The Dawn King (The Moon People, Book Five)

—1—

Priest of the Son

Again, High Priest? the guardsman Ryndel said, his features pinching with dismay. This was not the first time Jarek had slipped out of the temple, nor would it be the last. He had no true power to intervene, yet it was he who would have to answer to the Dawn King when the inevitable question was asked.

You could look away, Jarek, High Priest of the Son, said, gesturing over the man's shoulder. Pretend you were watching the children over there. Let Heinar answer for once.

Ryndel glanced to his fellow temple guard on the other side of the entranceway. Heinar never said anything. From dawn till dusk he stood resolute, eyes forward, only intervening if the queueing laypeople caused trouble.

You're right, Jarek sighed, patting the warrior on the shoulder. You're too honest of a servant, I know. That is why we have you watching the temple gates.

None of the other high priests leave as often as you, Ryndel said. It was merely an observation, but Jarek could hear the implicit reproach in the man's voice.

Has the Dawn King made his word against it?

You know his word better than I, High Priest.

Jarek chuckled. Whether I wish to or not. But! He reached into the folds of his woolen tunic, the light blue dyeing of which had been interspersed with threads of yellow to reflect his status. The bronze-bladed knife he produced boasted a ring of white seastones around the handle. After prying one loose, he pressed it into Ryndel's palm. I hope this will make up for your trouble.

The guardsman looked down at the smooth gem for a moment, tucked it into his satchel, bowed, and kissed his palm in a show of reverence.

For you and your generosity, High Priest.

For guardsmen as dutiful as you, I am glad to give it. Jarek turned to leave before pivoting back on his heel at the last moment, a questioning finger held aloft. One thing before I depart. Did the night guard mention a girl when they passed you their spears this morning?

A girl, High Priest?

One who came alone to the temple gates in the middle of the night. How did she look? A traveller? One of the laypeople? Clean? Dirty? Filled with fire, or raving at the moon?

Ryndel shook his head. The night guard are more eager to find their beds than tell tales when we come to relieve them.

Hm.

The guardsman's composure slipped again as he shot Jarek a sideways look. If it's some girl you seek we would gladly search the village on your behalf.

Now where's the fun in that, Ryndel? Jarek kissed his fingers and flicked them into the air, as if tasting a succulent morsel on the wind. I've an excuse to wander, and I shall take it. Rumours of strange women demanding audiences after dark stir my interest.

As you say, High Priest.

The guardsman's stoic tone drew a smile from Jarek. Respectful though it was, the underlying sentiment was obvious. Ryndel and the others thought their priest of the Son very strange. He walked where other priests did not walk and spoke as they did not speak. While the men and women around him wore light skin and straight, oil-sleek hair, Jarek was dark as the earth, sporting thick braids adorned with metal ringlets and speaking with a tune in his voice that marked him as a traveller from far-off lands.

He knew things, too, that none of these Sun People had ever known. He carried secrets that none of them could know. None but the Dawn King himself.

Bright springtime sun warmed Jarek's skin as he stepped between the lattice of shadows cast by the six pillars of the great spirits. Rough and simple though they were, the stacked discs of stone drew many offerings from the laypeople who waited outside the temple entrance. It pleased him to see a great many woven grass talismans adorning the pillar of the Son that morning. Standing no higher than a child, the simple monument nonetheless represented the hope that so many of the Sun People turned to in times of need.

Jarek struck a jaunty pace down the hill, following the well-trod path that led to the surrounding village. Dust and pebbles scattered around his sandals, scaring off the clutch of rodents that always gathered to pick over the refuse cast out by the temple servants. The heartland plains stretched out around him for as far as the eye could see, dusty paths and irrigation ditches winding their way between the smoke threads of farms and hunting houses. On a clear day one could even make out some of the far-off villages on the horizon, but no matter how distant they were all of them looked up in homage to the temple of the Dawn King. It was the Dawn King who had gathered the wisest shamans of the land, he who had trained the strongest warriors, he who held the power to take tribute from the other villages as so many other powerful chieftains had done before him. Yet rather than ruling greedily, like the warlords of the past, the Dawn King had ruled for every man, woman, and child of his people. He had used his warriors not to extort tribute, but to ensure that the most prosperous villages always helped provide for the ones in need, strengthening the whole rather than the few. He had sent shamans between settlements freely, spreading the wisdom of the spirits for all to hear, tending illness, and healing wounds.

Today, the Dawn King no longer needed to make demands of his people using the threat of his warriors. They sent their excess harvest to the temple willingly. Students arrived from across the land, eager to learn from those wisest of shamans who now bore the title priest. To the temple village came food, knowledge, trade, and so much more. As Jarek walked he passed by the path that led to the craftsmen's rise, where earthen kilns burned night and day. Clay became pottery up there, wood became beams, and, most importantly of all, ore made its transformation into metal.

It was the leader who saw the wisdom in cultivating these crafts who had invited Jarek to join his priesthood all those years ago. He'd been a lost, wandering boy of the Moon People caught off his guard in the Sun People's lands. The Dawn King alone had noticed how a cut left on Jarek's arm by a warrior's spear had healed in less than a day. As was the Dawn King's way, he had seen opportunity in this thing rather than danger.

Be my voice from another land, he had told Jarek. My eyes from another people. Show me your ways as I show you mine. Do this for me, and you will be as a chieftain among chieftains. A captive no longer, but a hand of the Dawn King himself.

