Andrel had stopped growling. He was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed. "Coden's ghost. Are we calling him that, yet?"

"Maybe."

"We'll find him," said Andrel. "He's not a ghost, and he's not an omen. He bleeds bright red. We'll find him."

"If you say so."

The creasia were still talking as they moved away. A night bird started to sing, then stopped as something moved in the tree overhead. Storm shifted as the first light of dawn touched the sky. He stared thoughtfully after the two creasia. Who was Coden?

Chapter 11. The River and the Trees.

Storm tried to stretch, but his situation in the tree made any movement awkward. They still haven't figured it out.

And why should they? Storm had never seen or heard of a ferryshaft climbing a tree. He'd simply guessed-correctly-that the long, torturous limbs would not be much more difficult to tread than a precarious cliff trail.

It had been a close thing. He'd struggled a short distance downstream over rotten ice, breaking through into freezing, knee-deep water, until he found a suitable branch that overhung the stream. He'd gauged his jump with the sound of approaching creasia wails loud in his ears. Every fiber of his being screamed run! The branch was high and the night black. It had begun to rain again. Storm had jumped three times before he'd managed to clamber onto the slippery limb, and the cats were so close that he feared the trembling of the branch would give him away.

Once the cats pa.s.sed below him, Storm had worked his way to the tree's trunk. He dared not stay near his original point of departure from the stream. A cat might see the branch and suspect. The trees of the Southern Forest had stocky limbs and ma.s.sive trunks, and they grew close together. Storm had found that, with care, he could walk from tree to tree. He had spent some time working his way along the stream in this fashion. At last, quivering with exhaustion, he had wedged himself in the crotch of a tree and fallen into a restless sleep. Creasia voices had woken him, and he saw that it was almost dawn.

Pain shot through Storm's muscles as he tried to stand. Never in his life had he felt so stiff and sore. The wound along his right ribs and foreleg throbbed. However, it had crusted over and did not seem likely to bleed again. His stomach growled, but he pushed that aside.

Storm listened carefully, then jumped to the ground. The air smelled pleasantly of woods after rain. He walked to the stream and took a long drink. For a moment, he stood perfectly still, savoring the water, thinking of the forest and the river that lay between him and safety. Then he turned and started north with the rising sun on his right shoulder.

When he wasn't galloping, Storm's footfalls were soundless on the forest floor. The ground beneath the trees was almost entirely free of snow, and he made good time at a swift trot. The first pair of creasia he encountered came from upwind, and Storm easily avoided them.

However, with so many creasia combing the forest, they could hardly avoid finding his scent trail. Suddenly the quiet woods began to echo with the yowls of an excited cat. Others answered, and their voices began to converge on Storm's trail.

Storm considered a flat-out race. He thought he must be close to the Igby. However, he couldn't be sure, and some of the cats might be between him and the river. If he ran in a straight line, they would intercept him. They'll expect that, he thought. If I do what they expect, I'm dead.

Storm listened carefully to the voices behind him. What do they least expect? He whirled and trotted south along his own trail, towards the calls of approaching cats. Storm moved toward the oncoming creasia until his nerve broke. Then he found a st.u.r.dy, low limb and jumped at it. On his second try, he landed on the branch and scrambled higher into the tree.

An instant later, he spotted the cats. Storm held his breath. When they weren't calling to each other, they were astonishingly silent. Storm crouched, tense and breathless, as five of them flowed like water beneath his tree. One cat paused and sniffed suspiciously at a shifting breeze, but then he dropped his nose to the trail and followed his companions. Storm heaved a sigh of relief as they disappeared from view.

The foal worked his way through two more trees, then hopped to the ground. For some time, he continued moving directly away from his original path on a course parallel to the Igby. When he was sure that he had gone far enough to escape any cat trying to intersect his original course, he turned and started trotting toward the river again. For a time, Storm felt safe and pleased with himself.

But it couldn't last. Soon a group of cats found his new trail and sounded the alarm. Storm performed his trick again and moved away. Once more, the pattern repeated. By the third performance, Storm realized that the cats had discovered his ruse. They seemed to be catching up quicker, not running all the way to the end of his scent trail.

However, Storm smelled water, and he knew the chase was almost over. He abandoned caution and ran. Soon, he caught a glimmer through the trees-sunlight on ice! In the same moment a large, gray creasia dropped out of the sky onto the ground in front of him. Storm dug in his heels and slid to a stop.

"We can climb, too," growled the cat. Beyond the trees ahead, the tantalizing glimmer still beckoned-so close.

Storm dodged to one side and pounded frantically towards the river. He was a little surprised when the creasia followed more slowly. He had a brief impression of the snowy riverbank, the light dazzling beyond the shade of the trees. In one bound, Storm propelled himself out onto the Igby and landed running. However, the previous day's rain had not frozen, and the ice was unusually slick. Storm had not skated in many days, and he went sprawling.

