He didn't look back, but he heard Halvery say, "Well, go on. You want to take a swipe at him? Now's your chance. We'll stay here. So will your clutter, of course."

A moment later, he heard a soft footfall and knew that Treace was following. His footfalls were slightly uneven. He's still limping, but not much. His eye also seemed to be functioning, although he had a scar across his face.

Arcove slowed down and let Treace catch up. They were approaching the southern edge of the forest and the plains beyond. "Did you know that Roup and I used to live near here?" asked Arcove.

Treace gave him an odd look. The limp and the scar had taken the edge off his characteristic poise, but Arcove could tell he was adjusting.

"A little to the west," continued Arcove, "beside a stream that was too small to have a name and has probably changed course since then."

"Why-?" began Treace.

"Because we were rogue cubs, and this is the most game-poor section of the forest," said Arcove. "I wouldn't bend my neck to anyone, and not even other cubs wanted to call a two-year-old their alpha. So here we stayed for more than a year, barely surviving."

There was a long pause. Finally, Treace said, grudgingly, "They say you killed one of the king's officers when you were two."

"I did," said Arcove. "That's why I was a rogue." But you'll wait a long time before I'll tell that story.

They'd reached the edge of the southern plains, and the open sky stretched in a vast, star-dappled dome above their heads-fading to pink along the horizon where the sun had set. "There weren't many cats in Leeshwood back then," said Arcove. "About a hundred males, I suspect, although no one was counting."

Treace turned to him with a look of astonishment. Now I've got your attention. "There were many small ferryshaft herds on both plains. They killed us at every opportunity, and we killed each other almost as often. When males fought, they fought to the death. When a male took another male's mate, he killed her young cubs. The female would come into season faster that way, and he didn't have to raise his rival's offspring."

Treace seemed to consider. You thought you were returning to something more natural when you stopped them from eating bitterleaf, didn't you? But the old way wasn't quite what you envisioned.

Arcove drew himself up to his full height and turned to glare at Treace. He dropped all the velvet from his tone and gave it claws. "You grew up in my Leeshwood, Treace. You would not even recognize what was here before. You are making trouble in my wood."

Treace licked his lips. "I didn't-" he began. "I haven't-"

"You think you want to rule?" demanded Arcove. "You think you can do it better than I can?"

Treace stood perfectly still and did not meet Arcove's eyes.

"Answer me."

"If I say anything, you'll kill me," whispered Treace.

"Not tonight," said Arcove. "Perhaps tomorrow, but not tonight." Tell me I can't treat him like Charder, Nadine.

Treace's eyes flicked up and back down. "You won the war when no one else could," he admitted. "But you're right; it's a different world now. You won when such things were decided by strength. Now, they are decided by cunning."

Arcove had to force himself not to laugh. "Well, so far, your cunning has gotten you a limp and a scar...although I may have done you a favor with the scar. You look considerably fiercer than you actually are."

Treace bristled a little. He forgot to keep his eyes down. "If the creasia do not move forward, they will move back! The ferryshaft are a relic of-"

"Ah, yes, the ferryshaft. Your main point of contention. Do you know why I don't kill them all?"

"Because Roup doesn't want you to," snapped Treace.

"No. Try again."

Treace seemed taken aback. After a moment, he ventured, "Because you're afraid something worse will replace them?"

"Getting closer," said Arcove.

Treace stared out at the plain. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

"I think," said Arcove, "that we will eventually have war with the telshees again. If I had managed to kill their king on Kuwee Island, this might not be true. But I didn't. And I don't think he's forgotten. I think he's biding his time while their numbers improve."

Treace looked skeptical. "Then why don't we strike first?"

"You wouldn't say that if you'd ever fought with telshees in their own tunnels," said Arcove. "Because we wouldn't win, that's why."

"What does that have to do with the ferryshaft?"

"Telshees were ferryshaft allies. If I eradicate the ferryshaft, Keesha will feel that, to have his revenge, he must eradicate the creasia." Instead of just me. "Telshees have long memories. I don't want that sort of blood-debt between us."

Treace thought for a moment. "Why are you telling me this?"

Arcove looked out across the plain. "Tell me about Moro."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that he'd caught Treace off-guard. "About..."

"Moro, yes, your beta, tell me about him."

Treace licked his lips. "He's my brother. Half-brother. I raised him. There's not much else to tell."

Arcove peered at him. "You raised him? That's interesting. Why?"

Treace had recovered his composure. "Our mother asked me to. He got into a fight with another cub when he was three, and the den rejected him." Treace looked at Arcove levelly. "I'm sure you can understand that, sir."

Arcove let the silence stretch, but Treace was good at waiting games. He said nothing. "That's unusual," said Arcove at last, "for a den to reject a cub for fighting. Exceedingly unusual. It's what cubs do."

"I agree," said Treace.

"However, cubs who kill other cubs in unprovoked attacks... Cubs who kill much younger cubs... That certainly draws the ire of a den mother."

Treace said nothing.

"Does he still like to kill cubs, Treace?"

Treace took a deep breath. "As you have pointed out, sir, I allowed them to overpopulate. There were an excess number of cubs and more rogues than in other clutters. Sometimes, they stole from-"

Arcove interrupted. "I would get rid of him, if I were you."

"Moro is a loyal officer and very clever, sir."

"Funny, that's what I used to say about you."

Treace gave a startled snort of laughter.

"Good officers are like claws," said Arcove. "A claw stays sharp because you can retract it. When a cat cannot retract his claws, they grow dull. They can catch on things, tear, and bleed. They can get you into trouble. Make sure you can retract all your claws, Treace."

Treace actually smiled-a genuine smile, Arcove thought. "Why are you trying to give me helpful advice, Arcove?"

"Because I think you'll need it."