At first Jarek had resisted the offer. Power and status were not things that lost boy had ever craved. Yet as he had languished in the temple domicile, a prisoner in name only, he had grown to see how this Dawn King was different from the alphas of his homeland. Here was a man who craved knowledge not just for the power it could bring him, but for the potential that it held. In time Jarek had seen how such knowledge could be used for good. He learned of the strife the Sun People suffered—sickness, injury, the slowing of their wolfless bodies—and the ingenious methods they had devised to rise above it. Once Jarek had learned of these things, he had grown to care about them. During their conversations, where he slowly curled his tongue around all the intricacies of the Sun People's language, the Dawn King gradually ceased to be his captor and became his friend.

Here, in the heartlands of the Sun People, Jarek had finally found a reason to stop wandering. It had filled him with fresh hope, and hope was the predilection of the Son—the great spirit of the Sun People that embodied optimism and faith in the future. Seeing this newfound light in Jarek, the Dawn King had named him High Priest, granting him a permanent place in the temple and a voice among the conclave of leadership.

The only thing the Dawn King had forbidden him from doing was revealing his true nature, for that would invite danger that could unsettle the entire temple. The Moon People were abominations in the eyes of many, barbaric demons that lurked only in the darkest corners of the world. Tales of their kind inspired fear among youngsters and dread-fascination around the hearths of wayhouses late at night. Only some of the pilgrims and traders, those who had travelled the lands of the Moon People themselves, had cause to speak differently of them. One such man, a shaman named Ilen Ra, had held the Dawn King's ear before Jarek thanks to his great knowledge of the mysterious shapeshifters.

Of all the men and women who had been invited to hold council at the temple over the years, Ilen Ra was the only one Jarek had ever suspected of guessing at his true nature. Even the other high priests were oblivious, but Ilen Ra had been possessed of a cunning quite unlike any other. He was the kind of man who could embrace you as friend with one arm while holding a poisoned needle behind his back with the other. A great asset, and a great danger.

Yet Jarek did not have to worry himself over Ilen Ra that spring. The shaman had been due back from his latest pilgrimage more than two seasons ago, and many feared that he had braved the lands of the Moon People one time too many. Jarek felt for the foolish young warriors who had followed Ilen Ra on his ill-fated quest, but he could not deny the relief he felt now that the old man was gone.

With a playful tune humming on his lips, Jarek meandered between the houses at the base of the hill, straying off the main path to avoid the eyes of the laypeople who were going about their morning work. He would have disrobed of his priestly attire if he thought it would help him blend in better with the village folk, but there was no mistaking his dark complexion no matter how plainly he dressed.

With a grin of amusement he realised that the best way for him to avoid attention would have been to take the shape of his wolf. Wild beasts sometimes came to gorge themselves upon the refuse of the village, and a few of the tamer ones had even won themselves the affection of the laypeople. Then again, his wolf might be a little too big to pass for a scavenging animal.

If only I could take the shape of an aurochs or a chicken.

Skirting around a line of drying earthen bricks, Jarek hopped over a sludgy irrigation ditch at the back of the village's largest wayhouse and approached its rear wall. It was built in much the same fashion as the temple of the Dawn King, with hefty wooden beams providing support for dry stone walls held together with a mixture of clay and earth, all smoothed over with mud on the outside. Each year new murals would be painted into the mud before it softened and had to be replaced during the wet season. Squat and square, the house sheltered its visitors just as well as any cave.

Jarek ducked beneath the drapes at the back entrance and shouldered aside a wooden screen designed to keep wild beasts out. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the inner gloom, just long enough for a burly man with a beard as full as his scalp was bald to appear in front of him.

Jarek, the man sighed. Come to the front next time, eh? I'll not think you're one of those boys after the drink then. He hauled the high priest upright, brushing grass from the drapes off his shoulders with an attentiveness that belied his rough appearance.

The front has twice as many eyes to spy me and twice as many mouths begging the temple's blessing, Jarek said.

The wayhouse keeper grinned. You love being begged for blessings.

When I have time to give them. Jarek waved him off. You're the only one I came to speak with today. There was a girl who approached the temple last night, a strange one. He cocked an exaggerated eyebrow at the man. You have any strange girls in here, Nirut?

Every day. How strange do you want them, High Priest? Nirut shoved the screen back over the doorway and gestured Jarek through into an adjoining chamber. They had been in the cooking area, and across from that lay the room in which Nirut and his family slept. A dull murmur of conversation reached them through the wall that separated the back section of the wayhouse from its large central chamber, but it was far more subdued than the usual cacophony of noise that filled the place.

A girl strange enough to come asking to join a pilgrimage in the dead of night, Jarek said.

Ah. I know that one. Traveller, was she? Dark of hair, and not well washed?

I never saw her myself.

Come, then, Nirut said, picking up a hooded cloak from one of the antlers that served as ceiling hooks and tossing it to Jarek. She's sleeping here with the other travellers. Asks after pilgrims all day long. I'd cast her out for the nuisance she causes, but Hena tells me to be patient with her. The wayhouse keeper continued to grumble as Jarek donned the cloak and drew up its hood, thankful for his companion's understanding of his desire for anonymity. Shrouded beneath the garment, he followed Nirut out into the central chamber, sticking to the sun-facing wall upon which the single window was still covered. With the shadows concealing him only the keenest eye would have been able to discern the high priest's true identity, and many of the two dozen or so men and women occupying the wayhouse were still asleep in Nirut's low hammocks. On the opposite side of the room two families sat at a well-used table, its uneven split-log surface stained with the refuse of many a meal. Aside from a few distracted glances, they ignored Jarek, leaving Nirut free to lead him to the front corner of the room in which a bundle of ragged furs sat piled against the wall. Nirut gave the pile a kick, and it groaned.

