur. "Misari, fearless leader, maker of laws, father of my children, murderer of my last daughter—"

"Father didn't kill her, mother," Tir said in a soft voice, frightened by her savage tone. "You did."

It was this, then, that brought a sudden wilt to the fierce-eyed old she-wolf. Her head dropped and her shoulders fell. Turning her head, she looked at her son, who met her gaze with frightened eyes as green as her own. The savagery was gone, and Tir was no longer afraid of his mother. He leaned for her; she drew him in as she had when he was so young his eyes had not yet opened—only then, she had drawn in two pups, Tir and another, a sister who would always be nameless. He remembered the day his mother had gone out into the forest with her and returned alone. Her paws had been wet, as though she had washed them of something that she would not wish him to see, and her green eyes had been hollowed by terrible sights. He was not too young to know what had happened. She told him.

"It was not a decision I would have made on my own," she said, her voice breaking up in whispers and fragments of speech. She drew rattling breaths, the air shaking between her ribs and up her empty throat. "It was Misari who made me, little one—not I, never! You know the traditions. What must be done. This drought has drained us all; there is no room for runts."

"Am I a runt?" he asked, fearful that this was the reason she had brought him out to the forest. But the mother shook her head.

"If you were, I would not have been allowed to keep you so long. No, Tir, I only want you to listen to me—can you see the red berries?"

The pup peered into the twisted tree. The red berries winked back at him from their shade. He averted his eyes as he would before another wolf, not to appear challenging, not to draw trouble. "I see them, mother."

"Good." The she-wolf raised her head now, and nudged the branch again, as tenderly as she would nudge one of her own pups—as tenderly as she had comforted Tir, a moment ago. "And can you hear them?" she said, pressing her ear against the sharp wall of needles. Her voice had dropped to a thrill of a whisper, gaining in suppressed excitement. "I have heard them every day, my dear. I come to see them now; I have come several times. Can you hear them whisper?"

"I do not hear them, mother."

"Then you are too young. You do not understand the promises these trees offer—they are promises that will be kept, among all doubt in prayers. I have sorrow to be rid of, and they can bring me that: the night, cool and dark and numbing as the rain. You can trust the red berries, Tir."

Tir did not want to trust the red berries. He was frightened again; there was something in the mother's eye that he did not like, and her speaking in hoarse, fervent whispers sent shivers down his spine. He wanted her to be quiet now. He wanted to go back to camp. "Mother, why did you bring me here?"

The answer was not given. While they were speaking, another wolf had come to watch—Kiala, a young she-wolf a few seasons older than Tir, had followed them from camp and now stepped from the dry undergrowth. Her reddish pelt had blended in with the burnt landscape and her scent had been hidden by the dark tree's fragrance.

"Arwena," she said. Her voice was small, but she knew why she had come, and her stance was determined. "Arwena, you are not supposed to be out of camp."

The mother wolf did not turn around, but her face went slack. Her eyes drained into the empty shells they had been before. "I am visiting her grave, Kiala," she said in a low voice. "I can still hear her whimper."

Kiala flinched and her grey eyes widened, but she did not go away. "Do not lie to me, Arwena," she said. "I know you took her to the river. She is not here. But I will tell Misari that you have come—"

"Tell Misari, then, the demon, the law-maker, murderer of my last—"

"Arwena, oh, no, you know what this tree is. Please step away from it."

Arwena silenced, but did not move.

"Your son..." Kiala faltered, discouraged by Arwena's lack of response. She shot a glance at Tir. "Your pup is here. You don't want him to see...you don't want him to see you die, do you?"

"What makes you believe I have come here to die?"

"I know what the tree is. And so do you, or you would not have come here."

There was a long silence, in which Arwena stared into the crossing branches of the dark tree. Kiala, the young wolf, shifted in the dust—she met Tir's inquisitive eye and looked away. Tir had not missed the note in her voice when she had spoken to his mother—quiet, patient, an attempt by someone very young and innocent to be understanding. It was how the pack spoke to Arwena now. They felt sorry for her, but she had lost their respect—good she-wolves are never cursed with runts. Arwena must have done something wrong. Had she come to the red-eyed tree for answers? Had she come to be forgiven?

"I did not come to die," Arwena said. And then, stronger, "I did not come to die."

"Please," Kiala said, raising her voice in an attempt to mask her unease with confidence and authority. "Please come back—"

"No, I am not finished." Arwena straightened herself and then turned to face Tir—the manic light had left her eyes, and now she seemed strong, authoritative, the warm maternal force Tir had known before the death of his sister.

"See this tree, Tir, and memorize its appearance," she said to him, and he met her eyes. "This is a yew tree—know it, so that you may stay away from it. All parts of it only wish to do you harm—the leaves, the bark, the roots. And do not speak to the red berries. Do not ever touch them. Should the black seed of a single berry touch your tongue, you will be killed. Do you understand?"

Tir nodded, his eyes widening. Behind him, he heard Kiala gasp, and he wondered if he was meant to be entrusted with such knowledge. He was glad he knew another way to not be killed.

"If you ever find yourself so desperately in need of answers, do not turn to the red berries. They will give you answers, but not the ones you want. Never find yourself desperate enough to turn to the yew berries, Tir."

He only stared. Arwena's gaze was firm, solid, green as the leaves that had once covered the trees. He wondered when he would see her eyes clear as this again—his mother's eyes changed each day, going through their cycles; they withered, grew, and died, like the dead leaves that now lay on the ground.

"I will come with you back to camp, now," Arwena said to Kiala. Her head was raised and her voice was calm, like a queen's, like the alpha female she had once been. "Please lead the way for us."

Tir was too young, then, to understand the gravity of what had happened. He knew his sister's death had struck his mother—for such was the law, the rule of the pack. But he never understood entirely, not until many years later.

The drought persisted and the red-eyed tree thrived as the others faded, but Tir kept constant watch. His mother's health would rise and fall—falling lower than it had on the occasion of the yew tree, preceded by times in which she seemed stronger, her own self. The forest dried to a husk, a wisp of vegetation, and the scent of distant fires hung sharper and sharper in the air each day. The smoke made promises where the rain did not; the red berries offered solutions where The Spirits could not. But in the lowest of her emotions, Tir guarded the yew tree; Arwena never went near it again. Perhaps she knew that he would be standing there, waiting.

***

The Gatherer is here.

Those words floated in the air, whispers of cotton, gaining in strength and excitement as Palva slipped into her pack's temporary redoubt through the slippery wall of weeds. They had been waiting for her return, knowing that she would be someone different now, someone important, someone changed. Whispers fluttered around her like paper birds as the wolves of her pack milled about, brushing against her as she passed. It was the usual custom—greeting the new Gatherer as she returned, accepting her as a different creature than she had been the day before, but Palva was in no mood for customs. She ducked her head as she brushed by them, padding towards the alpha's den, their surprised questions following her on the wind.

"No, Palva, wait!" someone shouted from behind, rushing up to her. A young black she-wolf danced alongside her, mustard-yellow eyes gleaming with excitement. "How did your—"

"Not now, Nerasa," Palva mumbled, shaking her head, which was dragging down like a leaden weight. "I'm tired."

The pup's yellow eyes flickered with unease.

"So'm I, Palva," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You're late coming back, and I was waiting all night, 'cause I wanted to see what you look like when you're a new Gatherer. Mluma says the youngest Gatherers shine like new stars, she says, and I wanted to see if it was true—"

"Don't speak to me of stars, Nerasa, please," Palva whispered. "I'm tired."

"Mluma's right, Palva. You do look different, sad, even, as if..." Nerasa silenced, and peered up at Palva, yellow eyes growing sharp and serious. "Bad. Something bad happened."

"Nothing bad has happened, Nerasa."

"That's a lie, I know it—"

"Please, Nerasa, this isn't the time." Palva's fur was itching and burning as though on fire, and her mouth felt dry and bitter. "All I need is to talk to Liyra. Where is she?"

"She's in her den, Palva," Nerasa said, ducking her head, though her yellow eyes were puzzled. "But what's wrong—?"

Palva left without another word, leaving the yearling she-wolf standing there, yellow eyes confused.

"Well, I think she shines like a new star, anyway." Palva heard Nerasa mutter to herself as she turned around and walked back to the rest of the bewildered pack. "...and what's wrong with that? Does being a Gatherer hurt, I wonder?"

Palva swallowed.

The alpha's den was on the other side of the redoubt, in a shallow cave that was shaded by a wall of bracken. A large mud-colored wolf was sitting on guard beside the entrance, his steel-grey eyes roving about the redoubt main as though to read the thoughts of the surrounding packwolves. It wasn't until Palva was a few steps away that she noticed the other wolf who had been concealed in the larger one's shadow—a skeletal, shaggy white yearling who looked to be a few seasons old. His face was slashed in half by a brutal red cut that seeped blood into his white fur and had almost destroyed his left eye. He was shuddering against the large brown wolf, clenching his teeth as though fighting back whimpers of pain.

"Oh, look," the larger wolf said, grey eyes widening in a mimicry of surprise. "The Gatherer has returned. Is there anything I can do for you, Gatherer?"

"I have nothing to say to you, if that's what you're asking."

"Don't you?" the wolf said. "Anything you need to tell the alpha, you can tell me. Surely—"

"I am speaking to Alpha Liyra alone. Get out of my way."

"Oh, you wouldn't want to snap your teeth at me, Gatherer. Not before I know what is so terribly urgent. The alpha has little time for your nightmares."

Palva closed her eyes. She was in no mood for this.

"Let me pass, Leron," she said through gritted teeth. "And keep my nightmares out of it, Rya save you."

"So it is another nightmare, then?" Leron said with triumph. "Poor Gatherer. But I'm afraid the alpha is far too busy to comfort you, Gatherer—"

"Captain Leron!" snapped a voice from the cave. "What do you think you're doing? I've been waiting for Palva since dawn. Let her in this instant."

Leron stared at Palva, but said nothing more as he let her pass. Instead, he turned on the trembling white yearling beside him.

"Cut your whimpering!" he snarled, and the young wolf silenced as though he had been struck. Palva brushed past them and towards the alpha's den. The little white wolf recoiled from her in her passing, and even Captain Leron flinched, as though the air around Palva was still snarling with flames. Let them fear, Palva though savagely as she shifted through the den's curtain of hanging vines. If Rya's stars still burn in my fur, then they at least know who I am now.

But her spark of brief anger sputtered and died when she stood at the mouth of the alpha's cave, and the sodden wave of weariness came rushing back.

"Palva?" came the alpha's voice again, from the depths of the cave. "I welcome your return. Please come in."

Palva entered the alpha's den. She was unused to the new respect and privileges she had now earned as the pack's Gatherer, for she knew of things that the other members could only dream of. As the Gatherer, it was her responsibility to understand the properties of numerous healing herbs and know how to use them should the need arise. She also was somewhat of a messenger for Rya, their mother goddess; she was responsible for receiving and deciphering prophecies, dreams, visions, and other things of a similar supernatural nature. Anything that Palva was sent was to be reported to the alpha as soon as possible.

Palva ducked beneath a thin curtain of vines to enter the den. She could feel her paws sink into the moss that carpeted the floor as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A second pair of silver-flecked eyes glinted in the dim light from a corner.

"Palva!" the alpha said, shifting in the shadows at the back of the cave. "I have been waiting. Please do not mind Captain Leron; he has had a bad morning, and one of our young Sentinels was injured on his patrol."

Palva flinched, remembering the white pup's bloody scar.

"What happened to Xelind's face?" she asked, though she felt she knew all too well. "The scar..."

"A stone from a human's thunder-stick, Palva, or so Leron tells me. Their attacks are growing constant now. The yearling may have made a fine Sentinel someday—but never will he see clearly out of that eye again, thanks to them!"

Her voice ended in an angry bark, but her frustration gave way to weariness and she sighed. "Our troubles are mounting, Palva," she said. "We are losing time and blood—I fear this pack may have to move to different lands, safer lands." She shook herself, and sank to the ground. "But a new Gatherer brings new hope. We have been anticipating your return, Palva, I most of all. Rya will deliver us, and she will speak through you."

"Speak indeed." Palva lifted her head to meet her leader's troubled gaze. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light just enough so that she could see the alpha's dark, silver-furred form lying on the ground. "That is what I am here to tell you about, Liyra."

There was a moment of silence, and then Alpha Liyra rose to her paws, her eyes darkened with concern. "I hear fear in your voice, Palva," she said, peering down at her. "What is wrong? Are you grieving for Tsila?"

Tsila was the previous Gatherer. Like the generations of Gatherers before her, Tsila had guided Palva until the third summer of the young Gatherer's life, when Palva came of age—which had been only last night. Now that Palva no longer needed her for guidance, the old she-wolf had gone to join Rya. Someday, Palva would follow her. But not yet.

"Yes, well, of course. The entire pack mourns her passing," Palva said. "But that is not what is troubling me now. My—my Rising..."

"You are the new Gatherer, aren't you? Tsila didn't die without—"

"Oh, yes," Palva said. "I am the new Gatherer. But..." she shut her eyes tight. "I don't know—I saw a sudden rush of darkness, and fire, and then a vision—"

"A vision?" Liyra said. "Rya has revealed herself? Has she shown you a solution to the thunder-sticks?"

"No. Not a solution. I am afraid that the humans and their thunder-sticks are not our only worries."

"You mean there's more danger coming? Oh, no. No, we can't afford that; you must be mistaken."

"I'm afraid I'm not. If we are to take Rya's words literally, it seems there's going to be a fire of some sort."

"Fire?" Liyra hissed. "Are the humans and their thunder-sticks not enough? What other misfortunes are ahead? Does Rya not hear our cries? Why does she throw these troubles in our path?"

Palva watched as the alpha spat on the ground with frustration and anger.

"Rya must hear our cries, Liyra," she said. "And the troubles are—"

"Humans! Humans and their thunder-sticks! We are no longer the hunters, but the hunted! Prey! In our own territory!"

"Liyra—"

The alpha growled and ignored Palva, turning towards the cave wall, silver tail bristling and rigid. "My mate has already been killed," she said, scoring the ground with her dull claws. "Two wolves dead, and three wounded. I worried about controlling so many wolves when we joined up with Karvo and Solora's pack, you know, but now I see that numbers are not a problem. More of them die each day!"

The problems had begun last spring, when lack of prey had driven a few desperate wolves to take sheep from a nearby farm. The humans had soon come down on them with guns and traps, driving the pack from their dens and into the dense marshland in which they were now camped, temporarily. Liyra and her mate, as the alphas, had seen no other option but to leave and find new territory. They joined up two other packs that had been living nearby—one led by Karvo and his mate, Solora; and another, smaller band of ragged wolves led by a large brown yearling known as Leron. It was Leron who guarded Liyra's den now, her appointed Captain and the only surviving member of the other packs' leaders. He had wanted to be lead alpha, but Liyra had fought him down by sheer virtue of experience. She still bore the scars from it. He still bore the resentment.

"Do you know how many fights I've had to put down since last night?" Liyra was seething. She fixed her dark gold eyes on Palva as though it weas her fault. "Three! I tell you, strangers cannot simply be thrown into a pack together. If we cannot mold ourselves into one pack, we will all die."

"The journey will unify them."

Liyra gave a short, bitter laugh. "I can only hope. Troubles do that, don't they? Would it be wrong to hope for an easy journey? Oh, but then we wouldn't be unified. Palva, I can barely bring these wolves to hunt together."

"They greeted me only a moment ago, all of them—"

"Yes, yes, that is wonderful," Liyra said. "They were so very excited about having a new Gatherer, you know. A new Gatherer for a new pack, ever since Karvo's died. What was her name?"

"Venia," Palva whispered, and Liyra nodded.

"Yes, that was it. Terrified them all, even my own wolves—Gatherers aren't supposed to just die like that, even though they know there can't be two Gatherers at one time. It had to be either her or our own Tsila. But you, you mark a new beginning. One Gatherer for one pack, if we could properly be called that now. They believe now is a time to start over, that you would return with the knowledge to save them."

Palva sighed.

"I'm sorry, Liyra," she said. "But I'm afraid the knowledge is not what they would wish for. In the vision, you see—"

"Ah, yes," Liyra said, whipping back around, eyes sharp. "Your vision. Describe it."

Palva shivered, the memory of last night's flames hissing in her head. "It was near the end," she began, trying to keep her voice level. "It went on for a moment, but then—"

"No, no, no," Liyra cut in. "Start from the beginning, Palva. The moment you left the redoubt last night, what did you do? Did you see anything unusual before you went to sleep?"

"Nothing unusual at all. Tsila and I left just before sundown, as you know. We did not go far from the redoubt; we followed the stream just to the edge of the pine grove. There, we found an abandoned badger set. I went in, and Tsila—Tsila stayed outside while I waited for night. Everything went well, considering."

"Did anything unusual happen after you woke? On your way back?"

"No," Palva said. "I was still shaking when the dream ended, but other than that I was fine. Tsila, of course, was...gone." Palva stopped for a moment, her voice trembling and eyes cloudy with sorrow. "I—I buried her in the badger set, I caved in the roof. She will not be disturbed." Palva paused for a moment to collect herself, taking a deep breath. "But no," she said, looking back at Liyra. "Just the vision."

"I see," Liyra said with a bitter edge of dread. She turned around and sank to the den floor. "Tell me about your vision, Palva."

Alpha Liyra listened in silence, her eyes betraying no emotion as Palva recounted her horror. In the darkness of the alpha's cave, she spoke of strange white shadows, an orange moon, claws snagging and tangling amongst each other beneath the river's surface, a forest filled with blackened wolves and a fire erupting from the edge of the horizon from where they stood now—but when Palva reached the part about the fire-wolves, the alpha gave a sharp intake of breath and leaped to her paws.

"There were wolves in the fire?"

Palva paused, staring at the shocked alpha. "Yes. Many of them. Their black shadows flickered in and out of the flames like ghosts." She shuddered at the image, which was still burned into her memory like a scar.

"But—but were they screaming? Were they in pain, dying, or anything?"

"No. They did not make a sound."

Alpha Liyra took a few steps backwards, muttering to herself "Did you recognize any of them?" she asked at last.

"Oh, no. In fact, it's possible that those wolves didn't even symbolize this pack. Perhaps another pack will suffer from the fire."

"But if it doesn't involve us, why would Rya show it to you? Why should the concerns of another pack affect us?"

"I don't know. I'm sure Rya has her reasons."

Liyra was silent for a few moments. She paced from one end of the den to the other, brow furrowed in thought. After a while, she turned back to Palva.

"Did this vision come with any sort of explanation? Do you know what it could mean?"

"There was," Palva began, and then hesitated. She swallowed and shook her head, fearing the alpha's reaction. "Liyra, there was a prophecy."

"Palva! You couldn't—" Liyra cut herself off, her face alive with shock. Palva knew why the news had frightened her so, and she lowered her head—young Gatherers were never tested with prophecies; such things are too traumatizing for an inexperienced creature to handle. There were stories amongst the packwolves of young Gatherers who had lost their minds trying to decipher persistent voices in their heads, leaving the pack in a state of turmoil. And here Palva had not yet been Gatherer for even a season, and already the future was looking grim.

To Palva's surprise, however, Liyra shook her head with a jerk, as though shooing away a fly. The alpha's face had composed itself into a solemn, businesslike mask. "I apologize, Palva; please go on. Tell me this prophecy."

Palva took a deep breath and closed her eyes, the image of the flames and the ash-wolf still burning bright before her. She summoned up the words, hissed into her ear by Rya, the mother goddess, the spirit of the sun and moon eyes—words that she knew would cause her many sleepless nights. And when she had finished, a heavy silence filled the den. Liyra gazed at Palva with a mixture of horror and awe. Palva said nothing more; she opened her eyes and rested her muzzle on her paws, staring at the dark walls of Liyra's den.

"What does it mean?" Liyra whispered.

"I don't know," Palva said, still looking at the cave walls. Her heart was pounding, though she hoped Liyra couldn't tell. "Nothing good."

"Oh, yes, Palva—who knows the intentions of Rya? Here I thought that we had enough troubles clawing at our back, and she must go and send more. How can she watch us suffer like this?"

"I don't think Rya can control what happens," Palva said. "She can only warn us."

Liyra shook her head and began to pace again. "Maybe," she said. A dull weariness had crept into her tone. "But I have trouble believing it. A better warning would make more sense."

"Rya has never been wrong before. She knows what will happen, and she is warning us."

"Yes. I suppose you're right. But what can we do?"

"We can't do anything now," Palva said. "We can only wait."

### Part I: Falling

### Two Years Later

But hunted, keep watch when the claws do descend—

For what fire scatters only ashes can mend.

\- Last stanza of Palva's prophecy

### 1.

Aftermath

It began with fire.

Tir saw the churning colors before his eyes even now, whenever he shut them to sleep. The image was, quite literally, burned into his memory and it would not release him. He could feel the smoldering claws closing around his throat, drawing tighter still with each day he lived—the fire that had destroyed his forest may be gone, but it still remained inside him.

The pristine sky above him was blissfully oblivious of this. He opened his eyes—stinging and gummed up as they were with smoke—and stared into the blank heavens. It was dizzying. The blueness stretched on and on as if beneath his feet, like an ocean's mouth that was threatening to swallow him up. Was it possible to fall upwards?

The familiar plummeting sensation tugged at his paws, and he could feel himself drop—turning over and over in the air like a dead leaf, feeling as though his insides were being pulled downward. He had fallen from the fire, before. That was how he had escaped. That was the only reason why he was alive now.

"The forest is dry," Avrok had said the morning of the fire. "It troubles me—and Misari, as well. We need to move on and seek rain elsewhere."

Tir shut his eyes tight and buried his face in the grass. Oh, how it all burned! The voices still repeated themselves in his mind, again and again, voices and sounds from before the fire and after it and sometimes even during. Still the flames crackled. They had not moved fast enough. It is impossible to outrun the wind, and fire often is borne on the wind. They should have known this!

The dusty clearing had erupted with the running shapes of terrified wolves and the air filled with noises of panic as they stumbled over each other, frantic to escape the burning forest before they were trapped. Smoke was beginning to cloud the sky, and the thick scent of the fire was getting stronger as it moved closer to the clearing.

Tir was swept away in the current of the pack as they all struggled to flee, like salmon swimming against the river. Clouded by the blinding panic, his mind was still in confusion. He could see the bright, lethal flames dancing before his eyes, and his fur felt heavy with ashes. Something had begun to burn in his throat.

"Seilo! Where are you, Seilo? The forest is on fire! We must leave now!"

Tir turned on the spot, his head cleared. He fought against the surging stream of wolves towards his mother's voice. She was still in the camp, running in and out of deserted dens with her ears flat and eyes shut tight.

"Seilo!" she cried. "We must leave! Where are you?"

Tir dashed to her side. Grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, he pulled her out of the camp, feeling her go limp in his jaws. It took all the strength he possessed to haul her along the rough path formed by the panicked wolves. The fire was growing ever closer; he could sense it, pounding in his head like a red drum. His mother was terribly heavy for one so thin, weighing him down like a boulder, pulling him down into black water where he was drowning, drowning...He had to stop, he could go no further.

Tir cried out.

"Wake him up again, Seilo."

The Gatherer's voice was quiet and emotionless. Tir was curled up in a nest of long, slippery grass, trembling and sobbing to himself. Someone was shaking his shoulder, but he did not open his eyes. Where was his strength? What had he done to survive, when all the rest had perished? The flames were calling him still. They wanted him back—they did not like being cheated out of a victim.

"He's not waking up, Palva!" said a pup's voice, thin and frightened. "He's still thrashing."

"It's the dreams," said Palva. "He's having his nightmares again. We're running out of poppy seed—will you go fetch me some? Nerasa knows where I keep my old stores."

"Yes, and I'll hurry!"

There was a rustling in the grass as the pup ran out of the hollow, leaving silence behind him. Tir only buried his face deeper into the ground, trying to block out all thoughts, all memories, all visions...someone, in a thin and distant voice, was wailing. It was Arwena. She had often wailed.

"Listen to me," said the Gatherer's voice in his ear. Palva was standing beside him. "You are alive and safe. You have fallen from a great height, so it isn't advisable that you move at the moment. There was a fire, but you are safe because you fell. Can you hear me? Tir?"

"I can hear you." Tir raised his head and shook himself, still trembling and panting with fear. "How long was it this time?"

"Barely past dawn, though it must have felt like seasons. Last time you moaned for two days."

Tir shut his eyes again. Yes, the flames still danced behind his closed lids. He opened them again, and for a moment his vision was black as charred wood—a brief spark of panic flared in his stomach, but the darkness soon cleared and he was looking into Palva's emotionless face.

"I still see them," he said. "I thought it would have gone away by now, but I can still see it. All of it."

Palva shook her head. "You have been through more than you can handle. It isn't your fault—Seilo's gone to get more poppy seeds, which will help you sleep soundly again."

"I don't want to sleep. I've told you. I want to leave—that's why I still hear their voices. They want me to find them."

Palva did not answer, but Tir could see the exasperation in her pale, moonlike eyes. He looked away, knowing what she was thinking—that they were dead, all of them, and leaving to search for them would do no good. A sinking, hollow feeling told him she was probably right, but he did his best to ignore it.

Once his bruises and burns healed, he would have nothing to do with himself. Why shouldn't he wander these strange fields, searching for his past? He knew as well as Palva that the nightmares must end, lest he kill himself with fear and sleeplessness, and the only way to end the nightmares would be to find them. All of them.

"I'm still here, Tir."

Palva's pale eyes were sharp as her voice. Her head was tilted to one side, but not even she could hide the concern in her eyes. She feared as Tir did: that he would go insane.

Rather like Arwena. Tir could have smiled with the appropriateness of it all.

"You know this can't go on, Tir," Palva was saying. "Are you listening to me? When was the last time you had a proper night's sleep?"

"I don't know."

"You mutter, did you know that?"

"What sort of things do I mutter about?"

"Mainly fire. And you do speak a lot of someone named Arwena—assuring her that something wasn't her fault."

Tir moaned.

"Who is Arwena, Tir?"

He glanced at her. The Gatherer's eyes were serious, and he recalled her conviction that talking about something would help the healing process—he had not believed her. This was the fourth time she had asked about Arwena, and he found his answer had gained a dull, practiced rhythm: "She was my mother."

"And what is it that she did?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"And you?"

"I haven't done anything, either."

"Very good."

He waited for her to turn around and go back to sorting her herbs, but she remained before him, staring as though waiting for something else. Something in her serene, expectant expression drove a spark of irritation through him. "That isn't true, you know," he said suddenly. Palva raised her brow. "That she did nothing. She did. Do something, I mean. She killed my sister."

"Really?" Palva was unimpressed.

"Yes. The alpha made her do it. My father, I mean. Runts are always supposed to be killed, he said—it's the mother's job. Aren't there any runts in this pack?"

"Not that I've remembered. Raatri was rather small, perhaps, but we never considered that he ought to be killed. I doubt his mother would have approved of the idea."

"Arwena didn't want to. She was miserable afterwards. I remember it; I wasn't that young."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

Tir silenced and looked away. Palva did not answer, but he felt her pale gaze linger on the back of his head. She knew it was true. Though she meant well, Tir had sensed a coldness in the Gatherer—not cruelty, really, but a sense of indifference. Palva had never been haunted by fire. How could she be sorry for anything?

"Palva, I have the poppies—I've brought the...oh." The sandy-furred pup named Seilo came tumbling down the grassy tunnel and into Palva's hollow, a twisted bundle of crimson flowers clasped in his jaws. He paused when he saw that Tir was awake, and his ears flattened. Seilo did not say another word as Palva took the flowers from him with a word of thanks; he kept his wide blue pup-eyes fixed on Tir.

Tir looked away, glowering. Seilo was afraid of him, and he knew it was his own fault. How excited he had been, when it was Seilo who had found him at the foot of the cliff—burnt and bleeding and barely-conscious. His memories were vague, but he had fuzzy images of himself leaping up in a burst of manic energy, crying something about returns and fire and running headlong towards Seilo—the pup had been paralyzed with fright, of course. With his burnt, blackened fur and running eyes, Tir had looked like something long dead. And Tir had thought he was dead, that Seilo had come to fetch him—Seilo was dead as well, of course; he had vanished from Arwena's den only a month before.

Arwena would be so happy to know that Tir had found him.

"You needn't glare at him like that, Tir," Palva admonished, when Seilo had run back up the tunnel. She was tucking the poppy blossoms into cracks between boulders, the red of their petals like brands of fire growing from grey stone. "He can't help that he is so young."

"He doesn't remember anything. He must, I tell him—you can't just forget things like that. My mother did everything for him, and he has no idea."

"Of course he does. He remembers faces and voices, but not names. How could he? He was barely old enough to have his eyes open, then. He has spent more time living here with me than he did in your forest, where he was born. He was taken so young. You wouldn't remember a thing, either."

"He doesn't know me."

"If you could see what you look like now, you wouldn't know yourself either. You're a charred mess."

"Thank you."

It was a hawk that had taken Seilo, Palva said. They had found him sprawled unconscious in a marsh, the gouges of talons on his back. It was a miracle he was alive. Tir had a hard time believing that a hawk would take Seilo from his camp and then carry him a distance away only to drop him, but Palva said it had happened before. A drought leading into a famine was enough to make any bird of prey desperate.

"She didn't know me after that," Tir found himself whispering. Palva turned to look at him and, to his mortification, he felt his voice begin to quiver with something like tears. "She was...she was distraught. After he vanished. He wasn't her pup, you know; he belonged to a friend of hers who died. She promised she'd take care of him."

"I'm certain—"

"No, listen to me!" Tir felt a surge of anger, and he rose to his paws. His legs felt as though they were made of brittle twigs, and he swayed, but did not fall. For some reason, it seemed of utmost importance that he make Palva understand. "She didn't know me," he said, meeting the Gatherer's pale stare. "She didn't know my name or where I had come from—I'm her son. And no one in the pack would speak to me, either, because they thought Arwena had gone mad and maybe I was mad as well. It was as though...I—I didn't exist anymore."

"Tir..."

"And now I'm here," he spat, throwing his head about to display the vastness of the strange land that surrounded him—a wide, open expanse of fields. Palva's hollow was in a small dip in the land, and grassy walls reared up on all sides of him. He felt trapped. "None of you know me, either. I've gotten lost, Palva, but I truly am lost, do you understand? But if I find them again, if you let me...I can...they'll know me." His voice trailed into a weak whisper, and the tears again rose in his throat. "They must."

Palva stared at him for a long time, and there was something like pity in her gaze. Tir looked away, trembling on his fragile and bruised legs. He did not want the Gatherer's cold pity. He did not know what he wanted, but he wished she would stop looking at him as though he were mad. He wasn't.

"You are very tired, Tir," Palva said after a long silence, her voice quiet. "Seilo has been kind enough to bring me some more poppy seeds. A quiet sleep would do you good, don't you think?"

"You don't believe me," he whispered. The reality of where he was standing now stung in his eyes, and he swallowed.

"Believe what? I believe that you do, in fact, exist—trust me, Tir, you need to rest. You will go into a shock episode if you do not control yourself."

At her words, Tir's legs gave out beneath him, and he sank back into the grass. The hollow seemed to blur before his eyes and his nose burned as though it were full of sand and soot. What had he been angry about? He wanted to sleep. His head ached, and the scent of the fire was wrapped like a smothering haze around his face.

When Palva brought him the poppy seeds, he gladly sank back into oblivion.

***

"He wants to leave, Liyra."

Palva was in the Alpha's den, her back to the entrance as the red rays of sunset began to fall outside. Liyra, a she-wolf with silver fur and a powerful build, sat straight-shouldered against the stone walls of the den. Palva remained standing.

"Wants to leave?" the alpha said, cocking her head in mild surprise. "Why, Palva, where on earth would he go? His pack is dead; his home is destroyed and far too distant. He could not go anywhere even if he did leave."

"He wants to find them," Palva said in a low voice. Liyra was pleasant, composed, and Palva was not falling for it. "He refuses to believe that every member of his pack has perished—I try to tell him the truth, but he hears nothing. He is set on leaving the moment he is fit to go."

"And how long will that be?"

Palva closed her eyes, considering. "If the necessary herbs can be found, then maybe by next full moon. But I can't say for certain—he needs comfrey for those burns, and I haven't found any in this new land yet."

"I will set a patrol to that."

"Liyra, they know nothing about herbs."

"Then why not teach them? And someone," she continued, before Palva could protest. "someone must teach this outsider as well. He is past the age of Placement, so by the time you say he is healed he may get into the rhythm of the pack as soon as possible. Perhaps—"

"No, Liyra, I don't think you understand," Palva interrupted. Her voice sounded harsher now, and she forced herself back into a smooth tone before Liyra could notice. "He wants to leave. He lives for it. Every night, every hour, he waits for the day he can stand on his own and set out to search for his dead pack. He will not stay."

"Then you know what we must do."

"Is that best?"

Liyra shook her head with a sort of mournful heaviness, as though it pained her to say that yes, it was best, and Palva felt an unexpected twinge of disgust. "What else can we do?" the alpha said, her voice lowered. She turned her dark gold eyes on Palva, who looked away. "You of all Council members should understand, Palva. You recognized him for what he was!"

"He doesn't know that."

"And you will see to it that he never does." Liyra rose to her paws in one smooth movement, shaking the dust out of her silver pelt. She padded to the den's entrance and faced Palva, dark eyes alive with urgency and excitement. "You told me yourself, Palva," she whispered. "Your prophecy must not fail. I don't know what you have foreseen—"

"Other than that, nothing."

"—but I do agree with the case you made then, when you brought him to the redoubt: that we must be prepared for what may come. We will keep the outsider, and when the time comes for the hope that he means, then, well, he will be there to provide it."

She looked irritatingly pleased with herself, and Palva's neck fur bristled. Matters were not so simple as Liyra would make them out to be. While direct force may be enough to win oneself a position as Alpha, it was never a foolproof solution—especially to a problem as delicate as this. Tir was weak and beaten, but the idea of keeping him by force made Palva nervous.

"Do you really think," she said, almost in a growl. "That he will be willing to defend our pack if we have been holding him prisoner?"

"Prisoner is such an ugly word, Palva. He is not a prisoner. I have faith that you can speak to him; you can make him understand—he will come to see things our way, you know. He must—if it wasn't meant to be, then why would there be a prophecy?"

"Why indeed," Palva said through gritted teeth. Liyra heard her, and her golden eyes darkened.

"I need to know you take these things seriously, Palva," she said. Her voice was stricter now, authoritative, and she examined Palva's face with leveled eyes. "That you know: this may be the only chance we are given. You have had this conversation with me before, and I gave you my answer then just as I do now. If guarding him troubles you—"

"Oh, it does not trouble me," Palva interrupted. She spoke in a light and calm voice, so as not to antagonize Liyra further. But her eyes were made of pale ice. "Not so much as, I am certain, it troubles him. I am not sentimental, but I have come to wonder if this is the best solution."

"Do you have another?"

"Give me time, and I will."

Liyra sighed, and flicked her tail against the cold stone face behind her. "I do not know how much time I have left to give," she said. "It has been long since you received Rya's prophecy. We have travelled for seasons. And this land seems ready-made for us, a perfect territory and excellent hunting grounds. Do you know," she said, giving Palva a hesitant smile. "That there is a herd of deer that roams the fields? Deer, Palva! How long has it been since we have had proper prey?"

"Far too long, Liyra. But I don't see how this—"

"We have found the perfect world," Liyra interrupted. Her eyes took on a fervent, frightened light. "The perfect world! We have reached an ending point to the terrors of our travels. At last, a place to rest! But do you see now, Palva? This is all a show. We have walked from one world into another, and it is also the perfect time for the fire to fall."

"You think the danger is coming," Palva said. "The claws and the river, from the third line of the prophecy."

Liyra shuddered. "I do not know what those words mean," she said. "But yes, I think this danger is coming. What better time than at the end of a journey? And now that the fire-wolf has been found—why, Palva, I believe it's only a matter of time before the rest of it falls into place. We must be ready."

The alpha fell silent. Palva was staring at the ground, her eyes following the dips and cracks of the dusty stone floor. She felt Liyra's gaze resting on her, as though awaiting her permission, her opinion—but Palva knew this was all a show. Liyra was the alpha. She looked to no one for permission. What she wanted was Palva's approval, but if she could not have that then it would only bother her slightly.

"I can only agree with you, Liyra," Palva said at last, raising her eyes. "on the matter of the prophecy, at least. I feel it coming as well. It would be ideal to be prepared for it, of course, but I don't think it is wise to hold the one who is meant to save us all as our prisoner. I doubt he'd be willing to cooperate, when the time comes."

"He would have no choice."

"And what does that mean? Are you going to have Leron stand behind him throughout the whole thing—fire or flood or crumbling of the earth—pressing his fangs into his neck?"

"Of course not. But if it is in the prophecy, then it must be."

"I suppose so. But you know that Rya gives us room to move around in her words. The prophecy could mean something very different from what you think it does now."

Liyra hesitated, her eyes darkening with anger. She met Palva's level, cool gaze—Palva stared her in the eye, not so much a challenge as a reminder, a reminder that it was Palva who held authority in the realms of what is not understood, what is to be interpreted. The Gatherer was detached from pack hierarchy; the Gatherer stood on her own; the Gatherer in the eyes of Rya was as powerful as an alpha and perhaps more so. Palva could not challenge Liyra in a fight, but the alpha would not dare lay a claw Rya's own messenger.

"Tell him he may leave," Liyra said.

"Thank you—"

"No, no, only tell him that to put his mind at ease. If he tries to go, do not let him under any circumstances—tell him anything: the herbs aren't finished, the land is dangerous, he's still too wounded—but do not release him."

"This won't work, Liyra," Palva growled. "We cannot hold him—"

"He will not be a prisoner," Liyra said. "He will join us."

### 2.

The Renegade

Alanki was a creature driven by violence.

The dreams began during the second summer of her life—for several nights on end, she would wake up with bared fangs and cold blood, spastic visions still flashing before her eyes. They began flimsy, as flashes of images that she forgot when she awoke, and left her with nothing more than the washes of leftover colors and a racing heart. But the pictures strengthened as summer gave way to autumn—soon, she awoke with fear buried deep in her bones, faces and voices still playing on an endless loop in her head. What could she dream about? She had been a renegade her entire life; she was haunted by nothing and no one. But the dreams came in strengthening lines, demanding explanations she could not give.

Alanki was very much afraid of going insane.

When the dreams began gaining coherence, however, she gained some sense of familiarity. Her sleeping self fled dark-furred demons, flying over some screaming expanse of black and grey ripples. Often, she would turn full-circle and sink her fangs into a throat, an artery, anything that would give blood to her teeth. She found herself seized with a frozen brutality, an instinct to destroy whatever creature would approach and destroy it quickly. She woke with the taste of blood in her mouth.

That, at least, made sense to her. Alanki was familiar with the sweeping exhilaration of the kill, the endless game of prey and predator that was created to entertain renegades such as her. She had found a sense of power in maintaining what was hers—her forest—and fox, badger, and lynx were all driven from her territory. She still bore the scars from the lynx encounter. The lessons, too. For what could be more fearsome than a creature that is as strong as a wolf and can fight like a lynx? Alanki had sharpened her claws since then, and learned to use them. Alanki did not know how wolves fought. Alanki had no pack of her own, only a herd of deer that roamed the fields and forest in the warm seasons. The deer were enough for her.

It was the deer who had raised her. Alanki had grown under unusual circumstances. The deer had a peculiar legend about a deviance in the great balance—the balance of hunter and hunted—a deviance who would, one day, come to save the very people who had given her shelter. The prey, the deer, were children of the mild earth. The predators, the wolves and lynxes and foxes, were children of the fierce river—River, the _Lankhi_ , as the deer called it, for out of respect they would give a name and spirit to anything that moved. Alanki had been brought to the deer by means of a river and so, the deer had told her, she was obviously meant to save them all.

Alanki didn't believe that, but she did owe the deer a great debt.

She knew, however, that wolves were not meant to be raised by deer. This came clear to her when she had reached the age of several seasons—she found violence in herself, where it had not been before. She saw the fluid grace of a deer's neck and thought that such beauty was surely meant to be broken. Growls rolled around in the back of her throat, and she found herself watching those who had raised her with a practiced, hunter's eye—she followed their movements and, unconsciously, determined at what time it would be best to strike.

When she killed the first of them—a doe a year older than her, a doe named Tormentil—she was sent from the herd to live on her own. As a renegade so young, Alanki had been forced to teach herself to break other necks, moving her own way up the food chain until she had established herself as the only large predator in the forest. That position was still defended even now, as she a young she-wolf of two years.

Over the passing of seasons, Alanki had earned her way back into the trust of the deer herd—or, at least, some of them. But she knew now, as the deer themselves did, that she was a wolf. Alanki did not live among them. In summers, she would visit, perhaps to listen to a tale or two from a misty-eyed story teller. The deer were creatures of mysticism and omens, and though Alanki tired of insubstantial superstitions, she did hold a great respect for them. After all, she owed them her life—in fact, she owed them two lives. One extra to replace the one she had taken.

And so, when the violent dreams began, Alanki's first thought was of the deer. She remembered how she had sunk her yearling's teeth into the doe Tormentil's throat, feeling the warm pulsing of blood below, the empowering break that came when the doe fell limp in her jaws. It brought a shudder to her mind, now. How could she have done such a thing? It had been an accident, a sudden loss of control that the deer should have foreseen when they chose to take a predator's child into their own herd. But Alanki told herself, again and again, using the event as a sort of memento, a brutal reminder of what she was capable of: it was my fault; it was my fault.

In these dreams, however, it was wolves. Alanki had never seen another wolf before, but her subconscious mind had killed scores of them—nightly, she ran beneath an orange claw-moon and brought bones to breaking beneath the crush of her shoulders, her sharpened claws raking through thick pelts and across featureless faces, her jaw gripping the neck of another and shaking it until it ceased to move. Alanki did not know how she was supposed to feel about these dreams. It was wasteful, wasn't it, to kill so many creatures—but how could she feel sorry for them? The deer had impressed upon her after her accident that killing, in all forms, is wrong; but Alanki killed rabbits weekly to feed herself. What separated wolves from rabbits?

But nothing shook her until the wrong dream came. Alanki could not quite say what separated this dream from the previous ones, but there was a clear difference in the feel to it—it felt as she did during the months after her exile, after she had killed Tormentil. A racing reprimand, the cruel voice in her mind telling her: this is your fault, this is your fault.

In it, she found herself racing along a smooth expanse of ground in the dead of night. There was no moon in the sky. Behind her flew a screaming wind of what could only be other wolves—black and knife-furred and flaming-eyed, they snapped at her heels and drove her forward into the blackness ahead. She ran for her life, as fast as she could drive herself without bursting into a thousand pieces, but she never gained any ground on her pursuers.

In this dream, she made no kill. But she watched as others fell around her—deer and wolves and rabbits—and somehow, it came to her that this was because of what she had done. What? Alanki did not know.

She knew the wolves behind her wanted to kill her. And with the panic of this realization, the ground broke to flakes beneath her pounding paws; water sprang from the cracks of the dry earth and before she knew it, Alanki was surging forward with the power of the river behind her, surging ahead of all who would do her harm. The mild old prophetesses of the deer looked on, nodding their heads knowingly—she had become a part of the predators, the River; she was the _Lankhi_ , never to let anything stand in its path.

She crashed through stones, through trees, through dry earth—there was another pack of wolves ahead, a huddled, hungry-eyed group with fur blackened as scorched wood, and she crashed through them as well and sent them scattering. Alanki laughed wildly, and found she was unable to control herself—she could not stop running; she could not stop laughing. The moment this realization came, that was the only thing she wanted to do: stop.

But it was impossible. The river bent and twisted the helpless bodies of the wolves she had torn through, breaking them beneath its cold wrath. Alanki snarled, and the river, the _Lankhi_ , did the same—she bared her fangs and the river pulled spikes of ice-cold up from its roiling depths. Her bones went numb; her legs thrashed mechanically.

The wolves that had been chasing her were drawing closer. She pushed herself to run faster, but it made no difference—they had a new target in mind. Alanki saw the other wolves, the scattered, weak wolves. She saw the fear in their eyes, the hopelessness in the set of their shoulders. They all had green eyes the shade of the sap found in the heart of a young tree, and they all were watching Alanki without blinking—sad, wide, doe-eyes, the eyes of Tormentil as she watched Alanki approach her, the eyes of the other deer when they saw what she had done. Alanki cried out and turned away, but she felt their gazes on the back of her head. She heard them erupt into howls, too, as the chasing pack fell upon them. Claws scraped bone, fangs tore throats—she felt her own mouth fill with blood, her own claws grow tangled and clotted with someone else's fur, as though it was she who was killing the green-eyed wolves. Alanki choked and spat the blood into the river, but the taste lingered. It was bitter and burning. It was not rabbit's blood.

It tasted of ashes.

She saw, then, as though through the movement of space: an orange moon hanging like a salamander's egg in the burnt black sky, a steel-blue river rimmed red with the froth of blood, the savage _Lankhi_ baring its watery fangs, the ivory white of old wolves' bones tangled and hidden in the undergrowth of her forest. She had left them there. She was standing there now, drenched in water and stained by betrayed green eyes.

"Innocent blood, Alanki!" cried Delphinium, the old doe that was her foster mother. Alanki looked up to see the deer herd thundering past, broken-throated Tormentil leading them in a desperate stampede. "Run for your life, run run run! Run for what you haven't lost yet—what shall be vanished by sundown! Run, Alanki, and never stop!"

Alanki could not run. She watched the two packs of wolves collapse and sink beneath the frothing waves of the river—the river tossed its glittering arms in celebration—and the water at her paws bloomed with red flowers. She could not run; she could not move. She was frozen—she opened her eyes with a gasp of breath and a racing heart, and found that it was because she had been sleeping.

It was her first true nightmare. It would not be her last.

### 3.

Cinders

In his dreams, it was his father who spoke to him. Misari was the alpha of his pack, an elderly wolf with fur black as charred wood and deep, golden-orange eyes that were commanding but sad. Tir remembered his surprise at the signs of Misari's aging: the silver around his muzzle, a stiffness in his step. As a pup, he had thought his father to be invincible, a powerful force to lead them. But as Tir grew, he began to realize how things shifted and changed. And how, oddly, in the midst of that, some things still managed to remain constant.

Arwena had hated Misari. Doubtless, she had loved him once, but it went away when Tir's sister had been born. When Tir was a pup, she had told him that Misari was a monster, a ruthless killer, but Tir knew this was not true. Arwena said a great deal of things, and he believed almost none of them; he didn't think she even believed herself. Despite everything, he liked Misari. Though a distant presence in Tir's puphood—a father he had never fully known—there was still something comforting about the wolf and his steady, deliberate leadership. He had led the pack for a very long time.

Misari was now far too old to still be alpha, but no wolf would challenge him. No wolf wanted the job. The times were too difficult.

"I am sorry to bother you," Tir was saying, "But it's just that—"

"You are worried about your mother, am I correct?" Misari interrupted.

Tir nodded, relieved.

"Of course you are." Misari sighed. "I am worried. The pack is worried. It is no small deal when a pup disappears, and Seilo was very important to your mother." His orange eyes narrowed. "But you are a different matter altogether. I know the look on your face. Do not be afraid; tell me what is troubling you."

Tir took a deep breath. "My mother has been through so much," he began. "First, there was my sister, and then her confidant, and now Seilo is gone as well. There are mutterings about her, wolves are already spreading tales. I—I just don't know what to do, Father. I am afraid for her."

"You are afraid that she cannot bear it any longer."

"Yes, that as well. But the others are saying—"

"I know what they are saying," Misari growled. "They mutter because they are ignorant. And, Tir, I assure you that there will be no drastic measures taken because of a fool's superstition. You may sleep without worry."

"Thank you, sir," Tir said, relieved.

"Now, about your mother," Misari said, and he sighed. Tir was struck by how old and tired he looked in the gloom of the den. "Arwena is a very strong wolf. She has been through much in her long life, you must understand, and it takes a lot to crack under the strain of sorrow."

It had never before occurred to Tir that perhaps Misari had been as shaken by the killing of his sister as Arwena was. But as his father looked back down at him, the regret gleaming in his eyes told Tir that the choice he made long ago had caused him as much sorrow as it did her. Arwena was not the only one who had lost a daughter that day. It was the duty, however, of a leader to always do what is best for the pack. Even at the cost of a life. For the first time, Tir was very glad not to be in Misari's position.

"I know it does," Tir said in a whisper, feeling the need to keep his voice low. "But it's been so long—she mentions my sister every now and then, sometimes going into these moments of grief where she seems to forget herself, and me, and—Oh, she's just been worse than usual. Sometimes she even thinks that she herself is dead. She tells me that she is. It has always been bad, but now with Seilo gone, I don't think she can take it any longer. You saw how she was this morning." Tir was quiet for a while, miserable thoughts heavy in his mind. "Oh, why must these things happen?" he burst out. "Do The Spirits wish to torment her? They'll kill her one day!"

"Arwena knows very well that nothing happens without reason, whether we like it or not. The Spirits know what they are doing, and they make no mistake."

"No mistake?" Tir said in a small voice.

"No mistake."

Misari's eyes were filled with sorrow and pity. He remained silent for a long time, examining Tir as though he knew exactly how Tir was feeling. After awhile, he lowered his head as though in mourning.

"I must be honest with you," he said. "I have waited far too long to discuss this with you, and I apologize. But I'm afraid your mother has been forced to bear more than any should handle. When her confidant died, Arwena felt as though she would be crushed in the weight of her grief and past. Her nearest and dearest friend, her rock of support, her shelter from her sorrow—gone. I know that some of her old wounds had been cut open that day."

"She told me about it," Tir said. "But I was so young, I didn't understand." That was a lie. He remembered very well the day his mother's friend had breathed her last; he himself had been present. And he had understood more than he would reveal. Tir had grown up at a young age.

"Seilo and his two sisters became her only solid ground to cling to," Misari said, and Tir looked away. Yes, he remembered that, too—there had been days when Arwena had forgotten him, so consumed she was with her sorrow for her lost friend. He remembered how he had sometimes hated Seilo and his sisters, for taking his mother's friend and leaving her so miserable. How different were things now.

"With the death of each of the female pups, a part of Arwena's heart died as well. She was desperate to keep Seilo alive, the last remaining bit of her promise to her dying friend."

Misari took a deep, rattling breath as though he were in pain, as though the memories and miseries were his own. Tir, too, could feel his mother's sorrow—palpable in the air, sapping away all other feelings and leaving him shivering.

There was a long, terrible silence, and when Misari spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

"Now Seilo is gone," he said, and shook his head. "I can no longer lie to you in the hopes of sheltering you; you are old enough to know. Now is the time that you must lend your strength to the pack. I am sorry, Tir, but your mother is bleeding freely."

Tir left Misari's den with a heavy heart, the horrible cold of Arwena's anguish still sharp and painful inside of him. How did Misari know all of that? Did he understand her so well? Tir felt very sorry for Misari, who didn't deserve to be hated so by Arwena. Didn't Arwena understand that some things must be done? It wasn't Misari's fault that his sister was dead—was it? It had been Arwena who had carried out the deed, after all. Tir felt very tired.

He padded across the moonlit camp clearing, where the bleak land had been transformed in the glow of the night. Dead, withered trees had become cream-white towers with silver-dipped leaves that rustled and shivered in the low breeze. The ground was scattered with silver stardust, and boulders gleamed with a translucent, pearly sheen. Tir's head was spinning with what he had just learned—his mother had once been a strong and respected member of the pack. Could she ever be that way again? It was good hope, but the chances were as insubstantial as the moonlight that washed over the ground.

His ears pricked at the sound of rustling in the shadowed bushes. Tir relaxed, however, as Avrok and his weary tracking patrol tramped through the underbrush surrounding the camp.

Their paws were raw and bleeding, staining the dusty ground red. Bits of thorn and bramble had snagged in their matted, dirty fur. With a sinking heart, Tir knew it was useless to ask how it went.

"Misari is waiting in his den," Tir told Avrok, who had emerged into the clearing last. The large black wolf's brow was furrowed with worry, all signs of his customary grouchiness gone. He nodded, his head hung low and his tail dragging in the moonwashed dust. The others followed him in the direction of the leader's cave; a few of them sent sympathetic glances in Tir's direction as they passed. They had not yet heard the mutterings.

"We tried," muttered a reddish-brown she-wolf as she passed. Avrok's daughter. Kiala, Tir's friend since he had first opened his eyes as a pup. Her grey eyes were sad. "I'm sorry, Tir. We tracked Seilo as far as the old oak, but lost the scent. Arwena must be despondent."

"I know you tried." Tir looked away. "You all must have run to your limits to catch the scent at all. Sometimes things happen. Don't worry, The Spirits will watch over him. They—they make no mistakes."

"I hope not," Kiala muttered, before following the rest of the tracking patrol into Misari's den.

Tir watched her go, his limbs numb with dread. What would Arwena say when she heard? Tir almost cried out. Could it be true that Arwena was cursed?

"Is this what we have been reduced to?" someone snarled behind Tir. He whipped around, startled. "We don't even care for our own pups?"

It was Arwena. She was stumbling out of her den, her eyes wide and round and glittering as she gazed up at the night sky. She looked madder than ever—her tawny fur was unkempt and sticking out in tufts and her ears flattened like wet leaves against her skull. Her eyes were as distant and blank as someone in a dream.

"I'll make her live!" she said, lashing out at imaginary enemies. "She has lasted longer than other runts have, perhaps she is stronger! Shame on you, all of you! And you," she said with a sudden rush of poisonous savagery. She glared straight through Tir. "You, Misari—do you not see her? She is your daughter! You would have me slit her open, wouldn't you? Anything for the pack, you tell me! Anything for the pack!"

Arwena threw her head to the sky, glaring at the stars so high and far away.

"She may be small, but she'll grow up strong—you'll see!" she cried, and then collapsed into sobs, her frail frame shaking and quivering in the silver dust. "I am sorry," she moaned, into the ground. "Forgive me, child, I am a terrible coward. I have done wrong; you have been punished because of my shameful fear."

Tir realized that Arwena did not know what she was doing. Perhaps she was dreaming, caught up in some nightmare from her past, still fighting to keep her runt pup even though the battle was long since lost. His own despair deepened. Oh, what was he going to do?

Tir padded to her side, his legs trembling as he nudged her to her feet. She rose, not looking at him, not noticing him, and allowed herself to be led, stumbling and sobbing, back to her den. Arwena lay down in her cave and descended into a miserable, fitful sleep. Tir tucked her tail between her paws, as though she hadn't been disturbed.

Then he turned and padded back into the clearing. He looked up at the dark sky.

There were stars there, so many stars. A myriad of endless, twinkling lights stretched on above him forever, as uncountable as the dust beneath his feet, as bright as his mother's eyes had once been. They almost seemed to be in a pattern, to be moving, dancing and swirling in a swath of shining silver, other colors blinking here and there and vanishing before one could see them straight. It was impossible to tell which one of them could be the tiny spirit of Tir's sister, only one amongst uncountable millions, but the knowledge that she was somewhere up there, watching them, was comforting.

Now you must lend your strength to the pack, Misari had said. But beneath the stars, Tir felt small and helpless; he gazed into the shining dome as if waiting for an answer, but the night was silent.

It was a long time before he turned around and padded back to his den.

His dreams turned to a new night, and he found himself pelting across a barren, rocky landscape in the stinging rain. Ahead, he could see the faint outline of a welcoming green forest. Green had grown over the charred black skeleton that the fire had left behind—and fur had grown over the burnt bones of the wolves that had been left behind. They would be alive there, and waiting for him. Arwena would be whole again, his dead sister brought up from the ground and into life, Misari's orange eyes at last contented and relieved of their old sorrow. Arwena would not hate him any longer. They would be strong, two brave leaders, and Tir was their son. The red-eyed yew tree would have been burnt to the ground and forgotten.

But the more he ran, the more tired he became; and the forest never seemed to get any closer.

### 4.

The Outsider

" _That's_ the depraved stranger Captain was talking about? I tell you, Palva, he doesn't look like he's capable of much, does he?"

"Well, I told Leron he was injured."

"Injured? Moon on fire, isn't that an understatement? Hah! You sure it isn't dead?"

"Of course I'm sure. What do you think?"

"Well, I dunno. The way Captain told it, he was some mad, diseased savage and you were an idiot."

"You know how Leron is."

"Oh, you know I know. Always eager to turn a twig into a tree, so long as it's to his advantage."

"You shouldn't talk like that. He's your captain."

"He's your captain too. And you don't like him anymore than I, don't go pretending that you do. Anyway, you should've seen him last night—came into the new redoubt in a right little huffy, all boiled up over your impudence and his not being able to do anything about it. The stranger, he says—well, he doesn't like there being a new stranger. To hear him talk, you'd think this stranger was a nice fish you've caught and won't let him gut. And you won't. Drives him insane, see."

"I don't care. It isn't in his place to order me around, and if that bothers him, then it's his problem. Besides, it isn't up to him to decide what becomes of Tir. There are things that Leron does not know."

"Oh, yes, yes, I heard you two had a row. A great big one. Kesol's going on about how you're going to poison him some day. He says—"

"You know not to listen to anything that little yellow burr says."

"I know. Just thought I'd tell you. But really, if you have any yew berries lying around, I could—"

"Nerasa!"

"No, no, just kidding. Ha ha. Er, here, I brought over a bit of your mahonia and poppy seed—at least, that's what Alpha said they were. A bit withered, but they're still in working condition, I suppose. That's all I could carry. Alpha said she'd send another wolf down with more of your herbstuff as soon as she can spare someone. We're awful busy."

"Oh, thank you. Speaking of which, how is the move coming along?"

"Well enough. Captain decided to set the new redoubt near this area, up against the cliff. He says it would be easy to defend; we've got one side covered for us by the wall. It wouldn't be any use, though, to keep out strangers who fall from the sky. That's what Kesol says, at any rate. He says—"

"And the redoubt?"

"Oh, it's great. There are lots of good dens among these big boulders, with nice, sandy floors—dry, too. Alpha's taken one already, but you've probably been up there—a higher den up on the boulders, she's got to climb up to it every day! Alpha says you can use this little hollow if you want; it's close enough to the main redoubt. And the grass will be nice and shady from the sun—good, huh?"

"But Liyra hasn't even seen the hollow yet. How does—?"

"Kesol told her. He says you like this place."

"I do. Well, everyone likes this place—it's such an improvement from where we've been. I never imagined we would be lucky enough to find somewhere like this."

"Yeah. Any bit of the whole plain would work for a redoubt, if we wanted to use it; it's all so much better than that stupid marsh. But as I said, this little area here is good enough—and it's close enough to the deer, too. Deer!"

"It's settled then?"

"Uh huh. We're still working on the move, but it shouldn't take so long. There aren't any pups, unless you count behavior, so we should be set in by nightfall."

"Has anyone decided how long we're planning on staying here?"

"Well, I dunno. This place seems fine, but you never can tell. There could always be something dangerous nearby—poisoned water, hostile neighbors, you know. Alpha's sending me to head a patrol out 'round dusk. But really, I'm just glad to be leaving the marsh. And perhaps this'll be it. Not a temporary set-camp, but a place to live for seasons to come. I heard Captain and Alpha talking about it last night."

"Eavesdropping?"

"Me? Come now, would I eavesdrop?"

"Oh, of course not; I apologize for ever imagining—"

"Yeah, fine then, maybe they didn't know I heard, but it doesn't matter. They probably wouldn't care that I know anyway. And it's not as if it was a secret, they were out in the open—anyone could have heard."

"Never mind that, Nerasa. You're a hopeless case."

"That's not funny."

"Suit yourself."

Tir lay in the grass, listening to the voices talk. The sharp pain that had been burning through him had boiled down to a steady throbbing, and he had a terrible headache.

He was trying not to move, not wanting Palva to know he had awakened. If she saw he was no longer getting the rest he needed, she would take advantage of the moment to put more garlic juice in his cuts. Garlic was used as an antiseptic, to prevent his scratches from growing infected. Palva had grown sharp with him when he had protested—the garlic stank, and it burned in raw wounds. She told him it was good for him, but he didn't think he could take the sting right now.

The voices continued to talk, now discussing a lake that had been discovered somewhere in the grassy fields. From what he could gather, Palva's visitor was another wolf from her pack, having been sent down to deliver a few of Palva's healing herbs. No doubt, they would soon be bringing something for his burns. If the garlic on his cuts stung, whatever she put on his raw, flamed skin would be agony. Tir wondered how long he could get away with pretending to sleep. For the moment, Palva was distracted by her guest. But despite his best efforts, Tir didn't doubt that the Gatherer would know he was awake as soon as the distraction of her packmate left. He was beginning to wonder if she could read minds.

"...been hunting already. Simetra says the prey here is great. You should've seen the rabbits they brought back—Great Guidelights, those things could've hunted us! Alpha's sending Captain off on a full patrol of the land, I suppose he'll come back sometime tomorrow or so."

"Improvement from the marsh, I see."

"Oh, you can be certain. I swear, this place is even better than our old territory."

"Even before the humans and thunder-sticks?"

There was a long, awkward silence.

"Well, no. That place was always home for us. But we had no choice, Palva. They would've killed us. When we left, it was a death land. We'll be safe here, and not so bad off as it is. Kesol says we're a proper pack now."

"There haven't been quite so many fights, if that's what he means. He may be right. That's one good thing to come from the journey."

"Yeah, also when Karvo died. That was—"

"Nerasa! You shouldn't disrespect the dead. He was your alpha."

"Not if I could've helped it! Liyra's got her problems too, but he...Guidelights, Palva, you don't know. He was a regular burr."

"What would that make Leron, then?" Palva's voice was amused.

"A greasy burr."

"How perceptive of you."

"Yes, yes, and shame the journey's over now. I was hoping we'd go on at least long enough to see him lose a leg or two—or more. Hard to drown when we're not in a marsh anymore, see?"

"You're a sadist."

"That's Karvo's fault. Told you I—hey, Palva, I think it moved."

Tir stiffened. The tip of his tail itched, but he didn't dare twitch it again. He could feel Palva's pale gaze burning into his pelt, and he tried to make his breaths soft and even. She watched him for a few tense moments until she turned away. And when she spoke, her voice was tinged with faint amusement—almost mocking.

"Are you going back up to the redoubt, Nerasa?"

"Yeah, but Captain's in a foul mood. I've been trying to put it off, see."

"When you do, please tell the next wolf to be sure to bring down a bit of my comfrey. It would be just what we need for his burns. See them?"

"Moon up a tree, it looks like someone tried to boil him."

"He was in a forest fire, to be exact. But no matter, a bit of comfrey will do him good. You will remember, won't you?"

"Yeah, Palva, sure. Just hope you have enough, though. I swear, you're gonna need a lot."

"Don't worry, I just need a bit for the worst burns. The less severe can heal themselves."

"Right-o, will do. I guess I'll just go—hey!"

There was a loud rustling followed by a muffled thump, and something large came stumbling out from the tall grass, barreling straight into Nerasa. Tir had opened his eyes in tiny slits, but his vision was still too fogged by the smoke to be able to make out anything but the watery, blurry forms of Palva and Nerasa. He shut his eyes as Palva whisked around, and kept them closed even when she turned back to face the newcomer.

"Excuse me," said a flat, neutral voice. "The tunnel was slick from the rain."

"Oh, was it?" Nerasa muttered. "Are you sure you didn't just want an excuse to kill some—"

"Did Alpha Liyra send you?" Palva interrupted. The smile was gone from her voice; she sounded cold. "Have you brought some more of my herbs?"

"Yes, of course. She told me it was plantain and poppy seed. For the outsider."

"The outsider's name is Tir, and you may leave the herbs on the boulder over there." There was a pause, and then Palva lowered her voice; Tir strained to make out the words she growled. "Tell me the truth: did Liyra send you? Or was it Leron again?"

"The Captain has no interest in the outsider whatsoever," the newcomer said, his voice light with scorn. "I follow the alpha's orders."

"Of course you do," Palva said. "But you can tell Leron that I'm no fool. Tell him if he wants to see the outsider, he may do so himself. And it may also be wise to add that the outsider is under Liyra's protection. It isn't for Leron to judge who may stay and who must leave, and tell him that he would do well to remember his conversation with me last night."

"I will guard the message with my life," the voice said sarcastically. There was a soft rustling as he spat the herbs into the grass. Grass rustled and swished as he went back up the tunnel, and in the silence of his departure Nerasa had begun to growl.

"Captain's taking an interest," she said. Her voice was low and sharp, quite different from her laughing tone of before. "You'd better watch him, Palva."

"I've been expecting him to take an interest. He disappoints me; I was hoping for something more subtle than that."

"Really? You think subtle is Captain's style?"

"It really should be," Palva said. "If he hopes for any sort of success."

Nerasa made a startling snarling sound in the back of her throat. "There's a good deal of things he's hoping for," she said in a low voice. A chill ran down Tir's spine at the change in her tone. "And maybe it's wrong of me to say so, but Liyra's a fool to think she can keep his feet out of other wolves' blood, just 'cause he's captain now. I don't trust him, Palva."

"As his fellow Council member, I'm required to disagree with you."

"Yeah, but you don't. I know it. Palva, his pack didn't even have a Gatherer."

"They were starving, Nerasa. A Gatherer was the least of their problems. I disagree with Leron on many things, but he does deserve some amount of credit for keeping them alive."

"I wouldn't call Xelind 'alive'. Besides, there's more than one way to keep yourself alive and running—Liyra knows it, and so do I: Karvo was competition, Palva. And Karvo didn't lead himself into the thunderstick's path."

Palva's voice was flat. "Accidents are common," she said, and Nerasa made a snorting sound.

"'Course they are. And Captain knew that well, didn't he? I bet he still remembers it, too."

There was a long silence. The fur around Tir's neck was prickling, as though it were still full of hot ashes. He did not know this wolf that they were speaking about—but he could hear the serious caution in Nerasa's voice, and he could feel the burn of Palva's pale glare as it filled the hollow and rested between his own ears.

"There will be no more accidents," Palva said, her voice soft and so deathly-cold that ice water trickled down Tir's spine. "Not in this territory. I'll be watching the good Captain, as you said—he may have never had a Gatherer, but he will learn that this pack isn't run the same way he ran his own. Kesol wasn't all wrong in what he told you, Nerasa."

And Tir did not dare open his eyes, but he could have sworn that she was smiling.

### 5.

The First Tale

A small cluster of grazing does raised their heads as the strange party emerged from the trees. They followed the three deer with their large, dark eyes, wondering. Redshank, a skinny young stag, was at the front, followed by Delphinium and Agrimony. The last two, they knew, had gone into the fields for water. But why were they back so soon? And what was that on Delphinium's back? The unasked questions that flitted through the air among the group of does like tiny ghosts were cut off and forgotten as the scent hit them. It was a scent they knew all too well, and caused them to recoil in terror as the three deer passed by.

Delphinium carried her head high and passed the questioning deer without so much as a glance. She could feel their eyes pressing into the back of her head—many eyes, as almost the entire herd had now noticed them and their mysterious creature that smelled of wolf.

Redshank was leading them to Eryngo. It was his decision that mattered, not the rest of them. And Eryngo must listen to sense—how could they leave a fawn of any creature to die?

" _Delphinium, Agrimony," Eryngo said, acknowledging the pair as they approached him. They twitched their ears in greeting. Redshank hovered around them awkwardly for a moment, unsure of what to do, until he trotted away._

" _I see you have returned. But what is this you bring among us? It carries the scent of the predator, terror. Surely not...?"_

" _Well, yes, I will tell you 'tis a wolf," Delphinium said, lowering her head to deposit the sodden white pup into the grass so that Eryngo could see it. "But a fawn as well, and a very small one at that," she added._

Eryngo made a sound of mild surprise and bent his shaggy, antlered head to examine the tiny creature. "Small, yes, but for a wolf that means nothing. Where did you find it?"

" _By the watering hole. In the watering hole," said Delphinium. "I do believe it came down over the falls. For sure, there can be no taking it back if 'tis so. So you see, Eryngo. I've brought it to you to ask if I might keep it."_

" _Keep it? I thought that was why you came. 'Tis something only you would do, Delphinium."_

Delphinium said nothing; she only gazed back at her leader. But Eryngo shook his head.

" _I do not know," he said. "Are you quite sure? 'Tis a wolf, you see. Our natural enemy."_

" _But 'tis a fawn," Delphinium protested. "Would you be responsible for the death of a fawn? And if 'twere to grow up among the deer, it need never know that 'tis a predator, why, it never would—"_

" _But how are you to know that would happen, Delphinium? Fawn or not, a wolf is a wolf. Even if 'tis raised among us, among the deer, that will not change. There is no changing the balance of nature."_

" _How can you know?" Delphinium said. "Nothing such as this has ever happened!"_

Eryngo sighed. "But even so, what doe would want to accept this wolf fawn as her own? 'Tis far too young to live without milk, but no doe would raise it alongside the fawn of her own. For they know, as we all do, that this creature is the child of the hunter, the predator. Not one would be willing, I am sure."

" _I would." Delphinium said. "My own fawn died last halfmoon, Eryngo. You know that."_

There was a short silence while Eryngo considered this, pawing the ground in thought. At last, he came to a conclusion.

" _No, I am sorry," he said. "I cannot allow this wolf fawn into the herd. It may be a danger, and I do not wish to take foolish risks."_

Delphinium's cry of protest was cut short by a new voice, carried from a thick wall of bushes behind Eryngo.

" _She stays."_

All three deer turned to see a fourth deer, a small doe with wide misty eyes, shoving her way through the rustling branches.

" _Eyebright, welcome," Eryngo said, dipping his head in respect. But the doe ignored him, her eyes fixed on the pup. Eryngo, noticing this, explained._

"' _Tis a wolf fawn, Eyebright. Delphinium brought it to me, but it cannot stay. Delphinium will take it back into the fields—"_

Eyebright interrupted him with a short jerk of her head, still watching the pup. "She stays," she repeated.

" _I— what?"_

" _The wolf fawn. She shall stay."_

" _No, Eyebright," Eryngo said patiently. "You must not understand."_

" _I understand far more than you, which you shall certainly know," Eyebright said, looking up at him with large, unblinking eyes. "So the wolf fawn must stay."_

Eryngo was at a loss. "But the creature is nothing, nothing yet. 'Tis too young to be anything. 'Twould be no terrible deed, no murder, to leave it in the fields—why, the little creature does not even have a name."

" _Yes she does." Again, Eyebright's wide eyes were fixed on the pup, who was beginning to stir. "Her name is_ A-Lankhi, _for she is a daughter of the River."_

Alanki was padding out of the forest, leaving the dark trees behind to step out onto the fields. She paused, raising her head to taste the wind and blinking in the sudden glare of the sun. The grass beneath her paws was long and wet, still glazed with dewdrops.

The deer herd was rarely in the same place. They moved from the land beyond The Sharps—a barren, stony wasteland that marked the end of Alanki's forest—through the forest itself, and out onto the plain. As winter fell, they retraced their routes and Alanki never saw again them until the arrival of spring. This time of year, the deer herd took up residence along the banks of the Lake, which was where she was headed.

The Lake was in sight now, a shining blue hole in the heart of the fields. The deer could be seen as little brown smudges scattered all across the grass, like leaves on the forest floor. As Alanki drew closer, they grew larger and sharper, coming into focus until she was walking among them, weaving in and out of their long legs. Though the deer were all much larger than any wolf, Alanki never felt small among them. To them, she was no larger than a furry, white snake that barely came up to their knees. But a snake, however small, could bite and even kill. She knew she was the hunter, and the deer were the prey.

A few of them paused in their busy grazing to nod a greeting at her, but most paid no attention. Several skittered out of her way as she approached, and it was strange comfort to her to know that Tormentil had not been forgotten. Never mind that; she knew who she was looking for.

On the sandy banks of the Lake, a small group of fawns was clustered around an old doe, who had just finished in telling them a story. Their voices rang through the air, asking their endless questions about the tale. Alanki padded closer to listen.

"But what happened then? Why isn't she still here?" piped a little stag, his antlers nothing more than bumps on his forehead.

The old doe smiled. "Why, you know," she said. "Have I not told you that part of the story before?"

All of the fawns shook their heads and looked up at the storyteller, eager for another tale. She laughed.

"Well then," she said. "I suppose there is no harm in another short tale. One leads into another, ay?"

The fawns squirmed and shot each other excited glances as the old doe began again.

"The wolf fawn lived with the herd for many moon-passings," she said, closing her eyes and nodding her head, as though in deep thought. Her voice was low and dreamlike, soft as the wind in the leaves. "But they all passed by so quickly, as though carried on the wind. 'Twas not long before _Alankhi_ was almost grown, and a few deer of the herd were growing restless of her presence. For you must not forget, my dears—though she may have lived among us, she was always a child of the River, _Lankhi_ , and she would grow to hunger for our blood. 'Twas a dark day indeed, when this came clear, and 'twas determined that she must leave.

"And so, Eyebright came to Eryngo and said that 'twas time for the wolf fawn to leave us. Eryngo, as you know, was most reluctant, for he had come to think of the wolf fawn as a daughter to him. I did not wish for her to leave, either, and many others though the same, but Eyebright was firm. 'This is not a deer' she said. 'The wolf fawn has grown among the deer, but she is still a wolf. She no longer belongs here. She has become a danger. We have done our part; 'tis time for us to release her.'

The doe opened her eyes and smiled. "And so, the wolf fawn left us. But 'twas not for forever, my dears, for we see her still, and Eyebright assured us that a day shall come when she shall repay her debt to us and fight alongside the deer once again."

The fawns sat in an awed sort of silence after the storyteller finished. The old doe beamed at them, waiting for their quiet to be broken by another onslaught of questions. Sure enough, it was not long before a shy-looking little doe spoke up.

"Has that day come yet?" she asked.

"No," the storyteller replied. "It has yet to come. Maybe it shall come when you are grown. Only Eyebright knows, and there are many things she shan't tell us."

"Eyebright knows everything, doesn't she?" blurted another fawn.

"No mortal creature knows everything. But Eyebright does know quite a lot."

The fawns quieted again, considering this new piece of information.

"And what of the wolf fawn? Is she still alive?" breathed the little doe again, her eyes shining.

At this, the old doe looked over the heads of the eager fawns and met Alanki's stare.

"Well then," she said, with a touch of amusement. "That is not a story I can tell you. There is another who knows the tale better than I. What do you think, _Alankhi_? What happened to the wolf fawn?"

The fawns all turned around, craning their little necks to see who she was talking to. When they saw Alanki standing there rather awkwardly, they gasped and began muttering amongst themselves. One of the braver ones looked at her with more curiosity than fright.

"Well?" he demanded. "Is the wolf fawn still alive?"

"Oh, yes," Alanki said, and the fawns gaped at her. "Yes she is," she continued. "She is doing very well, considering."

"You're a wolf," the fawn said, as if it were an accusation. "Do you know the wolf fawn?"

"More than any other creature does," Alanki said. "And right now, she wishes to speak with your storyteller, if 'tis not a problem?"

One of the fawns gave a little squeak and, without further questions, scrambled away. The others soon followed suit, shooting Alanki suspicious looks over their shoulders as they ran off. The old doe, however, remained where she was, shaking with silent laughter. Alanki turned and looked at her.

"You enjoy that, don't you, Delphinium?" she said.

"Too right, I do," the doe said. "But don't you worry," she added. "They shall get over their shock soon enough and—prepare yourself—come to bombard you with their questions. 'Let me see your fangs,' they'll demand. And, 'Did you really eat bugs?'" They have heard much about you, _Alankhi_. The legend of the wolf fawn is one of their favorites."

Hiding her smile, Alanki grunted something unintelligible and flicked her tail. "I must speak with Eyebright. You, too, I suppose. Do you know where Eyebright is?"

Delphinium rose, shaking the sand out of her short brown hide. She squinted, brown eyes scanning the scattered groups of deer. "I am thinking she went to graze alone again; she does do that often. But perhaps Eryngo shall know where she is. Will you follow?"

Alanki trotted beside Delphinium as she plodded towards a solitary grazing stag, separate from the rest of the herd. He raised his head as they approached, a few strands of grass protruding from his mouth.

" _Alankhi_! Welcome back!"

Alanki nodded in greeting as he stepped forward to meet them. "Do you know where Eyebright is? I must speak with her."

"I—"

Eryngo's reply was cut short as a small doe ran up to the group, wide eyes stretcher wider than usual as she stared at Alanki.

"You have returned!" she said. "I knew you would come this day!"

"Oh—there you are, Eyebright," Eryngo said, dipping his head to the doe. " _Alankhi_ was just looking for you."

"And I for her," Eyebright said, nodding.

"Why?" Alanki asked, nervously. She knew full well what kind of reason Eyebright would have.

"I have had a dream," announced Eyebright. The other deer gasped, and stared at her with wonder. Alanki, however, twitched her tail with slight annoyance. The deers' superstition and mysticism didn't affect her; in fact, it tended to annoy her. She had prepared herself for this conversation.

"And you were in it," Eyebright continued in a soft, misty voice, staring at Alanki. "Eklo came to me, and he said—'Fear, for the bearers of fire have turned against us.' And I saw many shadowy specters swooping down upon the herd, with great fangs of silver and red eyes like coals. Lurking among them, there was a great, burning creature of flame. It hung back, watching as the shadows leapt upon us, tearing into our pelts and releasing our blood. And—Eklo said once more as he spoke from the sky—'Bridge the gap between water and fire and hear, hear the voices.' Then all was gone, and 'twas darkness."

Silence followed Eyebright's brief account. Delphinium and Eryngo looked up at the sky as though expecting to see red-eyed ghosts swooping down to devour them. Alanki was unimpressed.

"So where do I come into all this?" she asked, raising her brow. Was there a quiet-spoken law, she wondered, that didn't allow prophetic dreams to make sense?

Eyebright closed her eyes as though in pain, and when she opened them, they were shining with tears. "But do you not know how you came to us?" she asked.

"I drowned."

"Oh—no, but you didn't. And so for now, 'tis not blood that runs through your veins, but the essence and very spirit of the wild river."

"Well—no, I'm fairly certain I have blood, thank you. You see, I've bled before... look, here is a scar."

Eyebright shook her head as Alanki displayed a long scratch mark on her front leg. The doe sighed, as though embarrassed by her.

"No no," she said, her voice growing louder. "You do not understand! The river is in you—you are just as wild and untamed," Here, she paused, waiting for an effect. Alanki stared, not sure whether this was a compliment or not.

"You see?" Eyebright continued. "You must be the water. And now, you must build a bridge into the fire. 'Tis the only way to deliver us, my dear," she finished, surveying her small audience with satisfaction.

Delphinium and Eryngo were now watching Alanki, who stared at Eyebright with incredulity. She was beginning to doubt her hopes that the doe would be able to help her—she had forgotten how strange Eyebright was. Far, far past the normal strangeness for deer. And what kind of a prophecy was that? Bridge the gap between water and fire...? From what she had heard of prophecies, Alanki figured they weren't allowed to make sense. Well, maybe the prophecy made sense to the deer—or maybe they were just pretending it made sense to them.

"I said, my dear," Eyebright prompted with an underlying hint of impatience. "'Tis the only way to deliver us."

Bridge the gap between water and fire...?

"Yes, well, fine," Alanki muttered at last. "But I've had enough with fire and such for now. 'Tis why I came to speak with you—"

"Danger is coming!" Eyebright shrieked, her voice ringing with hysteria. "It comes closer every day! Every hour! Every minute! I can see the shadows swooping down... swooping..."

Alanki watched with growing irritation as the doe ducked, as though trying to avoid something flying through the air.

"Oh, so that's what it means, then?" she snapped. "Well, I never could have guessed that on my own. So that's why I dream of killing strangers—there is danger coming? That's why I've been having these stupid nightmares?"

Eyebright dropped her terrified act and rushed up to Alanki, who took a few startled steps backwards.

"You know of the danger?" she breathed, black eyes huge and gleaming. "You have seen it too?"

"You are not the only one who sees things, you know," Alanki said. "Though perhaps I am insane after all, just like you."

Eyebright stared at her for a few moments, and then seemed to melt under Alanki's glare. She backed up, averting her eyes and lowering her head.

"I know. You have seen more than I." she said, dropping back to a quiet tone.

"I—excuse me?"

The doe looked up at Alanki with a new respect. "You have been opened. You have seen the workings of the stars, my dear; 'tis in your eyes."

"The working of the stars is violence?"

"I cannot say! But you have seen, certainly. Why did you not tell me?"

"I didn't know. Well, I did come to speak with you."

"You are wanting to know what it means, yes?"

"Yes," said Alanki, relieved they had gotten somewhere.

Eyebright gave a huge, impressive sigh. "Ay, my dear, that I cannot tell you."

"What? How can you not know?"

"No, I cannot. But you, my dear—you know. You must open your horizons wider. But 'tis not imaginings, no. You shall soon see."

Alanki was stunned. She knew, herself? No, that can't be true. Surely Eyebright knew what it meant; she was just being mysterious again. But she had not sounded mysterious, she had sounded as though she was stating a simple and common fact, like the sky is blue, and water is wet. Why did nothing make sense?

"But, my dear...Please, I shall ask you..."

Alanki looked up, and was surprised to see that Eyebright was pleading.

"Please," she repeated. "You must help us. Danger is coming. I know it, my dear. I am sure of it. Something terrible. 'Twill bring death, and—"

"—blood and death and blood, I know," Alanki sighed. "The prophetic usual, no?"

Eyebright said nothing more. Her large, dark eyes were far too similar to that of the fawns—pleading and sad. She seemed genuinely worried, also—and sincere.

Alanki sighed again. However ridiculous Eyebright's dream had sounded, there was a possibility that trouble was really looming ahead. And Eyebright wasn't the only one having nightmares, after all. Perhaps, for once, Eyebright was to be taken seriously...And she owed her life to these deer, after all. She could at least agree to help, if only to reassure them.

"Very well. I shall try—but I don't know what I am supposed to do."

Eyebright opened her mouth to reply to this, but Delphinium interrupted her, looking at Alanki with something close to sadness.

"You have known, for a long time," she said. "And Eyebright is right. I have seen nothing, but I can feel the sun darkening. All we ask is all you can do. The tales, Alanki—remember? Never forget the tales. That you fight alongside us, when the day comes."

***

Palva came down to the hollow as dusk was bringing pink to the horizon. She was carrying a clump of green leaves sprinkled with delicate purple flowers in her jaws, which she spat out onto the boulder holding the rest of her herb supply.

"Comfrey," she explained to Tir, though he had not asked. "It's for your burns. Nerasa just brought it into the redoubt."

"The redoubt...?"

"The camp. You called it a camp."

"Oh."

Tir looked away. He no longer cared about stinging herbs. What was a brief moment's worth of pain now? There were more pressing matters at hand. The sooner he was healed, the sooner he could leave this hollow and search for Arwena, Kiala, and the rest of his pack. He would put up with the pain as long as it cured him.

