Eyal gave a toss of his head. "You didn't owe us anything."

"Is Quinyl your chief enemy?"

"Not exactly. Lowland curbs are not organized. Their packs sometimes fight each other, but Quinyl has been campaigning to unite the packs. Part of her claim to such leadership is the fact that she and her pack have hunted down and killed most of the highland curbs on the northern plain in the past few years. The other packs admire this. She now has loose control of about five packs.

"They managed to kill my predecessor before I was able to speak to him. We used to have friendly contacts among the ferryshaft, the creasia, and even the ely-ary. But I did not receive any of that information when I arrived, because my predecessor and all his curbs had died." Eyal's ears drooped. "I've had only the chatter of songbirds and mice to help me make my decisions-not enough, I'm afraid."

Storm c.o.c.ked his head. "The chatter...of mice?"

"Do the ferryshaft not listen to the half-awake?" asked Eyal.

Storm was lost.

"The other animals," Eyal tried to explain, "the ones who don't talk. They still have things to say if you know how to listen. We call them the half-awake. But they are no subst.i.tute for actual contacts among the intelligent species."

"No, but they sound useful all the same." Storm made up his mind. He'd trusted the curbs this far. He might as well trust them a little further. Perhaps he could even learn from him. "I'd like to travel with you, Eyal. I'm not used to being in this part of the island in the summertime, and I don't know where to find water. If we're attacked...well, you'll have one more set of teeth." He hesitated. "I don't have many friends, either. Not really."

Eyal smiled, his incisors flashing in the starlight. "You have one more."

Storm traveled with the curbs for the next four nights. They came down from the cliffs well south of their previous location. When there were no signs of pursuit, they started across the plain towards Chelby Lake. Storm tried to fix in his mind the sources of water that they showed him-sometimes no more than a boggy patch, where one could lap relatively clean water off the top of a puddle if one were careful not to disturb the ground.

Eyal also tried to show him how to listen to the birds, mice, foxes, rabbits, and even the insects-not just their voices, but the messages in their tracks, the complexity of their scents, their bodies when they were caught and eaten. "Creasia have pa.s.sed this way recently," Eyal said as they stood listening to the birds one evening.

Storm was startled. "In summer? Why? Do they know I'm alive?"

Eyal listened for a while longer and then shook his ears. "I can't tell. Probably just a trip to the Ghost Wood."

"Ghost Wood," repeated Storm, "that's what the telshees called Groth. Why would creasia go there?"

"To leave a token of their dead," said Eyal, watching Storm curiously. "This is how they honor lost friends. Do ferryshaft really not know such things?"

Storm felt embarra.s.sed. "I'm sure the elders know, but we don't talk much about the creasia."

On the third night, they reached the lake. They were not so fortunate as to stumble immediately upon the herd, but they did find evidence that ferryshaft had pa.s.sed that way recently. After casting around for a bit, Eyal and his curbs announced that the ferryshaft were headed south. They would probably find the herd by tomorrow evening, possibly sooner.

Eyal recommended a rest and a hunting session, and Storm agreed. The curbs spread out along the edge of the lake, looking for small game. Storm caught sight of Kuwee Island away across the water to the east. The sight reminded him that Keesha had not returned the Shable.

Storm realized, as he stood on the edge of the calm, sparkling water in the moonlight, that he had not thought much beyond this moment. He had imagined returning to his friends and family, and resuming the life that had been arrested that day on the ice when he'd run from Sharmel's clutter. But was such a thing even possible? Would the elders try to kill me again? Would they threaten my friends? Would Charder tell the creasia I'm alive? Would I survive another encounter with Arcove?

He thought about what Shaw had said of Keesha: "If you can stay alive until he's finished, I think you'll find you have a powerful ally."

Maybe I should do that, thought Storm, just survive. He had never truly considered surviving away from the herd, but now that he'd been gone most of a season, it did not seem so difficult. He liked the curbs. Would they let me stay with them? He thought it possible.

"Storm!" He turned at the sound of his name. Cohal stood, bristling, looking back over his shoulder. "Eyal sent me to get you," he said. "We found something to the south. You'd better come and see."

Mystified, Storm followed Cohal away through the trees at a trot. The curbs had spread out while hunting, and it was some time before Storm caught sight of Eyal. He was running low to the ground. When he saw them, he stopped, and waited.

"What is it?" whispered Storm when they met. Before Eyal could answer, Storm caught a scent on the wind-creasia...and blood. Storm's stomach gave a sickening lurch. He plunged forward through the trees. Are they raiding in the summer now? Is it because of me?