Up, girl, he said under his breath, and present yourself properly. You've a high priest looking to speak with you.

From between the furs a pale, dirt-streaked face emerged. Her hair and complexion had the look of the forest people about them. She was an adult, but just barely. Much the same age as the young men who often vied for places on the pilgrimages, Jarek noted.

Are you the one who came to the temple last night? he asked her.

A scowl, a blink, and a nod answered him.

Show some respect, girl. I told you this is—

Jarek silenced Nirut gently with a hand on his arm. Thank you, my friend, you may go back to your guests.

The wayhouse keeper glared at the girl a moment longer, then took his leave. Jarek waited for his sleepy companion to rouse herself, watching Nirut bring in a huge bowl of fresh spring water for the families at the table.

Why didn't you let me have an audience last night? the girl said. Her voice was soft but with a bitter edge, like supple cord that might be yanked whip-taut at a moment's notice. Here was a woman, Jarek suspected, that had seen more than her years implied.

It is not the way of the temple to admit visitors after dark, he said, squatting down so that he could meet her eye to eye.

So it is your way to sneak down into the village under a cloak instead?

Jarek grinned. Most definitely a traveller, this one. No man or woman of the Dawn King's village would have dared address a high priest with such mockery.

I am a very strange high priest, he said, drawing back the hood of Nirut's cloak so that she could see his face more clearly. The girl's eyes widened, but she kept a steady tone when she spoke.

I've heard of you. You look like the Moon People from the southern plains.

Jarek tensed slightly. His birth pack were known to some of the Sun People, but few had ever made the connection between him and them. Most would sooner assume he was a traveller from the lands of his grandfathers, far, far, in the south, from where tales of other dark-skinned Sun People sometimes emerged.

I am sorry, the girl said, seeming to mistake his discomfort for indignation. No one deserves to be told they are anything like those beasts.

Jarek forced a smile back to his lips. You know something of the Moon People?

I know enough to despise them. That whip-cord tension returned, spreading to the girl's eyes in a hard flash of hatred. If you are a high priest, then tell one of your shamans to take me on their pilgrimage west.

Why are you so eager to go to the lands of a people you hate?

The girl's posture prickled with fury, and beneath her ragged furs and malnourished frame Jarek noticed knots of travel-hardened muscle.

I want to kill them, she said.

Why?

For my village. For my mother. My father. My sisters. All those the Moon People took from me.

Are you sure the Moon People were responsible? What if it was the warriors of another village who took your family away?

The girl looked away with a bitter shake of her head. I saw them turn into beasts. Besides, our kind do not do such things to one another.

Jarek felt an upwelling of pity for the angry young woman. It was easy to make heroes and villains of the world when the truth was so much more ruthless.

All the world can be your enemy if you let it, he said gently. Before the time of the Dawn King the heartlands had bloodshed of their own. Food stolen for hungry mouths, daughters stolen for unwed sons, and all of it paid for in blood. I could command a shaman to take you to fight the enemies you seek if I wanted. It is within my power to do such a thing, even for a woman like you.

Then do it. Make them take me, please, High Priest! She leaned forward as if to grovel.

Jarek shook his head. No.

"I've fought more foes than half those boys the shamans take! Most of them have never even seen a wolf of the Moon People. They don't know the size of those beasts, the strength of them, the speed. Give me a bow and I'll fight as well as three warriors!"

I'd tell you the same even if you were a man. The pilgrimage is not about fighting. Jarek's earlier mirth had deserted him. Our people venture into the Moon People's territory for the metal that lies there.

The girl scoffed at him. They never tell stories about picking up metal. The pilgrims buy their power with trophies of the Moon People as much as the riches they bring back. What do you know of the wolves anyway?

Enough to realise that fighting them is foolish. I'd send our people to make bargains with the Moon People if only I had a way to reach their alphas.

Disdain still marred the young woman's dirty face. "They say a dark sorceress leads them. A demon woman herself, the mother of all evil spirits. You'd try to bargain with that?"

For the second time in their conversation Jarek found himself caught off guard by the girl's words. A dark sorceress? This was not a tale he had ever heard before. Women could not lead in the lands of the Moon People any more than they could here in the heartland plains. Likely it was just a fiction made up by superstitious travellers, yet still it niggled at him.

Perhaps I would, Jarek said, measuring his words carefully. If only I knew more of this sorceress.

The girl glowered at him. Let me join the pilgrimage and I'll tell you.

Jarek shook his head. As his braids swayed he reached up to remove a polished metal ringlet from one of them. Rings of metal had begun to replace the rare stones and sea shells the Sun People sometimes used as a means of universal trade, though only the wealthiest of merchants could afford to deal in them.

Take this instead. Jarek held out the ring to her. You can trade it for bricks, enough to start a house of your own—

The girl slapped it out of his hand. The metal tinkled as it bounced off the wall.

I don't want a house!

A withering look crossed Jarek's face. He was not the sort to grow angry or impatient in the face of such insolence, but he was beginning to see how blunted this woman had become to reason. She was a creature of anger.

Use it to win another season of Nirut's patience, then. Share some songs around his table, find some stories that can make you laugh. Laughter slays more demons than arrows in these lands.

Keep your metal, and keep your laughter. The girl turned away and pulled the heap of furs back around her.

With a weary smile and a shrug Jarek picked up the ringlet, tossing it in his palm as he allowed more practical thoughts to chase the plight of this unfortunate girl from his mind. If she needed help he would be glad to offer it, but he would not let her turn herself upon the Moon People like a weapon. Nothing good would come of it. Perhaps after enough pilgrims had said no to her she would start finding the prospect of a heartland home more attractive.

