He threw off the cloak and willed the wolfshape to him. Stram whined and Fion drew back in fright, then tried to steady herself as best she could. She stared at the red-furred wolf. Only the eyes were still Kern’s. The rest…She fought down a shudder and reached across to touch him. The fur on his neck was grizzled. On his head it was softer.

  “I…I could try,” she said.

  Suddenly the fur turned to curls and Kern moved back against the tree in manshape, tugging the cloak about him.

  “You’re very brave,” he said softly. “I know that you believe all the tales of my kind, yet you’re still willing to make the effort. Was it hard?”

  “It was…”

  She explored the feeling, pushed beyond the fear to her own inner core, and realized that the friendship they’d known overrode the fear. She shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “Not as hard as I thought it would be.”

  “And Ainsy?” Kern asked. “How would she feel, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. She’d have to work that out for herself. I can’t promise anything, Kern. I can’t even promise how my own feelings’ll go. Perhaps it’s only the greater threat of Tuiloch that makes it easy now, and later…later it might be harder. I don’t like to think that I’m trying to use you, but…I don’t know, Kern.”

  A bitter smile touched his lips. “Then what’s the use? Win or lose. I’d still lose. Even if we defeated Tuiloch, I’d have nothing. I’d still be fleeing. I’ve been running my whole life, Fion. I always knew it, inside, but I managed to hide it from myself until I came to the Tinker. Then I saw a chance. A home. A woman that loved me. Friends. Now it’s all gone.”

  “You’re only thinking of yourself,” Fion said. “What about us? We need your help. For the friendship we had…”

  “You need my help? Or perhaps my death? Is it selfish to want to preserve my own life? Have you thought about what you’re asking of me? To sacrifice myself so that people who can’t abide me can live on? And what about me? Will I molder in my grave, remembered only with fear? The selfishness goes both ways, Fion.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  “If you’d thought of that before you’d embraced Tuiloch’s lies—”

  “Damn you! He used magic. He twisted everything around so that black was white and white was black. How could we know? We’re only simple folk, not bloody wizards and shape-changers, used to magic!”

  She saw his eyes narrow dangerously and found herself remembering that first morning when he was backed against the wall. Don’t shout at him, she told herself. Don’t get him angry. Fear skittered through her like a flood of vermin. He could change from man to wolf. He could tear out her throat in less than a—

  She stopped the rush of her thoughts with a curse. Am above! Listen to her. It was just as he said. She couldn’t forget what he was now. Could she ever forget? Or would the fear always be there, hidden, but tainting their relationship? And what about Ainsy? Could she lie in his arms without knowing fear, with him being what he was? She was sick with herself, for her thoughts, but the misgivings remained. Shaking her head, she stumbled to her feet, eyes blind with suppressed tears.

  “I…I’m sorry,” she said. “You have as much a right to live as any of us. I didn’t mean to demand your help. I…” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, turning her face away from him. “I’ll go back.”

  She took a couple of steps, then turned back. Stram was on his feet, looking from one to the other.

  “Kern,” Fion said. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I know they’re just words, but…but…I was just so scared and I didn’t know where to turn.”

  Her legs felt weak and she trembled so much that she had to lean against a tree to keep her balance. Then Kern was there, supporting her, drawing her close. A moment she hesitated, as another tongue of fear flicked through her, then she folded into his arms like a rag doll.

  ‘

  “I’ll come,” he said. His own voice was thick with emotion. Awkwardly, he brushed her hair. “I’ll help.”

  She shook her head against his shoulder. “I…I didn’t realize what I was asking of you. When I left it all…all seemed so simple.”

  “Whisht, Fion. I’m scared too. But I couldn’t leave you to him. I know that now. You’re my friends. The only ones I’ve got.”

  He drew her back and gently held her, rocking back and forth.

  “I don’t want anybody else to die,” she said. “I couldn’t stand it. Not you or…or anyone. Just him!”

  “I’ll do my best to keep living for you then,” he said, trying to lighten her mood.

