“Perhaps. . yet I would not wait, for the pack would not leave him without cause.”
“Mayhap, my lady, it is as you first said: the prince sent them on ahead.”
Michelle slowly nodded and said, “ ’Tis unlikely.” Of a sudden, anxiety filled her eyes. “-Oh, Arnot, I feel something is amiss, yet what it might be escapes me.”
A silence fell between them, but then Arnot said, “The only time I’ve known the prince to be without his Wolves is when he and they went beyond the blight to the cottage of the witch, and she reft him away and into imprisonment by using one of the Seals of Orbane.”
Michelle blanched. “But surely that cannot be the case.” Arnot shrugged. “I would think not, for if Hradian yet lives, she should be far from here. Even so, we cannot be certain.” Michelle sat down, but immediately stood again. “Oh, I wish we had word of Raseri and Rondalo’s mission; surely they’ve killed the witch by now.”
“If they caught up to her,” said Arnot.
Michelle sighed and said, “Given where the Sprites saw them, how long ere the pack arrives?”
Arnot pursed his lips. “Nigh dawn, give or take a candlemark.”
“Have the Sprites bring word when the pack passes the blighted section. And then find me, for I shall speak with Slate and the others the moment they reach the manor. In the meanwhile, have a page come to me, for I would send a message to the scribe to post by falcon at dawn.”
“Oui, m’lady.”
After Arnot was gone, Michelle sat down at a nearby escritoire and composed a short query: The Wolves have come alone. What is afoot? — Chelle Moments later, a page appeared at the door.
“Burton, take this to the scribe and have him pen it small enough for a falcon-borne message to King Valeray. But do not have him send it to the mews as of yet, for I would first speak with the Wolves.”
“The Wolves, m’lady? But they’re not here.”
“They are on the way, Burton. Now take that to the scribe.”
“Oui, m’lady.”
As the lad rushed away, Michelle tried to return to her reading, but in moments she placed a ribbon between the pages to mark her place and then set the book aside.
. .
On raced Slate and the pack, and soon they passed the small stone den where the bird-not-bird bitch two- legs had once lived, the den smelling of old char.
They plunged into the tangle of the long-bad place, the trees twisted and stunted, some shattered, the branches hard and bare and clawlike. And the pack felt the faint itch of the same itch felt when the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs made the master go away on the wind.
As they emerged from the long-bad place, a nearby Sprite looked out from a plane of ice and then vanished. But Slate ignored the tiny being, except to note it had gone.
On ran the pack, and as the dawnwise light began to glimmer, they raced up the long slope and onto the flat where the master’s great den sat. And there to greet them stood the master’s two-legs bitch and others of the master’s two-legs pack.
. .
Michelle knelt and ruffled Slate’s fur, the huge Wolf deigning to be so petted. The remainder of the pack gathered about and waited their turns, some fawning, though Slate stood quite still.
After she had greeted each Wolf, Michelle signed to the waiting attendants, and they brought buckets of water for the pack to drink. And when all had slaked their thirst, Michelle struck a posture, and then another, and rumbled as best she could, followed by a short whine. Then she murmured to Arnot, “I’ve asked Slate, where’s Borel?”
With pricked ears and cocked head Slate replied:
Michelle looked away and raised her nose to the wind, answering:
Slate raised his nose and looked the same direction and whined:
Michelle took on another posture and then shifted:
Slate emitted a low rumble of disappointment and anger.
Michelle:
Slate gave a whine of uncertainty.
Michelle growled low:
Slate:
Michelle gave a whine of confusion.
Slate repeated:
Michelle:
Slate snorted and flopped down and looked at Dark and rumbled, for his own bitch and her delicate True- People-speak seemed more able to talk with the master’s bitch two-legs.
Dark struck a single posture:
Michelle replied with a chuff of understanding.
Again Dark struck a single posture: head low, tail down, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Michelle frowned, for the posture could mean “bad” or
“danger” or ‘’immediate threat” or any number of allied things, depending upon what came before or after. Nevertheless, with her heart sinking, she replied:
Dark:
Michelle:
Dark:
Michelle:
Dark:
Michelle:
Michelle turned to Arnot. “They have told me they do not know where Borel is, and now are trying to tell me something having to do with a bird and peril and a female.” Arnot shrugged and then looked at the others standing nigh.
“Any suggestions?”
Men looked at one another, yet none had ought to say.
Michelle turned back to Dark and whined in puzzlement.
Dark:
Michelle again frowned, for this could mean “no” or “not” or “stop” or the like, again depending on context. Michelle replied with a
Dark:
“Ah,” said Michelle, enlightened, followed by
Dark raised her nose high.
Michelle sighed, for that posture could mean “air” or “wind” or “odor on the wind” or “scent” or other similarities.
And then Dark struck many poses, putting it all together:
With a cry of dismay, Michelle fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands and wept.
Seers
It was not yet midmorn when, in the skies above the manors of the Forests of the Seasons, falcons from Valeray’s domain announced their presence and spiralled down to the mews.
Waiting attendants detached message capsules and bolted away, while others fetched fresh mice for the raptors.
In the Springwood, Steward Vidal, his face somber, came onto the training grounds, where Roel looked over the arriving recruits. “My lord,” said Vidal, distress in his voice, “we have received terrible news.” He handed the
