Through Wolf's Eyes (13 page)

"Either that," the earl said thoughtfully, "or she remembers something of her childhood."

A look came into his grey eyes then, a look Derian
was beginning to recognize as his facile mind weaving an explanation
from the minimal information they had. Earl Kestrel frowned slightly,
as if the matter would take more consideration than he could give it
now, then addressed Derian.

"Camp is nearly broken. I would take it as a signal
courtesy if you would inspect the packing. Ox and Race have done their
best, but you are the expert."

Derian hid a grin. Earl Kestrel was taking Derian's promotion quite seriously, a thing that amused Ox and infuriated Race.

"I would be glad to, sir. However, I'm going to ask Blysse to wait here while I do so."

"Wise," Earl Kestrel concurred.

Derian had found it almost too easy to work out some
basic hand signals with the young woman. She quickly grasped a nod for
"yes" and a shake of the head for "no." A hand held up, palm outward,
combined with a head shake meant "stay." A beckoning gesture combined
with a nod meant "come." Derian thought that soon the latter two
gestures would simplify to a simple hand signal, but for now he wanted
to build on what they had.

Now he signaled for her to stay, saying, "I need to go check the horses, Blysse, and you're sure to scare them."

He thought that his pointing toward the horses,
rather than his words, transmitted his message, but she grinned
agreement. By his way of thinking, there was a touch of wickedness to
that grin, as if she understood perfectly well why he wanted her to
remain and was amused.

As Derian checked and balanced packs, tightened or
loosened girths, he periodically glanced over at his charge. She was
sitting on a large rock near the edge of the camp, absorbedly watching
the last stages of the breakdown.

When they left, Blysse walked alongside the pack
train, staying to one side of Derian, just far enough away that his
well-schooled chestnut mare was almost willing to forget her presence.

The young woman's gait was easy and tireless, the
sound of her passage inaudible. Race Forester watched her with interest
and poorly disguised envy, for she made his claims to woodcraft seem
cheap. Knowing how dangerous envy could be, Derian was relieved when
Earl Kestrel cleared his throat, and Race shifted his attention to his
patron.

"After observing Blysse," Norwood began, "I have come to some conclusions . . ."

Conjectures
, Derian corrected silently.

". . . about the manner of her survival following the
fire that destroyed the community. I would like to share them with you
as you have shared my rediscovery of my lost kinswoman with me."

And so we won't
, Derian thought,
mess up your big presentation to King Tedric by offering our own theories
.

After his followers voiced their willingness to listen, Earl Kestrel continued:

"Race Forester's skilled examination of the rings of
the trees growing from the ruins places the date of the conflagration
at about ten years ago. At that time, Lady Blysse would have been five
years old, far too young to have survived without assistance. My theory
is that one or more members of the community survived and cared for the
child."

His voice deepened and, to Derian's surprise, took on
the cadences of a professional storyteller. Like a storyteller, the
earl began with the traditional words:

"Envision with me, if you would be so kind, pale
light dawning on a morning graced with steady rain. Heaven's water
falls on the smoldering wreckage of a community built from youthful
dreams. As it extinguishes the fire, it extinguishes the last faint
hopes of the builders.

"At the edge of farmed fields stands a small group,
perhaps as small as two. One is Prince Barden. His noble face is
blackened with soot and ash, his powerful body stooped with exhaustion,
his expression ravaged with grief, for those still burning embers hold
within their embrace the bodies of his friends and comrades, perhaps
the body of his lady wife."

The earl's voice broke there and Derian liked him better for it. Even in the midst of constructing a pedigree for the
foundling,
a pedigree on which rested Kestrel's own ambitions for advancement, the
man couldn't quite subdue his own sorrow at the loss of his sister.

Suspicious then that he was too gullible, that the
catch in the earl's voice had just been good theater, Derian glanced at
the nobleman, but the tightness around Norvin Norwood's eyes and mouth
was genuine. His voice, though, when he spoke again, had returned to
his control:

"Prince Barden holds in one of his great hands a
small one, that of his small daughter, Blysse. Terrified and confused
by the changes the night has wrought, still the little girl tries to be
brave for her father's sake. He, in turn, takes courage from the
child's need for him.

"After foraging among the ruins for the basic
necessities of existence, the prince leads his daughter into the
forest. There is no benefit to staying near, yet Barden cannot bear to
take himself too far away from this accidental funeral pyre. If he
departs, who will make the offerings to the spirits of the dead?

"So he remains and builds a small shelter in which he
raises his daughter, letting her help him forage and hunt for what they
need to survive in the wilds. Certainly, he made no more permanent
provisions for the future. Doubtless, when the traditional two years of
sacrifices for the dead were ended, Prince Barden planned to return to
his father's kingdom. Once there, if only for his small daughter's
sake, he would beg forgiveness for his rashness and ask to be taken
back into the fold.

"However, before those two years can pass, something
happens to him. Perhaps the heat of the fires that Prince Barden
certainly challenged when attempting to save his people seared his
lungs. Perhaps he broke a limb or caught an illness while hunting in
the freezing cold of winter for food for his daughter. Perhaps it was
simply the final stroke of the ill luck that had dogged his young life.
For whatever reason, when the two years had passed, the prince was too
weak to make the onerous journey across the mountains. Instead, he put
his full energies into teaching his daughter what she would need to
survive.

"At last, his strength failing him, Prince Barden
strapped his own knife about young Blysse's waist, rested her small but
strong hand on the polished garnet on the pommel, made her swear to
fight to survive even when he had passed on. Taking her to the ruins,
he consigned her care to the ancestral spirits to whom he had so
devotedly sacrificed. Shortly thereafter, he joined them.

