The Rise of the Fire Moon

  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, unblinki
ng.

  “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.