The Rise of the Fire Moon

  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.