cared for her.
The One Female did not demand she do so, but indicated the other newcomer.
“Do you remember Wind Whisper? She was with us many years ago, when you were very small.”
Firekeeper studied the she-wolf. Wind Whisper’s coat was equal parts silver-grey and charcoal black, the black clustering in the vicinity of her ears, muzzle, and legs, the grey blending in elsewhere, though the tip of her otherwise grey tail was black. Her eyes were the color of old pine-tree tears and her bearing was strong and lithe, with no trace of age.
For the first time, Firekeeper found herself wondering how old the Royal Wolves might grow to be. She had never much paid attention to the passage of time, but humans seemed to do little else. From them she had learned that her tenure among the wolves had probably been between ten and twelve years. She herself remembered no time she had not been a wolf, except sometimes, perhaps, in dreams.
A sudden panic squeezed her heart. She had heard Race Forester speak of one of his bird dogs as growing old at twelve years. Did Royal Wolves age at the same rate? She knew that Blind Seer had celebrated his fourth year early this spring. Numbers still were not her strong point, but she knew that twelve was just beyond two hands and that four filled one hand almost entirely.
There had been three One Males in her memory. Was this replacement a result of aging on the part of the wolves? Did they become unfit for their places just as age was rendering King Tedric unfit for elements of his? A human king might delegate others to lead in battle. Tedric had done just that last autumn—otherwise the war might have been called King Tedric’s War rather than King Allister’s.
A One never delegated another to lead. Either they were slain by a competitor or beaten so sorely that none doubted they were past their time.
Suddenly Firekeeper felt afraid of a human life, afraid that its length might take her beyond all those she loved. Then she shook herself. She herself was a wolf, no human to be coddled by servants in a castle as was King Tedric or by children and grandchildren in a cottage as was Holly Gardener. Death was more likely to find her than was old age.
And perhaps it was proof that she was a wolf at heart that this thought gave her comfort. Perhaps it was only proof that she was very young.
Firekeeper remembered her manners and recalled her attention to the One Female’s question.
“I do not remember you,” she said to Wind Whisper. “But puppies have no memory beyond their last meal and no dreams beyond the next.”
Wind Whisper panted with laughter.
“True enough,” she said, “and you were a very ill pup. How we struggled to make you to eat, but the fire had badly damaged you. If it had not been for…”
Wind Whisper stopped, snapping at her haunch as if after a fly. When she resumed, it was as if she had forgotten what she had been about to say.
“Well, you’ve grown into a fine young creature. Nicely spoken, too, and lighter on your feet than any of the two-legs I’ve seen over in that smoky nest they’ve built themselves.”
Blind Seer wagged his great brush of a tail, pleased at this compliment to his friend.
“When did you leave this pack?” he asked Wind Whisper. “And where did you go?”
“Long before you were born, Blue-Eyes,” she replied, “even before your mother came to rule this pack.”
Again Firekeeper was struck by the difference between how she and the wolves grew and aged. She had known both the One Male and the One Female as pups. The One Female had been of this pack, the One Male of a neighboring pack with whom her own sometimes joined for winter hunts and summer romps.
To her, now, both wolves were adults, wise and strong, yet she could recall them as fat furballs like the four who even now romped with each other in a sheltered hollow, their mock battles indulgently supervised by a couple of the yearlings. How old were the Ones now? Eight?
The One Female did not demand she do so, but indicated the other newcomer.
“Do you remember Wind Whisper? She was with us many years ago, when you were very small.”
Firekeeper studied the she-wolf. Wind Whisper’s coat was equal parts silver-grey and charcoal black, the black clustering in the vicinity of her ears, muzzle, and legs, the grey blending in elsewhere, though the tip of her otherwise grey tail was black. Her eyes were the color of old pine-tree tears and her bearing was strong and lithe, with no trace of age.
For the first time, Firekeeper found herself wondering how old the Royal Wolves might grow to be. She had never much paid attention to the passage of time, but humans seemed to do little else. From them she had learned that her tenure among the wolves had probably been between ten and twelve years. She herself remembered no time she had not been a wolf, except sometimes, perhaps, in dreams.
A sudden panic squeezed her heart. She had heard Race Forester speak of one of his bird dogs as growing old at twelve years. Did Royal Wolves age at the same rate? She knew that Blind Seer had celebrated his fourth year early this spring. Numbers still were not her strong point, but she knew that twelve was just beyond two hands and that four filled one hand almost entirely.
There had been three One Males in her memory. Was this replacement a result of aging on the part of the wolves? Did they become unfit for their places just as age was rendering King Tedric unfit for elements of his? A human king might delegate others to lead in battle. Tedric had done just that last autumn—otherwise the war might have been called King Tedric’s War rather than King Allister’s.
A One never delegated another to lead. Either they were slain by a competitor or beaten so sorely that none doubted they were past their time.
Suddenly Firekeeper felt afraid of a human life, afraid that its length might take her beyond all those she loved. Then she shook herself. She herself was a wolf, no human to be coddled by servants in a castle as was King Tedric or by children and grandchildren in a cottage as was Holly Gardener. Death was more likely to find her than was old age.
And perhaps it was proof that she was a wolf at heart that this thought gave her comfort. Perhaps it was only proof that she was very young.
Firekeeper remembered her manners and recalled her attention to the One Female’s question.
“I do not remember you,” she said to Wind Whisper. “But puppies have no memory beyond their last meal and no dreams beyond the next.”
Wind Whisper panted with laughter.
“True enough,” she said, “and you were a very ill pup. How we struggled to make you to eat, but the fire had badly damaged you. If it had not been for…”
Wind Whisper stopped, snapping at her haunch as if after a fly. When she resumed, it was as if she had forgotten what she had been about to say.
“Well, you’ve grown into a fine young creature. Nicely spoken, too, and lighter on your feet than any of the two-legs I’ve seen over in that smoky nest they’ve built themselves.”
Blind Seer wagged his great brush of a tail, pleased at this compliment to his friend.
“When did you leave this pack?” he asked Wind Whisper. “And where did you go?”
“Long before you were born, Blue-Eyes,” she replied, “even before your mother came to rule this pack.”
Again Firekeeper was struck by the difference between how she and the wolves grew and aged. She had known both the One Male and the One Female as pups. The One Female had been of this pack, the One Male of a neighboring pack with whom her own sometimes joined for winter hunts and summer romps.
To her, now, both wolves were adults, wise and strong, yet she could recall them as fat furballs like the four who even now romped with each other in a sheltered hollow, their mock battles indulgently supervised by a couple of the yearlings. How old were the Ones now? Eight?
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