Storm was running hard now in the deep shadow of a trench. He could feel exhaustion creeping up on him. Perhaps I should start napping during the day. His body was betraying him, insisting that he ought to be asleep.

Storm could tell that he'd grown since he'd challenged the creasia at the beginning of winter. His legs were longer and more muscled. He had an easier time staying ahead of a group of cats, and he was capable of great bursts of speed. Nevertheless, he had to admit that staying awake all day and running all night pushed the limits of his endurance.

In addition, the sight he'd glimpsed from the ridge filled him with fear. The cats were spread out in a line all the way to Chelby Wood. They probably weren't even running. Those farthest to the east looked as though they were simply lying in wait. They are going to come together and trap me against Groth.

Storm knew that he had to break through their ring. But where? What won't they expect? Instead of heading due south as his nerves urged him, Storm gritted his teeth, dropped into a trench, and started north at a dead run. They won't expect me to move directly towards Groth or to travel within sight of it. I'll get as close as I dare, run along the edge, and reach Chelby Wood. That will give me the maximum amount of lead and the greatest possible time to hide once I reach the lake.

The moon had begun to drift in and out of thick clouds as it moved towards setting. In the trench, when the moon winked out, it was very dark. Storm feared he might break a leg. Time seemed to stretch. He had no clear idea of how close he might be to Groth or to Chelby Wood, and he was afraid to move to a higher point of ground, lest the creasia see him.

He wasn't sure whether he should be pleased or dismayed when the clouds thickened, and a patter of raindrops began, growing to a steady thrum. The water would hide his scent, but it would also slow him down, and the darkness was now absolute. Storm could barely see where he was going.

A streak of lightning lit the plain suddenly, and Storm jumped straight up in alarm. Not ten paces to his left, in the deepest shadow of the trench, he'd glimpsed a huge, black cat. Storm bolted from the trench and out across the plain, heedless of the consequences. Lightning split the sky again, and he saw the sinister outline of Groth, directly in front of him. Closer still ran the black cat. He was keeping pace with Storm easily. Storm realized that the cat had probably been keeping pace with him for a while.

He stopped, panting. There was no point in running farther. Storm tried to catch his breath. "Aren't you...going...to introduce yourself?" he managed.

"I think you know who I am," said Arcove, raising his voice a little over the drum of the rain. He was so close that Storm could see the water dripping off his whiskers during the flashes of lightning. His eyes were as green as the spring gra.s.s, and his paws were as large as Storm's head. His voice was a rumble. "You've caused a lot of trouble."

"You've caused more."

Storm couldn't be sure, but he thought Arcove looked surprised. Then he laughed. "Maybe I have. But I'm not the one who's about to get caught by fifty wet and angry cats. You can still walk out of this alive. Do you want to?"

Storm's thoughts tumbled. He was trying not to let Arcove's size intimidate him, but it was difficult. He remembered what Charder had said: "They'll do anything they want short of killing you-probably bite off your tail and your ears-certainly cripple you. They'll make sure you never run from them again. Every ferryshaft who looks at you will see a reminder of what happens when we challenge cats."

At that moment, a wave of creasia surged from the trench to his left. Storm whipped around and saw another group approaching from the right. Cats were suddenly everywhere, their eyes eerily reflective in the flashes of lightning. Storm felt very young and very small. Everything was happening too fast.

I am choosing how I will die, he realized, and something inside him screamed, No! I want to live! Please, please, please... But he clamped his mouth around the words. Not like that, he told himself. I don't want to live like that.

But will I feel the same after he opens me with those claws?

Storm realized that a few of the creasia were edging between him and Groth. They were not attacking. They were clearly waiting for Arcove's signal, but they were trying to surround him. "I-" began Storm, and then he darted towards the plain. A cat leapt towards him, but Storm's movement had been a feint. Shoving his hooves in hard, and calling on every remaining bit of energy he possessed, Storm shot backwards, turned in the air, dodged between two startled creasia, and landed among the very roots of the carnivorous forest. Its sweet, heady scent overwhelmed him-at once both enticing and repellent.

