Wolf-Speaker

  Did they mention the tower? asked Blueness. That is where all the mages gather to do their work.

  When he said “tower,” she remembered a column of greenish brown smoke, and Huntsong’s remark that he did not need to fly through death to know what it looked like. “That’s a good question, Blueness. Mice, what about the tower?”

  Silence that reached through every nook and cranny of the huge building in which they stood was her answer.

  “Mice?” Her eye fell on Scrap. The young cat was backed into a corner, fur puffed out. She was trembling. “Scrap, what is it?”

  I know what they mean, she whispered. There is a lizard in the tower, a cold one. Colder than anything.

  When Scrap said “lizard,” the hair went up on the back of Daine’s neck. It was the most sensible course, if the mages kept precious secrets in the tower. Tkaa had said a Coldfang would guard a thing until the end of time.

  Outside in the gallery she heard Yolane cry, “Belden, wake up!”

  There was no time to waste. “Scrap, how can I get into the tower?”

  The cats ran out of Tristan’s rooms. Daine followed, taking her bow off her belt and checking the bolt already loaded. It was blunt, more to stun than to slay, though it might have killed Yolane at close range. She switched it for a razor-pointed bolt, the tip hardened to punch through almost anything. She hoped it could put a hole in a Coldfang; if it couldn’t she was in real trouble.

  Scrap led them to another gallery, then a spiral stair. They climbed it high above Tristan’s suite, passing broad landings that led to other floors. At last there was a window. Looking out, Daine could see over the curtain wall.

  Here she felt the first touch of cold. Blueness, Scrap, go back, she told them silently. There’s no sense in risking your lives.

  But I want to, protested Scrap. She was so terrified that all her fur was puffed out and her ears lay flat.

  Blueness, take her away, Daine ordered. There’s nothing you can do.

  Come, Scrap, the older cat said. The fear that had puffed his tail up to bottle-brush size didn’t show in his voice. We could only get in the way.

  Daine knelt beside Kitten. “You don’t have to come,” she whispered. Kitten glared and tried to climb past her. Daine shook her head and went first.

  Thinking of Wisewing, she changed her ears to a bat’s as they climbed, and listened to each scrap of sound. The cold thickened. Frost gleamed on the walls; curls of icy mist drifted around the small windows. Daine shivered in her thin shirt, and her nose ran. The stair narrowed; the curves tightened. How was she going to get off a shot around a corner?

  The sound that made both ears twitch forward was a body, thirty-one feet ahead. Beaded hide brushed stone in a space much wider than the stair.

  Fear made Daine’s chest tight. When she could bear no more, she yelled, “Coldfang!” The echo hurt her ears: she made them human. “You’d best move—you’re standing between me and where I want to go!”

  Kitten whistled insults.

  She heard a soft thud, then the buzz of a Coldfang rattle. Biting her lip so hard she drew blood, Daine raised the crossbow. “Don’t let it catch your eye, Kit. That’s how the other one almost got us.”

  It came tailfirst, on all fours and low, not headfirst or standing as she expected. The sight of the rattle and tail confused her for a second too long. The immortal half lunged, half slid, its weight slamming into her. Daine loosed, but the bolt went high to shatter on the wall. With a yelp the girl fell backward, the bow flying from her hand.

  Kitten squeezed to one side. The girl kept rolling down the steep risers, losing arrows from her quiver as she fell. She was lucky the turns in the stair were so close: she couldn’t build up any speed. All the same, her rattling progress, bumping into walls and stairs, knocked her silly. Protecting her head and neck with her arms, she kept her body tucked into a round ball and prayed. Kitten, trying to keep away from the advancing Coldfang, scrambled to avoid getting caught under her friend.

  At the first landing they reached, Daine came to a halt. She grabbed the knob of a door leading from the stair and shoved. It opened on a hall furnished with suits of armor, old hangings, and wall decorations. Lunging to her feet, she ran in, the sound of talons on stone and that buzzing rattle loud in her ears.

  TEN

  THE FALL OF TRISTAN AND YOLANE

  Kitten darted under a table against the wall, her scales turning the same gray-black as the stone. Daine looked frantically for a weapon of some kind as the Coldfang entered. Watching it, she knew coming here had been a mistake: the narrow stair had hampered the immortal as much as it did her. Now the Coldfang had room to move.