Sure enough, Palva was busy grinding the purple flowers into a thick poultice. For some reason, she looked angry. She stomped and pounded each stem as though it had done her a personal wrong. As she was working, she was growling something under her breath, but Tir could not make out any words. Leaning closer, though careful not to let her see, all he could hear were the words, "And she expects me to...can't leave... damned prophecy..."

Tir jolted back into his lying position as Palva turned around, now holding a bundle of leaves. She stalked across the hollow and over to Tir's side, glaring at the ground and still mumbling through her teeth. Tir tried as best as he could to lie still as Palva pressed a bit of the poultice onto each of his red burns. Bracing himself for the sting, he was quite surprised at the cool, soothing sensation that smothered the pain from his bruises and burns. He sighed and dropped his head back onto the soft grass.

Maybe, he could ask Palva to borrow a few herbs. That way, he could leave sooner and apply them to himself when they were needed. But looking back at the Gatherer as she kicked a stone out of her way, he decided to wait until she was in a better mood.

The time passed on swift wings as Tir lay in the grass, thinking to himself and relishing the soothing feeling of the comfrey. It was not long before he was watching the sunset with an absent-minded sort of interest. The sunlight on the ground had burned rich and golden as leaves in the autumn as it gilded each blade of grass and sharpened the inky shadows that were spreading across the ground. Tir closed his eyes as a night breeze hissed through the grass. His spirits were much higher than they were a few hours ago. His pack had to be out there somewhere—no, no, they had not died, he told himself—and wherever they were, he would soon find them. But for some reason, the thought of leaving made him uneasy. He had no reason to be—the alpha wolf had said he could go when he wished, hadn't she? Was that why Palva was angry?

When Tir opened his eyes again, the golden light was gone. It had darkened to a deep red that stained the clouds and doused the fields in sinister light. Tir shuddered at the sight. Red was the color of blood and fire. As long as he lived, never again did Tir want to see fire. How he hated the color red.

"Another day dies on the world, and Rya turns her back on us," said Palva, her voice quiet and flat.

Tir looked around with surprise. He had forgotten Palva was still there. She was lying on the grassy ground near her herb-boulder with her head rested on her paws and her eyes lifted skyward. She no longer looked angry; her face had smoothed back to the serene mask that he had grown accustomed to seeing. The red fire-light of dusk lit a note in her eye, however, that made it seem as though she was looking at something else. Like she was watching something arrive.

"Who's Rya?" he asked, turning his face away from the horizon and to the grass at his paws, where the slender shadows were widening with comforting slowness.

Palva turned to look at him; and judging by the look of mild surprise on her face, she had forgotten where she was as well, having been lost in her own thought.

"You don't know who Rya is?"

Tir shook his head.

"Rya is the mother of us all," Palva said, turning her eyes back up to the fading sun. "And every day, she watches the world from her den in the sky.

Tir considered this, but was unable to make anything of it. "Is she one of the stars?" he asked.

Palva shook her head. Standing up, she swept her tail towards the sky. "Rya watches to world with her two eyes. The first eye, the sun, sees everything in the world. This eye is full of light and warmth for her children on earth, and it makes a golden glow for us to see by. But though this eye sees everything, it feels nothing."

Tir listened, mystified. "And the second eye?" he asked, though he felt he already knew the answer.

"Rya's second eye is the moon. Her sun-eye easily tires, so she must turn her head and watch with her moon-eye. Her moon-eye is blind, and that is why it is such a milky white color. Because this eye is blind, it sees nothing, and so it has no light for us. But though it cannot see, it feels everything. Rya's second eye feels the pulsing of blood through each living creature; it feels the steady rush of the river, the swaying of trees, and even the hidden secrets of the future. But it also feels pain. This is the eye that answers to our cries, the misery of us children on earth. This eye knows our sorrow. There are those that tell us how every time a wolf dies, it sheds a tear for that wolf. The tear stays where it falls, a shining droplet of cold light in the sky. The black sky is scattered with Rya's tears, for they will always remain to remind us of the wolves that have passed before us."

"In my pack, it was different," Tir said. "We believed that the stars were the spirits of those who had died, not tears."

Palva lowered her head. "Well," she said. "There are always two sides to a story like that. Not everyone thinks the same. Some believe that when the wolf dies, it is lost and wandering. It hears the call from Rya, and rushes up to join her. Instead of crying for the loss of that wolf, Rya rejoices for one of her children has returned to her. So the dead wolf's spirit joins her in the sky. In the day, it plays and runs among the clouds, free as a bird. And at night, its shining eyes watch the earth along with Rya's moon. We call them Guidelights."

Palva looked back up at Tir . For some reason, she looked tired. "So it depends on who you listen to," she said. "Either the stars are the sorrowful tears of Rya, symbols of the pain and evil that is on earth, or they are simply the eyes of those who have moved on, watching us through the darkness."

Tir looked up at the glittering sky. Was Arwena up there now, watching him? Or was she gone forever, her only memory another shining tear to join the thousands?

He looked up at Palva, who was examining the stars again. "Why did you choose to become the Gatherer?" he asked, once again finding himself in desperate need for a change in subject.

Palva turned around, a strange glint in her eye. "Why did I choose to become the Gatherer?"

"Well, I suppose, if you'd rather not say—"

Sighing, Palva turned and looked back up at the glittering sky. "No, that's fine," she said. "But if you must know, I didn't choose to become the Gatherer. No one chooses to become the Gatherer," she added, with a trace of asperity. "I was born into it."

"You were born into it?"

Palva gave a small, wry smile. "Every seven years, on the night of the blue moon, a litter of pups is born in the pack. Or so, I say a litter, but it is not really a litter of pups. For this litter has only one pup. This pup is always female, and born with her eyes open. This pup is to be the next Gatherer."

"So you...?"

"Yes, I was one of those pups. The mother of the litter dies as the blue moon wanes."

"I'm sorry," Tir said, thinking of Arwena.

"No, that's fine. I don't remember her anyway," Palva said. "And the Gatherer must work alone. The Gatherer must be tied to no family. That's what they told me, at any rate."

"But who trained you? Surely someone had to have taught you of the herbs."

Palva nodded. "Yes, the previous Gatherer, Tsila, taught me everything she knew. Everything I need to know. But when I no longer needed her—which was, traditionally, in the third summer of my life—her job was done. She too, departed to join Rya."

Tir stared at her for a while.

"How could you stand it?" he asked. "I mean, when you were a pup—weren't you miserable? It wasn't your choice."

"I didn't like it at first. But as I grew up I understood the importance of the tradition. My pack needed me."

"So you have no family at all? No friends?"

"The pack is my family," Palva said. She smiled—a real smile, the first he'd seen. "And I am not without friends."

There was a long silence while Tir pondered this and Palva resumed her watching the stars, though Tir had the feeling that her thoughts were wandering elsewhere. She twitched and shuddered, then stretched her head over her shoulder as though to scratch something on her flank. Without turning around, she spoke, her voice little more than a whisper.

"And there is something else about this Gatherer pup. When it is born, there is something that removes all doubt that this pup is to be the next Gatherer, there is always something missing, something wrong."

Palva's eyes were gleaming silver in the cold glitter of the stars so that they looked like two miniature moons. Tir recoiled; there was something eerie about her.

"Wha—what do you mean?"

Palva gave a faint smile. Without a word, she turned around and Tir was able to see the other side of her body for the first time. He gasped in shock.

Where there should have been a left hind leg, there was a twisted stump. Horribly misshapen, it extended to an inch or two above the ground, shorter than her other legs. It looked as though someone had grasped it in an iron fist and wrung it like a wet leaf.

"Yes," she said. "All Gatherers are the same—different, I mean. The last one, my teacher, was missing an ear. We both got off lucky, though— there was once a Gatherer who was born without speech. Couldn't even growl."

But Tir wasn't listening any more, still gaping at Palva's twisted leg. He would never have known. But of course, he had been asleep for most of the time Palva was around. And when he was awake, he was barely conscious—he wouldn't have noticed. She moved as smoothly as though she had all good four legs—except for the time when she had first found him. He remembered that she had had a limp then, but he hadn't been able to see why. Perhaps she only limped when she was upset...or very excited about something.

"They say," Palva continued. "that Rya does it on purpose, though it is a constant question as to why."

"The Spirits make no mistake," Tir whispered, remembering Misari's words. "It doesn't matter to us why."

"The Spirits?"

"They were what my old pack believed in."

"Don't you believe in them?"

Tir hesitated. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's hard to believe something's watching over us when so many terrible things have happened."

"You just said yourself that they make no mistake. Maybe there was a purpose for all those troubles. Life can't be all sun and breeze—then the sun would lose its value, wouldn't it? Troubles make you strong. You'll need it someday."

"But your pack doesn't believe in The Spirits. Rya is different—"

"It doesn't matter what name you use," Palva said with a dismissive shake of the head. "At the end of the day, it's all the same thing."

Tir silenced. Palva wasn't an old wolf—perhaps in her fourth year or so, much younger than Misari. But she had many seasons' worth of wisdom. Did that come with being a Gatherer? His eyes traveled back to her malformed leg. The Spirits seemed like a simple tale for pups compared to Palva's description of Rya. In his old pack, they had no such traditions. He looked again at the twisted flesh and bone where Palva's left hind leg should be and shuddered. He wasn't sure that he liked the fate of the Gatherers. To be born into the world with no other siblings, a mother that soon dies, and missing a part of your body. To know that in ten years, when the next blue moon waxes in the sky, that a new pup will be born into your place, and when the pup no longer needs your advice, you will die.

"You need to rest," Palva said, her voice brisk and sharp again. "Stewing over troubling thoughts will cause your wounds to widen, and you want to be healed as soon as possible, yes? And anyway, about the Gatherer tradition—it's my fate, not yours. Don't worry about it."

Tir looked at her, but her pale eyes were unreadable. She walked over to her herb-boulder without even the slightest hint of a limp, and gathered the comfrey poultice in her jaws. After adding a bit more of the soothing herb to his burns, she turned back around and curled up in her own nest.

Tir tucked his muzzle between his paws and tried to fall asleep, but found he was not the least bit tired. Strangely, after hearing Palva's story, he was even more determined to find his pack. He glanced up at the shimmering moon, which was glowing like a white hole in the tattered black fabric of the sky. Stars were scattered like raindrops, like bright berries. What were they? Tears? Or watchful spirits? The entire idea was so strange to him.

But whatever they were, he hoped his sister was watching over Arwena. It wasn't her fault, after all.

### 6.

Alpha's Captive

The days went by unnoticed, passing through each the same as the one before. Tir's wounds from the forest fire were making steady progress in their healing, assisted by the daily poultices of comfrey and plantain Palva provided. The Gatherer herself spend most of her time outside of the hollow having quiet meetings with the alpha, though she wouldn't tell Tir what they were about. He did notice, however, that she came back from most of them in an angry mood similar to the one she had been in when she had brought back the comfrey—it seemed as though she and the alpha were arguing about something. Tir hadn't the faintest idea what the problem could be, but it unnerved him. While Palva was gone, she always sent another member of the pack down watch him. Most of the time, he was sleeping—he did that often—but sometimes he would be awake, and therefore forced to endure their wide-eyed stares and blatant fear of him. Tir could never figure out why Palva had to have wolves watch him—after all, it wasn't as though he was dying anymore. But he did not give it much thought; different packs have different ways of doing things, after all. And as his wounds healed, he began to grow tense with excitement. Spending the long days in quiet healing, there had been plenty time for him to formulate plans inside of his head, plans to drive off the nightmares that were, admittedly, waning now.

When the sun set at the end of each day, Tir watched the light as it darkened down to a low-blazing red. The sight of the crimson light no longer caused him fear; on the contrary, he gazed upon it with a sort of defiance as it settled down into silky black. The fire had not cost him his life, in spite of everything. He was charred, yes, but he was fortunate enough to be able to speak and move, and during his days of thoughtful healing, he had convinced himself that he had been charged with the task of finding and rebuilding the life he had once had. The fire was a test, not a curse. He was going to find his pack, and they would soon be able to look back upon the memory of the flames and laugh.

Palva, however, was less at ease. She sensed the outsider's mounting excitement as she continued to go on with her healing work, and knew he was growing restless as his burns faded. She knew he would soon want to leave for his old pack, and it felt wrong to keep him from that by force. Palva was by no means sentimental; she would do what was necessary to protect her pack, and if Tir was disadvantaged by that, then it was an unfortunate detail that could not be helped. But it felt wrong. Force was a clumsy means by which to bring about something as fragile as a prophecy.

Liyra had given her an order, and not even the Gatherer could defy a direct order from the alpha. Dispute it, perhaps—which she had done her best to do—but not defy it. Alpha Liyra refused to be swayed. It was not that Palva didn't want Tir to stay—no wolf in the pack cared about the prophecy more than she—but her gnawing instinct would not allow her rest. And seasons of experience had long since taught her that force never works. Compromising, yes—but the only thing force creates is trouble. Lots and lots of trouble. Surely Liyra knew that?

"Palva! Tir!" Liyra was calling in a falsely-cheerful tone. The alpha emerged from the grass tunnel and strode into the clearing, followed by a large red she-wolf and a dusty-grey male with the glinting eyes of a beetle. "I bring good news!"

Palva glanced up from her work suspiciously, surprised to hear Liyra call Tir by his name. In the past, she had referred to him as "the outsider," or, "the stranger." Eyeing the two wolves on either side of her, Palva also had a fair idea of what this "good news" could mean. She stared at the alpha in disbelief. Hadn't she told Liyra it was too soon?

"You mentioned to me just last night that he was almost healed, Palva?" Liyra continued. The other two wolves were staring down at Tir, who was shifting, wary-eyed under their gazes.

"I did," Palva said, measuring her words with care, "But there's more than one kind of healing, Liyra, and I am certain that I mentioned something about not making certain rash decisions."

"What do you mean by that? You told me yourself that he almost to full health!"

Palva gave the Alpha a significant glance, but Liyra flicked her tail.

"Oh, I understand," she said, smiling. "No, no, there's no need to worry about that. I'm sure he will be agreeable,"

Unconvinced, Palva raised her brow and looked down at Tir, who was surveying the alpha with deep suspicion.

"Why am I supposed to be agreeable?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Your Placement, of course!" said Liyra with surprise, as though he should have known this. "Hasn't Palva told you yet?"

Palva groaned and turned away.

"What's my Placement?" Tir demanded, green eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"

"To begin with, this is Simetra and this is Sirle," Liyra said in a louder voice, ignoring Tir's stammering irritation. The two wolves at her side stepped forward as they were introduced. Simetra, the red-brown female, gave a curt nod, but Sirle offered no sign of acknowledgement.

"Simetra is our chief Hunter, and Sirle is our chief Sentinel," Liyra continued with a too-broad smile. "Every wolf in this pack has a place, either as a Hunter or a Sentinel, so that the pack's work is divided and certain shares are given to those best suited for the job. Once you are old enough to be Placed —"

"Wait a moment," Tir said. "You said I could leave when I wished. And I am leaving soon, there is no need for..." his voice trailed away at the stony expressions on the faces of Simetra and Sirle.

"All wolves, however short their stay, must have a place in this pack."

"So this is temporary, is it?"

"Temporary, yes," said Liyra, her smile growing strained. "I meant to mention that first."

Tir settled back down into the grass, reassured. "How does it work?" he asked in a politer tone.

Looking relieved, Liyra shot a glance at Palva, who glared. Liyra looked away, as though embarrassed; but when she began again, her voice was clear.

"You will go on a full hunt with Simetra and a few others. Your abilities will be assessed, and Simetra will report back to me whether she thinks you have the makeup of a Hunter. The next day," she went on, after pausing for a moment to nod at Simetra. "you will join a patrol to scout our territory. This time, Sirle will assess you, and he will report back to me. Though, if Captain Leron has returned from his patrol by then, then he will assess you—an honor, I assure you! You Placement will take place at the end of that day, and you will either spend the night in the Hunters' or the Sentinels' dens."

"It's going to take two days?" Tir exclaimed. "But I plan to leave before then. There's no need for—"

"Liyra," Palva interrupted, sensing that this could soon turn nasty. "Could I have a short talk with you—in the tunnel?"

"Of course, Palva," said Liyra with false cheeriness. She sounded relieved for an excuse to leave. "I'll be to discuss this with you."

Palva padded out of the hollow with Liyra at her heels. As they passed Sirle, she saw Liyra lean over and whisper to him. He nodded and grinned a rather stoat-like smile, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth. Palva growled in her throat, and Liyra hurried after her.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Palva brushed her way past Liyra and whipped around to face her.

"I told you it was too soon!" she said.

Liyra glanced over her shoulder. "We had to do it at some point. It has been days, after all," she mumbled.

"And you know what he has been doing all those days? Planning when to leave, that's what! So when are you going to tell him he can't?"

"As late as we can get away with it," Liyra replied. "Perhaps after a few days of living in this pack, he will forget his wishes to leave."

Palva snorted. "Forget? No sooner than the moon glows green. That is all he has been thinking about! That is all he cares about! I assure you, Liyra, he will not forget."

"Well, then, we will have to hold him against his will," Liyra said bluntly. "I believe you, Palva. If he leaves, then the prophecy will fail and we will be destroyed. What else is there to do?"

"You think he will be willing to fight for us if we have been holding him prisoner?"

Liyra was beginning to sound angry. "What do you suggest we do? We cannot let him go!"

"I don't know. But I'm sure this kind of secrecy isn't going to get us much further. We have to draw the line at some point, Liyra. Perhaps if we told him—"

"We are not telling him about the prophecy!" Liyra cut in, stiffening. "He knows nothing of our ways—it would be blasphemous! Besides, you know what the prophecy means. He would run away out of fear!"

"Would he?" Palva mused. "From what I've observed, he doesn't seem to have the bitterness—or the intelligence—to bother with self-preservation. You've seen how he is about his dead pack. Perhaps a naïve little idealist is just what we need."

"Don't be foolish," Liyra snapped.

"Fine then, tell me I'm foolish!" Palva said, growing angry again. "But it will do no good to keep him by force, I can say that."

Liyra sighed and looked up. The sun was setting, its deep, red light staining the arching blades of grass above them. Palva shuddered, thinking of blood.

"You have not yet been wrong, Palva," Liyra said, in a almost-inaudible whisper. "But this time—this prophecy—well, it is not for outsiders to know. No," she said louder, as Palva was showing signs of interrupting. "—it isn't. I will stand by my old orders. There will be a guard on him day and night, and his Placement will take place as soon as possible."

"But—"

"That is my final word," Liyra said.

She waited for Palva to think on this for a moment, before inclining her head over her shoulder towards the hollow. "Shall we return to them?" she asked. "They're waiting."

Fighting to swallow her frustration, Palva nodded and followed the Alpha out of the tunnel. She padded out of the grass and into the hollow, then stopped short at the sight that met her.

Tir was huddled on the ground, glowering at her and Liyra with pure venom. The fur on one side of his neck had been torn and tangled, drawing attention to a gash which was dripping blood into the grass. Simetra and Sirle, by contrast, appeared unruffled and unmarked, but stared down at Tir with disdain, and Palva could see the crimson stains of blood running through Sirle's grey neck fur—dripping from his grinning fangs.

"Why can't I leave?" Tir snarled.

"You wish to go so soon?" Liyra asked in a cool voice, knowing exactly what had happened while she and Palva had been in the tunnel.

"I do not want to be Placed. I want to find my pack."

Liyra turned to look at Simetra and Sirle and nodded for them to depart.

"Did you hear me?" Tir said, his voice rising. "I want to leave! Let me leave, now."

Turning back to Tir, Liyra's face was stony.

"You will not be leaving," she said. "For reasons beyond our control."

"What reasons?"

"It is not in your place to know."

"I would say it is! I have the right to be told why I can't go back to my family."

"You do not know where they are," Liyra said, trying with a visible effort to sound calm. "They are likely dead—"

"They're not dead!" Tir spat, channeling the fear of all his pent-up doubts into his anger. "They're not dead, and I'm going to find them. You can't stop me. No one can stop me. I don't care! I don't care! I—"

"Do you hear me?" Liyra said, over his yelling. "You are wasting your energy. You will not leave. That is final. You are being guarded—"

"I DON"T CARE! I don't care!" Tir continued roaring, as though he had not heard Liyra speak. "You can't guard me the rest of my life—I'll fight my way out. I'll fight you! All of you! I don't care!"

"Tir," Palva said, fighting to keep her anger with Liyra out of her voice. "You don't understand, just listen—"

Tir whipped around, eyes flaming.

"You," he said. "You lied! You said I could leave! I trusted you!"

"If you would listen, then I could explain it to you—"

"No! I'm finished listening to you. All of you! I'm finished with this pack, and I'm going to find my own; they need me."

He stalked over to Palva and tried to shove past her, but she growled and knocked him back. He narrowed his eyes and drew his lips back from his fangs in an attempt at a snarl.

"Let me go," he said.

"No."

"Let me go, now."

"No."

Palva watched with steely eyes as Tir seemed to be overcome with rage. His legs stiffened and trembled as though he were fighting back the urge to spring at her; his tail was bristling and stiff.

"Let me leave or I'll fight you. I—I'll kill you! Do you hear me? I said I will kill you, Palva—"

"That is quite enough," Liyra growled, forcing her way between them. "There will be no fighting here. I don't know how problems were solved in your old pack, but you must learn to behave in a manner that is appropriate—"

Tir turned his burning glare up at the Alpha. "I'll fight you," he hissed.

In one swift motion, Liyra cuffed him around the head, and he glowered at the ground, still quivering with rage.

"You will stay here," Liyra said. "And I suggest that you take some time to come to terms with my orders, as your Placement will be tomorrow."

"I WILL NOT BE PLACED—"

"Yes, you will. This is your pack now."

And with that, the Alpha turned and swept out of the hollow, leaving behind one of the loudest silences Palva had ever heard.

***

Waves of heat were pulsing and blazing before his eyes. He could not remember ever feeling so angry. Flames were lapping at the walls of his skull; he wanted to set them free. Never before had he been aware of how sharp his fangs were in his mouth—he licked them, and felt blood well up from his tongue. He wanted to bite, to attack, to hurt someone. He had trusted them, all of them, and all the while they had been lying to him. They had said he could leave when he wished—they had promised—but it was all a carefully-arranged deception. For almost a month now he had been a prisoner, and he hadn't even known it.

Prisoner, prisoner, prisoner. The words were repeating themselves in his head, keeping time with the quickened pulse of his heart. He couldn't leave. They would not let him. But who were they to give such an order? They couldn't control him. He wanted to fight his way through them all, killing as he went, until he reached his pack. But even in his rage he knew that he couldn't ignore the fact that he was injured, weak, and entirely at the mercy of Palva and her alpha. No, he had never much cared for the alpha. But Palva had saved his life. Palva had trusted him. Palva had stood up for him. Palva had lied to him.

He turned around, his joints aching and stiff with fury. She was standing just a few strides away, leaning against her herb-boulder and watching him. She looked cold and unfriendly. Oh, how he hated her now.

"Let me go," he said to her, his voice ragged and hoarse after yelling. He wanted to be persuasive, eloquent; he wanted to convey to Palva the storm of emotions spinning within his ribs, to make her hate herself as much as he did now. But in his rage, he was surprised to find himself capable of anything more than a wordless snarl. He repeated himself: "Let me go."

"No."

That was what she had said a few moments ago, when the alpha was here. He had been hoping for a different answer this time, but privately knew there was no chance of that.

"Let me go," he tried again, louder this time. "I'm warning you—let me go."

"No."

"I'll fight you," he said, raising his voice as the rage inside him swelled. "I—I'll fight you if you don't let me go!"

Palva said nothing.

Seething, he turned and stalked towards the wall of grass at the edge of the hollow as though in an attempt to escape. As he had expected, Palva shifted to the side faster than he had ever seen her move before, blocking his path almost as soon as he had shifted.

"No," she said.

By now, he was quaking. Blood was pounding an incessant rhythm in his ears, and he glared at Palva as hard as he could. She didn't flinch.

As much as he hated her now, he knew Palva was the closest thing to an ally he had. Deep down, beneath his roiling rage, he did not want to fight her. He did not want to hurt her. But blinded by his fury, he wanted nothing more than to make someone else feel pain. He wanted someone else to screech and roar as he felt like doing—see how she likes it. The alpha was gone now. The only creature standing between him and his old pack now was a three-legged wolf. And so, digging his claws into the soil, he sprang at her.

Snarling, he collided with her with a painful crash, but she held her ground. He snapped and slashed with his fangs, tearing at every square inch of flesh he could reach and snagging his dull claws in her fur. A crazed exhilaration was whipping through his blood like wildfire, fed by his anger. His teeth tore through fur and tasted blood, but she wriggled away before he could get a proper grip. Instinct told him to go for her neck, where the great vein of her life-blood pulsed not so far beneath her skin; he lunged for it, snarling and twisting his head to avoid her own fangs. At last, he found her throat and tried to hold his grip—but she writhed and twisted like a snake, and the next thing he knew his jaws were snapped in empty air. In one deft movement, she snapped forward and broke him against her shoulders and he was flung back, gasping.

She watched as he lay in a fallen heap on the ground, his head throbbing as though on fire and his lungs heaving for air.

"Are you going to kill me, Tir?" she said softly.

He did not reply. Blood was trickling in a thin stream out of his mouth—his own blood. Bitter blood. He spat it into the grass and snarled in an attempt at defiance. Staggering back up to his paws, he lunged again.

This time, she dodged him before he had even reached her. He landed, twisting in the grass and lunged at her a second time, but she caught him again. He was send hurtling back onto the ground, head spinning.

He glared up at her, hissing. But she did not look angry, not at all. She had not even growled when he had attacked her. He wanted her to be angry. He wanted her to snarl and rage at him. But no; instead, she just watched. She looked blank, tired—and maybe even a little bit pitying. Wolves had once looked at his mother the same way. This enraged him further. She had no right to pity him.

He tried to stand up so he could have another go, but he stumbled and fell back down, his throbbing head landing in the dirt. He glared up at her with as much hatred as he could summon and tried to snarl, but found he hadn't the breath. All he could manage was a short, ragged gasp.

"Why—won't you let me—let me leave?" he rasped, each breath causing his chest to sear with burning pain.

"It is my orders. It is what the alpha commands," said Palva, who did not seem to be the least bit winded his attack. "I have no choice but to obey."

"Why—does she command—command it? What does—she want with me?"

"I cannot tell you."

He put his weight on his paws beneath him, and tried to stand up. He rose with effort, wobbling on his legs.

"Tell me!" he hissed.

"No. Do not ask again."

There was a firmness in her words, and for the first time, she sounded stern. With grudging defeat, he knew he could not shake her or fight past her. He gave one last wheezing snarl in her face before whipping around and stalking stiff-legged back to his grassy nest. He could still feel her pale, eerie eyes freezing the back of his pelt, and he bristled. But she said nothing.

The only thing to do was to go to sleep and hope that by tomorrow this all would have turned out to be a bad dream. Perhaps he would wake up back in his old den, in his old territory with his old pack—perhaps everything that had happened would turn out to be a bad dream.

Tir closed his eyes, but the dream never went away.

### 7.

The First Hunt

An eerie howl cut through the still blackness of the night. It swept across the fields, resonating and rippling across the swaying grasses like invisible water. And in her soft grass nest, Palva awoke with a start.

She leaped to her paws. The fur on her neck was bristling, and her eyes scanned the shadows of her hollow for enemies, but after a few seconds she came to her senses. It was not an attack; Alpha Liyra was calling for a meeting. She would recognize that howl anywhere, of course; she had to. But why at this hour?

A few other howls split the air again, responding to the alpha's summon. Palva raised her head and threw up a cry of her own before dashing up her grass tunnel as fast as her three legs would carry her. Whatever it was, it must be urgent if Liyra was calling a meeting in the dead of night.

Palva quickened her pace as she sensed the night-quiet redoubt ahead. She hurtled out of the tunnel and ran straight into a shadowy shape as it emerged from a den among the heaps of boulders, causing it to yelp in terror.

"Oh!—oh, sorry Raatri. I didn't see you there."

The rather tousled, sleepy-looking black wolf picked himself up from the damp ground. It was plain that he had just awakened, though he had no reason to attend Liyra's meeting as he wasn't in the Council. He turned his head up to Palva, the fright in his yellow, half-open eyes fading as he recognized the Gatherer.

"Palva, it's you," he said, sounding relieved. "That scared me; I didn't see you. Never know, you know, new territory –and it's night. I heard someone howl, what's going on?"

"Council meeting," Palva gasped, starting to sprint away again. "I have to hurry or I'll be late. Watch Tir, wouldn't you?"

Without waiting for the confused Raatri's reply, she continued to race towards the center of the redoubt. There, she stopped, searching the dark clearing for Alpha Liyra and the rest of the Council. She soon spotted them, a small huddle of four wolves in one of the redoubt's shadowy corners.

"Palva! Glad you heard my call," Liyra said, beaming as Palva padded up to the group. "So very sorry about the late hour, but Captain Leron has just returned from his full patrol of the new territory. I thought it would be appropriate for the Council to hear his report as soon as possible, you know."

Palva surveyed the shadowed faces around her. Sirle and Simetra, the chief Sentinel and Hunter, looked alert and awake. Captain Leron stood in front of them, his head raised and tilted to the side as though he was preparing to speak. He turned his glittering grey-eyed stare onto Palva, and she met it with loathing.

"How kind of the Gatherer to join us," he said for them all to hear, smiling at her. "We were all waiting in the dark for you to arrive. I suppose we can begin, now that you have come."

Palva hissed something derisive in return before padding over to sit beside Simetra, who seemed impatient for the report.

"Yes, Captain Leron, you are right," Liyra said, striding forward to address the other three wolves in front of her and Leron. "We cannot begin until the full council is present, as this is a very important report that you all must hear."

"And we all are present, thank you. There are only five of us, after all," Simetra growled, swishing her reddish-brown tail with impatience. "Now may we begin? I wish to lead a dawn hunt."

"Oh—yes," said Liyra, looking flustered. "Yes, of course. Captain?" she swept her tail towards Leron, inviting him to give the report on the territory.

Leron stepped forward, regarding the small audience appraisingly. He dipped his head to them in respect, a gesture none of them returned save for Liyra. Undaunted, Leron offered them all a pleasant smile.

"This land," he began in a loud and important voice, drawing his flinty stare along the wolves of the Council. "...stretches to two side barriers, one of which is this stone wall, as you have all noticed."

Everyone turned and glanced at the crumbling, towering face of the cliff behind them for a brief moment. Above it, far in the distance, hung a thick, hovering blanket of black smoke—the remnants of a forest fire, the fire from which Tir had fallen. Palva's eyes were fixed on it, mesmerized, and she looked away with reluctance as the others turned their attention back to Leron.

"On other side, it is blocked by a river," he continued. "The river curves inward, slicing the plains about in half. It is fast and deep, and as far as I saw, there is no safe way to cross it—unless we wish to retrace our steps back into the marsh—so I suppose we will have to accept it as a boundary.

"At some point, the river branches off into a smaller stream. This stream flows into a large lake in the center of the fields. This stream also contains a great number of well-sized fish. We could eat them, if we could find a way to catch—"

Liyra glanced at Simetra, who was listening with ears pricked forward. "Adapt," Liyra said, cutting Leron off. "Find a way to catch these water-creatures; they may be an invaluable source of food during hard years. That is a job for the chief Hunter."

"Right you are, Alpha," Simetra said, straightening herself.

Liyra nodded in approval, and waved her tail for Leron to continue with his account. The captain's fixed smile had wavered at the interruption, but he gathered himself quickly.

"The chief Hunter shall be busy, then," he said in a quieter voice, acknowledging the stony-faced Simetra with a small nod. "For a large herd of deer has taken grazing land along the banks of this lake. I know," he said, before Liyra could interrupt. "...that it has been long since any wolf in this pack has hunted deer. But even one of the creatures could feed the whole pack. For these deer are far larger than most—a different species, perhaps. We are in northern lands, are we not? If we can learn how to fish, then why not learn how to hunt deer? It is how things once were—it would be good for us all to return to the old ways."

He was obviously pleased with his idea. Liyra and Simetra looked thoughtful, though Sirle appeared to be in a state of boredom. Palva remembered what deer were, and she knew that many wolves hunted deer; their pack had hunted the beasts in the past. But for some reason—she couldn't quite pin it down—she had a bad feeling about Leron's plan.

"No," she said. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Leron blinked at her, his expression unchanged. "And why not?"

"It just sounds like a bad idea. We have enough prey as it is; why go for more?"

"Not afraid of them, are you, Gatherer?" he teased. His grey eyes gleamed. "Oh, they are only mild plant-eaters. They have no fangs or claws—"

"Of course I'm not afraid of them. But they do have hooves and antlers, you fool. We have not hunted them in a long time, and our wolves are yet too weary for large prey. After all, you said that they are larger than most, so wouldn't that make them more dangerous than most? What if a wolf gets injured? Or killed?"

"Do you believe that I would allow—"

"That is enough," Liyra cut in, "We do not need arguing in the Council. What we still need now is your report, Captain Leron. Please finish."

Palva and Leron continued to hold each others' stares—Palva her pale glower, Leron his bland smile—until Simetra again grew impatient.

"And the other boundary?" she prompted.

Leron withdrew his gaze and straightened himself.

"The cliff extends far along the horizon; turning and making another boundary straight back. I did not follow it; there was not time. But it seems that we are in some kind of half-valley. One way out is the marsh, the one we came through. The other way, straight across the fields from the turned edge of the cliff, would take us through a forest."

Sirle twitched, and Simetra gave a pleased growl. Liyra, too, looked very interested.

"A forest?" she asked. "Like our old home? Before everything? A real forest?"

"A real forest," Leron affirmed, pleased by their reactions. "With trees and everything."

Liyra glanced around at the others, as though to make sure they had heard. "A forest!" she exclaimed, now with obvious delight. "Just like where we used to live! Did you look into it, Captain?"

"Of course I did," he said, and Liyra beamed at him. "A bit of it, at least. I didn't explore properly, as there wasn't enough time. But I did learn some very important information." He paused, eyes glinting with dark excitement as though to hold the Council members in his suspense. "The forest is already occupied by a renegade. A territorial renegade."

Liyra looked uneasy. She shifted, her eyes darting around the Council wolves as though hoping one of them would speak. Captain Leron said nothing more; his eyes gleamed at the effect his announcement had made.

"Well, we don't want to cause any unnecessary trouble," Liyra said. "Does this wolf live only in the forest?"

"I cannot be sure. But I did not catch any scent of him as I was scouting the fields. I suppose it is a safe guess to say he has only claimed the forest as his territory, though it is not wise to make such assumptions. We must remain on guard."

"Did you speak to this strange wolf?" Liyra shot a sideways glance at Palva, who glared back in defiance.

"Of course I didn't," Leron replied, also looking at Palva. "That would be a very stupid thing to do. I only saw him from a distance, standing near the edge of the forest. All I know is that his pelt appears white, though he may have darker markings I do not know of."

"Do you think he might cause us trouble? Renegades can be violent, and very protective of their territory."

The others had no answer to this, but Leron spoke up without hesitance.

"No renegade would dare attack a whole pack at once. He may be a danger to lone patrollers, though. Just to be safe, I'm sure we will drive him out of the forest without a problem."

"No, we won't" Liyra said, regaining her sharpness. "It is not wise to stir up trouble, and we do not need the forest. The fields are large enough for our pack, at any rate. We shall do our best to stay out of this renegade's way. But if he poses as an overt threat to us, then we may have no choice."

Leron had looked unnaturally eager at the prospect of driving out the renegade, and Palva guessed that he had already been forming a plan of attack. Leron hated strangers with a passion beyond her understanding. She had watched his eyes darken just the slightest when Alpha Liyra had dashed this idea, and it showed in his voice when he spoke.

"But aren't all strange wolves a potential threat?" he asked, still staring at Palva.

"Not necessarily," Liyra said. "There is a possibility that this renegade may not want trouble any more than we do."

Leron turned away, muttering something under his breath. Palva knew that he had wanted trouble very much; Leron thrived on disaster. She knew about his former pack, the small band of four other wolves he had led before he joined with Liyra—they had been harsh and hungry wolves, ones accustomed to fighting for every scrap of survival. An easier life had been unnatural to Leron, who was toughened by seasons of minor battles. He wanted discord. He wanted to fight.

Sensing the end of the meeting, the members of the Council began to rise. Palva, too, stood up and yawned. It would be good to get back to her den. Tomorrow, she should go in search of more herbs. She needed to know the places where certain kinds could be found. Of course, Captain Leron would have never paid attention to anything like that on his patrol. But his information was valuable, nonetheless.

As Palva was padding away, lost in her sleepy thoughts, Liyra rushed up to meet her.

"Who is guarding the outsider?" she whispered.

Palva flicked her tail and inclined her head in the direction of her hollow. "Raatri. I met him as I was coming up to the redoubt, and told him—"

"Palva!"

She was cut short as a small streak of black fur dashed out of the grass tunnel that led down to her hollow.

"Oh, Palva I'm sorry!" Raatri moaned, and collapsed in front of them. "I'm so sorry!" he sobbed. "I didn't know—I didn't mean... Xelind came down to the hollow and he—he said he was to guard him! I left for a second and got afraid and came back and—Oh! Palva! I'm so sorry!"

Palva's breath died in her throat. Without a word, she brushed past Liyra and Raatri and flew down the tunnel as fast as she could. Raatri's wretched cries faded as she grew closer to her hollow. Then there was silence. No crickets, no sound of sleepy breathing, not even the grass moved. Something was wrong.

Palva burst out of the grass and into the hollow.

Tir was gone.

***

The leaves were soft and damp beneath Alanki's paws. Without making a sound, she wove in and out of the trees' shadows, her head hung low in thought.

Alanki had tried to sleep, but sleep would not come to her mind. Instead, she had taken to wandering around in the dead of night to sort out her thoughts. The forest was eerie in the dark; the shadows settled over her like chilly water and at the edge of her vision Alanki could see darker silhouettes of bushes and shrubs contorting into strange shapes as she moved. Tonight, the forest was as silent as death but for the occasional cry of a screech owl. This unnerved her. Even as dense and frightening as it was, the forest was always teeming with sound even at night. Why was it so silent?

Trudging along in the shadows, Alanki had plenty to think about. When Eyebright had pronounced the dramatic fate of the deer a few days ago, convincing them that Alanki was the solution to their upcoming problems, Alanki had been shaken—just a bit. She had brushed aside the doe's silly prophecy, however, not long after she had returned to her own forest. But just last night, Alanki had been troubled with another dream. A nightmare. The same haunting, vivid nightmare that did not fade in the light of day. She had dreamed of falling from a high cliff, only this time there was no river to carry her. She remembered she had lain in the grass, broken and bleeding and...burnt? And as she lay there, dying, the shadowy specters from Eyebright's prophecy swooped down upon her with fanged mouths gaping wide. She had awoken with a cry, sweating and shuddering, the moment their icy white fangs had torn into her flesh.

She knew what her nightmares were telling her. Either it meant that there was some truth in the deer's fanciful prophecy, or the description of Eyebright's dream was going to her head. But what did Eyebright's dream mean? At least, assuming the doe had not made everything up. But Alanki was good at detecting a liar—being a fluent liar herself—and the deer were, as a whole, terrible at acting deceptive; she was quite confident that the doe had been telling the truth. But she did not want to listen to that part of her. She wanted to believe that it was nothing more than the exaggerated fantasies of the typical deer and meant nothing to her of danger.

Bridge the gap between water and fire...

What could it mean? Alanki felt that somehow the answer was just before her, a fraction of an inch beyond her reach. And assuming that Eyebright was correct and Alanki was the water, then who could be the fire? Alanki had never seen another wolf in her life, not since she was a pup, at least. But she couldn't remember anything from her puphood. She had grown among the fawns.

Maybe Eyebright's dream had not been referring her at all—maybe it wasn't meant to be interpreted so deeply. Maybe it was just a sign, indicating that danger was coming. Well, she knew that now. And whatever the danger was, she had promised Delphinium that she would do whatever she could to help. It didn't take any promise for her to do that. She would do anything to protect those deer, prophecy or not. And there were always Delphinium's tales, too. Alanki shivered. It seemed that everything the deer spoke was a prophecy. Fight alongside us once more, when the day comes.

She could feel it. Just like Delphinium had said, the sun was darkening every day—one did not have to be Eyebright to sense it. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon, rumbling and pressing down upon the world, waiting, waiting to release their fury... Something was coming. Something bad.

Alanki sighed.

Now that she remembered, she had seen a wolf recently. It was strange, to see another creature of her own kind for the first time since she was a pup. This wolf was large and dark brown. He had been prowling around on the fields, and then had moved towards the forest. He had not even gone into the forest; he had only hovered around the edges, looking wary. He must have seen her, but he did not speak to her. After a few minutes, he had turned and left the way he had come

Alanki had wondered on this before, but only briefly. It was probably just another renegade, like herself. She would let him be, so long as he remained on the fields. She didn't care who stayed on the fields; too many creatures lived there for her to claim it as her own, anyway. But if he put one toe into the forest... Alanki growled and scuffed the ground with her paw. The forest was hers, and she would guard it jealously. It would be the last thing he—

Crack.

Alanki jolted. She stood up stalk straight, her head raised and eyes scanning the dark forest around her. The tiny sound was magnified in the eerie silence of the forest. She had known there was something different about tonight. She hissed under her breath, her muscles tightening. The fur along her back began to bristle and her lips curled up in the beginnings of a snarl. Cold blood was coursing through her veins like ice, her hunting instincts roused.

Someone was there, someone who shouldn't be.

***

Tir was running across the fields as fast as he could. Only one thought was clear in his panicked mind, and it pulsed in his skull like a blow to the head: Get away.

The wind was screeching across the grass, tugging at his fur as though trying to pull him back. He had to find somewhere to hide, just for a moment, for he knew Palva's alpha would be out to search for him in mere moments. Their reasons for holding him captive were still mysteries to him, but he no longer cared. Whatever it was, it must be important to them. They would be coming for him, no doubt. He did not know how much time he had; he did not know if he had any time at all—he had taken the opportunity and run. Run faster than he had ever run before.

He stopped and whipped around, wild eyes scanning the dark fields around him. The urgency to hide was pulsing through his blood like fire ants, overwhelming his mind with panic. Oh, how he wished he were a rabbit, just for that moment, so that he could leap down a hole and vanish. But the fields were flat save for a lone line of trees in the distance whose dark, spidery silhouettes were barely distinguishable against the black canvas of the night sky. It was his old forest—burnt even against the ebony sky, perched like a knife-thin carrion bird upon the high shelf of the cliff. He released his breath in a huge rush, his legs trembling beneath him from his sudden run. He must have run faster than he thought he had—the forest looked far away.

But he turned back around, not allowing himself to feel relief, not yet, and spurred on across the shadowed grass as fast as his weary and bruised paws would carry him. It didn't matter how far he had run—surely they had wolves faster than he, who could catch up behind him. Now was not the time for optimism. He glanced up at the sky as he ran. Rya's milky eye was glaring down at him from the inky space, filling the dark plains with its pearly glow. His breath caught in his throat and he looked down at the ground, running faster. He could feel the cold glare of the moon burning into his pelt like Palva's pale eyes, but he didn't look back.

The grass around his paws was smooth and damp, whipping across his legs as he dashed forward, eyes on the ground. But deep beneath the clawing panic of his escape, he felt a buoyant, leaping sense of freedom. He was free—for the moment, at least. He was free and running, swathed in the shadows of the night, air whipping through his singed fur, cold wind rushing down his throat—it felt wonderful, an exhilarating opposite from the forest fire. No longer was he a helpless captive; he was running away from them with a new destination in mind. But first, he had to hide.

He came to a sudden halt. He had reached a line of shadows where the fields seemed to come to an abrupt end, and he looked up. He shivered. Before him was a forest, a looming wall of black trees that stretched into the sky like grasping hands. A foreboding air hung about the forest, something strange and dangerous and unnatural. His eyes strained, but he could not see anything past the trees; the rest of the forest was impenetrable shadows. Who knew what could be lurking in such a black place? A chilling wind whistled through the branches of the trees, making them sway and rattle like old bones. The wind died down to a low hiss as it swept past the trees and rushed over the grass, and the shrill, hair-raising cry of a screech owl echoed somewhere from the depths of the dark forest. This place had a distinct feeling of hostility and unwelcome—not a forest for outsiders.

Every instinct that Tir possessed was urging him not to go forward, not to set foot in this dark place. He knew he should obey his senses, turn around and run off to find elsewhere to hide. But he also knew that Palva and her pack would never find him in this forest—it looked as though it would be easy even to lose himself in its shadowy depths. It was the best hiding place he could hope for, but he had to be careful.

Tir took a tentative step forward, his ears flat against his head. Nothing happened—no angry spirit came rushing out from the forest's tomb, no explosion from the dark sky. He took another step, and another. His blood pounding in his ears, Tir crept forward and left the fields behind. He could feel the forest's darkness settling over him like cold rain soaking him to the skin and clinging to his paws as he walked. Shivers raced like spiders down his spine.

Tir moved among the trees, ears pricked for the slightest sound. But the wind had faded and the screech owl had fled; he was walking in total silence. He felt jumpy, vulnerable, tripping over roots in his path and tearing his fur on unseen thorns in the undergrowth. It felt as though he was being watched, as though he was surrounded by invisible, silent-pawed creatures. The moment he had taken but five steps into the forest, he was seized with the urge to run back out—where, of course, Palva and her alpha would be waiting for him. What choice did he have?

In an instant, the silence seemed heavier than ever, like the tense stillness before the break of a storm. Tir froze midstep, the fur along his back beginning to rise. Was that a wolf he scented?

It all happened at once. Something furious and snarling erupted from the undergrowth, slamming Tir against the ground and shoving his face into the dirt. A paw pressed down on his throat, pinning him in place. He gasped for air, spitting soil and trying to regain his feet as red clouds of pain unfurled like fireballs in his head.

"What are you doing in my forest?" a voice growled into his ear.

"Just pas—passing through," Tir was struggling to speak beneath the pressure of his attacker's paw. "Not meaning an—any harm."

"You have no right to be here," the voice said. "'Tis my forest you walk through, understand? No one passes through here but I."

"S—sorry, I'll—go. If you would o—only get off—"

"No. I must kill you. I have no use for intruders; any intruder that comes in my forest surrenders itself as my prey. That would be you."

"N—no!" Tir gasped, and the paw pressed down harder. "I—I have to find m—my pack!"

The voice sounded suspicious. "Your pack?"

But Tir spluttered and choked, no longer able to speak under the pressure.

His attacker released its strangling hold to allow him to reply. Tir sat up, gasping as the cold night air rushed down his throat.

He raised his head so that he could see this creature who had captured him. He knew by the sound of its voice that it was a wolf, though never before had he heard a wolf speak quite the same way as this one was. Despite his fear, however, he was surprised to see that his attacker did not at all match his imaginings.

It was a small she-wolf of an indeterminate age, though he couldn't believe she was older than three winters. Her fur was a shocking white that almost seemed to give off a glare in the dark. He was much bigger than she, for she was very small—but she was sharp and lithe as a thorn vine, hardened by a bitter and rough existence. Pale, hostile eyes of green flint glared at him from a scar-slashed face. They were eyes without mercy.

"I have asked you a question!" the she-wolf said, drawing her lips back from her teeth. "Give me an answer! Where is your pack?"

"I—I don't know," Tir admitted, averting his stare to the ground. "I'm searching for them."

"You do not know where they are?" she said with scorn. Her voice had an odd, lilting quality to it, as though it belonged to a softer creature—in jarring contrast with her violent words and harsh tone. She spoke almost rhythmically, and Tir half-expected her to break out in savage rhyming. He had never before heard a wolf with a voice like hers. "So from where have you come?"

"From a different pack. They were holding me prisoner."

The wolf regarded him with suspicion, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"I—well, I don't know," Tir admitted.

The wolf had begun to circle him, her fangs still bared. Tir knew she would end up killing him, no matter what. Burnt and battered as he was, he was in no state to fight. All he could think of was to keep her talking.

"Where is this pack?" she demanded.

"I said—I don't know."

"Not your pack, idiot! The one holding you prisoner."

"Oh," Tir said, surprised despite himself. "They are making a...a redou—they are making camp on the fields."

Something flickered in the wolf's green eyes. "There is a pack nearby?" she asked, her voice dropping to a wary hiss. For a moment, she looked almost uncertain.

"Yes."

She did not reply. For a few tense moments, she continued to stalk around him, apparently in thought. Just as Tir was beginning to inch away, she turned around.

"So then," she said, latching a claw in his fur and pulling him back. He yelped—her claws were sharp. "This pack—have they ever told you about me?"

Tir swallowed. "No. I don't think they know you're here, they haven't lived on the fields very long..."

"All for the best, then. They're never going to know that I am here. And you shall make sure of it."

"What do you—?"

"You didn't think that I would let you leave here alive, did you? No one leaves here alive. I can't have you go running back to them telling tales about me, can I?"

"I won't tell them!" Tir said. "I hate them! I wouldn't tell them anything—all I want is to find my old pack," he added in a softer voice, backing away as the she-wolf began to creep closer. "I need to find them. I'll leave right now and never come back, I promise."

"I do not accept promises," she said, scoring the ground with her paw. Tir's eyes flickered down and he noticed that she had the longest, sharpest black claws he had ever seen on a wolf. It looked almost as though she sharpened them.

"What reason have I to believe you?" she said. "If I believed every fool who ventured into my forest, I wouldn't be alive today. Did you not hear what I said? If you come into this forest, you are my prey. 'Tis my rule, and while you're in my territory, you must follow my rules. I don't know what you're planning to do, but if your pack wants to drive me out..."

"No! They aren't! I just want to find them!"

"You may be a liar," she said with a slight shrug. "Or you may not. But 'tis a risk I cannot afford to take. After all, you'd kill me in an instant if you could, no?"

"I wouldn't," Tir said. He backed away. "I don't even know you. I don't want to kill anyone—"

"Of course you do; everyone does. I am in your way, aren't I? You kill creatures to get them out of your way. And right now, you are in mine. Kill or be killed—'tis how it goes."

Tir had no time to react before she lunged for him. There was an unpleasant crunch as her shoulders crushed him back against the ground. He fought, panicked, kicking out with his hind legs and snapping his jaws, but she ignored his blows as though they were nothing to her. Sharp, black claws tore at him like thorns, though he had never known a wolf to fight with claws before. He howled and kicked out, hard, but his legs struck empty air. Pain flashed through his head as fangs latched around his neck, going to pierce his life-vein as he had tried to do to Palva. Palva... he felt sorry for attacking her now; it wasn't her fault. He wished he could apologize, but it was too late. He gasped, knowing he was drawing his last breaths. The night sky was visible through a gap in the trees above; there, Rya's blind eye glared down at him from a haze of clouds and stars. Were they tears or spirits? His sister was up there, he knew. How could she watch him dying like this? A shudder rolled down his spine, needles of pain slipping in and out of consciousness. Were his old packmates right? Was he to be punished—he and Arwena? It was the fire that had done it. The fire had been sent, and he had escaped—and now death was to catch up to him. It was cruel justice.

"I've done nothing!" he choked out to the sky, the blood in his eyes blurring the knife-edge outlines of the trees above him. "I can't help what I've escaped; I'm innocent of what—"

Almost immediately, the weight was taken off him. He lay there for a few moments, motionless. Was he dead already? But no, the hostile she-wolf was still standing over him. There was a strange expression on her face.

"Your fur," she said. Her mouth dripped blood into his face. "Your fur tastes of ashes."

"Ashes," Tir mumbled, not quite sure of what had just happened. "I should be ashes. I and my mother. She needs me—she could be dead... like my sister, she so wanted to be, but I—I wouldn't let her, she couldn't—not the yew. We've done nothing, Palva told me so—nothing!"

He was saying panicked nonsense, he knew. But his words seemed to have an effect on the she-wolf. A faraway expression flitted across her face, and she followed his gaze up to the stars.

"Why does your fur taste of ashes?" she said.

Tir did not know why it was of such importance to her, but at least she had not killed him yet. "The fire. The fire on the cliff—I escaped. It was terrible."

"And your eyes."

"Wha—what?"

"Your eyes are green. Green as...as the sap in the heart of a new tree." She faltered, a look of confusion flitting across her face. There was blood in her eye; she blinked it away. "Green eyes. There must be more of you."

Tir stared, lost. "I don't think I—"

"Where are they, the others?"

"My pack? But I told you; they're not—"

She lunged forward, seething. "Where are they?"

"They're not here!" Tir cried, cringing away from her—the transformation was terrifying. She looked furious, frightened. "They were in the fire; I don't know where they are, I told you! I told you!"

The she-wolf stared at him a few moments longer. She swallowed, and took a step backwards. In the distance, a screech owl cried, and Tir, with a lurch of nausea, wondered if Palva's pack had begun searching for him yet. If they would ever find him. His blood dripped from the white she-wolf's bitter muzzle, and he found he could imagine it spread across the forest floor, for her to bury in the morning so that all traces of him would be gone.

"I want you out of here," she said, her voice quiet. "Out...out of my forest, and to never return again. I don't want to see you. Stay out of my way."

"But my pack—"

"They're gone," she snarled, baring her teeth. "They're gone in the fire and 'twasn't my fault. If ever there were more of you, they're torn and gone now and I saw nothing of it—'twasn't my fault, do you understand?"

"I wouldn't blame you," Tir said, bewildered. He struggled to his feet; she did not stop him. In fact, she took another step backwards, teeth bared, eyes gleaming in the dark. "But I need to know—I can't leave them; they need me. I need to know if—"

"BLOOD IN THE SKY, WOLF, IF YOU NEED TO KNOW THEN I SHALL TELL YOU!" the she-wolf roared in a flood of violence Her fangs snapped an inch before his face, and Tir lurched backwards. "They're dead! Dead and melted away, and flay me on the spot if I had anything to do with it—the nightmare was groundless! Groundless! You're the first of the green-eyed wolves I've seen, and the last—they're dead, I swear it, and if I ever see you again then you shall be the same!"

Tir stumbled, the brutality in her words crashing upon him like the weight of boulders. "N—no," he faltered, meeting her glare. "No, you're lying; they're not...not..."

"I tell no lies," she said, her eyes cutting. "They're not in my forest; I would know. And if they are not on the fields, and they are not in my forest, then they must be dead. As a matter of fact, the ravens were spinning above that ridge just a day ago. I saw it myself—I tell you, they're dead, and I am absolved of anything to do with it all."

"W—what?"

"You have heard what I said. They are not here, nor are they anywhere near here. They are not anywhere, not anymore. You may give up the search," the she-wolf said, straightening herself. Some of the panic in her voice had begun to melt; she seemed to be regaining her composure. "And remove yourself and your terrible eyes from my forest. This instant."

Tir looked away, not hearing her. His head was spinning. Everything had just crashed down around him; he was lying broken at the feet of the cliffs again, the smoke of his old life rising to vanish in the sky. He didn't care. He didn't want to escape anymore. He had nowhere to go. Nowhere. Nothing.

"No," he said, his voice a ragged whisper. "I can't."

"Excuse me?"

Tir dropped his head. He understood how Arwena had felt, so long ago, standing beneath the yew tree. Such a distant memory; what a shame he associated it with his mother. "Please," he said. "I set out to find them, and I intend to do it. Please. Kill me if you like, and I'll be with them again—I've got nowhere else to go."

"Oh, no! I'm not having any of that. I'm no fool. I didn't kill the others of your kind and I don't intend to kill you—you won't trick me. I'm stronger in real life than I am in my dreams, you'll see."

Tir raised his head to meet her eyes. They were wide and frightened above her snarling fangs, and for the first time he saw that she was young—not much older than he himself was. He was quite certain that she was insane.

"I'm not trying to trick you," he said. "You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly," she said. "And if you don't get out, I shall drive you through the pines until your pelt is dripping in blood from your still-living limbs."

"Not kill me?"

"No, and I don't know why," she spat. "Now get out."

"I—"

"GET OUT."

In an aggressive flash of movement, she slashed at his side with her claws. Tir reeled with the fresh wave of pain, and he yelped and leaped to his paws as though he had been electrified. Little red lights flashed before his eyes, and he thought of yew berries, of Arwena in a clear and strong mood, telling him, Never pray to the red berries, Tir. All at once, he was burning with shame. His life was all he had left. Grief was a dangerous thing.

Tir ran out of the dark forest as fast as he could, with the white she-wolf snapping at his heels. He burst out of the trees and fell onto the soft grass beyond the line of shadow, gasping for air. When he looked back, he could see her standing in the shadows on the edge of the forest. From this distance, her harsh white pelt made her look like a bloodstained ghost, and he remembered his fears about the forest being haunted.

"Go!" she shouted. "And if I ever see your like in my forest again, you'll be crying for death before I send you back out! Go!"

Tir struggled to his paws and ran away across the fields towards Palva's redoubt. He may as well return to them, for what other alternative was there? He had nowhere to go. His pack was gone, and he was left alone.

### 8.

Reflections

Xelind was a lean, dead-eyed Sentinel the color of scraped ice. He was sprawled across the dark face of a boulder on the far edge of the hollow, licking a ragged gash on his side. The livid half-moon of an old scar slashed through his left eye and down his throat, where it vanished in his fur; but aside from that mark his face was as expressionless as the stone behind him. The hollow was dead silent. Although Xelind himself seemed to add to the stillness, his eyes were cast to the side as though he were waiting for something.

"Where is he?" Palva said in a shaking voice, skidding to a halt in the center of her hollow. She scanned her surroundings as though hoping to see Tir lurking behind a boulder. "Where did he go?"

"He left," Xelind said unnecessarily.

"I see that!" Palva hissed. "You were supposed to be on guard! Why didn't you stop him?"

"I couldn't have."

Palva spat with fury. "Oh, really. So you fought him, did you? And you just couldn't stop his mad dash to escape?"

"He damaged me. You see this hole in my side? I couldn't chase him."

Xelind's blue eyes were as unblinking and empty as those of a dead fish. Palva stared at him for a few moments.

"You expect me to believe that?" she said at last. "That he fought his way out? Tir couldn't fight his way past a rabbit."

"Yes, I know."

"And so who gave you the cut?"

"I did."

"You let him go."

"It's true."

"And bit yourself to cover up for it?"

"Yes."

There was silence for a few moments. Xelind held Palva's gaze for awhile, and then went back to licking his cut. Palva could feel a steady rush of fury boiling up behind her ears. What right did Xelind have to do that? She knew what kind of a wolf Xelind was, and could not imagine him doing it out of the goodness of his heart. It must have been Captain Leron's order. Captain Leron did not want an outsider to join the pack; Captain Leron hated strangers for reasons beyond Palva's understanding. Captain Leron did not know about the prophecy for this very reason.

"Don't you know what you've done?" Palva spat, making a lunge for his boulder. Xelind looked up with a raised brow. "Alpha Liyra gave direct orders to keep that outsider under guard and to not let him leave. That wolf was of great value to the pack!"

Xelind did not reply.

"Why did you let him go, Xelind?" Palva asked in a quieter voice, her ears flattening. "Go on, tell me before I come up there and kill you."

Still no response.

"Xelind," Palva growled through gritted teeth. "Why did you let Tir go?"

"He wanted to go," Xelind said. He was trying to sound innocent, but there was still a hint of cold anger in his tone. "My question is, why are you holding him?"

"It was on Leron's orders, wasn't it? The Captain doesn't want outsiders in the pack?"

"And so what if he doesn't? What is the use of having outsiders in the pack if they don't even wish to be a part of it? I am sure he had better things to do than plague us. And certainly you, Gatherer, are far too busy to spend time plaguing him."

Palva stared at him, unable to reply. Her anger faded in a fresh wave of guilt. She reverted her glare to the ground, away from Xelind's icy eyes that stared straight through her as though he knew what she was thinking. She was angry with herself, angry with Liyra, angry with Leron for his mad irrationality and interference. How could she have been so stupid? This must be the only situation in which Captain Leron had been the one to make the proper moral choice. Doubtless, he had no idea. But Palva was burning with shame.

"Maybe you're right," Palva said. "You did the right thing, I suppose."

"Outsiders do not belong here."

"It was Liyra's order. You're going to get in trouble, Xelind."

"No. Why do you think I slashed myself? Alpha Liyra will understand that he was much larger than I, and he was able to injure me so that I could not give chase."

"You think she'll believe it?"

"And why shouldn't she? She has already seen how the outsider attacked the chief Sentinel."

Palva groaned. She turned around and moved towards the wall of grass beyond which lay open fields. "Fine, then," she said. "Go and show yourself to Liyra. And I'll forgive you this one time, Xelind, because what you have done is something I should have done myself. But I know what kind of wolf you are, and next time I catch you defying Liyra for your own wishes or something the Captain says, I swear I will poison you."

"I'll be sure to walk lightly, then."

Palva ignored the sarcasm in his voice. Without another word, she slipped out of the hollow and into the grass, breaking into a run as soon as she was away from the redoubt. Somehow, she had to find Tir. Somehow, she must persuade him to come back to the redoubt. Not because of the prophecy, no. But because he could get himself killed out in this strange territory, especially with an unknown renegade running about. She had told Liyra that force was a bad idea. Force would drive wolves to do stupid things—but this was her fault.

Palva had never felt guilty before. She didn't like it.

Growling under her breath, she ran faster, fast as her twisted leg would allow without causing her to stumble. She scanned the dark landscape, but saw nothing but seas of swaying grass washed silver in the moonlight. The fields looked ethereal at night, like a place from another world. The silence was so thick that her own breaths were deafening to her ears.

And then Palva stopped. Tir, a large and ragged brown shape in the darkness, was loping towards her over the moonlit field, not seeming to care whether he was captured or not. When he reached her, he sank down with exhaustion.

"Take me back," he said, so softly Palva strained to make out the words.

"Take you back?"

He looked up at her, and she saw that his eyes were dull with defeat.

"Take me back to your camp," he said without inflection. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

Palva couldn't believe what she was hearing. She could tell by the look in Tir's eyes that he had learned something dreadful. "But what about finding you old pack?" she asked, fearing that she already knew the answer. "I came to help you. I'm sorry; I have made a mistake. We...I was wrong for what I did."

Tir dropped his head down to the ground again, and it was a long time before he spoke. "Never mind that," he said. His voice was hollow. "They're dead. They're gone."

Palva said nothing, for the first time in her life rendered silent. Pity was an alien feeling to her, but it prickled at the corner of her mind now. She felt she should comfort him, but did not know how. They sat in silence for a few moments which, for how they both felt, could have been eternity, listening to the wind moan through the grass.

At last, Palva padded over to him and nudged him to his feet. He stood up with much difficulty, but did not resist as Palva began to lead him away, back towards the redoubt.

They had only walked a few steps when Palva halted and examined him more closely. She was shocked to see that his fur was caked with blood, and there were several long gashes buried in his coat. He had been in a fight.

"What happened?" she demanded, horror-struck.

He looked up. "The forest," he mumbled, almost incoherent. "There was a wolf in there...fought with her claws, like a wildcat. Attacked me, talked so strange, said it was her territory, and was going to kill me. I dunno why she didn't..."

Palva's breath caught in her throat. This could only be the renegade Captain Leron had reported. A she-wolf. A hostile one, and perhaps something else as well—what kind of a wolf would fight with her claws?

"...running away, said she never, doesn't ever want to see me again. I asked if she had seen a—any other packs around...no, she said, but over the ridge she saw...r—ravens."

Palva looked at him. He had stopped short a few paces behind her and was staring into space, his lips trembling. And before she knew it, his face was buried in her fur and he was sobbing into her shoulder.

"They're gone! They're dead—all dead. Arwena and Kiala and Avrok and Misari—all of them!"

Palva stood, frozen in shock and at a loss of what to do in her situation. Trying to sound comforting, she spoke to him, though unsure that he could hear her. "Renegades lie. You can't trust them. There's a good chance she was lying to you."

"N—no," he choked. "I know it. Burn...burned up and—and gone away, she said. They're dead. Never, never... never going to see them..."

His voice dwindled into sobs and he shuddered against her like a leaf in the wind. Palva, feeling somewhat overwhelmed and uncomfortable by this onslaught of emotion, wanted to shake him off, but felt that would be insensitive.

Instead, she stood still for a few moments until Tir's cries had faded down to snuffling, dry sobs. Palva waited until he seemed to have regained control of himself before speaking.

"Come now," she said. "Let's go get you washed off."

Tir didn't reply, but allowed her to lead him in a different direction, where her senses told her a lake was located. Tir plodded along at her side, still sniffing. Palva was suddenly struck by how young he was, only a few months out of puphood. He had already been through too much for a wolf at his age. In a way, he reminded her of Seilo.

The lake looked like liquid moonlight in the dark. Palva moved towards it with caution, but Tir didn't seem to care about caution any longer. He limped up to it and fell into the water without a moment's hesitation. The loud splash shattered the night silence like a gunshot, and cold waters truck Palva in the face. She sputtered, spitting on the ground and shaking the frigid droplets out of her pelt. Looking out at the lake, she could see Tir's head bobbing a few feet out from the banks. For a moment, she wondered if he was going to attempt to drown himself, so she crouched by the banks and watched him.

But Tir did not seem to have such drastic wishes, and he emerged from the cold water dripping and shivering but looking a bit better than before. Palva guessed that he must have been thinking to himself as he was washing the blood and ash out of his fur. He was still sad, but not the fatal agony from a few minutes ago.

His fur was clean, and Palva was surprised to see that it was a muddy brown color. Somehow, she had been expecting a smoky grey, like the ash-wolves from her visions. Patches of his fur were still spiky and singed black, but that would soon vanish.

Palva padded up to him. He was sitting by the side of the lake, gazing down at his own reflection. Drawing closer, Palva was surprised to see that he now looked more thoughtful than sad. Indeed, his brow was furrowed and he frowned down at his face wavering on the water's surface.

"I have green eyes," he said in a strange tone, as though he had never noticed it before.

Palva sat down beside him and followed his gaze down onto the lake, where his own reflection was looking back at them both with dark, leaf-green eyes. Sad, but very green eyes.

"Yes, you certainly do," she said.

Tir was silent for a few moments, and Palva could tell that he was thinking hard.

"That renegade did not like them," he said at last. "They frightened her, and made her speak of nightmares. But she had green eyes, too. They were different from mine—angrier, but still."

Palva glanced at him, wondering what he was thinking so hard and long about. "Yes, perhaps she did," she said, puzzled. "And many wolves have green eyes. It is nothing unusual."

But Tir did not seem to be listening. He had a strange, faraway expression on his face.

"Arwena had green eyes," he mumbled.

"Your mother?"

"My mother."

Again, Palva felt a pang of guilt, and looked away. His mother, who was dead. His mother, whose death they had tried so hard to make Tir realize, to make him shed his empty hopes. She sensed that he had always, privately, known his pack had perished; however, the process of healing required a strong will to live, a drive, and Tir had clung to his quest to find his family as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

Well, he had accepted the truth of it now. Palva didn't feel particularly triumphant.

Beside her, Tir shifted and lowered his head so close to his reflection that his nose was almost touching the water's surface.

"She told me she didn't kill my mother. And she refused to kill me, as well."

"You asked her to kill you?"

"Yes. But that was because I had forgotten Arwena." He paused, and added, "I should never have done that."

For many hours, the two wolves sat at the surface of the lake, each lost in their own confused thoughts. The night grew warmer, and the sound returned to the dark landscape. An owl hooted—a soft and serene sound, accompanied by the gentle rush of wings and a blurry-edged shadow swooping low over the fields. The long grass bowed under the sudden force of the warm night wind, and the air filled with a sound like rushing water.

And when Tir finally rose from his place by the lake, Palva could sense that he had changed.

### 9.

Sunrise

The rosy glow of dawn was spreading along the horizon when Tir and Palva padded into the redoubt. They had said nothing to each other the whole way back, but neither of them noticed or cared. Palva's mind was swimming with questions about the prophecy and what was to come, while Tir's thoughts were heavy with sadness over the loss of his pack. However, both were put in better spirits at the sight of dawn. It had been a black and dead-silent night, and both of them were glad it was over.

As the two weary and windswept wolves crept their way through the redoubt, other wolves began popping out of dens, and the crisp morning air buzzed with questions. But Palva did not pay any of them any mind; it was Alpha Liyra they needed to see. And so they brushed past the others without a word, heading towards the mound of tumbled stones which served as the stairway to Liyra's den.

But Liyra was already waiting for them, sitting atop a mossy boulder and watching them as they approached. Palva stopped in front of her and looked down at the ground.

"Who is this you bring with you, Palva?" Liyra demanded, leaping from the boulder to stand before them. "Not another stranger?"

Palva looked up at the alpha in surprise.

"It's Tir, Liyra," she said, trying to stifle her amusement. "Don't you recognize him? He's clean now."

Beside her, Tir gave a small noise of disgust. He was glaring down at his dusty paws and refusing to meet the alpha's eyes.

Liyra almost fell over with surprise. "Oh, well—so it is!" she said, recovering herself. "Very sorry, I didn't recognize his scent as it had always been smothered by the tang of ash. And his fur—why, it's brown! But Palva, how under the sun did you manage...?"

Palva shot her a significant look. "That we will discuss later," she said. Then, she looked down at Tir and raised her voice so he could hear.

"But now, Tir has something to say to you. Tir?"

Tir said nothing, shifting his paws in the dust and glowering at the ground. Palva sighed.

"Well?" she prompted.

"I wish to join your pack," he mumbled without looking up.

Liyra exchanged looks with Palva. "Oh my."

Only now did Tir look up, and he glared at Liyra with unspent hatred. "It is not because you want me to!" he said. "It—it's only because I have nowhere else to go."

Liyra nodded as though she understood. She moved closer to Tir, staring straight into his eyes and examining his face. He glared at the ground.

"Why did you run away?"

"To find my family," Tir growled.

"And?" Liyra asked, though Palva could tell she already knew.

Tir did not answer.

Liyra sniffed and released him, proceeding to pace to and fro before them with her tail waving like a silver flag.

"Well," she said. "I suppose you may stay with us. But only on the condition—"

"Wait a moment!" Tir said. "I won't beg you to let me stay."

"Don't set conditions, Liyra," Palva growled from behind. "Don't pretend you aren't glad he came back."

Liyra looked surprised. "Of course I'm glad! But I want it to be clear that he may not go off on his own."

"Why are you glad I returned?" Tir asked. His eyes were narrowed. "What do you want with me?"

Liyra ignored his question, and Palva tried to give him an apologetic look, but he was glaring at the ground again. There was a long, awkward silence.

"Tir went in the forest," Palva said, sensing it was the right time to mention it. Liyra's ears pricked in interest.

"Oh, yes?" she said, wheeling around to face Tir. "How was it?"

Palva saw Tir's brow furrowing again, as he struggled to find the right word for his nightmarish visit to the forest.

"Dangerous," he said.

"Oh?" Liyra said. She glanced at Palva. "How so?"

"He met the white renegade, Liyra," Palva said, before Tir could answer. "A she-wolf, apparently."

"But Captain Leron said—"

"You can't expect Leron to get his facts right every time, Liyra," Palva said. "Leron didn't investigate as he should have—he admitted it himself. And good for him that he didn't. This is no natural wolf."

"So she is hostile?"

Tir looked up, enjoying her unease. "Very," he said.

"Show her your neck, Tir," Palva urged.

Tir bristled as he regarded Liyra, unwilling to expose his throat.

"Don't be foolish," the alpha snapped. "I won't hurt you. Let me see."

Without taking his eyes off of Liyra, Tir lifted his head so Liyra could see the deep gouges in his brown fur where the renegade's fangs had latched on tight.

Liyra was startled. "She tried to kill you!"

"Of course," Tir said, trying to sound careless. "But she didn't manage."

Behind him, Palva snorted, and Tir felt hot under his fur.

"I don't know why, though," he admitted, avoiding Palva's eyes.

Liyra moved around him, examining his many cuts and new wounds from his scrap in the forest.

"But some of these make me wonder," the alpha said in surprised puzzlement. She nosed a long gash down Tir's side. Tir winced. "No fangs could have done that," she murmured.

"He tells me she was fighting with her claws, Liyra," Palva said. "She fought him using her paws like an extra set of fangs."

"Her claws?" Liyra said, astonished. "But—why, only the lynxes would. No natural wolf has ever—"

"This is no natural wolf, Liyra. There is reason to believe this renegade has lived alone her entire life—which, of course, would make her all the more dangerous. It could be that she has no concept of common mercy and morals."

"And is territorial, it seems," Liyra muttered to herself, pacing. "Rya's tears, all we need is a territorial renegade."

"Only in the forest," Tir spoke up, shuddering at the memory of the dark trees. "She said only the forest was hers, and she'd skin any fields wolves who would try to take it from her. And if you come in her forest, you being the alpha, she said she'd kill you, too."

"Did she?" Liyra said absentmindedly. Then she sighed and sat down. "I suppose we will just have to avoid the forest. Territorial renegades are more trouble than they're worth. The plains are good enough for us, anyway."

Palva nodded, relieved. "Leron will want to drive her out," she said in a warning tone.

"Captain Leron, Palva," Liyra reminded her. "But he will have to listen to me. We do not need any more trouble."

"Good," Palva muttered. "It's always nice to see some sense around here."

Liyra shot her a sharp glance, but Palva pretended not to notice. The alpha shook her head, giving a very impressive, weary sigh. She straightened herself and turned to face Tir, who was still glaring.

"Very well then," she said in a lofty, business-like tone. "I thank you for coming back, and your information on this hostile renegade was most useful."

Tir was not sure whether to thank her or not, and compensated by shuffling his paws.

"Your training will begin tomorrow," Liyra continued, and Tir's head shot up in surprise, eyes narrowed. "Oh, yes," she said, raising her brow. "We must have your Placement as soon as possible. Tomorrow, you will go on a patrol with Captain Leron and Sirle to assess your scouting abilities as a Sentinel. Be ready."

Tir nodded, and looked away, trying hard not to let Liyra see how nervous he was feeling. And strange, too—for as much as he missed his old pack, and as much as he resented Liyra for holding him prisoner, it would be good to have a place in the world again. He didn't fancy the wandering, lonely life of a renegade, anyway.

"Shall I get him a guide, Liyra?" Palva asked. "To show him around a bit? His pack was much different from ours, he tells me."

Liyra nodded. "Fetch Nerasa. She's been avoiding work all morning. Before his Placement, he will need to know a bit more of our ways and rules." She paused to give Tir a stern look. "And mind you respect them," she warned. "There will be no more nightly wanderings."

Palva gave a derisive snort, and she steered Tir away before he could open his mouth and give another angry reply.

"Come," she muttered. "The day's not over yet."

***

"Tir, this is Nerasa."

Nerasa was a large, powerfully-built black she-wolf. She had yellow eyes and a long scar running down the length of her right forepaw. Tir recognized her voice as that of the wolf who had visited Palva days before, while he was doing his best to feign sleep. She seemed to recognize him, too, because her eyes widened.

"Look at that!" she said in a loud voice, making a few wolves in the redoubt turn around. "You're that wolf who got crisped! You're that mad, diseased stranger! Oh, I should be frightened, shouldn't I? The things Captain's been saying about you—"

"Don't believe everything you hear, Nerasa," Palva said, making a swift motion to quiet her. "And don't speak in such a loud voice, either."

Nerasa laughed, a hoarse barking sound that sounded more like she was choking. "Oh, of course, I forgot. You aren't on best terms with Captain, are you? Shock—neither am I. Anyway, I didn't really believe he was mad. I mean, just look at him—poor little guy, he doesn't even look like he's foaming."

Palva made a strange, strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough, and gave Nerasa a sharp nudge.

"Liyra says you are to be his guide," she said, and Nerasa, who was inspecting Tir's mouth for signs of rabidity, whirled around in surprise.

"And see that you do it right," Palva said in a low voice. "He needs to know everything before his Placement."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"EVERYTHING?"

"Stop it."

Nerasa turned to look at Tir again, and he took a few steps back. Those eyes were beginning to bother him.

"I guess you wouldn't know anything," she said. "You spent all your time running away, didn't you?"

"I know things," Tir said. "I know how to hunt, I know how to scout, I know how to..." But his voice trailed away under Nerasa's yellow-eyed stare.

She laughed again. "He's weird," she said to Palva, as though Tir weren't there. "But I like him."

She turned back around to Tir, who was beginning to be sure that he knew of wolves weirder than himself but decided this wasn't the time to say so. "Don't worry, though," she said consolingly. "I mean, Kesol's weird, but everyone likes him. It's okay to be weird. You shouldn't let it bother you, so long as you don't put yourself in any life-threatening situations."

Tir, unsure of what to make of this, decided it was best to remain silent.

"So," Palva said from behind them. "I must go find some chamomile somewhere, so I'll just leave you two. Nerasa, he's been up all night. So when you're finished showing him around, just let him pick himself a den and sleep the rest of the day. He's got a patrol tomorrow." She was beginning to walk away, talking over her shoulder. "be sure to do a good job, Nerasa. Remember, everything. Good luck, Tir."

Tir watched her go, wishing that Palva could be his guide instead of Nerasa. Nerasa seemed to notice this, but did not appear bothered at all.

"Palva's always so busy," she said. "And so are we, now." She sighed. "Honestly, everything. Moon in a hole, Alpha doesn't ask for much, does she?"

She looked down at Tir, as though expecting an answer. Tir shuffled his paws in the dirt, not having any idea what he was supposed to say.

"Well, c'mon then," Nerasa said, prodding Tir to his feet with her scarred paw. "Hunters' dens, first on the list. Let's get moving, before they all come back—they can be scary when they're in a group, see."

She sprinted away across the redoubt, and Tir had no choice but to follow. Wolves milling about the redoubt stopped and turned around in surprise as they shot past, and Tir was beginning to wonder why Nerasa was in such a hurry when they came to an abrupt halt in the shadow of the cliff. Tir stretched his neck back, following the path of the stone to the top—where a thin haze of smoke still drifted, as though searching for him.

"These are the Hunters' dens," Nerasa whispered, as if they were in a tomb. "This is where all the Hunters sleep. I'm not a Hunter, so I'm not allowed around here, most times."

"Why?"

Nerasa shrugged. "The Hunters weren't in my pack. They were Liyra's before—Liyra joined our packs together when we had to escape the thundersticks, see. But my alphas died on the way, and so did Liyra's mate. No problem. Liyra's my alpha now. Nice enough. But they still don't always get along with us—me, we were all Sentinels; we can beat them in any fight—but they're fantastic at killing rabbits and things, I'll grant them that. Guess why we call them Hunters?"

Tir looked up. Dozens of stony shelves jutted out from the face of the cliff, balanced here and there by a honeycomb of cracks and caves. Some of them were placed so far up that Tir imagined the Hunter would have to climb to reach his den. A wolf was sleeping on one now—he had chosen an open-aired ledge—dangling long, skinny legs over the edge of the stone shelf like a tawny-furred spider.

"Kesol!" Nerasa called, squinting up at the wolf. "What're you doing in here? You're supposed to be on Simetra's dawn hunt!"

"Cancelled," the bundle of fur mumbled. "Wind's blowing in my direction this morning."

Nerasa laughed, and Tir flinched at the sound. The wolf on the ledge, it seemed, didn't like the hoarse noise either, because he yelped and fell to the ground.

"Must you laugh at this hour?" Kesol said as he clambered to his feet, glaring at Nerasa through bleary, unfocused eyes. "The mice were telling me a story."

"Wake up, you yellow spider. Looky here, see what I've brought you!"

Kesol's eyes widened, and he appeared to instantly awaken at the sight of Tir. "Oho!" he said with a kind of impish triumph. "But it wouldn't be the Honorable Firepelt!"

"This is Kesol, Tir," Nerasa said, ignoring him.

Tir surveyed Kesol with some apprehension. He had never seen the wolf before in his life, but the way Kesol spoke and the way he regarded him with a sort of lunatic joy gave off the impression that he considered this a long-awaited reunion. Tir took a slow step backwards.

"The Most Honorable Firepelt has been brought to life," Kesol announced to no one in particular, but Nerasa nodded in understanding. "Oh, Firepelt, would you believe that when I last saw you, you were dead?"

"Dead and burned and shoved in a heap," Nerasa said happily. "Moon up a tree, I wouldn't be surprised to find that most others see Captain's side of things—you didn't set a good first impression, Tir."

"I was unconscious," Tir said, an uncomfortable prickle running down his spine as he realized what they were talking about. "How was I supposed to set any impression at all? And...and why were you watching me sleep?"

"Too polite to wake you up," Nerasa said, but Kesol did not answer. The yellow wolf was circling him, examining him from all sides.

"But I see you aren't ashy anymore, Honorable Firepelt" he said, frowning. "I wonder, did the rain cloud go away? Or did it rain on you?"

Tir eyed him, still wary. "I took a bath."

"Yes, yes, yes, a bath, yes." Kesol nodded sagely. "Baths. Yes, baths are good. The hunting patrol brought one back just last night, very good it was, too."

"A bath, Kesol," Nerasa growled. "You know, cleaning the filth from your fur? We can't all roll around in the dirt like you."

Kesol glared at her. "No one asked your opinion, Laugher. I don't want it. Take it back and—oh, sorry, it seems I've damaged it."

Tir wished that Palva was the one to guide him.

Once she had finished arguing with Kesol, Nerasa took him to the dens of the Sentinels, which were nestled amongst the pile of boulders. These dens were closer to the ground and without the precarious, open-aired ledges.

"This is my den," she said with pride, showing him a small, sandy area in the crevice between two mossy boulders. "If you're gonna be a Sentinel, you got to find your own. But don't worry, there are lots. None are as good as mine, though. Believe me when I say I had to fight everyone for it."

Tir's eyes traveled up to a fresh scar over her left eye. He believed her.

None of the Sentinels were in the dens, so Nerasa proceeded to guide him around the rest of the redoubt, introducing him to wolves as they passed.

"Mluma, Raatri, Salka," Nerasa rattled off names as they padded past a small knot of wolves. "Don't bother remembering their names; they don't even know you, yet. Oh, and the last one there's Yielsa."

Nerasa kept walking at a brisk pace, but Tir's eyes remained on the wolf named Yielsa, who had a golden pelt that was almost glowing in the sun. She caught his eye and smiled. Swallowing, Tir turned back around to catch up to Nerasa—but as he did so, he almost ran into a skinny white wolf who was walking by. For one wild moment, Tir jumped, thinking it was the renegade, but he calmed at the sight of the wolf's empty blue eyes.

"Wait!" Tir said, whipping around. The wolf had already begun to walk away, and at the sound of Tir's voice, he stopped but did not turn around. Tir ran up to him.

"I know you," Tir said. "You were the one that was guarding me the other night. You let me go, remember?"

The wolf said nothing.