Arcove had not moved. The other creasia formed a crescent around him. Storm caught sight of Roup and Halvery, then Sharmel, Treace, and Ariand. They're all here to watch me die.

"What will it be, Storm?" asked Arcove. "I've always given the ferryshaft choices, although they consistently choose the wrong ones."

Storm felt a moment of recklessness. "And what is the right choice now? What would you do, Arcove?"

Once again, Storm had the sense that he'd caught the creasia king off-guard. Arcove made a chuffing sound that Storm had come to a.s.sociate with creasia humor. "No one will ever say you weren't brave, Storm. What would I do? I would fight and die. It is not in my nature to submit...or to run away."

"It is not in my nature to submit, either," said Storm. He took a deep breath. "But it's also not in my nature to die." He turned and fled into Groth.

Chapter 21. Season's End.

Roup settled down on the highest point of ground he could find on this part of the plain. He curled up in the wet gra.s.s and watched the ghost wood. Off to his right, he could just make out Lyndi's shadowy outline. Beyond her, his clutter stretched in an unbroken line, followed by Sharmel's clutter, all the way to the edge of the lake.

Roup did not think Storm would try to emerge from the ghost wood that night, but Arcove was taking no chances. He was with the other clutters now, going along the line, talking to everyone. Arcove had always been good at debriefing. He would visit with his officers and the subordinate animals, too. He would explain any part of the hunt that they had not seen. He would make sure that everyone understood what he had done and why he had done it. If any rumors were circulating that Arcove considered damaging or untrue, he would have an opportunity to correct them and to shape the story that would be told in Leeshwood.

If there was anything to be learned from the hunt, it would be dealt with as well. Roup suspected that Ariand and Treace would be encouraged to learn from what had happened at the pool. But, these things would be addressed privately, so as not to humiliate them in front of their peers or subordinates.

Thunder crackled again, and Roup got a momentary sharp view of the ghost wood with its tendrils, twisted roots, and enormous green and pink bowls, some large enough to hold an adult creasia. This close, the smell was overpowering. Roup shivered. He was glad that they were here to watch and not to sleep. He was afraid of what he might dream.

It was said that, long ago, when territories had been different and the creasia lived closer to the ghost wood on part of their range, cats had come here to die. If they could not come, their friends and relatives would drag the bodies here after death and deposit them in the bowls of the plants or among the twisted roots. Many of the old creasia still believed that the ghosts of such cats lived on-that the ghost wood had a mind, and that it was the mind of all the creatures who'd died there.

Some of the old creasia said that those who did not rest in the ghost wood did not rest at all, that their shades wandered in misery and confusion. It was not uncommon, even now, for cats to make the trek across the plain or through Chelby Wood with some token from a dead friend-an ear, a tail, a weathered bone-which they would deposit in one of the plants. Many of the younger creasia claimed that this was unnecessary. They said that, if an animal died anywhere on the island, that animal would be absorbed into the ghost wood, for its roots were everywhere.

And what of animals who fall from cliffs into the sea? thought Roup. What of those whose bodies are never found? Do they wander the ghost wood, too?

Roup knew that the ferryshaft had different stories. Their elders had once drunk, each year, from the bowls of the plants, and those who did not go mad saw visions. Some said they dreamed the future, others that the dead counseled them. Some wandered off into the ghost wood and never returned. The ferryshaft called the wood "Groth," which meant "eater" in their oldest, half-forgotten dialect.

Their interactions with the wood seemed to have ceased after creasia conquest. Arcove had not forbidden such things, but many of the ferryshaft elders had been killed. Stories and practices that had been pa.s.sed down for generations had become garbled or forgotten. More importantly, the ferryshaft had lost faith in their traditions. They did not look to the past for answers to the future. Roup wasn't sure whether that was good or bad for the ferryshaft. He wasn't sure whether it was good or bad for the creasia.

