BLACK WOLF

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 Later that evening, when Vastish's brood had been spoiled by one too many stories and far too much honeycake, Fyodor made his way up the hill toward the residence of the witches and berserkers. His progress was slow for at nearly every house he was stopped by neighbors he had known since childhood. All celebrated his return with rough embraces and affectionate insults. All produced flasks of jhuild or mugs of scrump—a fermented cider that was nearly as potent as the Rashemaar liquor—in hope of prolonging Fyodor's visit and coaxing from him news of the wider world.

There was news to be had, as well. The old Iron Lord had stepped down. Word was that he had taken ill and that he was being cared for in the forest retreat of the witches. In his place ruled Thydrim Yvarrg. A good choice, most agreed, provided that he did not expect his impulsive, hard-drinking son Fyldrin to succeed him. There was lesser news, too, ranging from tales of hauntings and monster attacks to the happy birth of twin boys to the village cooper and his wife.

With one thing and another, the evening swiftly passed. By the time Fyodor reached the barracks of the Black Bear lodge, a waning moon peered over the summit of Snowcat Mountain.

It was custom for any returning warrior to report to the village fyrra. Fyodor made his way to Treviel's cottage. The door stood open, revealing a blazing fieldstone hearth before which sat a stocky but powerful man of an age and size that Fyodor's father might have known, had he survived the Tuigan hoard. The old warrior hummed to himself as he polished his boots with goose grease. His feet were clad in stockings of a highly singular nature. They had been knitted to look like gloves, with each toe a different bright color. Narrow bands of the same colors marched up the man's thick legs, and matched the bright embroidery on his boiled wool vest.

A faint smile touched Fyodor's face. Few men dressed in clothing that so clearly proclaimed their nature as did Treviel. The man was as cheery as his garb, and Fyodor had long considered him a valued friend. Yet the young warrior stood where he was, deeply reluctant to begin this interview. Fyrra had been his father's title and these his rooms. Treviel was a good man, but it pained Fyodor to see another in Mahryon's place.

Certain proprieties must be observed. Fyodor cleared his throat and delivered the expected insult. "How can a warrior be a leader of men when he cannot persuade his own toes to agree upon a color? Is Sashyar angry with you, or did you knit those yourself?"

The graybeard looked up from polishing his boots. Pleasure lit his eyes, swiftly followed by caution.

Fyodor understood the man's concern. His last memory of the new fyrra was colored by the haze of uncontrolled battle frenzy. He was not certain, and no one would tell him yes or no, but he suspected that he might be responsible for the deep, puckered puncture scar on the old man's brawny forearm.

"Sashyar is always angry with me," Treviel said complacently, "and that is a good thing for a warrior. You could do with such a wife. Too many hours spent dallying with sweet-tempered maids softens a man's spirit and leaves him unprepared for battle."

An image of Liriel in full dark-elf fury came vividly to mind. Fyodor chuckled. "I have become guardian to a wychlaran outlander who possesses the temper of a drow and the sweet reason of a pack mule. Will that suffice?"

"A guardian, eh?" For a moment the fyrra looked sincerely impressed, then he shrugged. "This woman might be all you say and more, but she's still a pale shadow of my Sashyar," he said proudly. "Even so, I will allow myself to hope that she may yet make a fighting man of you."

"As to that, I am not such a fool to challenge a yeti to snow racing or think I might wrestle the wood man into submission," Fyodor said dryly.

"Then I am hopeful indeed, for I could say as much about Sashyar," Treviel confided in a droll whisper.

The men shared a chuckle. Treviel beckoned Fyodor into the room and pointed to the chair opposite him. His keen-eyed gaze noted the dark sword at Fyodor's side, and his face grew serious.

"It is said that Zofia Othlor sent you after a great magical treasure. You found this?"

"That and more," Fyodor said.

The man's face brightened with the expectation of grand tales to come. One shadow remained, however, and they both knew it well. "You are whole, my son?" ventured Treviel.

"I am."