The curbs did not speak or try to stop him. Storm caught a flash of fur through the trees ahead. He saw moving shapes, though it took him a moment to grasp that they were not creasia. Storm bounded around the last thicket and stopped so suddenly that he almost sat down.

A ferryshaft was standing there in the moonlight, its fur dark with blood. A body lay on the ground beneath it-large and dark and feline. The ferryshaft raised its head, and Storm gasped. It was Sauny.

Chapter 15. Control.

Roup was awake during the day...again. He'd wandered over to the hot springs because he found the heat comforting, even in summer. He was near the junction of Smokey Branch and the stream they called Crooked Tail. The steam was thick here, where the warm water of the Branch met the cool water of the Tail. Roup sat in the fog, letting it condense on his whiskers.

The problem with the deer was not going away. As far as he could tell, it was getting worse. Many of the lower-ranking creasia were turning to small game for their mainstay. That would work for a while...until the small game succ.u.mbed to the same pressure as the deer.

Arcove had called a conference two days ago. Treace had been there with three of his officers, though not Moro. Various explanations had been bandied about, chief of which was the increasing number and boldness of the lowland curbs, as well as their possible alliance with ely-ary seeking to establish a population beyond the Great Mountain. No one, however, seemed willing to accept what Roup thought was obvious-too many mouths to feed.

Treace had offered a solution which Roup found unsettling. "We could try to manage the deer more closely," he'd said. He'd looked around at their blank expressions. "Keep them in one area, protect them from curbs, monitor breeding. Over time, we could probably figure out which sort taste better and encourage those to breed."

"Sounds like a lot of work," Halvery had grumbled.

"Sounds impossible," Sharmel had said. "The deer won't breed well with us following them around."

"The highland curbs do something of the kind with the sheep in the mountains," said Treace, "or so I've been told."

"Sheep live in flocks," said Roup. "Deer don't."

"Ah, true," said Treace, his green eyes sparkling. "If only we had a food animal that lived in groups and was easy to control. If only we could just tell the deer what to do."

No one had responded. After a moment, Halvery began to complain about the ely-ary again. Roup had glanced at Ariand, who was keeping very quiet. Roup had always gotten along well with Ariand. He tried to talk to him after the conference ended, but Ariand slipped away the moment Arcove called a conclusion.

Afraid, thought Roup. That look in his eyes was fear.

Roup sorted through the pieces in his head again. What am I missing?

He almost missed a ferryshaft, picking its way cautiously across the river in front of him. Roup rose in a half crouch, all his senses alert. What is a ferryshaft doing in the heart of Leeshwood? In Arcove's territory, no less?

He was about to pounce first and ask questions later, when the ferryshaft turned, and Roup got a good look at his profile. "Charder?"

The animal froze, scanned his surroundings once, scanned again, and caught sight of Roup, well hidden among the steam and long gra.s.s. Charder didn't move, but waited for Roup to stand and come towards him. "I need to speak to Arcove," he said, his voice tight.

Roup approached him warily. He half wondered whether Charder had developed the foaming sickness, but he didn't look ill-only exhausted. Roup sniffed at him. "What are you doing here?"

Charder shied away. "I need to speak to Arcove," he repeated.

"He went to visit Sharmel," said Roup. "He'll probably be back later tonight."

"I'll wait then," said Charder.

Roup thought of how far he must have come-all the way from Chelby Lake and then through creasia territory almost to the foot of the cliffs. On rare occasions, when it seemed necessary, Arcove or one of his messengers, had visited Charder when the ferryshaft resided by Chelby Lake. On no occasion had Charder ever attempted to bring a message to Arcove.

Roup watched him. Charder's jaw was tight, and he was breathing in a deep, even pattern that looked like forced calm. "Would you like a place to rest?" asked Roup.

Charder looked around. "I can wait here."

Roup considered this. "I think not. If someone finds you, they'll kill you."

Charder said nothing.

"Come with me," said Roup. "I'm afraid I must insist."

Charder gave a bitter snort. "Then I'm afraid I must come."

Roup had a sudden, vivid flashback of a much younger Charder, telling him to follow. Roup had to look up at him back then, and he'd struggled to keep pace with Charder's long strides. They'd attended a conference, where a dozen ferryshaft had talked over him as though he couldn't hear, poking and prodding and suggesting things that made Roup tremble. He remembered that Charder had defended his continued existence by pointing out that he was hardly worth eating.

After the war, Roup had never spoken to Charder outside of a council meeting. He'd let Arcove deal with that. I know you must think I hate you, but I don't...not anymore. I'd tell you that if I thought it would make any difference.