  Like the one slain by Tkaa, this Coldfang was beaded in bright shades of green. Frost flowers sprouted ahead of its advance. It was quicker than the other, and pursued her down the hall. She raced away from it, checking the weapons on the wall. Broadswords were the main choice, but these were the two-handed kind favored by mountain lords—she never could lift one. She saw two maces, but they were higher on the wall than the swords. Trying to get one would slow her down too much.

  Looking back at her pursuer, she crashed into a suit of armor. Quickly she rolled out of the way as it went over. From a metal glove dropped a long-handled, double-bladed war ax. She seized it, as heavy as it was, and got up.

  The Coldfang stared, long tongue slipping out and in, tasting the air, then sidled to her left. She backed, keeping the blade between them, trying not to meet the thing’s eyes. Her arms shook in an effort to hold her weapon up. It was not meant for a teenage girl’s use.

  Suddenly the immortal lunged, far more quickly than she would have dreamed, jaws popping open and fangs dropping down. She squeaked and darted back. The ax proved her undoing, as the long handle tripped her. She threw it to the side and rolled, then scrabbled to her feet. When she looked for the Coldfang, it caught her eyes, and held them. Although she fought, she was frozen in place.

  Kitten, now rage-scarlet, jumped from the rear to fasten her jaws in the Coldfang’s spine. Blueness and Scrap, behind her, leaped for its eyes. The immortal keened, half rising to its hind feet as it tried to rid itself of the cats with one paw and the dragon with the other. Scrap went flying, to strike the wall.

  Free of the Coldfang’s grip, Daine seized the ax and moved in close, “Let go!” She put all her power into the order. Blueness and Kitten jumped clear.

  She swung with all her strength to bury the ax in the Coldfang’s skull. It wrenched away, yanking the weapon from her grip, but the ax was firmly seated. The immortal thrashed on the stone floor, weakening with each convulsion. At last it was still.

  The girl looked at the mess she had made, at the ax, the shattered immortal, and the gouts of dark blood all around, and vomited.

  When she was done, she wiped her mouth and went to Scrap. Blueness crouched beside her, trembling and trying to wash the younger cat’s still face.

  “No, Blueness,” whispered Daine. “Let me.” She picked up the small body. It was limp in her hands, without any trace of life.

  She is just a kitten, Blueness remarked, sounding lost. She is forever telling me she is a grown cat, but she is only a kitten.

  Daine’s eyes were streaming as she took the badger’s claw from her neck and put it on Scrap’s body. “Badger, you owe me. You and Old White and the other animal gods owe me. She would be alive right now if you hadn’t brought me here. Now do something!”

  No reply came, as precious seconds crawled by. She had failed. Hugging that soft body to her chest, Daine rocked back and forth.

  —It is for you, Queenclaw.—Whoever the speaker was, he wasn’t the badger. There was a hint of pack song in his voice, of cold nights filled with wolves singing.—She is one of yours.—

  —I am glad you see that, Pack Father,—purred a new voice, silky and cruel. Blueness jumped to his feet, looking frantically for the speaker.—As it happens, it pleases me to grant this prayer. A kitten deserves another life. Do
not make a habit of asking, though, Daine. The gods are not at your beck and call. And finish what you came here to do!—

  Life roared under Daine’s hands like a fire. Scrap opened her eyes. Where is Blueness? I dreamed I was in the fog, and he wasn’t with me.

  Daine put her down, tucking the silver claw into a pocket. The tom instantly began to wash his Scrap, purring so loudly he roused echoes. The younger cat screwed up her face and let him do it.

  The girl rose, feeling weak in the knees. “You stay here and rest,” she said. “I have something to do.” Picking Kitten up, she wiped the dragon’s muzzle clean of Coldfang blood, and carried her to the stair. As they climbed, she reclaimed those arrows that were unbroken and her crossbow.

  The tower door was locked. “Why did they bother?” she asked bitterly, putting the dragon down. “They had their monster to guard it, didn’t they?”