"Then all is right with Rashemen," the older man said briskly. He nodded to the porcelain samovar on the nearby table. As befitted its owner, the tall, lidded pot was brightly painted: Red and yellow unicorns cavorted on meadows of emerald green. Lid, rim, and base were ringed by entwining runic designs rendered in unsubtle shades of blue and purple.

"The tea is hot and nearly strong enough to strip the hide from a bear. You will drink?"

There were things that must be spoken, and Treviel's choice of words provided as good an opening as Fyodor expected to get. "Perhaps I should save some of your tea in a flask. If the change is slow to pass, it would peel off the bearskin swifter than a hunter's knife."

Treviel gaped, then his smile stretched his thick gray mustache nearly from ear to ear. "Is it so? You have become chesnitznia?"

This was an accomplishment sought by all of Rashemen's berserkers and achieved by few. Although the title "berserker" came from an ancient word for "bearskin," the literal transformation of human warrior to bear was in these days more a legend than a reality.

"They call it hamfarrig on the island of Ruathym. Shapestrong."

The village lord grunted with satisfaction. He was something of a scholar as warriors went, and Fyodor could see him tucking these new words away to savor at a later time.

"Word of the battle there has reached us. A sea battle," he added wistfully, this warrior of a land-locked nation. "Your darjemma, it would seem, was more interesting than most."

He poured tea into wooden cups. Fyodor took one sip and understood why. The acidic brew would no doubt eat right through pewter. He threw back the contents of the little cup and accompanied his swallow by slamming his fist on the table. This ritual completed, he set the empty cup down. Treviel refilled it and nodded expectantly at the young man, clearly waiting to hear the story of this wondrous battle.

"I have just come from my sister's home," Fyodor said apologetically.

The commander threw back his head and let out a deep, belly-shaking roar of laughter. "No need to say more! Even the village storyteller must rest his voice, yes? Sit, then, and drink your tea. Your story can wait until after the Mokosh games. You will go to the mountains with the others?" he asked, noting the strange look that crossed the young man's face.

"In truth, I had forgotten." The thought of leaving Liriel alone so soon after their arrival left him profoundly uneasy. Who knew what sort of mischief she might achieve in his absence? "Perhaps I should wait for the next holiday."

Treviel snorted. "You will go, and you will win. See to it!" he said with a teasing wink.

Fyodor knew an order when he heard one, and a dismissal as well. He managed a wan smile and rose. "No stories, no tea," he surmised.

The older man let out a guffaw and slapped one beefy thigh. "You should live to be so lucky. Drink!"

Fyodor obligingly downed the rest of the bitter brew and took his leave.

A chorus of grating snores greeted him at the barracks. As was custom, most of the warriors had retired early in anticipation of the grueling holiday ahead. Fyodor toed off his boots at the front door and studied the parchment tacked to the doorpost. With sorrow he noted the names no longer listed: Mahryon, his father; Antonea, the swordsmith with whom he had apprenticed; several cousins and boyhood friends. Some of them had been alive when Fyodor had entered his last berserker frenzy against the Tuigan. He hoped that none had died following him on his suicidal charge.

His cousin Petyar's room was toward the end of the barracks. He made his way quietly down the long wooden hall. A thin ribbon of light underlined the door. Fyodor tapped the door faintly then pushed it open.

Two cots filled the room with the scent of fresh hay and dried angelica flowers, excellent for repelling both insects and unwanted dreams. One of these cots was filled from head to foot—and beyond—with the longest, skinniest excuse for a Rashemi warrior Fyodor had ever beheld.

A face still soft from yesterday's childhood regarded him with a mixture of hero worship and welcome. The boy's upper lip was decorated by a faint shadow that looked more like a smudge of axle grease than a mustache. Fyodor sternly resisted the urge to tousle his young cousin's hair. Instead he seized one of the oversized feet that hung over the edge of the cot and raised it for closer scrutiny.

"If you were a pup, I'd suspect that your mother befriended a bear," Fyodor said. "Of course, if you were a pup, I'd have to drown you or risk weakening the kennel. Who would have thought my Uncle Simaoth's litter could produce such a runt?"