He knew only that, if he'd met a silver-gray ghost out there on the wet hillside, he would not have known what to say. Except, perhaps, "I'm sorry."

Tollee woke before dawn to the sound of the spring rain drumming on the rocks outside the cave. She had a sick feeling in her stomach, and it took her a moment to remember why. Storm.

Mylo stirred as she rose, and she paused a moment to look at him-a big, rough ferryshaft with a scarred muzzle and ragged ears. He could be surprisingly gentle for such a brutish-looking beast. In all her days with him, she'd never seen him bully a female, and she did not think he would bully her if she tried to leave him. He was five years old this spring-fully adult-but he would have a hard time attracting a mate with his scars and broken front tooth. He'd survived as an orphan and a clique leader, but his friends had not. First Ishy had died, and then Callaris.

Mylo was not the sort to show pain or fear, but Tollee sensed his depression. He did not trust Kelsy, and Kelsy was fast becoming the most influential ferryshaft in the herd. Mylo had never been good at making friends. Now, he was trying to integrate himself into adult society, alongside others who had mocked and ostracized him as a foal. They might have forgotten, but he could not.

Tollee felt a great deal of sympathy for Mylo. She also felt the weight of her promise as a ru. She'd asked for his protection, and he'd given it. Since the day she asked him to be her rogan, she'd not been tormented by another male. She'd had enough to eat, and she'd had the companionship of others of her own age...like Storm.

Tollee shook her ears. She would serve her term as ru, because she'd promised. Mylo had kept his promise, and she would keep hers. There'd been a time when Tollee had resented that arrangement a great deal. She was sure it had shown in her words and looks, but age had given her perspective. She might have a foal next spring. Many four-year-olds did.

Would I want to have Storm's foal? With the life he leads now?

Tollee cursed herself for a fool. Storm couldn't father a foal this year.

But if he could, asked another voice in her head, would you...?

It doesn't matter, Tollee told herself. She could think of many reasons why it might not matter, but she wouldn't say them, not even to herself.

Tollee left Mylo sleeping and wandered out into the soggy dawn. She saw a few other ferryshaft, picking half-heartedly at the wet gra.s.s. They glanced covertly at her when she pa.s.sed. They'd like to ask me if I know where he is, whether he's back yet.

She wanted to shout at them, How am I supposed to know?! Storm often disappeared for days when the creasia chased him. So far, he'd only been gone for a night. That was nothing.

But this time had been different. There'd been so many cats. Tollee shivered. She'd never seen that many in one place. She'd heard whispers that the creasia king, Arcove, had been present. "And when Arcove hunts a ferryshaft," said one adult, "that ferryshaft doesn't come back."

Tollee picked up her pace. She reached the cliffs and started up a trail. Storm led them out over the plain, she reasoned. From the top of the cliff, I might be able to see something.

It was midmorning before she reached the top. The things she'd been able to see as she climbed did not improve her spirits-shapes far out over the plain, towards the dark line of Groth. They were the right size to be creasia, although it was difficult to tell from this distance.

At the top of the cliff, she forced herself to stop and eat. There was clover beneath the trees and a kind of moss that ferryshaft considered a delicacy-thick and succulent with spring rain. Tollee ate her fill and then returned to the edge of the cliff. She was surprised to see several other ferryshaft emerging from the wood a little distance to the north.

Before she could slink away, one of them called to her, "Tollee!" Storm's little sister, Sauny, took a few steps towards her. "Tollee, have you seen Storm?"

Tollee sighed. "No." She gave up and approached the group. She saw Tracer, Mia, Leep, Kelsy, Kelsy's three mates, and a dozen other ferryshaft she didn't recognize-male and female. They were all about the same age, and she guessed that they were either cronies of Kelsy's or Leep's hopeful suitors. She also caught sight of Valla and had to struggle to hide her distaste. Valla was not at all the sort of female that Tollee would have pictured Storm choosing. Surely he doesn't really consider her his mate-a delicate waif that can't even hunt properly.

