IN THE MORNING the hound awoke as the family prepared to leave. The bear was still sleeping, and she thought she should leave him be.
The boy spoke in the language of the hounds, furtively watching for his mother’s disapproval. He was in the shape of a boy, and the others of his family all spoke as humans.
But the hound loved to hear the familiar sounds, and to be able to speak back in them was too tempting for her to resist.
She listened as he told her of the best parts of the forest here for hunting, for hearing howls echoed back, for running a race without obstacles. He wanted her to race with him and changed himself into a hound to do so, but his mother called him back and insisted he help with the chores around the camp, such as disguising their tracks and scattering dirt over the fire and their sleeping places to make sure no smell of them remained.
Just before they left, the hound had an idea. Speaking to the boy had made her realize that she could speak to the family as well. They would understand her.
Excitedly she leaped toward the woman and explained about Prince George and his proclamation about animal magic. She told them about his history with magic, his mother, and his school for animal magic.
Frant’s eyes lit, but he was cautious. “And can he protect us?” he asked, in the language of the hounds.
The hound thought of the blond boy and his call for war. Still, if there was ever a hope for the family to find safety in using their magic freely, it was with George.
“With his own life and the power of his kingdom,” said the hound firmly. “He will do all he can.” She would have sworn it if there were words for such a thing in the language of the hounds. But it was a human thing.
Sharla asked, in the language of humans, “He has the magic himself?”
The hound nodded.
“How do we know he will not be murdered and all the rest of us with him?” asked Frant.
The hound did not know how to answer that. Hounds expected death. Humans found it a surprise, as if life could exist without death alongside it, as if all death were the death of unmagic.
“If we wish to have a home, we must take a risk,” said Sharla. “Why not with this man, at this time?”
“Risk our children?” asked Frant.
“They are at risk in any case. The only difference is that with the prince the reward is greater.”
Frant thought a long time, then nodded.
“Thank you,” said Sharla, tears in her eyes, and for the first time speaking in the language of the hounds. “And thank him as well.” She gestured to the sleeping bear.
When the bear awoke at last, the family was long gone, along with all traces of their presence.
The hound waited for him to stretch and find a morning drink before she tried to tell him where the family had gone. She noticed that the bear seemed unusually quiet and his expression was dark and distant. She thought it was only that the family was gone, and he was lonely again for human company.
But when she turned at the sound of his approaching, he was a great blur of movement rushing at her face. She had no chance to cry out, or to think at all, before he slammed into her side with his head.
In the long moment of her falling, she searched for some explanation, and knew that was a human thing. A hound needed no reason for violence in the forest.
Then she felt the pain, the lack of breath, the ground driving into her chest. She was a hound again. In a battle with a bear.
She slowly pulled herself up, her legs running cold with sweat, but she did not try to escape. A hound would never turn away from a battle.
The bear snarled at her, then came running once more. This time he did not charge into her and send her flying. He let his claws slash into her belly.
She threw herself at the bear and fought for her life. She bit and clawed and kicked and tore, and then stopped suddenly as the pain reached her with a sharp burning sensation. It was too much. Her eyes glazed over and her body slowed. She waited for death, as any hound would wait, panting, gasping, wheezing.
And saw the bear’s face over hers, grief and disgust in his eyes.
And she remembered moments together with him, in the cave, in the forest, with the cat man.
She reached out a paw to offer him comfort.
And the bear lifted her into the air and threw her backward. She could feel the bite of the wound in her side. Then the tree behind her struck like a sword.
She could see nothing.
But she could smell the bear near her, hovering again.
She opened her mouth, wanting to say one last thing to the bear, but then she remembered that he could not understand her.
He would never understand her.
She woke in the dark, sprawled on the forest floor, her mouth filled with blood and leaves, and the bear nowhere in sight—or smell.
A sensible hound would lie there until recovered. Or bark softly, hoping for other hounds of her pack to hear. Or drag herself away from the site of the battle.
She did none of those things.
She thought of the bear’s disgusted expression before he had thrown her away from him.
It only made sense to her when she took the time to puzzle it out, as a human would.
She knew the bear was afraid of seeing the wild man again. She thought that he must be protecting her in his strange, human way.