Petyar grinned and tugged his foot free. "The cobbler complains that if I grow any more I'll be wearing boots of unmatched leather. He'll have to slaughter two rothé cows to get enough for a pair!"

"If you wish to provide the cobbler with a single piece of leather, there is an easy solution," Fyodor teased. "Those feet were made for dragonhide boots."

The boy chuckled delightedly. "Easy enough, now that you're back home! You'll go snow racing with us tomorrow?"

"Why? Does a white dragon await us in the mountains?"

The gleam in the boy's eyes darkened. "Worse," he said flatly. "A black wolf."

Fyodor received this news in silence. Petyar had been born the same spring as Vastish's firstborn, and the boys had grown up like brothers. The death of his favorite cousin had cast a deep shadow over young Petyar's life, and left him with an indelible and unreasonable hatred of wolves.

"Has this wolf done any harm?" Fyodor asked at last.

"Not yet. It has been seen lurking near the village."

"How near? The refuse hill? The fields?"

"The forests," the boy admitted.

"Petyar."

The young man responded with a defiant shrug. "Do not say you haven't been warned. The snow race should be a contest, not a hunt! If you are content to be a wolfs prey, so be it. I at least will keep close watch."

"That you will watch closely I do not doubt," Fyodor said somberly, "especially if Treviel's daughters join the race."

A grin edged its way onto Petyar's face. "What of it? There is no harm in looking."

"I will pass that thought along to the fyrra," Fyodor suggested. "Perhaps he will have it carved upon your coffin."

The boy chuckled and reached for the oil lamp. "Time for sleep, or tomorrow morn we won't know whether we're looking at wolves or women."

Fyodor settled down on his cot and sent a wry smile into the darkness. "Sometimes it is difficult to tell."

"Aye," Petyar agreed, in a tone that suggested he had vast experience in such matters. After a moment's silence, he added, "You have met many such women in your travels?"

The wistful tone in the young man's voice was familiar to Fyodor. He had heard it this night from his sister's children, fully two-score neighbors, and even the fyrra. Now he had no heart for more stories and scant voice left to speak them. Instead he offered, "I have known Sashyar all my life."

Petyar let out a hoot of amusement. "Now I have no fear of the fyrra's wrath! Go on, tell Treviel that I admire his pretty daughters. I have a weapon to match yours."

Fyodor thought of the blunt, black sword resting against his cot and prayed with all his heart that the boy's words would never come to pass.

Liriel's tour of the Witches' Lodge was not quite what she had expected. For one thing, the complex was more extensive than she'd gathered from first impression. It went on and on, covering the top of the hill that crowned the village and stretching down much of the back slope. In addition to the great hall and the warriors' barracks, there was a temple to the Three, the goddesses who formed the center of Rashemi worship. The temple was a lovely thing, with a rounded domed roof guarded by a trio of towers. Still, how was such a thing possible?

"One temple for three goddesses?" Liriel demanded.

"One goddess, if you prefer. We worship the triple goddess: maiden, mother, and wise woman," Zofia explained. "They are called by other names in other lands. We of Rashemen also have our names for them, but these are our own and must not be spoken to outsiders. Come - I will show you the bathhouse."

This proved to be a small, round, windowless building constructed of stone and roofed with slate. The old witch pulled open the door. Steam escaped, along with a sudden, rushing energy that was more than air.

Liriel peered inside. In the center of the room was a well filled with rocks that glowed with heat. A large bucket had been suspended over it with ropes running from it to the wooden benches built against the walls. Liriel saw the purpose of this at a glance. Anyone desiring a steam bath would pull a rope and tip a bit of water onto the hot rocks. The drow had similar steam houses, albeit magical ones, in Menzoberranzan.

Fyodor's sister sat on one of these benches, a linen sheet wrapped around her. She gave them a pleasant nod—and vanished.

"The Bannik," Zofia said casually. "A spirit of health and divination. Most bathhouses have one. If you see a familiar person in the bathhouse who should not be there, do not take alarm. It is only the Bannik."

"If I see a familiar person, I'd be a fool not to take alarm," Liriel muttered.

The witch gave her a curious stare. "It is so? You have many enemies?"

