Rancitor’s quarters, however, where their games had been played, were undoubtedly safe. Mirami had no wish to destroy Rancitor until after King Gahls was dead, and possibly not even then. “It’s often better, my dear, to be the one who props the crown, rather than the one who wears it.”
Mirami had begun to say that she wanted to live as long as the Old Dark Man had lived. The Old Dark Man had claimed to be a hundred and fifty years old: a century more than Mirami had lived already. What would she do with all that time once the king had swallowed up all the lands of Norland? What would amuse her then? Alicia had wondered this many times and the only answer that seemed satisfactory was the conquest of Tingawa. That had to be it. Mirami had said the Tingawans would be killed, so she must have been planning to take the army of Ghastain—King Gahls called his army the army of Ghastain—across the sea to the fabled lands. Mirami would do what Ghastain had been unable to do! Probably that was it. Mirami planned, in time, to conquer the far west. Except that Mirami would not have the time.
In a few days, Alicia would have to obey her mother’s summons. She would go the way the archers had gone, taking them with her. By that time, Mirami’s friend Chamfray ought to be at the point of death, but it could not possibly be blamed on Alicia. Mirami didn’t know anything at all about the fatal-cloud machine.
Precious Wind spent two days idling in and around the Vulture Tower, careful always to sleep far enough away from it to avoid surprise. Staying near the tower allowed her an unforeseen opportunity. Precious Wind had always been fond of wolves, possibly because they had always seemed if not fond, then certainly tolerant of her. The experience with the men who had followed her and ended up killing themselves, thereby attracting wolves, had not been totally new to her. In Tingawa, as a child, she had befriended a wolf pack living in a mountainous territory at the edge of the huge continent that extended for thousands of miles westward through dozens of other territories and kingdoms. When she came to Norland, she had hoped to learn whether these Norland wolves were similarly inclined toward friendship. Though she had spent years in Norland, there had been no opportunity until now, for Justinian’s stockmen and their huge hounds kept wolves well away from Woldsgard.
The previous night she had heard their howls approaching. They were closer tonight. Very possibly they had scented her horse. She put the gelding in the stable of the tower and shut the sturdy door. She was growing fond of the beast and did not want him troubled. She rubbed his shoulder and told him to relax and ignore anything he might hear. Then she stood inside the open door of the tower and waited.
The pack leader entered the clearing in which the tower sat, looked around it, saw her. He made a quick, breathy sound, a kind of whuff, not surprise, not fear. He was saying, “I see you. We see you.”
Precious Wind replied in kind. “I see you, too.” Then she sat down on the step of the tower and ostentatiously licked her hand, paw.
The pack leader approached. Behind him she saw ten or a dozen pairs of eyes peering from among the trees. They stayed where they were except for one big-footed, big-eared youngster who half staggered out of the trees toward his father, who promptly turned and bit him. The pup yipped and went back where he belonged. The pack leader came closer, sniffing.
Precious Wind rose, went slowly into the tower, and tugged something out onto the doorstep. Wild pig, fresh, shot that day, first arrow from her bow. She had been a bit worried about that. She was woefully out of practice.
She pulled the carcass into the clearing and sat down on the step again. The pack leader circled it, half circled her, circled the pig again. The youngster came out of the forest again and sat there, head cocked. His mother came to crouch beside him. Other shadowy forms squeezed out of the forest, halfway, a quarter. Eyes didn’t blink. Precious Wind took out her knife, went to the carcass and cut a piece of meat, tossed it to the youngster. His mother pounced on it, put her feet on it, sniffed suspiciously. Finally she licked it. The pack leader put his nose to the place she had cut, licked the blood, turned, made the same whuff as before, giving the pack permission.
Crossing their trail behind them could have been interpreted as a move to trap or encircle. Precious Wind moved to the side of the clearing opposite the one the wolves had come from. She stood by a tree while they ate. There was the usual baring of teeth, asserting of rights, the usual “this one eats first, that one last,” but the carcass was of a well-grown boar with meat enough for all of them. She’d found a whole piggery of wild ones north along the ridge, rooting up old crops from another of those abandoned farm places they’d found on the way to the abbey—old crops, reseeding themselves, turnips and parligs gone wild. Good pig food. She’d had to drag the carcass here. Horses not used in battle or hunting often objected to dead cargo. The
