Spider Wars: Book Three of the Black Bead Chronicles (4 page)

“
Do you know what the
emergency is about?” asked the journeyman as he returned their
yellow token in exchange for the red one that Connor fished out of
his pocket.

“
Storm’s coming,”
Cheobawn said, “and the herds need to come back into the long
houses.”

Gudu grunted in surprise.
“There has been no warning on the Watch’s security alert list.
Where did she hear that?”

“
Cheobawn told her,”
Connor said, glaring at the young Father, daring him to say something
disparaging about his Ear. Gudu’s eyes, almost of their own
volition, slid down to the lump made by the black bead under
Cheobawn’s fur collar.

“
Oh,” he said faintly,
his face gone suddenly still.

“
What is that supposed to
mean?” Connor asked, the words hissing through bared teeth as he
balled up his fists. Cheobawn’s hands shot out to grab her packmate
by the back of his duster just in case he did something stupid.

“
Nothing,” Gudu said,
holding up his hands in apology. “Cheobawn’s predictions are as
good or better than a Watch Ear report any day, I am sure.”

“
But? But what. You seem
to have more you want to say,” snarled Connor as Cheobawn dug her
heels into the stones under her mukluk-clad feet and tried to drag
Connor away.

“
We have to go,” she
said loudly. Connor tried to shake her off but she managed to hang
on.

Gudu held up his hands in
surrender. “I don’t want to fight you, Connor. I meant nothing by
it. Take no offense, please. It is just that when Cheobawn hears
things it is never good news. It is only reasonable that I should be
alarmed.”

Bad Luck, he meant, without
actually saying the words. Cheobawn flinched. Connor cursed and tried
to launch himself at Gudu.

Cheobawn leaped up and
wrapped an arm around his throat as she put her mouth next to his
ear, “Connor! Leave it. We. Have. To. Go.”

Gudu flashed her an
apologetic grimace, his fingers already on the com unit screen,
notifying the senior officer on duty of the news.

Connor let her tug him
around and pull him into motion. She pulled her mittens and headgear
off and shoved them into the spacious pockets of her duster and then
undid the fastenings of all her outerwear as she walked. Compared to
the cold outside, the dome was almost tropical and it would not do to
overheat and sweat into her underclothes since she would be going out
into the cold again.

“
I love that you want to
defend my honor,” Cheobawn said softly as she helped him struggle
out of his layers, “but you do choose the oddest times to express
your outrage.”

“
He’s a jerk,” Connor
growled as he took his parka back to help her out of her own.

“
No. He just likes to have
fun. He does not know how much it really bothers us when he says
those things because we are both very good at hiding our feelings,”
she said, sliding her arm around his waist. “Perhaps we should not
keep it all bottled up until we feel like exploding.”

“
Punching things helps.”

Cheobawn smiled at the
enthusiasm in those words and then bit back a giggle. “It would
have been a spectacular fight, though he is more than a foot taller
and twice as heavy. You might have won, what with you having the
advantage of the element of surprise.”

Connor smiled and broke into
a jog, shouting over his shoulder as he ran. “Nah, he would have
beaten me to a pulp. But he wouldn’t have walked away without a
mark of his own.”

She laughed and raced after
him, perversely happy for some reason. Perhaps it was because of the
strange buoyant sensation flooding her senses, the kind you felt
after a thunderstorm when the stormsense had passed and the air had
been washed clean by the rain. The great bear who wore the forests of
the Spine like a shaggy fur coat thrummed happily under her feet.
Something had broken loose at last in the world and Bear Under the
Mountain was well pleased.

Cheobawn
parted ways with Connor near the path that led to Pack Hall. He
headed back towards the dorm room and she headed towards the First
Mother's apartments on the northern edge of the central plaza. The
great plaza lay under the apex of the dome and all paths intersected
there. She paused, momentarily nonplussed, on the outer rim of the
circle. The plaza was full of people. They were playing War.

Was it a testament to her
mental disarray that she had forgotten about the match today? Not
feeling like detouring around the edge of the great circle, she cut
across the field of play. A map of sorts had been drawn with colored
chalk on the stone pavers there. She leapt over large models of boats
arrayed in fleets upon the dusty blue oceans and dodged around
battalions of wooden warriors standing at stiff attention on verdant
plains. There were even small domed cities in the center of each
continent, the key piece to be protected at all costs against
capture.

War was the winter obsession
of every Elder under the dome. The game’s director, the War Master,
last winter’s champion, had spent the entire year designing the
maps and hatching clever scenarios that would test the limits of the
Packs who were chosen to play in the yearly game of strategy. Every
winter the map was different and every year dozens of teams pitted
themselves against each other and the War Master for the honor of
being the last team standing. Winning was a major coup for those who
wished to climb out of mediocrity and attract the eye of the First
Fathers. The winning Alpha was called War Master for a year by
everyone under the dome.

It was late winter. The
number of teams had been whittled down to six, and two of those were
currently waging a pitched battle for the control of an archipelago.
A large crowd stood in a circle around the two teams calling out
suggestions to the players, some of which were so patently ridiculous
that not even the originator could keep a straight face. Laughter
filled the plaza.