"Is the herd well?" asked Roup.

"As well as can be expected," muttered Charder.

"You're not going to tell me what's wrong, are you?"

Charder glanced at him. Roup noticed more gray around his muzzle than he remembered. "Is that an order?"

Could we make this any more awkward? "No."

Charder clearly had a good idea of where Arcove's den was located. It had been the den of high-ranking creasia for generations. Roup decided there was nothing to be gained from trying to make Charder wait somewhere else and brought him right up to the cave, where the roots of ancient trees twisted amid old stone. They were accosted three times on the way by Arcove's mates and half-grown cubs, who stared, but turned away when Roup told them all was well.

Seeka was dozing across the threshold when they entered, and she barely opened one eye as they pa.s.sed. Nadine raised her head from among her den-mates and cubs. She glanced from Roup to Charder, flicked her elegant ears, rolled her eyes, and went back to sleep.

"Well, that's sorted," said Roup cheerfully. "You can sleep anywhere."

"Sleep?" echoed Charder.

"Yes, you look like you're about to fall over."

Charder just stared at him.

"Well, lie down, at least. Don't pace about, or someone may kill you out of sheer annoyance."

When Charder woke, it was dark. He knew he'd slept hard-much harder than he had intended. He could smell creasia, but that seemed appropriate. He felt a lingering sense of desperation, but it took him a moment to remember its source.

When he did, he started up. "Arcove-?"

"Charder." Arcove's rumble, no doubt about that.

Charder tried to focus in the gloom. He could see the outline of the mouth of the cave, and the silhouettes of two cubs tussling. An adult came and went past the entrance-its movements quick and alert. They're hunting, he thought.

"Charder," repeated Arcove, and Charder turned towards the darker back of the cave. He saw Roup's pale shape and Arcove's night-black form silhouetted in front of him. "In all the years of our acquaintance, I don't think you have ever expressed a desire to see me." Arcove's voice held a note of amus.e.m.e.nt, but also of uncertainty.

"I can't see you now," grumbled Charder. He could hardly believe he was making a joke, but his nerves were on edge. He felt as though he might start laughing hysterically at any moment.

"Come outside," said Arcove. "You were sleeping so sweetly, we didn't want to wake you."

Charder rose stiffly. Arcove and Roup padded past him towards the front of the cave. A cub darted in front of Charder and almost ran into him. "It's a ferryshaft!" he heard one whisper. "It's a live ferryshaft!"

At least for the moment, thought Charder.

Outside, in the starlight, Charder could see a little better. Arcove moved away from the front of the cave. When a cub followed them, obviously curious to listen, Arcove turned and said, "Away from here. Go."

When they were out of earshot of the activity around the mouth of the den, Arcove turned to Charder and said, "How did you even get here? Roup said he found you by Smokey Branch."

Charder gave a weary sigh. He wanted to go back to sleep. "There are some things I can still do, Arcove."

"Clearly. Will you be sleeping in my den often? Shall we make a nest for you?"

"I didn't know how else to contact you," said Charder. Arcove's reaction was making him feel a little better. But it could all be for show. He and Roup may know exactly why I'm here. These cubs may pick my bones by dawn.

"Are we at war, Arcove?"

"I don't think so."

Charder peered at him in the gloom. It was difficult enough to read Arcove's expressions in broad daylight. Dealing with him at night felt like running blind. "Are you still punishing us for Storm?"

"No," said Arcove slowly. "Should I be? Charder, clearly someone has broken the treaty. You might as well tell me what's happened so I can deal with it. Have you been ousted from herd leadership? Who is in charge in your absence?"

"Sedaron," said Charder, "with Pathar to advise him. The elders agreed that I should come. There's been no change in leadership." He took a deep breath. "Creasia have been raiding over the summer." He watched for a change in expression, but Arcove was perfectly still. "I thought... perhaps you were sending them to punish us...but it wasn't a normal raiding pattern. Ferryshaft just disappeared-no public spectacle. We found creasia tracks and scent, but nothing else. Bodies turned up half-eaten. When the cats were seen, ferryshaft reported just one or two-not a clutter. One observer swore that they carried a foal off alive. This sort of thing went on for half the summer, and then...then some of the younger ferryshaft started fighting back."

Storm and Sauny stood frozen, gaping at each other across the body of a dead creasia. Storm was dimly aware of voices rippling around them, ferryshaft rushing up to him, but not quite touching. "Storm?! Storm, is that really you?"

"Is it really him?"

"It can't be."