  Kitten peered into the keyhole, tail twitching. Standing back from it, she croaked. The metal of the lock glowed dull orange. The wood around it began to smoke. Then the color faded, the lock still firmly in place.

  Kitten stretched out her neck and croaked again, holding the note twice as long. She stepped aside just as the lock blew off the door. It fell down the stairs and continued to fall, its rattling audible long after it had gone out of sight. Without a word Daine opened the door.

  Inside was a table on which lay the model of the valley, complete with its barrier. Behind that, on a tripod over a low brazier, a small pot of reddish brown liquid bubbled gently. That alone was interesting, because the fire was out. Daine stared at it. Could such a tiny amount of liquid, barely two cups full at best, really cause so much damage?

  “Don’t go near that,” she ordered. Kitten shook her head emphatically, and Daine turned to the model.

  What looked like a solid wall of fire in the western pass was a thin line of light that curved over the miniature valley as if a clear bowl were placed on top of it. The “bowl” sparkled with multiple colors, the yellow of Tristan’s magic being the most common one. Embedded in the “rivers” into the northern and southern passes were two round, polished black opals.

  Drawing her belt-knife, the girl reversed it, gripping it tightly where hilt met blade. She slammed the pommel into the north opal hard, and a crack snaked over the face of the stone. The barrier darkened, then brightened. She struck the opal again, and it cracked in half. Dark lines pursued each other over the curve of the magical light, but she could still see that curve.

  “Stands to reason,” she told Kitten, walking around the model to the far end. “If you’ve got two stones holding the thing in place, you have to break ’em both. After all, nothing else has been easy since I came to Dunlath, so why should this be?”

  She slammed the knife hilt into the second opal, knocking loose a tiny chip. A thin whine filled the air; she glanced at Kitten, who also looked for its source. The whine built in volume, higher than anything the dragon or Daine could produce. It raised the hair on the back of the girl’s neck. Gritting her teeth, she adjusted her grip on the abused hilt of her belt-knife.

  “For the wolves,” she whispered, and slammed the stone again. Whether the previous blow had weakened it more than it had appeared, or whether Old White lent Daine his strength, this did the trick. It shattered explosively. Daine covered her eyes with her free hand, and the room blew up.

  Her return to awareness was heralded by a dreadful stench in her nostrils. She gagged and struggled against the iron band that clamped her arms to her sides, then sneezed repeatedly.

  “Relax,” a familiar voice said. “It’s just wake-flower.”

  She blinked. The dark shape in her blurry eyes sharpened into a long nose, a full mouth, and black-fringed eyes. A bruise puffed up his left cheekbone, and his shirt was ripped. “No flower ever smelled like that,” she said.

  Numair helped her to sit up and eased his grip on her arms and back. “But it does,” he replied innocently. “It grows in swamps, and its scent attracts flies to carry its seed rather than bees, but botanists judge it to be a true flower all the same.” He let her go and placed the stopper in the tiny vial he had put under Daine’s nose. The vial itself went into his belt-purse. “Are you well enough to sit unaided? I should deal with the bloodrain.”

  “Go ahead. Be my guest.” Daine eased back until the wall supported her. Kitten, who had been poking in the remains of the table, came to examine her, making sure the girl was in one piece. Numair went to the small, bubbling cauldron. “How long have I been out?” the girl asked.

  “If your unconsciousness commenced with the barrier’s destruction—”

  “It did.”

  “I believe it’s some two and a half hours, then, judging by the length of time it took me to reach you. Once the barrier vanished I assumed bird shape and flew here, but I ran into delays. Also, my flight skills are rusty.”

  “What kind of delays?”

  “I believe two of the hurroks managed to shed the magical binding that kept them here. They crossed my path and took exception to me for some reason. It took me an hour to get rid of them.”

  “What about Spots and Mangle? Did you leave them up there alone?”

  “And risk your wrath? I told them to find you, and made sure to lead the hurroks away from them. Now give me a moment here.”

  His lips moved, though she heard nothing. A feeling of tension built up in the room, centering on the pot of liquid. Kitten rocked to and fro, intent on Numair, whistling under her breath. His hands moved, to write a letter or rune of some kind on the air in black fire. Just when Daine thought she might scream from the pressure, there was a pop! and the cauldron vanished.