"I'm not sure what a Rashemi means by 'many' enemies," Liriel prevaricated.

Zofia let out an amused chuckle. "Well said. It would seem that Fyodor has told you some of our tales. What a storyteller he would have made!" she said wistfully.

Liriel considered these words and discarded them as unimportant. Most likely Rashemi storytellers devoted their lives to this art, as did human bards or drow deathsingers. Fyodor had taken a warrior's path instead.

"I felt something leave when we entered. What was that?"

"Who can say?" Zofia responded. "The Bannik sometimes invites friends to the bathhouse. Forest spirits, water spirits, demons."

The drow took a cautious look over her shoulder. "This doesn't bother you?"

"Do you think that one spirit has the power to heal or to divine?" Zofia demanded. "The Bannik are powerful because they have friends. It is a lesson we Rashemi have learned well."

They closed the door and moved on to the main building. Zofia shook her head. "None but a witch may enter. No outlander is permitted within, not even one with a wychlaran's training. Even if you were who you claim to be, you could not pass this door." Zofia held up a hand, silencing Liriel. "That will keep. Come, I will show you to your hut."

The two females walked in silence down the long road leading to the village wall. Liriel's new home was surprisingly pleasant, a small hillock crowned with meadow grass still studded with summer flowers. Smoke rose from the small circle of stones, giving evidence of the dwelling within.

The single round room was heated by an iron stove. A large fur-covered bed filled one side, a small table and chairs the other. Pegs provided places for clothing. A washtub stood next to a shelf holding dishes and pots.

Zofia took down a samovar and set to work making tea. She also took from her bag a small loaf of bread, a salt cellar, and a white cloth.

"You will need these to befriend your domovoi. A house spirit," she explained, responding to Liriel's inquiring stare. "They are helpful and kind, and as long as you do not offend them they will protect your house and do some of your chores."

"What am I supposed to do with these things?"

"Wrap the bread and salt in the cloth and stand in your open doorway. Invite the domovoi in with kind and pleasant words, then leave the gift under the threshold stone. There is a special hollow there, of course."

"Of course," Liriel echoed, feeling slightly dazed by this recitation. "What does a domovoi look like?"

"Oh, don't expect to see it. You will hear it from time to time. It will hum when content and sigh or even groan when sad. Now, let us speak of you," she said. Her keen blue eyes regarded Liriel steadily. "Tell me why you have come to Rashemen."

"I came for Fyodor and to bring back the Windwalker."

"Nothing more?"

The drow hesitated, not sure how far to trust the witch. She decided that she had little choice. Without Zofia's patronage she would not have been allowed into this land at all.

"Another task was entrusted to me," she said slowly. "I was given a tapestry in which are imprisoned the spirits of slain elves. I promised to free them."

A light swept over Zofia's face. "Now I understand. You are a morrigan!"

Liriel lifted a skeptical brow. "I wasn't the last time I looked."

The witch chuckled. "A raven, then. A being who moves between two worlds, between starlight and shadows. It is your task to see lost spirits home."

This notion was entirely new to Liriel, and yet it had the uncomfortable fit of newfound truth. "Between starlight and shadows." Fyodor had used that very phrase in a story he told her.

Still, this morrigan business was too much to absorb.

"Who decided this?" she said heatedly.

Zofia shrugged. "Who knows? Is our fate written on the day of our birth, or do we choose our paths?"

"You tell me."

"Neither," the old woman said, "or perhaps both. The future is not ours to know."

"Fyodor has the Sight. He says you're an Oracle."

The witch inclined her head. "We see what might be, just as the fisherman sees the darkening clouds and knows that rain might fall. He also knows that a strong wind might come and blow the storm far from the Ashane, or that the song of the bheur—the blue hag, the bringer of Winter—might change the rain to snow."

Liriel took this in. "What do you see for me?"

"Let's have a look."

Zofia took a bag from her belt and spilled several small, rune-carved stones onto the table. "These were made from bones left by creatures no living eye has seen. The ancient power of the land is in them. Gather them up and strew them on the table."