Jarek slipped off Nirut's cloak and tossed it down on the end of the table, departing before the others could recognise him. Now that his curious little mystery had been solved he felt no more need for anonymity. His next destination would take him along the village's main path anyway, and a borrowed cloak would do little to conceal his identity out there.

The conversation with the girl had left him with a new mystery to ponder. This sorceress she had spoken of, who was she? Just a story, or a person of flesh and blood?

You are dreaming again, he chided himself. Feeling that lost hand back on your shoulder. Yet no matter how hard he tried to subdue it, his curiosity continued to grow.

There was only one woman who had ever possessed the passion, the tenacity, and the spirit-touched wisdom to bring the other clans under her control. She was the only woman he had ever truly loved.

He could see it now. When her father sent her away it had been as a gift to his most powerful rival. As den mother of that clan she could have twisted its young alpha to her will. A deep sadness pained Jarek's throat as he imagined her dark-haired beauty transformed into something terrible—a conqueror like her father, using her power to bring the other clans to heel, ruling over them like the Sun People's warlords of old.

Surely not. Surely it was nothing more than the ravings of an angry girl. He imagined what might have befallen the Moon People in the years since his absence, and in a rare flash of insight he saw time stretching out between then and now, questioning whether his departure might have marked a divergence in the course of his people. He had tried to soften Adel's hard heart. Blunt her rough edges. What if she had become something monstrous without his voice to calm her?

High Priest, High Priest! a voice cut through his chilling reverie, and he realised that sweat had begun to bead on his forehead.

High Priest, so I am! he exclaimed with a smile, turning toward the woman who had accosted him. Within moments a small crowd of people had gathered, all vying for his blessing as they regaled him with tales of their families and the various hardships they had suffered since last they met. He took time for every one of them, dismissing his previous worries as he slowly made his way down the path with an ever-growing entourage in tow.

It was well into the morning by the time he managed to extricate himself from the crowd near the edge of the village, reassuring the last of the hangers-on that the Son would always be there to inspire them so long as they held hope for the future in their hearts. The brief sermon had done as much good for Jarek as it had for his followers, turning his thoughts away from cosmic worry and back toward a sense of normality. The tale of this sorceress was probably nothing, certainly not some fateful portent of the lover he had left behind. Still, it would be best to check with the pilgrims just to set his mind at ease.

Three camps had been erected in the fields at the edge of the village, tents and canoes secured upon the banks of the river that fed the nearby crops. It would not be long now before the pilgrims bundled up their tents, lashed their canoes together, and paddled south all the way to the sea. From there they would skirt the coast, their shamans reading the tides that would carry them all the way around the far mountains and into the lands of the Moon People.

Jarek avoided the groups of hopeful young men who had arrived from the neighbouring villages, making instead for the largest camp at the centre of the three. This time he parleyed his way through the crowd with stern looks rather than welcoming smiles, making sure his garment of priesthood was seen by all. The pilgrims made way for him with respectful bows and words of reverence, leaving him free to approach a heap of supplies that had been piled near the riverbank. Sitting upon an upturned canoe, a man with braided red hair and tattoos running down his back counted shells as he motioned his men to measure off sacks of grain for their journey. His initial glance was dismissive of Jarek, but a second look snapped his attention up from his work.

High Priest. The shaman bowed his head, but did not rise. Have you come to join our pilgrimage too?

Jarek shook his head. Not join, Liliac, only to share tales. Please, finish your work. I can see your canoes will soon be carrying an aurochs' weight in food.

Aye, and the man to make measure of it all is me. Help yourself to food, drink. My men will see that you're kept in good comfort.

Despite the curious reverence shown by the people around him, Jarek was grateful for the chance to sit down and share some fruit-sweetened water with the pilgrims. This was why he enjoyed walking through the village. It reminded him that he was still a man, not some spirit given flesh as the other high priests would have had the laypeople believe. He even felt something else stirring beneath his skin, the prickle of fur and the growl of the beast in the back of his throat. His sense of smell sharpened, woken up by the fragrances blown in on the wind. Reaching into a well-worn pouch at his belt, he sprinkled a handful of crushed leaves into his water and swallowed them in a sip. Shortly thereafter, the urge to take the shape of his wolf dissipated.

It must be more than tales you're after, High Priest, Liliac said when he joined Jarek on the riverbank at noon. The shaman squashed down a tuft of long grass so that he could sit, batting away the summer flies that danced over the water. What is it? More tribute for the temple? I'm bringing twice as many canoes as men this time. We'll bring back enough metal to cover every wall of the Dawn King's chamber if he commands it.

The Dawn King has given me no such order, but... Jarek beckoned the shaman in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Could you furnish my domicile with that much metal?"

Liliac looked at him hesitantly for a moment before realising that he was joking. A cackling laugh spilt from the shaman's lips.

Jarek grinned. No, I really do just want tales today. You're one of the few who speak the Moon People's tongue, are you not?

Speak is a strong way of saying it. The people of my father's village did, up in the north forests on the edge of the Moon People's plains. I can say enough to make them hesitate before they try to kill me, at least. I learned that much on my last pilgrimage.

And does your father's village still make friends of the Moon People?

Liliac looked over his shoulder uncomfortably. None of us are friends to them.

I understand. But you still hear word from your family there? Tales of life beyond the heartlands?

Liliac gave him a hesitant nod. I might do.

Any tales of a sorceress? A stray bird tells me that the Moon People follow Alphas no longer, but a woman.