  He realized that it took less effort than he might have thought. Not a few hours ago he’d been wallowing in the depths of depression. Black self-pity from which there’d seemed no chance of escape. But now he knew that he cared—for Fion, for Ainsy, for all of them. And the caring was a strength on its own. Let them live through this trouble and see what the future might bring when it came. And if go he must, at least he would go knowing they still lived.

  He wiped Fion’s cheeks with the edge of his cloak. “Weep it out/’ he said “It’ll do you good.”

  His own eyes were shiny with tears. Fion gulped, caught her breath. Slowly the tension eased from her. She let him hold her, pressed against him, and was glad that the fear was only a tiny pinprick far back in her mind. She tried to imagine what it would be like, to be hated and held in such terror, and a new storm of tears threatened to burst forth. Arn above, what a hateful world it could be!

  Later they sat apart, though Kern still held her hands between his own.

  “The Wolf Moon,” Fion said. She spoke softly, as though to herself.

  “Mmm?”

  “The moon tonight. The first moon of winter’s called the Wolf Moon. Maybe it’ll bring us luck.”

  “For my kind,” he said, “every moon’s a Wolf Moon.”

  But still he looked up. Though it was no longer in the sky, this time it seemed the moon answered him. It spoke of peace won through effort, earned, not simply given. He squeezed Fion’s hands.

  “We can use her luck,” he said. “And whatever else she’s willing to give.”

  It seemed he heard a sound then, like a wolfs howl, distant and sad, yet holding a promise. Of what he couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the wind he heard. Or an echo of his own voice inside his mind. But whatever it was, it comforted him.

  He saw Strain’s ears prick up and felt Fion tense at his side.

  “You heard it too?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I never believed in her before—not truly. But I think Am just answered us. Then again, I never believed in shapechangers before either. Or wizard harpers…

  Kern nodded. He stood and raised her to her feet. “Time we were going,” he said.

  Fion looked around the cedar shelter. Something in her had changed here—had changed for Kern too. They’d both grown a little wiser, she realized. She felt a sense of loss at leaving the place. It had been a conflicting experience—anger, sorrow, bitterness. But it had offered solace as well, and if not a solution to their problems, at least they’d come somewhat to grips with the meaning of friendship and all it entails. A catharsis, a cleansing. And now, all too soon, the time for action was upon them again.

  “His harp’s the key,” she said as she led the way to her skis.

  “I’d thought that as well. With it destroyed, his power’s gone. Stripped of it, we’d be dealing with a man as mortal as you or me.”

  Unless he was Yinadral. But that thought, though it visited them both, they left unspoken.

  “We should make a plan,” Fion said.

  “Too soon. Let’s first get to the inn and go from there. But I know one thing we’ll need.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Some clay. Or wax. Either’ll do.”

  “Do for what?”

  Kern smiled. “To stop up our ears. How can harpmagic work on us if we can’t hear it?”

  “There’s that/’ she replied.

  “Can you get back to your room before you’re missed?”

  “I can try. But aren’t we going to do something right away?”

  “We can’t,” Kern said. “We don’t know how things lie just now. If we wait till, say nightfall, that could give you a chance to try and talk some sense into the others—to break the spell that holds them. Otherwise, Tuiloch could well use them against us.”

  “Nightfall, then,” Fion said.

  “Moonrise.”

  Kern smiled and they both thought of the moon’s naming, the first moon of winter, and heard again that sound like wind or a wolfs howl. They stood by the skis. Fion leaned forward and kissed Kern.

  “Moonrise it is,” she said. “Luck, Kern.”

  “Luck.”

  While she buckled on the fastenings of her skis, Kern let his cloak fall to the snow for die last time. He took a deep breath, willed his wolfshape to him, and they were off, the woman followed by the two beasts, wolf and hound. Dawn was pinking the sky by the time they reached the edge of the marshes and soon they saw the outlines of the inn’s top story from across the river. Fion knelt by the shore and broke through the ice with one of her poles. Shivering at the water’s chill, she worked some clay free. She warmed it under her cloak, then used half on Kern’s ears, the other secreted away in a pocket for herself.

  “Come away, Stram/’ she said softly.