Liriel did as she was bid. The old woman studied the result for long moments. At length she lifted her eyes to the waiting drow. "You will bind and break, heal and destroy. What you sought, you have found. What you love, you will lose—yet your heart will sing and not alone. You will make a place for those who walk between the starlight and the shadows."

The drow considered these cryptic words. "At least rain clouds eventually get to the point."

Zofia shrugged. "The wind will blow where it will. Keep the stones. Learn to listen to them, but do not seek to know your own future. That is courting ill fortune."

She rose to leave. Liriel stepped caught the witch's sleeve. "Do you know what I am?" she asked softly.

"Oh yes," Zofia said. "You are a black wolf."

The drow blew out a long breath that was part relief, part resignation. At least her deepest secret—or nearly so—was on the table.

"There are black wolves among every kind of creature," the witch went on, "who are different from their kin, outcasts either by choice or birth. Perhaps both. For whatever reason, they have no place among their kindred. They walk alone. I say black wolf because oftentimes a rogue wolf has a dark coat. Is such a beast shunned by its kind because of its hide, or does it hunt alone because of differences hidden beneath?"

This explanation struck Liriel as ambiguous as her "fortune." Did Zofia know that her guest was a dark elf or didn't she?

"I'll try not to keep the village awake with my howling," she grumbled.

The witch chuckled. "Sleep, then. Tomorrow you take the next step on your path."

She went her way. Liriel gathered up the bread and salt and stood in the open door. "This is for the domovoi" she said, feeling rather foolish. "You're welcome to come in." No further pleasantries came to mind, though she tried to think of some.

"Hang old shoes in the yard," called Zofia without looking back. "The domovoi like that."

"Kill me now," Liriel muttered. Resolving that the house spirit would have to make do with an evening snack, she put the gift under her stone and closed and latched her door. She fell facedown into the fur coverlet and was asleep almost at once.

Some time later, she became aware of a most peculiar feeling, a sensation so subtle that that it belonged neither to dreams or waking. Her feet were suddenly cooler, as if some highly skilled servant had managed to get her boots off without waking her.

Liriel cracked open one eye and instantly came fully awake.

A peculiar creature leaned over her. It looked human but for the silky fur covering its face and limbs. Most likely male, it appeared quite old and was clad only in a long-tailed red shirt. Long, gnarled fingers reached for the strings tying the witch mask to her belt.

Liriel exploded from the bed, her back to the wall and her daggers in her hand.

The creature stared at her in open-mouthed astonishment. "domovoi to the drow I have become?" it moaned. "A bad hut, this is! Better a dvorovoi it should have!"

Only then did Liriel notice the mask in the house spirit's hand and realized that she wore her true face. A glance at her black hands confirmed this.

Thinking fast, she responded firmly, "No Dvorovoi. I mean no harm to Rashemen and want nothing to do with bad spirits."

This apparently was the right approach. The furry being nodded approvingly. "Better in the yard they should stay. You can cook?"

"Not if my life depended on it."

The domovoi brightened. "Then no dishes I must wash, no pots scour! But there will be milk?"

"If you want it, I'll have someone deliver it."

"Rothe's milk, or goat?"

Liriel shrugged. "Whatever you want."

"Eggs?" the spirit inquired hopefully.

The drow extended her hand for the mask, indicating a trade. The domovoi handed it over and faded from sight, but a contented little melody rose from the stove. The drow tied the mask firmly to her belt and went back to bed.

Yet sleep eluded her. Liriel opened her door and gazed toward the mountains, drinking cold tea and watching the sky brighten to silver. A single howl wafted down from the forested slopes, a wild voice that sang alone. Liriel remembered the witch's words and lifted her mug in silent salute to a kindred spirit.

The sun was well past its zenith by the time Fyodor stood near the top of Snowcat Mountain. The young people of Dernovia had left before dawn to make the long trek up the mountain. He sought the small smudge of brown and gray far below that marked the village walls and wondered how Liriel fared.

She would love this, he decided, glancing back at the band of men and maidens he had known all his life. They laughed and teased, flirted and boasted, reveling in the fine day and the bracing shock of wind-blown snow against their skin.