What birds have you been listening to? The shaman grimaced. There's a sorceress in their lands, so I've heard, but she's one to be feared, not followed. Even the Moon People wouldn't be foolish enough to worship a woman of dark magic.

Jarek gazed toward the western horizon. So she does exist.

Far from these lands, thankfully. On our last pilgrimage there was only one band of Moon People wise enough to talk before fighting. They warned us about her. I couldn't understand it all, but they said to keep to the south rivers till we crossed the mountains. They said the sorceress dwelt in the north, and there'd be no saving us if we went that far.

Jarek turned to Liliac, his sudden enthusiasm taking the man off guard. Could you find those same people again? Go to those north lands they spoke of?

What for? We want to see as few Moon People as possible.

I'd not ask you to put yourselves in danger. Go to this sorceress only if they permit you, but when they ask... Jarek swallowed, weighing the risk he was about to take by revealing so much to this man. Say that you wish to speak with Adel.

Is that a name I should know?

Jarek tapped the side of his nose. I hear tales of my own, my friend.

"Hm. Why, though? Any talk with the Moon People is a risk, and my men won't like it. I don't like it. Dark magic isn't to be toyed with."

Would you not rather travel their lands unmolested on your next pilgrimage? This is your chance to make peace with them, as the people of your father's village do.

I wouldn't have the words to make peace with them. I can barely speak enough to hold a conversation.

A simple message is all I desire. An offering, one leader to another. When Liliac did not respond, Jarek added, This would be a great service to the Dawn King. I have his ear, and you would have mine. Some day the temple will need another wise shaman to ascend to the priesthood. Jarek smiled as he saw the hungry glint in Liliac's eye. A pilgrim through and through, hungry for the world's riches. He knew he had him.

What message would have me deliver, High Priest?

Jarek beckoned him close again, and in hushed tones he imparted his plan.

—2—

Daughter of the Night

Many leagues distant from the lands of the Sun People, across forests and plains and mountains, a hidden valley nestled at the heart of Den Mother Adel's territory. The seasons turned, feeding spring with the sun's warmth until a sweltering midsummer enveloped the land. Even the cool spray from the valley falls did little to alleviate the heat, filling the air with a sticky humidity that had driven half the pack into sleeping outside. The great moon and sun spirits were at war, so the omens said, for how else could such a heavy winter have been followed by an equally harsh summer?

Adel found it difficult to teach her apprentices in such weather. It had been a trying year for her thus far, but she struggled to push on despite the discomfort. She owed it to Netya—to all of her followers—to be a better leader to them than her father had been to his clan. It was difficult to accept just how close she had come to going down that path no more than two seasons prior. Fear and fury, she realised, were things she had to stop using as the only tools of her leadership. She had to forget what had gone before, let go of it, and find the hopeful woman within herself once again.

The den mother wiped the perspiration from her brow, clapping her hands sharply to catch her apprentices' attention. Twice per moon she had taken to instructing them all personally for a day, growing to understand each of their personal strengths and weaknesses so that she could better help their mentors in teaching them. An uncomfortable stir rippled through the half dozen young women, drawing their wilting attention back to the task at hand.

I once tended the wounded of two whole clans under sun like this, Adel said. With a broken nose and blood in my eyes while I did it. Our people expect strength beyond strength from their seers. I will have you learning out here in the snow next winter if that is what it takes.

Her words managed to stir the flagging apprentices back to life, all save one. Adel's eyes narrowed. Kiren, the girl who was more huntress than seer, still gazed after a bird as it flitted from rock to rock on the valleyside above them. The fact that Netya could make this wild thing listen to her at all was a testament to her hidden talents as a mentor.

Adel's fingers snapped out, flicking an unsharpened wooden needle from her sleeve. It struck Kiren in the cheek, drawing a peal of mirth from the other girls as she startled and almost toppled off the rock she'd been sitting on.

What? Kiren said hotly, rubbing her cheek as she glared at the den mother.

Do you listen to my teachings as well as you stare at birds, girl?

I can listen and watch at the same time, can't I?

I have no doubt you can. Adel squeezed her annoyance into a smile. In the past she would have reprimanded the girl further, perhaps even reached into the concealed pocket within her sleeve that held needles tipped with burning poison instead of blunt wood, but she forced herself not to. There were better ways of showing Kiren that her personal grievances were less important than her learning. Come, demonstrate to the others what I just taught you. Adel picked up the grease-rimmed bowl in front of her and held it out to Kiren. A few of the ants inside it were valiantly attempting to wade through the sticky line of animal fat barring their escape, but the rest had resigned themselves to scuttling about at the vessel's base.

Kiren tensed a little, but the eyes of the group were on her now. Sephonie, the most senior of the apprentices, voiced a scornful giggle. Adel shot the girl a glare to silence her, then turned back to Kiren.

Quickly now. If you cannot handle a few live ants you will never wrap your fingers around a snake or a porcupine.

Why? Kiren said. They are just ants. Why not kill them first?

"If you had been listening to the den mother, Sephonie said, unable to pass up the opportunity to put down her rival, you would know that a live tree ant's sting can dull the pains of bone and muscle that torment our elders. It is a difficult poison to make use of otherwise, and—"

Kiren will demonstrate, Adel interrupted. If she was listening to me and not watching birds then she should be more than capable. Otherwise, I shall be happy to repeat myself. She raised her eyebrows at Kiren, offering the girl her one chance to back down.

Don't be like your friend Vaya, girl.