  She kissed Kern’s russet brow, then went on, followed by the dog.

  Kern watched them until they reached the bam, then made a circle around the inn buildings, approaching them from the west, through the orchard. With the clay blocking all sound, he moved through an uncanny silence. He never heard the soft scuff of his paws on the ice and snow, or the wind as it clicked the apple boughs together overhead. At the edge of the orchard, he settled down in the snow to watch the inn.

  Do you sense me coming, Tuiloch? he asked the new morning. Are you readying your spells for me? How close will you let me come before you loose your feragh? As far as the inn yard? Or into the inn itself?

  He shrugged. There was only one way to find out. He’d meet with Fion when she had another chance to slip away and they’d form a plan. Until then, he could only watch and wait. And hope.

  Fifteenth

  It wasn’t until Fion was in her room, stripping off her clothes, that she stopped to think about the trail she’d left. From her window, across the yard to the barn, then the track of her skis heading out into the marshes and returning again. It lay there plain for anyone to see. Shrugging into a warm housecoat, she stood by the window and stared at the sky. Dawn had come, first with the sun, pink to yellow, then followed by a thick overhang of clouds.

  Snow! she prayed. Snow, or we’re undone before we even begin.

  But though the clouds threatened, they held their burden. Biting at her lip, Fion sat down cm the edge of her bed and massaged her calves. Last night had been her first time on skis this year and she wasn’t accustomed to them yet. She lay back on her bed, listening to the quiet of the inn about her and recalled her conversation with Kern.

  Whatever apprehensiveness she’d felt over what he was had been relegated to the back of her mind. Not so much consciously. It had just happened. It must be true, she thought, that a common enemy unites. But before she had time to follow that thought through, the results of yesterday and a sleepless night took their toll and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  She woke to find Ainsy sitting on the end of her bed. Yawning, she wondered how late it was. Then she remembered the trail she’d left and shot a glance out the window. Snow. Blessed Am, it was snowing! Who said the gods don’t listen?

  “You’re quite the slugabed today,” Ainsy said. “You’d think you’d been partying all night or something.”

  Fion’s eyes narrowed and she weighed the tone of Ainsy’s words. Almost, this seemed the Ainsy of old—before Tuiloch’s coming. Yet how could she be this chipper after all that had happened? That was happening. Tolly’s features swam in Fion’s mind.

  “Ainsy,” she said, “What do you remember of yesterday?”

  “Remember?” Ainsy’s brow furrowed. “It snowed most of the day—as it looks like it will today—and we sat around listening to Tuiloch tell us tales. Why?”

  Why? Fion wanted to grab her and shake some sense into her.

  “What about Tolly?” she asked.

  Her throat constricted with emotion as she spoke his name. Poor Tolly. Slain, and for what? A move in the harper’s game. As they might all soon be.

  “T-Tolly?”

  Ainsy stiffened. She clenched her hands into fists so tightly that her knuckles whitened. “I’d almost forgotten,” she said. Her voice was flat and hard. “The wolfman slew him. Butchered him.”

  Fion reached out to hold her hands. “Not Kern,” she said. “It was the harper, Ainsy. It was Tuiloch that killed him, not Kern.”

  “No!” Ainsy pulled herself free and stood up from the bed. “No! Don’t say that! Tuiloch’s here to help us. He’s all that stands between us and that—that thing.”

  “Ainsy, please listen to me.”

  “No! I won’t listen to you. What’s gotten into you, Fion?”

  Fion rubbed her temple. It had been a mistake to bring it up. She saw that now. Ainsy was too bound in the harper’s lies to listen to reason.

  “You’re right,” she said, trying to placate Ainsy. It wouldn’t do for Tuiloch to hear of what she’d just said. “Of course you’re right. I don’t know what came over me. I had…bad dreams and didn’t sleep well.”

  Ainsy smiled sympathetically and returned to sit on the bed.

  “It’s the strangeness of it all,” she said. “I feel it myself—like there’s cobwebs in my head. I forget things. But it’ll soon be over. As soon as the snow stops, Tuiloch’s promised to hunt that murderer down and we can try to forget the horror.”