"Well," Tir said with hesitation, discouraged by the lack of response. "Well, I just wanted to thank you. You—you didn't have to do it, but you did, and I'm glad you were willing to listen to me, so—"

"No, you listen to me, outsider," the wolf said, turning to face him. His eyes were scalding. "I did not release you for any reasons of your concern, much less that I may have felt any sort of pity for you. If you think that I care about you and your welfare, then I am afraid you are mistaken. The only reason I did not tear out your throat the moment you began begging for escape is because you are an outsider, and outsiders do not belong in this pack. There is good reason to be rid of them all, as none can be trusted. Frankly, you were lucky to not have been driven out. Why you chose to come running back is beyond my understanding."

Tir stared, taking a step back. "But you said—"

"Be quiet!" the wolf hissed, his eyes darting around. "I only wanted to get rid of you—is that clear? Never speak to me again, outsider. I don't want to be seen in your company. He wouldn't like it."

He whipped around and stalked away, leaving Tir gaping at his departing back in shock over the fact that anyone could be so rude.

"Hey! What're you doing?" Nerasa had come up behind him. She followed his gaze across the redoubt, where the white wolf was stalking towards the Sentinels' dens. "What're you looking at?"

"Nothing," Tir muttered. "I just—who is that, anyway?"

"Who?" Nerasa squinted. "Oh, you mean him? That's Xelind. You don't want to know him."

"Why not?"

Nerasa sighed. "He's...well, Palva'd be mad if I told you, but he belongs to Captain, really. Came from Captain's old pack, sort of; I don't know if they could properly be called a pack. But he's not well-liked; you don't want to talk to him. Him and Sirle, those nasty little weasels." She paused to scuff at the ground in disgust. "Why do you want to know?"

"No reason." Tir watched the wolf's retreating back. He was thinner, strangely-arranged—built in a way that was noticeably different from the other packwolves, when compared side-by side. And his eyes were such a strange color. What was that? "Where did he come from? He doesn't look like—"

"A wolf? That's because he isn't." Nerasa had followed his stare, and squinted, yellow eyes narrowed to slits. "We don't know what he is, actually. Captain says he found him and his mother lost in the woods. I'm told his mother was a human's dog." She laughed. "Tell him that, though, and he'll take out your eyes."

"Oh." Tir noticed a gaping, red gash in Xelind's side. It looked as though someone had bitten him. Had Alpha Liyra attacked him when she learned what he had done? Nerasa, following his gaze, made a soft, appreciative sound.

"Oh, wow," she said. "Looks like he found the wrong side of somebody. Mind you, I wish I could've done it." She shook her head and glanced sideways at Tir. "Now, Palva said I'm supposed to tell you everything, so I guess I have to tell you that there's a wolf to avoid." She glanced around as though to make sure they weren't being overheard and then leaned in to whisper in Tir's ear. "He's killed things," she said.

Tir stared. "What?"

"He killed his sister," Nerasa went on, her voice rising in a sort of horrified excitement. "She was a runt. It'd be hard to pull off, normally, but lots of awful things happened in the marsh, and no one bothered much to investigate. So when his mother died, he killed her. Right after that was when he started following Captain."

"When? I thought—"

"Oh, yes, he joined up with us all right. Just a harmless little yearling and his sickly sister." She gave a surprisingly-harsh laugh. "But he grew up. He wanted Leron's respect; he wanted authority. Figured the best way to do that was get rid of his sister, first."

Tir swallowed, glancing over his shoulder at the skinny white Sentinel again. "Why?"

"Because she was in his way. His mother made him promise he'd take care of her when she was gone, see, and that's what he had to do. He couldn't get any status in the pack with a little runt trailing after him, though. So he took her out into the forest and killed her. We found her body buried under the leaves, surrounded by wolf footprints. He told everyone a fox did it. Not that it mattered. Those days, wolves were dying twice in a night, and no one bothered to look into things."

Tir shivered, remembering Xelind's vacant, dead-fish blue eyes and stony face. He looked like a creature capable of murder. The way Nerasa had told him about it, in such a direct, blunt way, Tir was able to tell that this must be a common story amongst the wolves of the pack. After meeting Kesol, Nerasa, and now Xelind, Tir was beginning to wonder if there were any normal wolves in this pack.

"Oh! Look!" Nerasa said, whipping around. "The patrol's back!"

Tir turned around as well, taking his gaze off the angry white wolf to see a small group that was coming through the grass around the redoubt, some carrying prey in their jaws. Nerasa dashed off towards them, and with a sigh of defeat (he was beginning to see Nerasa's methods of changing the subject), Tir followed.

He recognized the large, reddish-brown she-wolf at the head of the group as the chief Hunter, Simetra. She nodded at him as he and Nerasa approached, and dropped the large rabbit in her jaws.

"I see you came back," she said to him. She had a brisk, commanding voice, but didn't sound unfriendly. She even smiled at him. "Alpha Liyra tells me you are to be Placed soon, yes?"

Tir nodded, uncomfortably aware of the large wolf behind her watching him with a level, curious gaze.

Simetra flicked her tail and looked him over, as though sizing him up.

"Well," she said. "We could always use another good Hunter around here. We'll see what happens."

She snatched up her rabbit and padded over to the group of wolves he and Nerasa had just passed. Another wolf followed after her, a silvery-grey male who ignored Tir and Nerasa. But the other wolf behind Simetra stayed, a hulking dark brown male with sharp grey eyes.

"That's Captain," Nerasa whispered in his ear. "Captain Leron. He's second in command from Alpha."

Captain Leron dropped his rabbit, which was smaller than Simetra's, and padded up to Tir. He walked with a careful grace, placing one massive paw before the other in deliberate, smooth movements. Tir felt a prickle of unease—it was as though the wolf wanted to drag out his approach, to give Tir enough time to grow nervous.

"And you would be that outsider the Gatherer brought in, am I correct?" Leron said at last, giving a surprisingly-welcoming smile . Tir, unable to help himself, recoiled, feeling the piercing, calculating stare of the wolf's steel-grey eyes—as though he was probing his mind, drawing out bits of information that may prove useful. "I must say, it has been long since we've had an outsider in the pack. Then again," he added with a laugh. "We are a pack of outsiders. A loosely-bound group of renegades, yes?"

"Palva rescued me," Tir muttered, looking at the ground. He did not know what else to say—his head was fogged and confused by the wolf's violent eyes.

"Oh, she dragged you in like a piece of rancid meat, she did!" Leron said, and then laughed to show that it was a joke. "It's quite amazing, the authority a wolf like your Gatherer can earn with a leg like that—you should've seen the way she fought for you! Words against teeth! But you're here now, aren't you? And off to a wonderful start, as I hear—already in the Alpha's good eye! Why, I'd better watch my step!"

He laughed again, and Tir managed a weak smile. Leron's presence seemed to drain him of energy—he imagined the Captain feeding off the vitality of others, drawing in energy through those probing grey eyes. Tir did not like the way Leron spoke to him. He was trying to be friendly, but his voice contained strains of the fatherly condescension that he loathed. In Misari's pack, wolves had spoken to him and Arwena that same way.

"Please don't bother," Tir said. "I don't really want to join, anyway."

He glanced up and locked eyes, though Leron's cut into him almost painfully. The moment he did so Leron expanded in a rush of bristling brown fur and, in one swift movement, struck Tir over the head with a massive paw. Tir gasped, stumbling, as pain exploded in his head.

"Now, pay attention, outsider," Leron was saying kindly, as Tir collapsed, sputtering, into a heap. He spoke lower, slower, almost sadly as though he had done something he hadn't wanted to do. "We must make a valuable lesson of this. You must learn, if you're to be in the pack, yes? Never make eye contact with the Captain—not the Alpha, either. I will let you off this time, because you didn't know better, but next time, I—"

"Hey!" said Nerasa, who seemed to have just realized what had happened. "You didn't need to hit him!"

"You must learn, if you're to be in the pack, yes?" Leron went on, ignoring her. Tir began to stumble back to his feet, his head throbbing with anger and pain. "Now, that is the first lesson pups learn. And you should be careful; others won't let you off so easily as I have!" He paused, grey eyes keen, and leaned closer to hiss into Tir's ear. "Where have you come from, outsider? Who are you?"

White spots were still dancing before Tir's eyes. "No one you know," he said, glaring at the ground. "No one you need to know."

There was silence for awhile.

"Well, that is a shame," Leron said, straightening back up. He was smiling again. "I would have liked to know; perhaps you will make a fine Sentinel one day? You will address me as 'sir' from now on. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." Tir had meant for it to sound mocking, but it came out as little more than a mumble.

"Aren't you awfully busy today, Captain sir?" Nerasa prompted, before Leron could reply. "Too busy, sir? No time to talk, sir? Right, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Leron said, not sparing her a glance. He was still examining Tir as though searching for something. "I'm very busy indeed." Leron frowned, for a moment, and then seemed to make up his mind. He shook his head again, offering Tir a small, regretful smile. "And you, outsider, take care to watch your step from now on! There are toes that oughtn't be trod on, yes? Choose the wrong wolves to offend, and you may find yourself without any sort of pack at all. It is not fun, being a renegade. But don't worry, I'll watch out for you—I was once an outsider myself. The best thing to do is be very, very careful."

Another awkward silence followed. Tir had bent his head; he did not look up, but he could still feel the Captain's questioning grey stare like needles probing his skull. After a moment, however, Leron sighed and padded away, leaving the air crackling with his last words—which, Tir thought, could only be a threat.

"You forgot your rabbit!" Nerasa shouted, throwing it after him.

"He can't really have me exiled, can he?" Tir was asking as he and Nerasa headed over towards the boulder where the Sentinels made their dens. He was still feeling a bit light-headed from the captain's vicious blow.

"Picked up that much, did you?" Nerasa said, but she was not smiling now. Her yellow eyes had darkened. "Well, yes, he can. He's in the Council. Maybe he can't shake Palva, but Sirle is a bug under his paw. And if he tried hard enough, I'm sure he could convince Simetra you're a danger."

Tir shuddered and glanced across the redoubt clearing where Leron was now, deep in discussion with Alpha Liyra.

"I don't like him," he said.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day."

"What's the Council?" he asked, looking back at Nerasa.

"It's made up of the Alpha, the Gatherer, the Captain, and the chief Hunter and Sentinel," she replied. "They have meetings every now and then, and they won't tell anyone what they're talking about. Boring important stuff, you know." She paused, and then laughed. "But call him "sir"? Ha! That's a new one! No one calls Captain sir—well, except for me, maybe, but he doesn't know I'm making fun of him. Sir! Ha!"

"Why did he get so angry with me all of a sudden?" Tir asked. "I didn't do any—"

"Oh, yes you did," Nerasa said, her voice with a sudden serious edge. "You stared at him, locked eyes with him. He doesn't like that—he thinks it's a challenge or something. Got to be careful about that around here—especially since we left, and had to join up with these two other packs. Used to be really picky about authority issues—well, put four alphas together and that'll happen. They're all dead now, except for Captain and our Alpha—she beat him down, see, and that's why he's not. He still whimpers about it in his sleep. Understand?"

"Palva didn't care."

"No, Palva doesn't care about much. Her head's too full of stars to care about what's a challenge to her and what's not. She's the only one who can be Gatherer, see—probably'd just laugh at you if you challenged her, really. Honest, though—who'd want to be in her place?"

She sighed, and stopped in front of a small space in the crevice of two boulders. "This'll do as your nest for tonight, I s'pose."

Tir padded into the den, and then back out.

"So they had a meeting when they decided whether or not to keep me?" he asked, not sure whether he liked the idea.

"Guess so. Not that I'd know, 'course," she paused and eyed him keenly. "But it still stings, doesn't it?"

Tir looked away. His anger with Liyra for holding him prisoner was still a bitter presence inside him, but it was softening. As much as he would rather not admit it, it felt good to be among wolves again. It felt good to have something like companionship, to distract him from the fact that he was alone. He would just have to forgive the alpha for what she had done. But if only he just knew why she did it.

Nerasa shoved him into the small den. "Right then," she said. "Palva said you're to sleep now, and you'd better. I'd bet my den Captain is gonna run you to the bone tomorrow on that patrol, if ever-so-politely, so you'd better be alert enough.

Tir did not protest, curling up into a knot on the den's soft, mossy ground. Nerasa stood in the mouth of the den, chewing her lip as if deep in thought.

"I do hope I did a good job as a guide," she muttered. "Palva's gonna cuff me if I messed it up."

She sighed, and then looked down at Tir curled up on the floor. "So it all comes down to this. The most important stuff you need to remember if you want to keep your place here. One, never get in the way of Captain—you know that now, of course. Two, do your best to get on the good side of Alpha. And three, never listen to anything Kesol tells you. Now go to sleep."

Tir yawned and obeyed without argument.

### 10.

Assessment

"Sentinels are picked for their strength, and their ability to fight. Sentinels are the protectors of the pack; we must be more than capable of defending the redoubt if needed. Sentinels tend to be larger than those who are Hunters, as well as stronger..."

Captain Leron was giving a speech, and Tir was half-listening. The sun had not even risen when he had been prodded out of his sleep by an excited Nerasa, and led away on his patrol assessment. Nerasa was now perched on a rock between Sirle and Xelind, both of whom were looking extremely bored. Leron was pacing to and fro in front of Tir, caught up in a speech which had the dull air of being well-rehearsed.

"...Sentinels must know their surroundings, be alert in their surroundings; Sentinels must be their surroundings."

Tir looked at the rock Nerasa was sitting on. It would not be hard to be a rock, he decided. Rocks don't do very much; they just sit there, perfectly still.

"And are you listening to me, outsider?"

Tir jumped. Leron was staring straight through him. He had stopped pacing.

"I'm listening," Tir said.

Leron smiled and gave a small nod, as though Tir had said something polite.

"As I was saying," he continued, turning away. "Not just any wolf can be a Sentinel. Many are far too weak. A Sentinel must be able to hold his head high—"

"Her," Nerasa interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"Her head high. I'm a Sentinel too, see."

Leron stared at her for a moment, blinking, and turned back to face Tir.

"A Sentinel must be able to hold his or her head high in the face of pain and fear and manage to keep a level mind..."

Well, that's it then, Tir thought dully. I suppose I'm not a Sentinel because I didn't keep a level head in the fire. I panicked and fell over the ridge. But whatever Leron said about pain and fear, Tir doubted the captain had ever been in a forest fire.

"...because the pack depends on the Sentinels to be aware of the local dangers. That is why we do patrols, to know our territory further. If there is anything unusual or out of the ordinary, it must be reported to the alpha at once."

Like the white renegade. That was dangerous and out of the ordinary. Tir felt a bit proud; he had already proven himself of some value. Captain Leron hadn't managed to report anything useful on the renegade. He licked a scar on his side where she had clawed him.

"...As I said before, a Sentinel must be a strong and agile fighter. A Sentinel must not be afraid of the blood and fangs of battle, and he or she must know how to survive in battle. Therefore, as the first part of your assessment, I wish to evaluate your battle skills. Fight me."

Tir broke out of his thoughts. Captain Leron was still standing in front of him, but he had lowered himself down to a battle position, paws outstretched and grey eyes sharp and searching. Tir eyed him.

"Er—what?"

"I asked you to fight me. It is the first part of your assessment."

Tir stared. Attack him? Just like that? Surely this was some sort of a trick.

"Are you going to stand there all day?" Leron said, laughing. The laugh did not reach his eyes. "We're all waiting, outsider."

Feeling a bit foolish, Tir sprung at Leron's crouched figure. He gave a half-hearted snarl, because he knew that was what wolves did when they attacked each other. But Leron didn't even rise to meet his attack. He simply swept out an enormous paw and batted Tir away like an insect.

Behind them, Sirle snickered and Xelind was watching with faint amusement. Tir picked himself up from the dusty ground, burning with embarrassment. He spat the grit out of his mouth and surveyed Leron from a different angle, bringing himself lower to the ground just as Leron was. Leron was smiling. The smile's veneer was thinning now, in the fight, and Tir could see the ugliness of the expression behind it. Leron smiled like the wolves that smiled at Arwena, the ones that had raised curses behind her back. Tir felt hatred course through his veins like cold water.

Tir crouched lower, feeling the power build up in his hind legs. He waited like that, feeling the tension rising inside of him until it had become a tangible presence that was burning to escape. Sensing the right time, he released that energy in a rush of power and his legs uncoiled, propelling himself at Captain Leron with deadly speed—

He was knocked away again.

"I'm afraid I was correct in saying that you need work. Any Sentinel must be able to do far bet—"

Furious, Tir leapt at Leron before he had even finished talking. This time, no paw came to swat him away like a pesky fly. Caught off-guard, Leron stumbled backwards under the fury of Tir's attack, but did not fall. He surged forwards again, throwing Tir before him as if Tir weighed nothing at all. Leron was trying to pin Tir to the ground again, but Tir twisted beneath him and tore, tasting blood in his mouth. His heart began to pound with feral excitement and he flew into a frenzied attack.

But Tir's exhilaration did not last long. Tir had never fought before, and Captain Leron's larger size and weight soon prevailed. Within moments, Tir was crushed against the damp ground and feeling his mind flash back to the panic of the renegade's forest.

Again and again, Leron's heavy paws snapped Tir across the face, and Tir knew he was being punished for catching him off-guard. Fireballs of white-hot pain exploded before his vision and he could feel cries of pain boiling up inside of him, but he was unable to make a sound. Blood spurted from his nose and ran into his eyes; he blinked, but everything had gone blurry and red. He writhed to escape, yelping, but it was in vain. Leron was too strong; Tir could only wait for the attack to stop.

But with a terrible suddenness, something cold and sharp latched onto his throat. A cold wave swept over Tir. All at once, pain unlike anything he had felt before consumed him and Tir shook with the panic of an animal that knows it is going to die. This was no lesson—Leron was going to kill him.

He struggled harder than ever, shoving at Leron with his weakening legs and thrashing his head around, trying to sink his fangs into something substantial. He couldn't yelp or cry out; the only sound Tir could hear was the gurgling of blood in his throat. With an eerie calmness, the pain seemed to fade away into darkness and he knew that all he could do was wait for Leron to finish; then it would all be over.

A sudden, swift movement disturbed the air above Tir, and Leron was thrown off of him to land in a dusty heap a few feet away. Tir didn't move, in shock over the sudden weight removed from him.

Nerasa was standing over him. Her yellow eyes—devoid of their usual mischievous glint—were deadly serious, watching Captain Leron. Her lips were drawn back to show her fangs, and behind her Tir could see Sirle looking disappointed. Xelind was staring impassively up at the sky.

Leron picked himself up from the ground, spitting blood. He turned on Nerasa, tail stiff and bristling.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Only trying to stop you from committing murder."

"Murder...? Don't be ridiculous; I was—"

"You were going for his throat."

"Don't be—of course not; I slipped. It was an accident. An accident."

"Yes, sir."

Leron sputtered, but did not seem to know what to say. He whipped around and stalked off with Sirle and Xelind following not far behind.

Nerasa looked down at Tir.

"Told you not to get on his bad side. Nasty temper, Captain has. C'mon, we'd better follow them."

She nudged Tir to his feet. He felt a bit shaky, but after a few moments he was able to stand. Now that he was thinking clearly, the full weight of what had happened hit him like a stone. Captain Leron had tried to kill him. He swayed, nausea rising in his throat.

"You...you stopped him from..." Tir grasped for words, his voice beginning to rise in hysteria. He stumbled after Nerasa. "He tried to...he was going to—!"

"Hush now, now, we've got to catch up with them before they disappear," Nerasa said in what he guessed was supposed to be a soothing voice. She had not turned around to look at him, and was marching after the others as though nothing had happened. "Alpha won't be at all happy if the Sentinel part of your Assessment is cut short."

"Alpha won't be happy?" Tir repeated, outraged. He hurried to catch up with her, breath coming up in ragged gasps and his legs trembling with panic and anger. "But if she—we'll tell her! I...I can tell Palva, and you—you'll support me, won't you? We can report him to Liyra!"

"You could, but it wouldn't surprise her. Captain hates strangers and she knows it."

Tir spat blood onto the ground, stupefied. "What?"

"We've had a few pack squabbles. Back when everyone was a stranger."

"You mean Liyra knows that he—"

Nerasa shook her head. "Well, Guidelights, Tir, you're not the first! Why do you think I come to Sentinel Assessments? It isn't because I like to hear Captain talk."

"He tried to kill me!"

Nerasa turned to him with a low sigh. "I hear you," she said in a more serious voice. "You're taking this whole thing personally, and that's not at all what you're supposed to do. Captain doesn't hate you; he hates strangers."

"ARE YOU TWO COMING?"

They both started. Leron, just visible as a moving brown figure far ahead, had turned around. Nerasa glanced at him, groaned, and began to run. Tir followed, tripping over his legs in haste.

When he got back to the redoubt, Tir headed straight for Palva's hollow, feeling Leron's lead-eyed stare burning into the back of his head. It chased him all the way down the grass tunnel.

The Gatherer was sorting through a pile of pungent-smelling herbs when Tir arrived.

"Back already, Tir?" she said without looking up. "How was your patrol assessment?"

He swallowed, trembling, and settled down into the grass. "Educational," he said. "And I need your help."

Palva didn't turn around. "Help?" she said "My herbs are only good for more serious things, and if you're to be in this pack, then I'm afraid you must learn to help yourself."

Tir did not move, so Palva turned to look at him. She dropped her herbs on the boulder with a sigh and padded over to him.

"Well then, let me see."

Tir showed her his neck, and she hissed under her breath.

"What under the sun...?"

"Leron assessed my fighting," Tir mumbled.

"Of course he did," Palva's eyes narrowed. "So what did you learn today?"

Tir looked at her, and could tell that she knew what had happened.

"He tried to kill me," he said, looking at the ground.

Palva's hiss became a low growl, and she whipped around towards her herb-boulder. She began sifting through them, extracting a bulb of garlic and padding back towards him.

"You believe me?" Tir asked.

"Of course I do," Palva snapped. "I wouldn't put anything past Leron. And I told—I told Liyra to watch him; the great fool, he doesn't know how important—never mind that."

She began to squeeze the bitter juice out of the garlic, and dabbed it on Tir's neck.

"What stopped him?" she asked as she oarted through his neck fur.

Tir squinted in the sting of the garlic. "Nerasa," he gasped, and then breathed a sigh of relief as the sting faded.

Palva nodded. "Yes, Nerasa may be a bit unhinged at times, but she's a good wolf. She's a good fighter, too, and a strong shoulder. Leron won't get away with anything so long as someone like her is around."

"She told me she always goes to the Sentinel Assessments."

"I know."

Tir quieted. Of course Palva knew. He recalled the conversation he had overheard between Nerasa and Palva while he was feigning sleep, and realized with a jolt that the wolf they had been discussing in such dark tones had been Captain Leron. From their words, he could almost believe that they had expected such a thing to happen—that Leron would go so far as to attempt to kill him. And if Nerasa was to be believed, Alpha Liyra wouldn't at all be surprised to hear of her Captain's intentions, either. Tir's skin was crawling beneath his fur. What kind of pack was this, that disputes were settled with quiet murder-games? Were he and Nerasa nothing more than pieces to be moved about according to Palva and the Alpha's strategies?

Captain Leron wanted him gone. Palva and Liyra wanted him to stay. He couldn't fathom the motive of either force and the more he tried, the more he wished he had met a simple death in the claws of the fire, perhaps, or at the white renegade's own fangs.

Of course, he had been given his chance to escape. A chance from Leron's side of the struggle, most likely, but the most merciful chance he had been given, nonetheless. And with a start, he remembered who had given it to him.

"Palva?" Tir said. He hesitated. "I—I want to ask you about something."

Palva didn't look up from her work. "What?" she muttered, pounding the garlic against a nearby boulder with unnecessary viciousness.

"Nerasa told me about the strange wolf. The one with the blue eyes, the one who follows Leron around."

Palva dropped the bulb of garlic, and her eyes narrowed.

"Xelind?" she said, her voice growing sharp. "What about him?"

"She said he killed his sister."

"And you're asking me if that's true."

"Yes. Well, partly." Tir hesitated. "He let me go, that night when you left guard. And Leron told him to do it, I suppose, but now that I see Leron's willing to kill me to get rid of me, I can only wonder why he didn't do it then, if he had the opportunity."

Palva was silent for a long time. She closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. Tir swallowed. "Well," she said. "If you're asking whether or not Leron's common solution to things is to have them killed, then the answer is yes, absolutely yes. But that's a strategy left over from the nasty seasons with the thundersticks and the journey through the marsh—when, to be honest, that was the best solution for most problems. Leron's aim is simple: He wants himself, and those under his control, to survive. Anything that endangers this aim must be eliminated, and you, unfortunately, have been seen as a danger."

"I—oh."

"If you're asking whether or not Xelind killed his sister, then you must understand the reasons why he would or would not do such a thing. His sister was sickly, and a drain on resources. Arguably, she was a danger. Xelind may have been influenced by Leron's own philosophy to do something despicable in response, but that doesn't mean he would do the same in every case—which is why he spared you, maybe."

"So—so did he?"

"Kill his sister?" Palva groaned. "I don't know, Tir. Nerasa eavesdrops to amuse herself—a filthy trick, Tir, don't you dare try it—so she knows things that most wolves don't. No one could prove it, and Xelind denied it, of course, so Alpha Liyra couldn't do anything to him. But that didn't quite make him a likeable character in the rest of the pack's eyes. It's died down—it was one of many terrible things to happen in the marsh. Nobody talks about those things."

"But—"

"But did he do it? I don't know," Palve snapped. She threw a spent bulb to the ground and crushed it beneath her paw. Tir cringed. "I don't think it's likely that he did, but no one knows for sure." Palva growled deep in her throat, and then reached down to retrieve her fallen garlic. She shook her head. "I suppose there's no way of keeping you out of the pack rumors, is there? Just don't bother about it; it happened a long time ago. Liyra's forgotten about it by now."

"Oh," Tir said. He winced as she began dabbing more of the juice into his throat. "Well, I only wanted to know, and I reasoned you'd probably know more than Nerasa about it."

"Most of what I know is what Nerasa's told me—and that's why I have my doubts. But don't you go around talking about it. You don't want to make Leron any angrier. Trying to bring Xelind to justice won't get you anywhere—only in trouble."

"I wasn't going to try," Tir muttered. "It's just—my sister was a runt, too. I hate it how wolves think they don't deserve to live. My mother..." his voice trailed away into sadness as he thought about Arwena. Palva tactfully did not question him any further, and there was a long silence.

"There," Palva said after awhile, tossing another deflated garlic bulb into the grass. "That's all I can do for you. And I can only tell you that the best thing to do is keep out of Leron's way, and perhaps he'll forget all about you. Lucky for him, if anyone notices your scars, they'll think it was from the renegade. Very convenient indeed, not so much for you." She sighed.

"Can't I say something to Alpha Liyra?" Tir asked, a hint of a plea creeping into his voice. He already knew the answer. "Nerasa said she wouldn't listen, but—"

"Nerasa is absolutely right," Palva snapped. "Liyra knows perfectly well what Leron is—which unfortunately includes the fact that he is a good captain; he's led this pack through the tough seasons, and Liyra would trust him with her life. He knows it, too. And believe me, this isn't the first time he's taken advantage of it. You shouldn't take it personally."

"Thanks," Tir said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "I'm trying not to."

Palva sighed again and closed her eyes, her anger evaporating. "Just stay out of his way for awhile, Tir," she said. "That's all I can say for you. Oh, and you'd better get along with the rest of the pack."

***

It was midday when Tir emerged from Palva's hollow, his head still spinning. Tir looked around, wondering what he was to do with the rest of the day. The pack appeared to be in a state of constant business, like a hive; wolves milled about the redoubt in groups of two or three, reporting to Captain Leron and Simetra. Tir searched the crowd for a friendly face, but most of them paid him no attention as they swept past. Hesitant, he turned and was about to escape into his makeshift den for a nap when a small, lonely figure caught his eye.

Seilo was sitting in the shadow of a large boulder, watching him with his round eyes. With a start, Tir remembered what Palva had told him a month ago. Maybe, there was something Tir could do to help.

He approached Seilo slowly, so as not to frighten the pup. Seilo trembled, but did not run away. Encouraged, Tir padded up to the boulder and sat down beside him.

"Hello, Seilo," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "How are you today?"

Seilo did not answer. The tawny pup seemed to be frozen, his brown eyes wide with fear and his paws trembling.

"I'm well," Tir went on, acting as though Seilo had answered him. "So, then, how do you like your new territory?"

No reply.

Tir sighed, knowing that this would be more difficult than he had thought.

"Listen to me, Seilo," he said. "I'm sorry if I frightened you before. I was just excited about something. I lost my senses. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. I only wish to ask you a question, yes? I only—"

"I know you," Seilo cut in, turning his eyes on Tir. His voice was a tiny, hesitant squeak of a voice, but his words were clear. "I know you. You're the burnt one, the one Palva wanted me to take care of. You're...you're from somewhere else."

"I am," Tir said, surprised that Seilo had spoken to him. "Do you know where I am from?"

"A dream," Seilo said flatly. He had turned away again, and he was trembling. "I think I remember your face from somewhere else—somewhere long ago—but it isn't possible. I have many dreams. I've seen many faces that don't exist."

"Maybe they do."

"They don't."

His voice fell hard, stubborn, and Tir was taken aback. He knew there could be no changing the pup's mind, no telling him that the faces he thought he had dreamed were faces that truly existed. That once existed for more than one.

"Well, never mind that," Tir said after a moment's hesitation. Seilo was not looking at him. "I still want to...I still need to ask you something."

Seilo said nothing, and his sandy shoulders began to tremble again. After several beats of silence, he gave a soft sniff and Tir, considering this a sufficient answer, went on.

"So," Tir said, unsure of where to begin. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten the pup away. "So, er, what is your mother's name, Seilo?"

Again, it was a while before Seilo said anything, and Tir was beginning to think that the pup was not going to answer his questions. But, after a solid minute of silence—

"Don't have one," he muttered.

"Of course you do!" Tir said, trying to sound encouraging. "Everyone has a mother, Seilo."

"I don't."

Scared though Seilo was, his voice had a stubborn edge to it. The pup would not be swayed. Tir sighed again, deciding to take a different approach.

"Well, all right then, perhaps you don't," he said. "But do you remember anyone by the name of Arwena?"

Seilo stared, baffled. He shook his head.

"Misari?" Tir pressed. "Do you remember the name Misari?"

Seilo again shook his head.

Tir proceeded to list the name of every wolf in his old pack, but Seilo did not know any of them. The little pup was trembling more violently still, his eyes going vacant and glassy as he shook his head faster and faster. Dismayed and frustrated, Tir knew that Palva had been right—Seilo remembered nothing at all. The pup would know only voices, faces—things that Tir could not show to him. He was just about to give it up for lost when a new idea came to him.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to sound comforting. Seilo had risen to his paws, and he seemed to be on the verge of running off. "I'm sorry, Seilo. I was only wondering."

Seilo said nothing, but continued to shake his head.

"Just one last thing," Tir said, careful not to scare him. "One more little question. Do you remember where you were when the hawk caught you?"

Seilo's ears pricked, and he looked up at Tir. His eyes were glazed with fright.

"What's a hawk?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"A hawk is a bird. A big bird that flies in circles—"

Seilo gave a gasp of horror. Tir reached out with his tail in an attempt to comfort him, but Seilo yelped and dashed away, scrabbling over the boulder as fast as he could and disappearing into the shade of the Hunters' dens.

Tir groaned with frustration and shoved his nose into his paws. He felt pity for poor Seilo, but a part of him was very irritated with the fearful little pup. Seilo was all that was left of his old pack, Seilo was all that remained of his past—only the pup knew none of it.

"Frightening pups?"

A jeering voice echoed to him from across the redoubt main. Startled, Tir glanced up from his paws to see Sirle and Xelind padding towards him—Sirle smirking, Xelind cold and stony-faced.

"Oh, no," Xelind said, in reply to Sirle. "He was asking the pup for some fighting tips. Always wise to consult a superior, isn't it, outsider?"

Sirle laughed, and Tir ducked his head, burning with embarrassment. The two wolves padded up to him, each taking a seat on either side of him. Sirle nudged him with his shoulder, still laughing to himself.

"What's the matter, outsider?" he said. "Don't have anything to say?"

Tir wished he had something to say, but what? He didn't know either Sirle or Xelind well enough to insult them in return, something they obviously knew. He watched the shadow into which Seilo had just escaped, wishing he was not among strangers.

"I simply have not been able to stop thinking about your impressive performance on your Sentinel assessment," said Xelind, his voice dead and flat as his eyes. "It is true; you sent the Captain home with his tail between his legs."

"Oh, yes." Sirle gave a sickening giggle. "He was a fearsome enemy. Nevertheless, it seems that the poor outsider shall be washing grass stains out of his pelt for weeks."

He collapsed into fits of laughter over his own comment, and Xelind gave a thin, artificial smile. Tir glowered at them from between his paws, his face hot beneath his fur.

"I don't have any grass stains," he said through clenched teeth. "And I don't have any fleas, either."

Sirle stopped laughing. "You trying to suggest something, outsider?" he hissed, shoving his face into Tir's.

"Yes," Tir said, trying frantically to come up with some sort of retort. "Yes, I was, thank you for noticing."

"Tell me, outsider," Xelind said, cutting off Sirle's hissing reply. "Tell me, for I must know; were you raised by rabbits?"

"I was wondering something also," Tir spat, rising. "You tell me, Sirle; is your pelt always that dull color? Or is that all from the fleas?"

Sirle's derisive peal of laughter at Xelind's comment roughened into a snarl. "Was that a challenge?"

"Oh, yes," Tir went on, trying to sound unconcerned. "Yes, definitely the fleas. You really should do something about them, you know; they're making you awfully bad-tempered. Maybe you should go for a swim in the lake—"

CRACK.

Blue stars erupted before Tir's vision as Sirle cuffed him around the head. He took a shaky step back, his head spinning. He could hear Xelind's soft laughter and Sirle growling something unintelligible before he, too, joined in Xelind's amusement. Tir fought to keep his feet steady and tried to clear his vision. The sharp pain from Sirle's attack was flashing red and white inside his head, but even more hurt was his pride. He wished they would stop laughing; he could feel other wolves in the pack beginning to stare.

"Stuff it, you spiteful little weasels!" someone shouted. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

Tir blinked away the haze over his vision to see Nerasa striding towards them, livid yellow eyes flashing. She marched up to Sirle and gave him a good, hard shove, almost knocking him over.

"Go on, then," she said. "I can't say I'm surprised. Everyone knows you'd never dare pick a fight with anyone so long as it was two to one in your favor."

Sirle grinned at her, displaying his tiny, sharp teeth.

"Oh, no, no, we wasn't starting any fights," he said silkily. "It was him who wanted things violent; and here we was only coming for a chat."

"Shut up," Nerasa said. "I know you too well, both of you. Well, now things are more even, aren't they? Two on two. How about it, still want to fight?"

Sirle shifted. "Oh, come now, Nerasa, you know I don't want to fight with you. We're too good of friends—"

"I'm no more friends with you than I'm friends with this boulder, you flea-bitten stoat."

Sirle glared at her.

"I don't have any fleas," he muttered.

"Go on, scatter," Nerasa said. "You don't exactly have time to sit around and chat, do you, chief Sentinel? Doesn't Alpha think you're out on a patrol right now?"

Mumbling and shooting glances back at Tir, Xelind and Sirle slunk away. Nerasa glared after them for a while, and then looked down at Tir.

"Never can trust them, those two," she said. "They're Captain's shadows. He tells them what to do, and they tell him anything they feel is important enough—I've already told you about Xelind, haven't I? Always poking around for him, both of them are. Nasty little weasels."

"Thanks for that," Tir said, looking at the ground.

"No problem. I'm always ready for an excuse to shout at them a bit. They're not very well liked, you can see why. You'd think Sirle would get more respect, as chief Sentinel, but I don't give a huff what his position is. Dirt is dirt."

"But can't he get you in trouble?" Tir couldn't imagine what would happen to the wolf who dared yell at Simetra the way Nerasa had just done to Sirle. He had forgotten that Sirle was the chief Sentinel.

Nerasa snorted. "I should, but I don't. No one respects him, really. It's hard to respect someone who grovels to Captain the way he does. And anyway, Palva says he likes me."

She gave a loud sigh, and sat down to scratch a spot on her left ear. Tir watched her for a few moments, thinking to himself and shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the painful buzzing in his ears that was still left from Sirle's attack. He still needed to talk to someone about Captain Leron, but at the moment, he was feeling sick. The last thing he wanted now was to rehash the horror from this morning's assessment. Perhaps another time, when he was in a calmer mood.

"Hello, Nerasa!" said a bright voice from nearby. Both Tir and Nerasa raised their heads.

"Oh," Nerasa said. "Hello, Yielsa. Anything wrong?"

Tir remembered Yielsa—the she-wolf with the golden pelt he had seen yesterday.

"No, only coming to see Tir about tomorrow's Hunting assessment." She looked him over. "This is Tir, right?"

"Yes," Tir said, swallowing. "Yes, I'm me—no, that's me. I'm Tir."

Yielsa was a very pretty she-wolf with the brightest fur Tir had ever seen—an almost glowing, golden-tawny streaked with faint brown. Her pelt was long and silky, a small thatch of fur half-covering her eyes, which were a brilliant yellow-green. They sparkled with a friendly inquisitiveness and had a misty sort of glint that gave her the appearance of one who thought a great deal before saying something.

Tir realized that he must have been gaping, because Nerasa snickered.

"I told Yielsa about your run-in with the white renegade," she said slyly. "She was awfully impressed."

"Was it scary?" Yielsa said.

"A—a bit, yes," Tir muttered, looking at the ground. "I suppose you could call it that..."

"You must have been brave to get out of there in one piece."

"I...well, but—I suppose..."

He shuffled his paws and shot a sidelong glare at Nerasa, who was biting her tail hard to keep from laughing. Yielsa watched him for a few more moments, until he started to feel itchy with embarrassment.

"Well, then," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow on your Hunting assessment. Simetra wants to leave nice and early. Yes?"

"Yes," Tir mumbled.

Yielsa swept around and padded away. Tir watched her go, noticing the way the sunlight glanced off her golden pelt and made it shine. His head was still spinning, but not over Sirle's attack of Captain Leron's hostility. Yielsa's words kept repeating themselves in his mind.

"You must have been brave..."

He was jarred out of his thoughts by Nerasa, who had released herself and was breaking into hysterical peals of laughter that were not unlike Kesol's.

"Pretty, isn't she?" she managed to say. "I think you two will be good friends."

Tir glared at her.

***

"Oh, dear, Most Honorable Firepelt. I believe you have a tick, did you know that?"

Tir opened one eye. Something blurry and yellow was leaning over him. It was wearing a maniacal grin. Tir shut his eye.

"Leave me alone, Kesol," he mumbled.

"Oh, yes, yes, that is well enough. A great big tick it is, too. Big and round and grey—like a boulder. A boulder tick, Firepelt."

Tir groaned and rolled over in his den, determined to fall back asleep.

"But don't you worry yourself, little Firepelt. I've come to help you."

Thwack! Someone thumped Tir hard on the back, and he jumped up with a yelp.

"Got it," Kesol said.

Tir glared at Kesol and yawned, curling back up on the ground to go to sleep again.

"Would you know what else, Firepelt?" Kesol was saying conversationally.

"Go away, Kesol," Tir growled through clenched teeth.

"Well, last night Simetra the Hunter found me and said, 'Kesol, tomorrow morning I want you to go find that Most Honorable Firepelt and wake him up.' And guess what, Firepelt? It is tomorrow morning!"

Tir opened one eye and then closed it. Kesol poked him with a paw.

"Guess what, Firepelt!" he said. "You're going on a hunt!"

Tir jumped up, instantly awake. The milky light of dawn was seeping into his small den, and Kesol was dancing in circles at the entrance.

"Already?" Tir asked.

"Why of course! We can't let the day go stale, can we?"

Tir didn't reply. He hastily began grooming himself, pulling stray leaves and bits of dead grass out of his spiky pelt.

"Look, Firepelt, is that another tick?"

Tir jumped out of Kesol's range and slipped out of his den, shivering in the frigid morning air. A few other wolves were up as well, milling around the redoubt main and moving in and out of dens. He first caught sight of Yielsa—her gold fur shimmering in the dim light of dawn. He swallowed and reverted his gaze to Simetra, who was sitting in front of the Hunters' dens, her thick red-brown fur whipping around in the wind. A scrawny, timid-looking black wolf Tir knew to be named Raatri was at her side, his tail thumping the ground. Kesol ran up to him and pounced on his tail, earning a sharp cuff from Simetra.

"Good morning," Simetra greeted as Tir padded up to the group. "A bit harsh and windy, but that should burn out with the sun."

Tir nodded and sat down, wincing at the coldness of the ground.

"Well, don't sit down!" said Simetra, rising to her paws. "Now that you're here, we can get moving."

Tir jumped back up. "Will we eat?" It felt like ages since he had last eaten, and he felt as though he might blow away on the wind like a dead leaf if he didn't eat soon.

"We're going hunting," Simetra called over her shoulder as she moved out of the redoubt, Raatri and Kesol at her heels. "We will eat what we catch."

Tir sighed and ran to follow them.

Tir sat patiently while Simetra gave her speech on Hunters, which was not quite as dull as Leron's.

"Hunters are the providers of the pack," she was saying, her face towards the wind. "Hunters must be swift and clever; they must bring in the prey to feed their packmates. Hence our name, 'Hunters.'"

Beside him, Kesol giggled.

"So why are the Sentinels called 'Sentinels'? Do they sentin?"

Simetra gave him a sharp look, and Yielsa smiled.

"In hard times," Simetra continued, ignoring Kesol's snickers. "...the Hunters must find alternative ways to bring in food. A possible way suggested by Captain Leron is to fish in the river. We have never fished before, but it is possible we can learn how. Fish will hold us even in the merciless jaws of winter."

She looked up at the flat grey sky, and sighed.

"Winter is approaching fast, but it is not here yet. Therefore, today we will stick with orthodox hunting."

She nodded at Tir. "Let's see how fast the newcomer can catch us a rabbit."

Tir padded away, uncomfortably aware of the others' eyes following him as he scented the wind. In his old pack, he had been a fine hunter. But that was when he lived in the forest. It would be different to hunt on the plains.

He first made sure the wind was blowing in his direction. It was, and he moved forward feeling somewhat more confident. At least the prey would not be able to scent him.

Tir did his best to block out the roaring sound of the wind and tried to focus on smaller, prey-noises. His ears swiveled around, listening hard. For a few moments, he sat perfectly still, hearing nothing. Just as he was about to give up, he heard a tiny scuffle. The smallest of sounds, just the miniscule scratching of a small, furry paw on the ground. But it was a start.

He dropped down into the hunting position, ears pricked forward and body almost flat to the ground. Now—there it was! Just the faintest trace of rabbit on the wind blowing in his face. He put the sound and scent together, trying to pinpoint the tiny creature in the sea of sweeping grass.

Tir crept forwards, almost invisible under cover of the grass. His paws flowed over the cold ground, moving fast but without a sound. The small scratching sound was deafening to his ears, and his heart began to race as the scent of rabbit grew stronger.

Then, he saw it. The biggest rabbit he had ever seen, crouching under the grass and nibbling on a bit of grain. Tir crouched still, striving to blend in with the grass around him. He was invisible to the rabbit, he told himself. Completely invisible—

Tir surged forward. The rabbit started, dropping its grain. But Tir's paws crashed down on it before it had a chance to run. He bit the creature's neck, killing it instantly.

The rabbit dangled from his jaws, swaying to and fro as he dashed back over the windswept grass towards the rest of the hunting patrol. Simetra looked up in surprise as he approached, her tail waving in the wind.

"That was quick," she said. "You do have the makings of a fine hunter. Raatri could learn from you."

The small black wolf called Raatri lowered his head, ashamed, but he sent Tir a sheepish smile. Yielsa was smiling, too, he noticed. Had he been that quick?

Despite the windy day, Tir felt warm with pride. He had done it—and while Yielsa was watching, too. He dropped the rabbit at Simetra's feet, but she shook her head.

"Certainly not," she said, her rigid jaw twitching in what could almost have been a smile. "That is yours. You may eat now."

And as the others left for a moment to catch their own prey, Tir was feeling better than he had in a long time.

"Look at those!" Raatri breathed, pointing across the lake with his tail.

After they had all caught and eaten their prey and examined Raatri's paw, which he had somehow managed to get bitten by a snake of some sort, Simetra had led the hunting patrol over to the lake. The wind was rippling the surface of the water, creating small waves that washed up over the paws of the five wolves as they stood on the banks. Across the lake was a large group of the strangest creatures Tir had ever seen. They were far taller than any wolf and had shiny brown pelts. Some of them had strange, spiky things sticking out of their heads, almost like leafless tree branches.

"They're mice!" Kesol squealed, dancing on the tips of his paws. "Massive, mean mice with sticks on their heads—"

"Shut up, Kesol," Simetra barked, peering across the lake with interest.

"Mice?" Raatri said. "But I thought mice were—"

"They aren't mice, Raatri," Yielsa whispered. "They're deer."

"What are deer, exactly?" Tir asked, gazing at the strange-looking animals with wide eyes. He had never seen one before but, then, he was only three winters old. There had not been deer in his old forest.

"Prey," Simetra said, showing her teeth. "And fine prey they'd make too, one of them would feed half the pack."

The five wolves watched the deer in silence, broken only by an occasional giggle from Kesol.

"They look dangerous," Raatri said. "Look at those sticks on their heads."

"Deer can be dangerous," Simetra agreed. "But a wolf is more than a match for them. They are soft and clumsy."

Tir, who had listened to this in silence, noticed something strange.

"Are they eating grass?" he said.

"Of course," Simetra said. "As I said, they're only prey. Not much different from oversized rabbits."

"I told you they were mice," Kesol hissed, and Simetra cuffed him around the head.

"No, really!" he insisted, jumping out of Simetra's reach. "Mice and rabbits are the same thing. Once they hatch from their eggs, you can—"

"Come on," Simetra said, turning around. "Let's go back to the redoubt."

Nerasa raced up to meet them as soon as they arrived.

"How'd it go?" she asked. "You catch anything?"

"We caught a mouse," Kesol told her solemnly. "A big, brown mouse with sticks on his head."

"Mice don't have sticks on their heads!" Nerasa snapped at him.

"I suppose you have much to learn, Laugher," Kesol said, dancing out of her reach as she swiped at him. "And guess what I learned today? I learned why you're called a Sentinel."

"It's because I guard the redoubt," Nerasa growled.

"Wrong again! You sentin! Sentin sentin sentin!"

Nerasa growled at him, and he skipped away, cackling and colliding with Captain Leron, who was talking to Sirle by the Sentinels' dens. Nerasa turned on Tir.

"Well?" she demanded. "You have a sensible answer?"

"I caught a rabbit," Tir said proudly.

"Fantastic. I've caught a rabbit, and I'm not even a Hunter."

"It was a big rabbit."

"If you say so."

Nerasa's irritable mood faded when Alpha Liyra came and announced to Tir that his Placement was to be that night. First, she said, the Council would have to discuss where he would be best.

"Maybe you'll be a Sentinel!" Nerasa said, after the alpha left.

"No, that wouldn't work," said Tir. "You know that I can't fight at all."

Nerasa snorted. "So what? You weren't that bad. And no one can beat Captain in a fight anyway."

"You did."

"Nuh uh."

"Yes, you did."

Nerasa rolled her eyes. "All I did was shove him, I didn't fight him. No one can beat him—that's why he's the captain, see? Anyway, he hates me now. But that's okay; I can live without his approval."

"I can't," Tir said darkly. "He tried to kill me. I'll swear on anything that he'll try again."

Nerasa shook her head. "But that was a one-shot chance. He won't risk trying it again. Mind you, he'll still do his best to get you kicked out of here. He doesn't want outsiders in the pack—he thinks it'll weaken us—and he'll do almost anything to get his way, as you know by now. But you don't need to worry. So long as you're on Alpha's good side she won't hear a word against you. Captain's been trying to get Palva kicked out ever since she was able to snarl at him. You hear me when I say it's a lost cause?"

Tir nodded, somewhat reassured.

"And anyway," Nerasa continued. "He just hates you 'cause he doesn't trust you. To him, you're still a mad, diseased stranger. An outsider, you know. All you have to do is stay out of his way and make him think differently."

Make him think differently? As much as Nerasa was confident, Tir doubted Captain Leron would get over his hostility so easily.

"...but whatever you do," Nerasa was saying. "Don't try to stand up against him. He hates it when someone resists him."

### 11.

River's Ally

"And Eklo said to the Sky, 'My people are suffering; they are weak and vulnerable to their predators, who are swifter and stronger and cleverer then they are. They have no claws, no means of protection. My sons and daughters are dying, and I am helpless for them—is there nothing you can do?'

"And the Great Sky said in reply, 'Do not fear, child; how would I have forgotten you? I have something in mind for you and your people, a great gift, yes, something that shall protect them from the hunter's claws.'

"Now, the Sky possesses a mischievous spirit, and he smiled to himself as Eklo voiced praise and gratitude for his generosity and kindness. Eklo was not entirely relieved, though, for he knew all too well of the Great Sky's fondness for trickery and was quite sure that his people's gift was not to be handed over easily. 'O Great Sky,' he said, bowing his head (and remember, my dears, Eklo did not have any prongs then, not yet, no). 'My people and I shall be ever in your debt. What is this great gift you speak of?'

"And the Great Sky smiled at Eklo, who was small and weak before him. 'The gift?' he said. 'Why, 'tis not my gift to give. I have no gifts more to give. I have already given swiftness to the Wind, and wariness to the Stars. I have no more strength, for I have spent the last of it on the Trees. Dear child, if you wish for these gifts of protection, then I am afraid you shall have to go and beg the pity of those who possess them.'"

Alanki was lying on the banks of the Lake. She was half-listening to a story Delphinium was telling to a crowd of fawns, all of which were absorbing the storyteller's words with rapt attention. It was a beautiful day—the brilliant sunlight danced across the surface of the Lake, dissolving into hundreds of golden sparks in the water. It was an unusually warm day for the season, perhaps the last warm day before the chill of autumn set in. A gentle breeze ruffled through Alanki's white fur and the endless sea of grass behind her. Alanki closed her eyes, allowing herself to be submerged in this rare moment of peace, listening to the soft lapping of the Lake and the ongoing lilt of Delphinium's mild voice as she told one of the many legends of the ancient deer-father, Eklo.

"And so, Eklo, who was not yet discouraged, went and sought the company of the Wind in order to beg for a share of the Wind's gift of swiftness.

"Now, he found the Wind whirling about across a vast field, not unlike the field where we are now, my dears. The Wind, the _Dtallei_ , was a fierce, cold thing then—bitter and merciless, he screamed over the poor grass of his field, freezing them to the ground. Eklo approached with care, keeping his head low to protect his eyes. Not wishing to be impudent, not wishing to incur the _Dtallei_ 's wrath, he kept quite respectfully still and silent as he waited for the Wind to notice his presence.

"'Twas not long before the Wind became aware of him. 'Who dares intrude upon me?' the Wind screeched. 'Who dares to disturb me and my great sorrow?"

"''Tis I, Eklo, the father of the Deer,' Eklo said, bowing as low as he could. 'I have come to seek a great favor of you, O _Dtallei_. Please, I beg you, listen to my cry.'

"But the Wind howled and turned away. 'I have no time to listen to the troubles of living, breathing creatures. I have no patience for such—I am so cold, you see? I am so sharp and cold and bitter, no creature dares approach me; they all flee from me. I am alone; I am condemned to spend all of eternity lashing about on this wretched field, howling my sorrow and loneliness over the silent grass. Even the _Arquere_ of the forest do not wish for my company; their branches cringe away from me, for my coldness and bitter strength destroys everything in my path. Leave me now, Eklo of the Deer, before you, too, are frozen in my wintry sorrow.'

"But Eklo was far too determined to save his people than be deterred by the fierce Wind. 'No, O _Dtallei_ ,' he said, and the Wind quieted so as to hear him speak. 'I shan't leave. For I must have a share of your gift of swiftness, so that my people may run from their predators. What do you want from me, in exchange for a bit of your gift?'

"'There is nothing I wish, nothing, that is, that you could give me,' cried the Wind. 'All I long for is to be able to fly among living creatures, so that they would enjoy my presence and speak of how great the _Dtallei_ is, and how they are glad of the _Dtallei_. But that is impossible, for I am too cold and too strong and I kill everything that strays before my path.'

"And then Eklo was sent an idea, perhaps even by the Great Sky himself. Without any further words, he began to tell a story. He told the Wind a story of such sorrow, that the Wind began to howl all the louder and weep tears of snow. He told a story of such joy, that the Wind silenced, and could not resist but to dance across the frozen fields. He told the Wind a story of such love and kindness, that the Wind's bitter power was softened, and the grass on the fields began to warm and raise their feeble green arms to the sky. And when Eklo had quite finished, the Wind was soft and silent, thinking to himself about what he had just been told.

"'Oh, no,' said the Wind. 'Do not stop, please; continue telling me of such things as love and kindness and joy, such things that are so strange to me.' But Eklo only shook his head.

"No,' he said. 'I cannot, for that story is finished. And that story shall die with me, if my children cannot escape their enemies. You shall remain here, whipping about the fields and crying your loneliness and sorrow—for that will be all you remember. The story I tell you is truth, but you shall forget it.'

"'I am softened,' said the Wind. 'I can feel it; I am not as cold as I was, because of your story. See? The little blades of grass have come to life, come to talk to me.'

"But you are still too strong, too fast for any living creature. You shall blast the little grass down to the ground again. But, O _Dtallei_ , if you let my people have a share of your swiftness, you shan't be so dreadfully powerful, and you shall fly among living creatures without harming them, and they shall enjoy your presence and speak of how great the _Dtallei_ is, and how they are glad of the _Dtallei_."

"Fine then, take some of my swiftness and be gone,' said the Wind. And when Eklo accepted the gift, his legs grew longer and leaner and stronger, and as he ran off over the grass, he could feel the swiftness of the Wind running alongside him, and he knew that no hunter in the world could catch him. And from then on, the _Dtallei_ was a gentler creature, and sent soft breezes through the forest, cooling the blistering heat of day, and creatures spoke of how great the _Dtallei_ was, and how they were glad of it.

"Now, as you know, my dears," Delphinium said, surveying the crowd of fawns. "Eklo then proceeded to go to the Stars and the Trees for a share of their gifts. For each, he gave them something of his in return, as he gave the Wind his story.

"To the Stars, the _Eithrili_ , who were dull, blind creatures, he gave the brilliant white spots on his hide. The _Eithrili_ donned these spots like bright new skins, and never again did they grow lost in the dark night sky. They allowed him to take with him a share of their wariness and clarity, gifts they had honed in their blindness, which allowed him to scent, hear, and feel the approach of a predator. This, my dears, is an exchange you yourselves will soon make, when you lose your fawn-spots and gain stronger awareness of what surrounds you.

"To the Trees, the _Arquere_ , who were gentle, kind creatures that cried silently for the pain and bloodshed of the creatures that surrounded them, he gave his sharp teeth. He promised that, in exchange for their gift of power and strength, he would never eat another creature again; no, he and his children would feed only on plants. He would use the gift of strength to protect his people from the claws and fangs of the hunters; he would prove to other creatures that one needn't draw blood to live. He would use his gift with wisdom, to protect the weak and do his best to end pain and violence. The _Arquere_ gave him a share of their gift, far more willingly than the Wind and the Stars had, and theirs was one of the greatest gifts of all. From them, Eklo received the gift of strength and power, though in a different way than it had been given to the predators. The Trees gave him the strength of their branches, which he planted into his forehead, a powerful weapon against enemies.

"Now, the day was almost over, and Eklo had received the gifts of swiftness, clarity, and strength, and he was quite a changed creature. He was longer and leaner, with strong, agile legs for dashing away at the speed of the Wind. He had large, velvety ears and wide, sharp eyes for sensing the approach of the hunter. He had antlers, prongs, upon his forehead; to be used for fending off predators should he be cornered. Eklo was quite pleased with himself, and he ran back to his herd to share the gifts.

"His herd was relieved to see their father return, for in his absence the predators had come and hunted them almost to extinction. There were few of the Deer left, and indeed, Eklo had brought them their new gifts of protection just in time. He went forward and touched the flank of each of his children, passing on the gifts into them, until all of the Deer had swiftness, wariness, and power. They were quite delighted, and they walked about, examining their changes.

"And Eklo spoke to them, 'Be joyful, my children, for we are no longer the weak and vulnerable prey of the predators. With our new gifts, no creature on earth shall ever conquer us. Indeed, we are now the mightiest of all predators. We shall hunt as they do, though we shan't hunt other prey as they do—we shall hunt them, the fierce predators. We shall free the world from their vicious fangs, and then we and the meeker creatures shall live in peace and happiness for the rest of the life of this earth.'

"But the Great Sky, who was watching from above, was angered by Eklo's success, for he had not expected the Deer father to receive the gifts. 'Foolish creatures!' he said. 'You shan't destroy the balance I have made. The prey shan't hunt the predators, nor shall the predators eradicate the prey. 'Tis a game, Eklo of the Deer, and you shan't spoil it.'

"'But look, O Great Sky!' Eklo cried. 'See the prongs from our foreheads? They are the gifts of strength we have received from the Trees. With them, we may hunt and kill those who torment us.'

"And the Sky laughed. 'Have you forgotten the promise you made for them, the promise you made to the _Arquere_?' he said. 'You may not cause violence with their gift, and you swore to them that you would not.'

"Eklo was angry that the Great Sky thought he would go back on his word. 'And we shan't cause violence,' he cried. 'We shall put an end to violence! With the hunters slain, there shall be no more bloodshed among the creatures of the earth, and all will be at peace.'

"Now the Great Sky was furious, for he saw that Eklo was right. 'No, that is not how 'twill be!' he shouted. 'For there is one gift that you lack, one gift that all predators must have if they should be predators. And that gift is the gift of ferocity, a gift that I gave the last of to the River, the _Lankhi_ , who is an even fiercer creature than the _Dtallei_. It shan't be yours. And in punishment for your impudence, I have taken the gift of the _Arquere_ from half of your children. Half of you shall remain weaponless, and that half shan't fight. See now! In the future, you shall think better of daring to defy your creator.'

"Eklo looked about amongst his people, and with a cry of fury, saw that the Great Sky was correct. For indeed, the antlers had vanished from the heads of all the does, and only the stags kept their weapons.

"'There, you see?' said the Great Sky, pleased. 'Eklo, my foolish child, your people shan't be safe without the gift of ferocity. You shall still be hunted and slaughtered, for that is how it must be, but with your new gifts of protection, you shall never be destroyed. Though without the gift of ferocity, the Deer shall always remain prey. All creatures require ferocity to take a life, and your children are far too mild and gentle. The only way now, with half of you weaponless, would be to obtain the gift of ferocity from the River. But that is impossible, for the _Lankhi_ can be tamed by no one.'

"Eklo was worried, for he knew that his people must have this strange gift that the Great Sky spoke of. Otherwise, they would still be the prey of the hunters, even though they possess their gifts of swiftness, clarity, and strength. He turned away from the Sky and his herd and set off to find the River to plead for a share of her gift.

"He found the River in a deep, stony valley, roaring and rushing over the dusty ground, pounding boulders into pebbles and pebbles into fine sand. He approached her with confidence, for he had already been successful in taking gifts from the Wind and the Stars and the Trees.

"'O _Lankhi_ ,' he shouted, so that she may hear him over her roaring. 'I have come to plead for a share of your gift of ferocity, so that my people may become the predators instead of the prey. Tell me then, O _Lankhi_ , what is it you want from me in exchange for a share of your ferocity?'

"But the River only laughed. 'You wish for some of my ferocity?' she said. 'You, father of the Deer, wish for your people to become predators? You are fools, all of you. You have weapons, but without ferocity, they are useless. Never shall I give you ferocity, never.'

"Eklo was determined. 'We must have it; otherwise we shall remain prey and be slaughtered by the other predators. Please, O _Lankhi_ , give me a bit of your gift, and I shall give you something in return.'

"'No,' said the River. 'I shan't give you ferocity, no matter what you offer. Do you think that none of the other prey-creatures have not come to me already? I have turned down the rabbit, the vole, the goose, and even the wildebeest. Those made to be prey must remain as prey. Deer were never meant to be hunters.'

"But _Lankhi_ ,' Eklo pleaded, growing desperate. 'My people shall still be hunted and destroyed. What shall we do? Half of us are weaponless, and we shall perish.'

"'Did you not listen to the Great Sky?' said the River. 'Your people are prey, and shall always be prey. But you have the swiftness of the _Dtallei_ to run from your enemies. You have the wariness of the _Eithrili_ to be warned of your enemies' presence. And half of you at least have the power of the _Arquere_ so that you may fend off enemies and protect those who are weaponless. Your enemies are cunning and fierce, true, and they shall catch you. But with your new gifts, your people shall never be completely destroyed.'

"'My people are still to be hunted, then?' Eklo said in dismay. 'Cruel _Lankhi_ , will you not help us?'

"''Tis not in my place to reverse the balance between prey and predator,' said the River. 'But someday, perhaps, you shall do something for me that shall put me in your debt. If you befriend the _Lankhi_ , then maybe, just maybe, I shall lend you a bit of my ferocity. Not a great lot, mind you, but enough to save your people from peril.'

"And Eklo left, knowing that there would be no persuading the River. But not all was lost, my dears, for although his people remained prey, they were never eradicated. We are swift, we are wary, and we are strong. Remember that, my dears, my A- _Dtallei_ , A- _Eithrili_ , A- _Arquere_ : we are the children of the Wind and the Stars and the Trees, and perhaps, someday we shall be friends with the River."

Delphinium finished, smiling at the fawns and watching Alanki through the corner of her eye. The fawns gaped at the storyteller for a few short minutes. It was not long, however, before their awed silence was broken by an onslaught of questions.

"Why was the River so stubborn?"

"How come Eklo could be so impudent to the Great Sky?"

"Did deer used to have sharp teeth?"

"Why didn't the _Dtallei_ freeze Eklo?"

"Children, children," Delphinium said over their voices. "Please, one at a time. I cannot hear your questions." There was a brief moment of silence, and then a little doe spoke up.

"Delphinium," she said. "What did the _Lankhi_ mean? I do not understand. Surely we could never make friends with a predator?"

"Ah, Galingale," said Delphinium, glancing over at Alanki, who was pretending not to notice her. "That is a very big question. Why not go and ask the wolf fawn over there? How could we deer befriend a child of the River?"

All the fawns' heads swiveled over to stare at Alanki, who shifted in the sand. Their eyes were huge and questioning, but frightened all the same.

"Please, wolf fawn," said Galingale in a very quiet voice. "How could we make friends with a predator?"

Behind the fawns, Delphinium was laughing to herself. Alanki looked up at her anxious little audience, all of whom appeared to be holding their breath.

"Perhaps," Alanki said, taking care not to frighten them. "Well, perhaps you could save her life. And then the predator would be in debt to you, the deer."

Delphinium had stopped laughing, her eyes solemn. She gazed at Alanki over the heads of the fawns. Alanki looked away and went on.

"Perhaps the deer will be in great trouble one day," she said. "And perhaps they will need their predator friend to help them. To fight for them, to lend them some of her ferocity, because the deer cannot themselves fight."

Without another word, Alanki rose to her paws and walked away, leaving the fawns behind her breathless and confused. She was feeling nervous, remembering Eyebright's dire warning from a few nights ago. Then, she had blindly promised to help them, though she did not believe that they were in any danger. Eyebright was always having dreams of some sort, and the deer were naturally superstitious.

But now things were changing. In the space of a few days, Alanki had seen two other wolves. Never before had she seen one of her own kind, and now they were appearing, by coincidence, it seemed, at the same time Eyebright had her ominous dream. Somehow, Alanki felt that the two things were connected, and perhaps her promise to help the deer would have some weight after all.

"Do you understand?"

Alanki looked up to see Delphinium walking alongside her, her soft brown eyes concerned. Alanki was struck with the feeling that Delphinium had purposely chosen the story of Eklo and the Forbidden Gift for Alanki to hear.

"Yes," Alanki said. "I think I do now. Before, I'll admit, I did not truly believe you and Eyebright. But now, I begin to wonder."

"I see. Yes, Eyebright can be terribly dramatic at times. But I know, and now you know, that something is different."

"There was a wolf in my forest the other night," Alanki said suddenly. "I caught him. He spoke of finding his old pack, and that another pack was holding him prisoner. He seemed to think that his old pack would be somewhere in my forest, but there were no wolves on my territory at all except for me. I told him that, and chased him away."

"You did not kill him?" Delphinium said, surprised. "Not that I, as a daughter of Eklo, would ever draw blood. But you, _Alankhi_ , why, 'tis your nature."

"I know," Alanki admitted. "But I couldn't kill him. I don't know why, 'twas just something he...he..." her voice trailed away and she stared into space, thinking hard. The strange wolf's miserable green eyes floated before her vision, and she shuddered. She shook her head. "'Twas probably nothing. I was still worried over Eyebright's prophecy."

Delphinium observed her for a few moments, looking concerned. She then sighed and glanced over at the distant crowd of fawns, who were now bouncing about in the shallow waters of the Lake, their high squeals of delight echoing across the fields. She looked up at Alanki and smiled.

"So," Delphinium said, her voice light and careless. "How is it that you befriend a predator, _A-Lankhi_?"

Alanki smiled back at her. "I cannot be certain, Delphinium," she said, after giving a moment of mock thoughtfulness. "But perhaps it has to do with fishing her out of a river when she is small. That may help."

"A fine idea," Delphinium agreed, watching the capering fawns. She looked back at Alanki with amusement. "You know, I sometimes think they have forgotten that you are not truly a deer."

"Nonsense. You hear them call me 'wolf fawn', yes?"

"Yes, but the wolf fawn is only a character in a story to them. They do not think of you as a predator."

Alanki opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it again, her words dying in her throat. Delphinium was watching her with a shrewd light to her gentle eyes.

"You do not speak, child," she observed. "And why? 'Tis not a bad thing, that the new ones have forgotten. Why are you afraid of their trust?"

"They shouldn't forget what I am. What I am capable of. You say it yourself, and Eyebright would say the same: I speak as you do, and I walk as you do, but—"

"But you do not dream as we do."

Alanki jumped. "How did you know?"

Delphinium sighed. "I am not a fool, Alanki. You mentioned it only in passing to Eyebright, and she could not help you. That should not surprise you. We are mild and fragile creatures, we know not of the nightmares that may torment those who draw blood."

"I don't know where they come from." Alanki shut her eyes against the onrush of fangs that came to her eyes, memories of the break of throats and the savage pounding of the River in her bones. "I have not seen another wolf before, but now I dream of killing them. Scores of them. Perhaps they are the same faces nightly, but 'tis different from when I killed Tormentil—I was blind then, in no control. Now I am conscious. I know that I kill, and I see my paws move as I wish. I want to kill them, Delphinium."

"I should not ask but why that bothers you," said Delphinium. "For all the foxes and badgers and lynxes you have slain, why should the wolves give you trouble?"

"'Tis not only that. I am in a rage, as I dream. The ones I kill by my fangs, they..." Alanki shuddered, and shook her head. "...they deserve it. But then there are others. I see a group of others, broken and tattered wolves—green-eyed and ashen-furred wolves! And I draw them to their deaths as well."

"Perhaps—"

"They are innocent, Delphinium, don't you see?" Alanki said in frustration, turning to her. "I know not how I can tell, but I feel that they are not against me—they would fight alongside me, if I would let them, but I fool them all and lead the others to tear them to pieces. 'Tis all my fault."

"You fear," the old doe said, her voice low and gentle. "You fear this is to happen—you fear you shall grow brutal and wild, and perhaps turn on us again, as you turned on Tormentil."

"I...I don't know. I haven't any idea what it all means—perhaps nothing at all—but it brings back shadows I would rather not see, memories I may delight in as I sleep, but bring me shudders when I awaken. And they should be gone!" Alanki spat, scuffing the ground. "I've already seen the green-eyed wolf, and I sent him away unharmed! I told him never to return! His pack, I know, is dead and burned away—there are no green eyes for me to destroy, and so the dreams should have stopped! But still they come," she added sadly. "Still, they come."

"You are afraid," Delphinium said. "You think perhaps there is no answer beyond what Eyebright can offer, yes? You are afraid to find an answer for yourself. To find an answer alone?"

"What if I am?"

"'Tis no sin to fear, my child," Delphinium whispered. "Even Eklo felt fear, when his people were being slaughtered by the hunters."

"Well, they don't need to fear anymore," Alanki said. She shook her head, shaking the dark visions that had collected there from her mind. An inexplicable trickle of rage ran down her spine, and she felt herself baring her fangs. "I have my own debts to pay in return for what I have taken. No predator shall worry you—I've kept my forest clean of them, foxes and lynxes and the like. If anything ever happens, then—"

"Yes, I know," Delphinium said, smiling. "The River shall lend us her ferocity."

### 12.

Placement

Comfrey, stoneroot, burnet.

Palva was sorting through her herbs, not really paying attention to what she was doing. It wasn't the plants she saw before her eyes now; it was Leron. Leron, with his glittering grey eyes and slow hunter's smile. Liyra knew, didn't she? That he had tried to kill Tir? Palva had told her right away, in fact. She gritted her teeth and separated the comfrey, brushing it off into a neat pile. Liyra had understood the importance of Tir, of course—Tir being central to the prophecy, a prophecy of which Palva had, not for the first time, been required to remind Liyra.

But Liyra also understood the importance of pack stability. Leron was a powerful force among them—whether well-liked or not, he was tough and shrewd and good at keeping wolves alive. As captains go, he would be irreplaceable. Removing Leron from his position would create a power vacuum in the pack, which would force the Council members to turn on each other so that the place may be filled. And Rya knows that the last thing they needed, in this strange new land, was a pack fighting amongst itself.

So Liyra had warned Leron: that the outsider was to be left alone. But Palva knew Leron, and she knew that this would only serve to amplify whatever suspicions he may already have. And it would simply force him to seek cleverer means of getting rid of Tir.

Garlic, indigo, plantain.

Was he going to try it again? Not openly, Palva knew. His next step would be to call a Council meeting and do his best to get Tir cast out. That wouldn't make a difference, of course. The rest of the Council didn't know about the prophecy, but Alpha Liyra would never want Tir to leave her sight again.

Mint, burdock.

Palva frowned. She was almost out of burdock; she should go and search for some soon... Leron would soon know he could not shake Alpha Liyra. Would he dare try to harm Tir again? How far would he go to be rid of the "outsider"? Palva knew Leron hated strangers, and she had a good guess as to why. Leron had been the leader of a ragtag group of wolves, a group that could only roughly be called a "pack". This group had consisted of Sirle, Xelind, Xelind's sister, and two others whose names Palva had never known. Sirle and Xelind were still devoted to Leron—though whether this was out of respect for what he had led them through or fear of how he had come to lead them, Palva did not know. She did not know where Leron had come from before he had taken leadership of his "pack"—but he had killed its current alpha, and in doing so had created a life for himself.

It was possible that Leron was once an outsider himself, a renegade. Palva growled in her throat. That would explain his current paranoia of strange wolves, Tir included. He knew from personal experience—his own actions—how quickly things could happen, and the dangers which often accompany wolves with no backgrounds.

Yarrow, burdock, woundwort.

So Tir was still in danger, so long as Leron's attention was focused on him. This new land was peaceful, as far as they knew. Leron did not trust peace. Leron needed something against which he could focus his energy, and that something, at the moment, was Tir—an outsider and survivor of a fire, the first creature the pack had come across in this new, strange land; a young wolf who may have ambitions. They knew nothing about Tir's old pack, except that it was dead. For all Leron knew, Tir had been cast out. Palva would have been suspicious as well, if she were not convinced that Tir had been sent by Rya.

Leron did not believe in Rya. He would never—could never—understand the importance of the prophecy, for the same reasons he did not understand Palva's own authority in the Council. Palva, the Gatherer, was a wolf who could not physically fight to protect those under her and thus, by Leron's judgment, had no place giving orders to them. The malignant attention he had directed at Palva during their journey from the dangerous old lands had now been diverted to Tir—and, in a way, Palva knew that she was to blame. After all, the only reason Tir hadn't been killed once they had found him was because Palva had seen him for what he was and had not allowed it. To Leron, Tir was also a thriving symbol of the Gatherer's power over him and the rest of the pack.

Palva had not considered it from this angle before. If Tir was killed, she would share some of the blame. But there was nothing that she, Palva the Gatherer could do—was there?

Chamomile, yew—

Palva looked down at the bundle of innocent-looking red berries which contained a horrible power. Amazing, really—it was not often thought of the way herbs could harm as well as heal. Not the berries themselves, but the tiny black seed which they protected inside the red flesh. She remembered Nerasa, days ago, joking with her as she often did:

"But really, if you have any yew berries lying around—"

Palva had rebuked her then. But now her paws were beginning to shake. Leron had fought his way to his Captain position. No wolf in the redoubt, save Alpha Liyra, could beat him in a fight. Leron hated Palva because of her lack of physical strength—a paradox, when placed alongside the authority she wielded in the Council. To Leron, strength is authority, because strength means survival. But not even the strongest of wolves could survive a poison. Poison can only be defeated by an antidote, something of which only Palva knew.

She stared at the yew berries, mesmerized. These berries spoke the same as Leron—the brutal language of survival. Devour us, they said, And we shall devour you. It would be so simple. A wolf like Leron would never imagine that a plant could defeat him at his own game, under his own terms. He would never imagine the terrible power at a crippled Gatherer's disposal.

Palva was jolted out of her thoughts by a sharp howl. It shattered the cold air like a stone, and Palva leaped to her feet, shedding her terrifying ideas like wisps of dead grass as her mind resurfaced to the immediate issue. Liyra was calling Council meeting. She had been expecting it.

Palva arrived at the redoubt as soon as she could. Liyra, Simetra, Sirle, and Leron were congregated in the very center of the redoubt main, and Simetra was busy irritably shooing a few stray wolves away. Palva ran up to them, lopsided on her three good legs. She was almost never lopsided.

The others stared at her as she arrived, but she ignored their glances. Instead, she focused on Alpha Liyra.

"I assume this meeting was called under the decision of Tir's Placement?" she said.

Liyra nodded, and waited until Simetra had finished snarling at the persistent bystanders. Simetra sat down beside Palva, looking sullen, and Liyra stood taller to address all of them.

"You all know the reason of this meeting?" she asked.

"'Course we do," Simetra snapped. "It's the newcomer's Placement."

Liyra nodded again, ignoring her irritable tone. "That is correct. The newcomer, Tir, his name is, has completed both of his assessments. Correct?"

Both Sirle and Simetra nodded. Palva smiled grimly.

Liyra nodded in reply, satisfied. "Well then," she said, "We must weigh his displayed abilities in each of the assessments. You know how the reports go. Sirle? Would you care to go first?"

Sirle stood up and padded into the space beside Liyra. He surveyed the others with his cold, black eyes and frowned.

"This outsider," he spat the word with distaste. "...is not suitable for pack life. He was impudent to the Captain, and he showed disregard for orders."

"Nonsense," Simetra said, rising. "I found him to be very agreeable, and a fine hunter as well."

Palva looked at Leron, pale eyes gleaming.

"I have heard much about his first assessment, too," she said. "And might I say, Leron, you have very interesting training techniques."

Leron met her gaze evenly. "I've been told that before, Gatherer," he said, smiling with the sort of gracious smile that told Palva he knew exactly what she was talking about. "But I'm afraid I must agree with the Chief Sentinel in this case. My best efforts had little effect on the outsider. Perhaps he requires different tactics?"

Liyra was watching this exchange with a nervous interest.

"Well," she said. "Why don't we let Sirle finish his report? Please, Palva, Leron. Simetra?"

Simetra sank back down, her fur flattening. Leron said nothing more, but did not remove his gaze from Palva, and continued smiling. Sirle, standing before them, also spread his tiny white teeth in what was obviously meant to be a mimicry of a smile. He continued speaking at a sort of dull, monotonic pace, but Palva doubted that anyone heard his report. Doubtless, Leron had already told him what to say.

"...His fighting skills are poor; and he shows no promise of getting better. He has absolutely no knowledge of scouting and patrolling the land. This wolf is useless."

Sirle finished and sat down, looking rather pleased with himself. Liyra appeared a bit taken-aback by Sirle's bluntness, and her voice had a distinct note of crispness when she spoke.

"Thank you, Sirle, but whether he is useless or not will be for me to decide. Simetra appears to think differently, judging by the note of her outburst. Your report, please, Simetra?"

Simetra stalked up to the place beside Liyra and glowered at the wolves in front of her.

"Simply because a wolf cannot fight well is no reason that he is useless. And it seems to me that you were implying that any wolf who is not a Sentinel is useless. Might I remind you that the only reason you are fed tonight is from the hard work of the useless wolves hunting out in the cold."

She surveyed them all challengingly, but none had a comment to make.

"This newcomer has all the makings of a proper Hunter. He caught a rabbit faster than I have ever seen any wolf do it, and did well patrolling also. He followed my orders straight to the line, and got along well with the others."

She paused and looked at Liyra, yellow eyes sharp and irritated. "Need we discuss this any further? Obviously, this useless wolf has a place among the Hunters."

Liyra dipped her head in agreement, looking pleased. Palva nodded in approval, and allowed herself some relief. Tir had found himself a place; and it was far away from Captain Leron. The Hunters were a clannish bunch; he would make friends with them easily, and they would be quick to protect him.

Liyra looked around at the wolves in front of her. "Well?" she said. "Are there any objections? Do we all agree?"

Palva and Simetra said "yes" at the same time. Sirle and Leron looked at each other.

"Yes," Leron said at last, and Sirle gave a short nod.

"Well then!" Liyra said. "It is time for his Placement!"

At this, the alpha raised her head to the setting sun and filled the frigid air with her summoning howl.

***

Liyra was sitting atop a boulder in the center of the redoubt main, waiting for the pack to gather. On her left was Sirle and on her right was Simetra, who still looked a bit ruffled. Captain Leron and Palva had left, melting back into the crowd that was gathering around the boulder.

"You all know why I call this meeting today?" Liyra called out, her voice resounding through the clearing.

There were snatches of scattered muttering at this, as the wolves in the crowd turned and looked at each other. No, they did not know why.

"Ah—well, we are here for a Placement." Liyra said. "I know—" she raised her voice louder as the muttering increased. "...that there has not been a Placement in this pack for a long time. But I am most pleased to announce that today we will be placing Tir, a wolf who, as many of you know, is not from our old lands. But after today, he will be a one of us, and it will be understood that he, too, has shared our journey to this new land. Tir? Come here."

Tir sat still, wishing he didn't have to do this. A member of this pack? It sounded official and permanent. What would Misari and Arwena say? Was he betraying them? It was all well to meet the wolves of this pack, make an enemy and perhaps a friend or two—to feel as though he belonged somewhere. He wanted to belong, but he had never imagined the moment when he would be called forward to join them for good.

Nerasa shoved him from behind, and he stumbled forward. The wolves around them backed away, clearing a path for him up to Liyra's boulder. Liyra was wearing a kind of forced smile, as though hoping this ceremony would end soon. Her eyes were worried—did she know that he was having doubts? He wondered what she would do if he chose this moment to make a break for it and run. If it came down to it, would she go so far as to physically force him into joining the pack? Sirle and Simetra sat on either side of Alpha Liyra, looking tall and forbidding. Sirle's eyes were glittering like a pair of coal-black beetles. Run away, they said. You do not belong here.

Tir shrunk under the cruel glare. It was a mistake; he should never have come back here. He was not welcome; this was not his pack. Hadn't Captain Leron already told him so?

"Go on," whispered a voice in his ear. It was Palva.

Tir looked around hesitantly. She nodded at him in a reassuring way, and nudged him forward with her paw. Somehow, her pale eyes seemed stronger than Sirle's cold black ones.

"Go on," she whispered again. "We're all waiting."

Tir turned back around to face the boulder, where Alpha Liyra sat like a pillar of stone. Sirle's eyes were still on him, but Tir ignored them the best he could. He padded up to the boulder, uncomfortably aware of the entire pack watching him. At last, he was standing below Liyra, the red rays of the dying sun setting her fur aflame. And as soon as he looked up, Sirle looked away.

"Tir," Liyra shouted from above him, her voice loud and booming so the pack could hear. "You were not born in this pack. But you were guided here by the merciful paws of Rya, and here you will stay. Do you wish to be a member of this pack?"

That was the question. The question. Answer it, and there was no going back. Of course, Tir knew that he was expected to say yes. The question was nothing more than a part of the ritual. But a part of him was tempted to say no, a part of him that remembered how this alpha had tried so hard to keep him away from his family. And yet—

"Yes," he said, blinking as the light of the setting sun flashed in his eyes.

"Will you be loyal to this pack, and defend it with your life if needed?"

"Yes."

"Will you set the ties of your past aside, and run with us?"

Tir's blood went ice-cold. "Yes," he whispered.

Liyra smiled. She looked over the heads of the wolves in front of her. "You have all heard what he says. Do you hear? Do you accept? Will this wolf, Tir the Outsider, become a member of your pack?"

There was a silence. The wolves shifted, glancing at each other. Tir knew what they were thinking—Should this outsider be allowed? He didn't blame them. He sat there in a maddening silence for what seemed like eternity, half of him begging them to say yes, the other half hoping they would refuse.

"Yes," said Palva, loud and clear and strong.

"Yeah," said Nerasa, sounding almost defiant as she glared at the silent wolves around her. "Yeah, I do."

From the very back, Kesol gave a yelp of agreement.

Raatri was next, then Yielsa, yellow-green eyes shining. One by one, all of the wolves in the crowd added their agreement. But the whole time, Tir was watching Captain Leron, whose smiling grey eyes glinted at him from the crowd. He had said nothing.

Liyra waited until the scattered chorus of "yes's" had quieted down before continuing.

"Well then," she said, her face breaking into a smile. "This wolf has a place among us. And after much consideration, the Council concluded that his position is with the Hunters. Do you agree, Simetra?"

"I certainly do."

"Then this Placement is over. Tir the Outsider is now Tir the Hunter. May he serve this pack well until the day Rya sweeps him off the earth."

Nerasa bounded up to him as the others dispersed.

"Congratulations!" she said in her loud voice. "You're a Hunter now, see. You get to stay in the Hunters' dens!"

"Oh," Tir said, beginning to feel a little better. Her good mood was infectious. "Yes, I am, aren't I?"

Nerasa nodded. "'Course, I never really expected you to be Placed as a Sentinel. No offense, I mean. But Raatri told me you did fantastically on your hunting assessment! Simetra's really pleased."