The river groaned. Storm's eyes widened, and suddenly he understood the creasia's lack of haste. A thousand things that he should have remembered flooded his brain-the mild winter, moving water in the little stream, the fact that no one had gone to the Igby to skate in more than ten days. The ice is thawing. Storm lay flat on his belly, afraid to move. Slowly, he turned his head to look over his shoulder.

The gray creasia had advanced a few lengths onto the ice, but he obviously had no intention of coming farther. A large number of other cats stared at Storm from the bank. If the ice creaked under a foal, it could not possibly support an adult creasia.

Storm allowed himself the leisure of studying their leader without fear of attack. He mustered a confident tone that he did not feel and said, "You must be Sharmel."

The cat c.o.c.ked his head. He was dark gray-not Storm's near-white, but the color of wet beach sand. He had a frosting of white fur around his muzzle. Storm thought he must be older than most of the other cats. There was also something familiar about him. Have we met before? Aloud, Storm continued, "You look tired. Long night?"

The cat gave a brief, surprised chuckle. "Where did you learn that trick with the trees?"

Storm pulled his front feet under him cautiously, testing the ice. "Made it up."

"I don't believe that. Who's been coaching you?"

"Believe whatever you like." Storm focused his attention on his feet. The river creaked again.

"You've chosen an uncomfortable way to die," observed Sharmel.

Storm paused to squint at him. "You were in that group who chased me the first time, weren't you? Must be embarra.s.sing to have lost me twice. I am just a foal, after all."

Sharmel's ears settled back, and his tail lashed. "You're going to die gagging for air, scratching at the underside of a frozen river."

"No," said Storm. "I don't think I am." He'd managed to get all four hooves under him. The river creaked loudly, but held. Storm paused, allowing the ice to settle. Then he began an agonizingly slow journey toward the far sh.o.r.e. At first he tried to walk, but the river growled with every step. At last, he gave up and propelled himself in gentle, sliding motions.

Suddenly a creasia yowl split the breathless silence, and Storm barely checked himself from a headlong plunge. Other cats caught on, and a bedlam of noise erupted from the creasia side of the river. Storm's instincts screamed at him to flee. His exhaustion, frayed nerves, and lack of sleep made it difficult to think.

He turned back towards the creasia with a snarl and shouted, "Coden! He's the one who coached me!" He was rewarded with instant silence. "He comes to me in my dreams," continued Storm, inventing wildly. The consternation on their faces spurred his inspiration. "I am Vearil. I am Storm. I am the cloud before the Volontaro. I am your ill-omen, your bad luck. I am your doom!"

Some of them were actually bristling and backing away. Storm had become so enthusiastic over his performance that he forgot to distribute his weight evenly on the ice. He took several threatening steps towards the creasia, and a terrible snapping noise sent echoes skipping across the river.

Storm whirled and jumped.

Crack! He could feel the ice buckle and shift under his hooves when he landed.

Jump! The section where he'd been standing broke loose and flipped over.

Jump! This time, when he landed, he broke through, but he was only five lengths from the sh.o.r.e. Gasping in the frigid water, Storm managed to get his front hooves over the lip of the ice. His hind feet found the river bottom, and he gave one last surge. Moments later, he lay panting on the bank-wet and trembling, but safe.

"Well, I'm glad we let you try a second time, Sharmel," said Treace at council the next day, "what with the gossip now circulating among the common animals. Coden's ghost? That was a very productive outing."

"Storm was making it up," snapped Sharmel. "The clutter was taunting him, and he taunted back."

"Of course he was making it up!" laughed Treace, "but I'm not sure the subordinate creasia know that."

Sharmel wrapped his tail around his haunches defensively. "At least I wounded him. No one else has done better."

"Or worse," Halvery snorted. "A buck won't give you his haunch just because you wound him. This foal got lucky a few times, and you all panic! You're like cubs on your first hunt!"

"Storm is a foal, true," said Sharmel quietly, "but he's not lucky. He's resourceful, intelligent, and dangerous."

"Dangerous!" mimicked Halvery. "How many creasia has he killed so far? None. Oh, but of course, he's also injured...zero. Storm is only a danger to himself. Intelligent ferryshaft do not attack creasia. He's an impulsive misfit. He probably can't even attract a mate, what with his size and odd color, so he's doing this to get some attention."

"Well," said Roup brightly, "he's succeeded."

Halvery scowled at him.

Sharmel growled. "He used trees, Halvery. How many ferryshaft would even think of that, much less have the skill to do it?"

"Trees...?" Halvery hesitated. "Did you say that he used trees?"