Cheobawn veered around the
raucous knot of adults but hesitated when something caught her eye. A
red and white checkered flag waved from a pole planted in the flag
holder of one of the dome pieces. Ramhorn Pack was playing. She had
not realized Sigrid’s Pack had gotten so high up in the rankings.
Skidding to a halt, she wormed her way through the forest of bodies
until she found Ramhorn’s Alpha. The tall freckled boy was in deep
conversation with his Second, Breyden and his alpha Ear, Erin. There
could not have been three people so dissimilar in appearance.
Sigrid’s height made him look awkwardly lanky, the shock of unruly
dark brown hair and his long face adding to that illusion. The
square-jawed Breyden - his ebony hair pulled back into a sleek
warrior’s knot - did not have Sigrid’s height but she knew both
boys were an intimidating force on the jousting fields and the
sparring floors. In Erin’s presence the boys seemed like mere
bookends. The tall, thin Alpha Ear’s honey blond beauty was a
distraction that confused many an adversary. Underneath the long
elegant braid and the softly draping day pajamas rested the heart of
a canny adversary and the soul of Sigrid’s Pack. The three were
discussing a point of strategy while valiantly trying to ignore the
heckling of the opposing team. Short of actual physical contact,
there were no rules in War but those made up by the War Master.

“
Sigrid,” Cheobawn said,
pitching her voice low to cut through the chatter as she squeezed
around Soral, Sigrid’s Second Ear. Soral was a smaller, brassier
version of Erin. You could see that she adored her Alpha Ear by the
way she mimicked her style but her curly hair was unsuited for a
braid and her fuller body would have been better suited wearing a
belted tunic over a skirt.

“
This is no place for
kids,” Soral said through bared teeth as she grabbed at Cheobawn’s
arm to stop her. The Second got a handful of the coats Cheobawn
hugged under one arm, instead. Cheobawn did not bother playing tug of
war. She let the girl have them; abandoning them to Soral’s grip.
From there it was only a few steps to Sigrid’s side.

Cheobawn grabbed his sleeve.

“
Little Mother,” Sigrid
said, looking down in surprise. “What …” Cheobawn tugged and
Sigrid had the grace to humor her peremptory behavior. He bent his
head to hear what she had to say.

“
Vinara needs riders. She
has a level three emergency,” she said softly into his ear. “The
duty officer might take you if you are the first to volunteer.”
Sigrid lifted his head and stared at her. She raised an eyebrow,
expectant. Of one thing she was certain. Sigrid, whose easy going
demeanor masked a heart hungry for recognition in the village
hierarchy, would not turn down a shot at a rescue foray.

“
Go find Phillius,”
Sigrid said, turning his eyes to his third in command, Meshel. “Tell
him we are free for any duty he requires and then return with
whatever orders he gives you.” Meshel hesitated, a puzzled look on
his face. Cheobawn knew what Meshel was thinking. They were in the
middle of a match that would decide sixth place. They would lose by
default if the other team refused to reschedule. “Run,” Sigrid
barked. Meshel spun about and sprinted away.

Cheobawn let Sigrid go and
turned to gather up her coats where Soral had unkindly dropped them
under the feet of the crowd. Shaking out the crushed parka to fluff
the honeycomb liner, she began worming her way out of the crowd.
Sigrid stopped her, his hand catching her elbow.

“
Thank you, Little Mother.
I owe you for this.” His whisper went no further than her own ear.
Cheobawn flashed him a smile and then wiggled free and ran. She did
not have time for social graces at the moment. Sigrid could thank her
on the ride up to the pastures.

Talking to Sigrid had taken
time she did not have. She sprinted the short distance to the First
Mother's quarters and took the outside stairs three at a time.
Dashing through the foyer towards the stairs to the sleeping
quarters, she passed the kitchen. Brigit yelled something as she sped
by. A glimpse down the hall that led to Mora’s office was all she
had as she raced towards the stairs. She was halfway up the first
flight of steps before the image registered on her brain. Sybille had
been standing there, framed in the open doorway, her head turning at
Brigit’s shout.

Cheobawn cursed under her
breath but kept running. She did not know if she had the mental
strength to argue with the Coven about being included on this foray.
For one mad moment, she thought about sneaking out her bedroom window
and free-climb down the face of the building like a sticky lizard.
She was not on the best of terms with the Coven right now. Instead of
giving her more independence as she grew older, they were giving her
less. Sometimes it felt as if her Truemother’s house was less a
home and more of a cage.

Upon reaching her room,
Cheobawn threw her gear down on the floor and started stripping down
to skin. She kicked her feet and the roomy mukluks went flying in two
different directions. She and Connor had not bothered dressing for a
long foray out into the cold when they went to warn Vinara, so there
was nothing under her snow pants except a light pair of dome
trousers. This too, went flying. Naked except for her underwear, she
threw open her clothespress and pulled out her cold weather riding
clothes.

Dressing for the deep cold
was an intricate process. The thin spidersilk leggings and the
matching long sleeved shirt and socks came first, followed by wool
pants and a sweater, this layer just thick enough and sturdy enough
to keep the leathers from pressing against the skin. The boot liners
came next, followed by the tall-heeled riding boots and light-armored
gaiters. She pulled her leather pants with the armored thigh panels
on over the top of all that and adjusted the long series of
quick-snap buckles up the side of each leg. The leather was loose
enough to hang over the top of her boots but not binding enough to
restrict movement. A long strap wrapped under the arch of her boot to
keep the bell-shaped lower pant leg in place. Then came the leather
coat, with its armored sleeves and double layered shoulder panels. It
offered less protection against teeth and claws than the pants and
the gaiters, but the theory was that while mounted, your torso was
too high off the ground for any real threat and that what you gave up
in protection you gained in mobility when wielding weapons such as
double bladed lances.

Pressing the last buckle
into place, she shoved her riding gloves and soft leather helmet into
her pockets, gathered up the discarded parka and duster, and headed
back down the hall. She was overdressed for inside temperatures and
the rush to come home and get dressed had made her over-warm. The
silk liners were supposed to compensate for some dampness but she
would be chilled to the bone inside of two minutes of being outside
if she sweat through to the wool layers. Cheobawn forced herself to
stroll calmly through the house and down the staircase, taking one
step at a time as she descended to the living level, all the while
concentrating on deep, calming breaths. She reached the last step,
looked up, and froze.