Wolf Hunting (69 page)

“Please,” he croaked.

His voice sounded odd in his ears. In fact, everything sounded a little strange—sharper than usual. The water splashing into the pitcher plashed and gurgled like a stream running over rocks. He wondered if he still had a touch of a fever.

As she poured, Isende spoke, “Blind Seer seems to have made it through querinalo, but he’s still asleep, so we don’t know what it may have done to him. Truth is still in her self-chosen exile, but the ravens seem to think she’s come through her crisis.”

“Firekeeper?” Derian was again aware of the strangeness in the sound of his voice.

“Oh! That’s right. You wouldn’t know. She’s either through it or she never got it. We can’t tell.”

Derian thought uncharitably that this was typical of Firekeeper. She seemed to thrive on being unpredictable. What had the Meddler said in that dream? Something about Firekeeper causing things to change around her?

Had it been a dream? He found himself hoping not. He’d rather liked talking with Blind Seer and Truth. It had been a confirmation that all those times he’d tried to speak with them as if they were—well, sort of odd humans, if he were honest with himself—hadn’t just been craziness on his part.

“So we’re all fine,” he said, “or nearly so.”

“At least no one has died,” Isende said, and something in her expression made Derian instantly wary. “Are you hungry? The doctor said you could eat now that the fever has broken.”

Derian realized he was starving.

“Do we have any porridge? Maybe oat porridge with raisins or grated carrots.”

“I can manage that,” Isende said with a smile. “There’s a kettle going in the main kitchens.”

That made Derian remember the tense, unbalanced situation before his collapse.

“Are we still in charge?”

“Fairly,” Isende said. “Our prisoners are beginning to get restive, but so far the yarimaimalom are enough to keep them in line. It will be good to have more humans active, though. We’re going to need to decide what to do with the Old Worlders. Now, let me go and get you that porridge.”

Derian settled back on his pillows, vaguely pleased to be back in the present moment. He could hear Firekeeper’s breathing across the room, Blind Seer’s almost matching in cadence. Someone, Harjeedian, probably, from the clipped pace of the shod feet, had just come in and was crossing to his bedside.

“How do you feel?” the aridisdu asked.

“I hurt all over,” Derian replied. “Even my finger joints ache, but otherwise, I actually feel pretty good. Am I the first to come around?”

“That’s right. You were also the first to go down, and your recovery is right on the doctor’s schedule.”

“So I’m recovered,” Derian said. “I wasn’t sure. I still feel sort of weird. Sounds are sharper, light seems a bit odd.”

He was watching for it, so he saw the flicker of discomfort that crossed Harjeedian’s features, similar to that he had seen on Isende’s face. The aridisdu had better control, but Derian felt no doubt.

“Harjeedian,” he said, “what has happened? What aren’t you telling me?”

Harjeedian drew in his breath, and almost visibly shrugged into the mannerisms he used when acting in his role as aridisdu. Reaching for the chair Isende had been using, he sat down so his gaze was closer to level with Derian’s own.

Derian felt his heart racing with dread. He felt as if he should know what Harjeedian was about to tell him, that he already knew on some gut level, but he couldn’t retrieve the memories, so he looked at the other man, waiting for revelation.

“You must thank the deities, or your ancestors, who you believe act as intercessors between you and the divine,” Harjeedian began, “that you still have your life.”

Derian stared at him, refusing to say anything, willing the other to speak further.

“These people here—the Old World natives—would say you have something further for which to feel gratitude,” Harjeedian went on. “We will not know until you are able to be up and about, but the indications are that you have also kept your talent.”

“My talent,” Derian said.

He remembered the conversation with the Meddler on that hilltop. He remembered saying how he wasn’t sure he could sacrifice his talent even to save his life. He remembered other things, too, and found himself lying as still as he could.

“Your talent,” Harjeedian repeated. “You see, every visible indication seems to show that you are Once Dead, not Twice.”

“Visible indication,” Derian repeated.

He flattened his ears in distaste, felt himself starting to show his teeth. Realized what he was doing, and froze.

“What has happened to me? Harjeedian, you’ve got to tell me!”

