something change.
It was as if something tiny and tight inside him suddenly opened and changed shape — as if a flower had suddenly burst into blossom or a butterfly had torn free of its wrappings and spread its glorious new wings. It felt incredibly, wonderfully different — but natural, too, and infinitely comfortable, like wearing an old, soft, and much-loved suit of clothes.
This is the way I’m supposed to be
, Tad thought.
“What is your name?”
The silver voice rose to a shriek.
Before Ulrid could stop him, Tad sprang to stand beside the High Priest on the altar stone.
“I am the one you seek, Witch!” he shouted. “I am Tadpole of the Fisher Tribe!”
The Grellers were staring at him in astonishment, as if they’d set out to catch a docile minner but had hooked an angry rockbiter by mistake. Tad clenched his hands into fists.
“I am Tadpole of the Fisher Tribe! I am the Sagamore!”
The black-robed High Priest lunged toward him, his furred fingers curled like claws.
“Kill the boy!”
The cold voice echoed off the tall stones, bouncing from one to the other until it seemed that there were hundreds of voices singing in chorus, each louder than the one before.
“Kill the boy! Kill the boy! Kill the boy!”
The Grellers, moving as one, lifted their spears.
A terrible calm came over Tad. Time, for an endless moment, seemed to stand still. He felt a power gathering inside him, swelling, filling him up. And then, astonishingly, the night was full of voices. Some were no more than distant whispers, too faint and muddled to understand; some were clear as crystal, as if the speakers’ lips were pressed close to Tad’s ears.
“. . . slaves and power, she said we’d have, and riches, too, red gold, mayhap, and fire opals big as huggle-berries . . .”
“. . . high time and more I were captain in his place, and now I do have the Lady’s promise of help . . .”
“. . . Lady, guide my aim, as I be your faithful servant . . .”
It wasn’t voices, Tad realized. He was listening to people’s minds. No, not just people. From the edge of the clearing, just beyond the towering stones, came a high inhuman jabber of mind voices that twisted slyly around one another, coiling together like snakes in a nest. The voices rose and fell and overlapped, filled with anger, fear, pain, and despair. Slaves now, they were slaves, the voices mourned, taken from the kinship circles in the warm earth-smelling warrens, dragged with chains and bands of leather, forced to carry the Masters who held the stinging whips. One mind was black with misery; another, a red ember of fury and hatred; a third, a confused jumble of cravings for escape, to run and run, back to the deep of the forest, where the only blood spilled was in honest kill, where family waited, welcoming, curled together in the narrow tunnels. But that could never be, never, because one must obey the Masters. There was no other way. Slaves, they were slaves; obey, they must obey . . .
It was the weasels. They clustered together in the shadows, tethered to polished stakes driven deeply into the ground. Tad cautiously reached toward them.
No. Not slaves. Pull free.
The sinuous coil of minds fell silent, alertly listening.
Simple minds really
, Tad thought, moving gently among them — little earth-soft minds filled with thoughts of hunger and hunt, home and kindred, field and forest and deep long sleep.
Slaves. Obey.
The weasels’ minds murmured, but Tad, prodding, could feel them beginning to question.
No
, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut with the effort to make himself heard.
No. Not slaves. Pull free.
One weasel mind — the angry red one — joined him. He could feel the weasel bracing its front paws, tugging wildly at its leather rope.
Home. Free. Hate Masters hate.
Another weasel joined in. One tremendous heave, and a tethering stake yanked out of the ground.
Slaves? Obey?
No! Pull free!
Another weasel followed, and another. A Greller on the
It was as if something tiny and tight inside him suddenly opened and changed shape — as if a flower had suddenly burst into blossom or a butterfly had torn free of its wrappings and spread its glorious new wings. It felt incredibly, wonderfully different — but natural, too, and infinitely comfortable, like wearing an old, soft, and much-loved suit of clothes.
This is the way I’m supposed to be
, Tad thought.
“What is your name?”
The silver voice rose to a shriek.
Before Ulrid could stop him, Tad sprang to stand beside the High Priest on the altar stone.
“I am the one you seek, Witch!” he shouted. “I am Tadpole of the Fisher Tribe!”
The Grellers were staring at him in astonishment, as if they’d set out to catch a docile minner but had hooked an angry rockbiter by mistake. Tad clenched his hands into fists.
“I am Tadpole of the Fisher Tribe! I am the Sagamore!”
The black-robed High Priest lunged toward him, his furred fingers curled like claws.
“Kill the boy!”
The cold voice echoed off the tall stones, bouncing from one to the other until it seemed that there were hundreds of voices singing in chorus, each louder than the one before.
“Kill the boy! Kill the boy! Kill the boy!”
The Grellers, moving as one, lifted their spears.
A terrible calm came over Tad. Time, for an endless moment, seemed to stand still. He felt a power gathering inside him, swelling, filling him up. And then, astonishingly, the night was full of voices. Some were no more than distant whispers, too faint and muddled to understand; some were clear as crystal, as if the speakers’ lips were pressed close to Tad’s ears.
“. . . slaves and power, she said we’d have, and riches, too, red gold, mayhap, and fire opals big as huggle-berries . . .”
“. . . high time and more I were captain in his place, and now I do have the Lady’s promise of help . . .”
“. . . Lady, guide my aim, as I be your faithful servant . . .”
It wasn’t voices, Tad realized. He was listening to people’s minds. No, not just people. From the edge of the clearing, just beyond the towering stones, came a high inhuman jabber of mind voices that twisted slyly around one another, coiling together like snakes in a nest. The voices rose and fell and overlapped, filled with anger, fear, pain, and despair. Slaves now, they were slaves, the voices mourned, taken from the kinship circles in the warm earth-smelling warrens, dragged with chains and bands of leather, forced to carry the Masters who held the stinging whips. One mind was black with misery; another, a red ember of fury and hatred; a third, a confused jumble of cravings for escape, to run and run, back to the deep of the forest, where the only blood spilled was in honest kill, where family waited, welcoming, curled together in the narrow tunnels. But that could never be, never, because one must obey the Masters. There was no other way. Slaves, they were slaves; obey, they must obey . . .
It was the weasels. They clustered together in the shadows, tethered to polished stakes driven deeply into the ground. Tad cautiously reached toward them.
No. Not slaves. Pull free.
The sinuous coil of minds fell silent, alertly listening.
Simple minds really
, Tad thought, moving gently among them — little earth-soft minds filled with thoughts of hunger and hunt, home and kindred, field and forest and deep long sleep.
Slaves. Obey.
The weasels’ minds murmured, but Tad, prodding, could feel them beginning to question.
No
, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut with the effort to make himself heard.
No. Not slaves. Pull free.
One weasel mind — the angry red one — joined him. He could feel the weasel bracing its front paws, tugging wildly at its leather rope.
Home. Free. Hate Masters hate.
Another weasel joined in. One tremendous heave, and a tethering stake yanked out of the ground.
Slaves? Obey?
No! Pull free!
Another weasel followed, and another. A Greller on the
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