Tir nodded, looking around. Most of the wolves from the meeting had left to their dens or night patrols, but there were a few remaining. A small group of three walked over to them from the other side of the clearing, led by Kesol.

Kesol skipped up to him, and Tir jumped out of his way in case he had spotted more fleas. But Kesol didn't seem interested in beating Tir again; instead, he stepped aside to show the wolves behind him.

"Tir's a Hunter now, too," Nerasa announced to them, before Kesol could speak. Tir realized that the wolves behind Kesol must be the other Hunters. "I hope you three didn't take all the good dens, or I'm afraid he'll have to rip out a few throats."

Kesol wanted to know if Tir had lost his own throat, and that was why he wanted theirs, but for once Nerasa chose to ignore him. She proceeded to introduce to Tir the other two wolves that had followed Kesol.

"You know Raatri," she said, and Raatri nodded at him. "He's a good Hunter, whatever Simetra may say about him."

Tir greeted Raatri with familiarity, but the other wolf he didn't know. She had thick, silvery-grey fur with white streaks here and there like strains of frost on a boulder. Her grey eyes were almost hidden beneath the thick fur, and they had a vague expression, as though she was gazing down into a deep pond.

"And this is Mluma," Nerasa said, poking the grey she-wolf. "Be careful talking to her, she's almost as bad as Kesol—but without the giggles. I think she's a ghost, but Palva gets mad at me when I talk about it."

"Hello," Mluma said politely, as though she hadn't heard Nerasa's introduction of her. Her voice fitted her appearance. It was light and misty, sounding as though she used it very little. Mluma sat down and looked up at the sky, her fur fluttering in the wind.

"And Yielsa isn't here," Raatri said. "Simetra called her over after your Placement. But other than her, this is it. There used to be another wolf named Talz, but he died on the journey over here."

These words were followed by an awkward silence, and Raatri swallowed as the others stared at him with blank faces. He shrank to the ground, obviously wishing he hadn't said anything.

"Look," said Mluma, who had not noticed what was going on. "The moon is almost gone."

Eager for a distraction, the others followed her gaze up to the inky night sky, where the thin sliver of a crescent moon hung like a white claw.

"Don't," Kesol warned. "If you look at it, it'll burn your eyes out."

Mluma frowned at him.

"Come on," Raatri cut in, as though he was afraid an argument would break out. "Let's show Tir to the empty dens."

The Hunters' dens were on the far side of the redoubt, the edge closest to the wall of grass that indicated the start of the open Fields. Tir brushed a boulder as he passed—was that a dark sprinkling of minerals in the stone? Or a stale blanket of ash? He couldn't stop to wonder, as Kesol poked him in the ribs to make him move on.

Yielsa was sitting in the entrance of a shallow den as they approached. She rose to her feet and padded over to them, her paws making no noise in the soft ground and her golden fur shining in the dark as it fluttered down around her.

"There you all are," she said. "Oh, and well done, Tir."

"I thought Simetra took you away," Kesol said suspiciously. "Tir's going to rip some throats, you know, and we didn't invite you."

"Simetra's going on a hunt," Yielsa said, ignoring Kesol. "Alpha Liyra gave her permission to try and hunt those deer. She wants me to come, as well as one other Hunter."

"I'll go," Mluma offered. "It's been long since I've seen deer."

Yielsa nodded. "We'd better get going, then. I came in here to wait for you while Simetra went to fetch Captain Leron. He's coming as well."

The two she-wolves left, and in the settling darkness Tir noticed a new sound—the wind was moving through the grass; it sounded like whispering voices.

"There," Kesol said. He was standing like a guard before the entrance of what could only be his own den—his sandy fur bristled, but he was grinning. "You go find your own," he called to Tir, with a giggle. "Or I'll rip your throat! Rip your throat!"

Nerasa groaned. "I should never have taught him to say that," she said. "You'll be hearing it for days now. Well, see you tomorrow."

Tir muttered a goodbye as she turned and left, following in the footprints left by Yielsa and Mluma. He raised his head, and surveyed his options.

It didn't take long to choose a den. There were so many—though, admittedly, most were little more than cracks between the stone. Tir picked one closest to the ground, with a low entrance and a sandy floor. He checked for traces of soot before going inside.

Raatri clambered up to his own den, which was higher up on the cliff in what appeared to be a crevice so tiny that he had to sleep sideways, and fell asleep instantly. Tir sat and looked out the entrance of his for a few moments. The black curtain of the sky hung low and sleepily over the fields, snowflake stars glittering back at him like a thousand, watchful eyes. Spirits? he wondered with half a mind, yawning. Or tears? The grass whispered slow, fluttering stories—if he listened closely enough, he could hear voices that he recognized.

Tir curled up into a tight knot on the sandy floor of his den and shut his eyes. The other Hunters were friendly. They didn't seem to care that he was an outsider. He thought about his former pack—what was it that held him to them? Arwena? He missed his mother, but now that he came to think about it, he had never been happy there. All he had known since his birth was pain and sorrow—Arwena's anguish, the drought, the other pack members' mistrust of him and his mother. And in the end, the fire. He didn't want to forget his memories—how could he? That would be terrible. He needed those memories to remind him what sorrow felt like, and what happens to wolves when they grow desperate. What was it Palva had said? Troubles make you strong. She was right.

And he had had enough troubles for now.

He would miss Arwena—as well as Misari's understanding kindness, Avrok's solid loyalty, and Kiala's friendship. He would miss them all. But he had never felt true happiness; he had never known what it felt like to be at peace—just for a moment. Maybe he was sent to Palva's pack by their god, Rya. Maybe this was a second chance for him.

Whatever it was, it felt good to have a place in the world.

### Part II: Rising

As crimson burns flame, so shall Nights' eye.

Blood flows as fire

And shall spill at its rise.

\- First stanza of Palva's prophecy

### 13.

The Deer

They came back into the redoubt at dawn, triumphant. They shoved their way through the surrounding wall of grass, dragging the dusty and bleeding carcass of a young doe.

Palva watched them from the mouth of her tunnel, silent and hidden amongst the arching fronds of grass. They did not notice her. The hunting patrol, led by Captain Leron, had left the previous night after Tir's Placement. There were four wolves who had gone—Yielsa, Simetra, Mluma, and Leron himself. All four had returned safely, albeit bruised and scratched. Mluma was bleeding through her mouth, trickling a dark path down her neck fur. The rest of them were in a similar ragged condition. Palva had been correct; the deer had put up a good fight. But in the end, however out of practice they may have been, the predators had won. It was as it should be.

The patrol's condition was not the reason for the cold unease that was rising in Palva's head as she watched, hidden, from her tunnel. Her pale eyes gleamed in the darkness, and she sat in stiff composure, so as to hide the combination of anger and terror that itched in her paws like fire ants. She couldn't take her eyes from the dead deer's torn figure—now lying where they had deposited it in the center of the redoubt main like a sack of dirt, so graceful and beautiful in a terrible sort of way. The sight of it sent a prickle of fear down Palva's spine.

Palva left the shelter of her tunnel and slipped into the clearing. It was the deer's eyes that caught her attention as she passed its sprawled figure—large, dark inkblots of pupils that were soured by terror. The fragment of light that remained was fading, but Palva froze when she saw it. There seemed to be a flash of blood, the cry of a dying animal—wolf or deer? She couldn't tell, but it froze the marrow in her bones and raised the hairs along her back. She turned, stiffly, and almost ran to catch up with the patrol.

The hunters were moving away towards Liyra's den, and did not notice her as she fell in step behind them. They mounted the pile of rocks, each in silence. But Palva knew they were pleased; she knew they were proud of their success—she could feel it in the air around them. But they were wrong, so very wrong. They had set something terrible in motion, and she didn't know quite what.

Liyra was sitting in the shadow of her cave, awake. She looked peaceful and serene in the misty glow of a fading moon, but when the patrol came into sight she jumped up with anticipation.

"Back, are you? Sit down! Please tell me what happened—did you manage to catch one?" Her voice sounded rushed and excited.

The others moved into the dark den, and Palva followed.

"Oh!" Liyra said in surprise, noticing her for the first time. "Palva, you here too? Very well, then. You must be eager to hear their report as well. Come in!"

Palva didn't look at the alpha as she slipped into the den and found a place beside Mluma. The other wolves looked surprised to see her as well; they had not noticed her following them, too swathed they were with the stench of prey-blood and death to scent her behind them. But Palva ignored their curious glances and remained standing, her legs stiff and eyes hard.

Liyra came back into the den. "I just saw it," she breathed. "I can see the deer from here. My! You did well, all of you! That one will feed half of us for sure. Perhaps we should organize another hunt, so that we will not have to hunt at all today."

Simetra grunted something in reply, but it was Captain Leron who took charge.

"It went very well, of course," he said, dipping his head to Liyra in respect. He looked about at the others, as though searching for agreement. "True, the deer put up a fight. I will admit that we allowed more injuries than we should—we are out of practice; it has been long since we have hunted deer. Of course, I had forgotten how strange it is to hunt herd creatures—they seemed unwilling to allow us to separate the doe we chose. Almost as if they were trying to protect it!"

He laughed softly at this idea, and Palva's blood ran cold as she examined the damp and shining cave walls.

"But of course," he was continuing, his voice growing smooth. "We won in the end. The doe we took had a slight limp, and she couldn't fight very well."

Palva looked up, her pale eyes glaring in the thin light of the moon outside.

"So I suppose you came by your bruises and cuts on the way back?" she said.

Leron tilted his head, assuming an expression of polite puzzlement. "Of course, it fought us. All living things must put up a struggle, Gatherer. But it doesn't matter; none of us were killed. You may dismiss your fear of the beasts, Gatherer."

"Afraid? I am not afraid—not of the deer, at least. But something is wrong."

Liyra smiled at her, evidently under the impression she was concerned about the welfare of the patrol.

"Don't worry, Palva," she said. "We shall simply bring more Sentinels next time. The Hunters may do the separating and stalking, and the Sentinels may do the fighting. Everything has worked out."

Palva growled in her throat, and looked back at the wall. Leron smiled, his fangs glinting in the dim light.

"Yes, don't worry, Gatherer. Everything will be perfectly fine."

Palva ignored him, but was beginning to burn under her fur. He didn't care at all. He sat there, so pleased with himself and what he had done. Oh, if only she could—Palva froze as her thoughts strayed back to the yew berries. Soft, blood-red flesh formed a protective hood around the seed. The seed that brought night to whoever swallowed it.

It was a terrible thought, but a part of her wished Leron could know of the dreadful power she wielded. Then he would be afraid.

"...it is a good thing, really that this herd of deer is here," Leron was saying, as though Palva had never interrupted. "Those creatures will feed us well in the thin months. This land is much better than our old home. Simetra, perhaps we should organize another hunt. As the alpha said, then we would not have to hunt for the rest of today. And it would also be a fine opportunity to try a new technique. Perhaps, we should go for the throat right away, don't give the beast any time to use its hooves."

Palva looked away, seething. From here, she could still see the carcass in the redoubt below. Already, a large crowd of curious and excited wolves had gathered around. Palva could see that chunks of the carcass had been torn away and a few wolves were eating it in their dens. The crowd of wolves around the mangled body was snarling and scuffling, fighting over the few fragments that were left—they bared their fangs and swiped to snatch ragged bits of bloody flesh out of each other's mouths. She was seized with the sudden urge to fly down into the redoubt and tear the flesh from their mouths, to send them fleeing to their dens where they would hide, protected from the results of the hunt and the blood on the ground. There was time yet to save them, to keep them all from becoming a part of this before it was wolf flesh clasped in their snarling jaws, wolf blood making the grass slippery beneath their scuffling paws—Palva blinked, and looked away.

It made no sense. The deer ate grass, like all prey. They had dull teeth, like all prey. There is no wrong in killing prey. But this was not the same. She had seen deer before, and this doe looked no different—larger, perhaps, but nothing unusual. However, she could feel something hanging over the deer, including the herd she had not yet seen—something dark, angry, and fiercely protective.

What could it mean? She knew there were no humans and thunder-sticks here, in the new land. They were not stealing livestock. What danger could be lurking out in the fields for them, danger that could be associated with this herd of deer? Palva growled, and ground her teeth with frustration. Nothing made sense. She knew that this doe's carcass had carried danger into the redoubt like some sort of plague; she knew something was coming. But she didn't know what.

"...and of course we'll be needing to refine our initial approach," Leron was saying, as Simetra and the others licked their wounds and listened with half an ear. "We attempted to surround the herd, this time, which was a mistake as some of us ended up being upwind from the herd. Perhaps tomorrow—"

"No," Palva cut in, her voice like ice. "That's enough. There won't be another hunt."

Her words were greeted by a brief moment of stunned silence. It wasn't long, however, before Leron gave a nervous laugh from the corner where he was standing. "And what makes you say that, Gatherer? What authority have you been given to deliver such an order?" He blinked. "I don't remember you defeating me in an honest challenge for such a privilege, Gatherer."

He was half-mocking her; he was trying to lessen her authority in the eyes of the rest of the Council. She stared at him with cold eyes, and then appealed to the others.

"Listen to me," she said. "We cannot hunt the deer. I don't know why, but I do know that it is not something of which Rya would approve. There will be consequences."

The others were staring at her in silence. Leron laughed again.

"Really?" he said. "And I suppose your moon-mother came and told you personally?"

"Please," Palva said to Liyra, ignoring him. "You must listen to me. I am your Gatherer, I should know; and I know that nothing good will come of this."

Liyra was staring at her as though she were insane.

"Not hunt the deer?" she said. "Palva, do you understand? The deer could be the survival of this pack. They are easy prey for us—"

"No they're not," Simetra said from the corner. Liyra, surprised, silenced at her sudden, harsh voice. "They're not. They put up a great fight; it was not very much different from a battle. Perhaps we needed more wolves, but we are a small pack as it is, and we have been lessened by the harsh journey. Easy prey? I wouldn't say so."

Leron whirled on her, laughing even louder. Palva could see he was trying to keep his rising temper under control. "You are afraid of them as well?" he said, shaking his head in disappointment. "How sad that you think that way. They are soft, and we won in the end. They are prey! They are born to be killed by us, the predators. Perhaps the Hunters have been weakened by the journey, but I and the others are not afraid."

Simetra flew to her feet, bristling. "AFRAID?" she roared, shedding clumps of bloodied red fur as she made a snarling lunge for him. "YOU DARE TO SUGGEST!"

Liyra forced her way in between the two, shoving them apart. "Stop this immediately! If either of you—"

"Was that a challenge, Hunter?" hissed Leron, struggling to get past Liyra and leap at Simetra.

"A challenge? It was provocation!" Simetra spat at him with equal fury. "But I'll fight you, I will. I'm no coward. I'll fight you, I'll win, and I'll kill you—"

"ENOUGH!" Liyra bellowed, louder than either of them. "Fighting amongst the Council? What have we been reduced to?"

Leron backed away, still bristling but lowering his tail in acceptance of Liyra's dominance. Simetra, too, flattened herself against the cave wall, her eyes blazing. Palva seized this opportunity to bring back her appeal.

"What have we been reduced to?" she said. "Am I the only one to feel it? Hunting these deer will bring nothing but evil—what kind, I cannot say, but this must stop. It may already be too late, but perhaps we can begin to reverse what we've—"

"Palva!" Liyra interrupted, exasperated. "What are you saying? We have returned from a successful hunt, and no member of the patrol was hurt. Evil? There is no need to exaggerate, Palva. You are making no sense. Are you all right?"

"Of course I am!" Palva snapped. "Why won't you listen to me?"

"How do you know this, Palva?" Liyra asked, with a weary patience. "Did you have a vision? A dream? A sign?"

"Well—no," Palva admitted. "But sometimes all a Gatherer has to work with are her own instincts. And my instincts are different from yours and others'. I know. Don't ask me how, but I know. We must not hunt these deer."

"So you can't tell us why? I'm sorry, Palva, but if you have no reason, no proof—"

"I believe her," Simetra interjected, still glaring at Leron. "She's the Gatherer, isn't she? It's her job to know things like this, and it's our job to listen."

Liyra looked almost ashamed. "Of course, I know," she said. "But sometimes—well, Simetra, you're the chief Hunter! Surely you can understand what an asset to the pack these deer are?"

Simetra considered this for a moment. "I would," she said. "But as I mentioned earlier, they are too much trouble. It would be simpler and less dangerous to hunt rabbits, as we have always done before. We're out of practice. We haven't hunted deer in a long time—many of the younger wolves have never even seen one before. And if Palva thinks the deer are a bad sign, then I believe her. As I said, she'd know, wouldn't she? Gatherers know things."

Palva glanced at her gratefully, feeling more confident.

"You see, Liyra?" she said. "There are practical and solid reasons to stay away from this herd, if my own word is not enough. It is dangerous, what we have begun."

Leron snorted. He had lost some of his composure in his spat with Simetra, and now he was still bristling, grey eyes gleaming like cold glass in the darkness. "Danger?" he said. "What danger, if I may ask? They're prey; they are no danger to us. You are raving, Gatherer. You are—"

Liyra gave him a warning glance, and he fell silent. She turned to Palva and shook her head.

"I still do not understand. You say that you have no reason to believe this? Then how could you come here and demand that we stop? You cannot tell us why."

Palva raised her head, taking care to keep her voice level and reasonable. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Leron had begun pacing along the cave wall. "I don't know. It's only a feeling, Liyra, I'm sorry—but wars have been declared on even less, with previous Gatherers. And this feeling has been building. I could feel it in the grass beneath my paws when we first came to this land and now...now it's right in front of me."

She paused. The others were staring at her blankly, with the exception of Simetra, who was glowering and giving sharp nods at everything she said. From his corner, Leron was smiling again. Palva felt a sudden surge of frustration.

"Fine, then," she said. "You're all looking at me as though you think I'm mad. But you," she spat, whirling to face Liyra. Liyra took a step backwards, startled. "You know what I'm talking about. You know what's at stake!"

"Palva! Palva, of course I understand. But this can't apply to the—why, this is survival, hunting, a simple thing."

"I've seen simpler things grow teeth."

"Then what would you suggest, Palva?" Liyra's voice had gained an impatient edge. "Shall we consult Rya before taking water from the lake? Take omens before we go to sleep each night? The fact remains that we must survive, Palva, and until you can show me a real reason why the pack should not hunt these deer, I'm afraid it would not be fair to deprive them of such a valuable source."

Palva stared at her.

"You are too caught up in the excitement of this new territory to see what I am shoving under your nose," she said. "This will mean nothing well for the pack, you can be sure of it. I feel they'll soon be deprived of more than prey, before long."

Liyra had at last grown angry. "Are you trying to frighten us into it now?" she said, with a warning growl in her voice. "Is that a threat?"

Palva bared her teeth and said nothing.

"Go back to your hollow, Palva," Liyra said, tossing her head and turning back to the rest of the Council. "It is clear that you need rest. And do not come back to the Council again with foolish and unfounded warnings. Go."

Bristling, Palva padded out of the den without complaint. She stumbled down the pile of boulders, feeling the eyes of the other Council members following her as she departed.

In the redoubt main, the deer carcass had been stripped clean of flesh, and the scent of blood had risen up from the torn hide and gleaming bones. It had risen up over the grass of the fields and into the sky, like the smoke from a signaling fire.

***

Deep in the shadows of the Forest, Alanki awoke with a start. Chills skittered like beetles beneath her fur and she scrambled to her paws in a panic, shaking. The nightmare was fresh before her eyes.

The midday sun was high in the clear blue sky, but it gave her no warmth. The air was chill and thin, and she detected a trace of frost in its scent. Autumn was well set upon the forest; the blazing red leaves had long since fallen. Now, they lay forlorn and brown in scattered heaps. A sharp breeze swept through them, throwing them into the air and whisking them up in fluttering cyclones before they settled back onto the ground.

Something in the dry, dead leaves gave Alanki a thrill of horror. She watched them, entranced. The rushing air had set them to life, carrying them forward on the wind before dropping them. They now lay on the ground, twitching and turning over in the faint breeze as though alive. But they weren't alive, not any more. They were dead. Brown and grey, without a flicker of color—dead.

She rose without thinking and ran off into the forest as fast as she could carry herself. Trees flashed by, but Alanki dodged between and around them without paying any attention. Everything appeared to be trying to stop her, to get in her way. Wind roared through the trees again, and they swayed to and fro, reaching for her with their sharp branches and blowing dead leaves into her face. Alanki dashed forward, unseeing and panicked. Her only though was to find the deer—and fast. Something was wrong.

They were still at the Lake. Alanki didn't stop when they came into sight; she continued running as fast as she could. At first glance, nothing appeared to be amiss—they were grazing just as they always were at this time of day. From a distance, they seemed just as peaceful and unconcerned. Alanki only ran faster.

She was drawing closer. Now, she could make out individual deer from what had been a blurry, brown mass from far away. And now, she could see that something was much different. They were grazing, yes, but not in the little, scattered knots that they often moved in. No, they were all in one big clump, huddled in close together like birds in the cold. And they were not peaceful at all—Alanki could sense their panic and fear buzzing in the air. What was wrong?

As Alanki approached them, she slowed so as not to alarm them further. She did not know what had happened, but the deer were standing so close together it was impossible to distinguish one nut-brown flank from another. They were moving closer together even as she was watching, as though not one of them wanted to be on the edge of the group.

But the moment they caught scent of her, they scattered. The tight group broke up like a flecks of settled dust when a breeze blows through, flying off in opposite directions. Alanki could only stand stock still, stunned as the deer galloped away from her in different directions like dead, brown leaves scattering on the wind. She didn't understand this at all—the deer knew her, they had raised her—why did they suddenly fear her? She shuddered. Delphinium had just said that most of them had forgotten her old brutality.

"What happened? Why are you so frightened?" Alanki cried. "'Tis only me—'tis only Alanki. I...I am no harm to you! What is wrong?"

" _Alankhi_?"

The herd skittered aside, and an old buck trotted towards her from the center of the group. It was Eryngo, and Alanki guessed that the herd had formed their tight knot around him in attempts to protect him the most.

"Eryngo!" Alanki said in relief, running to him. "Eryngo, what's wrong? What has happened here?"

Eryngo lowered his head, though not in a menace, but in grief.

"It happened just last night. The moon was a claw in the sky; 'twas an omen we should have recognized."

"An omen—?"

"No good can come of a night watched by the claw-moon. And 'twas true, they had claws as well. Oh, what a night of claws and blood, black fear and death."

"But—Eryngo, what has happened?"

"We are in mourning."

Alanki's eyes widened. Mourning? Then that means that—

"Someone was killed?" she whispered.

Eryngo nodded, and the rest of the herd turned away. They formed another tight group, having decided that Alanki was no danger to them. But there was a sudden cry, and a doe squeezed her way out from the crowd and ran towards Alanki and Eryngo.

"Delphinium!" Alanki shouted, running out to meet her. "Delphinium, what happened? Eryngo says that someone was killed."

Delphinium nodded, just as Eryngo had.

"And yes, he speaks the truth," she said, her gentle voice ridden with sorrow. "But _Alankhi_ , I am sorry. You must forgive us; we thought you were one of them."

"Them? But who is 'them'? What happened?"

Eryngo trotted over and stood beside Delphinium.

"'Twas Sundew," he said. "Sundew was taken. There was not a thing we could have done, though we did our best. Fangs are too sharp and claws are too swift for deer to defend against."

Alanki's feeling of dread deepened. All at once, her head was far too heavy to support, and she gazed sightlessly down at the ground, feeling as though she might be sick. Sundew, a young doe, had been Delphinium's first fawn. She and Alanki had grown up together.

"I am sorry," Delphinium murmured. "She was my fawn. And if there was anything I could have done to stop Them, I would have done it. But the world does not work in that way. I am sorry."

"But what happened to her?" Alanki asked, her voice quiet and hoarse. "Why did she die? How?"

"She was murdered," Eryngo said, his voice as close to a growl as a deer's could be. "Murdered. By your kind."

Alanki was raised her head. "My kind? What do you—?"

"By those like you. By those who have fangs and long fur, snarling jaws and the mind of the hunter." Delphinium's face was an image of horror as she spoke. "By your kind. You know, _A-Lankhi_ , that you are not a deer."

And then Alanki understood. Her legs went rigid and her paws began to shake. She remembered, several days ago, that wolf she had caught in her territory. He had said something about wolves who had moved in nearby, wolves that had not been of his own pack.

"They are making camp on the fields."

"There is a pack nearby?"

"Yes..."

Alanki began to quiver with fury, her grief evaporated. Those wolves. It could only be them. How dare they? How dare they hunt on her land, without her knowledge or permission? Alanki had long taken care to keep her territory clean of predators of all kinds, and yet these wolves had slipped in while she slept, like worms into carrion. They probably had blood on their fangs at this very moment. No wonder the deer were so terrified of me, Alanki thought. They thought I had come to take another one of them. A bitter taste was rising up her throat, and Alanki felt as though her pelt was smoldering in fury.

"Wolves did this?" she said.

Eryngo appeared a bit unnerved by the soft venom in her voice.

"Yes, 'tis true," he said.

"Why?"

"We do not know. They came, four of them at once. Soft, silent shadows that floated like wraiths over the night grass. They were swift and cunning and their fangs were eager for our blood. They circled around us, deadly circles, and we did not know what to do. Slowly, they drew the circle tighter, like a wire around our necks. We were trapped; death was on all sides of us. They tried to separate Sundew from the rest of the herd, but we fought. Eklo was on our side, we told ourselves, for we were his children. But no, they took her." His voice ended in a weary, miserable huff of breath and his shaggy head drooped.

"Their fangs were sharp and long, white and deadly as the thin moon in the sky," he continued in a scarcely-audible whisper. "Then they took her away, and for the rest of that night, the Lake was red and reeking of her blood."

Blood, blood. The taste and scent of her nightmares rose like fire in her throat, and Alanki was searing with fury, her own blood pounding in her ears. These wolves had no idea, no idea what they were stirring up. She tightened her claws in the grass, feeling them snag in fur, in flesh, seeing the shadow-furred wolves fall like insects beneath her fangs. She knew these wolves. She had felt them coming! She had dreamed it all; she had slaughtered scores of them long before they had scented the deer.

Tormentil, broken-throated Tormentil, rose like dust in her mind's eye. This is your fault, all your fault. Alanki shut her eyes. She should have been able to prevent this.

"Just as Eyebright had said, my dear," Delphinium said after a moment of awkward silence. "The days are growing darker; the danger bears down upon the herd. She was correct, was she not?"

For awhile, no one spoke; the only sound to be heard was the cold hissing of wind across the grass.

Eryngo raised his head. "You are to help us," he said. "There is hope for us yet. Will you speak to them for us, _A-Lankhi_? Daughter of the River? They are wolves like you, after all; you can make them understand."

Alanki looked up at the two deer. Then she looked away, across the fields, where somewhere, the wolves who had killed Sundew had come to settle.

"I will help you," Alanki said. Her voice was soft. "Oh, they won't do anything like this ever again—I'll swear it. I'll see to it that they know they've made a terrible, terrible mistake."

### 14.

The Second Hunt

"Up, Tir! Get up!"

Tir awoke with an electrifying jolt as a loud voice shouted into his ear. Two large, luminous yellow circles were hanging before his hazy vision. He yelped in fright and scrambled to his paws, cracking his head on the rough stone ceiling of his den.

"Don't do that!" he shouted, his eyes streaming as he fought down the pain. He scuffed his head with his paw. He was bleeding.

Nerasa laughed her hoarse laugh. "You're awake now. 'Bout time, too. I was beginning to think you had died in your sleep. Guidelights, would that've made Palva mad."

Tir glared at her. "You didn't have to hang over me like that. You did that on purpose."

"What unfounded accusations," Nerasa said, leaping backwards out of the den and into the thin light of morning outside "I don't do anything on purpose."

Tir snorted, and began picking leaves and clods of dirt out of his thick, mud-brown fur. The hairs along his back were still standing on end, but his pulse was slowing back down from the fright. Nerasa could have only poked him or something; she could have spared him the pain.

"What are you doing in the Hunters' dens, anyway?" he asked grumpily, licking the blood off his paw. "You're not a Hunter."

"Clever observation. I came to get you, Raatri, and Yielsa for the hunt today."

"What hunt?"

"Deer hunt."

"I'm going on a deer hunt?" Tir leaped back up to his paws, and hit his head again. Undeterred, he shook his head to drive away the fresh wash of pain. "You mean those big mi—things, with the sticks on their heads?"

"Keep it down!" Nerasa hissed, peering up at the rocky ledges above them, where the other sleeping Hunters were visible as mounds of fur. "You don't want to wake Kesol, or he'll want to come, too—and we don't want Kesol to come. Simetra's only bringing you, Raatri, and Yielsa."

"That's it? But—those things were big. Really big."

"Don't be stupid. Me and some other Sentinel are coming too, plus Captain. Alpha's orders. Apparently, those things put up a great fight."

Of course they did, Tir thought in awe, though somewhat nervous at the thought of the bizarre creatures. They're three times our size.

"When did last night's hunt return?" he asked, combing out a few dead leaves from his pelt.

"Dawn. And moon on the water, had they taken a beating!"

Tir waited while Nerasa proceeded to wake Yielsa and Raatri. When Raatri heard about the hunt, he squealed with excitement and cracked his head on the stone ledge above him, just as Tir had. Yielsa, however, groaned and swatted at her ear as though brushing off a fly. Yielsa had gone on the hunt last night, and Tir guessed that she was still tired. She slipped gracefully off of her own shelf without complaint, but dragged her paws as they ushered her out from the shade of the Hunters' dens.

"Hunt? Again?" she moaned, squinting in the bright sunlight that was making her golden fur glow. "I went yesterday."

"That's right," Nerasa said, skipping ahead of the group. "Simetra wants you to come because she says you already have experience!"

Yielsa shook her head in an irritated sort of way, but quickened her slow pace. Tir was surprised at her lack of enthusiasm, and so was Raatri.

"Why don't you want to go?" Raatri asked, running to keep up with them. "Wasn't it exciting? Those creatures are huge!"

Yielsa peered down at him through her sleepy, half-closed eyes.

"Exciting enough, I suppose, if that's what I'm expected to tell you," she grumbled. "But truthfully, I prefer hunting rabbits."

From then on, no one said anything until they had found Simetra.

The chief Hunter was standing in front of the Sentinels' dens, having a conversation with Captain Leron. Xelind was sitting on the dusty ground a few feet away, his vacant blue eyes fixed on the sky above. Watching him, Tir wondered idly how Xelind could have become a Sentinel. Like Nerasa, most Sentinels tended to have a larger, stronger build—and Xelind was skinny and long-legged. While Sirle made Tir think of a large and dusty grey weasel, Xelind put him in mind of a skeletal white bird of prey.

Like the hawk that almost killed Seilo.

Tir shuddered and looked away.

Simetra glanced up when the group approached. Her yellow eyes swept across the wolves assembled, as though counting them.

"All seven are here, Captain," she said nodding at Leron. "Best leave as soon as possible if we hope to be back by nightfall."

"Simetra," Yielsa said quietly. "Why do I have to go on another hunt?"

"Alpha's orders and my apologies."

"Everything is on the alpha's orders," Yielsa mumbled.

"Oh, now, see here," Leron interjected, shaking his head in an expression of disappointment. "You should be glad to go again; it is an honor. There's no call for complaining."

"I'm not complaining," Yielsa said. "I asked a question."

"You asked a question which was to question the alpha's orders." Leron's normally-smooth voice had begun to gain in pace, and Tir was surprised to see that he was bristling. Was he getting angry? "There's been a lot of questioning and challenging the alpha's orders, and you should consider yourself lucky that this hunt hasn't been dissolved due to the unearned power of some."

"What are you—?"

"Leave it, Captain," Simetra barked. "What's the matter? Has the Gatherer slipped a thorn in your paw? Yielsa has every right to ask me a question, and a perfectly reasonable question it was, too."

Leron growled in his throat, and Yielsa smiled at him, cocking her head.

"I think we should hurry and leave," she said. "We are wasting time here."

Simetra gave her a short nod, and Tir began to quiver with excitement again. A deer hunt! He had never before hunted deer, and it was something he was eager to try—though very nervous, nevertheless. He followed the patrol as they padded out of the redoubt and onto the fields, too lost in his own cheerful thoughts to hear Simetra and Leron's bickering.

"Was that a rebuke back there, Hunter?" Leron said in a low voice as he padded beside her. He took long, slow strides, as though he were stalking something.

"You will take it as one, Captain," Simetra replied. "Is there something wrong?"

"Wrong? I only notice that you are interfering with the business of your Captain."

"What business? Bullying?"

"Clearly, you have no idea what—"

Simetra gave him a scornful look.

"You and your bad mood may go and walk behind everyone," she said. "And take it out on yourself. This is a dangerous hunt, Captain, and I can't afford your kind of distraction. Leave the others alone, they've done nothing."

Leron stared at her. "You would order a wolf of a higher rank?"

"It would seem so."

"You show no respect." Leron gave a low laugh and shook his head again, slowly. "I've known wolves like you before, Hunter, and you ought to be more careful. Someday, you will go too far."

"And tell me again how that will happen," Simetra muttered, sounding weary. "I've forgotten."

"You will challenge me. You hope to be captain, don't—"

Simetra laughed. "Go walk in the back, Captain."

"You have no right to say that."

Simetra whirled around to face him, yellow eyes flashing. Leron appeared rather taken-aback at her suddenness.

"I believe," she growled. "That Alpha Liyra put me in charge of this hunt, as I am the chief Hunter. You chose to tag along, and you will follow my orders, if you want to eat today. Is that clear, Captain?"

Leron's eyes narrowed, but he did not reply.

"That one. We'll take that one."

Tir squinted across the grass, his eyes watering in the wind. A good distance away was the herd of deer, an enormous brown mass grazing along the banks of the lake. Simetra was looking at an old stag, who was surrounded by the rest of the herd.

"Why that one?" Leron demanded.

"He's the weakest."

"But he has sticks on his head."

"He's old, and his antlers are probably brittle. He'll be the slowest, and the clumsiest. We should have no problem taking him down."

Leron nodded, grudgingly satisfied with her reasoning. Tir and the others were watching the chosen stag with some anxiety. The deer brought in this morning did not have any sticks on her head, and a wolf could come by his death under those sharp horns. But as Simetra said, the stag was old. The hunt should be quick.

Simetra had flattened herself down in the grass so that she was almost invisible. The others followed suit, not taking their eyes off of the grazing stag for an instant. The group crept forward under cover of the wind-blown grass, and Tir tried to move as silently as possible, determined to do well on this hunt.

"Branch off," Simetra hissed.

The others obeyed, splitting up like tributaries in a river and creeping forward alone. Tir quickened his pace, but kept low to the ground. Within moments, the stag was surrounded. Tir was so close to the creature that he could hear him breathing.

Simetra's barked signal broke through the tense air. Seven wolves sprang out of the tall grass and lunged for the stag with bared teeth. The herd of deer scattered, filling the air with the scent of their fear and pounding the ground with their fleeing hooves. The stag, too, tried to bolt, but found that it was surrounded on all sides.

"Close in!" Simetra roared, and the wolves all dove for the stag's neck.

But the stag danced back on its hind legs. Hooves large enough to split a wolf's skull slashed the air in repetitive, lethal motions. Tir ducked and recoiled as one of them whistled over his head, and many of the others did the same. When the stag dropped back down, the ground beneath Tir's paws rumbled with the impact.

The creature tossed its shaggy head and lowered its antlers. It shot forward with surprising speed. Tir darted away just in time, but one of its sharp hooves clipped him and sent him flying.

Searing pain shot through Tir's body; he gasped. Looking down, he could see a bright gash in his flank. Tir licked it, wincing as pain tore up his leg again. The blood was bitter and metallic on his tongue, and he spat it into the grass.

"Follow it!" Simetra called from somewhere behind him. "Don't let it get back to the herd!"

Tir lurched forward over the grass, and his leg screamed with fresh agony. He stumbled and fell with his face in the dirt. Spitting with fury, he struggled back up to his feet, determined to swallow the pain until the hunt was over.

But suddenly, a blood-curdling howl cut through the air like a dart. Every hair on Tir's pelt stood on end. It was not a signaling screech to close in on the prey, but the terrified scream of an animal in mortal peril. And it wasn't a deer.

Heart beating like a drum, Tir dashed towards the source of the sound as fast as he could, forgetting the pain in his leg. Leron had said that the hunt would be dangerous, but surely no one would get seriously hurt?

Tir could see the rest of the patrol ahead of him. They still had the stag surrounded, but they were not moving. Instead, they stared, transfixed with horror. The stag was rearing and crashing onto the ground with its sharp hooves again and again. It looked almost as though it was trying to trample a hole in the ground. Bewildered, Tir ran faster, tasting his own blood in his mouth. What was the stag doing?

But when he drew close enough to see, he stopped, and his stomach clenched.

Under the slashing hooves of the stag was Simetra. It was sickening to watch. Simetra's glossy red-brown fur was soaked dark with her own blood, and she writhed wildly under the stag. As Tir watched, a sharp crack rang out, which could very well have been a rib breaking under the battering hooves. White froth was flying from the creature's jaws and its eyes were rolling back in his head; it was driven insane with the terror of the hunt.

Simetra released an eerie, thin cry that made Tir shiver; she twisted in the dirt and blood beneath her to try to bite the deer's legs, but it was no use. The stag continued to trample her, mindless of its own chance of escape—the wind blew the scent of blood and terror into their faces. Tir was feeling as if he was going to faint.

Xelind, who had been standing frozen with the others, was the first to break out of the reverie. He dashed forward, a streak of white on the grass, and barreled into the stag with a snarl. The stag twisted in the air, trying to gore him with its antlers, but Xelind leaped out of the way. He fell to the ground, but jumped back up, surging for the creature's throat.

Tir now could see why Xelind had been chosen as a Sentinel. He was thin and small, it was true. But the way he fought—with a lethal swiftness and deadly accuracy in his blows—reminded Tir of the renegade. The stag abandoned the bleeding Simetra and thundered away with Xelind snapping at its flying heels.

"YOU SHOVED ME, YOU MURDERING FILTH!" Simetra was struggling to her paws, streaming with blood and pink saliva. Her stained fur hung off her body in clumps and her mouth was wet with foam. Yellow eyes rolled back in her head; she looked positively insane. The others recoiled, frightened.

Simetra stood with difficulty, swaying, and Nerasa dashed forward to support her. But Simetra shoved her away and made a furious, staggering lunge towards Captain Leron.

"YOU PUSHED ME! YOU PUSHED ME TOWARDS IT!" she roared, swiping raggedly at him. Leron ducked out of her way.

"How dare you suggest such a thing? I would never intentionally—"

"I'LL GIVE YOU INTENTION! YOU SHOVED ME! YOU IDIOT! I'LL KILL YOU—"

"It's getting away!" Raatri shrieked.

All of the wolves looked up. The stag was indeed galloping off to join the rest of the herd; Xelind dragged behind, exhausted.

Simetra gave one last snarl at Leron before starting to run after Raatri, a lopsided, stumbling gait. A few tufts of her bloodied auburn fur flew off in the wind, and she left a thick red trail of blood in the grass.

"Simetra!" Nerasa shouted, running after her and Raatri. "Simetra, no! You can't!"

Tir and Yielsa exchanged a glance and followed, reaching Simetra in no time, where Nerasa was trying to reason with her.

"You aren't in any state to hunt now—you gotta go back to the redoubt," she was saying. "The rest of us'll take care of the deer."

"I'm not abandoning a hunt!"

"Simetra, you're gonna die."

Simetra glared up at them from the ground, gasping, a thin stream of blood trickling out her mouth. The fur around her face was wet and plastered to her skull; if it were not for her livid yellow eyes, she would have looked like a creature long dead.

"Fine then," she rasped. "The rest of you fetch the bloody stag—tear out its throat and bring it to me. But you tell that captain of yours that I'll kill him—I will kill him, if that beast gets away because of his violent idiocy. In fact, I'll kill him anyway." She raised her head, a thin rivulet of blood trickling down her neck. "CAN YOU HEAR ME, LERON?" she bellowed. "I WILL KILL YOU!"

"Simetra, stay down!" Nerasa gasped. "You're gonna hurt yourself—"

"Hurt myself? Oh, you just wait, little Sentinel—"

Yielsa dashed away after the stag, leaving Nerasa and Simetra behind, and Tir followed at her heels. The wind had reached a screeching intensity, blowing in their faces like thousands of cold, prickling needles. In moments, they had reached Xelind, who was out of breath.

"Go on!" he snarled. "Cut it off!"

Leron and Raatri were already ahead of them, trying to corner the stag without prevail. Yielsa and Tir split, branching off in opposite directions. The four wolves formed a circle around the exhausted, maddened beast. They drew the circle tighter, snarling and snapping their jaws. Leron gave a short, snarling bark, and the wolves flew at the stag, each set of fangs straining for the neck.

As Simetra had said, the stag was weakened. It skittered backwards, trying to get away, but Yielsa pounced on it from the side. With the combined weight of all four wolves, it could no longer carry itself. The massive creature collapsed onto the grass and the wolves swarmed like ants over its body.

Leron soon found its neck. The stag made a terrible sound and thrashed in the grass, but its movements were weakening and its legs, once so swift and fearsome, suddenly seemed as slender and helpless as twigs. Raatri darted in and found a grip on the stag's neck beside Leron; he tore his head away, his jaws full. Soon, a torrent of hot blood was streaming down over the grass from the deer's neck, and its rasping breath was faltering.

At that moment, Tir happened to be by the creature's head. Tir stopped for a moment and looked down at the dying stag, panting and tasting the blood in his mouth. The stag's large, brown eyes rolled up at him, and it shuddered like a leaf in the wind.

Tir stood over it, shivering. The cold wind was roaring in his ears, and his vision was swimming and hazy. It felt as though he had left the spot where he was standing and was somewhere far away, somewhere long past and buried. He was overcome by such a heavy feeling of misery that he turned away. His heart was pounding at a horrible speed, and he wanted to howl, to cry himself out to the skies—it was though he was trapped in the forest fire again, the walls of searing colors pressing in on him, strangling him, filling his head with cinders and anguish. Almost as if far away, he could hear Leron barking orders to the others, orders to dispatch the stag.

And before anyone could say anything, Tir turned and fled. He couldn't watch the deer die.

***

Tir ran as fast as he could, limping and stumbling on his damaged leg. But the pain from the bleeding gash hardly registered compared to the clawing sensation inside of him. The blood on his paws was drying to as sticky red crust on his paws, but rather than cool it seemed to be growing warmer. Tir felt as though his paws were burning.

How could one day have gone so horribly wrong?

Tir had to stop. His body shook with convulsions and dry sobs scraped their way up his throat. He gasped and shuddered, lying down in the grass and curling into a tight knot. The pain in his leg felt icy and numb, but his blood still trickled into the grass. Tight iron bands were tightening around his throat, like the paw of the white renegade. He spat on the ground, and saw that his spit was red with blood.

What was he doing here? The fire had destroyed his life. It burned through everything he had ever known and tossed him away into a strange land. In his delirium, he could see the blinding, malevolent flames rushing like wind over the fields, coming to claim him as it had his friends and family. They were gone, all of them. Arwena, Kiala, Misari, Avrok—all of them, dead and devoured by the hungry blaze. He was alone now; there was nothing left but him. Why had he been spared? He didn't deserve it. He couldn't even bring himself to kill a deer—oh, why did these things affect him so strongly and no one else? Captain Leron would call him weak. Was he a weak? Palva would be able to tell him.

"YOU!"

A feral roar, tight with fury, rippled across the fields.

"YOU MURDERER!"

Tir struggled up to his paws, frightened, eyes scanning the flat landscape. What was going on? Who was screaming—?

BOOM! Something heavy rammed into Tir from behind, knocking him off his feet. He flew with the force of the blow and landed in a bloody heap a few feet away, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Tir gasped and tried to stand but he twisted on his gashed leg and fell, his face in the dust.

Someone had locked fangs around the back of his neck and was shaking him in a frenzied rhythm as if he were a rabbit. The blurred ground and sky danced about in a swerving, sickening pattern as his head cracked from side to side. He tried to snarl but found he had no energy left to make anything more than a strangled choke.

"YOU KILLED HER! KILLED HER!"

That voice sounded familiar, though Tir had never before heard it so tearing with rage. Black clouds were rising up before his eyes. His attacker had released him, hurling his head back against the ground. Tir could feel the warm blood trickling through his fur. Strangely, his mind had grown so smoky, that he couldn't yet feel any pain at all. He moaned and tried to roll away, but another paw pinned him down.

With a huge effort, Tir raised his head a few inches, but all he could see was a blur of shocking white. He thrashed, summoning up the last shreds of strength he had left in him, but his paws only scraped the ground. A desperate cry for help was scraping its way up his throat but before he could make a sound, a snarling face with electric-green eyes whipped around and lunged for his throat again. Tir's mind cleared with a sickening jolt, and he flew to his paws, throwing off the other wolf's weight in a burst of surprised strength.

"You!" he gasped.

The white renegade from the forest was standing in front of him. Her white fur was streaked with blood, and she bristled with such fury that she looked twice her size.

"I remember you," she said. Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I told you I never wanted to see you again! I never should have let you out of the forest; see the good it's done me."

"No!" Tir shouted, scrabbling his paws in the grass to back away from her. "I'm—I'm not on your territory. What do you want?"

"Don't insult me with your questions. I want answers and I want vengeance, you murderer."

"I'm not a murderer," Tir said, angry despite his fear. His mind was reeling. "What are you talking about? I haven't killed anyone."

"LIAR!" The renegade lunged for him and Tir jumped out of her way, gasping in pain as he landed on his torn leg.

"You aren't making any sense!" he said, backing away from her. She was swaying as she advanced, her face taut and trembling with rage. "Calm down," he said in a quieter tone, though his voice cracked. "I can't fight you now; I'm no danger to you—see? I am injured. I'm sure you—"

The renegade struck him across the face with a swift paw, sending him tumbling backwards.

"Do not dare to condescend me!" she hissed. "Don't speak with such reason, don't dare try to behave as if you don't know what has happened, what you and your wolves have already done."

"What?" Tir mumbled. He blinked away the blackness that had swamped his vision when she struck him. "What've I done?"

"You killed her. All of you. And don't think that any single one of you is going to get away with it."

"Who? Who was killed?" Tir struggled to his paws and scuffled backwards, tripping over his useless leg.

"You know who 'twas! The deer! You killed the deer! The blood is on your paws at this very moment!"

The deer!

"No!" Tir shouted, hiding his bloody paws in the grass while trying to move away. "It wasn't me! I couldn't have!"

"You lie," she spat. "You helped them."

Fear and guilt washed over Tir, sticky and hot like blood.

"I didn't want to!" he wailed. "It was the alpha's orders, I swear on it!"

The renegade halted, her eyes bulging.

"The alpha?"

Tir jerked his head and looked away, knowing he had said too much.

"Where is this alpha?" she demanded.

"I—I can't tell you."

"Tell me!" she snarled, leaping at him.

"No!" Tir tried to jump away, but fell in the dirt. "What do you want with her?"

The renegade silenced, seeming to think on this for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had fallen to a low, gravelly rasp, strained, as though she was fighting to keep calm.

"I wish to speak with her. There are a few things we need to straighten out."

Tir led the white renegade across the fields and towards the rest of the hunting patrol. His mind was reeling; he hardly knew what he was doing. But surely it was fine, if this renegade only wanted to speak with Alpha Liyra—he couldn't stop her, at any rate.

"Who is this?" Leron demanded, striding towards Tir and the renegade. "Who is this wolf, and where did you find her?"

"She wishes to speak with Alpha Liyra," Tir said, swaying on his paws and not meeting Leron's eyes. "She was insistent."

"You are leading a strange wolf into our redoubt? What makes you think you can—"

"Shut up, Captain," Simetra barked from the ground. Nerasa, Raatri, and Xelind were hovering over her, watching the blood-streaked renegade with wide eyes. "If this wolf wishes to speak with the alpha, then that is fine," she said. "She lived here before us, after all."

Leron made a rough noise and jerked his head in the direction of the redoubt.

"Fine then. Bring another stranger. Has this entire pack lost its mind? The sort of ideas—"

"Next time you have a good idea, Captain, be sure to let us know," Simetra spat. "You are being foolish."

She twisted her head to look at the anxious wolves behind her.

"Raatri," she ordered. "Go and help Yielsa carry the prey back into redoubt. The rest of you, come with us."

Raatri dashed off to help Yielsa with the deer. Yielsa was far away, visible only as a tawny dot on the horizon, dragging a larger blurry brown dot. Tir wondered what the renegade could have meant about hunting the deer. Surely there was enough for all of them?

With Nerasa's help, Simetra struggled up into a standing position. And Leron, still growling to himself, led the way back into the redoubt.

***

The sun was low and red in the sky when the patrol made their way into the quiet redoubt. Simetra was in a terrible state. She was rasping and coughing up blood, and Nerasa guided her down the grass tunnel to Palva's hollow.

As her wheezing faded, the others stood awkwardly in the center of the empty redoubt main. Wolves had already retreated to their dens to escape the cold wind; a few glowing sparks of eyes were visible peering out from several dens. The renegade stood in the center of the redoubt, bristling and making herself seem as large as possible as she surveyed her surroundings with undisguised suspicion.

"Where is this alpha?" she demanded, still facing forward "I will not wait. Take me to her."

Without thinking, Tir began to lead her in the direction of Liyra's den, but Captain Leron caught him around the scruff of his neck and shoved him back.

"What do you think you're doing?" he said. "I'll fetch Alpha Liyra. Xelind, keep an eye on the outsider and his renegade."

The renegade gave no sign of anger at his contemptuous tone; in fact, she didn't even turn to look at him, preferring instead to act as though he did not exist. This was probably wise of her, Tir decided. Leron was twice her size. He would crush her like a twig.

Leron stalked away, leaving Xelind and Tir alone with the renegade. Xelind sank to his haunches and stared straight ahead without saying a word. The renegade, however, remained standing, her bitter, green eyes sweeping the borders of the redoubt main. Tir had the uneasy feeling that she was memorizing her surroundings.

"Who are you?"

Alpha Liyra was padding stiff-legged across the redoubt main towards them. Liyra approached the renegade with caution, sniffing her over, her ears flat and eyes narrowed.

The renegade waited for Liyra to finish, staring stony-faced at the alpha the whole time. She had not answered Liyra's question, and Tir had the feeling she was not planning to.

"You are alpha here?" she demanded in a voice devoid of any respect for Liyra's status.

"I am," Liyra said, cocking her head. "You are—?"

"'Tis irrelevant."

"Oh? Then why are you here?"

"There is a small thing I need to straighten out with you and your packwolves."

The venom she stressed into her words made it perfectly clear that this "straightening out" would not involve any sort of diplomatic reasoning. Liyra, sensing this, gave Tir a piercing stare, and Tir reverted his gaze to the ground. No doubt, Leron had told the alpha that it was he who led this hostile creature here.

"What might that be?" Liyra's voice had grown silky smooth. "If it is a matter of my pack living here, then you needn't bother. This is our home now, and although we don't wish for trouble, we will defend our territory most harshly."

"Does it matter to me where you live? I have come to discuss what you seem to be hunting."

Liyra looked surprised.

"The rabbits?" she said. "But surely there are enough rabbits for us all to share—"

"The deer. You are hunting the deer, no?"

"We are. And I am sure that if we regulate our hunting patterns, there will be enough of even those for us all to—"

"No, listen to me, you idiot!" the renegade snapped. "You think I have come to pass around shares?"

Liyra had taken a small step backwards when the she-wolf shouted. Now, she drew herself back up and met the renegade's glare. "You would dare to insult me so? I must remind you, I am the alpha of this pack."

"Alpha be damned. You shall listen to me if there is any sense in you—and if there isn't, I shall force it into you. 'Twill be the same to me, either way you prefer—as 'tis, you've already a blood debt to pay"

Liyra growled, now fully angered. She showed her teeth and made a lunging motion at the renegade, but then appeared to think better of it. "If I might remind you," she said. "I am in command of a pack. I hardly think you're in a position to make outrageous requests—"

"'Twas no request, you reeking vulture; 'twas an order."

"You do not order me. If you value your life, then it would be wise to show respect for the rules of my pack."

"I don't respect bloodsoaked carrion-eaters!"

"I—excuse me? What on earth are you talking about?"

The renegade seemed to lose control. In a burst of aggression, she thrust her face into Liyra's, snarling like a creature gone mad. "What am I talking about? I'm talking about she that you've killed—you slaughtered her like a rabbit!"

Liyra took another step backwards. "Killed whom? You are insane; you are making no sense whatsoever—"

"THE DEER!" the renegade roared. "YOU ARE KILLING THE DEER!"

A few wolves had ventured out of their dens and were staring at the renegade with wide eyes. Tir looked behind him to see Palva watching from the mouth of her grass tunnel, pale eyes glittering with an unreadable expression.

"Of course we did! Surely there is enough for us all to share? There is no need to be fighting like this over hunting rights." Liyra was quite taken-aback by the renegade's sudden fury; she no longer even looked angry, just shocked and puzzled. And Tir shared her confusion. Liyra was right; there were plenty of deer to feed both the pack and this renegade. Why was she so angry?

The renegade was pacing to and fro, quivering with rage. Her tail was rigid and threatening. She looked positively murderous.

"I am sure," Liyra was continuing, her voice smoothing into what she must have thought was a calming tone. "that you and my pack could live together in peace. We can share prey; there are enough deer in the herd for us all to survive. If—"

"Are you bargaining with me?" the renegade said.

"Well, yes, if you are willing to cooperate."

"Then I shall cooperate," the renegade said. She stopped pacing and faced Liyra head-on. "If you wish, I will give you my terms. I will strike a deal, as you say. You will stop hunting the deer, and in return I shall refrain from tearing out the throat of each wolf in this pack."

There was silence. The air rang with the renegade's words, and a few wolves exchanged nervous glances Tir even heard someone laugh, though the sound was quickly stifled. The renegade did not look at the packwolves, however. She was watching Liyra. And Liyra stiffened.

"I am afraid I cannot agree to those terms," she said softly.

"Then I will kill you," the renegade said. Liyra was bigger than her, but in her wrath the diminutive she-wolf seemed far more forbidding. "All of you. You remember what I'm saying to you, for I will open your throats and scatter your bleeding entrails over the fields 'til your debt has been paid in full; I will water the grass with your blood, I will—"

"Excuse me," interrupted a calm, cold voice. Tir turned around. It was Palva.

"Excuse me," she repeated. "would anyone care to tell me what is going on?"

Liyra gave her an awkward look.

"We have a slight disagreement," she said. "A—about the deer hunting."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, but it will soon be smoothed over—"

"No, 'twill not!" snarled the renegade, making a sudden, violent movement towards Liyra, who actually flinched. "IF YOU LAY A CLAW ON THOSE DEER I SWEAR I WILL FLAY YOUR PELT AND LEAVE IT TO ROT IN THE SUN!"

But Palva had not even spared a glance at the enraged renegade. Instead, she was looking at Liyra, who seemed very uncomfortable.

"I see," Palva said. "How unfortunate. You would do well to listen to me in the future, Liyra."

Liyra didn't respond, and Palva looked up at the darkening sky.

"It is nightfall," she said. "I will be going."

And she left the redoubt without another word.

As soon as Palva was gone, the renegade rounded on Liyra, grinding her teeth.

"You heard my terms," she said, softer. Her voice was low and gravelly from shouting. "If you are going to ignore them, then I shall have to force them upon you in what ways I can."

"You will not force me to do anything." Liyra raised her head and showed her teeth. "I do not respond to renegade's threats. My pack and I shall do as we choose."

"Choose to die, then. I shall feed your eyes to the birds, and the river will run red with your blood, and these fields will reek for seasons."

If Liyra had at all been shaken by this renegade's brutal promises, then she did not show it. Tir, however, was itching with unease. It could be that Liyra did not hear the hatred in this violent wolf's voice; Liyra did not know exactly how dangerous she could be. It could be that Liyra was not taking this wolf seriously, but Tir knew that the renegade would use her last breath to carry out her threats.

"Leave now," Liyra said. "or I will drive you out with my own fangs."

"Your fangs will dry and snap off. You do not understand what you're stirring up. I shall tear your sorry pelt to shreds, you great swollen tick. I shall sharpen my claws on your bones. I shall—"

"You will not touch me or any wolf in my pack!" Liyra snarled. "And if you do, then we will hunt you down and kill you without mercy."

Then, incredibly, the renegade laughed. Tir couldn't believe it—it wasn't a forced or sarcastic laugh, but a true laugh, as though something in this situation was suddenly hilarious to her.

"You will never find me," she said with scorn. Tir wasn't sure now if she was baring her teeth or smiling. "You and your poor wolves are slow. You shall hunt forever. Your eyes cannot see through the darkness of my forest and within moments you shall be destroyed by your own fear. I will vanish like a shadow, and you will lose yourself searching."

And she spat at Liyra's feet.

Liyra snarled with fury and reared up, but the renegade stood even taller, her white fur bristling and making her appear vast in her rage. She shoved her face into Liyra's, lips drawn back from ice-white teeth.

"Tear yourself with your own fangs," she said. "But if you so much as breathe on the deer, I shall know of it. And at night, I shall come. I shall destroy all of you and free the fields."

"We will kill you. Don't you see what you are doing? There are many of us and one of you. If—"

"Numbers don't matter to me, you bloated tick. The only number I care about is the number of deer you slaughter—because you mark my words, it shall equal the number of pelts I hang to dry from the trees in my forest. And if you do not listen to me, you will all die. I will slaughter every wolf in this settlement that has the blood of the deer on his paws."

She turned, and challenged the silent wolves that were assembled behind Liyra.

"All of you," she said. "Do you hear me? I swear on my own blood, I shall tear out the throat of every wolf in this pack before the season's end."

And she left, vanishing into the grass.

### 15.

Blacksky

The silence the renegade left behind was deafening. Not a single wolf moved or made a sound; even Alpha Liyra was stunned. The air still crackled with the renegade's fury. The screeching wind echoed her threats. The scent of fear was sour among them.

Dusk was long gone; the sun had been replaced by a smooth, cold expanse of black. A violent wind gusted across the fields, whipping up fragments of low howls and cries, as though the renegade had already begun her vengeful mission out in the dark grass.

One by one, the wolves in the redoubt main began to ease out of their shocked reverie, slinking away into the far corners of their dens to sleep and wake up to a brighter morning in the frail hope that what had just happened was only a nightmare. But Tir did not move. He lay still as the stones around him and felt just as cold. Some far corner of his mind was aware of blood dripping from his mouth, legs, sides, everywhere—his head was still throbbing with the rhythm of the hunted stag's hooves. But Tir was not thinking about these things. He was not thinking about anything. Tir was too far down into shock to be aware of anything at the moment except for how dark it was.

He shivered, wrapped his tail around his quivering body and curled up on the dusty ground. He stared ahead without seeing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Dimly, knew that his new pack was in danger. Leron and some others may scoff at this—after all, the renegade was only one wolf. One wolf cannot destroy an entire pack. But she could stalk the fields, waiting unseen for any wolf to venture out alone. Even one death was too much to risk.

No doubt, Liyra would continue to hunt the deer, regardless of what the renegade had warned. But at least this time, Tir understood her rationale. It would be a sign of weakness for the alpha to cave in to an outsider's threats, however brutal and exaggerated they may be. To be able to uphold her respect, Liyra would have to hunt the deer now. But surely in a situation such as this it would be wiser to drop pride and find what is best for the rest of the pack? Tir wasn't sure about this; he was not the alpha.

Suddenly, Tir was overcome with fear. He was afraid of this fierce renegade and what she might do. Of course, if there was a battle, the pack would win in the end. Just like the deer hunt. The stag had put up a worthy fight, but it was the hunters who had won. The stag knew that as well, but it fought long and hard—after all, it had nothing to lose. And wild animals who fight with nothing to lose are more dangerous than anything.

In the end, his pack would kill the renegade. And the renegade knew this. But before she was suppressed, how many wolves would she have managed to murder? What if it was Nerasa? Or Palva? What if it was himself, Tir? It was too much to risk. Surely Alpha Liyra knew this!

But Alpha Liyra would never listen to him, and Captain Leron was out of the question. Tir knew that Palva would understand; and Palva, in her influential position as Gatherer of the Council, may be able to do something about it. If anyone would know what to do, it would be Palva.

But Palva's hollow was empty.

Tir padded back up the grass tunnel, confused. Where had Palva gone? She had been here only an hour ago, when the renegade had been shouting at Liyra. Had she gone to speak with Liyra? Perhaps that was where she was. Maybe Liyra had called a Council meeting.

"Are you okay, Tir?"

Tir stopped. Nerasa was standing in front of him, looking anxious. He had not seen her there; a few more steps and he would have run into her. Tir sat down, feeling disoriented.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's only that..." his voice trailed away into silence, unable to find words for the turmoil of fear and shock inside of him. But Nerasa nodded as though she understood.

"I know," she said. "That was so weird, so sudden—just awful. I didn't think any wolf could be so—so vicious."

"Angry," Tir said. "She was angry."

"But why? Like Alpha said, there must be enough deer for us all to share."

Tir shrugged, unable to answer. Why had she been so angry? It was only prey, after all. But what was prey to a renegade? Prey was survival. With a shiver, he recalled Palva's words to him: Anything that endangers this aim must be eliminated. Captain Leron and the renegade spoke a common language.

"You know what else?" Nerasa said. Her voice dropped to a frightened hush, as though she wefre whispering a deadly secret. "Yielsa told me that Palva knew something bad was going to happen all along. She said that Palva knew there was going to be some sort of danger if we hunt those deer. And Palva went and told Alpha that, but she wouldn't listen."

Tir's ears pricked. Palva knew? Palva had known all along that this would happen? A prickle ran down his spine. What else did Palva know?

"Where is Palva?" he asked. "She's not in her hollow."

"Left, just a few minutes ago."

"She left? Wait, but why?"

Nerasa stared at him, the pupils in her eyes growing larger. She glanced up at the dark sky. There was a long, stretching silence.

"Blacksky," she said. She spoke the word with such subdued terror, such bizarre reverence, that a shudder ran up his spine. Nerasa was never frightened of anything.

"Black—?"

"Blacksky. Tonight is the night of no moon."

Tir followed her gaze to the sky. Indeed, it was smooth and dark—even the stars were hidden by clouds. There was no moon. No watchful, protecting eye of Rya. The sky was empty.

"I'd forgotten all about it," Nerasa said. She was shaking her head, and her tail twitched between her legs. "Alpha must've, too, otherwise she never would've sent out that hunt today—so close to night, I mean. Usually we all stay in the redoubt, waiting for the night to end. 'Cause tonight is the night when Rya turns her back on the world. We're lost and exposed. Terrible things happen."

Tir shuddered, thinking about the renegade's threats.

"But what does that have to do with Palva being gone?"

Nerasa stared at him. Her eyes were absolutely solemn—empty of their usual mischievous glint. It was eerie seeing Nerasa, of all the wolves in the pack, so serious. "The Gatherer must leave the comfort of her familiar lands and go off in search of Rya," she said. Her voice sounded odd; as though she was reciting an old story she had once been told—not at all like her usual strange jabber.

"Leave her familiar lands? Where does she go, then?"

"No one knows. But she must go alone. She spends the entire moonless night searching for Rya. And when she finds her, she must bring her back."

"How?"

"I—I don't know. But whatever it is, Palva never fails."

The wind was now screaming so loud, it was almost impossible for Tir to hear what Nerasa was saying. He pricked his ears, trying to hear her.

"...will be back at dawn. But you'd better go to your den and sleep; you don't want to be awake late on Blacksky. There are...things out there that come out when Rya isn't watching. Horrible, horrible things. You hear them screaming, right now? Shut your ears; don't listen to what they tell you—lies, empty promises, all of it. Don't follow them, don't leave the redoubt. 'Cause if you do, well, tonight is the night when not even Rya will be there to help you."

***

It was dark, unusually so. Even Alanki noticed it as she stalked back across the fields to her forest in a seething rage. Thunderclouds were still rising before her vision, sparking with anger and pushing against the walls of her skull. They hadn't listened to her. She hadn't expected them to.

But it was a savage sort of pleasure, yelling at that alpha wolf. Alanki knew she hadn't taken her seriously, but she didn't care. One thing she had learned about living creatures is that most of them don't take anything seriously until there has been a death.

The sky was cloudy, black, and moonless. It was the beginning of the very darkest of nights. The fields were visible only as a sea of rippling shadows; in her rage, Alanki thought she saw shapes moving out there—wolves and insects and things with fiery eyes, the things from her nightmares. And as the wind whipped across the wide expanse of grass, they hissed and roared like living creatures. The dead leaves Alanki had seen in the forest had been mild and harmless, like the deer; but the fields mirrored her snarling fury.

It was easy for Alanki to imagine she was walking through the land of the dead.

By now, her fury had boiled down and frozen hard into ice. Cold, smooth, lethal—and controlled. Her mind was already forming the beginnings of a plan, a plan that involved blood—and yes, revenge. She flattened her ears in the wind. Suddenly, all shapes in the darkness were visible to her with striking clarity. She could see every blade of grass whipping in the icy wind. She could almost hear the frigid waters of the dark Lake, tainted with Sundew's blood, lapping against the stony banks somewhere out in the blackness. And something else was moving out there in the wind-torn shadows. Alanki could taste the scent on her tongue, and she knew exactly what it was—wolf, fear, and...blood.

Her heart began to pound.

She slowed her pace, sinking down into the grass. Dark, struggling shapes were moving across the fields a few feet away from her, dragging something heavy. She watched them as they fought their way across the fields, straining through the solid darkness. They did not know she was there, but she could feel the ground vibrating with their labored pawsteps, and their breath was rasping and loud to her ears. They weren't imagined shadows; they were real. They were alive. She moved closer.

Two wolves. Alanki narrowed her eyes against the wind. They were carrying something, something big. Bigger than both of them combined. Alanki crept closer, so close that she could feel their fear vibrating like insects in the air. But the fear around the bundle was frozen, paralyzed, like the last fear a creature experiences before it dies. And with a shot of horror, she realized what it was.

ANOTHER. THEY TOOK ANOTHER.

The black grass fell away and Alanki slashed right and left, snarling with the wind, feral in her rage and beyond her own control. The wolves cried like children, their terror sour and heavy in the air. She fell upon one of the them, the larger one of the two. The creature struggled beneath her like prey. Her prey. Alanki gave it a swift, firm blow to the head, and her cold fangs met the wolf's neck.

She tore away in a fierce, abrupt motion, fangs snagging in fur and flesh. Blood trickled down her neck and seeped into her fur; it scalded her skin and fed her rage. Her victim thrashed beneath her like a rabbit, and Alanki soaked up the scent of the wolf's fear, her heart racing with savage pleasure of bloodlust. Again and again she slashed the wolf's neck, sinking her fangs in deep and tearing away—it was possible she had killed the wolf instantly, but she neither knew nor cared. The wolf may as well have never been alive. To her, it was a sack of empty flesh that was hers to destroy, as if destroying it would bring her peace.

She finally tore out its throat with a swift, brutal crack.

Blood. Seeping out over the dark grass like a hot river, blood red as the anger burning in Alanki's eyes. Staining the grass crimson, spattering in her face and running over her paws. The very taste of revenge, washing away Tormentil's blood with that of the murderer's. Life blood, running until there was none left.

The wolf was motionless in the cold grass.

Alanki spun around, spraying blood in all directions. She blinked through the red screen over her vision, searching for the other wolf, but it had vanished into the night.

She could scent it, of course. And its cries and shrieks of sickening, blind terror echoed across the fields. But Alanki let it go. Let it bring the news to its pack. Perhaps the alpha would take her seriously now.

Alanki limped away from the dead wolf, whose blood was shimmering in a pool on the grass. She moved towards the heavy burden the wolves had been dragging, and bowed her head.

Alanki licked the dead stag's blood-encrusted antlers. For a moment, her anger was enveloped by a heavy sorrow. Sundew had not been enough for them. Nothing would be enough for them. But this was enough for Alanki, more than enough—it was too much. She hated the wolves more than ever.

Alanki sat down in the grass beside the shadowy lump that was the carcass of the stag. She refused to cry; that would not do. But the anguish inside of her was much worse than any form of tears, and Alanki grieved in silence.

"Don't you worry, Eryngo," she said to the dead stag, her voice trembling. "I shall avenge you as well."

And Alanki lifted her head to the moonless sky and howled.

***

Palva ran. She ran in and out of a nightmare, falling into dreams and hopes and tripping over old sorrow. The world around her was misty and damp, but it glowed with a ghostly sort of light. She stumbled through the swirling mist, stopping every now and then to prick her ears and listen. The air was silent, but Palva heard someone calling to her. Far, far away.

She dashed forward again, darting in and out of flickering shadows. She had far to run, and not much time left. It was the same way every Blacksky. And time was nothing in this world, so Palva ran.

The mist whispered and swirled, curling around Palva's running paws. It swallowed her in its grey, damp grasp, pulling her onwards. Palva knew where she had to go, but there were no marks in this land to guide her. She listened hard, following the faint voice somewhere ahead.

Minutes, years, seconds, hours flew by like birds. All around her were memories of her own, speaking in voices she had long forgotten. Here and there was something she did not recognize: a river, tinted red with blood, filled the misty air with its fierce roar. At one point, she dashed through a nightmare filled with fanged, shadowy phantoms which were being led by a creature of fire. She shuddered and ran on.

She was getting closer. Scenes were beginning to flash by like streaks of lightning in the mist. Three claws lashed at her from the sky and she could see Seilo being snatched by the hawk. The black, twisted shadow of the fire wolf danced amongst the flames in the colorless sky, and golden sparks flew up at Palva's paws. The world was no longer silent; was resounded with sound and ghostly echoes.

Palva came to a halt. Before her was the first earthly thing she had seen—a tall, gnarled oak tree, cloaked and eerie in the silvery fog, its moss-coated trunk green and ancient as the earth itself. She approached it with careful steps, parting through the thickening mist like a pale fish in a pond. The vast tree seemed to look down and regard her in regal silence as she moved around its wide trunk.

A chilling sound split through the mist. High, mournful, and full of sorrow and anger. It was a wolf's howl; and with a shiver, Palva knew it had come from somewhere in her own world.

But there she was. A full, glowing orb—hanging in the misty air. It was smooth and silver as ever, bobbing up and down, surrounded by a halo of mist that resembled the vague outline of a face. Rya, waiting for her.

Palva padded towards the eye, feeling the tingling milky light spread through her fur and turn it silver, cool the racing blood in her veins. It was soothing to see, and Palva breathed in relief for the first time that night. Her journey had ended.

But the moon seemed to dim.

Look down.

Palva lowered her eyes and choked. Below the eye, washed with its silver light, was a mound of fur. To her horror, Palva could see that it was lying in a pool of blood. Palva moved closer. She sniffed it, and drew back with shock.

It was a dead wolf, and Palva wailed in sorrow when she recognized who it was. As if in acknowledgement, the silvery light of the moon withered into darkness with a sharp hiss, and a mist of crimson light passed overhead. Heart pounding, Palva raised her head to see that the moon had taken on a violent red-orange hue—Rya's face was streaked with blood.

And fire filled the dark skies.

***

They awoke in the dead of night to strings of unearthly wails. Tir lurched out of his shuddering state of half-sleep as though he had been electrified, every single hair standing on end. Wrenching, blood-curdling shrieks rang from the dark spaces outside of the redoubt, and Tir ran out from the shelter of his den in a flood of panic. He could hear shouts as the rest of the pack awoke, all frightened and confused by the horrible sound.

Tir stumbled out into the redoubt main just in time to see Raatri burst out from the tall grass. He seemed to have lost his mind. His green eyes were wide and staring as those of a dead animal. A livid red slash cut like a dripping ribbon across his side, and he was screaming as though he were being burned alive.

Tir recoiled, frightened. Raatri was nearly unrecognizable. His face was stretched and contorted with paralyzing terror, and he stumbled into the center of the redoubt to collapse onto the ground, still wailing a strange, shrill wail that seemed to waver in and out of Tir's hearing.

"Raatri! Raatri! What happened?"

A grey she-wolf Tir knew to be a Sentinel named Salka ran over to the tormented Raatri and attempted to comfort him. He drew back from her approach, eyes glassy and wide, like those of a creature already dead.

"NO!" he howled in his thin, eerie voice. Tir shivered. "NO—get back; I can't see; I can't see!"

"I'm not going to hurt you, Raatri," Salka said. "What happened to you?"

Raatri didn't answer; he emitted another wordless wail.

"Raatri! Raatri!" Salka nudged him, almost knocking him over.

"The shadows—something was there!" he gasped. "It—it was in the shadows, and it came, and it...it ripped us. It was everywhere, all over, there were millions of them, swarming around us, and I couldn't see, I couldn't see, I—"

"But what happened, Raatri? Raatri, where's Yielsa?"

Raatri choked mid-sentence, and dissolved into his shrill, gurgling wails that Tir was quite sure no wolf should be able to produce.

"THEY TOOK HER! HER BLOOD WAS EVERYWHERE—DRAINED! DRAINED IT ALL! HER BLOOD IS GONE AND DRAINED AWAY!"

There was a horrified silence, and Raatri collapsed into convulsing sobs.

"Someone go find Alpha Liyra," Salka said, her voice quivering.

In a moment, Alpha Liyra came bustling into the redoubt clearing, looking frantic.

"What's wrong with Raatri?" she demanded.

"I—I don't know," Salka said. "He's not making any sense."

Liyra padded over to Raatri, who was shivering in a knot on the ground.

"Everything's fine now, Raatri," she said. "You're safe."

"NO! NO, I'M NOT! THEY'RE COMING—THEY'LL COME HERE! THEY'LL TEAR ALL OF US! I—CAN'T—GO!"

Raatri leapt up and made a desperate movement as though to run away, but Liyra snatched him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back.

"I'm sure you have seen something terrible," she said, trying to sound kind as she forced him back into something of a seated position. "But could you tell us what it is?"

Raatri silenced, looking up at her with widened, glassy eyes.

"It isn't anything," he whispered. His voice was hoarse and ragged. "It was just a shadow—and then it wasn't. It was everywhere, with claws and fangs and I couldn't see, I couldn't see, I—"

"Now now," said Liyra patiently. "That does not make sense. Can you tell us what attacked you?"

"A shadow. An awful white shadow. A wolf, with movements in the dark and something screaming, something—a—a shadow."

Liyra looked up, glancing around the redoubt main at the rest of the silent, watchful pack. They had all exchanged uneasy glances, and the air began to buzz with their confused muttering. Raatri stood back up, his eyes wild.

"MURDERERS! MURDERERS! I'LL SHARPEN MY CLAWS ON YOUR BONES! THE RIVER WILL RUN RED WITH YOUR BLOOD! I'LL FEED YOUR EYES—"

"Raatri!" Liyra shouted. "Stop! What are you doing?"

"I'LL OPEN YOUR THROATS, CARRION-EATERS! I WILL WATER THE GRASS WITH YOUR BLOOD!"

Liyra backed away. Raatri seemed to have gone insane; he was pacing and spitting on the ground, screaming horrible things. Over the din, Mluma spoke from the corner of the redoubt where she was crouched; she had to repeat herself several times before Liyra heard her.

"That's what the renegade said," she whispered. Her voice was eerily serene.

Liyra stared at her and then whipped around and pulled Raatri towards her, shoving him to a seated position. He stopped shouting and blinked, as though confused.

"Raatri!" Liyra said. "Does this have something to do with the renegade?"

Raatri whimpered and cowered on the ground.

"Did the renegade attack you?" Liyra persisted.

"Attack," he repeated dizzily. He was nodding with a nauseating rhythm, his voice rising and falling. Tir felt as though a claw were being drawn along the length of his spine—he wanted to close his ears as Raatri's voice spiraled back up into wails. "ATTACK. Attack, and the shadows, the—the—I saw none of it; I couldn't see; I COULDN'T SEE, AND WE RAN, WE RAN—"

"We?" Liyra said, sounding sick. Then she jumped as she realized what he meant, fur standing on end. "No! Raatri, where's Yielsa?"

Raatri's wails died down, and he began to speak in a terrified whisper, as though afraid of being overheard.

"Gone, all gone. She made a sound and they turned her into blood."

A shocked silence filled the air, and horror was in the eyes of every wolf in the clearing. At last, Liyra spoke in a shaking voice.

"That can't be true," she said. "He is clearly driven out of his mind. He doesn't know what he is saying."

No one was listening to her. They were all staring at Raatri, horror-struck. For a few moments, he continued to gibber to himself, and every now and then he'd shriek. Then he stopped and looked around the clearing at the other wolves as though wondering why they were there. He swayed, and dropped to the ground in a dead faint.

"We need Palva," Liyra ordered to Salka, who was still hovering nearby. "Go and fetch Palva."

"But—Palva isn't even here," Salka moaned.

"Oh," Liyra said, sounding faint. "Blacksky. Oh, oh, no—"

But at that very moment, the wall of grass around the redoubt rustled, and Palva slipped into the clearing. Her fur was ragged and torn, and her paws bled into the dust as though she had run all night. The pack stared at her in horror, recoiling as she passed.

She dragged a bloody mass of tawny fur into the center of the redoubt main and looked up at the stunned Alpha Liyra, her eyes dull with sorrow and defeat. Palva dropped the bundle.

"Yielsa," she said in a hollow voice. "She's dead."

Liyra swayed, looking as though she might faint as Raatri had.

"But—" she said weakly. "But—but how?"

Without a word, Palva turned over one of Yielsa's dead, limp paws. Snagged around the bases of her dull claws was the white fur of the renegade.

Palva looked back up at Liyra.

"You didn't listen," she said. Her voice was quiet, tired. "I tried to tell you, but you refused to listen."

"Oh, Palva—"

But Palva ignored her. Turning around, she trudged down the grass tunnel and back into her hollow, leaving Yielsa's mangled body at the alpha's feet.

### 16.

Blood and Bargain

The faint grey line of dawn was seeping over the rim of the cloudy horizon as Alanki trudged her way back into her forest. She felt filthy—her fur was clogged and spiky with the crimson-brown crust of dried blood, and she could not rid her mouth of its metallic tang no matter how many times she spat on the ground.

Now that she had passed out of her rage-induced frenzy, a dull sense of nausea had begun to settle, like water, heavy in her drenched fur and dragging her downwards as she walked. The vicious pleasure of revenge had long faded and swept away, and all that was left was the gritty, dirty feeling of blood in her fur and claws. She had killed.

Alanki did not feel sorry for what she had done, not in the sentimental sense of the word—oh no; but she was aware that she had done something big, something she had never done before. Though her renegade's life was hard and bitter, Alanki had never, up to this point, faced another of her own kind. She had made it sound to the green-eyed wolf, the intruder, as though she killed wolves every day. But that was only to frighten him. Now that the savage pleasure of revenge had passed, she was left feeling tainted.

For once, in her head, Tormentil was silent.

But why had she killed that other wolf? What had sent her into such a savage, blind rage? Alanki knew, and she still felt a quivering spark of anger at it, even in her state of blood-shock. It was Eryngo, Eryngo that they had been carrying. Eryngo that they had hunted and slaughtered, like prey. Alanki swiped at her ear, and the dried blood crackled in her fur. Could she blame them? After all, it was the way things were. When faced with a deer, any wolf would taste blood in her mouth, would feel cold air as she bared her teeth, would know, deep inside of her, that this kind of natural grace was there to be broken and devoured.

Alanki remembered the last time she had been covered in blood like this. She swayed in a sudden wash of black nausea; she clutched at the ground to remain standing. Pounding rolled through the ground beneath her feet and shook her legs as though they were dead trees—her own heartbeat in her ears, maybe, or the sound of the deer herd fleeing in panic from the wolves. Or Tormentil, five seasons ago, hitting the ground with a sound that shook the fields, as Alanki for the first time gave in to the bloodlust of what she had been born to be.

She owed the deer two lives.

And here, she knew, she had been given a choice: To stand and watch as the entire herd was destroyed, or to do something about it.

But she had already decided, hadn't she?

Murder may have been her first instinct, in her rage at discovering Sundew's death, but at least she had kept it under control long enough to try to end this with calm reason. And she had. She had spoken with the alpha, and the foolish wolf had not listened to her. She had set her terms down before her, and the alpha had ground them under her paw and cast them aside.

This is all your fault. But only now could Alanki see the difference, the line on the horizon between herself and these destructive wolves. Her own long-past murder of Tormentil had been an accident, a loss of control. These wolves, on the other hand, had known exactly what they were doing. So why should Alanki feel wrong for killing one of them? They had slain the deer in a merciless mind—they had known what they were doing, and they did not care. They didn't care at all; and for that, one of them had met their end. Alanki's action had been vengeance, not cold-blooded murder. They deserved it.

But whatever the name for it, that nasty, whispering part of Alanki's mind continued to tell her that she had killed. Alanki had felt their dizzy, sickening fear in the dark air that night, fear to find themselves the prey—and she had almost felt sorry for them. But the sight of Eryngo's cold, empty, staring eyes had driven the softness out of her like a stone. She couldn't afford softness like that. Renegades who are soft never last long, that much she knew. It's kill or be killed—or let those you love be killed.

Alanki whipped around and stalked into her forest.

The river did not look any different. Alanki had almost expected it to be poisoned and forbidding, as she was feeling. But no, it was just as peaceful and serene as it had always been.

Alanki padded down to its sandy banks. The new sunlight twinkled and wavered on its swelling surface, creating a myriad of shifting dappled patterns on the water as the light shot down through the branches of the trees that hung over the river. A lemon-yellow bird was swaying from one of the uppermost boughs, heralding the new sun with trickling warbles that soared up into high, lighthearted song.

Alanki glowered at the creature. For some reason, everything about the river seemed false to her at the moment. It was almost as if she expected the bright curtain to be torn away, revealing a stagnant, sour sludge-pool. What had happened to her?

She shook her head as though to clear away the clouds and sparks that had gathered there in the furious turmoil of last night. The clear water twinkled innocently at her, and she ignored it, almost annoyed.

Alanki raised one of her blood-soaked paws and dipped it into the shining river, sighing as a cool feeling of relief tingled up her leg. Crimson flowers erupted on the surface of the water as the blood was washed away, clouding the water red for a few moments and shimmering like a scarlet mist.

And in those moments, something white and shining emerged into view from the red depths, as though rising up from the bottom of the river. Two claws, curved and white as crescent moons, were flashing in and out amongst the flowers of blood in the water. The two claws were locked in combat, slashing at each other right and left.

To Alanki, this vision seemed to drag on for hours, as though it would never end. But in reality it lasted for a split second, until the river had swept away the red mist of blood and the water was left just as clear and pure as it had been before. And the claws faded and shivered, melting back into the dappled patterns of sunlight so fast that they may have just been an illusion, reflections on the water.

She knew what she had seen, and, she knew what it meant.

