was gone as well, every last one of them save the other first-born. The elves, misreading the signs, thought they had gone searching for game worthy of a great celebration and began, in their naive way, to anticipate the feast. Zarhan knew better-She-Wolf saw that in his eyes-and the first-born, who'd seen at once that the hunt had taken its few treasures as well as its weapons.
'How will you tell them?' the first-bom who now called himself Treewalker asked. 'They're expecting a feast.'
She-Wolf looked up from the fire-scarred spearhead she fondled in her hands. The elves-should she start thinking of them as the true-elves just as the four-footed wolves had been true-wolves?-were busy with their berries and bits of leather and fur. Gift-making-the offerings they gave the hunt after special meals; the clothing that would keep them warm through the bitter winter she could smell on the wind.
Words formed in her mind-and the anxious, fearful reactions they would provoke. She could not tell the elves that the hunt had abandoned them. Besides, everyone deserved a feast. No one had eaten well the previous day, and if the ascendance of a new chief did not call for a feast, then nothing ever would again.
'They'll get a feast,' she said to Treewalker. 'We'll get it for them. Gather the first-born by the stream.'
'We're not hunters-not like you.'
'You're exactly like me.' She grabbed his shoulder, shaking him hard for emphasis. 'And don't you ever forget it!'
Treewalker staggered back, stunned that she had done what neither Yellow-Eyes or Threetoe would have dared: laid hands upon him. She-Wolf knew it too, though touching and discipline were common enough between a mother and her children. But then, she thought of them as her children- even though she'd never had children of her own before. Breaking away from her stare, Treewalker shook himself straight and went off to find the remaining first-born.
They gathered at the upstream drinking pool, proclaiming the names they had chosen for themselves since dawn: Treewalker; Mosshunter-the smallest among them and the most daring jokester; Laststar-the She-Wolf's older, full sister; Glowstone-who wore his name from a thong around his neck; Frost-who carried a javelin and shed her fear like a snake sheds its skin; Sharpears-whose talent the hunt had recognized if not named and, to everyone's surprise, Zarhan Fastfire.
'Elves hunted once-before the sacrifice,' he explained a bit self-consciously.
They had hunted, but they had not hunted well, the She-Wolf thought to herself, or Timmain's sacrifice would not have been necessary. This blending of elf-blood and wolf-blood, which left the first-born in constant doubt of who or what they were, would never have occurred if the elves had been able to take care of themselves in this world. She might feel better when the hunt had receded into the morass Timmorn's mixed heritage made of deep memory for his children-but perhaps the hunt, by giving into the wolf-blood completely, had the right of it. Perhaps she was the one leading the failures and outcasts, not Threetoe.
Or perhaps it was Zarhan himself. Threetoe she had understood and her fear of him went through every layer of her mind unchallenged. Not Zarhan. His eyes filled her with the smell of lightning as if she, like Yellow-Eye's spear, might burst into flames.
She should have sent him back. She was chief now and Timmorn wasn't around to see that she kept her promises. The first-born would stand with her. They were eager to hunt together and almost as discomforted by the true-elf's presence as she was. But the promise weighed too heavily in her mind, and she could only hope that he would discourage himself.
'Come on then.'
In any other season Zarhan's unnaturally brilliant cloud of hair would have been a liability. Come winter, when the forest was reduced to a world of grays, browns and deepest evergreen, it would definitely need to be concealed from any color-sensitive prey, but now, in autumn, he was no more conspicuous than any of the sugar- bushes.
And about as useful, although the She-Wolf knew it was unfair to blame all their missed opportunities on their least experienced hunter. Twice Frost threw her javelin too soon,
panicking their quarry and sending it to cover. Treewalker and Sharpears almost came to blows over the former's tendency to sing while he stalked. Even the She-Wolf was finding her mind too filled with other thoughts to fling her weapon accurately. Zarhan, who used his spear like a walking stick but kept his mouth shut, was about the least of their problems.
At last, well after midday, they came upon a flock of wattle-necks intently devouring a small glade of wild spelt. The fair-sized, slow-flying birds took no notice of the hunters as they fanned out around the glade.
**All together… now!** the She-Wolf sent as she sprang into the glade, spear high and ready for the kill.
The birds squawked, flapped their wings in the dust, and defended themselves with beaks and wickedly sharp claws. Still, when the commotion settled, they had killed five and could fairly taste the juicy meat in their mouths. Seven hunters, five wattle-necks; they had a long way to go and much to learn but they weren't going to starve just yet.
No… wait. Only six hunters. Zarhan was missing.
The She-Wolf gathered her energy to send his name in every direction before she heard thrashing in brush beyond the glade.
**Zarhan!** She let the energy loose, knowing full well that at such a short distance it would echo between his ears.
The brush froze, then emitted a wattle-neck and a sending-staggered elf. He'd trapped the bird, but he couldn't bring himself to strike it. The spear went wide each time he thrust, then it would swing in a swift arc and bat the bird back to the ground. The She-Wolf raised her own spear to end the spectacle.
Another hand fell gently over hers.**It's his-if he can. If not-it lives.** Sharpears reminded her of the hunt laws by which she, herself, had lived.
She relaxed and let the frantic duo return to the glade. The true-elf's face was nearly as red as his hair when, as much by accident as design, his spear struck home.
'I killed it,' he muttered, sinking down beside the still-twitching body. 'I killed a living creature…'
Laughter stuck in the throats of the first-born. Fastfire had no wolf-blood singing in his heart to tell him that hunting and killing were the ways of the predator, but he had elf-blood that let him share his stunned emotions with all those who could feel. There was little that passed for consciousness in the wattle-neck's brain, but it had known terror and it had felt death.
**Never in jest or the lust of the hunt,** the She-Wolf told them, making her first laws.**Never with cruelty or meanness. And never a mother with young if there's another choice to be made.**
They voiced their accord as the hunt had always voiced it-with heads thrown back and a wolf-howl wrapped around their tongues. Zarhan Fastfire tried, choked and fell over backward. The suppressed laughter made its escape.
Zarhan looked around, his mind that dark swirl of hidden thought which told all of Timmorn's children when their elders were angry, disappointed, or worse. With equal parts of distaste and determination he got the bird through the carry-noose of his borrowed spear and put his back to them.
The true-elves were inexperienced and disinclined, but they weren't incompetent. Zarhan strode out of the glade in the proper direction; the first-born hurriedly gathered their own kills and raced to catch up with him.
'Talk to him,' Laststar advised as they jogged through leaves the same color as Zarhan's hair.
'Why,' her silver-haired sister replied.
'They are the elves-Timmain's blood. Their anger hurts.'
'They are as arrogant as Threetoe and even more dangerous.'
The She-Wolf glowered at Laststar until the other female looked away.
'It will get worse, She-Wolf,' the elder sister said, and there was an image under her words that had nothing to do with hunting.
It did get worse, though not in ways any of the first-born had anticipated. Their entire group had shrunk to less than a third of its summer size. They needed less meat, but in actuality there were fewer hunters to provide it. The firstborn, with Zarhan, Talen, and others of the younger, hardier elves, braved the snow-covered forest every day. On more than one bitter occasion they returned to the camp with little more than sacks of fist-sized rodents, which even the first-born preferred cooked and disguised within the elders' root stews.