Fyodor had already stripped down the traditional doeskin loincloth and strapped the racing shoes to his boots. He helped Petyar stuff the discarded clothes into sacks and load them onto the pack animals—sure-footed, shaggy little ponies that seemed more goat than horse.

Everyone was dressed in similar fashion, men and women alike. All of them, even young Petyar, were well accustomed to this. There was little shame in Rashemen regarding the body, and none of the Rashemi confused sport with courtship.

Even so, Fyodor couldn't help contrasting the sturdy Rashe-maar women with the tiny drow and envisioning Liriel's lithe black form against the setting of white snow.

Petyar elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "Now who's watching?" he said with a grin.

The warrior chuckled and tossed his head toward the ribbon that last year's winners held between them. The starting line could not be tied to trees, as they had left the tree line behind perhaps two hours ago.

They joined the group and waited for the ribbon to drop, then all of them hurtled down the mountain in huge, sliding steps. A fast start was important. Once they reached the forest, the paths narrowed and the lead was difficult to take. Frontrunners could be expected to protect their positions with their fists and staffs. Competition among the swiftest racers often developed into impromptu duels, which opened the door for less-favored contestants and added the possibility of an unexpected win. It was this that lent the race much of its excitement. All shared the likelihood of friendly battle. Any man or maid might win honors.

Petyar shouldered his cousin out of the way, sending him into a tumbling roll. Fyodor found his feet and took off after the boy, loudly promising vengeance.

They would neither of them win this way, but the young man's playful mood suited Fyodor. Better this than a senseless quest for a black wolf that had harmed no one and was best left alone.

Fyodor scooped up a handful of snow and slung it at the boy. It slapped into the back of his head. He turned and hurled a missile of his own. Fyodor leaned away from the snowball and quickly closed the distance between them. He stooped as he neared the boy and grabbed a handful of snow. With this he briskly washed Petyar's face.

The boy yelped and gave pursuit. Fyodor leaped over a snow-covered boulder and slid along the trunk of a fallen log. The younger warrior, though, had the longer legs, and on this steep slope his stride was nearly the match for a hill giant's.

They raced only each other, leaving the prize to others. After a time, however, Petyar seemed to lose interest. He did not increase his speed when Fyodor drew abreast with him, did not return his cousin's cheerful insults. As they neared the tree line the boy lengthened his stride and veered off the path. He disappeared into the trees.

Fyodor set his jaw and followed the big-footed trail.

Suddenly there were two trails.

He did not see the second trail at first, for Petyar's prints had obscured the delicate markings. No doubt he had done so deliberately, in an attempt to hide his true purpose, but as the boy's excitement drew, his caution ebbed. The marks of large but delicate paws, front and back feet falling into the same straight line, wove through the trees.

Petyar followed.

Fyodor found his cousin in a small clearing, not far from the runner's path. The fading voices of the runners proclaimed that they had been left far behind, but Petyar did not seem to notice. He stood at the base of a snow-frosted pine, staring in puzzlement at the snow. Tracks circled the tree, but the thick white blanket beyond was marked by a single pair of tracks: Petyar's. The wolf prints had completely disappeared.

The warrior clapped the boy on the back. "You would not be the first Rashemi to lose a trail. Forget it."

"I didn't lose the trail," Petyar insisted.

"Perhaps you didn't," Fyodor agreed. "Perhaps this wolf should not be found."

The boy scoffed. "I'm not such a fool as that! If you think to frighten me with tales of werewolves, you'd do better to wait until the night has come and the moon is full."

"True enough," Fyodor admitted. He nodded toward the path. "However it happened, your quarry is gone. Let's join the others."

Petyar grumbled but fell into step. "It will be back," he insisted, "and it will cause trouble before it's finished. That is its nature. A wolf is always a wolf."

His words drifted through the crisp air. Thorn heard them, albeit somewhat muffled by the thick branches that shrouded her hiding place. The familiar Rashemaar saying prompted a wry, humorless smile.

A wolf will always be a wolf. It was strange they should think so when so many of their old tales said otherwise.