Alanki washed the rest of the blood out of her sticky fur without any further thought. Her mind was not confused and reeling as it often was after a nightmare of some sort, nor was it cold and angry as it had been just a few minutes ago. It was almost as if the apparition of the fighting claws had shaken her, awakening her senses.

It was she and the packwolves, fighting for each others' deaths. Dragging a trail of blood with them wherever they went. It had begun, and now she knew that it would end. More blood was to come, and Alanki knew that this would not be the only time she washed it from her paws in this river.

At least she had a good reason to be fighting. Alanki was fighting for the deer, her family. The pack was fighting out of stubbornness and sheer stupidity. And they would soon realize that, when they ran out of reasons to continue as more and more of them fell dead.

Alanki remembered the alpha wolf's threat—We'll hunt you down and kill you—and once again, she laughed aloud. The little yellow finch on the branch silenced its song at the sound of it.

She hadn't been lying when she told the alpha wolf they would never find her. Not unless she wanted to be found. This was her forest, and even the forest itself was a renegade to strangers. Those wolves could search their lives away, and never see so much as a hair of Alanki. She would melt into the shadows and wait for them as they padded by, unsuspecting. She would be the last thing they would see before they died, and they would die in a paralyzing fear.

At her feet, the river brushed over the stones, snagging dead leaves in its watery fangs and carrying them away and out of sight. Alanki had not even realized that she was smiling until she saw her teeth reflected in the water.

Those wolves would destroy themselves.

***

Tir felt cold.

Yielsa was dead—killed under the teeth of the renegade, who had made her promise that the rest of the pack would go the same way. Tir was torn between grief for Yielsa and terror for the rest of the pack, which included him. No doubt, Captain Leron and the rest of the Council would already be making plans to hunt and kill the renegade. This should reassure Tir—but somehow, it gave him a more increasing sense of dread. In the same thought, he knew that he should hate the renegade for killing Yielsa, whom, (he could barely bring himself to admit even silently) he could have loved. But he didn't hate the renegade—feared her, yes, but did not hate her as he knew he should. He remembered looking into her eyes that night in the forest, long ago, and being certain that she was insane. He remembered the fear he saw in them, the fear that had been at brutal odds with her instinct to kill him. He felt sorry for her.

Tir's initial reaction to Yielsa's death had been shock. He knew, however, that his shock did not register compared to the shock of Alpha Liyra. Liyra had sat in the middle of the redoubt main for the rest of the night, sleepless, staring with blank eyes at Yielsa's torn body, which still glowed a faint golden beneath the crimson bloodstains. Tir had also been sleepless, his mind far too horrified and miserable to fall asleep, though he did not move from the comforting shadows of his den. And judging by the small, scattered whispering that had buzzed from the dens surrounding him, he guessed that he was not the only one who sat awake. Raatri was not there—the terrified little wolf had spent the rest of the night and now much of the day curled up in a tight knot in Palva's hollow, refusing to speak or take any herbs that she offered him.

It was almost midday; the sun was watery and weak in a flat grey sky. The redoubt seemed deserted—wolves sat hunched and silent in their dens, not wanting to venture out of the redoubt. They were still digesting the horror of last night, still shocked over Yielsa's death and the fact that the tiny renegade had been able to carry out her brutal threat. It was a dull and rising awareness, that they had declared war. For once, the wind was still, and the air in the redoubt was as cold and thick as an icy river. Tir felt as though his paws would freeze to the ground if he did not move, so he was pacing to and fro at the entrance to Palva's hollow.

He wanted to go and talk to Palva—she always knew what to do, or at least had some encouraging words for him, however sarcastically they were delivered—but Palva was at a Council meeting. It did not matter, anyway. Palva would not be able to help him with what he wanted right now.

He wanted Yielsa back, that was true. It was a strange, lingering ache that he felt, a feeling quite different from his loss of Arwena, something he had never felt before. Tir could not rid himself of the image of Yielsa, a few days ago, standing at the ridge of the hill with the thin sunlight glowing in her golden fur. He could have sworn that she had seen him the same way. But now there were more pressing matters to worry about. What's gone is gone. It was the first time Tir had ever been able to accept something like that and move past it. Though he felt terrible for it, Tir was somewhat proud of himself.

No, Yielsa was not the problem at the moment. However, what Tir wanted right now was almost just as impossible—he wanted to learn how to fight. That was not something the three-legged Gatherer could help him with, though he wanted to talk to her anyway, if just for a bit of comfort.

This was one of the things Tir had been mulling over in the sleeplessness of last night. He had never been any good at fighting for as long as he could remember, and for reasons he didn't know—perhaps it was starvation at an early age that had done it, though he couldn't be sure. His pack had always been too busy to do much more than give him a hurried lesson on how to hunt, though that was something that had come naturally to him. If there ever was any moment that Tir could need how to fight, it was now. Between the renegade and Captain Leron, it would be a necessary skill if he hoped to survive at least until next summer. Nerasa wouldn't always be there to help him. Someday, he would be alone.

It was true, there was no getting past it. Tir needed to learn how to fight, and learn it soon. However much confidence Alpha Liyra put in hunting the renegade down, Tir did not think the white she-wolf would be subdued that easily. He had been in her eerie forest, after all, and he remembered with a shudder that it had been almost too dark to see the trees. He wasn't Palva, but it didn't take a Gatherer's wisdom to know that there was big trouble on the horizon. And if he couldn't defend himself from it, then he wasn't going to last long at all.

He needed a teacher—the best one he could find. Someone to whom fighting came as naturally as hunting came to Tir. One of the Sentinels. Alpha Liyra would be too busy, and of course Leron was out of the question. Salka was far too distressed over the death of Yielsa, who had been a good friend of hers, to be of much help. And somehow, Tir couldn't quite see Nerasa taking fighting lessons seriously enough. There was another sentinel named Losai, a blue-grey wolf with very shaggy fur, but Tir had never spoken to him in his life. The sensible part of him told him that Losai, though he did not know much about him, was probably the best candidate; but Tir could not rid himself of the memory of a swift white blur, charging and weaving around an enraged stag three times its size with a skill and speed unmatched by anyone else in the pack...If he could fight like that, so quick and lethal, he would even stand a chance against Captain Leron himself. The only other wolf Tir knew of that could fight like that was the renegade, whose own power, as it was now known, was not to be questioned.

Tir recalled his conversation with Palva, after his disastrous Sentinel Assessment. He had been reminded of something, then. That in spite of the terrible rumors circulating in the pack, there was only one wolf who had been the first to show him any kind of mercy—before Palva, even—and no matter for what hostile reasons that mercy may have been given, it was the first real chance he had been offered. Now, what Tir needed was a second chance.

He needed to learn to fight fast, and for that, he needed the best teacher he could find.

"Xelind?"

The frost-white wolf turned at the sound of Tir's tentative voice, his dead eyes staring.

"What do you want?" he said.

"I—well, I need to ask you something."

For a split second, Xelind's eyes seemed to flash with something like surprise, but he regained his blank-faced composure so fast that Tir thought he might have imagined it.

"Excuse me?" he said, staring down at Tir. "You need to ask me something?"

"Yes," Tir said, remembering his first meeting with Leron and taking care to avoid direct eye contact. "I only wanted to ask a favor of you."

Xelind's face did not change. "Why?"

Tir, who had been expecting him to ask what the favor was, was taken aback.

"Er—why? What do you mean?"

"I mean why do you want a favor, outsider," Xelind said in a dead-level tone with no inflections whatsoever. "And why are you asking me, of all the pack?"

Tir swallowed. "Well, I—I suppose it's because I thought you'd be best."

"You thought I'd be best." he repeated. "You say that as though I have not made it absolutely clear to you that you are not to speak to me. You say that as though the pack has not told you about me, and told you that you are an exception to what otherwise would have ended very badly."

"I...I don't know. So I was going to ask you."

This seemed to catch Xelind off-guard. He stared at Tir as though Tir had just told him Kesol was the new alpha. After a second, however, he switched back to his natural expression of frosty indifference. But he had begun to narrow his eyes.

"What would I be best at, then?"

"Fighting. I must learn to fight."

There was a silence. Xelind surveyed Tir, blue eyes rimmed with distaste. "You want to learn how to fight," he repeated, as though such a thing was not possible. "And you want me to teach you?"

"I—yes, that's it—"

Xelind cut him off with a short, barking laugh. Tir jumped, startled.

"Really?" Xelind said, dead eyes glittering. "You think that I would have any desire to give an outsider such as yourself scuffle lessons? Why don't you get one of your sympathizers to help you?" He gave a thin smile. "Kesol, perhaps?"

Tir glowered at him. "I'm not begging, you know."

"Then what do you suppose this is? A peace offering?"

"No," Tir said, suppressing a snarl. "You don't have to be friends with me—you don't even need to be civil to me. Carry on hating me, by all means; I'm past caring. Just teach me how to fight so I can kill you someday."

Xelind raised his brow, ice-blue eyes narrowing into an aquiline glare. "Is that a challenge?" he said, his voice deadly soft. His lips curled, baring cold white fangs. Tir took a few steps backwards, startled.

"No. Not a challenge," he said. "That's not what I meant."

"Because if you were to challenge me," Xelind cut in, showing his teeth. "I will rip you. Limb. From. Limb."

Tir swallowed. Xelind's resemblance to the renegade was frightening. It was easy to see why the pack believed him to be a murderer—and it didn't seem that he did much to discourage the reputation, either. The scar that slashed through his left eye was sharp and livid. Tir cringed, wondering who had given it to him.

"Yes, of course you would," Tir said, trying to look unconcerned, but choosing his words with extreme caution nonetheless. "Because I'm no good at fighting at all. I've said it already, remember?"

"I must say I am glad you will face the truth, then," Xelind said, slipping back into a deadpan monotone, his snarl fading as though it had never been. "Should the Captain Leron have been alpha, you would never have been allowed in this pack."

"Oh, well, that's interesting."

"...you disgust me, you really do. It's hard to believe that any wolf could be such a terrible fighter. It is true that I have always thought fighting to be a natural instinct..."

"We do all have different instincts," Tir said agreeably. "...like malice, for example," he added in an undertone.

Xelind stopped talking.

"M—malice?" he faltered.

"Yes, malice," Tir continued, glancing up at the sky. "I know what a show you must put on for Captain Leron. You want to be captain someday as well, right? Because your sister—"

"BE QUIET," Xelind snarled, causing several wolves in the redoubt main to turn and glance their way. His ears flattened and he glared at Tir with pure hatred. Tir did his best to smile, but it was hard. He knew he had taken a risk he shouldn't approach, and he hoped he wouldn't have to pay for it.

After a while, however, Xelind muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and then threw Tir an icy glare. "What do you want?" he growled.

"Fighting lessons, I already told you."

"Why should I agree?"

"Because I need them. The renegade will slaughter me in a week—do you want that on your conscience?"

"I'd be honored."

Tir tried to laugh at this as though he had made a joke. "Even so," he went on, trying to speak as though he knew what he was doing. "There already is something on your conscience. It would be a shame if the wrong wolf were to hear of it."

Xelind's eyes widened with fury.

"—I mean me," Tir amended, before the white wolf could lash out again. "Remember? You were the one who let me go when Alpha Liyra had ordered against it. I don't think it would be very good for you if someone were to tell her that—"

"You're threatening me?" Xelind said, a hint of incredulity creeping into his voice. "You're actually threatening me?"

Tir stared at him without flinching. "I don't have another option," he said. "And I know that you want to be captain, Xelind, and you must have been working awfully hard. It would be terrible to let that work go to waste—"

"Fine then," Xelind hissed. "I'll do it. But don't you dare say a word to Alpha Liyra, or I swear I'll kill you. You should have heard enough by now to know that I mean it."

"Really?" said Tir, hardly daring to believe it. "You'll teach me how to fight?"

"Kill you, as it will likely end," Xelind snapped. "Starting tomorrow, then. Midday. Meet me at the redoubt entrance. I will not wait for you."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Midday. I'll be there."

Xelind said nothing else. He whipped around and began to walk away.

"Xelind?" Tir said. "I have to ask—"

But Xelind, bristling, ignored him. The cold white wolf was padding stiffly away towards the Sentinels' dens, growling under his breath as he went.

Tir took a breath. It was a dangerous leap of faith he had just taken, and he hoped it hadn't been a mistake. Even, though, if everything he had heard about Xelind was true, then what could happen? Xelind had no motivation to kill Tir; this was not the marsh, and Tir was no danger to his status or survival. Anyway, Palva didn't believe the stories about Xelind—and the one thing Tir knew was that Palva was always right.

### 17.

Retaliation

"This has gone far enough."

Palva was the first to speak at the Council meeting the day after the white renegade had killed Yielsa. The entire atmosphere of the pack had been shocked, miserable, and frightened for the past long hours. It was now midday; Alpha Liyra had emerged from her den, bleary-eyed and haggard, and called a Council meeting.

There was no fear of being overheard, for every other wolf in the pack had remained in their dens the entire day. No one wanted to leave, for fear of the vicious renegade that was no doubt stalking the fields for any stray wolf at this very moment. The redoubt was silent and oppressed but for the quiet murmuring of those in the Council, who had gathered in a tight circle in Liyra's den.

"Far enough," Palva repeated. Her voice was not angry and challenging, but hollow and without any expression. Her dull, pale eyes scanned the four other wolves clustered around her, all of whom were staring at the ground so as not to meet her gaze.

Palva did not need to say I told you so, for everyone knew that she had. Even Captain Leron, usually so outspoken and confident, was looking subdued.

Simetra, who was looking much better but for a few violet-bruised naked patches and a long red scar, was the only one who did not appear ashamed. Rather, she was glowering at the ground as though trying to burn a hole in the soil. Palva, seeing this, was discouraged. Yielsa had been one of Simetra's best hunters. Simetra would want revenge on this renegade; Simetra would not listen to what Palva was trying to say.

Palva looked at Liyra, who was determinedly gazing up at the sky.

"You're going to listen to me now," Palva said with a tinge of bitterness to everyone. "...and you'd better be quiet until I've finished."

Leron looked up as though he was going to say something, but for once he was unable to do anything but open and close his mouth like a lead-eyed fish under Palva's pale, accusing glare.

"I am not going to waste time," she said. "You know what has happened, and you know that it could have been prevented. I warned you, all of you, and you did not believe me. Now it has happened, something bad come of the deer hunting, just as I said before. What do you have to say?"

For a few uncomfortable minutes, no one made a sound. Liyra cleared her throat with a weak, choking sound, as though she had not spoken in a long time.

"Palva," she said, with a hint of a plea. "Palva, please. You must understand. There was no proof, no possible way of us knowing—"

"No way but for my feeling," Palva finished for her. "And what is there to understand? Believe me when I say that I already understand a great deal more than any of you. You didn't, wouldn't understand me. I tried, Liyra. You know that I did. But you would not hear a word of it. None of you."

"But Palva! There was no proof—"

"Enough with the proof!" Palva spat, sounding angry for the first time. "Is Yielsa's death not enough proof for you?"

Leron's head shot up, grey eyes for once not so condescending and calm, but glaring.

"Stop there a moment, Gatherer," he said in a low voice. "You wouldn't dare to be saying that Yielsa's death is our fault."

"Thank you, Captain," Palva said through gritted teeth. "That is exactly what I am saying. I am impressed and pleased that you've caught on so quickly."

Growls exploded from the four wolves around her, and Leron was rising to his feet, dark brown fur bristling as he expanded and seemed to fill the den.

"You dare," he said, grey eyes cutting down at her and voice rumbling with a hint of a growl. "You dare make such accusations, to put such blame, as if I would let such a thing to happen to one of my own, as if I wouldn't do anything I could to protect, to—to...why, you arrogant—"

"It is not blind accusation, Captain. It is fact."

"She was murdered, Gatherer. It was the renegade that did it—the renegade is to blame."

"And yet," Palva continued. "It would never have happened had you all listened to me when I told you there was danger in hunting the deer."

There was silence. The other wolves exchanged glances, their stormy anger giving way somewhat to shame. At last, Liyra spoke again.

"What do you say, Palva? Tell us. We will listen to you."

Palva whipped her tail, looking unconvinced as the other wolves nodded in submissive agreement. Leron, who was still standing with stiff legs, sank back down. Palva glared at him until he looked away. The scent of his rage burned in the air like smoke.

"Fine then," she said. "You say you will listen. Well, it's too late for that. But you may be able to smooth this down if you listen to what I say now."

Liyra shifted; she looked uncomfortable. "What do you want us to do, Palva?"

"Agree to the renegade's terms. That's all you can do, now."

"Agree to her—" Leron sputtered, rising again. "Are you insane?"

Palva said nothing to him, but looked to Liyra for her reaction. To Palva's fury, the alpha was looking apprehensive about what she had proposed.

"I know what you are thinking, Liyra," she said, forcing her voice into a level tone. "You don't want to back down to that renegade. You think it will make you and your pack look weak."

"Of course that's why!" Leron paced before her, and Palva watched, grim, as he fought to maintain his rapidly-thinning façade of control. "There should be no question—no question—of what we must do now. We cannot give in to her now; I know these kinds of wolves, and they leap like scavengers upon any sign of weakness. No wolf would respect an alpha who would back down to exaggerated and worthless threats!"

"Exaggerated?" Palva said, raising her brow. "Worthless? Captain, must I remind you that so far her threats have been fulfilled? She has already killed Yielsa, and it will not be long before—"

"Give her what she gave," Simetra interrupted, her face stony. With a shudder, Palva knew what she was talking about.

"No, Simetra," she said, turning to address the glowering chief Hunter. "We can't do that. It would not work—it isn't so easily done—and we must get out of this situation while we still can. It's still possible that we can escape this. All we can do is—"

"We will and we should!" Simetra spat. "That renegade killed one of my hunters! It would be justifiable to destroy her as well. That beast deprived us of a fine hunter. We must get revenge."

Leron's eyes lit up at the word revenge. He halted in his pacing and spun to face Simetra, the fur along his back rising as his face began resolving itself into a sort of half-smile.

"Yes." he said. "That's what I have been waiting for. Oh, well done, Simetra!"

Simetra did not reply, but scowled at him with as much hatred as she had for the renegade. Leron, however, did not seem to notice this.

"The renegade is a murderer," he continued, now addressing a rather surprised-looking Alpha Liyra. "And you recall the punishment that you set seasons ago, in order to control fighting in the pack. It served us well then; it will serve us well now."

"If it had served us well, then you would not be standing here, Leron!" hissed Palva. "Nothing is that simple, and you know it!"

"You are changing the subject, Gatherer," Leron said, his voice unchanged. He did not turn to face her, but instead watched Liyra, who was observing this exchange with a sort of glassy thoughtfulness. "This is unsurprising. Every appeal you bring up before the Council must turn into another of your constant attempts to discredit me. I told you; everything that happened in the old lands, in the marsh—I only did what I thought was best."

"Best for whom?"

"The pack, Gatherer, the pack," Leron said, the pace of his voice beginning to rise again with impatience. "But this renegade—"

"Whose pack, Leron? Yours? Liyra's? Surely not Karvo and Solora's—not after such unfortunate accidents. It makes me wonder, though, whose wolves you're speaking for now, now that you're so eager to lead them towards more death, now that—"

"I think," Leron said, his voice rising above Palva's. He was still facing forward, grey eyes gleaming in the dark, as though pretending that Palva were not there. "I think it is time we stop pretending that the Gatherer understands the struggles of wolves who don't commune with the stars. It is clear that her dream-world is quite a different place from the world we live in."

"How dare you!" Palva snarled, thrusting her way in front of Leron, who did not recoil. Her pale eyes flashed. "You idiot, you...you stupid, blind leech—Now you pretend that I didn't foresee Yielsa's death? Now—"

"Palva," Liyra said quietly. "That is enough."

Palva fell silent in astonishment. The rest of the Council stared at her, save for Leron, whose eyes remained fixed on Liyra. The alpha sighed and lowered her head.

"The punishment is death," Liyra said, her voice low and weary. "Death. Murderers must die."

"Listen to me!" Palva said, knowing that she had lost control of the conversation. "It will not work, mark my words! The only way is to agree to the renegade's terms and form some sort of compromise before this goes out of our control."

"No," Liyra said, turning to Palva. "Listen to me; I am the alpha. I have gotten us into this, and I shall bring us out. You were right about the danger, Palva, and you have my fervent apologies, but in this case we cannot back down. I am sorry. It would be a signal of weakness, and soon the renegade would be making even more demands of us."

"How do you know that? You don't. I told you before, and I was right. And still you won't listen to me!"

"No, Palva," Liyra said, as though she were soothing a sulky pup. "This time, Captain Leron is correct. And how can there be danger in killing this renegade? She is only one, and we are many. Our troubles will be over quickly."

"Our troubles are only beginning! Guidelights, Liyra, killing this renegade will do nothing in our favor."

"Kill her," Simetra spat from the corner.

"Kill her," Sirle said from the shadow of the boulder.

Liyra sighed and looked from Palva to the rest of the Council, who were all bristling with the furious, electric energy that Leron had spread. From his corner, he was seething with excitement, teeth bared in a wide smile and steel eyes gleaming with fierce joy as he watched her, silent.

Palva could not believe this. They would not listen to anything she said, no matter how many times it led them into peril. She could see that it was useless arguing any longer; the four wolves around her were snarling and snapping their teeth without realizing what they were doing. Leron had incensed them, and now they were all growling for the renegade's blood.

Irate, Palva turned and stalked away without another word.

***

"Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic."

Tir spat in reply, picking himself up from the ground where he had been thrown and wiping a thin trickle of blood from his muzzle. Xelind was standing a few feet away and, despite his lack of outward expression, looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

"I told you I needed lessons," Tir said. He winced at a sharp pain in his hind leg. "It isn't my fault. No one ever taught me how."

"Because you're absolutely hopeless. Abysmal. Terribly weak."

Tir glared at the smug white wolf with as much venom as he could muster. "That will change," he said. "It's what I'm learning for, isn't it? I need to fight so I can defend myself from the renegade and Cap—" he stopped himself just in time, remembering that Xelind was one of Captain Leron's strongest supporters.

Xelind blinked and smiled blandly, as though he knew exactly what Tir was about to say. "That's right, isn't it?" he said. "You are in danger, outsider, and you know it. Shouldn't be surprised if you die within the next fortnight, though it won't make much of a difference to the rest of the pack."

Tir looked away, trying to appear as though Xelind's words had no affect on him, though he was seething with rage. It was their first day of fighting lessons, and so far all Xelind had done was knock him down once—with embarrassing ease—and then proceed to calmly abuse him. Tir wondered if he would manage to learn anything at all.

"Now, shall we try that again?" said Xelind. "Go on, then, outsider; have a go. Attack me."

Tir was sure to take his time in turning around to face him again. Unlike Captain Leron, Xelind was not crouched and poised for an attack. He was standing, watching Tir's stiff movements with undisguised amusement showing in the slight tilt of his head and the small curve of his lip. Dead blue eyes glittered from beneath a thatch of ice-white fur.

"Did you hear me, outsider? I said to attack me."

Tir growled something irritable under his breath and leapt, charging straight into the skinny white wolf like a bull. Xelind jumped aside, and Tir swung around to change course. The wind was blowing straight into his face, and it blinded him for only half a second, which was enough for Xelind to dart in with bared fangs, jaws snapping to slash open his muzzle. Tir yelped, swiping blood out of his eyes and whipping around with the furious intent of pounding Xelind into the cold ground. He lunged for one of his white legs, but it was jerked out of his grasp, leaving his jaws snapped around empty air.

Xelind danced out of his path again and again, every now and then lunging in to tear at Tir's pelt with his fangs. Tir, who was again growing weary of this game, had the feeling that Xelind was enjoying himself.

At last, Xelind crashed into Tir with his shoulder, sending him flying to land, crumpled, in the grass. He lay there for a moment, breath rasping in his lungs and his stomach sinking as he realized that learning to fight would be even harder than he had bargained for. It was a small satisfaction that Xelind seemed to be breathless as well, but Tir soon realized that it was because he was laughing. He had never heard Xelind laugh before.

"Oh, that was fun, wasn't it?" Xelind said. "Want to do it again? Or have you given up yet?"

"I haven't given up," Tir said, his sides heaving as he fought for air. "Tell me what I did wrong, and I will fix it."

"Well, outsider, fighting is a mixture of strength and intelligence. Regretfully, you have neither."

"WHAT DID I DO WRONG?"

Xelind tilted his head. "To begin with, I could tell exactly where you were going."

"What gave it away?" Tir hissed.

"Your eyes. And, really, everything else. That's where intelligence must come in, you understand. You must try to trick me. Otherwise, I'll be perfectly ready for you every time."

"So," Tir said, trying to fight back his anger. "Shall I make it look as if I'm going to attack you somewhere else?"

"Perhaps," Xelind said. "But now I know to expect the unexpected. I'm not going to be fooled unless you come up with something exceptionally clever, which I—"

Tir made a sudden lunge. His jaws barely clipped Xelind as the white wolf whipped out of the way, sending Tir to land on the spot with a heavy thump.

"You eyes gave you away. Again."

Tir hissed with frustration, once again struggling to his feet. Judging by the horrible throb in the side of his head, he now had gained a new bruise. He spat the grit out of his mouth and shook his shaggy brown fur.

"Control yourself," Xelind was saying tonelessly. "You're letting your intentions show in your eyes. I could see that coming seasons before it hit."

"It was a start!"

"It was unhelpful."

Tir growled in reply and turned away, beginning to work at tugging a spiteful thorn out of his paw where it had been embedded a few seconds ago. Cold wind buffeted his fur and stung in his eyes like icy needles—though no more icy than the tone of Xelind's voice as he continued to throw insults at Tir, who was trying his best to concentrate on the stubborn thorn and not listen.

"...you fight like a pup, it is true. Sirle is eternally grateful that you were not Placed with the Sentinels. You belong with the Hunters. Not surprising that the first one to fall was a Hunter—weak, all of them, to fall to such a very small renegade, lynx-claws or not. What was her name, the one killed? Yielsa?"

Something exploded inside of Tir at Xelind's barbed jibe at Yielsa. Without even considering the consequences, he whipped around with a roar and flung himself at Xelind with all his weight and hatred. Caught off-guard, Xelind was forced backwards under Tir's attack. Tir tore at him, feeling his fangs sink into raw flesh, blood filling his mouth and Xelind's surprised gasp; rage burning in him like a wildfire He had no right to say that. Xelind struggled for a few moments beneath Tir's much larger size, but it was not long before the skinny white wolf managed to slip out from beneath him. Tir stopped, panting and glaring; Xelind watched him with something like mild interest, a fresh red flower of blood staining his white fur, but not at all seeming bothered by the sudden attack. They stared at each other for a few moments.

"Do you hate me?" Xelind asked after a long silence, his blue eyes expressionless.

Tir, beneath his boiling anger, was surprised. It was a strange question.

"I...er—I don't know." he said, dumfounded and uncomfortable.

"I hate you," Xelind said serenely.

"Thank you."

"And that hatred I turn to anger against you, which I use to fight harder. Anger gives me skill and motivation."

Tir stared.

"Did you see what just happened there—a few seconds ago?" Xelind continued, rising to his paws and studying Tir. "You hated me. You have always hated me—though why you wanted me to give you lessons, I haven't the faintest idea. But just then," he went on. "Something happened to make your hatred overflow. And you attacked me in your anger—a sloppy, out-of-control attack, but an attack nonetheless. You must learn to control your anger, outsider—anger is power. The renegade is fueled by anger, and you see what she has already done."

"So is that all? I only need to hate you and I will tear you to shreds? Well, that won't take much of an effort. Why didn't you tell me sooner? I could have easily—"

"Simpleton," Xelind said. "Idiot, do you really think that's all? There's skill involved too, you know—skill you are, regrettably, lacking, so I'm afraid I haven't much to work with."

"Oh, of course, I forgot," Tir said. "It's my fault, isn't it? Because of course you've done your very best, Xelind, in spite of everything. So far, you've taught me nothing. You haven't even taught me where to begin. Simply, 'Attack me, Tir,' and, 'Anger is power, Tir,' and, 'You're an idiot, Tir.' Don't you have anything else? I already know I'm bad at fighting—let's move past that, shall we?"

Xelind surveyed him for a few moments. "You want to learn how to fight?" he said. "Fine, then. I will teach you how to fight. But don't expect it to be easy, or painless, for that matter. Fighting hurts, outsider—didn't you know?"

An hour later, Tir was staggering his way down to Palva's hollow, feeling as though his pelt had been turned inside out and filled with stinging needles. Xelind had led him through some of the most brutal fighting Tir had ever experienced, tearing and slashing at him as though Tir had done him a personal wrong. Tir supposed he deserved it—after all, he had asked for fighting lessons. Xelind was right. He was an idiot.

With a groan, Tir flopped down into the grass nest in Palva's hollow. Palva whipped around at the sound, scattering a neat pile of feverfew.

"What have you been doing?" she demanded, her pale eyes wide.

"Fighting lessons," Tir mumbled.

"Fighting lessons? Why in the name of Rya's tears are you taking fighting lessons?"

Tir looked away. "I can't fight. And I need to learn."

Palva stared at him for a long time, and then sighed. She turned back around and began throwing together a pile of herbs—burdock root, sorrel, plantain, and, of course, garlic. She muttered to herself as she went, though Tir could not catch any particular words. She began pounding the plants into a poultice, spicy-scented juices staining the herb-boulder dark (Tir wrinkled his nose at the scent).

"Of course, I understand why you want to fight," she muttered without looking up, scraping the green poultice onto an oak leaf. "You should know how. Everyone should. Especially you."

"Because of the renegade?" Tir asked, watching the herbs with a wary eye. "Do you think she may be targeting me because she remembers me?"

"No, idiot. Because of Captain Leron. Frankly, I'm more concerned about him than I am about the renegade."

"Why?"

She glared at him from over her herb-boulder. "You don't need to know that. Not yet, at any rate."

Palva gathered up the leaf bundle in her jaws and padded over to Tir's side, laying her herbs in the grass and beginning to examine his cuts and bruises. Her pale eyes widened.

"Fighting lessons, you say?" she said, prodding a long, red slash down his side with her muzzle. "Guidelights, are you sure there's nothing else you want to tell me?"

"No. I'm only trying to learn how—how to fight better, stronger—how to fight at all, really, so I can defend myself, you know? He said it wouldn't be...painless, or—"

"Hold on," Palva interjected. "Who is this 'he'? Who have you manipulated into giving you these so-called fighting lessons?"

"Xelind."

Palva froze. Her jaw fell open, dropping the bundle of herbs with a thump, but she paid no attention.

"Xelind?" she whispered, pale eyes round as the moon. "You've persuaded Xelind to give you fighting lessons?"

"Y—yes."

Palva sank to her haunches. "Oh, please, Tir, please tell me this is some sort of a poor joke," she said, her voice angry. "You wouldn't ever do something so stupid, would you?"

"I'm not joking," Tir muttered. "And it isn't stupid; I have reasons—"

"Stars blind you, Tir! Of all the wolves in the pack—have you heard nothing about him? What did we discuss only a few days ago? Idiot!"

"Thank you, really," Tir said angrily. "But Xelind has already told me that—"

"Don't you know who he is? Why, why, why would you have him give you fighting lessons? All alone, only you and Xelind, pretending to murder each other out on the fields with no one else around!"

"What are you—?"

"He's Leron's minion. He's a spy, Tir! You're literally playing into his hands—all Leron has to do is give Xelind the order, and he'll kill you. No one would ever know; you two are all alone out on the fields. Oh, Tir, you insufferable idiot!"

"Palva!" Tir said, startled by her flare of anger. "Don't worry—there's no need; I trust him—"

"Oh, you trust him?" Palva spat with a note of hysteria. "Well, then, that just makes it all better, yes? Why would you ever trust him? I doubt even Leron trusts him completely! Xelind's a nasty piece of work, Tir, a two-faced weasel, didn't you know? All he cares for is himself and his gain—he'd do anything Leron tells him to do if it will give him something good in return. How do you think Sirle became chief Sentinel? Alpha Liyra had nothing to do with it, I'll tell you that."

"No he's not," Tir said quietly. "He's really not all that bad, Palva."

"He's not that bad? What has Nerasa told you? We discussed this just the other day. I told you to avoid him. Any wolf who would kill a defenseless pup in cold blood—much less a pup of his own blood—certainly wouldn't shy from killing you."

"But you said you didn't think he really killed his sister. You said—"

"I said that I didn't know for sure," Palva snapped. "Who am I to say what happened then? It very well may have been on Captain Leron's orders, for all I know. The only wolf in this pack who knows the positive truth is Xelind himself—oh, and let me guess; you were going to ask him, yes?"

"Yes," Tir muttered. "But he doesn't like to talk about it, apparently."

"Of course he doesn't, you idiot. She was his sister. What's more, he promised his dying mother he would protect her. The mention of her must be enough to bring back some form of guilt. Bringing it up will make him only angry—get him angry enough, and he might just kill you for his own satisfaction!"

"I don't think so."

Palva stared at him, incredulous. "Did the renegade break your head? He hates you, Tir. I thought you'd at least know that much by now. He'd kill you in an instant, even if there wasn't anything in it for him."

"I don't think he would. He hates me, but I don't think he'd kill me."

Palva stared at him in complete disbelief. She shook her head.

"I thought better of you, Tir," she said. "I really did. What's wrong with you? You do realize that you made an awful mistake, don't you?"

"No," Tir said. "I'm sure I did the right thing. Positive."

"Oh, why, Tir?" Palva said sarcastically. "Fine, then, do tell me. Why do you trust Xelind?"

"Because he saved Simetra," Tir said, his voice calm despite Palva's anger. "Captain Leron pushed her at the stag on the deer hunt, and she would've died. If she did, I'll swear by anything Leron would've made Xelind chief Hunter in her place, regardless of the fact that he was a Sentinel. You know Captain Leron could persuade Alpha Liyra to do that, Palva."

Palva sighed, closing her eyes. "Yes, I know," she growled.

"But Xelind saved her. He drove the stag off—he didn't have to do it, no one would have noticed if he hadn't. Everyone else was too shocked to move. And I'll bet Xelind knew about the plan all along, but he didn't want to do it. He couldn't stand and just watch Simetra get killed. He may not be very nice, but he isn't a murderer."

Palva was silent for a while, staring at Tir.

"And that isn't all," he added, before the Gatherer could speak again. He lowered his voice. "...do you remember when I asked you why Xelind didn't kill me that one night, the night I ran away?"

"I remember."

"You said it was because Leron was being clever. But that isn't true." Tir met Palva's gaze. It was impossible to read her face. "Nerasa overheard Leron yelling at him the night after my Sentinel Assessment, after Leron had fought me and found out that I don't even know how," he said quietly. "Leron realized that it couldn't have been me who gave Xelind that cut the night I ran away, and he figured out that that meant Xelind had simply told me to run away. Leron had ordered him to kill me that night, Palva."

Palva was quiet for a long time, staring at him. Her face had not changed.

"He wouldn't have ordered that," she said flatly, after awhile. "Leron is far more clever than that. He would have known that Xelind wouldn't get away with it; Liyra would have punished—"

"No, no, but she wouldn't," Tir said, shaking his head. "Liyra saw how I attacked Sirle and Simetra, remember? And she knew that I had fought with you, also. Xelind was to say that I had attacked him, and he had no choice but to defend his own life. It wouldn't be his fault if I ended up dead."

Again, Palva said nothing. From the redoubt behind them, a distant chorus of yelps and snarls broke the thoughtful silence. Tir did not move; it sounded as though the Sentinels were fighting amongst themselves again. Palva, however, pricked her ears at the sound.

"Perhaps that's why Leron hasn't been happy with him lately," she muttered, looking away. She turned the trampled feverfew over with her paw. "Great Guidelights, Tir, I never would've imagined. I knew Leron had something to do with the stag, but never thought he..."

Her eyes grew sharp again, and she raised her head to glare at him. "Still, you have no way of knowing for absolute sure," she said. "Who are you to say why Xelind does what he does? You at least must realize that you've made a very dangerous decision, Tir."

"Xelind won't kill me. And I must learn to fight, Palva; you know that. Xelind is the best one to teach me."

"Fine then," Palva groaned, shaking her head. "You go about your fighting lessons. But I'll be keeping a close eye on Xelind, whatever you say. And Leron. One breath of trouble, and I'll send Nerasa after him." She paused, and raised her head in the direction of the redoubt, where Simetra's harsh barks had broken the din of the fight, and the Sentinels' snarls were dwindling back into silence. Palva seemed to calm. "At any rate," she added, turning back to Tir. "You don't need to worry about the good captain tonight; he isn't here."

"Where is he?"

"On the renegade hunt. Great Guidelights, am I glad not to be her."

### 18.

The Third Hunt

It was night, and the forest was alive with shrieks and howls. Raging shadows wove through the undergrowth, rushing and roaring like the wind that made tides through the treetops above. White fangs glittered in the darkness and eyes in the undergrowth flashed in unnatural colors. The air was filled with the screams of invisible creatures, thousands upon thousands of them, summoned by the bloodlust that was burning in the wind like hot sand. They surged forward with an almost eerie fluidity, a black stream of bristling pelts and snapping fangs, throwing their hunting calls like a hungry flock of ravens as they dashed amongst the quiet, observing trees.

Alanki's heart beat to the rhythm of her paws slamming against the ground. She had known that they would come for her; she had known what they intended to do. Never. If they caught her, then who would defend the deer?

She could feel them coming, rumbling in the ground like thunder beneath her paws. Ears flat, tail streaming like a comet behind her, she shot through the forest, slipping over stone and under brush like a flitting ghost.

One of the shadowy wolves leapt at her from behind a clump of bracken. He lunged for her, but she sidestepped his attack, lashing out a swift, clawed paw to crack into his head—something she had learned from fighting the lynx, long ago. She turned on the spot and whisked away into a thick grove of pines, kicking up leaves into his face and hearing his howl of fury as she disappeared.

They will never catch me. That's what she had told the alpha wolf. But they had come for her anyway. It was to be expected. They were faster than Alanki had imagined, but not as swift as she—she hadn't survived as a renegade for nothing. It was as though the forest was full of them: endless, bristling intruders. Roars and snarls echoed through the air as though descending from the black sky, enclosing Alanki in their grasp, saying, We're coming for you. We're going to kill you—you will pay. Well, this was her forest. It would hide no one but her.

Clumps of dark undergrowth seemed to open up before her, ready with a small hollow in which she may hide. She could melt into the dark night-shadows of the forest, her white pelt just a flickering will-'o-the-wisp—there one moment, gone before you could blink. These were superstitious wolves, she knew. They would see her vanish into thin air.

Like a dart, she wove in and out of the tree trunks and brambles, her paws making no sound as they flowed over the mounds of scattered dead leaves. She smiled in spite of her dire situation. The wolves chasing her were running as if they had no care for the noise they made; their heavy paws slammed against the soft ground like hammers. Alanki was as silent as the shadow of a bird.

The army of galloping paws was coming closer; the soil beneath Alanki's feet trembled like the skin of a drum. She dove into a pile of dead leaves amongst the pooled shadows of a pine tree, her white pelt melting into the darkness as though it had never been there.

The wolves' paws came to a sudden halt, and Alanki heard a few leaves rustling. She listened closely, estimating that there were three wolves there, their bristling pelts brushing against the thorns of the undergrowth. She could see their eyes glittering and darting around like wild sparks in the shadows. The hunting group was having a hushed conversation, and one of them was arguing. Whispers floated through the darkness like wisps of cotton. She strained, but could not make out what they were saying.

Then the whispers stopped. A black she-wolf with scars on her muzzle padded past Alanki's hiding place, sniffing the still air. Her dark pelt, papered with dead leaves, was bristling and rigid. Mustard-yellow eyes scanned the grove of shadowy pines, flickering sparks in the darkness.

Alanki pressed herself lower to the ground and flattened her ears. So that's what they were doing now—trying to sneak up on her? She watched as the black she-wolf padded away, keeping close to the trunks of the trees and skirting pools of shadow. Well, Alanki could do some sneaking of her own.

It was not long before small, scared-looking black male crept into the grove to follow the she-wolf, so near to Alanki that she could hear his short, terrified breathing. She watched him with shrewd green eyes as he sniffed around the roots of a nearby bush. He was young—younger than the she-wolf had been, and younger than Alanki herself—and terrified, too. She could smell his fear in the air, and hear the rapid, panicked fluttering of his heart. He would make an easy kill. Alanki tensed, feeling the energy building up in her hind legs like boiling water as she waited for just the right moment.

She exploded out from the undergrowth where she had been crouched, almost invisible. A cloud of dead leaves splayed up from the ground, raining down like fluttering, whispering bats on Alanki and the other wolf.

She barreled into him, slamming him against the ground. There was no ritual, angry slashing of claws this time—Alanki went straight for his throat. His hind paws scrabbled underneath her, but she ignored the sharp shocks of pain as they ripped through her fur. He gasped a choking yelp of terror as she bit down hard into his throat, his movements becoming more frantic. Alanki's jaw clamped around his soft neck, preparing herself for the rush of hot blood.

Something large and heavy rammed into Alanki from behind, sending her spinning off into the shadow of a nearby pine. She quickly regained her feet, shaking away the throbbing shock of the impact and slipping off to crouch against the tree.

Another wolf, a deep brown color but very large, was standing a few feet away from the wolf on the ground, who was still struggling for breath.

"Where did she go, Raatri?" Alanki heard the larger wolf hiss, his grey eyes glinting like knives through the darkness.

Raatri gasped and shook his head.

Alanki watched them from among the shadowed roots of her pine, crouching as close to the thick trunk as she could. The large wolf's cruel-looking eyes were scanning the grove, ignoring Raatri's whimpers.

"Go find Nerasa," he growled, sniffing a dead leaf at his paws. "She shouldn't be alone, and we will be needing backup."

Alanki rose to her paws and slunk off into deeper darkness, leaving the two wolves behind her. They made no sound, no sudden shout. They had not seen her at all.

The forest enveloped her in its dark grasp, and she vanished.

***

The wind was sharp and cold, biting Tir's face and paws and making his eyes water. It cut through his thick fur, penetrating to strike the cold within his very bones. Grey grass whipped around Tir's numb paws and lashed, whip-like, at his ankles. The sun, however, was buttery yellow and warm, and it helped to take the edge of the icy wind. Tir shivered with a prickly sort of pleasure. He was cold, but he had not felt so alive in a long time.

It was not a satisfactory day for hunting—and Tir knew this. The wind had picked up since yesterday's fighting lesson (from which he still was sore and bruised), and the air had grown colder and thinner. Nonetheless, he had been sent on a hunt. A hunt with Seilo.

Seilo was trembling in the cold wind. The pup was hunched low to the ground and peeping over the tips of the grass. Ever since he and Tir had left the redoubt, Seilo had not taken his eyes off of him. Tir knew that the young wolf was still afraid of him, but his fear seemed to have been dampened by a strange sort of terrified fascination. Seilo had said nothing since he and Tir had set out, but his eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and wonder. Tir had no idea why.

"Well, then," Tir started a bit awkwardly, trying to sound cheerful. "What shall we do now?"

Seilo pressed his body closer to the ground, his soft, tawny fur fluffed up against the wind. For awhile, he was silent, and Tir was afraid he wasn't going to speak at all.

"Palva said to hunt," he whispered finally. "Just hunt."

Tir's ears pricked. The whole time since he and Seilo had left the busy redoubt, he had been wondering. Why had Palva sent them on a hunt? That was either Simetra or Captain Leron's job. But Palva had called to them from the mouth of her tunnel, only he and Seilo. Tir remembered—her pale eyes had been gleaming with an unreadable expression—which he had now come to recognize as the expression she wore when she was scheming—and her tail had been twitching on the ground. She had said something under her breath, after sending him and Seilo, confused, out to hunt, but Tir hadn't made out the words.

"We're supposed to hunt," Seilo said in a louder voice, under the impression that Tir had not heard him. "Palva—"

"I know, I know," Tir said. Seilo flinched as though he had reprimanded him. "Where shall we start?"

"Sorry," Seilo squeaked.

"Sorry what?"

"I—I dunno."

"You don't know where we should start?"

"No, I just—I dunno how."

"How what?" Tir was confused.

Seilo looked up at the sky, shivered, and then looked down at his paws.

"I don't know how to hunt," he said in a small voice.

"Oh!" Tir said, understanding. "Is that all?"

"No one taught me!" Seilo said, looking very forlorn. "I was too little—But Palva said you're supposed to teach me. That's what she said to tell you."

"To teach you to hunt?"

"I—I suppose. She said, 'Tell him to teach you, teach you everything.'"

That sounded like a strange way to put it, but Palva put everything strangely, and Tir guessed it made sense. After all, Seilo was a bit too young to know how to hunt. Someone had to teach him. He would be old enough to be Placed by next summer, after all.

"All right then," Tir said, doing his best to sound encouraging. "Hunting isn't the most difficult thing to learn."

Seilo was a very good student. He listened as Tir told him different hunting tactics, his ears pricked and eyes sharp and determined to learn. Tir himself had never been taught to hunt, exactly—it had come naturally to him—but he found that it was quite easy to put the process into words. Seilo watched as Tir did his best to demonstrate the proper hunting stalk, pounce, and kill.

"Don't ever play with your prey," he explained, after attacking and "killing" a nearby pebble. "It is a gift from The Spirits—at least, that's what they told me. Never let it suffer, but dispose of it quickly."

Tir was surprised when Seilo copied his movements exactly, creeping without a sound over the grass to pounce on the pebble. The pup was a natural hunter. Even Simetra would have been proud.

"You see," he explained to Seilo, who was looking rather pleased with himself. "Hunting is not something that would take anyone long to learn—some are good, some simply are not. There are a few certain helpful strategies to know, of course; but mostly it's just an instinct. I remember my father didn't teach me anything at first—he just said, 'Go out there and see what you find.' And would you know what? I came back with a mouse."

Seilo laughed, a timid little sound. Tir was feeling pleased. Misari had trained him well, and for a moment, Tir felt a bit sad as he remembered that he would never see the wise raven-black wolf again.

"Oh, yes, and I forgot—" he said to Seilo, remembering something. "You must be careful to know which way the wind is blowing. If the wind is blowing in your face, then you should be fine. But if the wind is blowing away from you, then your prey will be able to scent you coming. You won't catch anything that way at all."

"It's windy today," Seilo remarked, sniffing the air with his tiny black nose. "Does that do anything?"

"Yes," Tir said, once again surprised. "Yes, it does; well done. It makes it harder to scent prey, and when you do, it's hard to tell where they are. Today really isn't such a good day for hunting." He frowned. "I don't know why Palva sent us out here."

Seilo shrugged, still sniffing the wind. Tir padded over to him, looking out at the windswept fields.

"Can you scent anything?" he asked. "Maybe we can catch something today after all."

As a matter of fact, Tir could detect a faint trace of rabbit on the bitter wind at that very moment. His paws began to twitch and his instincts longed to chase after it, but he decided to wait and see if Seilo could scent it first.

Seilo's tiny nose was quivering. He tipped his head to and fro, squinting his eyes against the wind and wrinkling his face with effort. Slowly, his limp tail began to rise up from the ground, his eyes widening and ears pricking forward.

"Is that it?" Seilo whispered. "Is that a rabbit? Do you smell it?"

The pup sniffed the air again, as though to make sure.

Tir nodded and nudged the pup forward.

"Let's see if you can catch it."

Seilo gave him a doubtful glance, but he lowered himself into the whipping grass, ears sticking up over the swaying stalks, and crept away without a sound.

Tir doubted that the tawny pup would be able to catch the rabbit, at least not under such windy hunting conditions. But he said nothing, watching as Seilo's ears moved through the field; halting every now and then to be sure he was going in the right direction. Tir urged him on silently.

For a moment, the wind seemed to pause. It was as though time was standing still, and Tir knew that Seilo was preparing to pounce. Squinting, he could see Seilo's hindquarters sticking out from the grass a good distance away, swaying back and forth as he braced himself for the kill. The breath caught in Tir's throat as he watched.

There was a sudden screech. Tir leapt into the air, fur on end, alarmed. Was it Seilo or the rabbit? It was an unnatural sound he had heard only once before—when Simetra had been being mauled by the furious stag. It was fraught with terror, as if made by a dying animal.

Seilo was dashing towards him over the grass, ears flat and eyes wild with fear. Tir ran forward to meet him, his mind racing with horrible thoughts. Was something chasing Seilo?

Seilo dashed past Tir and cowered behind his legs.

"There!" he screamed. "Up there!"

Tir followed his horrified gaze up to the clear sky, almost expecting to see fire raining down on the fields. But he almost laughed with relief when he saw what Seilo was gazing at with such paralyzing terror.

"It's only a hawk, Seilo!" he said. "It's just a bird."

Indeed, a lone hawk was gliding in wide circles above them, a black silhouette against the crystal blue sky.

"It's not a bird!" Seilo wailed, shrinking to the ground. "It's a wolf—a bad wolf with wings! It has claws and fangs—"

"Seilo!" Tir was confused. What was he talking about? "It isn't going to hurt you; you're too big to be its prey. It's probably going to get our rabbit right now—you needn't be so afraid."

"No, No. It's looking for me. They're always looking for me. They found me once, a long time ago. And it—it was bad, so bad."

With a jolt, Tir remembered Palva's story about how Seilo had come to her pack.

"Well, his back was covered with gouges, like talon-marks. Our best guess was that an eagle or a hawk had snatched him up from somewhere...."

His heart began to race. Of course. Seilo did remember fragments of his past—one of them being the hawk. Could he remember more? Could it possibly be that his memories were just buried, waiting to be uncovered in the right situation? The pup remembered hazy things, of course; faces and voices. But he had been too young to remember specific names.

And all of a sudden, Tir realized—this was why Palva had sent them out on a hunt today. To distract Seilo from the fear that had begun hanging like mist close about the redoubt, but also to remind Tir, just as Seilo needed reminding. Tir shuddered, and looked up to the distant cliff-top, where the spiky branches of burnt trees clutched like black spider-webs at the watery white sky. Why did Palva want to remind him? Hadn't she been happy to have him forget?

"Seilo," he asked, his voice shaking. He turned his head away from the desolate forest in the sky, fighting back his own fear. "Do you, er—do you remember where you were when the hawk caught you?"

Seilo cried and made little scuffling motions with his paws, as though trying to dig a hole to hide in.

"Seilo!"

"I—I was standing. Standing...standing...somewhere. On a cliff, in a puddle, under water, up a tree—"

Tir's fur prickled, but he tried his best to remain calm, so as not to frighten the pup further.

"But do you know why you were there?"

Seilo looked up, his round eyes reflecting the blue sky where the black shape of the hawk was still circling.

"They told me," he said. "They told me the fire was coming."

Red, evil flames reared up before Tir's eyes once again and he gasped, almost tasting the lethal smoke curling around his lungs. But he shook these memories away, trying not to let Seilo see his fear.

"Who told you?" he pressed, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice. "Who told you about the fire?"

Seilo shook his head, pressing his paws into his eyes.

"I don't know! I don't know! They said— they said... Oh, I don't know! Stop it!"

"You can't remember? Do you remember anything about them?"

"So big—they were big, and brown, and the sticks on their heads—"

"Deer told you? But how could you have spoken to deer?"

"I didn't! They didn't! It came, claws and teeth and screams and wings. And they killed me, but I came back, and— No! Go away! Leave me alone!"

Tir watched with a mixture of dismay and shock as Seilo curled up into a tiny knot on the cold ground, quivering and sobbing to himself.

"Seilo," he asked gently. "Do you remember Arwena?"

There was no reply.

"Arwena, Seilo!" Tir pressed, his heart pounding. "Don't you remember Arwena? An old brown she-wolf with green eyes?"

Seilo raised his head. His lips were curled, tiny teeth bared in a terrified puppy-snarl, and his ears were flat against his head.

"No. I don't. Leave me alone."

Tir sat down on the ground with a thump, his head rushing with frustration and sorrow. So close. He had been so close. Tir was sure that Seilo somehow remembered, and he could make Seilo remember. Making Seilo remember would be like carrying his old home with him and having a piece that he could keep, to have all the old faces with him and to stave off the nightmares when they came again. But how?

Seilo whimpered something unintelligible into the grass.

"Tir! Tir! Tir!"

Tir's head shot up. Nerasa was racing towards him and Seilo, her ears flat against her head. She reached them, panting, halting, grass spraying up at her paws.

"Where have you been?" Tir examined her matted fur, scores of tiny cuts, and bleeding paws. Her yellow eyes were glassy with shock, and every one of her hairs was standing on end.

"It was just—just awful," she panted, spitting on the ground. "I wish, I wish, I never... Of course, I have to. We all have to—"

"Nerasa," Tir interrupted, feeling uneasy. "What are you talking about?"

Nerasa looked at him, and then at Seilo, who was still curled in a trembling knot on the ground.

"Hunting for the renegade," she said in an undertone. "I tell you, that was the worst."

"What happened?"

"It was just—I mean, we couldn't see anything. There were shadows everywhere; it was all black. Moon in a hole, I swear, that forest is probably full of bones. And—and every now and then, she'd just appear, leaping out from thin air and attacking one of us. It was awful. Raatri almost got killed—"

"But no one did get killed, right?"

"'Course not," Nerasa said, sounding a bit more like her old self. "There were three of us and one of her. But mind you, we had to stick together or she'd have just picked us off, one by one. And it was hard; we could barely see each other. That forest is so awful, so dark and scary—I don't know how she can stand to live there."

Tir nodded. He remembered the horror of the renegade's forest all too well. It was dark; even the trees seemed hostile. He shivered. He hoped he never had to go in there again.

Nerasa was still talking, her voice ragged and patchy.

"All black, all shadows—and suddenly, she'd just be there, like some awful ghost. I'm telling you, that crazy renegade is no normal wolf—I don't think she even is a wolf, no wolf fights with their claws, only wildcats do, and you know how crazy they are. Moon on fire! She jumped on me once, but Captain forced her off. It was impossible to see her at all; she'd just disappear like that," Nerasa stomped on the ground. "I tell you," she continued, talking very fast. "She wasn't kidding when she said we'd never find her. I don't know what we're gonna do, but I guess we have to get her at some point. I just hope she doesn't get one of us first. Raatri—"

Nerasa stopped, and looked at Seilo. She then leaned forward to whisper in Tir's ear so the pup couldn't hear.

"Raatri says he won't go anymore. He refuses to go in that forest one more time. You should've seen him when we got back—he was in an awful state, all shivering and jumpy. I think he was about to cry he was so scared. He kept gibbering about blood and white shadows, and then he marched up to Alpha and said he would have nothing more to do with the renegade. I kinda understand him, you know—he did see Yielsa get killed—that must've been for anyone to handle."

"Did Alpha Liyra listen to him?" Tir asked, growing more and more apprehensive as Nerasa went on.

"Oh, sure. She didn't want to at first, but then he started to get all crazy again, like he did that one night. Right away, Alpha told him he didn't have to go anymore. I guess she just didn't want him to go insane and start shouting about blood and entrails again."

Tir shivered, for what felt about the millionth time that day. He felt sorry for poor Raatri; he wouldn't have wanted to go galloping through a dark forest in the dead of night to chase a bloodthirsty renegade. It sounded like the perfect description of a nightmare to him.

"At any rate," Nerasa was saying, flopping down onto the cold grass. "The next hunt is later today, can you believe it? I guess Alpha just wants to wear the renegade down to nothing, get this thing over with as soon as possible, before everyone's morale goes to dirt. At least that hunt'll be during the daytime. I'd hate to go at night again."

She shuddered, licking at a long cut on her left flank. Tir watched her for a few moments, thinking to himself.

"Are you going on the hunt today?" he asked.

"Guidelights, no! Not on my life. And mind you, it might cost me that next time. Maybe I'll go like Raatri and just refuse—no, Captain would cuff me if I did. Palva would, too."

She paused and glanced up at him, mustard-yellow eyes gleaming. "Palva's starting to scare me a little, see," she said, lowering her voice. "She's been in a real snappy mood lately, apparently because Alpha isn't listening to her anymore. Can't imagine why Alpha wouldn't, though—I mean, Palva knew what was going to happen with the deer hunting, didn't she? Bad choice on Alpha's part, if you ask me."

Tir shifted. "Should you talk about Alpha Liyra like that? In my old pack, you could get in trouble."

"Trouble?" Nerasa snorted. "What more trouble than we're already in? Anyway, I heard that Palva also didn't want to kill the renegade, and I think we should listen to her. It's almost like she knows what's going on, more than Alpha or maybe even the renegade—I mean, really knows."

Tir shot a sideways glance at Seilo, who was still quivering. "She'd be the only one, then," he muttered.

### 19.

Yew

Palva frowned. Her garlic supply was dwindling—little more than a few worn, withered stalks remained, scattered pathetically across the face of her herb-boulder. What with the renegade cutting wolves open right left and center and Tir coming back to the redoubt every morning with fresh fighting injuries, her supply almost spent. It was time to go out to the fields to search for more herbs before her stock was gone.

It was now midday; the sun was weak and grey from behind a thick screen of clouds. The wind was blowing harder than ever, whipping through the redoubt and lashing through fur like claws. The wolves from the renegade hunt had returned only a few hours ago, with brambles in their fur and fear still flashing in their eyes—not to mention the dull sense of failure. The renegade was still running free, and Palva, though she would never tell any other wolf, was relieved. There was something not quite right about that renegade, and Palva hoped that she would at least stay alive long enough for her to puzzle out exactly what.

Lost in thought, Palva ambled up her tunnel, a bit awkwardly on her three legs. She was making her way towards the redoubt entrance when she passed the mound of boulders that was the Sentinels' dens.

"Excellent idea, Xelind. I must say, I am impressed."

Palva froze at the sound of Captain Leron's voice leaking out through a crack in the stone wall of a nearby den. She knew that she should not eavesdrop—a filthy, low trick of Nerasa's specialty—but there was something eager in his tone that prickled at the corners of her mind. Nothing that made Captain Leron happy could be any good. She flattened her ears and crept closer, pressing herself against the boulder's cold surface.

"But it was not my idea, Captain sir, he came to me himself."

Xelind. Palva's heart began to pound. What were they talking about? She flattened herself closer to the little crack, listening hard.

Leron was laughing.

"Oh, don't bother kidding with me, Xelind." he said. "It is just the kind of thing you'd come up with. My only surprise is that he agreed to it, though the poor outsider never struck me as being a great mind."

"Yes, sir. True, sir."

Palva's eyes widened. They were talking about Tir.

"It's very clever, what you have set up," said Leron, his voice smoothing into a comfortable, pleasant tone. "Fighting lessons, of course he would need it—yes, yes, we've already discussed that. I'll be truthful and say that I haven't been entirely pleased with you lately, but I see you are working to make up for that. I appreciate your initiative; you are my best, Xelind, don't you know? Being in good status with me will reap great rewards when I am alpha again. Remember that."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want rewards?"

"Of course I do, sir."

Leron paused for a moment. Palva, her heart thudding, could almost see him surveying Xelind with his steely grey eyes.

"Then why did you not accept it when it was offered to you?" he said, his voice soft. "A strange reaction, driving the stag back. It...why Xelind, it almost makes me doubt you."

"Oh, no, sir—"

"You should have seen the opportunity there, Xelind. What have I taught you? It was a very simple plan and, frankly, it angers me that you spoiled it."

"I am sorry, sir," Xelind said, cool as ever. "But it seemed too obvious to me, had I done nothing to save the chief Hunter. The pack dynamic has changed since we left the marsh. They would have suspected, and they are inclined to blame me as it is."

"We have been through this before, Xelind. Would they have suspected all the others as well? No one else did anything to drive off the stag. Shock, I expect. No one would have suspected you."

"Yes, sir, but still—I am not a Hunter; the position would not have fallen to me. Otherwise I'm sure I would have foreseen—"

"Did you think I had not planned for that? Alpha Liyra is easily persuaded. You know that. I am disappointed in you."

"I am sorry, sir," Xelind said. "I made a mistake. I will not repeat it."

"See to it that you do," Leron said. "Because I already have a brief task for you, one that will make up for your past blunders."

"A task, sir?"

"Oh, yes. Very simple. You're going out to the fields with the outsider today, yes? For your fighting lessons?"

"I am, sir."

"Then kill him," Leron said. "As soon as you reach beyond earshot of the redoubt. Be quick about it, too—no need to play with him, just finish it mercifully. I am tired of his presence among us and, to be frank, I suspect that he isn't being entirely honest with the rest of the pack. There's something about him, Xelind, him and the renegade—I don't trust him. I have been watching, ever since he came to this pack. Liyra has not listened to me on this matter, however, so I have been forced to take things for myself."

"Sir."

"You impress me, Xelind, I must admit. Even when you were a yearling you showed potential."

Xelind was silent.

"The outsider will be a simple matter. Not a problem for you, I am sure?" Leron said. Palva could hear him smiling. "He wouldn't be so quick as to run away again, would he? You know what you owe me, Xelind, and I won't be playing around on this matter any longer. If the outsider by some mystery escapes again, then I'm afraid I will have no more use for you."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll have you know, Sirle begged me for the task, but I decided you would appreciate an opportunity to mend past wrongs and to change my mind. Don't ever tell me I do not reward my old friends well."

"But, sir, why not do it yourself? I have disappointed you, I don't deserve—"

"Don't be foolish. You have the best opportunity, and besides, you have certain advantages."

"Advantages?"

"You fur is the same white as the renegade. Kill the outsider, and then bring him back to the redoubt. Say that you met the renegade on the fields and she attacked you both, killing the weaker one, of course. If there are any doubters, the fur around his fangs shall be white. Your fur, of course, but all others, Alpha Liyra in particular, shall think it is that of the renegade."

"Very orderly, sir."

Leron laughed. "Go then," he said. "And be back soon. The quicker we are rid of this outsider, the sooner we may put our efforts towards eliminating the renegade. Go on, get out!"

There was a scuffling as Xelind darted out of the den. Palva flattened herself against the boulder, but he did not look in her direction. His eyes were blank and fixed on the entrance of the redoubt, where Tir was waiting to leave for the day's fighting lesson.

Palva's heart was pounding at what she had just heard. She had been right—Xelind was not to be trusted, not ever. Something had to be done, or else Tir would be murdered and the blame would fall on the renegade, who, for once, was innocent. But Palva could not care about the renegade anymore; the renegade could take care of herself. Tir would never stand a chance.

But what could she, Palva the Gatherer do?

Palva turned and dashed back down to her tunnel as fast as she could.

***

Tir shifted before the entrance to the redoubt, the wind cutting through his fur and making his eyes water. He wished Xelind would hurry; he needed a bit of fighting to warm himself up. The day had only grown colder since his hunt with Seilo, and Tir was feeling numb. What was Xelind doing? He had never been late before.

Tir spied the skinny white wolf slipping out of one of the Sentinels' dens on the other end of the redoubt main. From a distance, he looked eerily like the renegade. Tir shuddered.

"Fine, then, let's go," Xelind said, bustling up to Tir. He looked edgy about something. Had Tir imagined the slight tremor in his voice as he spoke?

"Are you all right?" Tir said, peering up at him. "You sound strange."

"I'm fine," Xelind snapped. "Let's go."

Yes, there was definitely a small waver in his voice, as though he was bothered about something. Tir was baffled. Xelind had never been shaken by anything—what could be wrong?

"A—are you sure you're fine?" Tir asked. "You seem upset about something. Do you want to skip the lesson for today?"

"No! We can't miss today's lesson. And stop bothering me, you idiot. For the last time, nothing is wrong."

They glared at each other for a while. To Tir's shock, there was something like fear deep in his icy blue eyes. Xelind must have realized this, because he jerked his head away, facing the bitter wind.

"Come along," he said. "Let's go—"

"Wait just a minute!"

They both swung around. Palva was running towards them, at a lopsided sort of gallop on her three legs. She skidded to a halt in front of Xelind, panting, and dropped something from her jaws. Tir stared at the scarlet berries as they rolled onto the grey dirt. They looked familiar.

"You don't look well," Palva said, her voice hard. Xelind blinked.

"I don't look well," he repeated, sounding irritated. "But I just told the outsider here that I'm—"

"Not well at all," Palva cut in. "It may be an autumn fever."

Tir stared at her. She looked even worse than Xelind; her eyes were wide and glazed and her ears were flat against her skull. Tir watched, dumbfounded, as the fur along her neck rose like a hedgehog's spines.

"An autumn fever?" Xelind said. "No, I think not, Gatherer. I feel perfectly fine, I really do—"

"No, you don't. Alpha Liyra's ordered me to examine everyone so we have our full strength against the renegade. Here, I brought you some herbs."

She nudged forward the shiny red berries with a trembling paw. Xelind stared down at them, and Tir followed his gaze. There was something familiar about them, something entrancingly terrifying, though he couldn't imagine where he had seen them before. They were small and gleaming like little droplets of blood on the ground.

"Eat them," Palva said. "Eat them, and they will help you. It's the best I can do."

Tir was transported back to a dry, sunny day, over a year ago. Arwena, her fur soiled and unkempt, was standing at the foot of a scrubby coniferous tree that was sprinkled with gleaming red berries. She turned to him, eyes dull and hollow.

"This is yew," she said, her voice a dreamlike whisper of a memory. "All parts of it wish to do you harm. Should the black seed of a single berry so much as touch your tongue, you will die."

You will die...

"Stop!" Tir shouted at Xelind, who had just lowered his head to lick up the red berries. "Stop; don't—don't eat those! It's yew, and it's poisonous."

Slowly, Xelind raised his head. He stared at Tir with his deadened eyes, unchanged; he stared at Tir for a very long time. Tir swallowed, his heart pounding.

"It's poison," he said weakly. "Yew. You'd die."

Silence.

"You are an idiot, Tir," Palva said. "An idiot."

"But it's—it's poison, Palva. Poison. W—what were you—"

"It wasn't an accident! I know what I'm doing, Tir. And so does Xelind. But you don't—you never knew what you were doing."

Tir stared at her, unable to comprehend what she was saying. He couldn't believe that Palva—Palva, of all the wolves in the pack, would do something so terrible, so characteristic of Leron.

Xelind had not moved. His head was still inches away from the berries, which twinkled sinisterly on the ground. Frosty blue eyes stared straight through Tir, and for once the usual blankness had gained a calculating edge. Palva was glowering at the Sentinel with such hatred and disgust that Tir would have flinched, but Xelind did not appear affected at all.

"I wasn't going to do it, you know," he said, not taking his eyes off of Tir. "I didn't intend to."

"Don't lie," hissed Palva. "I heard everything, you filthy, despicable mur—"

"I'm not a murderer."

"He trusted you! I would never trust you, but he at least gave you a chance. You disgust me."

"Tir should not trust me; he should never have trusted me," Xelind said, still staring at Tir as though reading his mind. "But I'm not a murderer."

"Then what did you intend? I heard everything—you were going to come back and disappoint your captain, were you? Let him see that there's no more use for you? Oh, I heard what he told you—as if you would throw away your own life!"

"I didn't intend to do that, either."

"Then what were you going to do? I heard what Leron said."

"I would have thought of something."

"What's going on?" Tir said, his eyes darting from Xelind to Palva, his heart beginning to pound harder. "W—why are you calling Xelind a murderer, Palva?"

"Take a guess, Tir."

"That's enough."

Xelind had risen to his paws, dead eyes glittering. His shaggy white fur was bristling, but his face had not changed. Almost experimentally, he took a threatening step towards Palva, but she did not flinch, glowering straight back with double the ferocity.

"I am not a murderer, Gatherer," he said tonelessly, raising his head. "I've never been a murderer, and you have no evidence to prove me otherwise."

"Oh, do I not?" Palva said. "I'll admit I didn't believe everything said about you. Rumors, I called them. Well, I was wrong. You consider yourself lucky I'm only the poor three-legged Gatherer, or I swear I would kill you on the spot."

"I didn't do it. How many times must I tell you wolves? It was—"

"It was not a fox! There were wolf footprints around her body, or do you have an explanation for those, too?"

Xelind's blue eyes were stony and blank.

"You must be mistaken," he said.

"Oh, say I am then! But tell me, who did kill her if it wasn't you? I suppose you're going to suggest it was Kesol?"

"It was a fox. The dark fur in her claws was fox fur."

"What fur? There was no fur in her claws when we found her."

"I didn't kill her."

"Why bother denying it now?" Palva said. "You know very well the stories everyone tells. And now I know it's the truth. You conniving, bloodthirsty stoat. You killed a pup in cold blood—your sister—and today you were—"

"I DIDN'T KILL HER!" Xelind roared. Palva took a step back, surprised by his explosion. Xelind was panting, his blue eyes narrowed.

"P—Palva," Tir said. "I don't think this—"

"Be quiet, Tir!" Palva barked. "Oh, don't you dare defend this—this—"

"This what, Gatherer?" Xelind said through clenched teeth, bearing down over Palva. "This liar? This hypocrite? This stoat? Call me what you like, but I won't listen to you calling me a murderer."

"But if you're a liar, then it doesn't make any difference whether you say you are or not, does it? I know the truth, and Rya save you if you ever come to me with any sort of wound or affliction, because I swear I'll poison you into insanity."

"Palva?" Tir asked, frightened by the murderous look on her face. "What happened? What did you—"

"I'll tell you what's going on," Palva said, turning on him. "What have I ever told you? Didn't I say not to trust him? Does no one listen to me around here? Didn't I say? Didn't I?"

"I wasn't going to do it!" Xelind snarled. "I had another—"

"I heard what Leron told you, Xelind," said Palva, her face an inch away from his. "And I know what you were going to do the moment the pair of you got far away enough from the redoubt."

"What?" Tir asked, his voice shaking. "What were you going to do?"

But before she could answer, the realization broke over him like a cold wave. "No. No, Palva, he wasn't—"

"He was," she growled. "I told you never to trust this clod of filth. I told you!"

"I wasn't going to do it!" Xelind said, for once looking a bit uncomfortable, his eyes darting towards Tir.

"Oh, really?" Palva's voice had dropped to a deadly whisper. "You spineless coward—you'd do whatever the Captain told you to do, wouldn't you?"

But to Tir's surprise, Xelind closed his eyes and turned around.

"I told you, didn't I?" he said. "I wasn't going to do it. What must I do to make you believe me?"

"Eat these," Palva said, shoving the yew berries back under his muzzle. "Eat them now, before they freeze, and then I'll believe you. And a good riddance, I'll say as well. The rest of the pack will thank me tomorrow."

Xelind blinked.

"Is that all?" he said, a trace of sarcasm creeping into his tone. "Well, then. If that's what you want, then I don't have a choice, do I?"

Tir's jaw dropped. Was Xelind out of his mind? He stared, amazed, as the white Sentinel turned over one of the berries with his paw, the blood-red reflecting in his eyes. Palva looked just as startled as Xelind opened his mouth just the slightest, showing rows of sharp white fangs.

Tir was shocked and horrified by what he had just learned. Palva had been right all along, and even Xelind himself had admitted that Tir should not have trusted him. Xelind had always hated Tir, and Tir hated him in return—for all the cruel comments and beatings he had to endure during their fighting lessons. But no matter how much he detested the haughty white wolf, whatever he may have done in the past, did Tir want to see Xelind die at his feet? Would that give him any sort of satisfaction?

"No, wait," Tir said hoarsely. "Stop it, Xelind."

Xelind stopped.

"Tir." Palva whipped around. "What are you doing? This stoat would kill you for nothing. If he wants to die, then let him. For Rya's sake, stop trying to be noble."

"But Palva, I—"

"Oh, no, what's going on here?"

Captain Leron had strode up to the group, towering over them as he surveyed the scene. Palva swung around, her eyes flaming and her teeth bared in a snarl.

"Oh, hello, Captain," she hissed. "We were just having a pleasant philosophical conversation. Xelind here brought up the topic of murder, a very interesting thing indeed. Do you know anything about it?"

"Murder?" Leron rolled the word over on his tongue as though he had never heard it before. "Well, no, Gatherer, I don't think I do."

"That is very well," Palva said. "Because, as you so aptly put it at the last Council meeting, 'murderers must die'. True, yes?"

"Very true," Leron said with an agreeable smile. "And the sooner we catch that murderous renegade, the better," he added. "I have come to inform you that there will be another renegade hunt this afternoon. Tir, you shall be coming along with several other wolves. Do not forget."

Tir did not reply, but Leron made no objection. He wheeled around and padded away, not sparing them a backwards glance.

"Murderers must die," Palva muttered to herself. She glared at Xelind, and then met Tir's eye. Still growling, she ground the yew berries into the dirt with her paw and walked away.

### 20.

The Renegade's Forest

Tir jumped at the sudden, rasping call of a bird from somewhere in the intertwined branches of the trees above him. It was about an hour past midday, but the little light that managed to seep through the thick canopy of trees was dim and green, pooling in patches beneath each bush and frond of bracken. Nerasa was right; it was better to hunt for the renegade in daylight. But still, not much sunlight was able to penetrate the canopy. The renegade's forest was dark enough during the day.

He flinched as a squirrel dashed across his path. Sirle, who was walking in front of him, shot him a look of disgust. Tir felt his fur burn with embarrassment. He needed to calm down, or he'd be easy prey for the renegade.

But calming down was not a simple task at the moment—his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, still recovering from the shock of Xelind's murderous intentions. How could he have been so stupid? Palva was right, and she had every good reason to be furious with him. He hadn't been any better than Alpha Liyra—he hadn't listened to her, and had she not showed up at the last minute, he would not be alive right now—would he? Xelind had insisted that he wouldn't have killed him, but Tir didn't know what to believe. Everything was a mass of confusion—Seilo, the renegade, Xelind—Tir had a terrible headache from it all, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and rest for a season. But that wasn't possible—if he couldn't keep his senses alert, then Palva's intervention may have been for nothing.

"All right, everyone listen to me now."

Leron's patrol came to a halt in a small clearing among the massive, lumpy roots of an oak tree. Leron faced the five wolves assembled, his eyes alive with a fervent glint.

"Listen and take care," he said. "Because I'm not going to repeat it. This is a very important mission, and it could be dangerous."

Seilo squeaked, but Leron ignored him.

"I'm going to split you all into pairs, and each pair is going to search for the renegade in a different area. She will not escape us this time. We have more wolves, and we have the light of the sun by which to see."

Simetra snorted in a very Palva-ish way. Of course, the sun did not make much of a difference in this quiet, shadowy forest. Leron took the time to stare at her before continuing.

"If you find her, first chase her down. Once you have her subdued, howl and the rest of the patrol will meet you. Do not leave the place where you stand."

"Pardon," said Salka, her tail bristling and eyes darting around the trees. "What shall we do with her once we catch her?"

Leron's eyes glinted, and he paused for a moment before replying, as though wanting to create a larger effect.

"Kill her, of course."

The other wolves exchanged uneasy glances at this, but no one complained. Salka coughed quietly.

"Well, then," she said. "What shall we do if she attacks us? She attacked wolves on last night's patrol."

Leron offered her a rather condescending smile. "I am sure that two of you would be able to defeat one of her, of course. But even so," he added. "—howl if you need any help."

Captain Leron began moving amongst them, dividing the group into pairs. Unlike the rest of the wolves, he did not seem nervous at all. He strolled among them, waving his tail as if he were on a normal, leisurely hunt. Seilo was hunched against the dark ground a few feet away, trembling. Tir ached with pity for the pup, but at the same time was angry—was Liyra mad? This was no place for a pup to be. He wondered if perhaps bringing Seilo had been Captain Leron's idea.

"Ah, let's see," Leron purred, standing before Tir. His stare burned through Tir's pelt, and, however hard he tried, Tir could not meet his eyes.

"Yes, I think you would go well with the pup. You did such a fine job teaching him how to hunt. I don't think he'll be much of a disruption for whatever tasks you need to complete."

Tir's head shot up with incredulity. Seilo? Leron was teaming him with Seilo? But surely Seilo should be partnered with someone older and more experienced? Seilo wouldn't be able to help Tir with the renegade, nor Tir help him. Tir glared at the back of Leron's head, wishing he had the renegade's claws so that he could throttle the captain. No doubt, this was another attempt of the Captain's to try and get rid of Tir. Leron was doubtless hoping that the renegade would finish off both of them.

"Good luck," Leron said, nudging a terrified-looking Seilo towards Tir. "And watch out for spiders."

It was very dark in the forest. And very quiet, also, now that the other wolves had gone their separate directions. Tir was padding through the thorny undergrowth with his ears pricked and his heart thumping so loudly he was sure that the renegade would hear it and track him down.

"I'm glad that I got teamed up with you," Seilo was whispering. "I can't fight at all. You're big; I suppose you'd scare that renegade off, no trouble."

Tir sniffed at a pile of dead leaves, deciding it was best not to tell the scared little pup that he couldn't fight either.

"What does the renegade look like?" Seilo asked, half curious, half fearful. "Nerasa says she's a huge, fanged monster with lynx's claws and hedgehog spines, but Raatri says she's nothing more than a white shadow—like a ghost."

"Er, well, she's only a little wolf, about half my size," Tir scanned the dark rows of trees as he spoke, trying to get the thoughts of ghosts out of his mind. "And she's white, with scars all over her muzzle and flanks. But her fangs are the long and her claws are sharp, yes, like a lynx's—she fights with them, too. I wish she was only a ghost."

Seilo shuddered, tripping over the protruding root of a nearby yew tree.

"I hope we don't find her," he said.

"Me, too," Tir said quietly.

Aside from the occasional bird call, the forest was as silent as a tomb. Not even the trees moved, and the only sound to be heard was the scuffling of Tir and Seilo's paws. Try as they might, it was impossible for them to move silently. It was as if the forest was getting in their way on purpose—branches whipped in their path, snagging in their fur and making Seilo yelp with surprise. Thick, lumpy roots seemed to be everywhere, arching from the mossy ground every few steps to trip them. Glittering eyes watched the pair from every dark shadow, disappearing the moment Tir looked straight at them. For all they knew, the renegade could be following them at this very moment. She could be anywhere.

But even in his jumpy, wary state, Tir noted with puzzlement that there seemed to be endless signs of prey activity. Squirrel hollows were everywhere, the empty shells of nuts strewn all across the damp ground. Tir caught the scent of rabbit almost every time he shoved his way through a patch of undergrowth, and Seilo even fell into a rabbit hole. If this forest was so full of prey, then why was the renegade fighting so fiercely for the deer herd?

"Look at that," Seilo said from behind him.

Ahead of them was a small clearing surrounded by a row of leafless silver maples. Through the spiky, black branches, they could see the space in the middle. Sniffing the air for dangerous scents, Tir wove through the trees and into the clearing with Seilo following close behind, blue eyes wide.

The clearing was small, grey, and dreary. Although the forest itself was eerily quiet, this clearing had an air of dead silence—almost unnatural, as though something had placed a smothering hold over the place. Tir shuddered, sensing the change in atmosphere. Everything was still as death; even the frost that glazed every grey surface did not twinkle. A soft, icy breeze swept across the ground and sent chills dancing across the skin beneath Tir's fur, ruffling the frosted leaves and filling the air with an almost inaudible whispering. The entire place had an otherworldly feel to it. It was as though they were surrounded by ghosts.

Tir stood in the center of the clearing for a few moments, the cold breeze sifting through his fur. Seilo had wandered over to a far edge, and was now sniffing something on the ground.

"Tir," he said, his small voice breaking through the silence. "I—I think you'd better come over here."

The fur at Tir's neck bristled at the apprehension in the Seilo's voice. He padded over to where Seilo was standing; the pup's tail was rigid and fur fluffed up with fear. He was looking over a patch of grass and dead leaves under some low-hanging branches. The stalks curled around a center area, forming a tiny indent deep in the shadows. It looked almost like a nest.

"What is it, Seilo?" he asked.

"It smells— it smells of—" Seilo stammered. He ran his tongue over his jaws in terror.

Tir padded closer and examined the nest. Unlike the dead leaves beneath his paws, the grass in the nest was not stiff and frosted—it was green and dry. This nest had been used recently.

Tir sniffed it, and every hair along his back stood on end. It smelled of the renegade.

They were standing in her clearing.

"Get back, Seilo!" he said, his paws shaking with the instinct to run. "Get out of here! Now!"

But before they could make another move, terror-stricken howls filled the air, coming from somewhere deep within the forest. Both wolves flinched and recoiled, tails bristling and stiff behind them.

Without a word, Tir sped out of the dreary clearing and into the shadows of the forest, his heart pounding to the rhythm of the distant howls. It's the renegade. She's caught someone.

The tortured cries were growing louder, and Tir could now hear a thrashing sound in the undergrowth, as though something were writhing and dying in the thorny brambles. Ripping snarls tore through the rustling noises; it sounded as if a whole pack of wolves was battling.

Behind him, Tir could hear Seilo's running pawsteps and ragged breathing as the pup struggled to keep up. But Tir didn't slow, though he didn't know whether he was going to be much of a help if he got there in time.

A white streak crashed out of the undergrowth, halting when it caught sight of the frantic Tir and Seilo. They skidded to a stop, dead leaves spraying up at their paws.

"MORE OF YOU?" the renegade hissed. "How many have you brought along?"

Seilo was whimpering, and Tir did his best to put on a brave face before the bristling, hostile she-wolf.

"Many," he said, forcing a growl into his tone. There was blood dripping from her muzzle, and he tried not to look at it. He narrowed his eyes, imitating Xelind's frosty composure. "They're coming for you. You should run."

"Oh, should I?" she said. "And where are these friends of yours? They wouldn't happen to be the wolves in the pine grove back there, no?"

"I..." Tir's voice trailed off, unable to think of what to say to this.

The renegade laughed. "I am not going to run anymore. You have come to my forest now—I shan't run from my prey. They run from me. Are you ready?"

"I won't run," Tir said. "You'd only attack when we turn our backs. But I don't want to kill you, either."

"Well, then, 'tis simple. Because I assure you, you aren't going to be doing any killing today."

Behind him, Seilo squeaked in terror. Tir took a step backwards as the renegade began creeping forward, tripping over the pup as he did so.

"There—there's a pup," he stammered. "You can't kill a pup—"

The renegade gave a spitting snarl. "You would kill a fawn, would you not?"

Tir didn't know what a fawn was.

The renegade laughed again. "'Tis too late now. You are all idiots, and not one of you shall leave this forest alive. You came to hunt me? Hah. You came to make me laugh. I am the only hunter here."

"I didn't want to come here! The alpha ordered us."

"And all of you must listen to her, no?" The renegade lashed at the ground with her paw, her claws leaving three long scores in the soft dirt. "If you fear for your life, then you should have disobeyed her. 'Tis too late now. Your damage is done."

"My damage?"

"The deer. You have slaughtered them. Think 'twas all a hunting game, do you? Well? Are you still having fun?"

"No. I never was having fun, I swear. I didn't kill—"

"Of course," she growled. "Well, I have told you. I told you I would kill you all if you refused to listen to me. You did not believe me, now, did you? Believe me now?"