“Easier, perhaps, to show you,” Harjeedian said reluctantly. “I have a mirror set by.”

He bent and lifted a large hand mirror from below Derian’s line of sight. He raised it and held it so Derian could see his own face. Derian drew in his breath and forced himself to look.

His own face looked out at him, but although it was unmistakably his own, it was also transformed. His ears were the most visibly changed. They were shaped like those of a horse, covered in short red—or chestnut—hair identical in color to the hair on his head.

That hair had also changed, not in color, but in how it grew from his scalp. Previously, it had tended toward a slight center part, making it easy for him to brush it back and tie it into a queue. Now a portion flopped across his forehead in a distinct, unmistakable forelock. The rest had been braided back, but Derian didn’t doubt that in subtle ways it would resemble a mane.

His eyes had also changed. They had been a green-brown hazel. Now they were purely brown, the irises filling his sockets more fully, showing less white.

He raised his hands to touch this altered face and saw that they, too, were different. The nails were heavier, harder, the tips a bit more blunt. He didn’t doubt that his toenails were the same.

“I … I look like a human horse!” Derian exclaimed. “I remember telling the others that I didn’t know if I would feel like myself if I didn’t have my talent, but I don’t remember asking for this!”

Absorbed in his self-inspection, Derian had ignored the sounds of others entering the cottage. Now a new voice, that of Zebel, the doctor, spoke from near the foot of the bed.

“This is often the case with those who become Once Dead. Some remember making a deal of some sort—sacrificing their sight or hearing or some physical feature in order to maintain their magical ability. Others, often those who have a talent specifically tied to some specific skill, find the transformation is less predictable.”

“So,” Derian said, making himself speak very, very carefully, “I didn’t want to lose my rapport with horses, so querinalo made me look like a horse?”

Isende, standing to one side, holding a bowl of porridge on a tray, said, “It’s not that bad, Derian. Really. Once you get over being startled, you don’t look bad at all.”

Derian snorted, and felt his nostrils flare—not as a horse’s would, but certainly in a human form of the same mannerism.

“I woke up wanting oat porridge,” he said, laughing and hearing the hysterical note in it. “With carrots! I’ll be eating grass next.”

A voice spoke from the window.
“Really, there are worse things. You’ll never starve.”

Derian looked and saw Eshinarvash standing in the window. The Wise Horse snapped at the sluggishly moving blood briars with big, square teeth.

“Even these aren’t too bad,”
the horse went on.
“Though a bit rank.”

“Eshinarvash,” Derian said. “I … This isn’t a joke, is it?”

“What isn’t a joke?” Harjeedian said sharply.

Derian turned to look at the three humans gathered by his bedside. He realized from their expressions that although all of them were aware of the Wise Horse’s presence, none of them had understood what Eshinarvash had said.

“I understood him,” he said, “just like I did Blind Seer and Truth in my dream.”

Harjeedian’s eyes widened with awe and just a bit of envy. Derian found himself remembering how the Liglimom had coveted Firekeeper’s ability to speak with the yarimaimalom, and now it seemed Derian was claiming the same ability. For a moment, Derian felt very important, then he caught his reflection in the mirror and his heart sunk.

“I can never go home,” he said. “Not looking like this. I’d be a freak, an embarrassment to my family. What was I thinking? I could have done without my talent. Most of my life, I didn’t even think of myself as being talented. I had skills. I’d still have those skills.”

He raked the tips of his fingers across his face, felt a fine down of hair there, felt those hardened tips dig in and leave welts.

“Go away!” he shouted, pulling up the blankets to mask his face. “Don’t look at me!”

WHEN PLIK AWOKE that evening, he found Tiniel awake before him and eager to report the changes in their situation.

“Firekeeper has slept all day, as has Blind Seer, but they’re wakening now. I’ve just brought her some stew and him a huge bowl of meat stock. She says that when they’re done, they’re going for a run, but I don’t think they’ll be gone long.”

“There’s something else,” Plik said. “I can hear it in your voice. Has Truth arisen from hiding?”

Tiniel paused before he replied, and when he did his tone held a note of indignation.