  “Where did you send it?” she asked when she could breathe again.

  “Somewhere else,” he replied. “Not a place as you would think of one. I am sorry I did not think to warn you of the possibility of a backlash from the barrier’s destruction. It was Tristan’s little joke—a surprise for whomever he asked to undo the spell. He often pulled such pranks when we were in school together.”

  Stiffly Daine got to her feet. “Some prank,” she muttered.

  Without warning she was caught up in an extremely tight hug. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you, magelet,” Numair said, and put her down.

  Daine wiped suddenly leaky eyes on a sleeve. “Maybe a little,” she replied, and grinned at him. “It’s mutual, you know” She collected her bow, checking to see if the knocking-about it had received broke any important parts.

  Numair picked up Kitten. “Now to find Tristan, if he survived the excitement. I hope he did.” A cold glint in his eyes made the girl shiver. “I have some things to say to him, and none of them are ‘Goddess bless.’”

  They went down into the castle, then to the courtyard. Outside, Daine felt an immortal’s approach. “Numair, look,” she said, and pointed.

  Overhead soared a hurrok, Tristan on its back. Sweat darkened the weary creature’s sides, and blood flowed from around the bit in its teeth. Crows, led by the one who had carried Tait’s note for Daine, mobbed hurrok and rider, stabbing with beaks and claws. Tristan hurled darts of yellow fire at them, which the crows scrambled to avoid.

  Move, Daine ordered the birds. They jeered, balked of their prey, and drew off. The girl swung her bow up, took aim, and let a razor-sharp arrow fly. She was fitting another in the notch as the first struck the hurrok in the throat. Tristan threw himself free: yellow fire cushioned and slowed his fall to earth.

  Daine’s second bolt, as the hurrok dropped, struck home just under his left wing. The creature screamed hatred, wings beating. She grabbed a third bolt and loaded it, just in case. The scream, however, had been a last defiance: the hurrok’s wings collapsed, and it plummeted into the lake.

  Tristan drifted, like a dandelion seed, to land on his feet near the gate. Numair advanced to meet his foe as black, sparkling fire gathered around his hands. “Tristan, I am very disappointed in you,” he said amiably.

 
Tristan pointed. Yellow lightning crackled through the air between them, splintering on a shield of black fire that appeared around Numair.

  “C’mon, Kit,” Daine said, backing toward the wall. “I don’t think he wants help,” She swore as she sensed the approach of more immortals—Stormwings, this time. Rikash and his flock were coming in fast.

  Ignoring stiff and bruised muscles, the girl raced for the stair that led onto the wall, ignoring an explosion in the courtyard. Kitten, who had climbed enough for one day, stayed to watch the mages with fascination.

  A fresh explosion from below made Daine stumble and nearly fall on the open stair. She caught herself and forced her aching legs on. When she reached the parapet, the Stormwings were almost directly overhead, twenty yards up.

  From below came a howling screech, and Tristan’s furious “You can’t beat me, Arram! You never had the belly for combat magic!”

  Daine glanced at her friend. Numair stood on a rock spire; except for that, the earth around him was a giant crater. A line of blood ran from his mouth, and he was coated in dust, but he seemed well. Tristan battled the tendrils of a clump of roses that twined around him. Between the crows and those thorns, the mage’s elegant clothes and skin were in tatters. His look of amused good nature was gone, replaced by a fury that twisted his handsome face into a mask.

  The Stormwings could throw the contest Tristan’s way, if she allowed them to interfere. Daine swung her crossbow up and sighted on their chieftain. “Lord Rikash!” she cried in her best parade ground voice.

  He hovered, waiting. The others also hovered, watching him. Several had arrows in their living flesh. Others bore wounds from swords, claws, and teeth. All were streaked with smoke and soot.

  “I should have seen it would come to this,” Rikash said. “What do you want?”

  She blinked. What did she want? Once she had wanted to kill every Stormwing she found, but was that still true? It seemed as if, ever since she had come here, someone was telling her that because she didn’t like a creature’s looks, it didn’t mean that creature was bad. She still didn’t like Stormwing looks, but Rikash seemed almost—decent. And how could she tell Maura that she had killed her friend?