"I—"

"Your time is up, every one of you."

Tir's desperate howl, hoping that someone, anyone, would hear, was cut off as the renegade's jaws latched around his neck and contracted like a wire snare. White-hot pain shot through his head like a bullet and he gagged, blood spraying up in his eyes; he clawed at the soft ground, clutching at the soil in agony.

There was a small, puppy-snarl from somewhere behind him as Seilo launched across the ground and onto the renegade, biting her tail.

"No!" Tir choked from beneath the renegade. "Run, Seilo! Go!"

Seilo didn't pay any attention. He snarled and tore at the renegade's white tail, ripping out mouthfuls of fur and snapping bravely at her flank. The renegade whipped around, lashing at Seilo's head with a lightning paw. He yelped and tumbled away, landing in a small heap a few feet off.

Tir moaned and tried to stand, but his legs felt as though they were made of water. Pain unfurled like livid flowers in his head, and he was distantly aware of the fact that he was slipping in a pool of his own blood.

The renegade was moving back towards him as though in slow motion. Seilo lay motionless behind her and Tir, suddenly seized with rage, fought to his paws so that he might meet her. They locked gazes, and the renegade's pale green eyes widened.

"You," she breathed, pausing. "'Tis you again—you, the ash-wolf."

"Don't call me that," Tir growled.

"I told you never to return!" The renegade flattened her ears. "Why have you come? Why are you always with these wolves? I told you 'twill not work—have you come to die again, wolf?"

"I'm not going to die," Tir said, but his legs were failing beneath him. He gasped and slipped back down into his blood, but did not remove his glare from the renegade. She hesitated, seemingly torn between rage and fear.

"I am no fool," she said, baring her teeth. "I will strip your skin from your bones but I will not kill you—no; you cannot trick me! I know what this means, wolf, and I tell you I am too busy for such things. Leave my forest and leave me to kill these others. But you won't fool me into killing you; you won't!"

"I told you, I don't know what you're—"

Tir's voice was lost in the ensuing crash in the trees behind him. His head shot up, ringing and dazed. Thunderous sounds had begun breaking the forest's dark silence into brittle fragments; it sounded as though a herd of elephants was stampeding through the undergrowth. Tir flattened his ears against the clamor of voices, the incredible, awful din—

"WHERE IS SHE?!"

Tir had never before been so glad to hear the furious roar of Captain Leron.

"DAMN THAT WOLF, I'LL KILL HER MYSELF!"

Something massive and dark brown exploded out of a clump of brambles, bristling to fill the entire forest, bearlike, roaring and slashing out with enormous, skull-crushing paws. Simetra, too, dashed out of the undergrowth after the enraged Captain, her eyes black and face livid.

She rushed over to where Tir was lying. Her ears lay flat against her head; her bristling auburn fur was matted with thorns and dead leaves.

"Get up!" she said, apparently unaware that he was lying in a pool of blood. Head ringing, Tir staggered back up to his paws. He dragged himself over to Seilo, who, as he was relieved to see, was still breathing.

"What happened?" Tir asked. He felt faint.

"SIRLE! SIRLE IS DEAD!" Leron roared. "WHERE'S THAT ACCURSED RENEGADE? I'LL KILL HER MYSELF!"

Tir turned to where the strange white she-wolf had been only moments before. But she was gone.

### 21.

Fire Moon

Palva was still angry.

Tir had been nominated to help the tormented and shocked Salka, who had been Sirle's partner in the forest and therefore also suffered in the renegade's attack. He led her down the grass tunnel to the Gatherer's hollow, half-dragging her, as she could hardly stand. When he arrived, Palva was pacing in brisk circles around the clearing, muttering to herself and tearing at the grass with her paws. When she noticed Tir standing at the entrance, supporting the bedraggled Salka, she had launched into a noisy, angry tirade of which Tir had trouble following.

"Sirle!" she spat, lashing her tail. "She took Sirle as well? Never, really, was he one of my favorite packmates—I'd even go so far as to say that he's better dead than alive—but still, another wolf killed! You'd think they'd hear me out now. But no! They have better plans! 'Double our efforts,' they say! 'We must kill her now!'"

"You had a Council meeting?" Tir said, unsure of whether he should interrupt. "What happened?"

"Everything happened!" Palva snarled. "Never will they learn—never! They think this renegade will come easily—two failed hunts and two deaths should have taught them better by now! And Sirle was strong, too! He was the chief Sentinel, but that tiny renegade cut him down as if he was nothing! I tell you, this is not going to end in our favor—if it ever ends—unless they hear what I tell them. But no! Never! Who wishes to listen to the random ramblings of the Gatherer?" She whipped around and glared at him. "And you too, Tir! I'll have you know that Leron went to Liyra about your lessons with Xelind, and she agreed with him that it was a good idea to teach you how to fight. Tomorrow, you two will go and fight as usual. And so I have to send Nerasa out with you, to make sure he doesn't fulfill the good Captain's command and split you open! I am sure that Nerasa has much better things to do than follow you around to clean up your blood—which she would never have to do had you listened to me in the first place!"

She snarled and lashed at a boulder, her dull claws screeching over the rough surface and leaving long, white scores in the stone. She continued pacing and muttering, occasionally shooting out angry comments to the dumbfounded Tir.

"Er—yes, I'm sorry," he said. "But Palva, Salka needs your help ."

Palva paused, and her face cleared. She seemed to take a moment to collect herself before padding over to her herb-boulder.

"Sorry," she muttered. "I lost control for a moment."

Tir nodded as though he understood, watching as Palva made a pile of garlic and poppy. She pounded the bulbs fiercely, juice spurting out in all directions.

"What's the purpose of having a Gatherer if the alpha never listens? If no one ever listens?" She scraped the herbs onto a flat leaf. "When will she finally listen to me instead of Leron? After how many deaths?"

Still growling under her breath, she padded her way over to Salka, who was now unconscious. Palva quieted as she rubbed herbs into Salka's gaping wounds—only two, one on her neck and a long gash down her flank that exposed ragged yellow and pink tissue. Tir flinched every time Palva dripped the stinging garlic into the cut, but Salka lay motionless. Tir was beginning to doubt that she was still alive.

"Salka's not—not dead, is she?" he asked.

Palva snorted. "Would I be wasting my herbs on her if she were?"

Seeing the look on Tir's face, she added in a gentler tone, "She's fine. But mind you, a few more seconds and she wouldn't be. It's a good thing you came when you did."

But I never saw the renegade attacking Salka, Tir thought to himself. The renegade just jumped out of the bushes—why? Had she scented me, even through all the blood and fear in the pine grove? Tir shuddered, remembering the ripping snarls and thrashing undergrowth....Or was she not going to kill Salka at all?

Palva was almost done, Tir could see. Working with the familiar herbs had calmed her, and she was no longer muttering. But Tir could tell that her mind was still working at a rapid pace—her tail was flicking and her eyes were gleaming in that strange way, reflecting the red of Salka's wounds as she leaned over the motionless grey she-wolf. Salka stirred, one of her bleeding paws twitching on the grassy ground that was wet with her blood.

She opened one eyelid and gasped, fur standing on end.

"Get off!" she said, choking. "Get off! They're coming!"

"Everything is fine, Salka," Palva said, waving a garlic bulb under her nose. "It's only me. You're safe."

"Oh—oh, oh, Palva." Salka calmed; her fur flattened again and she closed her eyes. "I though you were her."

And she fell asleep.

Tir watched her for what seemed like a long time. A boiling hot mixture of anger, guilt, and sickness was rising up his throat. Two wolves—the renegade had killed two wolves, and almost killed Salka. Even he, himself, had narrowly escaped death under her fangs three times. When would this end?

Palva sprinkled a few more bitter-smelling drops of garlic juice into Salka's bloodied fur, and then dropped the squashed bulb into the grass. She padded back across her hollow and lay down in the grass, her head pressed into her stained paws. She sighed.

"Palva," Tir asked timidly. He looked up at the Gatherer. "What will we do?"

Slowly, Palva raised her head. For the first time, she looked defeated.

"I don't know, Tir," she said in a hollow voice. "What do we do?"

Tir looked away, to the red-stained grass where Salka was lying, her flanks speckled dark with foam and blood.

"I was hoping you would have an answer," he mumbled.

Palva groaned, and rose to her paws, shaking bits of withered grass out of her pale pelt.

"Listen to me," she said, her anger with him quite evaporated. "You know a lot of things, whether you believe it or not."

"What's changed? Whatever happened to me being an idiot?"

Palva groaned. "You're not an idiot, Tir," she said. "And I'm sorry for calling you one. Not an idiot, but perhaps just a bit too trusting. It wasn't really you I was angry with, anyway—and you know that. The only idiot in this pack is Alpha Liyra, though, unfortunately, she's the one in charge."

"I don't think you should—"

"Forget what I should or shouldn't do, because it's beyond help now. What I was trying to say is that you know much more about what's going on than you think you do—that I am positive of."

Tir thought on this for a moment, his head tilted to one side. "So are you saying I forgot something? As Seilo has?" It was an interesting idea, but he doubted it.

Palva shook her head. "Seilo hasn't forgotten anything, Tir. He can't remember what he never really knew. What I'm saying is that something is buried, like the names buried in Seilo's head. It is there, certainly. You just need to clear away the dust."

"How will that help?"

"It will help everything."

Silence.

Tir did not understand what Palva was saying at all. It was Palva who knew something, not him. Palva was hiding something; he could read it from the way she spoke. Why must she always speak in riddles? It was getting increasingly annoying.

"What do you want me to do?" he said, seized with a sudden suspicion.

Palva gave him a long, piercing look. There it was again—that conspiring glint in her pale eyes.

"I want you to go speak with the renegade," she said.

Tir fell down into the grass.

"Are you insane?"

Palva's pale eyes glittered. "Don't you dare say that word to me. But I've decided it's time I took matters for myself. I've put up with this long enough—there's a fine line between disobeying orders and doing what I know I should. And I know I should, but they will never hear it."

Tir's mind was reeling. It was the stupidest—and not to mention most dangerous—idea he had ever heard. And Palva was telling him off for being too trusting?

"She tried to tear my throat out!" he said.

"But she didn't."

"I don't know why she didn't!"

"You don't need to know. There is a reason. You survived the fire, Tir, and now you have survived the renegade who has made it her mission to destroy all else. I don't know why—no, don't look at me that way; I don't know why—but I do know that there is a reason."

Tir lowered his eyes, scowling. What was Palva trying to say? He glanced up at her again, furtively, but the Gatherer was as cool and unreadable as usual, and Tir could only guess at what she was thinking.

"She'll skin me alive," he warned. "Alive, Palva. To be honest, I'd rather she skin me dead. But apparently you'd rather have it her way."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course not," Palva tilted her head to one side. "But I don't believe she will harm you. I don't believe in coincidences, either. And I don't believe that this will end until someone does something."

Tir growled, scuffling his paws.

"I won't go," he said. "This is the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

"Are you sure? Are more deaths and blood the brighter solution?"

"But how do you know it's going to keep going on like this? She can't keep running from us forever. How do you know we're not going to kill her in the next hunt?"

"Do you want her to be killed?"

Tir was silent for a long time. "No," he said at last, in a small voice. "But it can't go on forever, Palva, it just can't."

Palva closed her eyes. "No, it won't go on forever," she said. "But who knows where we'll all be when it ends? It could go on until we've all been destroyed, and that would be long enough."

"But—"

"Look, Tir!" Palva said, sweeping her tail up to the sky. The dusky sky was darkening, and a half-moon was beginning to show. Tir followed her gaze, and he gasped.

"Palva! The moon—!"

"—is orange," Palva finished for him. "I know. It has been orange ever since it returned the night after Blacksky, when the renegade first threw down her threats. It will be orange until its full, and then it shall fade as it wanes."

"But why? There must be some reason."

"There is a reason," Palva said, her voice growing sharp. "Rya is veiled orange with the poison of battle. Fire. An orange moon is not unheard of—it's happened before, it's a natural way of the earth. But this moon has purpose. Our war with the renegade will last as the fire moon rises, and will grow in danger as the nights pass. This dispute may seem small compared to the rest of the world, but I assure you, small disputes grow and spread. And I know that if our dispute with the renegade is not solved by the next Blacksky, it will be past all mending."

A feeling of icy dread gripped Tir's stomach as he realized what Palva was saying. In his old pack, he had heard of how tiny and personal feuds spread like poison and drew in everything around it until it had grown into something terrible and unstoppable. It was something almost impossible to imagine, but he knew better than to brush it aside. He glanced back up at the darkening sky and shuddered. The orange fire-moon glared at him.

"How do you know all of this, Palva?" he whispered. "It's not that I don't believe you," he added hastily. "But if you told Alpha Liyra, then maybe—"

"Liyra knows," Palva said. "But she doesn't think it's significant. Before you came, there was a—" She cut herself off. "However I know or not, it doesn't matter," she went on brusquely, avoiding Tir's suspicious glance. "But this is why you have to speak with the renegade, Tir. You fell out of that forest fire for a purpose."

There was a long silence while Tir pondered this.

"But I can't reason with her," he burst out. "Did you not see her when she came to ca—when she came to the redoubt? We know what she wants. She wants her own, ridiculous hunting rights. But you know we can't give her that. It would be a sign of weakness."

"Would it?" Palva said. "And are they hunting rights? It would be a logical assumption, yes, but can we afford to assume? Tell me, did she ever tell anyone exactly why she is fighting us?"

Tir was quiet.

"No," he said in a small voice.

"There is much that we don't know here. Do we really know what is going on? That renegade has a story to tell, and it most likely will not be what you are expecting. I have seen hunting disputes before. They do not look like this."

Tir gave her a suspicious look.

"You act as though you know what she's thinking," he growled, remembering his old suspicion that the Gatherer could read minds. "...Do you?"

"I don't," Palva said, tipping her head. "But I do know that misunderstandings can be deadly."

"You think this is a misunderstanding?"

"It's possible. Anything is possible. We do not understand the true intentions of this renegade."

"And you think me talking to her will help. She hates us."

"But why does she hate us? We don't know. All we see is an angry wolf. Why is she angry? Could it be that we are wrong?"

Tir stared at her.

"Alpha Liyra would have you exiled for saying that."

Palva gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Perhaps she would. Alpha Liyra would never be able to see past the blood on the renegade's paws. So that's why I'm asking you."

Tir said nothing, not wanting to meet Palva's pale stare.

"Talk to her," Palva insisted. "She will listen."

Tir's paws were shaking, but not from the cold. Despite this, his skin felt as though it were burning. His mind was flying through different thoughts and possibilities, and he could barely see the grey, cold fields around him.

He had only half understood anything Palva had said, but the meaning was clear: Speak with the renegade, even at the risk of his life—because someone needs to speak with her, and he was most likely to survive. Compromising had not worked for Alpha Liyra; he would have to try something different.

Tir's eyes watered, making his vision blurry. He squinted, and was able to distinguish a shining black patch from the endless plains of grey-green. The lake. And scattered around it was the brown mass of the deer herd.

Tir lowered himself into the tall grass, his eyes peeping over the tips. Palva had told him the renegade would be somewhere around here, but how would Palva know? What did Palva know?

He inched forward, using his best hunting creep. He was uncomfortably aware of the fact that the wind was blowing against him—towards the deer, but there was nothing he could do about that.

Closer, he could see a tiny fleck of white amidst the brown flanks of the deer. He continued to move, trying to see through the cold wind that bit his eyes like ice.

The renegade. Tir's blood went cold. The fur along his back prickled, and his lips instinctively curled up in a snarl. He would not show fear in front of her—but he knew that every breath he took from now on could be his last.

He stopped. The deer herd was so close to him now, he could make out each individual deer from the rest of the herd. And he could see that what the renegade was doing was very strange—stranger than anything he had ever seen before.

She was standing before a tall and skinny stag with enormous, branching antlers. The stag was not frightened or running away; he was standing, calm and still in the presence of this wolf, his predator. Tir couldn't believe it. Not a single deer in the herd appeared to be afraid of the fierce white renegade.

The renegade herself was raising her head high to see the stag, and her mouth was moving. What was she doing? The stag had lowered his shaggy head to her level, and an old doe was sitting in the grass nearby, her head inclined in their direction.

Tir stared and stared, his heart beginning to pound faster. It almost looked as though she was talking to the deer.

***

Redshank was the new Leader of the Deer. He was Eryngo's nephew, a rather skinny but quick-footed stag with a glossy, reddish-brown pelt. Redshank was much younger than his uncle, with bright and clever brown eyes that held none of Eryngo's melancholy weariness. He was, however, no less shrewd and wise a leader than Eryngo had been—and he respected and cared for Alanki's welfare just as much.

"This cannot go on any longer," he said, gazing down his long muzzle at Alanki. She flattened her ears, and glared back with defiance.

"Why?" she said. "Do you say that the deer shall fight these pack-wolves themselves?"

Redshank sighed. "Of course not. 'Twould surely be against the will of our father Eklo. For the Trees once said—"

"I know what the Trees once said!" Alanki snapped. "'Do not use thy gifts to draw blood, but for traditional antler rituals amongst the herd.' But do you not understand? Soon there shall be no more rituals—no more herd. How can you tell me to stop fighting? Eryngo took no issue with it."

She regretted it the moment she had said it. Redshank lowered his eyes with a soft puff of breath, and turned his head to the side. "O, Great Sky," he mumbled.

"I am sorry," Alanki said. "I didn't mean that. 'Tis only that—"

"Eryngo was the wisest of leaders," Redshank interrupted, turning back to look at her. "His life was blessed by Eklo, and none shall forget it. I would do my best to honor the agreements he placed in his life, but not this one. My uncle did not live to see you hunted, and his spirit shan't wish to see you killed."

"I won't be killed."

"Have you any way of knowing that? Eryngo believed that you were going to go and speak with these wolves—to negotiate with them, for they would listen to one of their own kind more than they would us, their dumb prey. Never did he believe that you would be hunted by them just as we are, and never would he allow it."

"I tried to negotiate with them! They will not listen, and they—"

"Vicious threats do not count as negotiation," sighed Redshank. "You have many gifts that we do not, Child of the River, but diplomatic communication is not one of them."

"Yes, yes, fine, I know that now," Alanki said. "But what's done is done. The point I am reaching is that there is no other alternative. You cannot force me to end my fighting; they shall kill you! I am sorry, Redshank, but I cannot do that. 'Tis not a choice."

"There is always a choice. As 'twas once said by the Great Sky—"

"I know, I know." Alanki said angrily. "So what do you suggest I do?"

"You must give in to them. Leave us Deer to our fate, for it has already been carved into the stars."

"I can't do that!"

"There has already been too much bloodshed," Redshank said, shaking his head. "From the deer to the wolves to the _Lankhi_. They kill, you kill. 'Tis a circle of blood, and 'twill never end."

"Then I shall make it end!" Alanki said. "I've made a plan. I am to kill their alpha! Tonight, I shall go and—"

"No," Redshank cut in. "What would they then do? They would come for you with greater fury. You have risked too much as it is. They already thirst for your blood just as much as they do ours, and 'tis all because of us."

"What?"

"I say that you shall be killed for our sake, Alanki," Redshank said. "We cannot allow that to happen."

It was the use of her real name, the name she called herself, that softened Alanki—not her title of "River Daughter," the respectful inflections of _A-Lankhi_ , that many of the deer preferred to call her. Redshank's eyes were large and sad with concern, and for the first time Alanki understood his burden as a leader. He couldn't bear to see his people slaughtered, yet he was torn with worry over the creature that may as well have been a sister to him. To some of the deer, she was more than a figure of an old story or the violent child of their natural enemy—to some, she was also a member of the herd.

"But what is there to say about your life?" she muttered. "What is to be said about Delphinium and Eyebright and Agrimony and the rest? They would have you all killed. I can't stand and watch that happen."

"All things come to an end. We must accept it. Perhaps 'tis to be the end of the Deer—or, at least, our herd. Another hole burned into Eklo's frayed spirit."

Alanki stared at him incredulously.

"The end?" she said, her voice rising again. "You mean you would simply release yourself? Well, fine for you, but I shall never give in. I shall keep fighting them until the grass beneath their paws turns red."

"The grass is already red. Too red, far too red. And the moon is orange. Eyebright has seen it, and she still trembles with fear each night 'Tis an omen of evil, greater evil than a claw-moon or a no-moon-at-all. It reflects the blood on the grass and the paws of those who have killed."

"And there you have it all, then. If there are 'omens of evil', then what choice do I have? It only creates even more of a reason why I must continue fighting them. If we give up, they shall have won."

"No one shall have won," Redshank said. His voice was lowering as Alanki's rose. "Do you believe they are to give in? For certain, they will never stop fighting you until you are dead."

"Then they shall be fighting for a long time," Alanki hissed. "And they have no reason to be fighting save for their own stupid, selfish, stubbornness. It will not last long. Oh, they shall soon tire of these deaths."

"'Tis gone far beyond deaths and selfishness now, _Alankhi_ ," Redshank said with a sigh. "For them, 'tis now a matter of pride and honor."

"Let their pride kill them, then. And I shall kill their alpha! Never will you be hunted again. Attacking patrols is not working now, I see—I must kill the alpha, I must take that which leads them."

Redshank watched her for a long time. Her ears were flat and eyes sparking with a fervent anger. Alanki could feel his exasperation, but she said nothing; she waited for him to finish thinking. She could give him time, to show that she was not about to change her mind.

"And I have told you what shall happen then," he said at last, his voice dragging down in weariness. "They shall hunt you with greater determination, roaring for their alpha's revenge. You shall be no better off, perhaps worse."

Alanki looked away, fangs bared. Anger was pulsing through her like wildfire, the same turbulent rush that had driven her to shout at the alpha and kill the patrols. She wanted to fight. She had to fight—if she didn't, she would turn on herself.

Delphinium was lying in the grass a few paces away, her brown eyes large and sad. Alanki was startled. She had forgotten the doe was there.

"You are my daughter," Delphinium said softly. Redshank snorted in surprise when she spoke—it seemed that he hadn't known she was there either. Her dark eyes were old and miserable, reflecting the sky above them. "They took Sundew, _Alankhi_. Shall they take you as well?"

"They will not," Alanki said. Her voice cracked. "I give my promise. Never shall they find me. I'll run and run, and I'll disappear—"

"But someday they will," Delphinium persisted. "I know that they will. 'Tis how things always are. You cannot run forever."

"Well, I cannot live forever, either." Alanki's voice hardened again, and she looked away from her foster-mother. "I may as well make the most of it as I am still walking."

Redshank was watching, pawing the ground.

"Delphinium is right," he said. "You are brave, _Alankhi_ , but there are times when bravery must be cast aside."

Alanki glared at him. "Of course, 'tis you to say that," she said. "The deer run, they do not fight. I am no deer—I've never been a deer, and nothing can change that. I am a wolf, and wolves do not run—well, some may, but I will not."

"I know you are different from us," Delphinium whispered, her voice pained. "But you are not so different. You run when they come to hunt you, for that is the wisest thing to do."

Alanki turned around, bristling. "Would you call me a coward? There were seven of them! What could I do?"

"I understand most surely," the doe went on. "What I am meaning is perhaps 'twould be wisest to run now. There are far too many of them for you to win, _Alankhi_. You may fight—oh, you may fight so long and hard, and they shall suffer terrible losses. But numbers shall prevail in the end. They always do."

"I will die then. But they shall never forget it, you may hear my words. Oh, always shall they remember me, and 'twill be a stain in their fur they shall never wash out. I shall haunt their dreams, and they shall tell tales to their pups of the terrible, bloody renegade ghost." She laughed. "And who knows? Perhaps they then you would be left alone."

Redshank shook his head. "I am most sorry," he said. "I understand how you feel about this, I truly do. But you must understand—you shall die, _Alankhi_. You shall be killed for our sakes. And so, there shall be a stain in our hides as well. A terrible stain."

Alanki calmed for a moment, the fur on her back settling. "You believe 'twill be your fault if I die," she said, the hard edge in her voice softening. "You're worried for me, aren't you?"

"We all are," Delphinium pleaded. "We know how this shall end. You risk your life for us. And you shall be killed for us. 'Tis far too much."

"I owe you my life. I owe you more than my life. Remember?"

Delphinium and Redshank exchanged nervous glances. Delphinium shook her head and sighed.

"I remember everything, my child," she said. "Oh, I remember. And I remember that, as walked with you away from the herd and forever into the darks of the forest, I was hoping you would never have to repay those debts to us."

"But—"

"'Tis true," Redshank said. "I remember the first day well, when my uncle consented to keep you. 'Twas I who led Delphinium and Agrimony back into the herd's grounds, and I remember well seeing the wolf fawn sprawled across her back, and wondering what force could have dropped such a creature—the fierce child of the predator, into our mild family. 'Twas by the guidance of the Great Sky that you came to us, _A-Lankhi_. We do not want you lost."

"But can you not see?" Alanki said in frustration. "This is why I have been sent to you. To protect you from these pack-wolves." Her eyes blazed pale green fire. "And there is not a thing you may do to stop me. I am going to destroy these wolves, no matter what I must—"

There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath from the two deer, and Alanki fell silent. A wild, terrified glint flared in Delphinium's eyes, and Redshank snorted with fear. The two deer flew up from the grass and dashed away like hares, their hooves thundering the ground in a panicked rhythm, and Alanki was left standing alone with the cold wind in her fur.

She did not wonder why they had torn away, so terrified and panicked—she had already caught the scent that they feared, and she did not hesitate.

With an enraged roar, she flung herself towards the young brown wolf who was crouching in the waving grey grass a short distance away, his dark green eyes watching her. She didn't care about creeping up on him; he could see her as it was. She shot towards him, her wordless, angry cry echoing over the fields like a torrent of floodwater. He was terrified of her, she could see. It pleased her.

But he had not moved. He appeared to be frozen to the ground, his fur bristling in his terror. He wasn't running, though—why wasn't he running?

"Stop!" he shouted in a shaking voice, leaping up from the grass as she drew close enough to hear him. "Stop! I need to talk with you!"

### 22.

The Second Tale

Tir's heart beat like a heavy drum, striking chords of fear with every pulse. The renegade had been talking to those deer; he was sure of it. What did it mean? Palva had said there was a reason. A reason. Was this what Palva had been talking about?

The renegade came to a sharp halt a few paces away, her ears flat against her skull and white fur whipping in the wind. There was no blood on her paws, but Tir could not rid himself of the image of her springing at him from the dark undergrowth of her forest, her fur matted and horrible and blackened with clotted blood.

"What did you say?" she hissed.

Her eyes were wild and angry. She was always angry, every time he saw her. Her eyes told him that she was angry enough to kill him—and he could see that that was what she wanted. But, sure enough, she had stopped just short of an attack. There is a reason.

Tir swallowed.

"I—I," he stammered. He paused and took a deep breath, collecting his wits and forcing his voice into a level tone. "I want to talk to you."

The renegade scuffed at the ground, tail rigid behind her.

"You wish to speak to me? And you are certain you haven't come to scout out the deer herd?"

Tir managed a short nod, and she narrowed her eyes.

"Tell me why I shouldn't treat you as I treat the others."

Tir tried to look her straight in the eye, but her pale green gaze was as sharp and cutting as Captain Leron's—a good thing, probably, as he did not want to anger her before he had even begun to speak.

"Because," he said. "I came to listen."

The renegade's anger did not wane the slightest at this, as Tir had expected. He had been hoping that the magical statement of listening would make her soften into a creature he could speak and reason with, that she would be more than willing to tell her view of everything. Instead, he watched as her disbelief and mistrust increased.

"You have come to listen?" she said, her voice raised with a hint of disgust. "What is this, now, an attempt at a peace contract?"

"I—well, no."

"Did that alpha send you here?"

Tir glanced up at her. Her green eyes had gone cold and hard, and for a second he considered lying and telling her that Alpha Liyra had, indeed, sent him, and the entire pack was hidden nearby in the grass, watching what was going on and ready to jump to his defense. But seeing the shrewd glint in her eye, he knew that she would know if he was lying—and that wouldn't impress her at all.

"No," he said, lowering his gaze. "I came on my own. The alpha does not know I am here."

And to Tir's immense surprise, this seemed to reassure her. She remained standing, but her tail lost most of its bristling rigidity and some of the fur along her back had begun to lie flat.

"A rebel, then?" she said, almost with interest. "What is it that you want?"

"I said—I only want to talk to you."

"Why?"

"I wish for the truth, that's all. And I know that you must, too."

"What truth?"

She was firing questions at him rapidly, and Tir was beginning to feel quite overwhelmed.

"Well, I mean, there must be some truth behind all of this."

"Such as what, you suppose?"

"There—There's been a misunderstanding, I think."

Silence.

The renegade peered at him. Tir felt as though she was probing his mind, reading his intentions. He wanted to turn and run, to run away from this strange wolf who was somehow even more frightening when calm. She was not as angry, he could see—but her eyes had gone cold, calculating. She had the same icy, imposing air that Xelind did, as though she could kill him any second she wished, and she knew it. He could see how she had killed Sirle and Yielsa without so much as a glance in the other direction. She must have thought nothing of it, no more than he would for killing a rabbit, maybe—Alpha Liyra had said that renegades often did not operate by the same morals as packwolves. Why was he still alive?

"Do not think I don't remember you," she said suddenly. "You are the louse who trampled through my forest. You are the one on the hunt, and the one who brought me to the Alpha. You are the one who was searching for his family, no?"

Tir turned away, not wanting to be reminded of it.

"I'm sorry I went in your forest," he mumbled. "I didn't know it was claimed. And I didn't know you didn't want us to hunt the deer. Nobody knew—nobody had any way of knowing, I promise. We wouldn't have done it at all if—"

"Oh, save it all, ash-wolf," she snapped. "You're not to even try telling me that the alpha of yours would have bothered to care about the wishes of a renegade. Has she sent you here carrying her excuses? She would have done it anyway, whether she knew about me or not."

Tir swallowed. She was probably right.

"But why?" he asked. "There's prey in your forest, I saw it when I was—"

"When you were hunting me," the renegade finished. Her green eyes narrowed. "You and the rest of them. I hope you have enjoyed yourselves, because 'tis not going to last far longer. I am ending this. Soon, I assure you."

"You are?" Tir said, surprised. A tiny flicker of hope flared in him. "Really? Maybe I can help. How are you planning—?"

"With blood. 'Twill be ended same way it began. You may tell that alpha of yours that she must begin counting her sunrises, and she'd best enjoy them, because she has very few left."

"But you can't!" Tir said, his voice cracking. He took another step backwards, fear pounding in his head. "It isn't her fault! She didn't know—"

"Oh, did she not? I thought I made myself quite clear. She knew there was something coming for her when I came to her settlement. Every one of you knew. And then what, yes? You refused to listen. You refused to care. So no, 'tis not entirely your alpha's fault—'tis all of your faults. And all of you deserve to die for it."

Tir swallowed, shaking his head and taking a few more steps backwards. "B—but I don't understand," he said. How had he made her angry again? He wanted to run away, but he couldn't. Palva was counting on him. "I truly don't, none of us do, not at all—"

"What is there to understand? I thought I gave my terms clearly enough. Have you so quickly forgotten? I said to leave the deer alone, or I would tear your quivering throats out."

"No! No! I—I just—well—" He was losing it. He had to get a grip on himself or she would never listen to him. Tir took a deep breath, quelling his pulsing fear and trying to adopt Xelind's manner of stony indifference—it was harder than it looked. "I don't know," he said, measuring his words with care. "I don't know why you're fighting us. No one knows. A lot of us don't want to fight anymore—we shouldn't. It could turn into something terrible—I know it will."

The renegade observed him carefully. Tir's flesh was shivering under his fur, and his paws were shaking, but he hid this from the renegade. She couldn't see his fear. He had a feeling she would lose all patience with him if she did.

"I mean," he continued, his voice leveling into a smoother tone. "It does not make sense. If—"

"What's your point?" she snapped.

Tir's confidence slipped a notch. "My...my point is that we don't know what's going on. My pack, I mean. And the alpha. We don't know why we can't negotiate this. Prey disputes are always simple to settle, and if we could just—"

"No, no, wait a moment," the renegade interrupted. "Prey disputes?" Her green eyes widened just the slightest. "Are you talking about the deer?"

"Y—yes," he said. She had begun trembling. "I saw your forest; there were many signs of prey there. Why can't we simply share the deer...?" his voice trailed away at the look on her face.

There was a long silence. The renegade stared at him, unblinking.

"You think the deer are my prey," she said, her voice hoarse. "You truly believe them to be...my prey?"

"What else could it be?"

"You...you are not alone in believing this?"

"Of course not," Tir said warily. "If a conflict comes up over a herd of deer, then what else could it—"

"And all along," she continued, as though she hadn't heard him. "You all were thinking...your alpha—thought the deer to be my prey. My PREY?"

"Well, yes."

The renegade closed her eyes. "Prey," she hissed, rising. Her eyes opened, and they were burning. "Is that all you idiots can think about? You think the deer were—you think 'tis all only about hunting rights?"

"What is it about, then?" Tir said, daring to ask.

She turned around and burned him with those hard, cold eyes.

"Are you certain you want to know?" she hissed, her sides heaving with anger. "You truly want to know? You want to know what 'tis that you have caused—what you have done?"

Tir stared at her, his eyes wide. What he caused? Unable to speak, he nodded. The renegade whipped around, seething.

"See that?" she snarled, gesturing toward the brown herd of deer, which had retreated to the far end of the lake. "See them all, there?"

Tir nodded again.

"And you still have no idea. No idea at all—what you have done. Every one of you. You did kill them, two of them, no?"

"Yes," Tir muttered, remembering the two disastrous deer hunts. "But I didn't want—"

"You shut up," she snapped. "You wanted to listen to me, yes? So now you are to listen, because I shall tell you a story. 'Tis not a nice story, and you probably won't like it, but 'tis your own fault. Listening?"

"I'm listening."

She turned, her tail slashing the air. "There was once a little pup," she began, her rough voice dripping with horrible mock-cheerfulness. "And this little pup was so weak and pathetic that her mother didn't want her, and so the pup's mother threw her away into a river in the hopes that she would drown."

Tir was gaping, but the renegade didn't notice.

"...And the little pup almost did drown," she went on in her awful, fake voice. "But the river was kind, and it carried the pup to a gentler place. She was floating in a little pool, unconscious, when two deer found her. They carried her to their herd—her true family, who would not throw her off to die—and they loved her as they would love one of their own kind. And do you know what else? She loved them too, though you could never make her admit it."

The deer. Tir stared at her as she spoke. Such a thing was not possible; it must be a story. Hadn't she said she would tell a story? But what would she have to gain by making something up? Tir's heart was pounding at a terrible speed as he realized what this meant.

"But the pup owed her life to these deer," the renegade was saying, She turned around, green eyes scorching and turbulent. Her voice had gone deadly soft. "She had done a terrible thing; she had lost control of her instincts. She had caused the death of one of those who had cared for her. But 'twas still that the deer had an old, old story, a story about a time in which they would befriend a child of the River, the _Lankhi_ —a predator who would lend the herd her ferocity when 'twas most needed. The deer believed the little pup to be a river spirit, a child of the predator, _A-Lankhi_ , come to save them someday in times of danger. And one day—"

"Stop," Tir said, his voice hoarse. "Please stop. I—I didn't, I couldn't—"

"Murdered," the renegade said flatly. "The pup's family was murdered."

"No! I swear—"

"By wolves, as well," she went on, her voice rising. "And that little pup, because she owed those deer her life, because she had grown to loathe her own brutality, she swore to protect the herd. And she—"

"Killed," Tir said, his voice weak. A hot, sickening wave had swept over him as he realized what his pack had done—what they could never have imagined. "You killed and killed, because..."

The renegade looked at him.

"'Twas vengeance," she said. "Necessary vengeance. What would you have done to protect your family, ash-wolf?"

This was too much. He couldn't take any more.

The renegade watching him, her eyes glinting as he stumbled to his paws. He swayed, heart thudding louder than ever; the ground beneath his paws was tilting away, and he was reeling. Tir ran away, tripping and stumbling but running as fast as he could, his head spinning and lurching with horror. No, no, no. It couldn't be true.

Wavering, screaming images flashed before his fogged eyes, which were stinging as though gummed up again with ashes and smoke. Pulsing, red fire; Arwena screaming to the dark night skies; dried, dead crackling forest; and the deer... Arwena, Kiala, Misari, all of them, all of them devoured and disintegrated into ash before his eyes; he was spared. Why was he spared?

If only they had known. If only this had never happened, they had never seen the deer before. If only there had never been the fire, and Tir had never fallen. If only Tir's sister had never been born a runt, and had not died. Life could quite possibly be peaceful, and Sirle and Yielsa would still be alive—and Tir would be happy, safe and oblivious in the green forest above the cliff, never knowing about the world of the angry renegade and her deer which existed just beyond the ledge. He would be happy now, not as Captain Leron's outsider but as Misari and Arwena's son, the son of the alphas. The yew tree would have shriveled away and died last winter.

Tir ran faster, his heart pounding blood in his ears. He would stop this. He would tell Alpha Liyra everything.

### 23.

Falling

It was nightfall by the time Tir stumbled his way back into the redoubt. The air had grown colder in the absence of the sun, and the wind was as sharp and bitter as a sheet of ice. But Tir was numb to any feelings; he could barely see the fields in front of his nose. He was, however, aware of the strange glow of the fire moon overhead, remembering Palva's words of what it meant. He understood now. He understood everything.

He choked back the sting of ashes in his throat.

Tir slipped through the tall grass and into the redoubt. He stopped, confused, swaying on his paws. He had expected it to be empty, but it was full of prowling, bristling creatures with glinting eyes. It was a few moments before Tir realized that the entire pack was still milling around the redoubt main, though it was the dead of night.

He shuddered. Something was different—the tenseness of the air crackled like burning wood, and the pack all appeared to be on the verge of attack. They were restless, and Tir did not know why. Was it because of the death of Sirle?

He padded through the throng of bristling, fang-baring wolves to the center of the redoubt main, where Sirle's mangled body lay on the ground. The chief Sentinel's throat had been torn away in a mess of red ribbons, and the ground beneath his head was dark and slick with half-dried blood. The dull grey wolf's eyes were glazed over, but still glaring. His white fangs were bared in a snarl, but they were clean. He had never even had a chance to snap at the renegade. How had she done it?

Tir turned around and himself face-to-face with Palva. Unlike the other wolves in the redoubt, she was just as cool and unreadable as ever. Her feathery tail was tucked over her paws and she did not look surprised to see him.

"Well?" she said, her voice low so that none of the other wolves could hear. "Did you learn anything?"

Tir looked at her. Was it possible that Palva already knew? Was it possible that she did not know? The horror came flooding back to him; his eyes burned.

"Yes," he said. "I did. I think I understand what's going on now."

Palva was silent for a long time. She examined him with her sharp, pale eyes. "And what are you going to do now?"

Tir looked at the ground. "I am going to talk to Alpha Liyra."

Palva nodded, and rose to her paws.

"She's in her den."

Tir had never been in Liyra's den before. He wasn't certain if he was even allowed; from what he had seen, only members of the Council ever disturbed the alpha in her own cave. He hoped she was not sleeping.

But no, Liyra was awake. As Tir clambered up the fallen boulders to the dark recess that was the alpha's den, voices drifted down from above him. It seemed that Liyra already had a visitor—Tir couldn't yet make out who it was, but the it sounded like they were arguing.

"...isn't only suspicions this time, Liyra; I saw it, I saw proof of it myself—I don't understand why you can't accept this. I've never misled you."

Tir drew a sharp breath and flattened his ears. It was Leron. If he raised his head just over the boulder above him, he could see the captain pacing stormily about in Liyra's den while the alpha herself sat in the entrance with an expression of perfect calm.

"But if it's come down to my word against the Gatherer's, then, well, I have my evidence now," Leron was growling. Something in his voice struck Tir as strange—he had heard, before, when the restrained anger tried to shove its way through the captain's tone, but it was absent now. Leron's voice was low but desperate; it sounded almost as if he were pleading. Tir couldn't tell if it was genuine or not. "It's up to the Gatherer to produce her own evidence."

"Palva has given me her evidence on this matter long ago, Leron," Liyra said. "You know that. I understand that you're concerned, and perhaps now you've seen things that trouble you, but I can assure you that Palva and I have control over the situation. I am tired of having this same conversation again and again."

"As am I! And yet your side of it never changes! No matter what I bring to you, all you can offer in return are vague dismissals and cryptic assurances. What does the Gatherer know? What has she been telling you that I can't hear?"

"There are some matters that can only be between the Gatherer and the alpha. All I can tell you is that Palva has long been aware of Tir's arrival in our pack."

For a moment, there was silence. Tir's breath caught in his throat—he had guessed that they were talking about him, but what Liyra just said was strange. Palva had known that he would join their pack? And Palva had known that the renegade wouldn't harm him. Clearly, there was something else Palva knew—and for awhile now, it seemed, it was the only thing protecting him from Captain Leron.

"This is about her nightmares," Leron said finally. His voice was flat and edged with disgust. "I should have guessed. The Gatherer's told you that her moon-mother whispered in her ear, and if I harm the outsider, the stars will fall from the sky and incinerate our pelts."

"That's not fair of you, Leron." Liyra's voice had gained a hint of sharpness, though she did not move. "I understand that your old pack was unfamiliar with Rya, but the intuition of Palva and the Gatherers before her has guided this pack for generations. This is why I've told you so little; you just cannot understand—"

"Tell me this!" Leron said. "Who guided this pack through the marsh? Who made the hard choices that no one else wanted anything to do with? Who kept all your sorry pelts running and breathing?"

"I do not mean to ignore your value on the journey," Liyra said quietly. "You were very brave and this pack is in your debt. But you must accept the authority inherent in Palva's position; were it not for her herbs, half of our wolves would be lost to marsh sickness. You must accept that—"

"Wait." Leron's voice was suddenly low and fervid, and Liyra fell silent. The quiet stretched on for a few seconds, and Tir's fur began to bristle. "Can you scent that?" Leron whispered at last. "On the ledge, outside the den. It's him. He's outside the den."

Above him, there was a scrabbling and scratching noise on the rocks as the two wolves hurriedly rose from their places. Tir's blood had gone cold. He looked up to see Leron and Liyra staring down at him a tail's length away from his face. Leron seemed livid. Liyra only looked surprised.

"Tir," she said. "I'm sorry; I didn't know you were out there. The Captain and I are having a meeting. If you need to talk with me, we should be finished in a few moments—"

"No," Leron said. "We're finished now. I want to hear what he has to say."

"I...I..." Tir glanced from Leron to Liyra, his heart pounding. It seemed they weren't going to ask him how long he had been listening to them; perhaps Leron didn't even care. But he had to collect himself. He had to tell Liyra what he had learned. "I have a message. It's for the alpha alone."

Leron gave a short laugh, but Liyra cut him off. "Whatever important news you bring will be shared before the Council anyway. You don't need to worry about Captain Leron."

Tir stared at her for a moment. At last, he stumbled up the last few boulders to the threshold of the den; the two wolves moved out of his way, watching him. He did not sit down, but remained standing just outside the cave. He drew a steadying breath.

"I have a message," he said. Liyra raised her brow.

"From whom?"

"From—from the renegade."

"Ah," Leron said. His eyes lit up. "So you admit that you've been speaking with her?"

"Y—yes, I have."

"You've just returned, I suppose?"

"Yes."

Leron shot Liyra a look of dark triumph. And to Tir's horror, he saw a trace of concern on the alpha's face.

"Tir," she said. "Before you arrived, Leron was telling me that he followed you out to the fields and saw you having a conversation with the renegade. Neither of you challenged the other. Is this true?"

"Well, yes, partly. She wasn't pleased to see me, but I did talk to her."

"Why didn't she kill you?"

"I—I don't know."

Leron had begun to shake his head. Tir's heartbeat was rising to a panicked pace—this was no better than facing the renegade's questions—but he knew he had to swallow his fear.

"I know why she's fighting us," he blurted, before either of them could say something. "I asked her, and she told me, and—and it isn't a prey dispute."

"I don't understand," Liyra said. Her voice was mild, but the doubt in her eye had not gone away. "It can't be a territory dispute, because Captain Leron says she lives only in the forest. And we never touched her until she began hunting us; she very clearly told us that the deer were hers alone, and we weren't to hunt them. What is it, if not a prey dispute?"

"That's not what she said, though," Tir said, beginning to speak faster. "She never told us that the deer were hers to hunt—she only told us that we weren't to hunt them, and she would kill us if we did. She's never hunted the deer—she's trying to protect them."

Liyra said nothing. She watched Tir as though waiting for him to continue, but he felt trapped under her gaze. It was Leron who broke the silence.

"And why would she do that, outsider?" he said quietly.

"Because...because she owes them a debt. They saved her life when she was young, and—and they raised her, and she sees them as her pack, don't you understand?" Tir hesitated. Neither Leron nor Liyra had so much as blinked. "We've been killing her family," he whispered. "And she is avenging their deaths."

For a long time, no one said anything. Tir could feel his words hanging in the dark air like insects suspended in tree sap; a thick silence settled over them. The two wolves in front of him only stared—they did not react. Leron didn't even laugh at him. And all at once, hot nausea swept over Tir as he realized how ridiculous his words had sounded. It was one thing hearing them from the renegade—the emotion in her face and voice rang true, and she had no reason to lie to him. But Tir had just stumbled into redoubt, alone, in the dead of night, after a harrowing hunt through a dark forest—his pelt was matted, his eyes were wide, and his breaths were coming fast and shallow. He must sound nearly hysterical.

"You fascinate me," Leron said. "I expected an excuse, but this is unforeseen. It's as if you've been sharing nightmares with the Gatherer."

"Tir," Liyra said kindly, as though she were explaining something to a frightened pup. "Wolves kill deer. Deer do not raise wolves."

"But these ones did," Tir insisted. He could hear the panic rising in his voice. Liyra must understand. "They had an old legend, she said, that a wolf would save them one day, so they pulled her out of a river, and..." His voice trailed away as he realized how outlandish he sounded. He burned with shame. This wasn't going at all how he had expected.

"Tir," Liyra said in a soft voice. "Why did you go to speak with the renegade?"

"Palva told me to go."

At this, Captain Leron hissed through his teeth, but Tir ignored him. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on Liyra—Leron wouldn't grasp what he meant, but she would. She trusted Palva enough that he was still alive. She must understand!

"Did Palva say anything specific about the renegade?" Liyra asked.

"No. Only that she wouldn't harm me—she didn't know why—and that I had to persuade her to speak to me."

"And what does Palva make of this information? About the renegade protecting the deer?"

Tir hesitated. "She—she didn't ask," he confessed. "She only told me to come tell you."

"And so you have. You have told me."

Tir waited for Liyra to say more, but she didn't. She examined him as though he were an animal she had never seen before—her gaze was not as piercing as the renegade's, but he could feel her measuring him. In spite of all that had happened, she still had a level of faith in Palva. But she had no reason to have faith in him.

"I suppose you and Palva want the renegade hunts to end?" Liyra said, and Tir's fur bristled at the weariness in her voice.

"Yes," he said. "But you have to understand! It isn't as simple as we thought it was—the renegade isn't fighting over hunting rights, she's fighting for her pack, of a sort. She isn't going to stop."

"She is only one wolf," Leron said. "As much trouble as she's caused so far, her luck has to run out. We'll kill her, and this whole mess will be over. It couldn't be simpler."

"But we can't kill her! She's only doing what any of us would do in her place—we started it; we made a mistake and we killed one of her deer. Haven't you noticed, she's only killed enough wolves to avenge the deer?"

"Deer are not wolves," Leron said. He was beginning to sound impatient again; anger had started to creep into his tone. "The score is not even. I don't know why you've come here with your tales—if you wanted to protect your renegade, you should have come up with a better explanation—but this pack has hunting rights; we need to survive, and there's no point living off of rabbits with these deer nearby. The renegade is nothing more than a problem. When she is gone, then we can talk about living in peace."

"I'm sorry, Tir," Liyra said, as Tir opened his mouth to respond. "But this is something for the Council to decide, and we made our choice long ago. Your story, even if it is true, doesn't change anything—the fact stands that the renegade has killed our wolves and is a danger to the pack. It's far too late to settle things now. I can see that you're tired and disturbed. I'll speak with Palva after the hunt is over—"

"I'm not going. You and Leron can bleed all over the forest, but I'm not going on another hunt. I refuse."

"You'll go, and you'll watch your renegade die," Leron snarled. His eyes gleamed like white-hot coals in the dark, and his black fur blended in with the night sky behind him. "I've had enough of this. It's time you learned the consequences of treachery—and you'll be lucky if it ends with the renegade's death."

"No, no," Liyra said. "That isn't your decision, Leron; besides, I was going to suggest that Tir remain in the redoubt during the hunt anyway. If he's so opposed to it, he'll be nothing but a liability to us. Palva will guard him until the pack returns."

"You'd let the Gatherer—"

"Yes, for the last time!" Liyra snapped. "I have a good reason to trust Palva, whether or not I share it with you, Leron!" She fell silent for a moment, glaring at him. Leron's lip had curled up in the slightest of snarls, and Tir knew that he dearly wanted to shout back at Liyra. His fur did not flatten, but he lowered his eyes.

"Now," Liyra went on, rounding to face Tir as well. The quiet, indulgent note was gone from her voice; she was stern and had been pushed to her limits. "I want both of you to get out of my sight. This conversation is over, do you understand? Both conversations," she added, looking at Leron. "I've had enough, and in case Palva has any plans to appeal to me tonight, Tir, tell her that I don't want to hear another word about the renegade, and that's final."

She paused, as if waiting for acknowledgement. Neither Tir nor Leron said anything, but Tir did not raise his eyes; he could feel Leron's cutting gaze resting between his ears.

"So. Now that we're clear." Liyra's voice had lowered, somewhat, as she sensed she had gained control of the conversation. "Leron, I want you to go down into the redoubt main and begin rounding up the Sentinels—Rya knows we can't have them wasting their energy prowling about and starting fights amongst themselves. Tir, go to Palva's hollow and tell her what I've decided. She should have some herbs that she gave Raatri for his shock; perhaps they'll do you good as well."

With that, Liyra turned and padded into her den with stiff legs, leaving the silence crackling behind her. Tir waited for Leron to say something to him—a threat, maybe, or another "message" he could give Palva—but the captain turned and padded down the slope of boulders without another word. Tir sat in the dark outside the alpha's den, alone. The sky was a sweeping, black bowl over his head, and stars gleamed like strewn grains of white sand. He remembered how he had looked into the sky after the fire, when he was recovering in Palva's hollow; at the time, he had felt the sensation of falling upwards.

He had the same feeling now. It was as though someone had whipped the ground out from beneath his paws. He had fought in the empty air, for awhile, but in the end he was only wasting his energy. Now, he could feel himself plummeting up into the black night sky, the last safe ledge growing small beneath him.

### 24.

The Last Hunt

The pack was swarming around the boulder in the redoubt main. Palva could feel their restlessness in the air as she padded across to sit at the very edge of the crowd. They were pacing to and fro, bristling and baring their fangs at each other.

"As you all know, the chief Sentinel, Sirle, was murdered today."

Alpha Liyra was speaking from her place atop the boulder, shouting over the scattered growls of the pack. At her words, the growls only increased, and a few wolves snapped the empty air. Palva saw Xelind pacing nearby, as silent as the others were snarling. He met her gaze across the crowd of bristling wolves.

"And you also know the ancient tradition of the Fang night, perhaps the only tradition we have all shared as separate packs, and now are fully prepared to take up as one, unified pack. One among us is gone, and his space must be filled by the strongest of those who remain. And in a normal situation, I would allow the fighting to begin as routine. But tonight, it is different."

The growling stopped, and the pack was silent. Palva felt their confusion rattling through the air like a rising swarm of flies. A hundred gleaming eyes turned to look up at Liyra.

"Yes," she was saying, raising her head. "Yes. It is different—Sirle, the chief Sentinel, did not die of quiet causes. He was murdered by the ruthless anger of the white renegade—yes, what you have been told is true! And because of that, I am changing the usual tradition."

Liyra's eyes were glinting in the dark, and her voice had grown tense with excitement. In the shadow of the boulder, Palva could see the dark outline of Captain Leron hunched against the stone. She almost shuddered when she felt the dark, cold energy that was radiating off of him as well. Palva growled deep in her throat. She did not turn around, but she knew that Xelind was still watching her.

"Tonight!" Liyra barked in a sudden rush of energy, rising to her paws. Her dark gold eyes flashed in the darkness, and the packwolves below took up this fire eagerly, as though she were scattering coals in the audience. They, too, flew to their paws, growls rolling from their bristling throats. "Tonight we all go to hunt the renegade!" Liyra cried. "She has slipped from us too many times. The entire pack will go! She will not escape us again!"

The wolves had all risen to their feet, sensing the Alpha's fervent emotion. They snarled their appreciation.

"YES!" Liyra howled, raising her head. "Tonight is the end of the renegade! Tonight we will get our revenge! All of us! We will hunt and destroy her as a pack—as one unit, as a unified body! No more are we a loosely-bound horde of strangers! We shall take this opportunity as a gift from Rya—that we may face and destroy the enemy as an undivided pack!"

The sound of the pack's excitement was deafening. Many were jumping up, snapping at those around them in the frenzy, and a few had even raised their heads to the night sky to howl.

"AND TONIGHT," Liyra continued, shrieking over the noise. "Whoever kills the renegade shall be the new Chief Sentinel!"

The alpha lifted her silver head to the sky and howled; the hunting cry spiraling up to the cold stars. The other packwolves took up her cry, their howls mingling with Liyra's into one sound that raised the hairs along Palva's neck.

With that final cry, Liyra turned and dashed out of the redoubt. The rest of the pack followed behind, still howling and crying to the skies as they thundered out of the redoubt on their way to the renegade's forest.

***

Alanki awoke with a start. Ears pricked and fur bristling, she glanced out from the moss-shaded entrance of the abandoned badger set in which she had been sleeping. She had found the set not long ago, and had taken to sleeping in it once the packwolves had begun hunting her. The scent of badger was long ingrained into the stone and soil, and it would mask her own scent from the packwolves—it would not do for her to be killed in her sleep.

But at the moment, any form of sleep was impossible. Howls and snarls had shattered the still air of the forest, and Alanki could hear the thundering of running paws shaking through the earth surrounding her. Many running paws. Too many.

The furious sounds were growing louder, and Alanki leaned out over the low lip of the den to watch. They streamed past through the trees, snapping their fangs and howling their hunting cries—and too many wolves for Alanki to count. Alanki's stomach lurched and she withdrew her head back to the safe shelter of the earthy cave. Had they brought the entire pack with them?

The wolves dashed past, oblivious to the white she-wolf that was crouched behind the thick shelter of overgrown moss. Alanki flattened herself against the cool wall of earth behind her until they had passed, their howling cries fading into the forest's darkness. For the first time, she felt almost afraid.

You can't run forever... Redshank's words echoed in her mind. They'll catch you someday. Had he known? Had he known then that this would happen? Alanki shuddered, digging her claws into the dirt. Perhaps he was right. Maybe it would all end tonight; there were too many of them. But what would happen to the deer?

Alanki gave a sudden, sharp quiver of anger. If she was going to die on this night, then she may as well die fighting. Never, ever would she be caught hiding like a frightened pup. What she told the deer—had that been nothing more than brave words? Alanki growled deep in her throat. No doubt, the packwolves intended to finish things tonight. But they did not know that they had given Alanki a chance to do the same—they had brought their alpha.

This was the chance she had never dared to hope for. She would cut off the head of the snake and watch the rest writhe away into nothing. It was simple.

Without making a sound, Alanki slipped out of the den. She glanced around, sniffing the still air. The forest was as dark as ever, and the cries and snarls of the wolf pack had grown thin and distant. Growling under her breath, Alanki dashed off in the direction of the howls.

One of the howls stood out from the mingled wails of the others. There was no doubt in Alanki's mind that this howl—a powerful cry of mixed anger, sorrow, leadership, and bloodlust—belonged to the alpha. But as Alanki pricked her ears and listened closer, she detected a faint, almost hidden emotion that Alanki did not understand...guilt? And maybe, just maybe—Alanki smiled—a tinge of fear.

She quickly caught up to the furious hunting pack, weaving in and out amongst the shadows as a flickering flash of white, gone before any wolf could look twice. Trees that appeared as tall, forbidding, dark towers to the pack wolves were to Alanki like old friends—sharing her hatred and hostility towards these blundering intruders. They loomed overhead, stretching up to the sky with their spiky, black branches—leafless in the coming of winter. Alanki moved around the clustered trunks, ducking into shadows and watching with cold green eyes.

She had to kill the alpha. The alpha was to blame for all of this; and it had been proven when that brown wolf had come to her on his own will. The others were obeying the alpha, and it could be that not all of them agreed with what was happening. She wondered how many wolves had heard her story—obviously, the alpha had not believed. Prey. Did she still think this was about prey?

Alanki followed the pack as they streamed out through winter-ravaged clearings, still howling like the wind. They dashed through the dark forest, stopping every now and then to sniff the ground for a trace of her scent. Howling, running snarling—they were a sea of fur and fangs that swept through the forest, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. Alanki followed, always close behind, feeling the fragments of tree branches and torn undergrowth beneath her paws.

The wolf at the head of the pack was a large, silver she-wolf with a scarred muzzle and dark, gold-flecked eyes. The alpha. Alanki hissed under her breath and watched the she-wolf with hatred burning in her eyes. If she were quick, she could dash in and dash out without the others catching her. At this point, it was the only solution she could think of.

Alanki deliberately cracked a twig under her paw, and the pack wolves came to a halt. They silenced, wary eyes scanning the destroyed undergrowth. Alanki crept in a slow circle around the pack until she was crouched in the shadow of a tree just to the left of the alpha, downwind. She could hear the silver wolf breathing in short, quick gasps.

There was no time for hesitation. Alanki sprang from the undergrowth and onto the bristling back of the alpha wolf. Dead leaves flew up into the air, coming down in a rustling shower. The impact caused her to roll over, and for a moment the two tussled on the ground. Alanki growled deep in her throat, attempting to crush the alpha beneath her shoulder blades as she strove for the wolf's neck. But to her frustration, the alpha was not as easy to subdue as she had imagined her to be. She snarled, shoving the alpha's face down into the dirt in an attempt to muffle the noise. But, writhing like a snake, the wolf heaved Alanki off her back and onto the ground.

By now, the rest of the pack had realized what was going on and abandoned their fearful search. In a sudden eruption of snarling, they flew at Alanki with snapping fangs and snarling tongues, ready to protect their alpha. One of them, a dusty blue-grey male, managed to clamp his jaws into Alanki's left hind leg. Pain shot up her leg like white-hot knives as the wolf dug his fangs deeper into her flesh. He tore to the side, and blood welled up from the ragged flesh. She swiped at his head with a lightning paw and slipped out of his grasp. Hissing with fury, Alanki leapt off the silver alpha and sped off into the undergrowth with the pack wolves thundering behind her.

The blood was pounding in her ears; her leg was shooting jolts of pain through her body. But Alanki ran for her life, furious with herself for losing her only chance to dispose of the alpha. The chance was not going to come again, as the pack would never leave their alpha the slightest bit under-protected now. She should have planned. She should have thought! But her anger was still a toothed and burning presence inside of her, and even now it was telling her: Turn around, take them all, scatter them, devour them—

She was running as fast as her long legs would carry her, dodging trees and tearing through undergrowth, thorns snagging her white pelt. She was much faster than the pack wolves, and she knew the forest better; but the bite on her leg given to her by that grey packwolf was slowing her down, and she was beginning to drag. How could I have been such an idiot? Anger had made her reckless.

The alpha released another hunting howl, and the pack echoed her cry with an excited fervor. Alanki lowered her head and ran faster, twigs whipping her face. The ground beneath her paws was rumbling with a tremor like thunder. She limped as fast as she could towards the river, where she may have a chance if she could cross it before the pack.

The pack was just behind her, a crashing mass through the forest. Alanki could hear their fangs snapping and short, excited breaths. You can't run forever.

But this was her forest! They couldn't catch her. What about Delphinium and Eyebright? What about Eryngo?

Alanki's chest was searing with pain in every gasping breath. Black mist was rising before her vision, and she could not see where she was going. The deafening thunder of the wolf pack behind her mingled with the pounding of blood in her ears, like a malevolent drum striking in her head. She was falling, falling...

But there it was—the placid trickle of running water, so out-of-place in the dark, frantic atmosphere. It was somewhere close ahead; Alanki could almost smell it in the cold air. The river. She was almost there.

Alanki flattened her ears and shot forward, the wind screaming past her like the hunting howls of the pack. She was running on three legs, her bitten one dragging behind her and thumping over rocks and tree roots. If only she could cross the river, she might be able to escape. Alanki was used to swimming, and the wolf pack probably was not. It would slow them down enough for her to disappear once again—

She ran straight into the rushing water. The river was icy cold, a few thin sheets of ice floating along the banks. Frigid water knifed through her fur, plastering it close to her body. Droplets flew up into her face, clinging to her fur and freezing in the cold wind. Numbing, cold water was flooding into her mouth and stinging her eyes.

Alanki shook away the drops and spat, heart thumping as she swam away from the banks. The ground had disappeared from beneath her working paws and she slipped, sinking down into icy nothingness. Alanki gasped and pumped her legs harder, dragging herself back up towards the surface, sneezing and choking on the blast of sudden wind. Her head was spinning, and the cold seemed to be leeching energy out of her tired limbs, sucking at her weary paws and pulling her under. But Alanki strained, moving her legs through the river, pushing hard towards the other side—

Her paws hit solid pebbles before she knew it. Alanki dragged herself up onto the soil, gasping and panting as cold air seared down through her frozen lungs. She shook her white pelt, which was heavy and icy with river water. Turning, she could see the wolf pack on the opposite banks, hesitating at the swift-moving frosty river.

Shaking, Alanki whipped around and ran, just as the pack began to crash their way through the river, the water roiling around their paws.

This side of the forest was almost pitch black. The trees were clustered even closer together and there was not a moving thing in sight. A fierce orange moon and snowflake stars glittered coldly down at her from the sky like hundreds of searching eyes. Redshank had been right after all, then. The moon was flame-tinted. Alanki gave a swift shudder and dashed on. She had to hide; the pack would be coming soon,

There was a shadowy hollow just beyond a row of dark pines. Still heaving for breath, Alanki crept around the close trunks; their rough bark scratched at her pelt as she passed. She cursed the trees. The pack would be able to catch her scent on their bark and follow her trail.

But the ground in the hollow was soft and peaty. They would never be able to track her on a kind of surface like that. Alanki slipped into the darkness, her white pelt barely visible as she ducked into a crevice between a boulder and a juniper bush.

As angry as Alanki was at the pack and their alpha, a part of her was still seething at herself. How could she have let them find her? How could she have been so stupid? If only she had just stayed in her tree, she never would have been in such trouble as this. If only she had stayed out of sight, not pounced into their midst like she had—what had made her so reckless? Anger?

The howling and rumbling of running paws began again, and Alanki knew that the pack had crossed the river. She pressed herself closer against the boulder, her mud-streaked pelt blending in with the dark grey stone. All Alanki now wanted was to make it through the night—she would form another plan in the light of dawn.

"She's been here!" a voice called from outside the hollow. "See—look, her scent's on this tree."

"Move aside," a rougher voice said. "I'm going to be the one to kill her."

"You think?" jeered another voice, as though this were all a game. "I rather believe it should be I, you know. Because your shadow once told me—"

"Shut up, Kesol," another voice snarled. "You're not a Sentinel. You shouldn't even be here."

Alanki listened to them with half a mind. In any normal situation, she would be interpreting the tone of each voice, picking out intentions and emotions in order to find a weakness. But then, in any normal situation, she would be somewhere far, far away by now. What was wrong with her tonight?

There was a crashing, thudding in the hollow, and Alanki twitched, knowing that the pack had moved in. They were not howling anymore; they had silenced. Were they afraid?

"It's peat!" cursed a voice from somewhere nearby. "Her scent is gone—but she's been here, I know she has."

"She's probably watching us, right now. Hidden in the bushes, waiting to spring."

"Be quiet, you can't scare me," someone snapped. "We're more than a match for her. But—but perhaps we should check the bushes, just for caution's sake."

"Good idea."

Alanki breathed in sharply. She closed her eyes, willing that they would miss her.

"Wait a moment," a tense voice said, very close to where Alanki was hidden. "Alpha Liyra! Come here! Her scent is strong on this boulder, right here! Do you think she might—"

The wolf's voice ended with a yelp as Alanki sprang from her hiding place and dashed off into the shadows. Within seconds, the entire pack was back on her trail, snarling and howling as they dashed after her flying paws.

This is it, this is it—they're going to catch me. Every breath was an explosion of pain in Alanki's chest, and her injured leg bumped behind her like a useless, dead log. She had promised; she had promised that they would never find her, never even see her. But this was too much; there was no way she could escape.

Keep running, keep running...

They were close behind her. She could feel their hot breaths on her fur, and a set of fangs snapped at her whipping tail. Alanki tried desperately to form some sort of a plan, some form of escape—but nothing came to her but cold, blind panic. What was wrong with her? She must be losing herself.

Keep running...keep running...

Alanki couldn't breathe. Air rushed by her face, stinging her eyes and biting her fur—but she couldn't breathe at all. Her legs felt like heavy, dull weights, throbbing as she urged them to go on, never stop, not give up, run until the end of eternity—

Keep...running...

No. She couldn't.

Alanki came to a ragged, skidding halt, her head hanging as she gasped for breath that would not come. Her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed, shuddering in a muddy heap on the cold ground. The bitter, metallic taste of blood was heavy in her mouth and red in the froth around her muzzle. She was dizzy; tired...There was nothing left to do. No more hiding places, no more energy, no more chances, no more time. The deer had been right. At least she would die for something.

The running paws behind her came to a halt. Alanki looked up, seeing the pack gathered around her. Hundreds of eyes and fangs gleamed in the darkness, soft snarls issuing from bared jaws. They circled around her, as if she were prey. Mocking her.

Alanki knew she was going to die. But, buried beneath her fatigue and pain, there was still a rushing in her bones, a fierce blue light before her blackening vision. The _Lankhi_ does not reach an end. The _Lankhi_ , the deer had always told her, spanned the entire earth; the _Lankhi_ was a terrible, weariless ribbon that drowned the fools who underestimated its depth and carried the dead leaves when they fell. It would not allow her to be killed lying on the ground, drained and exhausted beneath her enemies like a deer that had been worn past its limits in a hunt. She was not a deer.

Alanki rose to her paws, determined to fight until her legs were forcibly torn out from beneath her.

She drew up the coldness of the river water in her throat and snarled at them, her torn, muddied fur bristling. And to her surprise, she could see a faint glimmer of fear in the eyes of a few wolves nearest to her. Even now, in her beaten state, they were afraid of her.

"Come along, then," she snarled, side heaving for air. "Come now and kill me. Does it take all of you just to catch me? I hope you are proud of yourselves. So kill me. Now."

Without hesitation, an empty-eyed white wolf growled and flung himself at her, fangs bared wide and snapping the air. She shot up to meet him and lashed out with a clawed paw, catching him on the side of his head and twisting away so that his snapped around empty space. He swung around on the spot and barreled into her, knocking the air out of her weary lungs. But she rolled with the impact and kicked upwards with her hind legs, sending him spinning away and crashing against the nearest tree.

Snarls erupted from the pack, and they began to circle closer. Alanki growled, but she was tired. She knew she could not last long if they chose to come at her all at once. But her legs were stiff and burning with a wild, shivering energy, and they would not let her collapse.

"Come now," she taunted again, gasping. Her head hung limply, nose near the ground—but she glared up at them through hazy, bloodshot eyes. "That is—that's it? 'Tis over? Shall you kill me or not?"

But this time, there was no sudden, angry outburst. The entire pack was silenced, motionless. Something flared in their eyes—the exact same instinctive light that Alanki had seen flashing in the eyes of Delphinium and Redshank just a few days ago, when they had caught a scent that frightened them.

"Frightened?" Alanki hissed, raising her head. "You are frightened now, you filthy cowards?"

And then, to her complete bewilderment, the entire pack turned tail and dashed away. Even the white wolf at the base of the tree picked himself up from the ground and ran with his ears flat against his skull, as though running for his life. The pack ran like the herd of deer with the hunter snapping at their heels, terror and panic wild in the air. They disappeared, vanishing into the darkness of the forest.

For a moment, Alanki was confused. Surely she had not scared them that much? There was only one of her, and they had their entire pack! Why had they run?

Nevertheless, Alanki lifted her head to the cold black sky and howled, throwing her weariness, fear, and triumph into the heavens to taunt the retreating backs of the wolves. She howled longer than she had ever howled before—crying for the deer, her ravaged forest, and her close escape, throwing defiance up to the angry fire moon above. It was the most eerie and unearthly of sounds, and caused the fleeing wolf pack to run faster still.

But then, with a sudden rush, Alanki realized why they had run, and her howl was cut off with a stunned choke. She had caught a scent on a weak breeze blowing towards her, a scent she had not noticed a few moments before. It was a scent that caused the fur along her back to bristle and sent prickles running up and down her spine.

Impossible.

And from the shadowed woods behind her echoed another howl, answering her own.

### 25.

Balance Upset

"So did you manage to catch the renegade?"

Tir's ears rose at the Gatherer's whispered question. Someone had limped down into her hollow, and she was moving amongst her herb-boulders now, collecting the plants she would need. Her visitor had taken a seat not far away from where Tir was lying down, but Tir did not look up. He was pretending to be asleep. His pelt still burned with shame at Liyra's ruling; he had tried to be brave, to make a stand, but in the pack's eyes he had only been sent away like a misbehaving pup...or the dangerous outsider he had once been. Whichever was worse, he was in no mood to explain himself to another wolf.

"Oh, yes," came the very sarcastic reply. "Yes, Kesol is telling her a story at this very moment."

"No need to be rude," Palva hissed. "How did she escape this time?"

"I'm not certain; it was all a mass of confusion, but I think that—"

Crash! Something came storming down Palva's tunnel and skidding to a halt in her hollow. There was an indignant growl from the wolf Palva was speaking with, and Palva groaned.

"What do you want, Nerasa? Did you get flung into a tree as well?"

"No! I—oh, of course, sorry, Xelind. Does it hurt much?"

"Close your mouth," growled Xelind. "I notice you did not bother to fight at all."

Tir could almost hear Nerasa smirking.

"Wouldn't make any difference," she said. "Everyone knows that Captain's already got your name down for chief Sentinel. Excited?"

Xelind did not answer, and Nerasa gave an exaggerated sigh.

"Yes, well, I gotta tell Tir something," she said to Palva. "D'you mind?"

"Can it wait?"

"It's urgent!"

"What about?" Palva asked suspiciously.

"You know! Everyone knows! It's awful—"

"What's wrong?"

"Everything's wrong! It's all upside down—I'll bet she's gonna come hunting us now."

"She tried to kill Alpha Liyra," Xelind said. "She was too bold."

"Yeah, but we got her in time. Losai bit her hard; it slowed her down a lot."

"She almost killed Liyra?" Palva said, sounding alarmed.

Tir's eyes flew open. Xelind was staring at him from atop a boulder, his blue eyes narrowed and unyielding. An ugly purple bruise was seeping a splotch of blood into his fur.

"I see you've decided to come around," he said. "The Captain told me about your mad spell. I'm afraid you've missed a—"

Nerasa whipped around, her fur bristling and yellow eyes wide.

"It's the renegade!" she said in her loud voice, cutting him off. "She—she's..."

"She's not a renegade," Xelind said, licking one of his cuts.

Tir struggled to rise. He swayed, and Palva gave him a sharp look.

"What?" he said, feeling dazed. "She's not a—"

"She's not, she's not!" Nerasa yelped, leaping up as well. "I can't understand how she did it."

"But—"

"She's not!" Nerasa rushed on. "We were chasing her, and we almost had her—she was cornered! Then, there was a bit of fighting and that's when Xelind got thrown into a tree—"

"This is serious, Nerasa," Palva said sharply.

"I am serious!"

"What happened?" Tir demanded.

"She was cornered," Nerasa continued, turning back to face Tir, yellow eyes wide. "And then, just as we were about to close in—"

Tir shuddered. They really were going to kill her.

"...we caught a weird scent. I mean, a really weird scent—we hadn't noticed it before, I mean, the air was all full of the scent of fear and blood and things of that sort. But it was the scent of a whole pack of wolves!"

Tir fell down with a thump.

"A—a whole pack of wolves?" His voice was shaking.

Nerasa nodded, yellow eyes wide. "Yes! Can you believe it? This whole time, we thought she was the only one in on this. Moon in a hole, is Alpha in trouble now."

"But what can we do?"

Xelind looked up. "Well," he said serenely. "obviously, this pack is going to attack us. I don't know when they came to the forest; maybe they had been hiding this whole time—Rya knows we'd never have known, being that there are so many shadows in that cursed wood. But why did they suddenly decide to reveal themselves? We don't know. We've all thought the renegade to be a half-mad loner, haven't we? To go throwing about outrageous threats the way she did." He sounded almost amused. "One wolf can't possibly be capable of doing such things. But now she isn't one wolf. Just the thought of a whole pack of wolves like her, wolves who hold the same convictions as she..." He nodded with grave significance and went back to licking his cuts.

Palva shot him a look of disgust. "You don't sound very unsettled by it all," she said. "I suppose our good Captain has filled you in on the grand plan? What are the fine points? Disembowelment? It's what we'd do to survive, isn't it?"

Tir averted his eyes. Up until this point, Palva had been behaving with something near civility for the white Sentinel. But the hatred ringing in her voice now showed that she hadn't forgotten anything.

"How very eloquent of you," Xelind said without looking up. "But no, I haven't any idea what Captain Leron is planning. I would think that you, Gatherer, would know more of the plans than I—"

"I won't have anything to do with that bloodthirsty tyrant and his plans! Nor will I put up with anyone who associates with him!"

"And where does that take us, Gatherer?" Xelind asked, his voice deadly soft. "Have you stored away any plants that aren't poisonous?"

"Errrm," Nerasa said, her yellow eyes darting between Palva and Xelind. "I don't know what we're talking about, but we've gotten a bit off-subject."

"Yes, we have, thank you," Xelind said tonelessly. He looked up at Tir. "I have heard that you had something of great importance to tell Alpha Liyra before the hunt? What—"

"Nothing you need to know!" Palva said. "Go back to licking your cuts!"

Tir turned away, their angry voices fading in his mind. His head was spinning with a million different thoughts. A whole pack of wolves. Where had they come from? Why were they here now? Had the renegade summoned them? She's not a renegade, he thought with a prickling chill. She has a pack of her own.

"How do we know that this pack really is the pack of the renegade?" Palva asked, after there had been a long, terse silence. "They could be anything."

"The howl," said Nerasa. Her ears flattened. "When we ran, she howled. Mocking us, you know." she scuffed at the ground. "And the other pack answered her. We could scent them; she had led us to them."

"They're coming for us," Xelind said with eerie calmness, not looking up. "They're going to come and kill us all. And we thought we could end everything tonight."

Palva was shaking her head and Nerasa was walking in stiff circles at the entrance to the grass tunnel. The air in the hollow, always fresh and spicy with the sharp scent of Palva's herbs, was buzzing as though it were filled with tiny, apprehensive insects.

Tir looked away, curling up in a knot on the grass in a sudden, dizzying wave of tiredness. He was no longer worried about the renegade—shocked, yes. But the renegade had a pack of her own and, that being true, now there were other wolves in greater danger. Tir did not have much sympathy for Alpha Liyra—she was set in her ways; she wasn't heeding any of the warnings—but others, such as Nerasa, Kesol, and Palva were innocent of the alpha's foolish decisions. Tir was worried for his new pack, his friends. For once, he did not feel the usual prick of guilt at this thought—his old pack was dead, and he mourned for them, but their troubles were ended. He must defend what he still had.

"Oh!" Nerasa said from the corner, in a tone of sudden revelation. "Oh, yes, Palva—Alpha wants you to come to a Council meeting when you're done. I was supposed to tell you sooner, sorry."

Palva groaned.

"No doubt, they will be wanting my opinion on this renegade pack, won't they?" she said. Tir wondered if he had imagined the line of bitter sarcasm in her voice.

"I suppose they're gonna talk about all that important exciting stuff, you know. How we're gonna deal with this pack. I suppose Alpha's gonna want some of your plans."

Palva groaned again, and there was a muffled thump that sounded as though she had pounded her head against a boulder.

"You okay?" Nerasa asked, sounding alarmed.

"Fine," Palva growled through gritted teeth. "We're all fine."

"Alpha's not. She's in big trouble, and she knows it. But you can't really blame her, I mean, who would have guessed?"

Palva said nothing.

Tir did not look up. He did not want to see the dark, stormy anger that was no doubt flitting across Palva's face. He could feel it in the air already—bitter and sharp as blood. Who would have guessed? Who would have guessed that the tides would turn and the hunters become the hunted? Who would have guessed?

"Oh, and by the way—Tir, Captain said for all wolves to report back to their dens immediately. That's why I was supposed to come down here in the first place—sorry, I got a bit sidetracked."

"Why?" Palva asked.

"I dunno," Nerasa said. "I guess he wants 'em all in one place. Maybe he's afraid the renegade pack will attack tonight. Or tomorrow."

Tomorrow? Could this be the last night Alpha Liyra's pack had to live? Tir shuddered, and a paw jabbed in his ribs. Palva was standing over him, her face haggard and worried.

"Get up," she said quietly, then her voice regained its usual briskness. "Go on, then, get out of here." She padded over to her herb boulder, limping on her three legs.

Tir shook the fragments of dead grass that had collected in his thick pelt. He did not want to return to the redoubt main, where the other wolves would no doubt be angry and itching for the renegade's blood. He did not want to face any more fury and fear at the moment—he didn't think he could take this any longer.

"Can't I stay here?" he pleaded, realizing how childish he sounded.

Palva looked at him sharply, as though she knew what he was thinking.

"No. Do as your good Captain tells you."

Reluctantly, Tir turned and padded up the grass tunnel, his tail whispering over the grass behind him.

The redoubt main was empty, of course. A few wispy strands of dead grass fluttered on the hard dirt ground, making little sighing noises as the cold night breeze swept through. Tir looked up. Sure enough, the orange fire-moon was there, glowering down at him. He shuddered, wishing it wasn't there. Even Blacksky was preferable compared to the eerie, unnatural shade of Rya's eye. He jumped as a sudden explosion of growling erupted from a cluster of dens nearby—it sounded as though the Sentinels were scuffling amongst themselves again. Were the Hunters doing the same?

Tir sighed and padded over to the familiar ledges and dens on the Hunters' end of the cliff face. He could see them gathered in a dark clump at the base of the stony wall, a few voices floating in and out of his hearing as he approached.

To Tir's surprise, the Hunters were behaving as though nothing awful had happened. Kesol was leaning against a nearby boulder, telling a story in an unnecessarily loud voice. Mluma was lying on the ground, listening to him with rapt attention. By her lingering scent, Simetra had just left. And Raatri...Tir squinted at the dark levels and pits in the stone above him, but could not see the timid little wolf.

"And so then," Kesol was saying; he was shouting, for some reason. "At that moment, the beetles began to dance and the pebbles began to sing, the way bears do when it rains. Ha! They thought they could fool me, but all the while—"

"Kesol," Tir interrupted, walking around Mluma. "Where is Raatri? Is he here?"

"Why, the last time I saw him he was busy gathering bullfrogs near the—"

Tir twitched an ear irritably. "Where's Raatri?" he asked again, this time to Mluma.

"He's here," she said in her soft, wispy voice. "He didn't like the renegade hunt."

Tir looked up. For the first time, he noticed a tiny knot of quivering black fur on one of the lower shelves, crying softly.

"Go on then, Kesol," Mluma urged. "What did you do after that?"

Tir padded away to his own den, too weary to want to listen to one of Kesol's nonsense tales. His paws were heavy weights that dragged him down as he clambered up over the low lip of boulders. The earthy den floor felt soft and familiar, and Tir curled up with a sigh.

Poor Raatri. Ever since the white renegade had come and threatened Alpha Liyra that one terrible night, he had been deathly terrified of her. Tir knew that Raatri was convinced that the renegade was no normal wolf—he had caught him telling a hushed story to a sympathetic Salka about how the renegade was a demon or a ghost in disguise, therefore explaining how she had managed to vanish and reappear out of thin air in her forest. Tir did not believe that the renegade was what Raatri said she was, but she was still a strange creature. A whole pack of wolves like her was a terrible thought indeed—but it was true.

Who were these strange wolves? Were they the renegade's pack? Were they all renegades, from different places, summoned by the white renegade's call? Her friends, perhaps? After all, Alpha Liyra had never explored the land that was beyond the forest. For all they knew, there could be an entire army of wolves living out there, waiting, preparing.

His mind went back to his shocked, half-frozen thoughts the night the renegade had first come to their redoubt with her threats. He remembered thinking then, how a cornered animal is more dangerous than anything else. A creature fighting with nothing to lose can tear down beasts three times its size; the will to survive is the most powerful driving force in nature. Liyra's pack had learned that in the marsh, and they were learning it again, from the renegade.

And now they were outnumbered.

***

"How many of you are there?"

That was the first question Alanki asked when she prowled into the pine grove from which the answering howl had come. It was a dark and shady area—even darker than the rest of her forest—and very damp as well; the soft, slick mud squished under her paws as she walked. She had been correct. There was a new pack of wolves settled in her forest. Where had they come from? What did they want? Were they allies of the enemy pack?

No one answered. Alanki guessed that this pack was close to the same size of the one she had just escaped from—perhaps a bit smaller. But the first thing she noticed was that they all appeared to be in terrible condition. Every single one of them was scrawny and starved, ribs jutting out from their thin pelts. Many were bleeding in various places, the bright streams of blood seeping through the mud and dust that caked their fur. It was clear that they had been traveling for a long time. Who were they?

Another thing that struck Alanki as strange was the fact that none of the wolves had any hostile reaction to her being there. They stared at her with a mild, dull curiosity, as though she was an interestingly-shaped tree or bush. She wondered if they had even heard her question.

"Where is your alpha?" she demanded in a louder voice. "Which one of you is the alpha here?"

Again, no reaction. A few of the bedraggled wolves turned and limped into their makeshift dens amongst the bushes. At the same time, several wolves emerged into the clearing, staring at her with blank eyes. Alanki would have growled at them with frustration, but she was too stunned by their strange behavior to speak again.

"YOU!"

Alanki jumped at the sound. She whipped around to see a ragged-looking tawny she-wolf stagger out from a hole in the undergrowth, her eyes huge.

"YOU!" the old she-wolf shrieked again, almost tripping over her paws with a frenzied excitement. "HOW DARE YOU RETURN HERE! HOW DARE—HOW DARE YOU COME TO CLAIM ME NOW, IN THIS STATE!"