"In order to rule my little 'game-poor' patch of forest?"

Arcove hesitated. "There aren't many creasia who can lead. There aren't many creasia who want to lead. Creasia kings don't get old, Treace."

Arcove let that sink in. "You have to want it. You have to want it more than you want a long life. You have to be that certain that you could do a better job. I think you do want it, and I think you are certain. And that's rare. That kind of ambition doesn't come along very often. It's why I haven't killed you. I think your ideas for Leeshwood are completely misguided, and that you'll destroy my wood if you have your way. But I do think you're something special."

Treace flicked his tail. Arcove thought he was flattered and trying not to show it.

"In addition," continued Arcove, "you've generated a certain amount of loyalty. Your cats are not happy that you've been removed from command. They're picking fights and causing trouble. In a way, that speaks well of their devotion, if not their judgment. Your cats are young, Treace. They're like you. They've never seen a war, and they don't know what they're asking for."

"I don't want a war," said Treace. The words tumbled out. "I want to fight you and win."

There was a moment of perfect silence. Treace drew a quick breath. "But as you keep pointing out, I can't."

"That is correct," said Arcove. "You can't have my Leeshwood, but perhaps you can have your own. I have discouraged cats from leaving the wood in the past, but perhaps now it's time."

Treace stared at him. "You mean exile..."

"No, I mean a new..." Arcove realized that he didn't have a word for what he meant. "A new Leeshwood. A new kingdom. I am proposing that you take any cats who want to call you chief, and make a new home for yourselves out across the plain. There are forests at the foot of the southern mountains. I know. I was there once. It's about three days' journey, more if you're traveling with cubs, but you can get there.

"The lowland curbs will fight you. They think of that region as their home territory, but with courage and diplomacy, you can make a place for yourselves. I believe there are deer in those woods, although I am not certain. I know there are sheep in the mountains and perhaps other animals. I do not think there is enough game on the plains to support a creasia den year-round, but I could be wrong about that. The plain might be another option. I think it's time we find out."

Treace's eyes darted back and forth. This was not what he had expected. "So...would that make me one of your officers again?"

"No," said Arcove. "It would make you my equal as far as I'm concerned. A king in your own territory. You would be my subordinate if you came here, but I'd be yours if I went there. I propose we make an agreement to offer each other a.s.sistance if we are in dire need. Otherwise, we need not trouble each other."

Treace peered at Arcove's face as though trying to decide whether he was serious. "I- I have to think about this."

"Of course you do."

"What about...what about the ghost wood? Some cats won't like being separated from it."

"You can make a new ghost wood," said Arcove. "If you have enough control, you can give them new traditions. If not...I believe you can approach the ghost wood from the other side if you continue to follow the edge of the lake. I've never been that far, but the ghost wood must have a northern border."

Arcove rose and shook himself. "Think about it, Treace. If you stay here, you'll need to take a more active role in redirecting the tensions that you've caused. I know you're not personally starting all these fights, but I am confident that you could personally stop most of them if you wanted to. If you keep this up, I'll have to make an example of you just to keep peace." He paused and looked Treace directly in the eyes. "And if you challenge me again, you'll die with my teeth in your throat, I promise."

Treace held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. "When do I need to make a decision?"

"I'll give you ten days," said Arcove.

Treace looked alarmed. "Ten days? That's hardly-"

"It's enough time to consider your options and to rally your supporters. It's enough time to cross the plain and establish a den site before any of your pregnant females give birth. It gives you plenty of time to settle in before winter."

"You've thought about this," said Treace after a moment.

"Yes, I have. Now it's your turn. If you're not gone in ten days, I had better see an improvement in the behavior of the cats previously under your command."

Chapter 16. Poison and Marrow.

Later that night, Treace sat on the edge of the lake and stared, unseeing, towards the little island where Moro sometimes tested new ideas. Two of his officers had expressed concern after the visit from Arcove, but Treace hardly heard what they said to him. He wondered who had spoken to Arcove about Moro's history. He'd lost control of some of his cats as they'd shifted into other clutters.

Treace remembered the first time he'd seen Moro-not a particularly large cub, black as a shadow, hunched in a tree, looking small and alone. He'd actually been a year and a half old, not three. Even their mother had abandoned him, but she'd had just enough feeling for the cub to send for Treace-her only living offspring. "Go talk to him," she had said without meeting his eyes. "See what you think."

She had not begged him to save the cub. Just consider it.

Moro had killed a litter of youngsters barely old enough to totter away from their den. He'd led them into the forest and then drowned them one-by-one in a deep puddle-three cubs, too frightened and young to escape. He'd made no attempt to hide the bodies or his own scent trail. He was discovered the next day, picking through the innards of one of his victims. It was unclear whether the cub had been completely dead when Moro dragged him out of the puddle and opened his belly.

The mother of the cubs would have killed Moro on the spot, but he'd climbed into a tree where no adult could reach him. The den mother had tried to question him from the ground, but his answers proved unsatisfactory. His father had died earlier in the year, and his own mother made no attempt to question him-a detail that other adults found significant. The cub was deemed unfit to live. He'd been in the tree for two days when Treace arrived, and thirst would soon claim him if one of the adults did not.

Moro had peered down at Treace with those strangely pale eyes.

"Why did you kill them?" Treace had asked.

"I wanted to see what was inside," Moro whispered.

"Did you think anyone would be angry?"

"No one got angry when I looked inside squirrels," said Moro.

"Creasia aren't squirrels," said Treace, although he felt an odd leap in his chest.

Moro said nothing. "They weren't doing anything important," he said at last. "They didn't even talk very much."

"Are you sorry?" asked Treace.

"No."

"You have to act like you're sorry," he said. And he thought, You're like me. You've got the same thing. Whatever it is that makes us different.