“I think so. The ravens came and spoke with Firekeeper, and she said something to Harjeedian and my sister that makes them think Truth came through the crisis. Firekeeper didn’t give any details, though, and, of course, you’re the only other one who can talk easily to the yarimaimalom. I guess Derian could, but he’s …”

“He’s what?” Plik said sharply, when Tiniel trailed off.

“He’s hiding under the bedclothes. He won’t speak with anyone.”

“Then he’s learned what happened to him?” Plik said, hurrying toward the door.

“He woke earlier, and Harjeedian broke the news to him very gently. It seems that Derian has come through even better than we imagined last night. Not only has he retained his talent, it has been enhanced. He could understand Eshinarvash when the Wise Horse came to the window to speak with him.”

Plik thought he understood the change in Tiniel’s manner. He had thought it was due to Firekeeper slighting the young man, but although that might play a part, clearly Tiniel could not understand why Derian should not be rejoicing in his survival. Tiniel had not stopped mourning his own loss. Apparently, he did not understand why Derian would mind being physically changed when he was magically enhanced.

“Derian comes from a land where magic is considered abhorrent,” Plik explained.

They had come to the cottage that was being used as a sickroom, but he made no effort to lower his voice. Best if Derian heard what he had to say as well.

“I’ve wondered about that,” Tiniel replied. “For a land that despises magic, they sure seem to have a good many talented people: Blind Seer, Derian, and probably Firekeeper as well, for all she didn’t get as sick as the rest.”

Harjeedian rose from where he had been reading at Derian’s bedside, and crossed to join them.

“Tiniel said you were waking,” he said, “and Isende has gone to get us all something to eat.”

“Things continue well with the prisoners?” Plik asked.

“They do,” Harjeedian said. “Zebel reported to his allies that all have passed through querinalo alive, and that Derian, at least, appears to be Once Dead. This changes the situation, at least to the doctor’s way of thinking. I must admit, their way of thinking remains a mystery to me.”

“Interesting,” Plik said. He glanced over, but it was impossible to tell whether the lump of bedclothes that was Derian was awake or asleep. “And Firekeeper?”

“Am here,” came a husky voice from behind him. “Us both. We went a little way, but Blind Seer is very weak.”

“And amazingly hungry,”
the blue-eyed wolf added.
“Although I do not think I could stomach more than broth.”

“Isende is sure to bring more for both of you to eat,” Plik said. “That young woman is proving very resourceful.”

“We both are,” Tiniel said defensively. “After our parents died, we were all we had left. No one was going to fetch and carry for us. Isende had to learn to manage an entire household.”

Plik smiled to himself. Tiniel seemed unaware of the contradictions in his own statement. Then again, that seemed in keeping with the young man’s character to this point. He had many good qualities, but an astonishing amount of self-absorption as well.

A great cat
, Plik thought,
rather than some herd or pack animal. Survival of the self, rather than of the whole. Isende is not like her twin in that. I wonder if they are complementary opposites rather than a matched set as we have been led to believe.

Firekeeper had settled Blind Seer on a folded blanket a comfortable distance from the hearth, and now she padded over to inspect Derian. She laid a gentle hand where the young man’s shoulder should be, but he did not stir. Plik thought the wolf-woman might strip back the blankets and force Derian to communicate, but she did no such thing. Instead, shaking her head in sorrow, she returned to the group near the fire.

She was about to seat herself by Blind Seer when she jerked up her head. Plik caught the sound even as the wolf-woman did.

“Isende is back,” Firekeeper reported, moving to the door.

Plik heard soft conversation between the two women, and a moment later they entered, carrying several packs between them. Firekeeper’s interest in this menial task became evident when she set her burden down, and removed a large bottle from one of the packs.

“Zebel send broth cooked with plants so to make Blind Seer stronger,” Firekeeper reported with satisfaction as she poured some into a large, shallow bowl and set it near the reclining wolf.

“And there is food for the rest of us as well,” Isende laughed. “Eshinarvash helped me carry it over, or I would have had real problems.”

They chattered rather stiltedly as they dished out portions for everyone, all too aware of Derian huddled under his blankets.