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Cats love only their mates and their masters.
—Demitri of Alainya
Water. Shyshax smelled earth and trees. And water. He opened his eyes, but could see very little. The gurgle of a stream sent him nearly wild, but he held still. His body ached, promising something worse if he tried to move. Without raising his head, Shyshax began to make out the outlines of branches against starlight. Thirst clawed at him, and at last he rallied himself to stand. It hurt even worse than he had anticipated, every breath drawing fire through his chest. He thought his tail might be broken. He could not lift it properly.
Shyshax crawled from the underbrush and looked around. He tried to remember how he had come into the forest. He looked back and noticed that branches had been pressed down and draped about his resting place. Someone hid me.
Groggily, he remembered Cleo and Liliana, the leopards. Did I walk here? Did Cleo drag me? A scent in the air made him uneasy, but he was too disoriented to place it. All that mattered was the stream, just within sight through the trees. Limping, Shyshax made his way to the water. He thought it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He was considering wading in and lying down in the shallow flow, when he heard a soft noise—something between a trill and a growl. At the same instant, he smelled blood.
Shyshax raised his head quickly enough to send a dart of pain through his bruised shoulders. A few paces upstream on the opposite side stood a cat. He looked huge in the starlight, three times Shyshax’s size, and he had a shelt’s body in his mouth. The head dangled by a flap of skin, dribbling blood into the water. Shyshax thought he might be sick. The next second, he saw the hooves and knew the shelt was not Laylan.
The cat dropped its kill when he saw Shyshax. The body landed with a plop, sprawling in the stream. One leg was gone. Shyshax thought the fur might be black, but it was hard to tell.
I’m done, thought Shyshax. He knew he could not run any more. He felt oddly calm, satisfied that he’d done everything he could, both for Laylan and himself. Then he saw the cat, really looked at him for the first time, and his fear rose again. Ounce. Shyshax remembered the times they’d exchanged insults and wondered what Ounce was going to do to him. You’ll not grovel, he commanded himself. Die on your feet!
But his legs seemed to fold of their own accord as the snow leopard came towards him until his belly was flat against the ground. Shyshax’s ears pressed tight against his head, his eyes rolling up until the whites showed. His broken tail tried to tuck beneath him, but only sent a stab of pain through his rump to his flanks.
Ounce lowered his head to sniff noses with Shyshax. “Peace, little dog-cat. I’m not hunting you tonight.”
Shyshax’s eyes flicked to the faun and back again.
“Yes. I’m hunting fauns.” But there was no blood-joy in his eyes or voice.
Shyshax tried to speak, but his voice would not obey.
Ounce seemed to read his thoughts. “I brought you here out of the city.”
“The ocelot,” managed Shyshax.
“Dead.”
“Oh.” Shyshax thought a moment. “Did you come with her?”
Ounce looked surprised. “No. We were all scattered when the fauns and centaurs attacked.”
Shyshax noticed that the fur of Ounce’s left shoulder was bloody—dried blood, too high to clean. Shyshax felt a little bolder. “She came to warn me. She said the cheetahs were innocent, that Liliana was the one who tried to kill Lexis. She said I was a king cheetah.”
Ounce turned away dismissively, rumbling as if to say, Was that all?
Shyshax felt piqued. “If she was right, then my family died without a reason!”
Ounce shook his head. “You know nothing. Eat. You’re weak.”
Shyshax got shakily to his feet. “Did you all know? Every one of you? And did nothing!”
Ounce turned his pale eyes back on Shyshax. “Not all of us. Stop mewling like a shelt. Come and eat.”
Shyshax followed him, grumbling, “Why did you rescue me if you detest me so?”
“I thought I owed it to Cleo. We have served long together. Also, Lexis expressed concern earlier.”
This startled Shyshax into momentary silence, but when Ounce identified the faun as dinner, Shyshax found his voice again. “I’ve never eaten shelts! Not even wolflings! My master wouldn’t have it.”
“Your master,” sneered Ounce. “Did he muzzle you, too? Lead you on a rope like a burro?”
Shyshax bristled, though he was so sore he could feel the individual hairs as they rose. “You have a master, too,” he spat.
All the snarl went out of Ounce’s face at once. “I had a master.” He turned to the body of the faun and began ripping away flesh from bone as easily as a shelt might peel a fruit.
Shyshax felt suddenly both ungrateful and unkind. “Cleo thought he was alive.” She didn’t think it likely, but she thought it possible.
Ounce was ripping, but not really eating. He stopped for a moment, the cloud-gray fur of his chest crimson. “When I first came down out of the mountains, I pledged myself in service to the house of Alainya. Demitri was young, then, and so was I. He was a good king. He did the things that had to be done without flinching, without looking back. He was also—” Ounce seemed to be searching for an uncommon word.
“A friend?” prompted Shyshax.
Ounce glanced at him. “That, yes. As much as Demitri could have a friend.”
Or as much as you could, thought Shyshax.
“I did all that was required of me,” continued Ounce, “all that was...asked.”