Adel's heart sank a little as Kiren grimaced and stepped forward, reaching out for the ant bowl. She'd not been listening. She had no idea how to handle these ants, yet she was too stubborn to admit it. Adel recognised that stubbornness all too well. In another setting she might have applauded Kiren's spirit, but today it was only going to hurt her. Well, the girl would learn her lesson one way or another.

Grip them gently between the head and abdomen, she murmured as Kiren dove her hand into the bowl. The large ants scattered away from her probing fingers, crawling over one another as she made several futile attempts to pinch them.

They won't stay still.

Chase one into a corner, Adel said. Near the edge of the grease.

Rather than heeding the den mother's advice Kiren attempted to scoop some of the insects into her palm. An instant later she recoiled with a sharp intake of breath, sending her handful of ants scattering over the rocks.

Sephonie tittered again as Kiren sucked her reddening palm, fingers twitching in pain from the sting.

Would you like me to prepare you a salve, girl? Adel asked mildly.

Kiren ignored her and squatted back down at the rear of the group. It doesn't hurt that much. She dropped her hand into her lap as if to demonstrate that the pain had subsided, but Adel could still see her fingers clenching in discomfort. A tree ant's sting burned for a long time.

The den mother allowed her apprentices a moment to dwell on Kiren's punishment before picking up the scattered ants and flicking them back into the bowl. Sensing that Kiren's embarrassment was causing her more discomfort than the sting, Adel took pity on her and motioned for the others to come forward. The girl had learned her lesson.

The rest of you come and try. Don't be afraid of a little sting.

Sephonie was the first to dip her hand the bowl. She managed to snag an ant on her first try, though Adel noted that it took far longer than Kiren's bold attempt.

Sister Lyucia says she knows a fiendish curse that can fill an enemy's sleeping furs with ants like these, Sephonie said, peering closely at the insect wriggling between her fingers. Will you teach us how to do that too, Den Mother?

Of course, Adel replied. You gather a bowl of ants and scatter them over your enemy while they sleep. Then tell them it was a curse.

Sephonie looked nonplussed, though it was Kiren who voiced her disappointment with the den mother's answer first.

Is all magic just tricks and lies?

Adel turned her gaze on the girl. Once you understand a magic it ceases to be mystical. Our power as seers is not in the things that we do, but the understanding of how we do them.

Anyone could understand how to throw a bowl of ants into someone's furs.

But would they know how to gather that bowl in the first place, hm? Seek out a colony of these creatures, pluck them from the trees without harming them, and line a vessel with grease to stop them from escaping? This is knowledge only a seer will take the time to cultivate, just as anyone may be able to throw a spear, but only a warrior will understand how to make it fly straight and true. We are all masters of our own craft.

Kiren pressed her lips together and looked away, stubbornly searching for another bird to watch.

It is not the teachings this girl resents, Adel thought. It is the woman teaching her.

Netya had managed to win her apprentice's trust, but Adel, it seemed, could not. There was too much bad blood between them after the troubles with Vaya and Orec's clan. Adel rarely regretted her past decisions, but if the spirits could have taken her back one year she would have handled that problem very differently. It had taken Netya pushing her to the very brink before she understood the dark path she was heading down. In her mind she had always trusted that her way of doing things would be for the best in the end, that despite their similarities she would never make the same mistakes as her father. Overconfidence had blinded her to the simple truth that she was clinging on to fragile distinctions. She might not have been sending warriors to their deaths, but she had been oppressing her followers in a different way. She needed to let go of her old ways.

A familiar frustration began to boil within Adel, and she sensed that this lesson with her apprentices was over. Once they had all made an attempt with the ant bowl she dismissed them, allowing the girls to enjoy the rest of the summer afternoon without the oversight of their mentors.

With a sigh Adel picked up the bowl and carried the ants back to their colony at the edge of the forest, taking a meandering path along the valleyside that avoided the den below. Once the contents of the bowl had been scattered she set the vessel down and climbed back up the rocks, watching the distant shapes of her people milling about in the valley from afar. She looked down at her hands, fingers tracing the lines worn into her skin. Scars from a dozen old cuts, the blisters of a burn on the heel of her palm. How many years had she been in this world now? More than three dozen, but less than four. Her body had scarred and aged, but the days of her youth still felt like they were only a footstep behind her.

Adel's anger began to rise in her chest again as she thought back to those days, thinking of her father, her brother, and Jarek.

She took a deep breath, exhaling those memories away. They were all long gone now. No point in clinging to them. She had to draw her strength from elsewhere.

A crease of concern worked its way across Adel's brow as she looked back up at the valley. A group of figures were hurrying down from the slopes of the southern ridge, wolf-shaped and urgent in their speed. They had come from Orec's den via the hidden pass at the top of the valley.

Adel ran a finger along the side of the golden-furred fox pelt she wore upon her scalp.

Important news do you think, Mother Fox? she murmured. Tired though she was from the heat, a den mother's duty could indulge neither weariness nor discomfort. Gathering her gown about her, Adel let her wolf rise up and claim her body. Dark-furred with flecks of white in its sleek coat, the beast gave her the agility to bound down the valleyside and meet the messengers. Whatever they had to say to her, she hoped it was important.

Their paths converged near the centre of the valley, where half the pack had gathered to lounge beneath the shade of a few scattered trees. Weary from their run, the messengers were two-legged and dousing themselves with the contents of the seers' waterskins when Adel arrived.

Netya and Fern were taking care of them, sending a pair of apprentices off to fetch more water while a handful of onlookers gathered around. The messengers dipped their heads in respect as Adel approached. Curiously, Alpha Orec was not with them. The leader of Adel's warrior clan often prided himself on delivering important news in person. Instead he had sent Kin and two other men.