Alanki bristled and took a few steps backwards from the mad, gibbering old wolf, whose glassy eyes seemed far too wide and round to be natural; the she-wolf's voice rang with conflicting tones of indignant rage and wild joy, but her eyes were totally hollow of emotion.

"What are—"

"AS IF I DIDN'T SAY THE PROPER PRAYERS! AS IF I DIDN'T ENDANGER MYSELF TO...TO...HOW DARE YOU!"

She sputtered for a few moments, the muscles in her thin face trembling beneath her skin as though she were unable to find the words to express her rage. At last, she took a deep, steadying breath, and shut her eyes. Still trembling, she seemed to wilt before Alanki like a sorry pup, and lowered her head. "I've been waiting," she said with a forced gentleness, her voice soft and tearful. "So long I've been waiting...a—and I haven't been myself, not all the time, I know, but...but I did what I had to. And perhaps this is what I deserve."

"I'm afraid I don't...?"

"THIS IS WHAT I DESERVE!" the old wolf howled, flying up again with frightening speed, her dead eyes flashing open and filling with an insane glow. "ALWAYS ALWAYS! THEY WERE WRONG—ALL OF THEM!"

Alanki watched with mingled shock and disgust as the tawny she-wolf began stomping on the marshy ground, positively falling to pieces in a strange, joyful fury. Alanki took another few steps away, and for some reason felt a chill skitter across the skin beneath her thick, mud-streaked fur.

"What're you talking about?" she asked, her voice rough and hoarse, as though her throat were filled with sand. "Who are you?"

The old she-wolf fell silent. She seemed to wilt, to melt—her ears and tail falling into a droop and her fur lying lank and flat. Quivering, she raised her head to look up at Alanki with enormous, sad green eyes.

"Oh," she whispered, like a pup. "Oh. She doesn't know. Of course she doesn't. It would be too fair. As if I didn't say the proper prayers...how dare she return?"

Alanki was just about to reply when another wolf stalked up from behind the mad old she-wolf. He was in the same hungry, unkempt condition, but his dusty fur was a smoky black which matched his eyes—angry and suspicious. He growled at Alanki and shoved his way between her and the tawny she-wolf, who was still mumbling to the ground.

"Who are you?" he demanded, narrowing his hostile eyes at her. Alanki stiffened.

"I may ask who you are," she said, with the same flat air of mistrust. "This is my forest, after all. You are intruders here. Take me to your alpha immediately."

"What business do you have with the alpha? I'm not taking you anywhere until you declare yourself."

"Oh, yes you shall," Alanki growled. "'Tis my business, unfortunately, that I am to straighten out with this alpha of yours—nothing I need explain to anyone else. But if you do not do as I ask, you shall find yourself with more of an explanation than you wanted."

"Is that a threat?" he said, eyes narrowing. "Because if you dare—"

"Of course 'twas a threat, idiot. Now allow me to repeat myself—take me to your alpha."

Before the seething black wolf could reply, another wolf came padding across the clearing, his tail waving out behind him.

"Avrok!" he said. "Who is this?"

"Some patrol wolf," Avrok mumbled, lowering his eyes. "She claims this is her territory."

Straight away, Alanki knew that this new wolf had to be the alpha—the way Avrok was speaking to him, and the way he held himself. The alpha's pelt was a dull coal-black with streaks of silver age around the muzzle. Strangely, Alanki had to look only once into his eyes—a deep, liquid burnt-gold, almost orange—and know right away that this was a wolf she could trust. She'd never seen one of those before.

The old black alpha dipped his head to her, as if she were a guest.

"My name is Misari," he said in a low voice. "You must excuse us. We have been traveling, and the journey was very difficult. Naturally, we will be most suspicious towards strangers. Though, no doubt, we are the strangers in this land. Again, I am sorry if we are intruding."

Alanki nodded, satisfied. "How many of you are there?" she asked for the second time.

Misari shook his dark head. "Few, of what is left. There used to be more of us, but we have been through terrible times."

At this, Alanki noticed him give a short, sad glance in the direction of the tawny she-wolf, who was still muttering to herself and scuffing her tattered paws in the dirt.

Alanki, watching the tawny she-wolf, felt a prickle of unease—which surprised her. What reason did she have to care about the no-doubt tragic pasts of these wolves? She had troubles enough of her own.

Alanki turned back towards Misari, who was watching her closely. "What has happened?" she asked, and he gave a regretful smile, just like the one worn by Delphinium when she would tell the fawns a cautionary tale.

"Every terrible thing that you could imagine," he said. "We were driven out of our old lands by a terrible drought—a drought with such a powerful hold on our throats, one may believe that we had angered the Spirits themselves. Indeed, that may be so; only a few seasons of traveling had passed before we were devastated by a terrible forest fire from which we barely escaped together. After many months of more traveling, we find ourselves here. We have been through far too much to exchange hostilities with a stranger."

Alanki was surprised at how easily he was able to speak of the troubles his pack had been through and how weak they were at the moment. Most alphas would never even say anything to suggest that their pack was vulnerable, much less go into detail.

"So what is wrong with her?" Alanki asked, looking at the old tawny she-wolf. "Is it that you all are crazy? She is crazy, yes? 'Tis that she or I. I do not know her, but she claims that she has been wronged."

The tawny she-wolf let out a thin wail like a crying pup, and curled into a quivering knot on the damp ground. Alanki shifted with some discomfort, aware of how insensitive she had sounded, although she had been being truthful.

Misari looked at the she-wolf and then looked at Alanki. A strange expression flitted across his face, and for a moment it looked as though he were going to going to reach out to Alanki, as if to ask her a question, but seemed to decide against it.

"Do—do not be worried," he said at last. He drew a deep breath, and the tremor that had crept into his voice vanished. "She has been through more than any of us—and, I am afraid, she is not the same for it. Never will she be the same; she has been torn apart."

Alanki glanced down at the motionless she-wolf. Torn apart? It sounded dramatic, like something Eyebright would say. What did he mean by that?

"Her pups," Misari explained, as though he had read Alanki's mind. "All of her pups were taken from her. Most recently, she lost one of them in the fire—though he was no longer a pup, almost an adult by then." He sighed. "And he was a fine son to me, and I am afraid he understood his mother far better than I ever was able. I am to be blamed; do not be upset by whatever she has accused you of. She is always seeing things that are not there, talking to creatures no one else knows of and wolves that are long dead. Crying, too. I am sorry if she disturbed you."

Alanki nodded, her throat feeling dry. She said nothing as Misari ordered the grumpy wolf named Avrok to take the miserable tawny she-wolf back to her den under the bushes. Her mind was spinning with a thousand different thoughts, none of which made any sense to her. It was only until she heard Misari speaking again that she came back to her senses.

"Are you alone?"

Alanki jumped. "What do you mean?"

Misari's yellow-orange eyes were shrewd. "I mean, are you a loner? Are there any other wolves on this territory?"

Alanki narrowed her eyes. Of course. No matter how trustworthy this alpha may seem to be, he would not want to be threatened by any other wolves on his territory. If she told him she was a renegade, well, they would probably drive her out, even if they did so politely. She could attack this pack from the shadows as she had done with the other pack, but she felt as though she could not afford to make any more enemies at the present time.

Alanki had always found it helpful to lie.

"No," Alanki said, raising her brow as though she found the suggestion offensive. "Of course I'm not a loner."

Misari looked surprised.

Alanki grinned like a fox. "Certainly not. Did you not hear them—my pack? Just a few moments ago? A patrol was coming through here, chasing a badger out of our forest. I was with them."

"Of course I heard them. Everyone heard them. Where—where are they now?"

"They scented you. 'Twas only a patrol, you see—they went back to the settlement to report what they scented to the alpha. They sent me here to attempt to reason with you and your pack."

Misari sighed, and Alanki's grin widened, though she was careful to keep a straight face when the black alpha looked back up at her, his orange eyes now with a nervous glitter.

"I am sorry for intruding on your territory," he said. "But we have no choice. We do not want trouble; we do not want to fight with your pack. You can see, we cannot fight any longer. I admit, we are weak. We are no harm to you."

"Good," Alanki said. "I shall tell the alpha that."

"We will move on soon, I promise you. But for now, if it is not too much trouble, if your alpha consents, may we remain here for a while? A half-season, perhaps? My pack is too weary to move on at the moment; we must rest. I'm afraid we have been traveling for too long."

"Oh, I shall ask the alpha. But only on one condition."

"And what is that?"

"There is a deer herd on the fields nearby here," Alanki said. "You are to leave them alone. Don't even go near them. Do not dare."

"That is fine, of course." Misari sounded puzzled. "We will do as you say; we are in your land."

Alanki nodded, pleased with her deception. "Then you may stay. Once I've spoken to the alpha."

Misari dipped his head, looking relieved. Alanki turned and swept out of the marshy clearing, feeling the dull eyes of the pack watching her as she left. They would be no trouble to her. Their alpha had promised. And as for the other pack...

Misari watched the white she-wolf, the messenger from the other pack, leave the makeshift camp looking strangely satisfied. An old sadness was tugging at his heart, and he felt very weary.

He turned and looked at Arwena, the old and ragged she-wolf. She had crept from the den Avrok had led her to and stood at Misari's side now, watching the shuddering undergrowth the wolf had vanished into with wide, fervent eyes. Her shoulders trembled. She was silent now.

"You always were so clever, my dear," Misaria said to her, his voice sad and soft. He shook his head. "I should have known you better. You always were so defiant, so strong. You were not one to be bound by the old rules. I should have known."

Arwena bristled as he turned to look at her. She gave a wordless snarl and whipped around, kicking dirt at his feet. Misari sighed in defeat as she stumbled away. His head felt heavy and full of sand, and his eyes burned. He watched the darkness into which the white wolf had vanished and wondered, sadly, if this was meant to be.

### 26.

Dissent

As Nerasa had predicted, Xelind was the new chief Sentinel.

If he was surprised by this decision, then he did not show it; in fact, there was a good chance that he had known it was coming for a long time. Tir was not surprised and neither was Palva; the Gatherer had retreated to her hollow after the announcement, muttering darkly about conniving weasels and shooting glares over her shoulder as she left. Palva, for once, was not alone in her misgivings. Indeed, every wolf in the pack had exchanged dismal glances following the announcement. Every wolf in the pack knew that it was Captain Leron's doing.

On any normal occasion, the position would have been fought for amongst the Sentinels on a designated Fang night, and there were many whisperings amongst those who were not chosen about whether or not Xelind would have been the one who would win—was he the right wolf for the position? The chief Sentinel must be the strongest fighter out of all the Sentinels, as Sirle had been.

But Alpha Liyra had promised the position to whoever was the one to kill the renegade—and no one had done so.

Liyra had stated, as a rather weak explanation: "He was the only wolf brave enough to attack the renegade alone." And he was; he had leapt at her as she was cornered—only to be flung headlong into a tree. But he had come the closest out of any of the Sentinels. So Xelind was the new chief Sentinel—there was no arguing with the Alpha's choice, even if it had been made for her by the Captain.

An hour later, Xelind was sitting with the rest of the Council in Alpha Liyra's den, busy licking his cuts as he waited in calm silence for the meeting to begin. Simetra and Captain Leron were flattened against opposite walls of the cave, Simetra glaring poison and Leron trying to hide his smile. Alpha Liyra herself was standing in the entrance to her cave, the seeping grey light of dawn forming a misty halo around her fur. Palva was not there.

"May we begin?" Simetra growled from her dark corner. "My paws are beginning to ache."

"The Gatherer isn't here, chief Hunter," Captain Leron said with an exaggerated patience. "The rules dictate that we may not begin without a full Council present, and despite her lack of relevant input, we must treat the Gatherer fairly—"

"Enough, Leron," Liyra interrupted. "She is coming. She must have heard my howl."

"Everyone heard the howl," Xelind said, surprising the others by speaking. They turned to stare at him; he pretended not to notice, and continued licking his cuts. "And Nerasa the Sentinel did tell her about the meeting. I was there, you know."

"What did she say?" Liyra asked.

"She wasn't pleased."

"But she—"

"She says she won't have anything to do with this...'bloodbath' any longer. She's resigning from the Council."

Alpha Liyra shifted.

"Oh, no, but surely she couldn't have meant that."

Xelind raised his brow. "She sounded resolute to me."

No one said anything for a few moments. Alpha Liyra was looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Well," she said. "We cannot begin without her. We need her."

"No, no, we don't," Leron said. "Leave her; she was kind enough to make things more convenient for us. Now we may begin, as it seems that the full Council is present."

Liyra remained at the cave entrance for a few more moments, looking out to see if she could catch a glimpse of the disgruntled Gatherer. At last the alpha sighed and, turning around with some reluctance, padded back into the cave's darkness.

"Fine then," she said. "Let's see if we can sort this out."

And she looked at Captain Leron.

"There is little to be discussed, Alpha," Leron said, detaching himself somewhat from the cave wall and moving closer to the center of the huddled group, where he stood beside Xelind. "I'm afraid our options have been limited for a long time—thus far, we have let the renegade dictate the terms of the fight. We have not been firm enough."

A long silence followed; the Council wolves seemed unwilling to speak. At last, Simetra gave him a look of disgust, and growled, "We've sent our entire pack out to kill her on her own land. Is that not assertive enough for you, Captain? We did what we thought was best; we've been trying to end this—"

"With all respect, chief Hunter," Leron interrupted. "We hesitated. We should have struck down this renegade the moment we discovered her existence—and for that, I take the blame myself. I should have killed her on my first patrol of this land, but I, too, hesitated."

"That's hardly something to take blame for, Leron," Liyra said, her brow raised in surprise. She had been watching him speak with a thoughtful eye, and now she turned her attention to the others. "No one would have expected you to jump to immediate conclusions; why, how were any of us to know what this renegade was going to mean?"

"I should have known," Leron said, straightening himself. For once, he looked deadly serious. "I am familiar with wolves like her. Outsiders and renegades are the most dangerous creatures on earth; they are loose, unpredictable wolves. I have seen firsthand what they can do, and even Xelind here can tell you about the brutality of which a desperate animal is capable."

The Council sat in stunned silence. Xelind flattened his ears and continued to lick his cuts; Leron, however, was wearing an uncharacteristically honest expression of angry pride.

"There isn't any need to be ashamed," he said fiercely. "Not you, Xelind, and not I—none of us. You, chief Hunter, said that you all did what you thought was best. And, I tell you, I did the same; Xelind did the same. I have never lied to you about the difficulties my pack faced before we joined yours, Liyra. One dangerous stranger can infiltrate a pack like a parasite and take it over from the inside out—I have seen this happen firsthand. But that Xelind and I are alive today—although we are the only surviving members—testifies to the fact that each of us has done what we thought was best. And it worked."

There was a long, tense silence. Under Liyra and Simetra's disbelieving stares, Leron appeared to have expanded in the cave; the Captain's flint-grey eyes gleamed with a strange, violent fervor, and he stood tall and dark against the stone walls of the cave. Xelind, by contrast, had shrunk; he licked his wound raw and bloody, and his ears had flattened so close to his skull that he looked to be little more than a white skeleton loosely draped in fur.

"You are talking strangely about outsiders, Leron," Liyra said at last, looking wary. "The problem at hand is the renegade's pack. Surely you don't mean to say anything about..."

"I told you my misgivings about that one the night the Gatherer dragged him up to our new redoubt."

"That one?" Simetra burst out, her hostility returned. She bared her teeth in the dark. "You are referring to one of my own Hunters, Captain; I won't stand these insults! Tir has proven himself as a member of this pack, and I refuse to listen to your prejudices any longer—"

"You don't find it terribly coincidental, then," Leron interrupted, raising his voice to overpower hers. "...that we move into this seemingly-unclaimed territory and find, not one, but two unknown wolves? One of which—of course—we let into our pack without any suspicion, just in time for the other to commence attacking us from the outside?"

"Just because this is a battle of hunting rights doesn't mean you must find blame among the Hunters, for Rya's sake—!"

"—And don't you find it coincidental, that this outsider should escape from and return to our pack only after meeting the renegade in her forest? That he should be the first to bring the renegade into the very main of our redoubt, to deliver her first threats? That he is the only one in this pack who has come face-to-face with her multiple times and escaped unscathed?"

"He was not unscathed!" Simetra bellowed, rising to her feet. "He was covered in the wounds of a proper fight—he fought with the tenacity of a true Hunter!"

"He was the only wolf to stay behind when the rest of us pursued the renegade last night! You will accuse me of prejudices, but how am I the only one to find all of this suspicious?" Leron paused, and seemed to be fighting back fury. He turned his head, gazing around at the others, and snarled in a sudden fit of impatience: "And for death's sake, have none of you looked at these two wolves?"

"That is enough, Leron," Liyra said. Her voice was soft but firm. "You are losing track of the problem at hand."

Leron turned towards her, looking surprised. "I apologize," he said in a quieter voice. He seemed to realize that he had lost control; his fur flattened and he offered a slow smile as he struggled to regain his composure, though his grey eyes still glinted with a wild light. "I apologize," he repeated. "I forget myself. But now that the Gatherer is gone, and given the danger we as a pack are facing, I think it is important that there are no questions unanswered amongst the members of the Council—"

"I have already given you my answers, Captain," Liyra said, her voice beginning to gain a bit of its old steel. She fixed her dark gold eyes on Leron. "You may put your misgivings to rest. Palva and I have a very good reason for keeping Tir."

"Forget the Gatherer!" Leron said, a hint of roughness breaking back into his tone. "If you won't explain things to me, then how can you reprimand me for seeking my own solutions? I tell you, I know what outsiders—"

"Leron!" Liyra snapped. "Now is neither the place nor the time."

Captain Leron stared at her. He appeared to struggle a bit, and for a moment it appeared that he would snarl back at the alpha. However, he seemed to regain control of himself and his face smoothed back into a calm mask. Beside him, Xelind had at last given up licking his wounds and was now staring at Liyra with an unreadable expression.

"It's simple, really," he spoke up in a quiet, dead-level tone, startling the others. Even Leron glanced down at him with a sort of vague astonishment. But Xelind gave no sign that he noticed the others' reactions. "As the Captain said," he went on serenely. "We have hesitated too many times. We must do what we feel is best."

"The renegade pack," Liyra stated, looking puzzled.

Xelind nodded.

In the others' silence, Leron had begun to smile again. The wild light was fading from his eyes almost as quickly as it had come, and he was nodding to himself, as though to put forth an agreeable face. His eyes were turning back to cold, grey lead.

"They intend to kill us," Liyra said, half to herself. Her gaze was still fixed on Xelind, who tilted his head to the side.

"If they are like the renegade, then yes, we may assume that."

"Well?" Liyra demanded, raising her head again to look at Leron. "What shall be our plan of action? I had asked you, Captain."

"As Xelind said. It's simple." Leron paused, and surveyed the Council before him. "At this point, the harshness of our actions will be irrelevant. We must do what we feel is best...and we must make the first move."

"NO NO NO!"

A bloodcurdling scream exploded in the air from the redoubt below, cutting off the reply Liyra had been preparing to give and stealing the breath from the wolves' throats.

Fear-stricken, the Council streamed out from Liyra's den, their fur bristling and tails flying out behind them as they half-stumbled down the slope of rocks and into the redoubt main. Someone was screaming in the dark; twisting sounds of blind fear were echoing from the stones at the far side of redoubt—the cries of an animal in panic.

"What happened?" Liyra cried, skidding to a halt in the center of the pitch-dark clearing and looking around wildly. Leron and Xelind came to a halt close behind her, but Simetra raced past them with a flying snarl, streaking out of the redoubt in violent pursuit of something none of the others could see.

Salka came dashing out of a den amongst the boulders, her eyes wide and fur standing on end. She ran to Alpha Liyra and clung close to her side, as though she were a pup seeking protection.

"The renegade!" she shrieked, tripping over her paws. "In my den! Just now!"

Without waiting to hear another word, Leron crossed the redoubt main to the den in several rapid strides. His own dark brown fur disappeared in the gloom of the den's entrance, but he withdrew his head quickly.

"She's gone," he growled to them. "But her scent still lingers."

Liyra seemed to sway on her paws.

"The renegade was here?" she breathed. Then, eyes sharp, she whipped around to face the tortured Salka. "Did she attack you?" she demanded. "Did she harm you? Did she kill you?"

"N—no!" Salka gibbered, her eyes rolling back in her head with terror. "But—she just...appeared, and leaned over me."

Liyra shook her head again and again.

"Just leaned over you? But...that makes no sense," Liyra stumbled back, dazed again. "She didn't do anything? Were there any other wolves with her?"

"She was alone," Salka whimpered. Then, she took a deep breath and seemed to collect her wits. "But—she she said something. She said she came with a message for the alpha. For you."

Alpha Liyra froze, looking stunned. She exchanged a glance with Captain Leron, and then turned back to the shuddering Salka.

"Well then," Liyra said, her voice hoarse. "What did the renegade have to say to me?"

Salka shut her eyes tight, and shook her head.

"Salka," Liyra said in a softer tone. "What did she tell you?"

Salka looked up, her eyes huge and glassy.

"She said that her pack is coming. They're coming to attack. Within two sunrises. A—and she says there won't even be...there'll be no wolves left alive to mourn for our dead. She said to tell you."

Silence.

At that moment, Simetra came crashing back into the redoubt, spitting and stomping and cursing.

"She got away," she snarled before anyone could ask. "I think she went back to her forest."

Everyone in the clearing stared at her, and she flattened her ears.

"What's wrong?" Simetra asked, quieting. "She didn't—she wasn't able to kill..."

Her voice trailed away to nothing as Alpha Liyra closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.

"Go and get Palva, right now. I don't care if she refuses to come—drag her by the neck, if you must. We need her."

"What happened?"

Before Liyra could say anything, Captain Leron replied.

"We are too late," he said, leaden eyes seeming to grow brighter and more alive off of the panicked energy of the surrounding wolves. "The renegade has now made her intentions perfectly clear. We must prepare the pack for battle, before she makes her next move."

### 27.

Retracing

The night was dark and fraught with terror; flaming-eyed wraiths howled with the wind that was sharp and cold as a steel blade. Alanki was running for her life, her paws pounding the ground like thunder, her breath burning in her lungs, her mind a wild swirl of fear and panic. Behind her was a roaring mass of lithe shadows; eyes and fangs flashed in the night. The air was thin and filled with their blood-curdling hunting howls. They were not far behind, and Alanki was growing so tired, but she could not stop. Her legs kept flying; it was as if she had lost control –and above it all, watching with cruel indifference from the sky, hung the bloodfire-moon, its face bruised dark with shades of blood and flame.

Alanki could not see. Her head was filled with shadows that were screening her vision, as though the darkness had invaded her mind. Her paws lashed at the ground, sending water flying up from the dark, cracked soil—it was cold; it flew into her face and stung her eyes. There were no stars in the sky. Tongues of flame, cruelly bright against the black sky, beat a terrible red and orange pattern against her skull, tossing sparks into the air that flew down and sizzled in Alanki's fur. It was a nightmare the likes of which Alanki was almost positive she had never experienced, but she could not wake up. The pain was very real.

Alanki ran and ran. She ran for hours, years, lifetimes, running as if she would never stop. The bloodthirsty pack was always close behind, their eyes bright as fire in the darkness. Alanki's paws were shivering with pain; it felt as though every one of her bones had cracked in her flight, but however hard she tried, she could not force herself to stop running.

With a sudden scream of wind, Alanki came to an abrupt halt and crumpled into a heap on the damp ground as if the wires pulling her forward had been cut. The pack's cries went on, and Alanki, confused and exhausted, raised her head to see what was going on.

It was the deer. Delphinium, Eyebright, Redshank, and hundreds of faceless others were fleeing for their lives from the hunting pack. Alanki cried out with shock and tried to pull herself to her paws, but it was as though she no longer had any control of her legs.

" _The moon was a claw in the sky," said a soft, whispery voice behind her. "'Twas an omen we should have recognized."_

" _Eryngo!" Alanki gasped, twisting around. Indeed, the old buck was standing behind her. But he looked wrong, horribly different—his pelt was grey and wispy, as though made out of smoke, and his eyes were as hollow and colorless as frozen stone. Alanki could not help cringing away from him._

" _Eryngo, what are you doing here?" she asked. "Why are you here?"_

" _Fangs are too sharp," he said as though he had not heard her, his voice as toneless and empty as the winter wind. "And fire is too swift. You are to help us, Child of the River."_

" _I have! I'm trying, Eryngo. I have a plan, a plan that will destroy the pack—"_

" _Alanki!" cried a deer from the stampeding herd. It was Delphinium, her eyes stretched wide with panic. "Don't fear for us, Alanki! Run! Run for your life!"_

And before Alanki had any time to give this any thought, the pack was on her again, fangs snapping and shining and jaws crying bloodlust to the fire-moon sky.

It was just as it had been that recent horrible night that she had discovered Misari's pack. Alanki strained and stumbled, blinded by panic that pulsed red before her eyes, but she could no longer run. The ground was wet, sucking at her paws and trying to draw her down. The pack was drawing closer still, their rapid breath cold in Alanki's fur and her heart shrieking with fear. Water flew up into her pelt and Alanki's paws slipped away into icy nothingness—the ground had become a river.

Alanki was swept away from the pack with terrible speed, frosty water licking at her bones and striking them numb. Behind her, the pack continued running and howling, their paws skimming over the dark, cold water as though it were solid ground—but Alanki was moving faster by far.

Colors slipped past in the dark night. Alanki tried to run, to swim, to even sink in the water, but the river had her in its grasp. She was beyond control now, only able to rush along before the roaring pack, running with the course of the river as she had done before, long ago.

There was a dark mass on the surface of the water, close ahead. As Alanki approached, the mass seemed to dissolve into smaller shapes, until she could make out individual wolves—hungry, skinny, dusty wolves with eyes dull and weary. With shrieks of bloodcurdling delight, the pack behind her abandoned Alanki and fell upon their new prey, white fangs flashing in the darkness. The battered wolves broke beneath the pack's fury without so much as a whimper. Alanki watched with horror as fangs white and sharp as the crescent moon tore their thin, dusty pelts as they were made of nothing more than clouds of ash.

A pair of green eyes hung helplessly in the sky, pinned against the dark canvas like insect wings fixed in tree sap. They seemed to multiply before Alanki's eyes—a rain of green eyes scattered like sparks across the river's frothing surface, and it was awhile before Alanki realized that they belonged to the huddled wolves, to the mad old tawny she-wolf who was pounding the cracked earth, screaming, "How dare you? How dare you?" It was awhile before Alanki realized that there was no blood in the water, but a thin layer of sodden ashes floated on the surface. They washed up against her on the river's waves and burrowed into her fur like a swarm of tiny ticks, blackening her legs as though she, too, had fled Misari's forest fire.

This time, the waves lapping at her legs were mild and lifeless. There were no fangs here but her own, no coldness but that of her own rage towards the packwolves.

The blood was not in the water. It was in her mouth.

"I can't do it, Eyebright," Alanki said dully. "I can't do it any longer."

It was just after dawn, the Lake's surface smooth and clear as glass. A light mist had descended over the fields, reflecting in the bright water so that the Lake looked almost like a bottomless hole into the lightening sky above. The sun was just beginning to rise over the rim of the horizon, the deep blue-grey of night fading away to soft shell-pink as the light spread. Eyebright and Alanki were standing side by side. Alanki's pelt still cold and bristling from the blind terror of last night's dream. It was an old dream. It was a dream she had forgotten until last night.

"I can't do it," she repeated. She was fighting hard to keep herself under control, but nausea and cold terror were creeping up from her lungs. "I—I can't handle this anymore. It has become too much."

Eyebright was silent for once, the doe's large eyes dark and thoughtful. She was not in her usual state of dramatic prophesizing that Alanki had often found so annoying; rather, the young doe seemed subdued, almost frightened. It had been long since Alanki had spoken to Eyebright, but she was not the least bit taken-aback by the change. Eyebright was thinner, lessened somewhat; there was a solemn, bitter-won wisdom behind her dark eyes now. Perhaps it was still the shock of the hunt and Eryngo's death, but Alanki did not bother to ask. Alanki was now well aware of the horror in finding that one's own, terrible prophetic dreams may actually come true.

"What is it, Daughter of the River?" Eyebright said quietly. "What has happened to change you so quickly?"

"I—well, I have had a dream—" Alanki stopped herself right there. She did not want to tell Eyebright about her nightmare and what she had done. Shame was a feeling too familiar to her, too personal. It was as though she were a bloodstained yearling again, and the deer had just stumbled across Tormentil's lifeless body.

"A dream, then?" Eyebright said. "Yes, I see. I often have dreams. They can be very affecting, can they not? And what do you think your dream means?"

Alanki didn't answer. She knew what her dream meant. It had not so much been giving her meaning than it had been showing her the truth. She, _A-Lankhi_ , the River, had swept up the deer and the wolf pack in her fury. Now, she had drawn in the innocent Misari's pack as well. The two packs would drag each other down, leaving Alanki free. It was a story she knew. For a long time, her dreams of violence had left her in peace—for they were no longer dreams, but had, as of late, become reality. She had forgotten that they had ever begun as dreams.

The dreams of long ago had been a warning that she had not heeded.

And now, with the waking of this morning, with the knowledge of what she had done, it was too much. Here she thought she had won—that victory was at hand, that her plan would work—but in doing so she had lost herself. It was her first nightmare become reality. Alanki was broken, and she hated herself for it.

"I'm finished, Eyebright." Alanki said, her voice cracking. "This fight is out of control; I am out of control—Eyebright, I've done something terrible. The wolf pack is one thing, and I hate them more than anything else, but 'tis too much for me. I cannot go on like this. I cannot run forever, I cannot fight forever...I—I've lost it, Eyebright!"

"You haven't lost anything, _A-Lankhi_ ," Eyebright said. "Nothing has been lost, nothing at all. You have seen more than I ever have. You have saved Eklo's children ten times over; you have more than repaid your debt. What is lost?"

"I'm lost," Alanki said, turning on her. "I never thought 'twould get this far. I never believed that I would do something like—like that. The pack-wolves, perhaps, but I thought I could be better. That I would pay them what they deserved, and relent when they did. I thought I was better than them—but no, I'm worse, Eyebright! I...I've killed Tormentil. I've killed her all over again."

"Why do you say such a thing?"

"You said I cannot run forever. I can't. I may run for a long time, and I have—but I cannot run any more. They've cornered me, Eyebright. I've already paid my price, 'twas simple enough, but now, now—I've done a terrible thing. "

Eyebright gazed at her for a long time. Alanki was shaking and her legs felt like wet leaves—she was going to run, she was going to collapse and never rise again. Everything that had happened thus far, all of the fights and hunts and dark chases through her forest, were suddenly too heavy and overwhelming for her to carry.

For all her savage threats and the ruthless predator she had made herself out to be, Alanki was still very young.

"Breathe, child," the doe said, as though consoling a tearful fawn; Alanki was too miserable to be offended. "Tell me what you have done. Always is there a way out, _A-Lankhi_ , if you have found a way in."

"Do not call me that!" Alanki snarled, turning on her. The doe did not flinch at this sudden savagery. "I shan't be your _Lankhi_ , not any more. And what can you say to understand it, anyway? You're prey, every one of you. You've never killed, and likely you never will. You cannot know what 'tis like to wake up and realize you are nothing but a blood-filled shell anymore, that all the past seasons have been one stretching lie, a nightmare of your own creation, a warning you never heard. You can't—"

"You are no shell, my dear, if you can speak this way now. You aren't too far gone if you can realize you're lost."

"I'm lost?" Alanki said with a wild, bitter laugh. "That's not even approaching the truth. I'm insane, Eyebright, that's what I am. I want to run, to run away and never see anything again—but I can't let myself, partly because all I'm running from is myself and that's impossible, and partly because determination is at least the only good thing left in me, if I've lost all else. This situation is too strong for me now, to much to—"

" _Alankhi_!" Eyebright said, and the doe actually laughed. "What a way that dream of yours has changed you, if you shall now ever admit that something is too strong for you! Listen to yourself!"

"But it is," Alanki muttered, looking aside. "I've lost control of myself and everything else. I am out of new ideas, drained of strength—I've become nothing but a shell. I cannot run or fight anymore, and now I know why. This is why I am raised by deer—yes? Delphinium never told me. 'Tis because I'm small and weak, and my true mother did not want me."

Eyebright stopped laughing, her gentle face growing solemn.

"No, Daughter of the River," she said. "You are small, yes—but not weak, never weak. You have grown since you were a little pup, _A-Lankhi_. Haven't you seen?"

The doe stepped aside, her head inclining in the direction of the glowing Lake, where the golden mists of morning were just beginning to lift away. Hesitantly, almost as if afraid of what she would see, Alanki stepped to the edge of the smooth water, her paws cooling in the wet sand.

A wolf was looking up at her. It was a wolf that seemed familiar to her, but not the scrawny, skinny creature Alanki had always imagined herself to be. The wolf was small, it was true, but the muscles under her stark white fur were hard, her legs long and her back lean and streamlined. At the moment, she was looking defeated and beaten, but there was a fire behind the steely green eyes that Alanki knew burned often, and her jaw was set with firm determination. The creature had a visible air of stubbornness and formidability—ridiculously in contrast with the mild face of the young doe standing behind her. Alanki took a step back.

"That's me? But—but what has happened?"

"Why, you have grown up, Alanki," said Eyebright, smiling. She had dropped the formal stresses of the old name—she spoke calmly, naturally, without the reverence and fear the deer had held to her for so long. Alanki felt the change and, without realizing it, relaxed. "Did you want to stay a pup your entire life? Spring turns to winter and little pups turn to warriors. You are surprised?"

"I—I cannot say; I just didn't expect..."

"Delphinium knows you far better than I, for sure. But I at least know that you are a far stronger creature than you now perceive yourself to be. You see? You are no longer a weak pup, Alanki."

"You're wrong, Eyebright." Alanki turned away from the shining Lake and her reflection. "Whatever I've grown into, I don't want it. I never thought I'd tell anyone this, but I—I don't want to be a renegade anymore. I am sick of blood. 'Tis all I dream about now—'tis all I dreamt about long ago, before all of this, only I never remembered until now."

"Then why fight? After so long, why stop now? I may not know you as well as others, but I do know enough to know that this isn't at all like you. Are you surrendering?"

Alanki was quiet for awhile, considering the doe's question.

"No," she said, after a moment of silence. "I can't. There is no way that I could. But I cannot stand this anymore; 'tis all too much. There are too many wolves to fight, too many hours to run, too much blood on my paws. I'm tired, but I can't sleep."

"You are weary, child. There is no shame."

"'There is to me!" Alanki snapped. "You haven't any idea of what has happened, no idea of what I have done—how many times must I tell you? If I lose this battle, 'twill be all my fault. But if I win it, 'twill also be my fault. I can't tell which would be a heavier loss."

"You are learning. 'Tis all a learning, a test."

Alanki stared at her. "A test? Are you serious? You think this is a test? To see what? How many times I may kill before I'm the only one left?"

"I cannot say, child, except that 'tis all a test. For you and others."

"Then I've failed."

"You have not. See how far you've come, now. See what you've done—the good as well as the bad. You still have hours of sun left before this battle, River Daughter. There is time yet."

"Time?" Alanki snorted. "I don't believe you. I tell you, Eyebright. I'm dead, I'm ended, or I may as well be."

"Oh, Alanki, you silly creature!" said Eyebright with a laugh. "Don't you speak of endings, you know of no such thing, you are too young. But yet, if there were no endings, there would be no beginnings, yes? Morning must end before night falls, and night is broken with the sun. 'Tis a circle, Daughter of the River. _A-Lankhi_. And yes, that is your name. But 'tis not the name that shall create you. You must create the name to suit who you are. You must take the strength that comes with it, and lead it to your own purposes."

"I don't—"

"'Tis names that are also a circle. Everything is. 'Tis all a cruel circle, at times, but when has the world ever been kind?"

"Never," growled Alanki. "Not to me or you or anyone. It's a bitter, dead world, ready to turn you against yourself and—"

"Oh, but would there be dawns such as this if 'twas all cold and cruel?" said Eyebright, strangely amused. "Would there be a sun and a moon? Would there be spring and summer?"

Alanki looked at her in astonishment.

"I thought you thrived on darkness and dramatic things," she said. "I almost believed you enjoyed your nightmares, the way you act."

"No one enjoys nightmares, _Alankhi_ ," the doe said in a soft voice. Her eyes darkened. "And I have had many. And I know, though Delphinium and Redshank may plead with you to forget all of this and pull yourself out of danger. I know otherwise. You must fight, Child of the River. _A-Lankhi_. The moon tells me so—the fire-moon, the blood-moon—not evil in itself, but reflecting what is amongst us. It screams of battle—so battle there must be. For some situations, 'tis the only way out."

Alanki took a deep breath. She looked backwards over her shoulder into the lightening surface of the Lake, where her fierce green-eyed reflection was glaring back at her. _A-Lankhi_. Little River, Daughter of the River. If she had fallen to nothing, then what was there to do but create herself again?

This time, a strange feeling of strength and defiance spread like warm water from her tail to her ear tips. She shook her head, as though shaking away the last remnants of despair that still clung to her like tattered leaves.

"Fine then," she said, meeting Eyebright's dark-eyed gaze. "I shall do as you say. I shall fight them—again and again; they'll stop before I ever do. I don't know if that's the way out—I don't know if there is any way out from where I've gotten myself. What else can I do?"

"Your dream has shown you the truth," Eyebright said with a strange, sad smile. "What you can do now is only to spread the truth."

Alanki stared at her, and then looked off into her forest, where she could almost hear the echoing howls of Misari's pack.

***

For the past few days, Tir's fighting lessons with Xelind had continued, in spite of Palva's protests. This time, however, it was not because of Tir's foolish trusting—Captain Leron, having learned of Xelind's failure to kill Tir, had taken it upon himself to give Xelind as many opportunities as possible to complete the cruel task. He had issued orders that the lessons must go on, proclaiming to all who would listen of what a good idea it was to teach their weakest member how to defend himself, especially now with the looming danger of the renegade pack, and he had changed the lessons to twice a day rather than once—one lesson at dawn, one at evening. The result was that Tir was almost always bruised and sore—but there were compensations.

No one could deny the fact that Tir was stronger, faster, and tougher; his fighting skills had seen dramatic improvement. Whether it was because of the increase in lessons or the results of the hard months beginning to show, no one knew. But Tir, having realized how dangerous Captain Leron could be, practiced and fought with a new, furious vigor. Xelind was beginning to accompany him down to Palva's hollow every day, the skinny white Sentinel now bearing wounds of his own.

"Better. Finally better. One could almost say you've improved."

Tir picked himself up from the ground. It was lavish praise, coming from Xelind—the closest thing to a compliment Tir had ever received from him.

"I'm shocked, outsider," Xelind said. "Shocked. I admit, I never believed you had it in you."

"Oh, shut up, Xelind," said Nerasa, who was perched upon a nearby boulder, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. "You never believe anything good about anybody. He'd have to be an idiot to not have improved by now."

Ever since Captain Leron had decreed that the lessons must go on, Palva, who still mistrusted Xelind but could do nothing to change his orders, had begun sending Nerasa along with them out into the fields—just in case Tir needed any extra help.

But whether this was a necessary precaution, it was impossible to tell, though Palva refused to take any risk. Whatever he would have done otherwise, Xelind could do nothing with Nerasa present, and he came back into the redoubt every evening with a new excuse for the Captain on why Tir had survived that day's lessons.

"...you're a thousand times better, Tir," Nerasa was saying, swaying from side to side atop her boulder, her black fur buffeted in the wind. "The renegade'd do well to watch her back tomorrow! Oh, I'd even bet you could beat Captain one day if you wanted to. And who wouldn't want to?"

"What did I do wrong, Xelind?" Tir said, before Xelind could snarl a reply. "I know that my second retaliation was a bit unstable, but other than that—"

"Your eyes gave you away," Xelind said, bending his head to lick a paw as though he had never been bothered. "Again. And again. You must learn to hide your intentions, otherwise you would never win in a proper fight."

"So how do I do that?" Tir said. "Look in the opposite direction?"

"That is one method. But a flawed one. The best way—"

"Close your eyes," whispered Nerasa. "That's what I do, whenever I look at him."

Xelind spared her a glance of deepest disgust.

"As I told you in our first lesson, you must try and trick me," he went on, turning around. "Though, again, as I said then, it will be harder when I am expecting the unexpected."

"So what do I do now?" Tir said, puzzled. "The expected? Do I do something you'd expect me to do?"

Xelind raised his brow. "That would have been unusually clever, yes," he said, and then he gave a thin smile. "But it is also clever not to tell your opponent your plans. Try again."

"Poke him in the eye, Tir," Nerasa said gleefully. Xelind did not turn to look at her, but his ears flattened and his blue eyes narrowed.

"I understand that your vermin had to come because of the fear I may rip you limb from limb," he said through gritted teeth. "But can you not do anything to quiet her?"

Tir shifted awkwardly. He knew that Nerasa, like Palva, did not like Xelind and was trying very hard to get under his skin. Xelind deserved it, too; but at the same time, it was disrupting their lesson—which, in the shadow of the upcoming battle, he needed.

"Nerasa?" he muttered, under Xelind's frosty stare. "Could you please—"

"You!" called a voice from behind them. Tir spun around, startled.

Captain Leron was standing behind him, surveying the three wolves with glittering grey eyes and casting them all in his dark shadow. He did not look pleased. Tir took a step back.

"M—me?" he said, his voice hoarse. Leron turned towards him with a look of disdain.

"Not you, outsider. It's a Sentinel I'm looking for—in fact, I've been looking for her for quite awhile."

Nerasa flattened her ears.

"And you'll never believe what Alpha Liyra has just told me," Leron said, his voice growing tense with restrained anger. "That she has gone fighting with Xelind and the outsider—and has been for the past month, every day, at sunrise and sunset." He rounded on Nerasa, lips curling in a snarl. "What do you think you're doing? Are you trying to avoid work?"

"No way, Captain mister," Nerasa said. "I've been busy. Busy helping, and also hunting.."

"Have you?" Leron said, seeming to grow angrier and angrier as he spoke. He did not like the fact that Palva had deceived him. Tir didn't think he had ever seen him so angry before. "You're good at hunting, aren't you, Sentinel? No, I know better. That's a bold lie, you eavesdropping little—"

"Wait, see here," said Nerasa, sounding surprised. "There's no need to be rude..."

Her voice trailed away at Leron's gruesome, forced smile.

"Insolence," he stated. "There's no reason for me to tolerate this any longer. As of late, some wolves have been taking advantage of this situation with the renegade, as if the order of this pack has dissolved. I assure you, I will be telling the Alpha about this."

"Okay, do that, but I'd like to just stay here for awhile—"

"Oh, no. You're coming with me. And you will allow the outsider to practice his fighting in peace. Your chatter must be a great disturbance—correct, Xelind?"

"It is, sir," Xelind said. Nerasa glared at him.

"Good, then," she muttered. "I must be doing my job right."

Leron cuffed her around the head, and she yelped.

"Hey!" Tir said angrily, jumping up. Leron's head swiveled around to stare at him. "Why did you have to hit her? It's not her fault! She was only—"

"—taking orders from the Gatherer?" Leron said. He was smiling again. It was unconvincing. "Oh, I know what's going on, outsider. I know all of it."

"Do you?" Tir said, and Leron's eyes narrowed. "You don't know half of it, sir! Palva was the only one who knew about the renegade—"

His words ended in a choked shout as Leron struck him across the face, hard. Tir stumbled backwards, blinded, the impact reverberating in his skull , the lights behind his eyes flashing from one color to the next, the earth rising to meet his face—

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground. Nerasa and Leron were gone. Only Xelind remained. The white Sentinel was sitting in the grass in front of him, staring at him. His head felt as though it had been crushed against a stone.

"You shouldn't have done that, you know," Xelind said. "He could kill you for it."

Tir groaned, and tried to stand up. His legs wobbled and then buckled beneath him, sending him sprawling again. "Where'd Leron go?" he croaked, straining to see through the blur that still blocked his eyes. He shook his head to clear it away, but yelped as the motion woke sparks of pain in his head. "What happened?"

"He hit you. Very, very hard."

"Why?"

"You angered him. He is the Captain. You cannot speak to him like that; only the Gatherer can get away with it. But it was an admirable try."

Tir closed his eyes. A brief image flitted through his mind—Leron, whirling around, his face twisted halfway between a false smile and a snarl. Nerasa, behind him, had been grinning.

"Get up," Xelind said.

Tir scowled at him from the ground, and struggled to rise. His legs wobbled a bit, but this time they held him. His clouded vision was clearing—Xelind looked less like a smudged, white cloud and more like the gaunt, eerie-eyed creature that he was.

"Where's Nerasa?" Tir demanded, looking around. She and Leron were gone.

"He took her on a patrol. At least, that's what he said. It took awhile for you to come around—he must have hit you hard."

Tir gritted his teeth at the satisfied note in Xelind's voice. Yew or not, some things would never change. It didn't matter, though. Tir didn't care about what Xelind said anymore. He wondered if Nerasa would be okay.

"She went alone with him? He won't—he won't hurt her or anything, will he?"

"I wouldn't know. The Captain doesn't like disobedience. And she defied his orders."

"Palva told her to!"

"It isn't so much her than it is the Gatherer. He knows she was behind it. But he cannot harm her, so he will take it out on Nerasa. I was supposed to kill you a long time ago, you know."

"Then kill me now," Tir said, finding himself annoyed by Xelind's cold indifference. "Go on and do it, make your captain proud."

"Don't mock me, outsider."

"Oh, do I make you angry? Angry enough to kill me, perhaps? You don't like to be mocked, do you, Xelind? And yet you still call me 'outsider.'"

"Because that's what you are. You don't belong in this pack."

Tir took a step backwards, taken off-guard. He had been expecting Xelind to deny it, or even ignore it. But not this.

"So where do I belong, then?" he demanded. "As you seem to know so much? If this isn't my pack, where do I belong?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Where is your old pack?"

"They're dead."

"Where is your old territory?"

"Burned down."

"Where are—"

"Why are you asking me these stupid questions?"

"You expected me to answer yours."

There was an angry silence. Tir was burning holes into Xelind with his glare, but Xelind's dead blue eyes were blank and unaffected. They stared at Tir, unblinking.

"Tell me," Xelind said after a long time. "Do you hate me now?"

Tir groaned and turned away. "Not this again!" he said. "Why do you keep asking me that? No! I don't hate you—I don't hate anyone!"

"Not the renegade?"

"No!"

"Or Captain Leron?"

Tir silenced. Yes, he hated Leron. But he wasn't about to tell that to Xelind—though he wasn't sure if it would please or anger him.

"You do hate him," Xelind said, interpreting his silence correctly. He sounded almost amused. "That's what drove you to yell at him—and I could hear it in your voice."

"Then let me guess," Tir said. "I should go kill him, shouldn't I? Is that what you're going to tell me?"

"Would you kill him?"

Tir was startled by the question. It was a dangerous question—but, come to think of it, Leron himself would expect Tir to say yes. After all, he would kill Tir. But did Tir have the nerve to kill anyone—did he have that kind of hatred?

"No."

Xelind was silent for a long time.

"Then you're at a disadvantage, outsider," he said. He sounded almost tired. "Someday, you will fight an enemy that has nothing whatsoever to lose, an enemy that would kill you in an instant and would drain his last breath to do so. What would you do then? Run away? Running can only take you so far."

"Ha, ha," Tir said sarcastically.

"It wasn't a joke. Haven't you noticed that even the renegade has stopped running? She ran out of space to run. But she will kill if she wins, so therefore she has a chance to win. If you do not kill, then you cannot win. It is a weakness, outsider."

"Oh, please, do tell me about my weaknesses—I've forgotten them since the last lesson. I was just thinking that the best solution would be to kill myself, to save the rest of the pack from my incompetence. Isn't that clever of me?"

"I'm still waiting to hear something clever from you. I see that I've angered you, as is routine, but you've yet to make anything of it. You're taking my criticism poorly."

"Then stop insulting me," Tir spat. "I asked you to teach me to fight, not to convert me to your way of thinking. I'm tired of you bringing this up. Palva told me all about you and Leron, and the things he taught you. But you aren't Leron, and I'm not you."

"Clearly."

"I don't want to talk about killing, or hating. And I want you to stop asking me about it."

"Do you want to live to see next summer?"

Tir was startled. "What?"

Xelind's expression had not changed, and he didn't blink. "I asked you if you want to live," he said with a sort of sarcastic patience. "Because you seem to have grand, lofty ideas, and there's a reason why there aren't many wolves who share them. They don't survive."

"I'm not talking about surviving—"

"Then why did you ask to fight? Did you think it was as simple as baring your teeth and not getting bitten? The deer are capable of fighting, but they don't seek to kill. That is why they are prey, and we hunt them. For one creature to live, another must die—you can be either the prey or the predator, but you can't pretend to be above the pattern. You asked me to teach you how to not be prey, and that is what I've been doing."

"And I suppose you've worked hard to not be the prey," Tir said quietly. "Leron taught you, and you've been perfecting it ever since."

"I want to live, outsider. It isn't that strange."

"So you will do whatever you must to continue living," Tir said. His voice shook; he was angry, but in his mind's eye he was watching Arwena standing beneath the yew tree. Tir knew that the death of his sister, long ago, had helped to make life possible for the rest of the pack—but what was that life worth to Arwena? "Nothing else matters, does it? You'll kill prey; you'll kill wolves. Whatever is weak, whatever gets in your way. You'll kill your own sister."

Seething, Tir fell silent and waited for his reaction, knowing he had gone too far. Xelind's face flickered, but he did not explode.

"My sister wasn't weak," he said, his voice flat. "She was sickly, so she had weakness. But she wasn't weak. There is a difference."

"But you killed her anyway," Tir pressed on, his voice trembling with rage. The blood was pounding in his ears—he met Xelind's dead, blue gaze levelly, waiting for him to rise to the challenge. "You killed your sister, and now you're justifying it to me. You're telling me that I'm stupid, that I'm wrong, if I wouldn't do the same."

"You cannot understand," Xelind said. He had neither flinched nor shown signs of anger; as Tir's emotions rose, he seemed to sink further into a chilly calm. "You haven't faced the same things I have; you were never in my situation."

"That's where you're wrong," Tir said. His eyes burned. "I did have a sister like yours, and she's dead, too. And her death destroyed my mother and ruined my life from the start."

Tir's words hung in the air like a tangible presence, ringing with Arwena's old grief and everything Tir had tried to forget. Tir's legs shook as he waited, in silence, but Xelind did not respond. The white Sentinel's face had not changed, but his ears flattened, and after a moment he averted his eyes from Tir's skewering glare. It was then that Tir knew there would be no more fighting lessons, that fighting wasn't even what he had wanted at all—he had wanted to learn how to be strong. And Xelind couldn't teach him that.

Tir turned and stalked back to the redoubt alone.

### 28.

Storm Clouds

"All right!" Alanki roared, bursting into the makeshift settlement. "I lied! I lied to you!"

Misari glanced up from where he was lying beneath a snow-laden bush. Avrok was sitting nearby, his eyes narrowed. A hundred pairs of dull eyes turned over to where Alanki was standing.

"I lied," she repeated. "Can you hear me? I lied! And I'm sorry, I promise, really I am. But I—I...there's something you need to know."

A soft buzzing rose as the pack murmured amongst themselves. Alanki, whose sides were heaving with the exhaustion of shame, noticed that the old green-eyed she-wolf was nowhere in sight. The pack's murmurs silenced as Misari rose. He padded over to Alanki and tilted his head politely, indicating that they should move somewhere away from the pack's stares. Legs trembling, Alanki followed him.

"I see that the messenger has returned." He lowered his head in a gesture of respect, and Alanki bristled. "What are you shouting about? Is there trouble?"

"Of course there's trouble," she said, and hesitated. The pack was staring at her with curious, hunger-dulled eyes. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I lied to you."

"Did you?"

"I don't really have a pack at all. I'm a renegade."

"Ah." Misari nodded as though he had known all along.

"That pack you heard—they weren't my pack." Alanki avoided Misari's piercing golden-orange gaze. "They were a different pack. They were chasing me; they sought to kill me. And so I told—"

"Why?"

Alanki stopped. "Why?"

"Why did they want to kill you?" Misari's eyes were sharp and suddenly fiery. Alanki stared at him for a moment before replying.

"They harmed my family," she said, lowering her eyes. Her pelt still smoldered at the memory. "They killed them—two of them—so I did the same, in vengeance. 'Twas only right."

"They attacked your family?"

"Yes." Alanki glanced up. Misari was wearing a strange expression. He looked surprised, more so than Alanki had expected, and his head was tilted to one side as though he did not believe her. But the fur around his neck was bristling.

"Whom do you call your family?" he asked, curious, and Alanki averted her eyes again. As mild as he seemed, she could not hold this wolf's burning gaze. There was a sudden intentness in him that made her uneasy; she was waiting for his rage to flare up, to burn her to ash, but he maintained an external appearance of maddening calm.

"The deer." Her voice was quiet. "The deer on the fields. I know 'tis not what you would expect, but here I am telling the truth. I owe them a life debt. I've betrayed them once before, and I shall flay my own pelt before I do it again."

She could feel the alpha watching her. She could hear him breathing in an even, but hoarse, rhythm. "Your family," he repeated. "You have...you have a past betrayal? You have failed them once before?"

"I murdered one of them." Alanki's voice was a whisper now. "When I was younger. I lost control. I am not one of them. But I—I shan't ever forget it. And I owe it to them to protect them from what hunts them now."

"The other pack."

"Yes."

"And so now they hunt you."

"Y—Yes. And 'tis my fault that they are coming here, for you. I led them here. I told them lies as I told you, and now they are going to attack. Tomorrow, they will come. I told them you were my pack, and you had come to fight them, but 'twas a mistake, a terrible thing." Alanki looked up, shaking. Misari's expression had not changed. "But 'tis not too late," she said, her voice breaking. "And that is why I've come here today, to warn you. You have time. You can flee the forest and follow the river with the deer. I will show you the way."

"No," Misari said, and Alanki's breath caught in her throat. "We have wandered enough. We will stay here."

"But they're coming—"

"If I lead my pack to fight them, will we have earned the right to live in this territory? As a permanent home?"

"Yes! But you can't—"

"Then it is decided." Misari's voice was firm. Alanki didn't dare to look at his eyes now; she could hear the stern power in his voice. She wondered if this was some trick, some way to punish her for what she had done to his pack, but he did not seem angry at her, not directly. He hadn't burst out at her in rage when she confessed what she did; rather, it seemed his intensity had been building steadily since the start of their conversation. It showed in the bristling of his fur, the stiffness of his legs, the occasional flash in his eye. "We will fight these wolves tomorrow, when they come for us."

"There is no us," Alanki said. Her voice was beginning to shake in panic. "You don't have to do this; they needn't come for anyone but me. You have no quarrel with them."

"Not yesterday, perhaps. But today I do."

"You do not! You don't—"

"Enough," Misari said, and Alanki immediately fell silent. She was afraid. She was afraid of this wolf, now, more so than she had ever feared any of the packwolves or their silver alpha. He was old, but he had an air of ancient, immovable strength, and his eyes burned with the hot orange light of live coals, a hunter's excitement, fury and wild happiness roiling about in equal amounts. He was no longer examining Alanki. Rather, he was looking past her, over her shoulders, as though watching some distant scene unfold. "I have made my decision. Do not make the mistake of thinking that I don't understand what is happening, what I am choosing. Like you, I have my own past betrayals; I have my own old debts to pay."

"But your pack! They'll be slaughtered."

"I would not command them to be a part of this fight. I will give them the option to flee. But they will follow me into battle whether I ask them or not. We are tired from the journey, and I am not as strong as I once was, but we have faced fiercer things than wolves and I am wise enough to recognize what is being granted to me. A rare opportunity," he said, lifting his chin. "This time, I will take it in my teeth and not let go."

Alanki didn't know what he was talking about any more. It didn't matter; all she knew was that her attempts to mend what she had done had failed. In the darkness behind her eyes she saw the scenes from her dream, the ashen-furred wolves falling to pieces beneath the rush of fangs and shadows. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I—I am sorry."

"No. You owe me nothing."

"I am sorry," she insisted. "That's all I came to say. To warn you, and to say that I'm sorry for what I have brought upon you and your pack."

Misari did not respond. He lowered his head and appeared to be deep in thought, his brow furrowing and his ears swiveling forward. There were a few beats of silence. At last, he raised his head and looked Alanki in the eye. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, but this time she held his gaze. She did not blink or look away. She knew that Misari noticed. His face did not change, but he seemed to stand a bit taller, and Alanki identified with the fierce, stubborn pride in his eyes. "What is your name?" he said, finally. His voice was milder now, more calm than before, but the strength was still there. "I don't recall ever asking."

"My name is Alanki."

"Alanki," Misari repeated, and then his face softened into a rather tired smile. "Alanki, it is good to know you."

### 29.

The Last Tale

It was strange, walking through her forest in the snow. It always took awhile before Alanki could get used to the cold crunch under her paws. Her white pelt melted into the background until she was invisible to all but the most careful eye. The only problem was the shallow tracks that her paws left behind.

Before Alanki went into battle, there was one thing she had to do. The deer. She had to pay them one last visit. There was no telling whether or not she would be there to greet them next spring, when they returned. Today, the day of the first snowfall, was the day the herd left for the land beyond the forest, beyond even the rocky wasteland they called The Sharps. Most years, they made their trail by following the river.

Alanki could hear the sluggish trickle of almost-frozen water echoing in the white silence. She heard another sound, too: the soft, rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch of traveling hooves.

She came to a halt, and peered through a wall of brambles, sending snow cascading down onto her muzzle. Sure enough, the herd was plodding alongside the frozen banks of the river, their heads bent, their nut-brown pelts flecked with snow. They paid no notice to Alanki as she slipped through the brambles and walked alongside them, falling into step with their tramping hooves.

She scanned the herd, searching for a familiar face. It was not long before she spotted the weary figure of Delphinium near the back, surrounded by a crowd of jumpy fawns. Their voices were raised in chatter, bickering over which story the old doe should tell first.

"The wolf fawn! The wolf fawn!" they all shouted as Alanki padded up to them. A few sought protection by hiding behind Delphinium. The doe looked up.

" _Alankhi_ ," she said in surprise, coming to a halt. "Why have you come?"

"I came to say goodbye."

"Ah. Goodbye I say to you, too. But you know well that we will return with the spring."

Alanki swallowed. "I know. But I may not be here when you do."

Delphinium froze. She said nothing more, lowering her head and proceeding to plod forward. Alanki fell into step beside her. She could feel the fear and sorrow emanating from her foster-mother.

"A battle is coming," Alanki said, looking at the white ground as she walked. "In this forest."

"I know," whispered Delphinium. "And Eyebright, I am sure, has known for a long time. We have all seen the bloodfire moon, and we fear greatly."

"But whatever 'tis that happens," Alanki said. "You don't need to worry any more. When you return, there will no longer be any wolves to hunt and kill you. I shall make sure of that, whatever I do."

"You take your debt too seriously, _Alankhi_. You have already repaid it ten times over to us."

"So? Shall I just lie down and bare my throat, then?"

"What I am meaning is this: you do not have to fight this day. You do not have to fight at all."

Alanki gave her a sidelong glance. She said nothing.

"Come with us," Delphinium said. Her dark eyes were pleading. "Do not go on with this any longer. Leave when you can, _Alankhi_ , and return with the herd in the spring. You do not need to fight."

Alanki looked at the doe. "I promised the other pack's alpha that I would. Even you know that I cannot back out now. They need my help, and 'tis my own fault they must fight at all."

Delphinium shook her head.

"No, _Alankhi_ ," she said. "I know you too well, and I know that 'tis not the true reason why you fight. You wish for revenge on the other pack, still. You want the pleasure of fighting against them. 'Tis why."

"I intend to kill their alpha."

"Then my luck to you. I see that I cannot hold you back." She turned and gave Alanki a warning glance. "But do be careful. You plan has worked thus far. No plan ever works exactly the way it should. Be careful, River Daughter—you are my daughter, too."

Alanki nodded, fighting back the emotion rising in her throat. "I will."

Several minutes passed in silence but for the steady crunching of paw and hoof in the crisp snow. The fawns, who had been walking along in respectful silence for the past few minutes while Alanki and Delphinium spoke, piped up again.

"Tell us a story, Delphinium," one of them demanded. Delphinium gave a patient smile.

"Yes, Galingale, because you were all waiting so quietly while I was having my conversation," she said. "What story do you wish to hear? The story of Eklo and the Clouds? Or, perhaps, the Songs in the Sky?"

"No, no!" said another fawn, a buck. "We want a story we haven't heard before. A new story."

Delphinium sighed and shook her head. "Ay, little ones, I am drained of new stories, I am sorry. I have told all I can."

The fawns voiced their disappointment with a clamor of whines. Delphinium smiled rather sadly at Alanki from over their heads, but Alanki said nothing.

"I wonder," Delphinium said over the fawns' noise. They all silenced. "I wonder if the wolf fawn has a tale to tell. _Alankhi_?"

Alanki stared, at a loss for words. "I—I..."

"Tell us a story, _Alankhi_ ," Delphinium said. She nudged Alanki, and Alanki looked at the fawns, who were gaping with a mixture of silent fascination and respectful fear.

"Yes," she said slowly, knowing what was expected of her. "Yes, if that's what you want, then, I shall tell you a story."

The fawns exchanged excited glances. "What about?" one of them demanded. "What's the story about? 'Tis new, right?"

"Very new," Alanki assured her, after taking a deep breath. "'Tis about the wolf fawn. What happens after she left the herd."

The fawns shivered with anticipation and inched closer to Alanki to hear what she would say.

"The wolf fawn lived alone in peace for many seasons," Alanki began. "But then, one night, she had a dream."

Alanki proceeded to tell them her story, describing every detail of her frightening nightmares that had told her what was to come. She told the fawns of catching the green-eyed wolf in her forest and learning from him that there was a new pack living in the fields. She told them of returning to the herd to speak with Eyebright and Eryngo, learning of their prophecy and promising to help, and the fawns shivered with fear as she recounted the onset of the pack's deer hunts. She told them of how she had gone into their settlement and shouted at their hard-headed alpha, and she told them of her rage when the alpha paid her no mind. She told them of how she fought against the pack, attacking their patrols and killing two of their wolves. And she told them of the long, desperate pursuit through her dark forest, running with the entire pack snapping and howling at her heels.

Alanki was quivering herself when she got to the part about discovering Misari's pack on her territory, the past year's memories rising up before her eyes like so many ragged clouds of vapor. She described her plan to the fawns, and told them of how it had worked—and how it had woken an agony in her like the sting of a wasp. She had lost herself, she told them. She had lost her mind and her heart, growing bloody and cold in the chase. She told them of how she had repented, as best as she could, and allied herself with the new pack. And now she was preparing to meet the other pack in battle.

"And then," she concluded. "The wolf fawn returned to her deer herd one last time. To say goodbye."

The fawns stood in silence when Alanki finished, gazing up at her with the same admiration they had for Delphinium.

"That was a lovely story," one of them breathed, her eyes shining. "We haven't heard that one before, never! The wolf fawn's stories are so exciting."

The way she said it, Alanki wondered if the fawn had forgotten that the wolf fawn was walking right alongside her. But perhaps she was right—perhaps the wolf fawn was just some long-gone hero from a tale, and Alanki was different creature altogether. Alanki certainly didn't feel like any sort of prophetic hero. She wasn't sure that she wanted to be one, either. How much happier she would be now if she wasn't.

But surely something good had to come of it all?

"No, you didn't finish," another fawn spoke up, his brow furrowed with confusion.

Alanki was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't tell us the ending," he said. "You didn't finish the story."

"No!" another fawn said, as this fact dawned on her as well. "You just told us about when the wolf fawn was about to go into battle. That's not fair!"

Alanki waited for the fawns to quiet down, for they were all talking amongst themselves about the story they had just heard which had been so unfairly ended. Alanki was staring at them, a slow pulse of fear spreading through her veins like the icy water of the River.

"Well?" demanded a tiny doe, her eyes huge and eager. "What happened then? How does the story end?"

Alanki swallowed. "I don't know."

### 30.

Full Moon

Palva raised her head, blinking against the wind that had picked up the moment the pack had left their redoubt. It was just an hour before dusk; the sun was a weakly-glowing golden disk hanging just above the edge of the horizon. Below, a few scattered wrinkles like ripples in a still pond interrupted the flat expanse where the wind had blown against the blanket of snow.

But Palva did not notice the shimmering landscape. Her mind was a swirl of awful thoughts and her heart was beating to the soft crunching of paws in the snow as the pack moved towards the renegade's forest. The forest was close now. Even from a distance, Palva could hear the black trees creaking in the hard wind. She shuddered. It would not be long before they were inside of that nightmare. It would not be long before the battle began. Was there anything she could do—anything at all—to stop it now? Palva shivered again, and glanced up at the full fire-moon, which was beginning to show its face.

She was out of time.

"All right, everyone listen to me!"

Alpha Liyra's voice rang out across the crowd of the pack, sounding faint and distant as it was tossed about by the strong wind. The crunching of paws came to a halt, and heads rose to face Liyra, who was standing tall at the front of the pack.

"Be careful when we enter the forest," she said. "Be as silent as possible, and keep all senses alert for attack. The renegade pack may have prepared an ambush for us."

Muttering rose like a swarm of bees from the pack, but silenced when Liyra spoke again.

"If we are surprising them, we have two waves—the first shall be the Sentinels, along with the Council. The second is the Hunters. They will come at my signal. Now, move in!"

The pack surged forward at once like a wave. They swept out across the smooth fields, their paws trampling the white snow and churning it into a muddy slush. Palva followed them, noting with unease that Liyra's attack plan relied on the fact that the renegade pack was unprepared for them. She knew better—in fact, the renegade was no doubt standing in silent wait, watching them from amongst the dark tree trunks of her forest. It was not long before Palva and the pack stood at the forest's threshold, where the vast, bare trees loomed over them in an unsettlingly predatory manner. The pack slowed to a creep. They slunk into the darkness one at a time.

All fell silent. Palva's ears twitched. Even the screaming of the wind had quieted. The forest was no less eerie under snow—covered bushes were contorted into strange shapes, glittering in the shadows. Trees reached out from the ground like thin black arms with spidery branches that clawed the greying sky. But the silence was worst of all. It was as though they had entered a tomb.

Alpha Liyra hissed something from the front, and very slowly the pack moved forward. They were heading in the direction of the river, over which they had pursued the renegade.

Palva wove her way up to the front, slipping around the bristling wolves to where Alpha Liyra was. Liyra was moving with ears pricked forward and a determined glint in her eyes. Beside her walked Captain Leron, whose steely eyes burned like live coals in the dark.

Palva was just about to move up to Liyra's opposite side to whisper in the alpha's ear—a last minute, desperate attempt to persuade her that there was another way, that this didn't have to happen—but Liyra stopped. Palva stopped. The pack behind them stopped.

Growls rose from their throats. Before Palva could react, a shadow emerged from the row of pine trees in front of them. It was a wolf: a large, bristling, fiery-eyed wolf. He was followed by another wolf, and another and another. The renegade pack assembled before them, unnaturally silent as though they, too, were a part of the dark forest.

Palva was startled by their condition. She spied ribs jutting out from their thin pelts, and the snow beneath them was pink from bleeding paws. They looked half-starved. But they were lean and bristling, and their eyes glittered like a hundred tiny fires. These were angry, fearsome wolves. And there were many of them.

The black wolf who had been first to approach them stepped to the front. He looked Alpha Liyra in the eye. His eyes were a strange color, a golden-orange, and his pelt was frosted silver with age. He was older than Liyra, and perhaps more experienced.

Out of the corner of her eye, Palva glimpsed a flash of white amongst the trees. Two pale points of light burned at them from the shadows. The renegade was watching them.

"Good morning," the black alpha said. Liyra seemed to stiffen in surprise at the low sarcasm of his tone. "This is my pack," he continued, dipping his head to gesture towards the wolves behind him. "My name is Misari. I am their alpha, but I freed them just last night. They now follow me with loyalty into whatever may arise from this meeting."

A sudden, sharp intake of breath came from a wolf behind Palva. She looked around to see Tir. His eyes were round and glassy and he was staring at the other alpha in disbelief. He looked terrified. He looked like he was about to faint.

"No," he whispered. "Oh, no, no—"

"My name is Alpha Liyra," Liyra said, her voice ringing in the forest's taut silence. "This is my pack."

A low rumble rose from behind Palva as the packwolves growled in reply.

"I would wish for this meeting to be in peace," Misari said. "But I know that that cannot be. You come as the hunters, to destroy us. Any actions we take now will be actions taken in self-defense."

"Liar," hissed Liyra. "Trickster. Hypocrite. How dare you call me the fire-starter? It was your renegade who has killed, was it not?"

"I apologize for her. But her actions have been justified."

"Justified?" Liyra's voice rose in outrage. "She has committed murder! And you would kill us all in a heartbeat. We do not trust you. Forget your false courtesies; they won't soften us."

"Fine then," Misari said. His orange eyes flashed, dark as the fire-moon. "Shall we soften you with our teeth?"

"Enough talk! You and your wolves will be dead by tomorrow's dawn."

"That may very well be. But will you be here to witness it, I wonder?"

"Give us your renegade," Liyra said. "Give her to us, and I will allow the rest of you to leave."

"She is not mine to give." Misari showed his teeth in both a threat and a grim smile. "And even if she were to give herself over to you, my wolves and I still would not cover our fangs. We have come here to draw the blood from your pelts. Any threat to one of us is a threat to us all."

There was a moment of tense silence, the air crackling with hatred and fury. It was the thick stillness that comes before the break of a storm, as the whole world holds its breath in preparation for the oncoming onslaught.

There was no clear signal, as Liyra had promised, but all at once the hollow erupted into a roar of fur and fangs.

### 31.

Fire Scatters

Tir stood still as the world around him exploded into chaos. His vision was misting over like a pane of cold glass. The sounds of the battle surrounding him were distant and muted to his ears.

This is my pack—My name is Misari—

The words were repeating in a loop in Tir's mind. It was impossible. It couldn't be true. His father and his pack were dead, long dead. The renegade had told him so herself. But oh, how strange—Misari and his pack were now the renegade's allies. Could it be true? Had the renegade done it all on purpose?

The renegade was here, Tir was sure of it. She had not been among the assembled wolves of Misari's pack, but Tir had spied a flash of white that shot into the hollow the moment the battle had begun. And then she had disappeared into the froth and roils of the fighting wolves.

Tir watched the battle breaking around him with dull eyes. He knew he should be fighting for his pack. But which pack was his pack? He was surrounded by wolves he had known as a pup, wolves he had admired at his young age, wolves that were now fighting to the death with his new friends.

He looked around. A few feet away, Nerasa was snarling and darting at a silvery she-wolf Tir remembered to be called Azida, who appeared tiny in comparison, but was weaving and wrestling with the fluidity of a snake. Two identical smoky-grey wolves with yellow eyes were fighting side-by-side against Captain Leron. Tir watched numbly as the massive Captain lashed out with a paw and knocked one of them away as though swatting at a fly.

Across the hollow, Tir could see Misari and Simetra circling each other, growls issuing through bared fangs. But where was Alpha Liyra? Tir scanned the roaring hollow, but was unable to see the silver alpha. The renegade, also, was missing.

A chill ran up Tir's spine. The renegade would not care about the other packwolves. She had her own allies to take care of them for her. She would be hunting for Alpha Liyra. Tir had never much cared for alpha, but he wouldn't wish for her to die.

Just as he was deciding what to do, something barreled into him from his right. Tir fell to the side, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Before he could rise, his attacker was upon him in a flurry of black fur and snarling fangs, lunging for his throat and crushing his lungs beneath a thin, but very strong shoulder.

Tir automatically twisted, rolling to the side and catching the other wolf's shaggy fur in his teeth. He pulled back, tearing away matted clumps of fur and blood and catching the other wolf around the head. Kicking out hard with his hind legs, he flung his attacker off to the side with all his might. The wolf flew through the air and landed with a yelping thump a few feet away. Tir rose, panting, amazed at what he'd just done.

But before he could spare any time for thought, his opponent flew back up from the snow with a snarl, and Tir ducked, barreling forward and into the other wolf with a sickening crack. The wolf groaned and crumpled into the snow, a thin trickle of blood seeping out his mouth. Tir snarled and rose above his fallen opponent, preparing to come crashing down—when his attacker raised his head, glaring him in the face. Tir jumped backwards, stunned, and the other wolf's eyes grew huge.

"Tir?"

The hard, black face was unmistakable, and Tir grew hot with shame that he hadn't recognized him sooner.

"Avrok!" he gasped, rushing to help him to his feet. Avrok was one of his father's most trusted advisors. When Tir was young, he had been one of the few packwolves who had not turned against Arwena. It was Kiala, Avrok's daughter, who had intervened at the yew tree.

Avrok groaned, struggling, but managed to stand. His leg was twisted at an awkward angle—Tir had wounded him. "I—I'm sorry," Tir said. "I didn't know it was you."

"I could say the same," Avrok muttered, wincing. He gave Tir a curious sidelong glance. "You've gotten stronger."

"I'm sorry," Tir said again. "I've never fought before; I didn't know what I would do."

"That's enough." Avrok spat blood into the snow. "Your father would be proud. And I'd sooner be attacked by you than someone who would bother to kill me." He grinned. "But perhaps I am dead, now, if I'm talking to you. Didn't last very long in the battle, did I? Well, I'm getting old."

Tir stared. "What are you talking about?"

Avrok was looking at him strangely.

"I'm wondering if I'm seeing things," he said. His voice dropped to a low growl. "You're dead, Tir. You died in the fire a long time ago."

"No!" Tir said, surprised. "I only got separated from the pack—and...and then I fell. Over a ridge, I suppose, but it was all so confusing. I didn't know there was a drop-off."

Avrok was nodding. "Yes, the ridge," he said. "We didn't know it was there until a moon-passing ago. A field patrol found it first—it sloped down after awhile, the fall growing gentler until it was no more than a hill. We followed it all the way into this accursed forest."

"But when did you meet the renegade? We thought you were her pack this whole time, which is why we came to fight you."

Avrok spat in anger.

"That manipulative vixen," he said. "So that's what you call her, the renegade? Fitting. She tricked us. She came and told us some tale about how her pack is coming to drive us out."

"That's what she told us."

"Well, I know what she wanted now. She wanted both of our packs to destroy each other in battle, yes? Bloody renegade. I never trusted her. Damned if I know why Misari still does."

"So," Tir said, his pulse beginning to quicken as he realized what this meant. "Is she here fighting against you? Or against everyone?"

"Oh, no," Avrok said. He gave a short, bitter laugh. "She had a moment of weakness and felt guilty, I suppose. Came running back to us and admitted everything. Misari forgave her; you know how he is. Now she's supposed to be our ally, though I haven't seen her since the battle's begun."

"She's here," Tir said. "I've seen her."

"Well, then, I suppose she is living up to her promise," Avrok said. "I just hope she doesn't leave when it gets too bloody for her. A tiny little thing, your renegade; I couldn't see her lasting long."

Tir said nothing. Avrok turned around to survey the raging battle.

"Arwena came," he said quietly, and Tir started.

"She's here?"

Avrok nodded. "Misari didn't want her to come, you know—she's not doing so well these days. I've been fighting her away from yew trees, tooth and claw, for the past season."

Dread tightened around Tir's throat. "What's happened?"

Avrok gave him a long look. "She didn't take your death well. She's even worse than before. Now, she seems to think that you and your sister are still alive, and she talks to you often, as if you were there."

Tir swallowed. Something hot and burning like tears was rising in his throat. He was relieved to hear that his mother was still alive; in fact, he had dully assumed, seasons ago, that she must have perished in the fire. But now he was faced with an uncomfortable image: Arwena, dragging herself along for the past few seasons, growing more ragged and detached from reality with each passing day. Who had shielded her from the pack's hostilities? She was his mother. She had needed him, and he hadn't been there.

"I...I have to go," he said to Avrok. His voice sounded hoarse and distant. "Arwena...my mother shouldn't be here; she's going to get killed. I—I'm going to go find her."

Tir turned and ran off without another word; he heard Avrok shout something behind him, but his mind had already fled to terrible images: Arwena, broken in the red snow, the battle raging on over her corpse. He didn't think that any of Liyra's packwolves would waste time attacking a harmless and beaten old she-wolf, but he had to find his mother; this was no place for her.

But Tir did not make it very far. Distracted and slowly giving way to panic, he did not see the large brown shape crouching in the undergrowth at the edge of the hollow. It snapped out at him as he passed, jaws latching around the scruff of his neck and hauling him backwards into the bushes. Tir growled and fought, taken by surprise, but by the time he realized what had happened he couldn't do more than twist on the ground. Captain Leron was hunched over him, one heavy paw pressing down on his throat.

"I saw that, outsider," he breathed, grey eyes glowing in the shade of the undergrowth. A few feet away, the sounds and snarls of the battle came as muted and distant. Tir strained to see through the screen of snow-covered leaves, but he couldn't catch more than a few flashes of fur and feet. Nobody could see him.

"I saw that," the Captain repeated. "I'm no fool—oh, you may have thought you could let down your guard now that the battle's begun, but I've been watching. I saw you talking to that renegade packwolf, and I know what you've been doing."

"What do you mean?" Tir stopped twisting beneath Leron's paw; it was no use. Strangely, his fear had not yet begun to set in—he was familiar with this situation. Last time, it was the white renegade who had held him. But Leron looked more frightening.

"You think you can play with me the way you play with the others?" Leron said, his face convulsing oddly. His smooth composure seemed to be disintegrating; his voice was breaking into rough syllables and the rage behind his mask was clearly fighting through. "I've never fallen for those things, oh no; I've been watching you from the beginning, outsider, and—"

"You can't call me that anymore," Tir said. He knew he should be panicking; he knew Leron was going to kill him, but all he felt was a sting of mild annoyance. "I've made my place in the pack. Why am I an outsider any more than you? Or the others?"

"This is not your pack! I'm not your Gatherer, outsider; there's no use pretending—I know you met with the white renegade in the forest; I know you summoned her at the second deer hunt, so you could bring her to my redoubt; I know—"

"What? I never—she tried to kill me! She was going to—"

"You're no warrior. If she had meant to kill you, you wouldn't be here."

Tir closed his mouth on his defense. It wouldn't make a difference, whatever he told Leron—the Captain's teeth were bared in the dark, and his dark fur bristled so that he seemed to fill the shadows and become a part of the surrounding undergrowth. Tir remembered what Palva had said to him, nights ago, about how he, Tir, alone had met with the renegade and escaped with his life. How strange it was, she had told him; there must be a reason. It was true. And Tir had been foolish to think that the Gatherer would be the only wolf to notice it.

His heart began to pound.

"She...she didn't kill me, then," he said to Leron. His voice was hoarse; it hurt to talk. "You're right. But I don't know why, I swear, I don't."

"Enough. I'm not a fool Alpha. I don't take wolves on their word alone."

"No! I never—"

"Be quiet! I didn't bring you here to listen to your half-formed protests. The only reason I haven't killed you yet is because I want to know how many more renegade wolves there are. Where did these ones come from, and how many more are waiting outside the forest?"

"Wha—what?"

"You will answer me," Leron said, almost calmly. It seemed that he had regained control of himself, although Tir could feel his suppressed rage burning in the air like low smoke. "I intend to kill you no matter what. You've committed too many treacheries as it is, and it is only just. However, if you cooperate and tell me what I need to know, then I will make a clean job of it. Now, how many packwolves are there?"

Tir stared at him. It was strange; Tir knew he had done nothing wrong, and he certainly hadn't brought the renegade upon his new pack. But he did know the answers to Leron's questions. And the strange pack was his own—at least, it had been, once upon a time.

"This is all," he said. Leron's grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I promise, it is. They came from the burned forest above the ridge, and they...they heard the renegade's call, and that's it. The forest doesn't have enough prey to hold more wolves—you saw how hungry they all were. There are no others. That's all I know."

For awhile, there was silence. Leron examined him carefully, leaden eyes piercing his skull and confusing his thoughts. Tir could not meet them directly; it was as though his head were filling with cold, sapping water. All at once, the fight was drained from him—he felt vulnerable and weak-limbed as a rabbit, prey, beneath the Captain's paw and steel-rimmed eyes.

"I believe you," Leron decided at last, relaxing his grip on Tir only slightly. Some of the anger was gone from his voice. He sounded almost fatherly. "Thank you for your information. I feared that these ragged wolves were nothing more than a distraction, but now I see that the battle should not be as much trouble as I originally believed. It should be over before midnight."

Tir said nothing. He wriggled a bit to the side, finding that he had more room to move than before. Leron obviously did not fear him.

"...I will admit to some curiosity, though, outsider; this little puzzle of yours has been plaguing me for seasons now. You must think us terribly sloppy," Leron said. "And perhaps you wouldn't be far wrong; the Council has grown lax and in need of purging. Many of those fools would believe any word that drips from the Gatherer's mouth. But I've been watching you from the beginning, from the fire over the ridge."

"The fire?" Tir said. He was genuinely surprised, and hearing it spoken of in Leron's voice brought back visceral memories of a head filled with harsh smoke and the charred taste that lingered in his mouth for days.

Leron looked at him. "Yes, the fire," he said impatiently. Almost all signs of hostility were gone. If anything, the captain seemed mildly annoyed that Tir was feigning ignorance. "Your miserable state when the Gatherer dragged you in. The burn scars that are still visible in your pelt now, the burn scars that match the ugly marks borne by many of these renegade wolves. My only confusion is that the renegade herself seems unscathed."

"Well, yes, she would be," Tir said. His head was bent in a gesture of submission, but he was watching Leron from the corner of his eye. He remembered the force with which Leron had snatched him from the battle, and instead began to focus on the gap in the leaves that led back to the clearing. "She wasn't in the fire. The renegade pack isn't really her pack."

"But it's yours."

"...Yes."

"And she summoned them."

"I...suppose so."

Leron shook his head. "You know, outsider, in a way I understand you," he said. For the first time, his voice held no scorn for Tir; he sounded almost sad. "Some of these wolves will go on about honor, but they are ignorant. They have never faced death. There is no honor in simple survival. You and I both know that. So I feel obliged to tell you that I do not detest you for your methods. You did what you thought was best, to ensure the survival of your pack. In your place, I would've done the same. Regretfully, your efforts to prepare this land for your fire-beaten pack conflicts with my desire to conserve it for mine. You understand, then, why I must do this."

Tir was not listening. "It's a shame," he said absently, watching the tangle of fangs and blood through the gap in the undergrowth. There was a reason Leron had pulled him out of sight, he decided.

"It is," Leron agreed. "And I've already puzzled out most of your plan; however, the only thing that confounds me is how you were able to control the Gatherer."

