After a moment's reflection, he asked again, 'Am I no longer the Black Wolf?'
Again the oracle's fire burned him. Darrow watched as the hair on Rusk's arm wilted and the skin turned angry red.
Again Rusk thrashed against the pain, his hair forming a wild halo around his agonized face. His eyes were closed tight for many seconds, but then they snapped open in sudden realization.
Still, Rusk hesitated before asking the next question. Darrow guessed that only negative answers came with punishment.
'Mine remains the chosen spirit of the Black Wolf?'
The oracle crackled, but the fire remained in the bowl.
'Yet another is now the vessel?'
Yes, the fire hissed.
Rusk paused again before asking the next question. Judging from his tone, Darrow imagined he hated to give voice to the question more than he feared a burning no.
'Has my infirmity made me an unworthy vessel?'
The oracle said, Yes.
Rusk sat quietly for a moment. Then his body began to tremble, imperceptibly at first, then more and more furiously until he risked taking his arm from its place before concluding his spell.
At last his fury subsided, and Rusk invoked the name of Malar, thanking the Beastlord for his oracle and chanting the words that returned the brazier's flames to dull red coals.
He spun to face the darkness. Darrow could no longer see his face, but he continued to listen. Eventually, Rusk spoke.
'He took my arm,' he growled. 'He stole my fate!'
He sat silently so long that Darrow was about to slip away when he heard another voice in the room below. It was even deeper than Rusk's, but with a hollow sound of dry stones.
'You allowed him to defile the chosen vessel,' said the sepulchral voice. Darrow could not identify its source.
After a few breaths, Rusk replied. 'Mine is still the chosen spirit. The flames ordained it so.'
Again, the voice paused before answering. 'Without a fit and worthy vessel, the spirit is powerless in the world.'
'How can I heal this wound? The scrolls do not say.'
'It is beyond your power,' said the voice. 'Your body is forever despoiled in the eyes of Malar. That is the price of your foolishness.'
'There must be a way,' insisted Rusk.
'There is,' whispered the voice. 'You hold the power already. The secret lies within the scrolls.'
'Where?' said Rusk. 'Tell me-'
A lump of snow fell past Barrow's cheek and through the hole. It barely made a sound as it hit the floor of Rusk's sanctum, but it was enough. Rusk turned to look where it struck. Before his gaze turned to the ceiling, Darrow scrambled away from the hole. He ran down the sloping roof to the woodpile and filled his arms with split timbers.
He entered the lodge and took the wood to the fire. When Rusk pushed aside the tapestry and emerged from his sanctum, Darrow looked up as nonchalantly as possible. Rusk watched him place the logs on the fire, then returned to his sanctum.
Darrow breathed a sigh of relief until he felt the melting snow run down his leg. His furs were caked in snow from where he had lain on the ground.
'Tell us all about Talbot Uskevren,' said Rusk in the tone of one asking a cleric to read a sacred fable.
The lodge fell silent, and all eyes turned to Darrow. In private he had told Rusk everything he knew about the object of Stannis Malveen's revenge, but he had not expected the Huntmaster to ask him to repeat it to the entire pack.
He took a deep breath, hoping this was not the prelude to punishment for his spying tendays earlier.
'I watched him only in public, usually at the playhouse,' he said. 'Everything else I heard from Stannis Malveen, who learned it from someone close to Talbot Uskevren.'
This claim of sources was a ritual among the People. The legend of Yarmilla the Huntress, who went out hunting bears with a switch, began with such a long citation of bards who had passed the story down throughout the years that many made a jest of it by singing the names as quickly as possible.
'He performs in the playhouse and practices sword-play,' began Darrow.
'We have heard these things before,' said Rusk. 'Tell us about how he guards his secret. Tell us the gossip your master shared with you.'
Darrow was surprised, but he could hardly refuse. Much of what he'd heard from Stannis was so trivial that he would never think to repeat it. He composed his thoughts before going on.
'He quarrels with his family, especially his father. So does the older brother, whose name is Tamlin. There is a sister, too. Her name is Thazienne.'
'Tell us more about these quarrels,' said Rusk. 'Leave nothing out, and everyone listen well. We will have a new High Hunt this summer, and we must learn all we can about our prey.'
'Why go to the city to hunt?' asked Ronan.
'Because it is the will of Malar,' said Rusk.
From her place across the fire, Sorcia snorted. A few of the others nodded. They, too, doubted the wisdom of ranging not only far from home but also into the walled confines of Selgaunt.
Rusk counted the disapproving voices with flicks of his eyes before speaking again. 'On the night of the Black Wolf, we shall hold a High Hunt for a new Huntmaster.'
The rest of the pack murmured and shifted uncomfortably.
'That is all you must know for now.'
'We have faith in you, Huntmaster,' said Morrel, standing, 'but we are too few to venture into the city. Even you, our mightiest hunter, did not return unscathed. Perhaps we should gather the other People.'
Darrow had heard tales of other convocations of People of the Black Blood scattered throughout the world. Not all of them wore the form of wolves when they hunted, but all could change shape, and all embraced the truth of the Black Blood. They were the Hunter's chosen, set above the other creatures of the world.
'The honor is for our pack alone,' Rusk said. 'Malar spoke to me, not to the other pack leaders. His will is clear to me. We will go to the city on the moon after Greengrass, and there we will hold the High Hunt among the gathered herd. But our prey will be no lamb-it will be the Black Wolf himself.'
'But…' Morrel stood, struggling for the words. 'Are you not the Black Wolf?'
'I was,' said Rusk, 'and I am. Mine is the spirit of the Black Wolf, but the vessel runs apart from us. We must fetch it back when Malar casts his cloak against the sky.'
'But how…?'
'All will be revealed in time,' said Rusk. 'For now, let us hear more of the new Black Wolf, for soon he shall be our prey.'
On the appointed day, Rusk led them south. He took only the best hunters, leaving behind a half dozen adults to defend the children at the lodge.
They made no effort to avoid Maleva's territory. Darrow considered asking the Huntmaster whether he intended to force a confrontation, but he decided it was better not to remind Rusk of their retreat last time they encountered the cleric of Selune. Darrow would be glad never to see her again, but he had a sinking suspicion that Rusk wanted her to face the full strength of the pack.
They took wolf form for speed. Darrow was proud to be among those who did not require Rusk's magical compulsion to transform. It was easier at night, especially under the gibbous moon. Rejoined the cluster of