They've run themselves to exhaustion, Netya said, hurrying to her mentor's side. I don't think they even stopped to pace themselves.

There wasn't time, Kin wheezed, taking a few more breaths before straightening up to address Adel with obvious effort. We were scouting—the southern edge of our territory—one of the rivers—

Catch your breath, Adel said. Whatever you have to say to me may wait a few moments longer. Sit down in the shade you fools. Netya, is there any more water for them?

Netya turned to the others. Anyone? A spare waterskin? Our warriors have been running under this sun all day.

An anticipatory silence had fallen over the group, tense and anxious. Half of the women seemed too fixated on the messengers to bother searching, but Kiren and Fern hurried off to root through the belongings that had been left scattered in the shade. Kin and his companions slumped down to catch their breath. Noting the lack of perspiration on Kin's brow, Adel knelt down beside him and gestured for Netya to join her.

The sun has taken the water from their bodies, Adel said. Does your head hurt, boy? Are you dizzy?

Kin managed a weak nod.

You shouldn't have run so hard on a day like this. Be still now. You are going nowhere and saying nothing until this passes.

Despite the messengers' silent protests, Adel managed to get all three of them to lie down with Netya's aid. Shortly thereafter Kiren appeared with a half-full waterskin someone had left by one of the trees, and Adel shared it between the men until the apprentices returned with more water.

Heat and thirst together can kill much faster than either one on their own, Netya said to Kiren. Look for dryness on the skin where there should be sweat. Ask them to describe their pain. If it fills the body and makes them ill, the sun's sickness may have taken them.

Adel watched the pair from the corner of her eye. Unlike the lesson with the ants, this practical instruction from Netya had absorbed Kiren's full attention. Despite how it sometimes seemed, she did have a seer's potential in her. All she needed was the right person to draw it out.

Thankfully after taking a little more water the three messengers seemed to be recovering, and once Adel was sure they were not in any danger she allowed Kin to speak.

Don't worry yourself over us, Den Mother, there is something in the south—

Whatever it is cannot have been worth risking your lives over, Adel said. But tell me.

Sun People, Den Mother. At the river bank.

Adel's eyes narrowed. Sun People, again, and so far north. How was it that they kept coming to these lands?

We watched till we counted two dozen of them, Kin continued. That was a day and a half ago. Orec came with more warriors once we told him.

Did you fight them?

Kin shook his head. We only watched, just as you told us to.

That was good. The last time a band of Sun People had wandered into Adel's territory it had ended in a massacre. She gestured for the warrior to continue.

They had many canoes on the water, so we waited for them to move on. They remained, though, calling out a message in our tongue. He swallowed, watching the den mother anxiously. One of them stands on the shore and calls, ‘Adel! Adel! We seek the one Adel!’

Netya gave her mentor an anxious look, but Adel ignored the worrying question of how the Sun People knew her name for the moment.

The fools camp in the heart of our territory screaming for us to come and find them? she said. "Do they want to die?"

I say they are baiting us, Narolen, one of the other men, said with a grimace. Many of their warriors hide out on the water where we cannot reach them. The cowards hold bows and javelins at the ready.

Adel looked away as a sickening feeling rose in her throat. I have known hunters like this before. Trophies taken from our kind are valued among some of the Sun People.

I know them too, Kiren said.

Adel noticed her own curiosity reflected in Netya's expression as they both looked at the girl, but Kin continued on before Kiren could say any more.

Orec wonders if they really do wish to talk. They must have spoken with others of our kind to know your name and speak in our tongue.

Why wait on the water with their weapons, then? Narolen said. That river passes through Alpha Halau's territory before it reaches ours. He may have sent them here to trick us into a fight!

Halau is not that cunning, Adel said. He would sooner slaughter the Sun People than treat with them. I doubt anyone in his pack even speaks their tongue.

Yet these Sun People still speak ours, Netya murmured.

You'd know them better than anyone, Sun Wolf, Narolen said. Why would they do this?

Netya shook her head. I do not know. Perhaps it is best if we wait for them to leave.

But they know where your den is! Kiren blurted out. All eyes fell upon her. It was not the place of an apprentice to keep interrupting during such a grave discussion.

This is the den mother's concern, Kiren, not yours, Fern said.

Wait. Adel gestured for Fern to stop when she made to usher Kiren away from the conversation. You have something to say, girl?

Kiren glowered, looking between Netya and Adel. They found your territory. They know your name. What if they bring more of their kind here? The Sun People have a way of guiding others in their footsteps better than we can.

What do you mean?

It was... I forget the word for it, something in the Sun People's tongue. When I came here with Vaya we met Sun People like these. Kale did too. Their shaman, he was making a picture on leather, a guide to lead more Sun People along the same path. It was like the mural in Sister Meadow's cave, but larger and with more lines.

A map, Adel said.

Yes, that was what he called it. Kiren hesitated, gnawing on her lip as she glanced past Adel's shoulder. I took it from him when we left. It is hidden in the rocks near the top of the valley.

Why did you not tell me of this before? Adel demanded.

Did you give me any reason to?

Kiren! Netya reprimanded her for her tone.

I will punish her insolence later, Adel said. Speaking plainly serves us better right now. Kiren does not trust me, she makes that clear every time we speak. Were she the only wolf at my back I doubt I would trust her either. She held the girl's gaze for a moment, allowing the silent understanding of their relationship to settle in. Pride could wait. Now was the time for pragmatism. If there was a single lesson she hoped Kiren would take to heart, it was this one. Adel had struggled with it enough herself over the past year.