Stupid man.
Did he not see that there was strength in pack, no matter how small it was?
She tested her legs separately before she tried to put any weight on them. Her lame leg, the left hind leg, had taken the worst of the fall. It was very sore and swollen, but not broken. The others were well enough—she could put weight on them without sharp, stabbing pain.
She tested herself further.
When she shifted, she could feel the tightness on her belly where the bear’s claw had caught her. The wound had already begun to heal, but the scab of dried blood was tight. She would tear it open if she tried to move. More if she tried to walk or run. But that did not matter.
The hound crawled forward, feeling weak and unsteady. Her vision swam. She had eaten the evening before the bear attacked her, but how long had it been since then? If she were to recover from this, she needed strength, and that meant food.
She looked around her and saw beetles boring into a fallen log. A hound did not eat beetles.
But in an emergency a human would.
She put out a paw, scooped up a handful of beetles, and poured them into her mouth.
She swallowed as quickly as she could without chewing. Nonetheless, her stomach felt tight and hot, as if the beetles were not yet dead and were running around inside of her.
She waited, and gradually felt better.
More beetles?
No.
She pulled herself up on all fours and limped, tail between her legs, head close to the ground to sniff for water.
There was a pond ahead, fed from an underground stream she could smell but not see. It was not deep, but it was enough for her to drink from, and the water was fresh.
She slaked her thirst, and strangely felt even more hungry.
It bothered her that she could not ignore her hunger.
But when an animal was hungry, it acted on that hunger. Only a human tried not to feel what she felt.
For now, she would do as a hound and deal with her hunger.
She waited by the stream. It was a good place to be, for other animals must come here.
Soon enough, a vole stopped to get a drink.
She pounced on it and killed it instantly. She would ordinarily have taken her time to enjoy the taste of it, but she found herself hurrying through the meal as only a human would, for all that mattered was filling her stomach enough to follow the bear.
She washed herself in the stream, cleaning the dried blood off her belly.
She went back to where she had last seen the bear, set her nose to the ground to find the bear’s scent, and there it was—headed directly north.
The hound followed the scent for a full day before she allowed herself to rest for a few hours the next night. The mountains were growing steeper here. She had to stop frequently to catch her breath, and she left a trail of blood drops behind her. Her belly wound had reopened and oozed blood down her left hind leg, but it closed again as she rested.
She went another day, and found a place where the bear had fallen. She could smell his scent, and then suddenly it was gone. She had to go back down to another level to find it again, at a less steep section of the mountain.
She saw berry bushes now and again that the bear appeared to have picked from, but no roots. He seemed to sleep near rocks, as if to make a place like his cool cave.
The hound slept near logs, with her back to them. A part of her was afraid that the bear would come back and fight her again, so she prepared for that possibility. She was ready for a fight at any moment, waking or sleeping, climbing or resting.
In two more days the hound was over the first mountain range and got her first glimpse of the larger mountains beyond. She had never seen anything so impressive.
King Helm’s palace with its stone towers and guards was merely a poor imitation of this beauty. The mountains rose up so sharply that anyone would look at them and tremble.
Stopping there, the hound felt the magic.
She had felt something before, a pressure inside her head, a feeling of heaviness. But she had not been sure what it was. She thought it might simply be the effect of the mountains themselves, how high they were.
Or it could have been the exhaustion she felt, and the sense of loss, after the bear had left her and she had to travel alone through a place she had never seen before.
But as it continued, she realized it was none of those things.
It was a magic so immense and powerful that it could fill the open space of the mountainous expanse and still throb and pulse at her, as if demanding that it spread yet farther.
Prince George’s magic, when it had transformed her back into a hound, had been a kind magic. It had not been painless, but it had touched her with no intent except to do what she most wished for. It was an obedient magic, meant to be called for and used.
This magic was its own wild thing, as much like the magic she had felt before as was a trained pup to a wild hound.
For a long moment she faltered.
She could go back, she thought.
To the forest at the foot of the first mountains.
Stay there, be safe. Wait for the bear to return.
But she had never been a coward, not as a wild hound and not as a human princess, either.
The bear belonged with her, and she would go to him and face what he would face.
She moved onward, her face against the magic as if against a strong wind.