Several members of the group glanced at her, but they didn't say anything. Sauny broke the tense silence. "We came up here yesterday as soon as the creasia were gone," she said. "When the storm came, we saw part of the chase...in the lightning. It...it went near Groth." Her voice was too high and too tight.

Tollee looked at Leep, then at Remy. She liked Remy, in spite of the fact that she was Kelsy's mate. Remy was clever and quick, a good hunter. She'd also been a low-ranking ru before Kelsy claimed her. Leep wouldn't meet Tollee's eyes. Remy bent over and muttered in Tollee's ear. "We couldn't see details that far away, especially at night, but the lightning did show a little. All the cats came together in a knot right up against Groth. Then they separated and didn't seem in a hurry to leave. Look at what's happening now."

Tollee saw that things had changed since she'd gone to forage. The cats were coming across the plain in scattered groups. They seemed to be making their way towards the herd. As the sun rose towards noon, everyone continued to watch, saying very little. Sometimes, one or two ferryshaft would go away to eat or drink, but they always came back and sat down on the edge of the cliff. No one suggested returning to the boulders.

When the creasia reached the herd, they performed the familiar, b.l.o.o.d.y ritual that had been absent from herd life for most of the winter. They pushed the herd together, cut out a group, and killed them-a raid to make up for the many they had missed. No howl interrupted them this time. No streak of silver-gray intervened.

At this height, the animals below looked almost the same-just little spots of color that moved...or stopped moving. They couldn't even hear the screams this high up, just wind whistling among the rocks.

"Well," whispered Leep, "I guess that's it then."

Valla stayed with Sauny. When all the other ferryshaft had gone down from the cliff, she stayed beside the yearling foal, crouched on the edge, and said nothing. The wind painted ragged lines in Sauny's red-gold fur. She kept her eyes trained on the horizon as the afternoon slipped away-gray eyes, like Storm's. Valla watched, too. She watched for a familiar shape slinking across the plain-disgraced, perhaps, but alive.

They saw nothing.

Well, not nothing, Valla corrected herself. The creasia haven't left. Unlike Sauny, she continued to watch the tableau in the boulders. Valla couldn't be certain of the species of all the shapes, but she was sure that some were cats. How long will they stay? All night? All tomorrow? All spring?

As twilight approached, Valla said, "Sauny, we should eat."

Sauny shook her ears. "No, I want to watch."

"You can watch tomorrow," said Valla. She hoped her voice didn't sound as lost as she felt.

Sauny rounded on her. "He's not dead!" She looked like she wanted to argue, wanted to fight.

Valla had never known what to do with others who wanted to fight. "No, of course not," she agreed.

Sauny's face crumpled. "You don't mean that."

Be strong, Valla told herself. She's only a foal.

But so am I. Valla turned her head to the side and shut her eyes-a submissive gesture.

Sauny howled. It took Valla completely by surprise-a long, broken-hearted wail that reverberated off the cliff. Sauny's howl broke off abruptly as Valla knocked her to the ground and pinned her there, suddenly remembering some of what Kelsy had taught her.

"Are you mad?" she hissed. "There are still creasia down there in the boulders. I don't know whether they're punishing us or waiting for Storm to come back or whether they're just hungry for the taste of ferryshaft, but I know they're in a killing mood. Do you think anyone has told them that Storm had a little sister?" A little sister with gray eyes just like his.

Sauny was panting and struggling. "I'll kill them," she snarled. "I'll kill every one of them."

"Not right now you won't." Valla was glad that she was a year older than Sauny. She had to exert all her weight to keep Sauny pinned against the ground. "Right now, you will hide because they may be looking for you. Even if they're not, you don't want to remind them that you exist. You certainly don't want to go howling at them."