Despite the indignant glares of Narolen and the other warriors, Kiren remained uncowed.

Bring me this map, girl, Adel said. If it tells an accurate tale of our lands then we may not be so well hidden as we once thought. She rose to her feet. And if one band of Sun People can make such a map then others can too. I would rather talk with our enemies before that happens.

We will come with you, Den Mother, Narolen said. You will need all your warriors.

No. You shall stay here and rest. Fern, find Caspian and bring him to me. Terim, run on ahead and have someone take you to Orec. Tell him we will be joining him before dawn. If these Sun People truly wish to speak with me then perhaps they shall have their wish. Netya, Kiren, she beckoned the two over, show me this map.

—3—

Forgotten Family

Why aren't we hurrying? Kiren said as she waited for Adel and Netya to catch up. The girl been forced to stop several times on the hike up the southern side of the valley. Adel understood her haste, but if they ran flat out on the legs of their wolves they would risk exhausting themselves like Kin and the others. A coat of fur did a person few favours under sun like this, and Adel needed her mind as fresh and sharp as possible for what was to come.

Pace yourself, Netya said. We can run once we are under the shade of the forest.

The Sun People may have gone by then.

Perhaps that will be for the best, Adel said. If they truly know we are here then they will not turn tail so quickly. And if they give up, well, they shall return home with tales of empty shadows where they sought to find the sorceress Adel.

Kiren scowled and turned to run on ahead.

Once she was out of earshot again Netya said, She is learning, slowly.

Of that I have no doubt. You are a fine mentor to her, Netya.

Netya smiled. You have stopped calling me girl.

Hm. Perhaps I've grown tired of it.

If you say so, my friend.

Adel glanced sideways at her. Do not call me that in front of the pack.

Why do you think I waited till Kiren ran on?

Despite the tickle of annoyance in Adel's throat, she allowed herself to return her apprentice's smile. What harm did it do, really, when they were alone? She would have to spend the rest of the night as her pack's den mother. She could afford to be Adel for a few moments.

I want you with me if we approach these travellers, she said. Orec still tells tales about how you put yourself between his hunting pack and a band of Sun People all those years ago. You've bargained for a peace like this before, and no one knows the Sun People like you do.

I may not know them as well as you think. These Sun People who travel the rivers, they are different from the men and women of my village. Kale is the one who comes from their lands. He would understand their ways better than I.

Then we shall bring him too. Perhaps if the spirits smile upon us some of these travellers will recognise him.

That may not work to our favour, Netya said softly. Sun wolves are as unwelcome among their people as they are among ours.

A twinge of empathy tugged at Adel's heart. You no longer call them your people.

Netya nodded, weariness tarnishing her smile. Perhaps I've grown tired of some things too.

Do you really never think of your life before? Of the people you left behind? The question of returning to them?

It is not a helpful question to dwell on.

Adel shook her head. I cannot understand how you do it. The phantoms of the past are always around me.

They may be, but they are only echoes calling from the spirit world. Netya reached out and gave Adel's shoulder a squeeze. We are here. We are flesh and blood. When I focus on the people around me, I stop seeing the phantoms. Perhaps if you had someone to remind you of that it would be easier.

Adel shrugged her off. In the past it might have been a cold gesture, but this time it held a note of vulnerability.

You mean Orec. I know of his feelings for me. Yes, yes, it would make the clan happy. They would see great omens in the joining of their alpha and den mother. A blessing upon us all.

"I do not think you should do it for them. What does your heart desire?"

Adel fell silent, resisting the urge to close herself off. It hurt to acknowledge these feelings. It made her weak, indecisive. She was the one who should be giving this advice to others, not fretting over it herself.

I want... she said at last, something that I am not yet ready for. But I will be. She held on to that certainty, making it a point of focus for her troubled heart. I feel something for Orec too. I could be his mate. Yes. I could.

I understand. You need time to forget Jarek.

No, he is long forgotten. I only pretended he was not. Adel looked away, blinking hard. Her voice took on a strained quality. One way or another, I know his love for me is no more. He is just another one of the phantoms now.

You need time to remember your own self, then?

Adel nodded slowly. Perhaps that is it. I must know what I am offering Orec before I give myself to him.

If ever you need to speak of these things, please come to me, Netya said. Don't seal yourself away again.

Adel turned back to her with a smile. I shall try.

Their conversation trailed off as they caught up with Kiren again. Before long the three women had reached the top of the ridge where sheer rock blocked any further ascent. Only a narrow fissure allowed passage through to the other side.

It was somewhere here, Kiren said as she rooted through the overgrown summer plants.

Search quickly, girl. Adel turned to look back down into the valley, a strange sense of melancholy suffusing her thoughts as she gazed out over the den her people had built. Purple-thatched huts and hide-draped cavern entrances stood out against the far ridge. They had accomplished much here. How would this place look a generation from now? Would it survive beyond Adel's years, becoming one of the great ancestral homes of the Moon People for their grandchildren's grandchildren?

She did not know why the sudden moment of reflection had seized her, and she shook it off as soon as she heard Kiren calling from behind them. This romantic melancholy was of little use to her right now.

From a narrow gap in between some rocks Kiren was yanking out a roll of leather. The end had gathered up a plug of loose soil and mud over the past seasons, but otherwise the nook seemed to have protected it from the ravages of the elements. Knocking off the mud, Kiren found a flat spot in the grass to unfurl it. An expanse of lines and symbols spread out before Adel, dark marks burnt into the leather the same way Caspian burnt symbols into pieces of wood when he wanted to make records of things. This was more than a simple reminder of objects or names, though. It was a story.

"It looks like the