image of her gray eyes looking back at him. Her lower face was obscured by the same cloth that muffled her voice.
An apology formed in his throat, but he swallowed it. Instead, he said, 'You can keep the mask.'
She stepped away, making sure the door was open and the way clear before she turned back to speak again.
'Thank you,' she said. She seemed about to say something else, but then she turned and ran away.
'You can keep yours, too,' she said when she thought she was out of range.
Now that he had the answer to his question, a hundred more bloomed in his mind as he listened to his mother go.
Chapter 13
Winter, 1372 DR
The Year of Wild Magic
The pack settled in for the winter. The snow limited their ranging, but they continued to hunt in all but the most violent weather. In case game was scarce, they also had plenty of salted meat and vegetable stores from the northern communities. It was both tribute and thanks for the hunting they had done for the northern settlements in the tendays before the Feast of the Stag.
The werewolves remained in the lodge most days. They tended chores for only a few hours each day, stitching clothes, mending weapons, and repairing the lodge itself.
The pack included only six children under thirteen. They ran with the adults soon after they could walk, and few of them survived to make their rites of adulthood at thirteen. Those who did were strong and cunning. Despite his growing acceptance by the pack, Darrow knew he was still less dangerous than some of these cubs of ten years or younger.
The pack spent less time on work than they did amusing themselves with simple games and stories. Darrow earned more esteem among the pack by teaching them a game of stones he learned as a boy. He carved the triangular grid on several planks to pass around, and soon everyone was playing 'Barrow's Stones.'
He also found himself a popular storyteller. Even though he had no gift for it, he could reconstruct bards' tales the others had never heard before, and he remembered a few plays he had seen in Selgaunt. He even recalled seeing Talbot Uskevren perform on one or two occasions, though he didn't find the young man remarkable at the time.
'Why did Rusk not bring him back to us?' asked Morrel.
'Have you seen him clap lately?' remarked Sorcia. Since their ignoble retreat from Maleva's cottage, the white elf disparaged the Huntmaster at every opportunity.
Morrel ignored Sorcia. 'More importantly, why did he want him in the first place? I know it has to do with the Black Wolf prophecy, but what the hell is that?'
'Don't you listen?' said Brigid. She lowered her voice and mimicked Rusk's resonant baritone. 'The Black Wolf will lead us in the wild hunt across all the land to reclaim our rightful territory.'
'Enough of that,' snapped Morrel.
'Afraid he might hear you?' asked Sorcia.
'I'm not the one mocking the word of Malar,' he said. 'Rusk knows something he can't tell us yet. It's a test of our faith in him, and in the Beastlord.'
Sorcia raised her eyes toward the ceiling.
'What is the Black Wolf?' asked Darrow. 'The way he says it it sounds like it's something everyone knows about.'
'You know how you learn to change without the moon?' said Brigid.
Darrow nodded.
'That's part of it,' she said. 'You learn to control your transformations even when the moon is completely dark; you're one step closer to the Black Wolf.'
'It's also part of who we are,' added Morrel. 'Some nightwalkers are really just beasts. They have no code, no community. Most of them are slaves to the moon-they don't have the Black Blood like us. Others are tamed to join the herd. That's what the Selunites do. They cut off your balls to make you gentle.'
Darrow was surprised by this news. 'They don't actually-'
'No,' laughed Brigid, 'but the result's the same. You do what they say, and they put your beast to sleep, so you don't chase the other sheep around the pen.'
'What they don't realize is that the Black Blood sets us above the herd,' said Morrel. 'We're the hunters, and we have no lords among men. The Black Wolf is a state of being, when you have no master but Malar.'
'So Rusk is the Black Wolf?' asked Darrow.
'Maybe,' said Morrel.
Sorcia snorted and walked away.
'It depends whether you mean he's reached that state or whether he's the Black Wolf of prophecy. Not everyone believes the Black Wolf Scrolls are the word of Malar.'
'But Rusk does.'
'Yeah, I think he does.'
A draft came into the lodge, right over the place where Darrow usually slept. He tried to ignore it for a few nights, but it grew stronger. He peered up at the root-tangled ceiling but saw no hole. He felt the incoming air with his hands and guessed where it originated outside. Bundling himself in furs, he went outside to patch it.
After sweeping away the snow in several places, Darrow finally heard a murmuring sound through the sod roof. A glimmer of red light shone through a hole. He was nowhere near the fire pit, so he peered inside.
He was above Rusk's sanctum.
The sound he heard was Rusk's voice, chanting low and steady. Darrow smelled smoke and tasted incense in the air. He knew he should cover the hole and go away, but curiosity overcame his fear. He put his face right against the hole and shielded it from the light with his arms.
Below him, Rusk sat cross-legged on the floor, illuminated only by the glowing coals of a black iron brazier. His naked body gleamed with animal fat, though his silver hair fell loose about his shoulders. Where he had lost his arm, an ugly worm of flesh clung to his shoulder.
A congregation of skulls looked down on the ritual from their places on the walls. In the darkness, the skulls seemed to float around the Huntmaster. Darrow noted the skulls of deer, wildcats, boars, owlbears, and other monstrous beasts of the Arch Wood-there were even the skulls of humans and elves.
'Great hunter,' intoned Rusk, 'hear my plea. Great Malar, show me your wisdom and will.'
As his prayer ended, flames rose from the brazier's coals. Rusk thrust his hand above flames, clutching a scrap of parchment.
'This is the path of the moon and its shadow. Show me a sign, if it marks truly the night of the Black Wolf.'
The flames rose, and licked around his fist leaving parchment and skin unburned. When they subsided, Rusk set the parchment aside before holding his hand once more above the fire.
'Do I remain your fit and worthy vessel?'
The flames surged up again, but this time Rusk howled in pain. Every muscle of his body stood out in his struggled to keep his hand within the fiery oracle. Darrow imagined that the consequences otherwise must be fell indeed.
When the flames withdrew into the brazier's bowl, Rusk gnashed bis teeth and shook his head against the pain. Tears streaked his face as he glared down at the ruin of his left arm.