Valla was surprised at her own words and actions. She'd never forced anyone to do anything. But I know I'm right. And I know I'm not going to let his little sister get herself killed.

After a few moments, Sauny quieted. Her voice came out in a whimper. "When Storm was my age, he was outwitting Kelsy's clique. They told stories about him. I haven't done anything."

"Oh, Sauny," Valla let her up. "You will. I know you will. And Storm's not... He might not be dead."

Sauny looked at the ground.

"Come on," said Valla, "I know you haven't eaten all day. Let's get some food, and then we'll sleep up here in the wood. Maybe tomorrow the cats will be gone."

But they were not gone. Over the next few days, Valla made certain that Sauny stayed hidden. They remained on the cliff top until they spotted creasia in the wood one morning. Valla was all-but-certain that the cats had seen them, but they did not pursue. She found out later that the cats had been taking a census. Rather than accept the elders' estimate of the number of ferryshaft, the creasia went through the herd themselves and made their own count. They performed one more raid two days later. Apparently, Storm's activities had prevented them from killing the correct number of ferryshaft that winter, and the mildness of the season had also decreased the number of deaths.

Valla suggested that Sauny stay in a cave along one of the sheep trails. Storm had taught his sister to walk on those trails, after all, but Sauny seemed restless. She insisted on coming back down to the boulder mazes to check on friends from her clique. Valla was constantly afraid that one of them would say something indiscreet within earshot of a cat.

At night, she convinced Sauny to sleep in the caves that Storm had selected. Valla saw now the wisdom of his choices-inaccessible caves with two entrances. Valla thought Sauny might argue, but she didn't. Every night, Sauny curled up next to Valla in the place where Storm had once slept. Valla's own grief-buried deep inside her-loosened a little.

Days slipped past. Later, Valla would not be able to recall much of what she had said or done. Then the weather began to grow hot. Valla realized one day that she had not encountered a creasia among the boulders in some time. No one else had seen them either. Apparently, the cats had finally gone home.

It wasn't many days later before the elders announced the end of the spring season. The springs were drying up, the last of the foals were on their feet, and it was time to make the trek across the plain to Chelby Lake. As they jogged along to the thrum of a thousand hooves, Sauny turned to Valla with a brightness in her eyes that Valla hadn't seen in a while. "We're going to learn to fight this summer, Valla. The creasia are going to get a surprise next winter."

Valla smiled back. "I have no doubt." She glanced over her shoulder at the spring feeding grounds, at the pool where they'd once played, at the warm rocks and towering cliff-receding now into the distance. "Good-bye, Storm," she whispered.

Part III. Keesha.

Chapter 1. Ghost Wood.

It was as black as starless night beneath the carnivorous trees amid the pouring rain. Storm stumbled among the twisted roots and nearly screamed when he felt something move under his hoof. An image flashed through his head-the curb trap he'd raided with his clique two years ago, a dead sheep hanging from a tangle of vines, the feeling of the vine wrapping around his leg as he stepped over it.

They can move. I knew that. Don't panic. They're not alive, not really. Don't panic.

When Storm entered Groth, he had a vague plan-travel east towards the lake, find the edge of the water, swim south until he got well away from the creasia, crawl out of the water and hide. It seemed simple enough. However, a voice whispered in the back of his mind that escape would not be so easy. Ferryshaft and creasia feared Groth for a reason. Arcove let you choose how you would die, and this is what you chose.

Stop, he ordered himself. Focus.

Lightning seared the air, giving him a brief impression of tangled vines and roots; towering, fleshy leaves; and the grotesque shapes of the pink and green bowls. The lightning left him blinder than before, frantic as he tried to reconstruct the image. Had that vine been twisting towards him? Was he about to walk into one of the bowls, tipped half on its side? Had he glimpsed something hanging over his head?