  The horror, Fion thought. And what of the sorrow? Do you feel nothing for Tolly? But she said nothing more to Ainsy of it. She’d been a fool to think she could win through to her. Tuiloch’s spells were too powerful.

  But if the harper’s magics were so strong, why was she still free of his lies? Was she even free? What if he knew all along what she and Kern were planning? She remembered Kern telling her of his conversation with the harper. Was Tuiloch only using her where his own words had failed? Did the two of them have a chance, or were they defeated before they ever tried?

  She realized that Ainsy had been speaking and set her worries aside with an effort. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I said breakfast’s ready. Are you up for some, or do you expect it to be brought up to you?”

  Fion managed to find a smile to match the one on Ainsy’s lips.

  “I’m getting up,” she said.

  “Well, don’t be all day about it!”

  Ainsy squeezed Fion’s wrist and left the room.

  Oh, Am! Fion buried her face in the pillow. She felt so terribly alone. The thought of getting up and going out to the kitchen, of facing the harper with all she knew and playing through the lies for another day—it all seemed too much for her. But if she didn’t…If she didn’t…

  Though her every cell and fiber shrank from the task, she knew she must see it through. Composing herself as best as she could, she rose and began to dress. She took the the small roll of clay from the inner pocket of her cloak and looked at it for long moments. It was too soon for her to use it. Her hair would hide it well enough, but she still had to be able to hear for now. Later, she promised. She had to remember to wet it down once in a while, that was all. There was only this one more day. She had to play her part.

  Hiding the clay in her pocket, she left the room.

  Fion felt like a bit player in a mummer’s play, suddenly thrust into the main role of a drama on some lord’s stage. It was imperative that she maintain her role, yet in the midst of the macabre sense of dislocation that pervaded the inn, she found it hard enough to simply cope, little say playact. The worst of it was that she was the only one to feel this way. There was no one to share the ordeal with. The others were all bound to Tuiloch’s will and gave no sign that anything was out of the ordinary.

  After her failure at winning Ainsy over, she was hesitant about approaching either Tomtim or Wat. Her gaze shifted constantly to the windows, as unobtrusively as possible, straining hopefully for a glimpse of red fur amid the steady snowfall to buoy up her strength. At the same time she prayed that Kern had enough sense to stay well out of sight.

  What she did see through the windows, framed like a white canvas on which an artist had only begun to sketch the outlines of his subject, was the silvery bulk of the feragh. It was almost invisible in the snow, a shadowy shape against the white, only a shade darker than its surroundings, which moved sinuously for its size and set her heart to thumping each time she caught a glimpse of it. There was the feragh, and Tuiloch’s eyes that, in her guilt, seemed to follow her every move, waiting for her to give herself away.

  It was while they were feeding the livestock, she and Wat and Tomtim, that she tried to get through to the old tinker, only to receive the same blankness that Ainsy had worn, followed by a vehemently expressed hatred for Kern. And like Ainsy, Tolly was no more than a fleeting memory to Tomtim. Tuiloch had successfully driven the stableboy from all their minds. All of them, save Fion.

  She changed the subject quickly, before Tomtim got too worked up, and left it at that. It would be useless to try Wat as well. In her heart, she’d expected failure all along anyway. They were on their own, she and Kern.

  The snow let up in the late afternoon, though the sky remained overcast. As night drew near, Fion began to fret. Tuiloch never strayed far from his harp and watched her like a hawk. Watched them all, perhaps, but especially her.

  She hadn’t had a chance to slip out and talk with Kern. (What if he was gone? What if he’d slipped away during the day to leave her alone?) No! She musn’t think like that. But if she didn’t go out to him, what would he be thinking?

  Dusk came quickly, the pale daylight leaking darkness until night was suddenly upon them. The sky cleared, glittering stars replacing the cloud overhang. Soon it would be moonrise. Tension bunched in Fion’s neck muscles. She felt she should just run off, outside, go to Kern, tell him to call it off, that it was too late, that they were defeated already. Instead, she sat numbly in the common room with the others, waiting. And only she and Tuiloch knew what they waited for.

 

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