Tir's eyes refocused on Leron, temporarily forgetting his situation. "What?" he said, startled.

"I know Palva," Leron said, unsmiling. "I do not care for her, but I know she is not a fool. Yet somehow you pulled her to act in your defense. Since your arrival, she and her alpha have refused to hear a word against you. Why?"

"There's a reason? But you're in the Council—"

"They refuse to tell me," Leron said, eyes growing dark and hungry. "Liyra was a strong leader once, and I did not begrudge following her through the marsh. In the marsh, she would have killed a strange wolf like you without a thought; your potential to be a threat outweighs your limited usefulness. However, since our arrival in this land she has been decaying, and she no longer listens to sense. There is some dark secret that drives her and the Gatherer to protect you as if you were their own child. What did you tell her?"

"I didn't tell her anything," Tir said, dumbfounded. He hadn't understood Leron's accusations before, but here was a question he had truly been asking himself. "I don't know why they insisted I stay. I would think you'd know, being in the Council, but Palva won't tell me anything, either."

There was a long silence. Leron examined him through narrowed eyes, but Tir could see that the captain had heard the baffled honesty in his voice. At last, Leron straightened himself and flexed his paws in the snow. "There's no use threatening you with death, obviously," he said. "It's clear you know nothing. I suppose I'll have to draw the answer from the Gatherer herself, one day. As for now, I'm afraid this conversation must—"

Tir twisted to his paws in a flash and bolted for the gap in the leaves. Blood was rushing in his ears and he cried out in a last, desperate effort as he felt Leron fall upon him like a deadweight from behind; his spine seemed to crumple as if it were made of dead leaves, and the air was sucked from his lungs—the captain had lighting-fast reflexes. Tir had known he couldn't hope to fight his way through Leron; his only hope had been to break free to the battle clearing where someone could see him and Leron would be forced to commit his murder surrounded by witnesses.

Writhing, Tir was dragged backwards into the undergrowth, his fur snagging on icy brambles and blood rising in his throat. Leron's jaws were clamped about the back of his neck. In the panic of his attempted escape, the gap in the leaves had been torn open, but no one in the battle hollow was at an angle to see him. Each wolf was intent on defending his own skin.

"Very...very clever, outsider," Leron panted, his dark face swimming into view. He had shifted his weight to his front paw, which was now pressing Tir's skull into the ground. Blood trickled out of his mouth, and a murderous light had risen in his eyes. "Very clever," he said, "but I don't care about the rest of them anymore. I'll kill you here whether they see it happen or not, and no, not even your Alpha will punish me later."

Tir's breath faded to a series of rapid, searing gasps; his eyes widened with fear and he felt his vision begin to blur. He could not move. He was paralyzed.

"When this battle is done," Leron hissed in his ear. "I'll line up your corpse side-by-side with your renegade's, and then they'll see it. Then they'll believe me; they'll see what I've seen for seasons—but oh, no, am I too observant? Because I only rarely see wolves with such green eyes, outsider, and I've never believed in coincidences."

"What? I don't—"

"Enough. I have talked far too much already. You understand why I must kill you. You've plotted against my pack and, more than that, you've made me angry. I can only—" Leron paused, his eyes focusing on something beyond Tir's shoulder. He looked suddenly surprised. "Xelind," he said.

Tir twisted on the ground and spat out a mouthful of blood and saliva; Leron's grip had relaxed in shock.

The skinny white Sentinel was standing in the gap in the undergrowth, his pelt spattered with blood that was not his own. Leron said nothing; Tir got the impression that he had, for the first time, been taken entirely aback. Xelind, too, seemed frozen—his blue eyes were wide and one paw was extended forward, but he did not move. He flattened his ears and averted his eyes, as though embarrassed for intruding.

"I thought I'd find the renegade here," he said, but Tir could hear the lie in his voice. So did Leron.

"She has not passed this way," Leron said, narrowing his eyes. "Now, take your search elsewhere. I am busy."

Xelind hesitated, and then lowered his suspended paw to step through the undergrowth. He was behaving as though Leron hadn't spoken. Tir could see the fear in his eyes and the stiffness of his legs; above him, he heard a low growl rising in Leron's throat.

"Xelind," Tir whispered, but Xelind did not look at him.

"Xelind," Leron echoed, his voice rumbling in warning. "I have no need of you here. Leave, and I will speak with you later."

"My apologies, Captain, sir," Xelind said, his face stiff and unreadable. He still refused to look at Tir. "But I cannot let you kill him."

"Did you hear me? I have no need of you. Leave."

Xelind raised his eyes from the bloodied snow. "I owe the outsider my life," he said. "I cannot let you kill him."

Leron only stared. For a moment, Tir thought the captain was going to explode with rage—his face twisted, as if he were fighting something back—but instead he was silent and wordless. A look of sudden shock flitted across his face. Tir tasted blood in his mouth as he watched it slowly harden into anger.

"Come now," Leron said after a silence. His voice was hoarse. "You don't want to do this, Xelind. This—"

"You don't know what I want."

"Don't I?" The captain's voice dropped to a low growl, his lips pulling back from his teeth. "You are being rash. The battle is going to your head. It happens to us all, I understand, and I am willing to forget that this has happened. Now. Leave."

"You've never forgotten anything. It doesn't matter now if I don't leave."

Leron was beginning to shake. He took a slow step backwards from Tir; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten about Tir entirely. The captain's steely eyes skewered Xelind in the dark and his muscles tightened, like the clenching of a fist. But Xelind remained where he was, as unresponsive as ever.

"Be careful, Captain," he said, as though unaware of Leron's climbing rage. "I have heard things. The renegade is here tonight, you know. In truth, I haven't been foolish enough to search for her."

"What does that—?"

"Be careful," Xelind repeated calmly. "You will not kill her, either. She refuses to die—I have heard things. It would be better for you to leave this forest now."

"Enough!" Leron said. "There has been quite enough talking going on here. Better for you if you had stayed as silent as always, sentinel. Are you a prophet? What—where have you gotten such ideas?"

Xelind's lip twisted into a gruesome mimicry of a smile. "The Gatherer requested I tell you."

Leron sprang. Tir had time enough to roll out of the way, scattering dirt and blood and snow. Xelind sidestepped the attack as though he had known exactly what Leron was going to do, but he did not retaliate; instead, he dashed over to where Tir was lying, prone, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

"Get up," he growled through his clenched jaws, and Tir's legs scrabbled beneath him as he fought his way to a standing position.

"Xelind," he said, still swaying in shock. "Xelind, you should go. This isn't your—"

"Don't tell me what to do, outsider. I'll decide what is and isn't my fight. Pay attention, now, and let me show you the advantage of numbers."

"The advantage of what?"

Behind them, Leron lunged again, this time moving almost without a sound. His head spinning, Tir bent to duck, but—

"GET BACK!" Xelind roared, and shoved him out of Leron's path just as the captain's jaws snapped in empty air. Tir flinched, panting. Leron spun to leap again, but Tir and Xelind twisted out of his reach.

"Xelind," Tir stammered. "I can't—"

"Shut up and listen to me," Xelind hissed, speaking as fast as possible as Captain Leron advanced. "Do not go near him. Stay out of his range, and do as I do—you take his left side. Do not get trapped under his shoulders."

Tir had no time to question Xelind's order as Leron flew at them, his grey eyes narrow and furious. They both turned and whipped away; beside him, Tir saw Xelind's fangs slash, quick as an adder's strike, and he did the same. Sharp teeth tore into the skin on Leron's back and bright beads of blood spotted the snow. Tir realized that he had never seen Leron bleed before, and it awoke a spark of revelation within him. Captain Leron was not invincible.

Thus far, the captain's advantage had been his immense size and brutal strength—but Tir and Xelind fought just out of his reach, quick to snap in and quick to withdraw, weakening the much larger wolf by sheer agility. The fur along Tir's back and neck was bristling and he growled as he fought. But his mind was not behind it, and, strangely, he felt no rage. He did not quite know why. Xelind, however, was a different story. Icy currents of energy were emanating from the skinny white Sentinel, the total opposite of the volcanic fury of the renegade. It chilled Tir's blood.

"There is nothing you know," Leron said, dropping low to avoid Tir's feinted lunge. "that I haven't taught you, Xelind. Still, I expected more. I am disappointed that this must happen."

Tir growled, but Xelind ignored him, continuing his attack with cold, emotionless eyes.

"You've betrayed me, after all I did for you." Leron's voice had dropped to an eerie, pained whine—Tir couldn't tell if he was being genuine or not. "I guarded you. I raised you. And I'll flay you, I swear it—you'll get away with nothing. It is only just."

Still Xelind said nothing.

"But does it matter where this fight takes us?" Leron asked, and he broke off into a sudden laugh that almost immediately sank back to a growl. "Neither of you will kill me. The outsider is not strong enough for physical confrontations and you, Xelind, were always the foolish, squeamish type. I should've taken that as a warning from the start and disposed of you while you were young. As it was, your sister died a season too late."

From the corner of his eye, Tir saw Xelind stumble. It was hardly more than a startled blink of an eye, but the rhythm of their defense was broken; Leron lunged at Xelind in the chance he had created, bowling Tir aside as if he weren't there. The captain's snarls were tearing ragged holes in the thin air, but Xelind did not make a sound; he twisted to regain his footing and slipped out of the way. From the side, Xelind made a sudden and unexpected dive for Leron's throat, but was smashed aside as the captain turned on the spot, his solid shoulder crushing against the white Sentinel's side. Xelind gasped with pain but did not falter, his back colliding with Leron's legs and making the captain stumble.

Seeing his chance, Tir dove from behind and sank his fangs into Leron's shoulder, feeling them grind against bone—warm blood seeped into his mouth as Leron snarled, the torn muscles twisting and jerking in his jaws. Tir tore his teeth away and rolled to the side, his mouth filled with fur and blood. He spat in the snow with disgust. In the moment he had paused, there was a sudden rush of air over his head and an explosion of pain in his side—and, as if from far off, he heard the splintering collision of Leron's shoulder crushing his ribs.

Tir went reeling backwards as though thrown, every bone in his body feeling as though it had been shattered, black clouds rising up before his vision. Xelind was still twisting and weaving. The white sentinel evaded Leron's blows with a swiftness Tir knew he could never match, no matter how many fighting lessons he had.

Leron jumped backward, breaking out of the lock of fangs. Tir shouted a feeble warning as Leron unexpectedly rose up and twisted just as Xelind lunged, catching the wiry Sentinel about the ribs and slamming him against the frozen ground with a dull thud.

"That," Leron panted "...is quite enough."

Xelind only gave an empty stare in reply, as though he did not feel the pain. He tried to struggle back up to his paws. Leron shoved him down.

"You've made a terrible mistake," the captain said. "I want you to know that. You could have been Captain one day, when I was Alpha, but you threw it away."

"I owe the outsider my life," Xelind repeated in a hoarse voice. "I cannot—"

"—Let me kill him, I know." Leron's voice rattled with what may have been a laugh. "You have nothing more to say. A handful of rote phrases and responses; that's all you've ever had. Poor, sad little pup that you were—you were so easy to teach, to mold like wet snow."

In the heat of the fight, the captain's veneer of control had crumbled away as if dissolved in the bloodshed. Leron made no effort to hide his rage now; his eyes had dilated and shimmered like disks of razor-edged steel that burned white spots into Tir's retinas even when he looked away. In the darkness of the undergrowth, his face was almost black with blood and his tongue rolled obscenely from his gaping, grinning fangs, slick and dripping red into the snow. His dark fur bristled and his form spread to fill the shadows; he breathed, and the forest surrounding them breathed with him. Tir didn't think any wolf who saw the captain in this state ever survived to remember it.

"I should have known," Leron whispered, bearing down over the skinny white Sentinel. "You were deteriorating, falling apart—you failed again and again to accept the opportunities I placed before you, and I was blind."

"You expected too much," Xelind said. His voice was so quiet that it was almost lost in the snarls and cries of the nearby battle. "I wasn't going to stand and watch her die."

"Who? The chief Hunter? You are always most amusing when you are most serious, Xelind. Did you think that by saving her you could repent the way you murdered your poor, sickly sister?"

A look of shock flitted across Xelind's face. His ears flattened and he reverted his gaze to the ground, silent.

Leron laughed.

"See how I play with his mind, outsider!" he said, turning suddenly to Tir as if to invite him in on some clever joke. "Watch him; see how he cringes when I bring up the topic—it couldn't be more perfect. Was your mother proud of you, Xelind? Did she smile at you from the heavens when you were standing in your sister's blood?"

"Stop it!" Tir snarled, frightened and sickened by the pain he saw on Xelind's face. It would be terrible in any wolf, but on Xelind it looked alien and wrong

"He used to tell me about his poor sister, you know," Leron said, clearly enjoying himself. "How he protected her from the pack, hunted for her as though she was a pup. But she was so weak, so useless, wasn't she, Xelind?"

"She wasn't," Xelind said, not looking up. "She wasn't weak."

Leron laughed again, spattering droplets of thick blood into the snow. "Listen to him talk! Almost as if he cares! But you care about nothing, Xelind, do you? Nothing and no one." He spat on the ground and grinned. "So you once told me. She held you back, Xelind. She held us all back. The marsh was a hard, cruel place, but it made us strong. It culled the weak and taught us how to survive. You should be proud."

Xelind looked away, and Leron straightened, his fangs curling up his face as he peeled back his lips in a crocodile-smile. "Don't you remember, Xelind?" he said. "How it felt to shed her like an old skin? Her eyes when the light had faded from them and you at last could see them for what they were—hollow, temporary lumps of color and blood?"

"Prey," Xelind said hollowly. "You told me we're nothing more than prey ourselves."

"True, and wise," Leron agreed. "But incomplete. We are not prey any longer. We are not prey because deer and rabbits haven't the strength to kill to survive, and we do. It is what we are for."

"It didn't change anything. It didn't make anything better."

"Then I should have forced you to be there," Leron snarled, leaning forward. "I should've made you watch her as she died. You needed to see her limbs fall still, to appreciate the beauty in how one small creature's death makes living that much easier for the rest of us. I should have made you watch when the blood broke free. I should've made you do it yourself."

"Do...do it?"

"I killed her!" Leron snapped, his fur rising in a rush of sudden anger. "Her senses were so dulled, she never felt me approach. A terrible waste. I knew I should have brought you along, but I thought you could grow to understand. I was wrong. It seems you haven't grown at all."

"What?"

"I should have seen it in your weakness, in the way you lowered your head and bore their accusations without protest, as if it was natural that you should take the blame. You even began to believe it yourself after awhile, didn't you? You had lost your patience with her that day and left her alone." Leron paused, as if in thought, and then lowered his voice. "By all accounts," he said, "You should have known it was me. My scent was in the undergrowth and the blood filled my tracks in the dirt. But you wouldn't have wanted to believe that, would you? I was the only thing protecting you from the others."

Xelind had risen to his feet. He swayed under the force of Leron's glare, ears flat against his skull. "No," he said, shaking his head with short, jerky motions. "Never, you didn't. You—you wouldn't do that...to me."

"Oh, yes, Xelind. The weak aren't meant to live. And I thought you were strong."

"I—I..." Xelind stammered, his eyes huge and hazed. His shoulders shook and he drew a rasping, broken breath, as if his pelt was as thin as the snow melting beneath their paws and a cold wind was rattling through his chest cavity. There was a moment of silence. Tir could see the hard block of ice melting with frightening speed, and for one terrifying moment he thought Xelind was actually going to burst into tears. But there was rage.

"No," Xelind said, and then louder: "NO."

"Come now, is this a surprise? Does this not fit the pattern of—"

"That was murder," Xelind said, his voice shaking and breaking into hoarse, bitter syllables. His eyes filled with poison and the fur along his back rose in spiky clumps of dirt and blood. "THAT WASN'T SURVIVAL, YOU BLOODY VULTURE; THAT WAS MURDER."

"Xelind, have we learned nothing? I thought I told you—"

Leron's words were cut off as Xelind lunged for him with a wordless roar. He jumped backwards, looking surprised, but one of Xelind's dull claws snagged in his dark fur, tearing out a great clump of hair and flesh.

"Xelind!" Tir shouted, horrified and sickened at what he had just heard. He leaped forward to grab him, to pull this fight back into some semblance of controlled attack and defense, but Xelind whipped around. He snarled into Tir's face, his fangs snapping just an inch before Tir's eye. Xelind's face was contorted with wrath. The fur around his muzzle was red with blood and his eyes were dilated and black with hatred, rage—and hunger. The frenzied, rampant hunger of a starved animal.

Tir stumbled backwards as fast as he could and, without further thought, turned and ran.

### 32.

River Daughter

Alanki flew out of the shadows and down into the roiling hollow the moment the battle began. The only clear idea in her mind was to find the silver alpha and kill her. Delphinium had been right. Alanki hated the alpha more than she had ever hated any other creature. The alpha was the one who had ordered the death of Sundew and Eryngo. The alpha was the one who had ordered for the hunt and destruction of Alanki. But tonight, the alpha was to be the hunted.

Alanki came to a sudden halt, snow flying up at her paws as she scanned the pulsing battle around her for the hated she-wolf. A silver pelt like the alpha's should be easy to spot amongst the mingled darker colors of brown, black, and smoky-grey, but the alpha was nowhere in sight. Alanki hissed and lashed at the ground in frustration. Had she run away?

"The renegade!" a voice barked from behind her. Alanki whipped around just in time to see a snarling, grey wolf come crashing into her, knocking her flat onto the ground.

In an instant, Alanki had sprung back to her paws and thrown her attacker off of her back where he had been clinging like a tick. He fell back, but only for a moment before he regained his balance and flew at her again. She jumped backwards and then flung herself out towards him, colliding in the air. They wrestled and twisted for a few short moments, Alanki shoving her attacker hard down to the ground. He twisted beneath her, but she pinned him down with an iron paw.

Snarling, she cracked his head as hard as she could with her paw, sending him jerking to the side, blood spurting from his muzzle. He went limp for a second, and she fell upon him harder than ever, slashing again and again at his face with her fangs.

Ignoring the frantic scrabbling of the wolf beneath her, Alanki clamped her jaws in an iron hold around his throat, his gurgling yelp of panic vibrating like the shattering of a sheet of ice in her ears. She ripped to the side, fur and flesh coming away in her fangs, blood stringing in a bright trail from her head's movement.

She rose, panting, and blinked the blood out of her eyes. Then she froze. Her eyes flickering around the hollow. Without a moment's hesitation, she abandoned the grey corpse and dashed off, flying in pursuit of a silver streak she had seen flash by.

She dodged past the screeching, battling wolves, focusing on nothing but finding the alpha. Alanki followed the silver streak without paying any mind to what was going on around her. Several times she was lunged for, but Alanki ducked their attacks without stopping to fight.

There!

The silver wolf was standing beneath the low, snow-laden branches of a pine, surveying the battle scene with cold eyes. Alanki hissed under her breath. The alpha's coat was still smooth and unmarred—she had not been fighting at all.

Paws skimming over the snow, Alanki made a quick change in direction, moving around the pine tree to catch the alpha from behind. Alanki crouched amongst the sharp-scented branches, her breath fogging in the air as she waited for the right moment to spring. The alpha twitched, her fur beginning to bristle as though she sensed that something was wrong.

Alanki dug her hind paws into the snow, taking a small step backwards and—

She crashed into the alpha with all her might, which was at least enough to knock the silver she-wolf backwards. Alanki fell upon her, ripping out chunks of her smooth silver pelt with her sharpened, hooked claws.

But the alpha was stronger than Alanki had bargained for. She kicked herself off from the ground, whipping around to shake Alanki off of her back and rearing up on her hind legs. Alanki twisted in the air, landing on all fours and springing back up within a heartbeat. She flattened her ears, flying down into a duck as the alpha aimed a blow at her head. Alanki whipped back up again, slamming against her like a fall of boulders.

Winded and surprised, the alpha reeled backwards. For the first time, she seemed to realize who her attacker was, and her eyes widened.

"You!" she said.

Alanki spat in reply and slid back, kicking against the snowy ground to propel herself forward with lethal speed to crash against the alpha again. The two grappled with each other, rolling out from beneath the pine tree and out into the thick of the battle in a cyclone of fur and snapping fangs.

The alpha reared, slamming herself down against Alanki to crush her beneath her larger weight. It was the alpha's turn to slash Alanki now—and she did, her fangs finding a hold on the back of Alanki's neck. Alanki writhed, slipping out of the alpha's grasp but snarled as her muzzle was sliced open in a new set of red gashes. Little flecks of blood spattered her face and she was blinded for a moment, her fur wet with melted snow—then she slipped. The alpha managed to pin her down beneath a heavy paw and glared down at her, panting and dripping blood into Alanki's face. Alanki thrashed, but was surprised by the alpha's steely strength. The silver she-wolf's paw descended on Alanki's throat like a nail, and Alanki's fangs flashed up to sink in her flesh. Howling, the alpha released her and recoiled, Alanki upon her in an instant, rolling with her sharp blows and lashing against her flailing limbs.

After a few seconds, Alanki had managed to bring herself to the top, despite the alpha's larger size and weight. Snarling, she flew at her throat, feeling her fangs latch around the soft flap of skin. Alanki bit down—hard—but the alpha tore herself away, leaving Alanki with her jaws clamped around torn fur and lose bits of flesh. Alanki spat in frustration and fury, whipping up for another chance.

But the alpha had run away, her fur trailing in bloody clumps behind her.

Alanki dashed through the hollow, splashing through puddles of slush and blood. The alpha was still ahead, running as fast as she could in an apparent attempt to escape the battle. Alanki soon reached her, crashing into her and sending them both tumbling back down into the center of the hollow.

Alanki slashed and tore with a hateful vehemence, battering the alpha's face down into the bloodstained snow. The alpha struggled, throwing Alanki off as she tried to stand. But Alanki slashed at one of her paws from the ground, biting down hard. With a blood-curdling howl of pain, the alpha collapsed again. Alanki wasted no time in diving for her neck. But this time, it was different. The alpha was not in some isolated corner of the hollow, hidden beneath the branches of a tree. She was in the center of the battle, surrounded by wolves of her pack. And the moment their alpha screeched, they were alerted.

Alanki was buried under a roiling mass of snarling fur and fangs as about five different wolves leaped at her. She wriggled like a snake, slipping out from underneath the sudden weight and attempted to make a quick dash into the bushes. But fangs snagged in her fur, dragging her back. Pain soaked like a burning liquid into every inch of her pelt as the wolves tore and lashed at her. Alanki twisted and kicked with all her strength, but the wolves continued to beat her, loyally defending their alpha, who had vanished again.

In a sudden burst of energy, Alanki thrashed out with her hind legs. She felt one of them connect with someone's face, and the wolf howled with pain. Alanki flew upwards, clawing and snarling, slipping out from beneath them in a flurry of snapping fangs. A few continued to swipe at her, but Alanki ducked and dashed off, vanishing into the bushes.

She sat there, fuming and panting in the shadows, watching as the alpha's defenders dispersed. Her pelt was stinging, and new scars had slithered down her sides like melting red ribbons. The leaves beneath her paws were wet with blood.

Fine, then—if that was the way they wanted it. She had been willing to take the alpha and no one else, but she now knew that the pack would do anything to protect their leader. Fine. That was fine with her. She couldn't care less what happened to the hated pack, so long as she and the deer would be able to live in peace. Redshank had been right. If she killed the alpha, they would only hunt her down with even more fervor.

She looked up, panting. The moon—the bloodfire moon—hung suspended above the tops of the black pines like a paled crimson disc. In her eye, it seemed to grow larger each minute, as though feeding off of the battle's fury below—and Alanki laughed at this spark of insanity, wiping the blood out of her eyes. The moon was the same color as the snow in the hollow.

***

"Arwena!" Tir shouted, weaving through the throng of fighting wolves. "ARWENA!"

It was no use. He couldn't even hear himself. Tir scanned the hollow for his mother's tawny pelt. She was nowhere in sight, but Tir's mind kept sending him terrible images of her lying motionless on the wet, blood-spattered ground.

He jerked his head, angry with himself. No. He had gone through this before—she was not dead. He would find her, and take her away from the deadly battle hollow. Tir's only concern was for his mother—she was too old and weak to last in battle. At the moment, he could not think about the renegade or Seilo; he could not think about Captain Leron and poor Xelind, both fighting to kill...

"Arwena!" he shouted again, knowing that it was useless.

Tir came to a halt, his head hanging low. Had she run away? Was she one of the many motionless bodies he had stepped over in his frantic search? Tir almost cried out in despair.

Something large and white came tearing out from the undergrowth, knocking Tir flat against the snowy ground. He gasped, spitting cold snow out of his mouth as he tried to stand. But he was knocked down again, and sharp claws began to rip his fur. White sparks of pain crackled through his body. It was a few moments before Tir's mind cleared enough for him to realize that he was being attacked.

He rolled to the side, snapping his fangs in the air as he went and ripping his attacker down the sides, then he jumped to his paws as the wolf snarled in pain. Blood was running down his throat—hot and sticky and reeking of death. He paused, staring at the crimson snow beneath his paws. It was then that he realized he was dripping with blood—his own, Leron's, Xelind's, and the blood of countless unknown others he had splashed through in his dashes through the hollow. It caked his fur in crimson spikes, dripped in his eyes, seeped into his mouth and trickled down his legs. He stood frozen, motionless with numb horror.

His legs were slashed from beneath him, sending him flying into a crumpled heap. Little shards of pain pierced his flesh like glass. He curled into a tight knot in the snow, heart pounding with horrified confusion at what he had done and almost done, not wanting to shed any more blood, not wanting to find himself in the situation where he may have to kill someone—to take a life. His confrontation with Leron and the horrible scene that had passed between the captain and Xelind had stripped him of all will to fight, to snarl and bare his fangs. He closed his eyes, motionless, and the blows stopped.

The weight of his attacker was removed from him, and someone was sniffing his ear suspiciously.

"Oh, dead already?" a rough voice muttered, poking him in the sides. "No, no, 'tis still alive...what a sodden coward."

Tir knew that voice. He opened one eye, only to discover that he was face-to-face with the other wolf, whose pale green eyes were still sparking. He recoiled in shock, and his attacker jumped back, hissing.

"You AGAIN?" the renegade said. "What must I do to be rid of you?"

"Nothing!" Tir said, struggling to his paws. "I don't want to fight you, just let me be—"

"No, don't you go anywhere; I haven't quite finished with you yet."

"Leave me alone," Tir said, turning to glare at her. "I'm not afraid of you, renegade. But I won't fight you. I'm done with fighting, done with blood, from now until—"

"Be quiet. Tell me, did you tell your alpha what I told you? About the deer?"

"Yes," he said. "I tried; I told her everything! She didn't believe me. It was too late. But I did try—"

"Trying makes no difference. 'Tis too late now for anything. The deer are gone."

"W—What?"

"They've travelled away, you idiot!" she growled. "And listen to me—I promised them that by the time they return, this land will be as clean and safe as clover meadow. Understand?"

"I—"

"The next time you see your leech of an alpha, you will tell her that. Tell her that I shall get rid of all of you; I've finished playing chasing games with pups."

Tir nodded, his heart pounding, though a part of him was relieved. That meant that Alpha Liyra was still alive, at least to the renegade's knowledge.

"Have you seen her?" he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice. The renegade's eyes narrowed. "I don't want her killed," Tir explained. "I don't want any of them killed. I can't—"

"We're not getting into this again," the renegade said. "I'm not fool enough to believe that your pack will leave me alone once you win the battle. No! The first thing you shall do is make sure I'm killed, no?"

"We won't win," Tir said. "No one's going to win. Palva said the moon—"

"Oh, so you've noticed it, too, then?" the renegade interrupted, surprised. "The bloodfire moon? 'Tis an omen; it means we're all going to die?"

"I don't—"

"Of course it doesn't!" she snarled, rising. "Idiots! All of you! You think this battle is set in stone because the moon's wearing a different face? You're no better than the deer. Well, of course the prophecies shall all be fulfilled if you can't be bothered to fight them—have you considered that?"

"What do you know about prophecies?" Tir asked, suspicious.

"Everyone has a prophecy of some sort," she said in disgust. "I should say your alpha even has one. They're all over the place, miserable things, dropping from the sky like hail—"

Tir wasn't listening any more. A prophecy... He'd heard that word before. Hadn't Palva been muttering about some prophecy a long time ago, when he was freshly wounded from the forest fire? Yes, she had—just after speaking with Alpha Liyra. What had they been talking about? Tir wracked his brain, knowing this had to be important... Him. They had been talking about him.

He gasped.

"...But you mark my words, packwolf. I shall make an end to this, prophecy or not. Oh, there's nothing written in the stars, nothing that the bloodfire moon—"

"Wait!" Tir interrupted. "What do you know about the fire-moon? Who told you?"

"The deer. They've known 'twas coming for a time now, they say."

Tir closed his eyes, heart pounding. Palva had known the fire-moon was coming, too, bringing battle with it. She had known it would be dangerous to hunt the deer. And she had known that he would be able to speak with the renegade, that she would listen to him, if anyone. She had also known that she could not let him leave her pack—so they had held him prisoner, however long it had lasted.

He had to find Palva.

"I need to go," he muttered distractedly, turning around. "There's someone I need to talk to."

"Wait a moment," the renegade said. "You should know something. My pack—"

"They're not your pack."

She raised her brow. "And so they aren't. Might you know whose pack are they?"

Tir swallowed. "They're mine," he said. "And they need me."

"I thought so. You know, I would admit that I never did see ravens above the ridge. When I said it, 'twas a lie."

Tir stared. She surveyed him, green eyes narrow. Tir shifted and looked away, again getting the uneasy feeling that she was reading his thoughts.

"Is your mother here?" she asked suddenly.

"Y—yes, I think she is," he stammered.

"I want to see her. Where is she?"

"I don't—"

But at that moment, a howl echoed across the hollow. They both looked up, ears forward and alert. Tir did not know how he had been able to hear that particular cry over the furious sounds of the battle, but it resounded in his ears as loudly as if it had come from right beside him. The renegade heard it, too. And from the other side of the battle hollow, the black alpha Misari raised his head, orange eyes sharp.

"Arwena," hissed the renegade.

Tir looked to the edge of the battle clearing, and his chest filled up with ice-cold fear. Captain Leron was dragging something matted and tawny into the brush. He met Tir's eye; he saw Tir and the renegade together, watching him. He shook his head sorrowfully around a mouthful of Arwena's fur as if he had some terrible news he'd rather not deliver.

Tir knew exactly what Leron wanted, but he didn't care. He lurched to his feet and dashed after them, the renegade running at his side.

### 33.

Arwena

Tir ran as fast as he could, every particle in his body crying out with fear. Captain Leron! But where was Xelind? They had been fighting a moment ago. The thought fled his mind in his fear for Arwena. He had heard her cry, but hadn't seen her move; there was a good chance she was already dead. It didn't matter. Leron would pay. And for once, Tir was glad to have the renegade's vicious fury with him.

The renegade had flashed ahead and was not far behind them. Tir tried to move his legs faster, but they felt weak with terror for his mother. He flew through the devastated hollow, tripping and stumbling over the wounded and shoving aside battling wolves from both packs who turned in bewilderment as he rushed by.

They were just ahead. Gasping, Tir threw himself through the brambles, thorns scraping and clawing at his tattered pelt. He floundered in the bushes for a few moments. Then he froze.

Leron stood over Arwena's quivering figure. Blood dripped in slick ropes from his grinning jaws and his grey eyes seethed with a mad light. "And now it all comes into the open," he said with a sort of harsh triumph. "And now your natures have betrayed you, and now—"

His words were abruptly cut off as the renegade bowled into him with the bone-jarring roar of an angered bear. He and the renegade were thrown backwards with the impact of her attack, rolling and writhing in the snow in a hurricane of snarling brown and white fur.

Tir ignored them and dragged himself towards Arwena. His head was spinning and each breath caused him jolting pain, but he no longer noticed. Arwena was alive, but only just. Leron had left his mother in a gasping heap. The snow beneath her was red.

She looked up at him, and smiled.

"Tir," she rasped. "You're here."

Tir almost cried at the sound of her voice. "I'm alive, and so are you. Oh, mother—"

"I feared this day. I've done terrible things, Tir, and I feared the punishment waiting for me. But now I see that you are here, and all is forgiven. Are we going back home, now? To the forest before the fire began?"

She waited with an expectant smile. But Tir only stared, the bubble of hope that had just risen inside of him suddenly deflating—he had dreamed of this day, when he would see his mother again, alive, but in his dreams she had always been lucid and strong. This was all wrong. She thought she was already dead.

Tir's eyes travelled down, away from his mother's gaze. There was a gash in her throat from where Captain Leron had bitten her, a dark and ragged hole in her tawny fur. Tir felt helpless. He needed Palva—she would know what to do, she would understand—but he didn't want to leave Arwena. What was the herb she used to stop bleeding? He looked around the frozen clearing, but the only plant to be seen was the hunched form of a dark yew tree, blood-red berries bobbing in the wind.

He looked away.

"Is something wrong?" The smile faded and Arwena frowned. "You look upset. You are here to take me home, aren't you? Or has she come to punish me?"

"Wh—what?"

"I said the proper prayers!" she whispered, eyes shiny and filled with old grief. "It was all I knew to do! But oh, was I only being a coward, Tir? Did I make it worse? Did I—oh." She fell silent and her eyes darkened as she looked at something beyond Tir's shoulder.

Tir turned around just in time to see the large black form fly into the clearing from the battle hollow. "Father," he gasped, and Misari spared him and Arwena a quick glance before he raced to join the renegade. Tir had never heard his father growl before, had never heard him so much as raise his voice—but Misari snarled now as if he had become something else entirely. Flashes of the long-gone forest fire blazed in his golden-orange eyes. He threw himself between Leron and the renegade, lips peeling back to bare his fangs, and thrust his head aggressively into Leron's face with a loud, grating bark. Every one of his black hairs stood on end and he was terrifying, massive, fierce enough to join the night sky; and for a moment Leron stumbled back, surprised. The renegade was one thing, but this was something else altogether.

"Fearless leader," Arwena was mumbling to herself behind him, her eyes half-shut. "Maker of laws, murderer of my last daughter..."

Tir's head jolted. "No, mother," he said. "Not now. Please, not now."

"I told you, Tir. What happens when you play beneath that tree."

Tir shivered. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the fight commencing as Captain Leron now faced both Misari and the renegade. The sounds were distant to him. He could see his mother now, as she had been once. Once, she had had good days mixed in with the bad ones. This one was a bad day. And he didn't think she would live to speak again tomorrow.

Arwena opened her eyes all the way. "What are they fighting about?" she asked, as though she had noticed it for the first time. Her voice was strange; it was clear and demanding. "I hear them, behind me, but I can't—I can't..."

"They're fighting for you, mother."

"Am I dead?"

Tir choked. "Yes, mother," he whispered. "Everything is done now; it's only a few more moments before I can take you home."

"But they're fighting," Arwena said. She twisted, trying to look behind her, and Tir rushed to stop her from moving and hurting herself further. "Look," she insisted, as though Tir hadn't believed her. "Look at them. I told you."

Tir turned. Leron was faring surprisingly well, but Misari and the renegade had backed him up against a wall of snow-covered brambles. His pelt was soaked with blood. Pink spittle was foaming up around his teeth. He was not going to win.

"I don't understand," Tir said, turning back to Arwena. "Why do you—"

"It isn't supposed to be like this. It's supposed to be perfect. But Misari and Alanki are fighting a stranger, I cannot move, and you..." She paused, frowning as though noticing something for the first time. "Tir, you're covered in blood."

"I—I'm only—"

"—and it's dark, and I don't recognize this place." A spark of panic flitted across Arwena's face. "Didn't I say the proper prayers? Didn't I do what was right?"

"Yes—yes, of course you did. Never mind all of that. Everything's fine."

"Ask her," Arwena spat, twisting to glare at the fight behind them. "Ask her, and see if she'll answer me now. She didn't before."

"Ask who?"

"Alanki."

Tir lowered his head. He did not know anyone named Alanki, and neither did Arwena. "Alanki" must be one of the fantasies that Avrok had told him of—just a lost friend in her past, or maybe even an entirely nonexistent creature.

"Mother," Tir said. "There's no one named Alanki. Mother," he repeated more urgently, as Arwena was struggling to look at the fight behind her. "Look at me," he said. "I'm your son; I'm Tir. I—"

"I know who you are," Arwena said irritably, turning back to him. "But I want to know if she knows me; I want to know why Alanki's here if not to punish me."

"Mother! Who is Alanki?"

"Your sister. Why are you getting upset?"

Tir stared at her and swallowed the words that rose in his throat. All at once, he became aware of the silence. Except for Arwena's gibbering, the small clearing was quiet. The snarls of the fight had stopped.

He looked behind him. Leron was backed into the brush, his sides heaving as he stared at them from behind Misari, who was blocking his way. The renegade herself was looking at Arwena with the strangest expression of astonishment and disbelief Tir had ever seen.

"You—you mean you didn't know?" Captain Leron's voice was hoarse and barely understandable; he was panting for air, and took a breath at each syllable. He stared at Tir with open incredulity and seethed, "You mean you didn't bleeding know?!"

The renegade looked up at Tir and then back down at Arwena.

"Oh, Alanki!" Arwena said, ignoring Leron. Her green eyes had begun to glow with elation. "Did the seasons have no claim on you? Was it my prayers? You're looking at me—you know me; you've come to forgive me, haven't you? You and Tir!"

"You didn't know?" Leron repeated, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch. He was staring at Tir; he looked as though he had just been struck across the face. "This whole time, you didn't know? And I—I thought that you—that means this isn't..." His voice trailed away as his face struggled to reconcile the facts of the last few seasons with his own estimation of them. He looked almost frightened. Not taking his eyes off of them, he began to limp his way back to the battle—to tell Liyra, to drown out his shock in the snarls of the fight, Tir didn't know. Misari let him go.

"Your mother is not mad," Misari said to Tir. "I myself recognized the same, only a few nights ago. It is why my pack came here, to fight."

The renegade herself was frozen. She turned her green eyes up to Tir—and right then, at that moment, he knew. Those pale green eyes were fierce and hard as flint, so different from Arwena's and his own. But at the same time, there was something deep underneath the stony glint—something he recognized, something he knew.

His sister was alive.

***

For the first time in her life, Alanki was rendered speechless.

The brown wolf, Tir—her brother—was staring at her with an open mouth. He appeared to be in shock; his green eyes were wide and glassy and he didn't make a sound. But Arwena was twisting in the red snow beneath her, trying to see Alanki better. Tir made no move to still her.

"Alanki!" she said in delight, when Alanki turned to look at her. She repeated the name, as if enjoying the way it sounded. "Alanki! Alanki, don't you understand? You've come for me. Alanki."

Alanki could only stare. Mixed emotions swam in her mind like colorful fish. She had no idea what to say or think—half of her was still lost out in the battle, fighting the packwolves. Alanki knew anger and hate, she knew the hollow feel of loss and the stillness of the warm seasons. She knew fear and the panic of the hunted animal as well as the savage joy of revenge. But complete and utter shock was something new to her—that everything she had thought she had known her entire life, everything since she had been born—was suddenly not at all as she believed.

"A—Arwena?" she said. It hurt to talk. "Mother?"

Arwena looked as though she was about to explode with joy.

"She knows me!" she said to Tir. "Oh, she knows me! It is perfect! Oh, Alanki."

Something was surfacing in Alanki. It prickled like a tiny spider bite beneath her shock, but she could feel it growing stronger as she stood in the red snow and looked down at the battered, dying old wolf who was her mother. Her mother.

The others were staring at her. They were waiting for her to speak, for her to bow her head and nuzzle her mother's ear, maybe. But Alanki's legs were frozen. She didn't know what to do. Delphinium had been warm and maternal when she was a pup, but there had always been a sort of strict divide between Alanki and the deer. She lived among them, briefly, but she was not one of them. That was made clear to her on the day she killed Tormentil.

On that day, her paws and muzzle had been red with blood. And so they were now; so they had been many times since Tormentil's death. But in the snow, Arwena was smiling at her as though Alanki's fur was as white and clean as the stars.

"I don't understand," Alanki rasped. She looked from Tir to Misari, and then back to Arwena. "How—how could this happen? There was a fire, he told me, 'twas not so long ago...I've lived here all my life. I've never seen another wolf until this summer."

"But you are here now," Arwena said, as though she were explaining something very simple. "And I am, too. We all are. It is perfect."

"What? No, that is not—I don't know what you're talking about! I want an explanation." Alanki whirled around to face Tir and Misari, her breath shortening and a prickly, strange panic rising in her throat. "If she is my mother, then why am I here? Why did I not flee the fire with the rest of you? Why was I raised by deer—why did I grow up alone?"

Beneath her, Arwena released a long, hoarse breath. To Alanki's surprise, she did not say a word. She seemed to deflate in the snow, her pain-hazed eyes still fixed on her daughter's face but the light inside of them retreating like a frightened animal.

"It is an old law," Misari rumbled at last. Beside him, Tir gave a sharp intake of breath, but Misari only shook his head. "She deserves to know," he told him, and when he turned back to Alanki his deep orange eyes held the same fog of mortal pain that Arwena's did. "In harsh and dry seasons, the runt of a litter must be sacrificed, and it is the mother's duty. It is terrible, yes, but I know that you foster no illusions—you grew up on your own and so you must know the terrible things creatures must do to survive. Runts are almost always too weak to live, and what short lives they do have are filled with pain until they are killed by hard, cruel natural means—it is best for the mother to do it herself, out of love, to spare her child the suffering that is its birthright."

Alanki stared at him. His words reached her through a fog of confusion and dull shock. Somewhere inside of her, she was listening and nodding in agreement; of course she understood that these things must happen—it is only practical, it is what we must do to survive. But Alanki was hearing him speak as though he were reciting nothing more than a cold rule. Dimly, she was aware that this was not a theory, this was something real—the runt was not a faceless variable, the runt was her. He was talking about killing her.

"Please," Arwena said. Her voice was small, cracked, withering away as though it was being forced through a thin hole in her lungs. "My child, my—my daughter...I am sorry, I am terribly, terribly sorry. I told myself I said the proper prayers, did what is right—but in truth I am a coward, and I know it."

"You never did it," Tir said in a hoarse voice, and Arwena released a thin cry.

"I couldn't. You can't understand; you've never had a child! She looked at me the way they do, so trusting, thinking in her simple little mind that this was another pretty game, that I had brought her out there to—to...oh..."

Her voice trailed away into a horrible, gurgling gasp as blood welled up in her throat in slow pulses like the beating of her heart. Tir and Misari leaned forward, faces contracted in panic, but Arwena's breaths evened back out into a faint rhythm. She twisted to look at Alanki's face. Her eyes were wet and rimmed with red. "I left you by the river," she whispered brokenly. "And I looked back as I walked away. You were watching me. I felt you watching me still, when the pack moved on through the forests and seasons; I felt your clear gaze and I could see your face as it was when I left it, and I thought of how long it must have taken. How you must have suffered, starved, alone, all because I was too afraid to do what I was meant to do. How I, your mother, had abandoned you to die under the claws of a scavenger."

Alanki's throat was dry.

"My dear," Misari said. He sounded hoarse."I never knew."

"You never wanted to know!" Arwena hissed at him. "After that day, you never spoke of her again. Never so much as looked me in the face. Tir was a yearling before you finally began treating him like he was your son."

Misari bowed his head as though he no longer had the energy to lift it. "I will neither deny nor excuse my actions. I deserved what rage you directed towards me. And I deserve whatever disasters you have brought me, Alanki."

"You knew me," Alanki said, turning to him. "You knew who I was, that night I came into your settlement. You saw Arwena crying, and—and you realized, and you recognized me. So why did you—"

"Agree to fight with you? Because, Alanki, I owe you at least that much."

"We wanted her dead," Tir spoke up, looking at his paws. "We would never have let her go. Misari couldn't have done anything at all."

"Did you think I could fall for a simple renegade's trick?" Misari said with a sad, wry smile. "I, who have been alpha since before your birth? No, Alanki, I knew who you were and the trouble you were in. So I agreed to lead my wolves into battle, as I would do for any other member of my pack. And I would fight for you now as I failed to do years ago."

There was a silence now, and Alanki could feel the sorrow hanging in the air. She found herself looking into Arwena's eyes—sad, leaf-green eyes that were now glazed with pain. A shiver ran down her spine. Didn't she know those eyes?

"I never forgot it," Arwena breathed. "Not after seasons and seasons. It drove me mad, thinking of your death—sometimes I imagined you were still alive, in terrible pain, calling for me to make things right again. I slept, but nights were worse than days—in my mind, I ran and ran until my legs were broken beneath me. I was looking for something. I never knew what it was in the dream, but I awoke with the memory of your face the last time I saw you."

She could see something deep in Arwena's eyes—something that Tir and Misari neither possessed nor would know to recognize, something visible only as a subtle darkness in her gaze. It was something that Alanki had seen in herself, when she looked at her reflection in the river. It was the look of one who had spent a lifetime forcing away terrible thoughts that refused to leave. In her dreams, Alanki had run miles over a black, featureless expanse, killing wolves and deer and scattering their corpses like dead leaves over the raging _Lankhi_.

Arwena, too, had known nightmares.

Alanki took a step backwards, her head reeling. The blood in the snow beneath her mother's head seemed to blur before her eyes and before she knew it she was standing at the edge of her forest again, watching the bloody sunrise, blood on her paws and in her eyes and burning a red hole in the fields where it had been shed—red yew berries tumbled from a dark tree in a shining river, a poison river, and she was racing across the dark fields through the screaming wind, tearing out the throat of the wolves who had killed Sundew, and again blood spread crimson and warm over the ground...She shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she felt drained of all energy. The clearing was blurry, and the three wolves there were watching her with some unease, as though she were a fierce and cornered animal who may erupt unpredictably at any moment.

"I told you that what I did was for the good of the pack, Alanki," Misari was saying, his voice low and gentle. "A feeble excuse for you now, perhaps, but I would kill for those I had sworn to protect. And you, I know, would only do the same."

Alanki stared at him. Inside of her, her heart was pounding like a fall of boulders, and she could feel icy trembles shaking up from her paws. Her father's solemn gaze was more deeply understanding than she could have hoped for—she clung to these shreds of sympathy, as a shriveled fern leans towards a shaft of sunlight. She had. She had killed for her pack, yes, the deer.

"Mother," Alanki whispered as she turned to Arwena, not knowing quite why she was doing so. "I've done terrible things."

"I know, my dear."

"'Tis my fault you are here now. You are dying. I brought these wolves upon you."

"No," Arwena said. "I am glad. This is not an occasion for sorrow. Perhaps I said the proper prayers after all. It seems The Spirits have taken mercy on me at last, if I can trade my own life for yours."

"I never wanted it." Alanki felt crumpled, filthy, broken. "I never wanted this, any of this, a—and I only wanted to protect the deer; they were so helpless, and I had done them wrong already...please," she said, finding herself pleading now. She turned feverishly to Tir, whose level green gaze reminded her of the wolves of her nightmare. "I didn't know! I didn't know I would go so far. I never would have killed them if..."

"I understand," Misari said. "I have done the same."

Alanki shuddered. The blood in her fur had dried and stiffened into clumps and spikes that prickled like electric shocks when she moved. A sour taste lingered in her mouth and all at once she felt the blood dripping off of her, encasing her. The waters of the _Lankhi_ are sticky and warm. The waters of the _Lankhi_ are not suited for washing away blood; the _Lankhi_ has been red since its source.

"It no longer matters." Arwena's voice had softened; she had begun to smile again. She closed her eyes. "We are here now. We are all here. And it is perfect."

No, Alanki wanted to say. This is still far from perfect. The thought of what her mother had done—had failed to do—sent chills down Alanki's spine. Yet, if Arwena had performed her duty as she thought was right, Alanki would not be alive today. The others seemed to take it for granted that she would forgive Arwena. But where should her forgiveness begin? Was she expected to forgive her father for sentencing her to death, and her mother for shying from the task? Alanki knew that any anger on her part would, now, certainly be justified. But the rage would not come. Instead, she wanted to cry. She could not remember the last time she had cried.

All her life, Alanki had been something terrible. To the deer, she was the wolf fawn, the fierce being from legend who would one day, inevitably, turn on the very people who had fostered her. She was the white renegade, the vengeful shadow who stalked the packwolves as they killed Tormentil again and again. It is a reminder, the old memory whispered again. It is your fault, your fault, your fault.

But now, her mother was watching her from the snow as though nothing else—not the raging battle, not the canyon in her throat nor the blood on the snow—was important. Alanki was filthy and reeked of death, but Arwena was looking at her as no one had looked at her before, without the packwolves' anger or the fear and pain that hung deep behind even Delphinium's eyes. Arwena didn't see the renegade; she saw the pup she had left on the riverbanks years ago, miraculously returned to her. And she was pleased with what she saw.

"Yes, mother," Alanki whispered. The words hurt to say, but she spoke all the same. "It is perfect."

Arwena smiled again, the muscles in her face trembling. She closed her eyes. With each labored breath, she shuddered, as though it were causing her pain. Blood welled up in her throat. Alanki thought of the strength of will and the agony she must have endured just to live this long, to say these words, to hear Alanki speak and forgive her.

Without a sound, Misari turned and slipped out of the clearing. His orange-golden eyes were filled with old pain and within seconds after he had left, his howl could be heard climbing to the heavens—mournful, weary, and ancient. The alpha, paying his final respects. Their father, apologizing for his weaknesses.

"Alanki..." Arwena whispered, as though she had been saving her words for last. "Tir..."

Her voice faded away into a misty silence. The blood on her neck glinted in the weak moonlight, and brother and sister watched as the life drained out of their mother and onto the snow. Arwena's breath wheezed in her throat for a few moments, but then it softened to a faint whisper, like a gentle breeze.

Just for a second, her eyes opened in one last sliver of green before they fluttered shut. She relaxed and released herself, floating out on her last breath, gently off and away, over the rustling branches of the yew tree and up to the night sky where a few stars were glittering like open eyes in the dark.

### 34.

Healing

Back in the hollow, the battle was still raging as strongly as ever. The wolves of both packs continued to fight with escalating fervor, their snarls and cries of pain filling the air. None paid attention to the alpha's howl that climbed like a warning siren into the black sky. None heard the sad, high wail that shortly followed, echoing from the undergrowth outside the battle clearing. None were aware of the life that had just departed. None noticed the star in the sky, one that had not been there a moment before, but was now glittering so sad and small, but bright. None, that is to say, but one. A small, lonely figure sat hunched on the outskirts of the hollow, away from the battle, with the silver starlight shining in his fur. He noticed the star, and heard the wail. He did not know what it meant, but he began to cry to himself, his tiny frame shaking with sobs.

Palva was watching the battle from the shadows. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking by looking at her face, for it remained cold and expressionless. It was not long before she, too, noticed the star—she had been watching the orange fire-moon, now in its last full. The new star came up through the sky's darkness at the edge of the moon's musty orange halo. Her heart sank in her chest, but she did not yet know what it meant.

She looked to the side. Seilo was standing alone, apart from the battle, crying. Palva's face softened, and she padded over to the pup. He looked up as she approached, his eyes huge and shiny. She sat down beside him.

"Why are you crying, Seilo?" she asked.

"I—I don't know," he said. Then he looked up. "Palva, that star..."

His voice trailed away, and he looked puzzled. Palva gave him a long look.

"Yes, Seilo," she said. "It is a new star."

They sat in silence for a long time, gazing up at the tiny pinprick of light, almost indistinguishable among the thousands of others, the shining swath of silver above them that made a gleaming wreath around the fire-moon. Seilo stopped crying.

"Palva," he began, sounding hesitant. "Palva, I'm so confused."

"Yes?"

Seilo was quiet for a moment. He looked around at the hollow, his eyes flickering over each wolf.

"These wolves," he said. His voice quivered. "The renegade pack. I—I think..."

Palva waited in silence as Seilo paused to collect his words. He looked up at the new star, and then back at the wolves in the hollow.

"Their faces," he whispered. He sounded almost scared. "I've seen them. some of them, before—in a dream, maybe, but they're here now. They can't be real, because dreams aren't—aren't—but I know them. I know them like I thought I knew Tir, before you found him."

Palva drew a sharp breath. She remembered Tir's reaction to seeing the renegade pack for the first time—it had awoken a spark in her, but she hadn't fully come to terms with what it meant. Now, she surveyed the battling wolves with new eyes. Some of the renegade wolves had strange, old scars beneath their new wounds—some of them had burns.

She looked back down at Seilo, who was watching her as if afraid of what she thought of him. "Yes, Seilo," she said. "You have seen their faces, and not in a dream. Do you know what that means?"

"I think I know these wolves, Palva," he whispered. "But I—I don't know how, or what it means."

Palva curled her tail around the pup's small frame. She followed Seilo's gaze back up to the star. A gentle breeze sighed through their fur.

"It means," she said in a quiet voice. "That I have been terribly mistaken for a long time."

The sounds of the battle were beating at her from all sides, but they fell distant and muffled on Palva's ears. She could feel Seilo's breathing at her side, short and rapid. He was trying to be brave. The pup clung to her as though for some shred of comfort, of protection, from the death that was falling around them. He followed her as she made her way towards a shuddering heap of bloodied fur which lay a good distance away from the thick of the battle, almost invisible against the similar red and white of the snow. As they drew nearer, Seilo gasped and recoiled.

"Don't be afraid," she said, turning to him. "He can't hurt you."

Seilo said nothing, but pressed closer to her as she went up to the broken figure and sat down. Xelind's eyes were wide and glassy, smeared with blood and dull with pain. There was no hatred there now, and pity ached in the pit of her stomach as she looked down at the miserable creature. Seilo crouched behind her back, shivering, as if the pup could sense that he, at least, could now be healed, could begin again—but there were those who had never had a chance.

"Gatherer," said Xelind, his eyes fixed on Palva as though sensing her pity. His voice was soft, hoarse, and choking, coming in chopped syllables as though his throat were clogged with blood. He did not move. "...Gatherer...don't—don't let..."

"I cannot save you, Xelind," Palva whispered. "Leron has bitten too deep. There are no herbs to mend you, I am sorry."

She felt revulsion rising in her throat at her own understatement. To say that Leron had bitten too deep was almost a lie in itself. Xelind's belly was slit open wide, its contents spilled over the snow and matted in his fur—crimson, like yew berries. It was a slow death. Leron had ensured it would be. She was glad Seilo had hidden his face.

"...Gatherer...I never, never not...don't let—"

"I cannot save you. There is nothing I can do."

He twitched his neck, like a shudder, and it was a while before Palva realized he was trying to shake his head. "...not, never wanted—hurts too...bad, too..."

She did not speak. He gave a sharp gasp and his blue eyes widened. Spasms wracked his body and his paws clutched at the snow—his mouth gaped wide like a fish, and his open-jawed silence was more terrible than any scream of agony. A thin rivulet of blood trickled out the corner of his mouth.

"Gatherer..." he said, struggling to choke out the word. A thin, desperate note had crept into his tone, and Palva nearly cringed away at the intensity of his unblinking stare. "...please don't don't...please...let, tell me..."

"What is it?" Palva asked. Her throat was constricted, as though someone had latched fangs around it. Xelind shuddered, like a dead leaf, and his pupils shrank to the size of a pin.

"...do I, I, do...please...do I..." His voice had faded to a ragged whisper, and Palva could barely hear him over the distant screams of battle. "...do I deserve...deserve this...?"

"No," she said, something in her breaking. "No, Xelind, you do not deserve this."

"...Don't let let, please...please don't let him..."

"I'm sorry." Palva's voice was beginning to shake. "I cannot save you; if I could—"

"No...don't want...please. Please!" He was shaking harder, coughing, his back legs kicking at the bloodied snow, but his eyes did not move. They were fixed on her, and, with some shock, Palva realized he was begging. "...don't want save...please, don't let him, him...kill me...don't let."

"I won't," Palva said quietly. "I won't let Leron kill you."

"Hurts...bad, want it not to hurt, please...don't let him kill, it hurts so...I am afraid..."

"Leron will not kill you, I promise."

"Don't want live, don't want...hurts, please...don't let him kill me."

Xelind's blue eyes were glazed, blood rolling from between his teeth and the horrible gash like a red mouth in his side. The scar that marred his left eye was almost hidden beneath the scores of others that split his pelt every which way. Only a few patches of white fur were visible beneath the red. Leron had done a thorough job. Palva closed her eyes and drew a long, shuddering breath.

"It will all go away soon. Close your eyes."

"Can't. Long time, now, bleed...hurts hurts...sorry..."

His voice trailed away into a shuddering silence. A deep-rooted misery seemed to glint in the air like the blade of a knife, like the steel of Captain Leron's grey eyes. The blood in the snow gleamed wetly, almost black, and Palva would not let herself look at the gruesome slash down the dying Sentinel's side. How long had he lain here already, dying?

"I will not let Leron kill you," she said, for the third time. "He won't take that from you." Her voice trailed away under Xelind's unblinking blue stare. It was hollow and glazed, like the eyes of some creature already long-dead. "No one deserves this," she whispered, and rolled three red yew berries into the snow.

### 35.

Ashes Mend

Tir wailed.

He crumpled onto the ground, pressing his face into the snow and shaking like a lost pup. Crying was not enough. Nothing was enough; no words or cries could express the grief rising inside of him. He felt empty, hollow, as if there was a gaping hole inside of him like the hole in his mother's throat. Something had been torn out—something that he had relied on for his survival, for his hope—it had been ripped away with cruel abruptness.

He had believed that Arwena was dead long before, but seeing her sprawled limp and still at his feet, like a broken-throated rabbit...that was different. He wanted to scream, to roar, to be swallowed up by the cold earth, but he found that he couldn't make a sound. Tir wished that he could curl up in a tiny ball in the snow and never get up again. Arwena was gone. He knew that it was true, but he couldn't believe himself. He wanted it to stay that way. He refused to open his eyes. Seeing her lying there would make it too real, more real than he could handle.

But Alanki was silent, stony-faced. She did not make a sound. She did not move. Tir, absorbed in his anguish, did not notice her stillness until she shifted forward, closer to Arwena's limp figure. Cautiously, he raised his head to see what she would do.

Alanki was standing over Arwena's body. She stared down at the red gash in her throat as though trying to burn a hole in her fur. She was as silent and motionless as Arwena, but there was something different—a stiffness in her legs, a glint in her eye, the slow, bristling rise of fur along her back.

"She's dead," Alanki whispered. Her voice was hollow with disbelief. "She's dead. After all of that."

She turned her pale green eyes on Tir, and he shuddered at the stony coldness he saw in there.

"She's dead," she repeated. "He killed her."

There was no asking who "he" was. Captain Leron had given Arwena the fatal blow before Alanki and Misari had intervened. They had both seen it.

All at once, Tir was afraid of her. She was his sister, and she would not harm him now, but she was still the renegade. She was still wild and unpredictable and angry. But if ever Tir had thought he had seen her angry before—in all the times she had roared words of venom at Alpha Liyra, all the times she had faced the packwolves in pursuit; killed, even—if he had ever seen her angry before, it was nothing compared to the awful, silent rage that had begun to push through her skin like cold smoke.

"He killed her," she said again, her voice hoarse and shaking. "She was my mother. All this time I—I could've been happy; she looked at me like I was clean, like everything was fine—now it is perfect, and for a moment I really thought we could...He took that away from me. He killed her."

Tir rose to his feet and began to move towards her, but flinched away under her gaze. "A—Alanki," he said. "I understand; I know how—"

"He killed her," she said, louder. "HE KILLED HER."

Tir took a few steps back, trembling. He remembered the cold rage of Xelind as they had fought Captain Leron. Xelind had been immovable, dead-eyed, terrifying, but the look on Alanki's face would have torn gashes in his veneer. She was silent for a few moments, quivering and shaking as if the ground was moving beneath her paws.

"Alanki," Tir whispered, frightened. "Alanki, don't—"

"I'LL KILL HIM!"

"Alanki!" he shouted, as she tore out of the clearing. "No! Come back here!"

But she wasn't listening to him, and he knew it. He ran after her, brambles whipping his face. She couldn't kill Captain Leron. No wolf could kill Captain Leron. Hold him back for a second, maybe—but not kill him. He was three times her size. She may be quick, but he would snap her like a twig. It would be suicide, to attack him. She wasn't thinking straight.

"Alanki!" he shouted, running as fast as he could. "Stop! Stop!"

Gasping, he burst into the hollow where the battle was still raging strong. He searched the hollow, but he did not have to search long.

There was a feral roar that echoed throughout the entire hollow, and every wolf in both packs froze at the sound and turned to watch. Alanki was a creature of flame, white fire that seemed to rain from the sky in a screaming torrent. She flew down the bloodied slope, fur streaming behind her in ragged waves. She was ten times her own size, vast in her rage. The wolves of Liyra's pack stared, sensing that something in the battle had changed.

At the other edge of the hollow, Captain Leron was a rearing mass of foam and ripped fur as he tore out the throat of a wolf beneath him. His back was to Alanki; he did not turn around when she entered the hollow and he did not appear to have any awareness of the battle outside of his own private corner. Alanki crashed into him with an earsplitting crack. He crumpled in the snow in astonishment. It was awhile before he could recover, but by that time Alanki was upon him in a whirlwind of screaming white fur, claws slashing pale fire, red blood rolling from Leron's dark fur into pools that stained the snow.

That was all they could see of Leron—a flash of dark brown fur here and there, a muffled bellow. Alanki was everywhere, her white fur flying, slashing at the captain again and again in a maddened rhythm, limbs lashing, a tangle of white lightning that seemed to have no mercy. And all the while, she was screaming.

The wolves had moved out of their way. Their eyes were dull with confusion and shock. They had not yet grasped what was going on, or Liyra's wolves would have rushed to aid their captain, and then it would be all over for Alanki. But the sudden appearance of the renegade, flying out of nowhere into the hollow with a terrible roar—it had stunned them, and they were motionless.

But Tir raced forward.

"Alanki!" he screamed. "Alanki, stop!"

His cries were drowned out by the roars of his sister, who had no other intention in the world but to destroy the wolf in front of her and cause him as much pain as possible. It wasn't difficult—Leron was already in pain; he was weakened from his earlier fight with Alanki and Misari, and Alanki buried her snarling muzzle in those raw wounds as he made awful, shrill sounds Tir had never heard a wolf make before.

Horror flashed before Tir's vision and he lunged forward. Alanki had gone too far—he wouldn't let her kill another wolf, Leron or not; he couldn't stand it. Too many lives had already been destroyed and wasted. Another death was no way to end the battle, and he raced forward towards the pair, intending to stop this before something terrible happened.

He ran into Nerasa. She whipped around and caught him by the scruff of his neck as he attempted to run past, dragging him back. Her yellow eyes flashed in the darkness and, unlike the rest of the wolves, they contained no numb shock.

"Don't, Tir," she said. "Let her have Captain. It'll be best for all of us, and it's too late for him, anyway."

Tir stared at her, stunned. But she was right. Turning back towards the tornado of white and brown fur that was Alanki's revenge, he saw the dark bulk of Captain Leron rear up from the snarling tangle. Red gashes ran down the length of his body, blood running in slick wet waves down his sides. He rose above Alanki's snapping jaws as though to come crashing down upon her to crush her beneath his weight.

It was what she had been waiting for. She lunged upwards, green eyes livid in the dark. Her jaws plunged into the dark fur of Leron's neck, wrenching, breaking, ripping his throat out with a sharp crack.

In the half moment before he fell, Tir could see perfectly clear across the hollow. Leron's grey eyes widened with bewilderment, unable to believe that he was dying, dying... His massive brown bulk crumpled, twisted in the air, and fell to the ground with a thud that shook the earth beneath Tir's paws.

And then there was absolute silence.

The haze before Tir's eyes cleared, and he looked up. Alanki was standing with her shoulders low, panting. Her fur was streaked red and standing on end. Slowly, she raised her scalding gaze from Leron's body to watch the wolves surrounding her.

At first, no one moved.

Captain Leron is dead. The words seemed to pick up like wind in the air; the shocked reverie that had held the wolves was fading. The wolves in Liyra's pack were stunned. It was impossible. Leron was their strength, their invincible Captain, the one who had led them out of the marsh. This tiny renegade had destroyed him. It was almost too much for them, and for a moment, they all stared. A hundred eyes gleamed in the dark.

But their confusion was solidifying into anger. This wolf had killed their Captain. It was not her right. A few growls rose from the crowd, rumbling in the air. The sound climbed like rolling thunder, and within moments every wolf in Liyra's pack was on his feet, stiff-legged and snarling with rage.

Tir watched as they began to circle around Alanki, eyes flashing red in the darkness, echoing the red haze of the fire-moon above. She snarled back at them, ready to fight again—she did not care who, or what; she had lost her mind to the overwhelming fury of what had been taken from her. But Tir knew she would not last in another fight, much less the direct confrontation between her and the packwolves, a fight that had been coming for a long time.

"You dared!" said Liyra. "You dared!"

She didn't seem to be able to find the words to say anything else, but it was enough. Her pack growled in one voice, drawing the circle tighter.

From the other end of the hollow, there came a chorus of answering snarls. A few wolves in Liyra's ring yelped as they were flung aside, breaking the circle for just a moment as Misari came storming through with his pack streaming after him. They surrounded Alanki, facing Liyra and her pack.

"This quarrel is ended," Misari said. "Your captain killed her mother and my mate. Now it has been settled. We have no further reason to fight."

"This isn't about your pack," Liyra hissed. "This is about the renegade's actions before you even arrived. We will leave you in peace when she is dead and our murdered packmates have been avenged."

"I cannot allow that."

"You still will protect your renegade? Even now, your pack will stand behind this one wolf?"

"She is no renegade," Misari growled. "She is my daughter and a member of my pack, and so we will protect her."

"Fine, then. We will kill you as well."

Her wolves growled in agreement, closing the circle tighter still.

Tir was swaying on his paws. From the rise where he was standing, the scene unfolded neatly beneath him like a story, like reflections moving on the water. There they were. In just a moment, they all were going to destroy each other. The fire-moon was round and orange as a dying sun, and he could not breathe. There was no way out.

Tir felt as though he was about to be sick.

Behind him, there was a slight brush of air and a whisper of fur. Tir turned to see Palva, her tail wrapped around a trembling Seilo. She looked Tir straight in the eye, and the fur along his back bristled.

"Well?" she said. "What are you going to do?"

Tir looked away. "There's nothing I can do," he said numbly. "It's over."

"You know that isn't true. These wolves all know you. If anyone can do anything, you can."

"They won't listen to me. They wouldn't listen to you—"

"I was wrong," Palva said, taking Tir by surprise. For the first time, he noticed something like sorrow behind the reflections in her eyes. There was blood on her paws, the dark of crushed yew berries. "I thought I could know better than the rest of them, but I was as blind as they could ever be. I thought what I knew made me wise, but I failed."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

Tir stared at her, his thoughts trickling back into place. "A prophecy. Did you think I...?"

His voice trailed away as she nodded.

"I should have told you sooner. But this battle would come, and it will end. Now."

"But the fire-moon—"

"Is symbolic. Nothing more. "

He stared at her, frozen. The meaning of what she was saying lay over him and sank like cold water into his flesh. He heard the sounds of the wolves behind him, preparing to spring, preparing to attack, preparing to destroy what would be the last of moons. His family, restored to him, only to be snatched away by the friends of the life he had made for himself.

Palva nodded, eyes gleaming.

"I've said my bit," she said. "You go on. Do what you will."

Tir turned away. He took a small step forward into the hollow, though no one was watching him but for Palva. He felt her pale gaze burning into the back of his pelt and he drew strength from it. Swallowing, he leaped up onto a nearby boulder.

The battle hollow was as torn and bloody as the pelts of the wolves. Crimson snow made dark splash-stains against the icy trees; the stench of fear and death was heavy in the cold air. His entire world was falling to pieces around him. Tir swallowed. Shouldn't he be used to this by now? It was his lot. Everything he owned, he had fought and struggled for; nothing was easy, nothing happened as it should. Yet he was passive; he was an observer, in everything he did. He could only reel with the effects of what was thrown at him—the fire, Captain Leron, the renegade. He would never learn to fight. He would never be more than an outsider. He would never experience the kind of happiness and peace that isn't snatched away by some outside force, moments after he had found it.

That was not what he wanted.

"Hatred is power," Xelind had told him, long ago. But look what hatred had already done—what hatred was about to do, in a few moments. Look where Xelind's hatred had gotten him. From where he was standing, Tir could see the bloodstained form in one of the hollow's far corners, dead and cold and broken like a white bird shot down from the sky. Was Xelind happy now? He had never been happy in life, and in the end, his rage failed to save him. Perhaps he was with his sister now. That was one family's story, shattered and folded up and put away by Captain Leron. But it would not happen again, not with Tir's family—Arwena may be dead, but she died happier than she had been in years. And now Tir had a father, a sister. It was more than he could have hoped for.

Leron had taught the packwolves how to survive in the marsh, but they weren't in the marsh any longer. Perhaps what they needed now was someone who could teach them to cover their fangs and start to live, to thrive.

To bring light into the darkness, to bring understanding...

Yes, he understood.

And all at once, looking at all of this—the hollow, the bloodied snow, the debris of what they had all been driven to—something powerful and bright rose up inside of Tir. It wasn't anger, but it wasn't fear, either. He looked down at the hollow and he could name each wolf there—when the fight began, one side would win, but Tir would lose something however it ended. That would not do. Like fire, the tremendous feeling seared through his veins, setting his fur on end and making his eyes flash with a light he never knew he had in him. He was no longer sad, no longer despairing, no longer angry, no longer weak—but he had had enough. This all needed to end, right now. It had gone too far.

He looked up at the night sky, where a new star was glittering in the mist of the full fire moon. And he took a deep breath.

"ENOUGH!" he roared. "ENOUGH, ALL OF YOU!"

The growls silenced. The snarling ceased. A hundred burning eyes turned to Tir, who stood high above them on his boulder. In the starlight, his dark pelt shined like a brand of fire, reflecting the glare of the full orange moon above him.

"Enough," he said, quieter. "Please. You must listen to what I have to say."

There, he paused, feeling the eyes of the crowd on him, and he bowed his head.

"We have all made a terrible mistake."

### A New Tale

Delphinium paused.

"But what happened next?" demanded the fawns as soon as she silenced. "Go on, go on—you can't just stop there!"

Delphinium sighed.

"Ay, my dears, I am wearied. Give me a moment's breath, and then I shall go on. 'Tis not an easy story to tell, you know."

"Please Delphinium."

"Did you say please? Have your mothers been teaching you new manners?" She smiled. "Why, of course I must go on, as you have asked so nicely. But if 'tis battle and action of which you are wanting to hear, then I am afraid you shall be disappointed—for from that moment on, there were no more battles."

"We don't care," a fawn said. "What happened to them all—Tir and the wolf fawn and the Gatherer?"

"Why, what else? When Tir shouted to the packs, above the snarls of battle, they all silenced at once."

"Why?"

"Why is the question indeed, Galingale," Delphinium said. "Why should they listen to him, one wolf amongst the many in the hollow? Perhaps 'twas because he was no stranger, not to any that was present—not to the renegade, his sister; nor to Misari's pack, his family; and not to Liyra's pack, his friends. But however 'twas, he stood there above them and when he spoke, the others each knew him well enough to listen. He continued:

"'This all began with a needless misunderstanding. I think many of you know this by now. But it has grown since then; somewhere, it became personal, as each of us lost friends and family members. Even if we had all known the truth of things before this battle began, we would still fight. We all want to settle our scores. And we've all done terrible things.

"'Liyra,' he said, looking to the silver alpha. 'Who is the renegade?'

"'It doesn't matter who she is,' Liyra replied. 'I only care about what she's done.'

"'It may be true that she's wronged you,' Tir said. 'But the renegade is my sister. And I would defend her as I would defend any member of my pack. But, you see, I am a member of both of these packs. This battle will destroy me more than it will destroy any other wolf in this hollow. And then what will I do to settle that score? Will anything I do bring back those who have been taken from me?'

"At this, my dears, the wolves in the hollow fell to muttering. They saw the simplicity in Tir's words, but they knew that nothing is so easy—blood may be washed away, but nothing you do will ever change the fact that it has been spilled. So Tir went on:

"'Captain Leron was right,' he said. 'We will do what we must to survive. But not everything has to be a war, and that's where the trouble comes in. Survival has its limits, but each of us knows well, now, that grief does not. Whatever we do to save ourselves, we will do even more to protect those we love.'

"And 'twas those simple words, my dears, that began to lay the dawn out before them. Why had the fight gone on so long? No one could say, in truth—some claimed 'twas for revenge, but Tir asked them, 'Revenge for what?'. He said, 'You have killed the renegade's family, unknowingly. It was she who first sought revenge—not your pack. And she has had it, with the deaths of Yielsa and Sirle and now Captain Leron. But, _Alankhi_ ,' he said, turning to the wolf fawn. 'Are you satisfied? Does the blood you have shed bring back what is lost?'

'No,' said the wolf fawn. 'It hasn't. Nothing ever will.'

'Yes,' he said. 'But there is Captain Leron, lying dead at your feet.'

'He deserved it,' the wolf fawn replied.

"Tir nodded. 'He did deserve it, _Alankhi_. Leron killed many wolves in his lifetime, and he deserved just as many deaths. But he is dead now; his troubles are over. He isn't the one that's going to wake up tomorrow morning, with old blood still in his mouth and on his paws. What have you gained? He is gone, but you must continue—what have you done to yourself?'

"The wolf fawn was silent, remembering her nightmare and the look on her dead mother's face. She knew her brother was right. For no one survives a battle intact, my dears. Even those who may leave the bloodstained grounds without a scratch are dreadfully mangled in the very worst way. Wounds of the mind are the slowest and most painful to heal, my dears, and some never truly do. You need only look at the fate of Xelind to know 'tis true—but for now, we shall let the dead have their peace.

'And so then 'twas time for Tir to tell them everything, all that he knew. He told them about Misari's pack, that they were not truly the renegade's pack, and did not deserve the suffering that had been brought upon them. _Alankhi_ rose forward to apologize, and admit to all who listened what she had done—the lies she had told, the plot she had woven. They heard and accepted, if they did not entirely forgive. What else could they do? No creature in that hollow was without fault. The blame for the bloodfire moon was shared by all, even Palva the Gatherer with her dark yew berries.

"It came to be how 'twas told—what had been divided by fire was bound by fire again, but 'twas fire of a different sort. For Tir was bound to them all already—through his sister, his family, and his friends. The flame had been lit, the darkness scattered, and the bridge built—and haven't you guessed, my dears? 'Twas Arwena's eyes, shared by Tir and the wolf fawn alike, that connected them and showed them to be blood kin.

'And so it all was ended—for when fire and water have been bridged, what cannot be solved? Two warring packs and a renegade?" Delphinium smiled. "'Twas nothing but a small, humble flicker that did it, a flame brought on by what Tir had seen to be his weakness, his misery, his pain. And, too, _Alankhi_ —shattered though she was, and only by her own fangs and blood, her murders, she could rise up from the vicious bottoms to which she had fallen and stand beside her brother. Thus ends the tale of _A-Lankhi_ , the wolf fawn; and Tir, her brother—who from then on was always known in the stories as the Fire Wolf and the Honorable Firepelt, by Kesol, who claimed he knew it all along."

The fawns stared at her with eyes round and wide. For once, they were silent.

It was spring. The snow had melted away, soaking into the tired earth to bring forth new flowers. The sun was as warm and soft as though winter had never been, and a gentle breeze ruffled through the fields. The air was filled with birdsong and the soft clicking of insects in the grass. Above them, the sky was as blue and smooth as a kingfisher's wing.

"But what then?" asked a little doe, her head cocked. "What about after the battle? There had to be something after the battle, Delphinium."

"Both packs came to an agreement," Delphinium said. "They divided the land betwixt themselves as the sun rose, and so it all remained."

"They just went on?" one of the fawns said, disbelieving. "After the battle and everything? But they had hated each other."

Delphinium shook her head.

"Yes, my dear," she said. "There had been much blood on the snow that night. But even winter must go, yes? Winter softens into spring, and the memory of the cold fades in the sun. The blood melted away with the snow, returned to the earth from whence it had come. 'Twas forgotten."

"They forgot everything, just like that?" a little buck said skeptically. "They just let it all go? Everything?"

"Well, not quite. They still remember the battle. But 'tis in the past now, yes? Now, 'tis only a story. A story for them to tell and remember. Not so different from the stories I tell you. All stories begin somewhere, you know."

The fawns were quiet, considering this new piece of information. Finally, the doe in the front spoke up again.

"But the wolf fawn," she said. "What happened to the wolf fawn?"

Delphinium smiled, a bit sadly this time.

"Ah, our _Alankhi_ ," she said. "She was the object of much dispute after the battle's end. What should the packwolves do with her? Should they destroy her? For she had murdered their captain, and the fitting punishment for murderers is what they have dealt. But there was something else—she had destroyed the Captain, so therefore, by the laws that Leron himself had established in the marsh, the position of Captain of the Pack was hers. But _Alankhi_ was a renegade, and still loathed by many, Liyra in particular. It mattered not what Tir said—Liyra would have had _Alankhi_ slaughtered." Delphinium's eyes grew grim. She gave a wry smile. "But that, my dears, was Liyra's last and fatal mistake.

"'Twas Palva who stepped in, her eyes cold and jaw set. And the Gatherer denounced Liyra in the presence of both her and Misari's pack—she told them all how she had been forewarned about the battle, by a prophecy, and how Liyra had known it. She told them how she had spoken with Liyra before they began hunting the deer, how she told her that it would lead to trouble. How all of this mess may have been avoided, had Liyra heeded the warnings of her Gatherer.

"...and that was the end of it. Liyra was not evil, no, nor did she intend for anything less than the best for her pack. But as a leader, she had failed. No, Palva said, Liyra's reign of confusion was over, and the packwolves agreed."

"She was banished!" a fawn said, bouncing up and down. Delphinium nodded.

"Yes, Liyra was sent into exile. 'Twas declared that she should find a new life for herself, as a renegade, in the land beyond the forest. And so Liyra left in shameful defeat, driven out by her own wolves, and was never seen again. Of course," Delphinium continued in a lighter tone. "That left one pack without an alpha and a Council nearly decimated. 'Twas decided that the bonds that had ended the battle must also be the bonds that kept the packs at peace with each other—Tir was chosen as alpha by his own packwolves. As son of an alpha himself, he had been well raised for the task, and 'twas not one he was foolish enough to take lightly. To keep the Council meetings balanced and to attempt to mend the rift between the pack and the renegade, he chose his sister as his captain. The wolf fawn herself had wanted nothing more than to return to her forest, but that was not to be—Tir insisted that she join him in beginning again, lest she return to what she once was. And so the wolf fawn's forest was free to serve as territory to Misari and his pack."

She looked back down at the fawns. "And as for us, the deer, we were left in peace. No wolf would harm us. No wolf ever will, or face the terror of Captain _A-Lankhi_ , ever renowned as Child of the River."

"But—"

"Yes," Delphinium said with a sigh. "I know. I forgot to mention Palva." She looked away, across the shining water of the Lake, and was silent for awhile.

"Palva was honored amongst the wolves of both packs," she said, her voice soft. "For a year, she and the others lived in peace. But when spring came, so did pups. One particular pup, a female, was born to Mluma on the night of a blue moon. This pup was blind in her left eye."

"Oh," a fawn said sadly. Delphinium was quiet for a moment.

"Palva knew well what it meant, but she did not despair. 'Tis what must happen; 'tis what she knew would happen someday. And 'twill happen in the future, to a different Gatherer. One may die, but the pattern goes on forever."

"So that's the ending," a fawn mumbled to herself. "That's the ending to the wolf fawn's story, isn't it?"

"Oh, I shan't presume to know the ending of anyone's story," Delphinium said, looking surprised. " 'Tis limited, the things I may say now."

"But the other stories you tell us have endings."

"No, even the old stories change each time they are told. One day, one of you will be a storyteller, and you will share these tales in a new voice. You shan't tell them the same way I do. One day, these stories will have all taken new forms."

"But what happened, then?" the fawn insisted. "How were they after the battle—what's happened now? To the wolf fawn and the other wolves?"

"I can tell you of the ending of the night, the ending of the Battle of the Fire Moon, and the mindset in which our friends rose to greet a new day. But I cannot tell you that all things were calm and settled from then on; I cannot pretend that there were no problems, that Tir did not face struggles as a new alpha and that _Alankhi_ ever truly became a part of his pack."

"Then there is no happy ending," a fawn said sadly.

"Is that what I said? Nothing falls together so easily, my dears. Nothing ever ends. When the journey is over, we must learn to settle; when the battle has ended, we must learn to live in peace. But we can take comfort in what we have overcome, and that we may live to hear our own stories told in new voices. The end of one story marks the start of another. We are still alive," Delphinium added. "And for all creatures, that is a victory."

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Allow me to be a little self-indulgent here, because the honest truth is that this thing took way too damned long to edit and actually publish, so as a result there are lots of people to thank for their guidance and/or pity.

For my dad, first of all, for believing his twelve-year-old daughter when she informed him that she was writing a book, and one day she wanted to publish it. Misari isn't perfect, but I hope you found him a more comforting representation of fathers than the bumbling, fictional dads you're so tired of seeing. One day, I'll write you a happy story. Just not for awhile. Ask me again when I'm no longer an angsty teenager.

For my mother, of course, for running a tight ship and making sure I remember to eat...but most of all for teaching me to read, and encouraging a love of books and stories from the very beginning. You're strong and tirelessly creative, and I love you. But sorry, I'm still not going to change my author photograph. I'll be sure to tell everyone you took it, though.

For my high school Creative Writing teacher, Ms. Naitnaphit Limlamai, in whose name I performed the bloodiest Massacre of the Adverbs ever seen on this side of the equator. I mostly owe you for your guidance with regards to my second book, though, so I'll have another limerick for you when that one comes out.

And lastly, for Mr. John Thompson, author of The Armageddon Conspiracy and The Girl From Felony Bay, without whose invaluable advice and words of encouragement this book would be 200 pages longer and 200% more boring. Thanks for humoring a little kid and her talking wolves.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Aoife Fallon was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, where she currently resides with her family and armloads upon armloads of pets. Her hobbies include reading, climbing trees, cleaning aquariums, and biting her fingers until they bleed.

The Rise of the Fire Moon was for the most part written and edited when she was 12-15 years old; recently, however, Fallon turned 18 and began attending the University of Notre Dame, where she plays saxophone in the marching band and, as of this week, is an Anthropology major.

Check out Aoife fallon and _The Rise of the Fire Moon_ online at:

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Or send your thoughts to the author at: aoifefall@gmail.com

She's enough of a nobody that you might even get a response!

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Watch for Gatherer, a sequel, coming early 2014!