Shyshax frowned. Something was asked that he didn’t like. Was there really any work too dirty for you, Ounce? Shyshax was reminded of the way that Cleo had stumbled over her words:
I thought that Liliana might be better for Filinia than Demitri. I thought she might end the wars with the shelts, might not—
“I watched Lexis grow up,” continued Ounce, “but cats do not change masters easily.”
Shyshax nodded. He understood this.
“I thought Liliana would get herself killed, thought Demitri would do it before Lexis had a chance. But Demitri died, and Lexis is....” He seemed to be searching for an even more difficult word than “friend,” and this time Shyshax wasn’t sure what to volunteer.
Ounce shook his head. “He is unusual. I thought I would not have a second master.”
Or a second friend.
“I was wrong,” finished Ounce. Then he tore into the faun and really did eat.
* * * *
Laylan heard the horn. He did not think that Chance could hear it, for the sound was of a pitch for Canid ears alone. The wolflings began talking at once.
“Well, Fenny, if your call didn’t alert the others, that should finish the job,” said Sham.
“I hope Huali’s alright,” muttered Sevn. “Fauns can hear that horn close-to.”
Fenrah sniffed. “I’m not worried about Huali, not in Selbis.”
Laylan wanted to ask about the horn, but they had shown little inclination to speak to him and none at all to explain. Chance was becoming heavier against his arm. Soon I’ll have to carry him. I doubt they’ll slow down for me.
Sometime later, dim light began to illuminate the passage, and Laylan knew they were approaching the surface. Shortly afterward, Chance fainted again. Laylan got an arm under the faun’s legs and lifted him. Fenrah’s arm might be broken, but there was nothing wrong with her legs. He was beginning to wonder how he would keep up, when help arrived.
Laylan smelled the wolves a second before he saw them—just shaggy hulks in the gloom. They whined and yipped in welcome as they greeted the wolflings, tails wagging furiously.
“Fenrah?” A deep male voice—Xerous.
“Here!” Fenrah was on Dance now. “Hualien—?”
“He’s with me,” said Xerous, “so is Talis. The fauns are spreading out over the palace area. Hurry or we’ll be tr—”
Fenrah cut in, “Is Barbet with you?”
“I think so; why?”
“She’s large and she’s got a mild temper. I’m hoping she’ll suffer some unusual riders.”
“Unusual?” All the hackles had risen in Xerous’s voice.
“Yes. Laylan, come here. Sevn, please explain things to Xerous.”
Laylan came, listening to the choking sound Xerous was making as Sevn explained. Behind them, Sham was speaking with Talis, his young apprentice. “I brought your pack, Sham—the smaller one. Huali said Chief’s arm was broken.”
Fenrah had jumped down beside Laylan. “This wolf will not like you,” she said, “but I think she will humor you.”
She coaxed the she-wolf to his side, inviting her to sniff him, then to lie down on her belly. Just as Laylan was about to mount, he saw something that made him forget the wolf and even Chance’s limp body. He reached for the place where his sword had hung before he remembered it was gone.
Hualien had jumped off his wolf. He had lost his boots, and the feet and legs below the hem of his tunic were hairless and dainty with long toes. His tail curved behind him, completely hairless like that of a skinned animal. Laylan heard a soft chittering.
“Yes, yes,” said Fenrah in a tired voice. “He’s a rat shelt. Now get on the wolf.”
* * * *
In the top of a huge old tower, Daren lay under a pile of furs, lulled by the drumming of rain on the roof and the warmth of Ermina’s body. He’d debated whether to bring her, but he was glad now of his decision. Sharon-zool had taken so much of his time these past months that he’d barely seen Ermina. He missed her child-like kindness. It somehow affected him as his queen’s passionate attentions could not.
Daren buried his face in her sweet-smelling curls and let sleep take him. He had spent the night making the camp secure; his officers should be capable of handling the morning.
Bang!
Daren bolted up. A messenger stood dripping in the doorway. He sketched a nervous bow. “Sir, the prisoners have escaped!”
Daren’s angry reprimand died in his throat, but his bloodshot glare had already set the messenger to trembling. “Officer Northain begs me to tell you, sir: part of the passage collapsed, sir. Guards presumed dead, sir. Melcross and eight of his company are dead and the small wolfling still loose, sir. Two archers waited for them outside a tower for a quarter watch. They finally went in and found them half consumed by rats,” he gulped, “sir.”
Daren drew a ragged breath, clenching and unclenching his hands beneath the coverlet. Beside him, Ermina stirred and sat up, her small, sensual body only a suggestion in the gloom.
The messenger did not look at her. “Officer Northain begs me to ask—”
“Yes, I know,” snapped Daren. He rose and began throwing on clothes. “How long ago?”
“The escape, sir? Half a watch, perhaps less.”
Daren scooped up his sword and belt. “Tell Northain that I want him to assemble the best trackers we have and go after the—” He hesitated. “No. Get my hounds and my personal guard. I’ll go after them myself.”