"Perhaps Blysse buried him in the ruins near those he
had loved. Perhaps, trembling with grief, she was forced to leave his
body to the ministry of the wild creatures. However, like her father,
she remained close by the familiar places. There, nearly wild, we found
her, and so we return her to the embrace of her grandfather."

Earl Kestrel paused, one hand holding Coal's reins,
the other lightly stroking his lip, his gaze keenly observing the
reaction of his listeners. Jared Surcliffe was the first to speak. His
voice was a bit hoarse, as if he had been holding back tears.

"That's a good explanation, cousin," he said slowly.
"It explains much of what has puzzled me: how the girl survived; why
she stayed near to this place; why, even if someone had lived to care
for her when she was small, didn't that same person take her home to
Hawk Haven."

Earl Kestrel bowed his head in gracious acknowledgment of the praise.

"I like the touch about the prince giving his
daughter his own knife," Race Forester said, his envy forgotten under
the story's spell. "It rings true. A royal prince would have done
something just like that."

Derian nodded, but as he glanced at the dark-haired
figure trotting alongside his horse, her eyes alive with curiosity, he
wondered.

It could have been just like that, but was it?

He wondered if they would ever know and realized with
a shiver that discovering the truth was up to him, for if the woman
remained a creature of the wilds, the truth would never be known.

T
HE TWO-LEGS STOPPED
traveling toward the mountains long before Firekeeper was at all tired.
Still, she was glad for the break, glad for an opportunity to assess
what she had learned.

Fox Hair had clearly been made her nursemaid, a role
that was apparently a promotion among the two-legs, for it was evident
to her that Tawny resented him greatly.

She was rather pleased for Fox Hair, nonetheless. He was amusing and willing to make great efforts in order to befriend her.

After a day of watching the two-legs interact from
within their midst, she was certain that they could talk as well as any
wolf. Unlike wolves, however, they mostly used their mouths, a thing
she found limiting. How could you tell someone to keep away from your
food when your own mouth was full?

While the two-legs were lighting their fire and
taking all the things off the not-elk that they had put on them with
such effort a short time before, Fox Hair motioned Firekeeper to join
him by the fire. Although she disliked how the smoke dulled her sense
of smell, Firekeeper came over and seated herself on a rock upwind.

While busily washing some vegetables in a container
of water, Fox Hair chattered squirrel-like at Mountain, who was setting
up one of the shelters. Feeling left out when Fox Hair stopped,
Firekeeper attempted to mimic his final string of sounds.

She was a good mimic. So long ago that she did not
remember the learning, she had discovered that imitating various bird
and animal calls could bring her prey to her, rather than forcing her
to seek it over great distances.

Hearing her imitate him now, Fox Hair's eyes widened in an expression she recognized as surprise. In a sharp tone, he
said something to her. She did her best to make the same noises back at him.

Hearing her, Mountain laughed and said something to
Fox Hair. She mimicked him as well, pitching her voice lower, though
she could not reach his great, thunder-deep rumbles.

Fox Hair nodded at this, reached up, and pulled at
his mouth in what Firekeeper was certain was a gesture of thought.
Two-legs pulled at their mouths a great deal. Those who grew hair there
often fingered it or tugged at it.

She wondered if her own inability to grow hair on her
face would be a handicap among two-legs, perhaps one as great as not
having fangs had proved to be among wolves. If so, she supposed, she
could fasten another creature's hair there, just as her Fang had
compensated for her other natural shortcomings. However, she hoped that
since Fox Hair cut the hair from his face she would be spared this.

Letting his hand drop into his lap, Fox Hair picked up one of the plant roots that he had been washing a moment before.

Slowly and carefully, he said: "Potato."

Firekeeper imitated him perfectly. Fox Hair smiled, picked up another root, this one long and orange.

"Carrot."

She imitated him.

"Onion."

A dozen items later, he began to repeat. Soon she had
all the words and could, when Fox Hair pointed to one or another of the
items, match word to thing.

Fox Hair grinned his delight. Hawk Nose, who had been watching from a distance, came over and tested her himself.

Firekeeper went through the routine again, aware that
impressing this two-legged One was important. Hawk Nose nodded at her
when she had finished, then said something rapidly to Fox Hair. Fox
Hair replied. His tones, Firekeeper noted, were more measured than when
he spoke with Mountain. She wondered if cadence indicated something,
perhaps relative standing within the pack.

After they had eaten, Fox Hair drew Firekeeper off to
the side and continued teaching her sounds. By full dark, she had
learned several dozen more, knew that the not-elk were
horses, that the cringing spotted kin-creature was a dog, that the shelters were tents.

She was a little puzzled to find that the same word
applied to the small shelters such as the one in which she slept and
the larger one in which Hawk Nose slept. They were so different in
shape and purpose—Hawk Nose spent much time in his doing more than
sleeping—that she thought his should have a different word.

More interesting was learning that the two-legs had names for themselves. Fox Hair was called Derian. Mountain was Ox.

Derian seemed uncertain what to name Hawk Nose. He
tried various sounds. Then he shrugged and shook his head, dismissing
them all. Firekeeper was fascinated and more than a little confused.

Despite her pleasure in discovering that one could
communicate with two-legs, when she heard Blind Seer call, she was
eager to leave and join him.

She rose, turning toward the forest. Fox Hair/Derian stood as well, his expression anxious. Blind Seer howled again.