***
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 wa
nt 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.