"Yes! Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"Once..." Halvery shook himself. "I still say that he's a foolish youngster, taking risks without a plan-certainly not a danger to a competent clutter."

"Well, now you have your chance to prove it," said Arcove.

Halvery grinned.

Roup and Sharmel shared a look over his head as the meeting broke up. I do believe one of us is in favor of Storm's success in this instance, thought Roup.

Chapter 12. Round 4: Halvery.

That afternoon, Storm lay sunning himself in his clique's favorite resting place, trying to banish the last of the river's cold from his bones. He'd told his story twice-once to his friends and once to his sister. Sauny had met him on the edge of the ferryshaft feeding grounds. She'd listened to every detail with absolute attention. When he talked about the river, she grinned. "I bet I wouldn't have broken through. I'm even lighter than you, Storm!"

Storm frowned. And not quite a year old. "Sauny, please don't try to do what I'm doing. Not yet."

"Someday?"

Storm hesitated. "Someday. Maybe."

"Will you teach me to run on the cliffs?"

Storm was surprised. He'd tried to teach his friends about the sheep trails, and they'd always refused. He looked at Sauny-small and fearless and too young to know better. "I'll think about it. You'll have to promise to do exactly as I say...and probably not tell your parents." Dover will try to kill me if he finds out...again.

Sauny capered around him. "Storm, we're going to kill creasia together!"

Storm laughed nervously. "I can't kill creasia, Sauny. You stay away from them."

That afternoon, as he lay in the sunbeam, Tollee came and sat beside him. She didn't say anything. The air was pleasantly warm and full of the drip, drip, drip of thawing snow and ice. Finally, Storm said, "Tollee, what's going on with Mylo and Kelsy?"

She shifted uncomfortably, but still said nothing.

Storm laughed. "I think everybody knows, except me. They all talk about me, but n.o.body talks to me. Not even you, anymore." Maybe you really do want to be Mylo's mate.

Tollee sighed. "Kelsy is trying to split the herd, Storm."

Storm was surprised. He'd expected something more mundane.

Tollee continued. "He wants to take a group of ferryshaft-this summer or next-and circle the lake. There is supposedly gra.s.sland on the far side, where no ferryshaft live. He thinks the cats won't bother us there."

Storm sat up. "And what do the other ferryshaft say? Why is Mylo angry about it?"

"Apparently, it's against the creasia's rules. There is only supposed to be one herd. The creasia choose the leader. Right now, that's Charder. If we leave, they'll come and slaughter us. Ordinarily, no one would even consider breaking their rules, but...because of you...ferryshaft are talking. If one foal can defy the cats and get away with it, what could a hundred adults do? Why do we follow their rules and let them kill us if they're so easily outwitted? The elders say that the hunting parties are only the tiniest part of creasia strength. If a large number of ferryshaft defy them, they'll come in great numbers and kill us."

Storm thought for a moment. "Has anyone mentioned someone named Coden?"

"Not that I've heard. Who is he?"

Storm shook his head. "Someone who died, someone who fought the cats. I think they feared him." He hesitated. "Does Mylo side with the elders?"

Tollee snorted. "Mylo says that Kelsy has always had his eye on herd leadership. But Kelsy knows that he can't lead this herd. The elders follow creasia rules, and only the creasia can decide who leads. When you got away the first time, Kelsy talked a little about fighting the cats, but the adults got so angry that he stopped. Instead, he started talking to the younger ferryshaft about forming a new herd. He can't have this one, so he's trying to create another.

"Mylo thinks he's just using you and your success to capture support and attention. He's not a.s.sociating with our clique because he likes us or because he wants to give us status. It's the other way around. We-you, especially-are giving him status and leverage with the younger adults. Kelsy is very popular and one of the best fighters in the herd, but no one would listen to him about leaving if you weren't having such success. If the herd elders are right, he stands to get a lot of young ferryshaft killed."

Storm considered this. "What do you think?"

Tollee was silent for a long moment. "Ferryshaft are talking about things that haven't been discussed openly in our lifetimes. I didn't know there was a rule about only one herd. I didn't know that the creasia chose our leader. I didn't understand that the creasia rules are part of a treaty. I didn't know that, if we break the treaty, we could be at war with the cats. I didn't know we'd lost a war. I think it's important to know those things."

"What do you think about Kelsy and the idea of leaving the herd? Would you go?"

Tollee hesitated. "Would you?"

"Of course!" It's probably the only way I could have you...if Mylo stayed behind.

Tollee took a deep breath. "We're talking about most of the four to eight-year-olds in the herd, Storm. If you encourage them, and if you're wrong... Think about it."

"I have thought about it."

Tollee stood up and started away. "Says the person who's never lost anyone."

Storm felt a little angry. "You'd fight if it came to that." You'd fight for me...wouldn't you?