Wynn tumbled across the ground. Then a crash filled her ears and thunder shook through the earth beneath her. She rolled over to find Lily beside her and saw Chap bolt out into the clearing.
She cowered for an instant at the sight of the tree's roots writhing in the air. Beyond Chap, the pack elder and two more majay-hi made quick darting passes as they taunted the roots. Each dog was two overlaid images in Wynn's mantic sight. Within their silver-gray forms glowed Spirit of blue-whitemist.But not the tree and its roots-and not Chap.
The whiter essence of the Fay moved like shifting vapors within that dark-stained wood. And Chap was the only singular form Wynn saw.
One whole shape, glowing with brilliance.His fur glistened like luminous threads of white silk in the moonlight, and his eyes scintillated as if holding a light of their own.
And the light of him began to burn.
Wynn did not know what he was doing, but her eyes started to sting. She grabbed Lily with both hands to hold the dog back.
Trails of white mist rose from Chap like vapor in the shape of flames. Wynn squinted against the pain of his light, but could not take her eyes off of him. He stalked inward, low and tight, toward the base of the tree.
The pack elder and his companions pulled up short. They backed away with their eyes on Chap. The roots in the air quivered in hesitation, and then one cracked downward.
Wynn stopped breathing as it fell directly upon Chap.
In a burning blur, he leaped out of its path. The root hit the earth, and Wynn felt the impact beneath her. Before it could coil back again, Chap threw himself on it.
Through the white mist of his form, she thought she saw his jaws close upon the arching root.
And the light of his body flashed.
Wynn cringed as if stepping from a pitch black room into full sunlight. A thousand leaf-wings crackled inside her head. She heard only screeching blind panic and no words. Chap's lone voice rose above them.
I will tear you… rend you… I will swallow down your severed pieces into nothing!
Wynn clung to Lily as her sight slowly returned. Swirling colored blotches marred everything in the night. She barely made out Chap's muted form pacing before the birch's base.
But Chap was the only thing moving.
If you come again for me or mine…I will come for you!
Slowly Wynn's sight cleared more and more. Her mantic vision gone, all she saw in the moonlight was Chap standing tense and watchful.
The gnarled ball of the birch's base towered before him, but its roots extended in stillness as if the tall tree had just toppled. No hint of wind stirred the stray leaves fluttering to the ground.
Chap stood rigid, as Wynn crawled toward him on hands and knees.
His kin were gone.
Chap felt the vibrancy slowly fade from his body. He had turned on his own kind. He could taste them like blood in his mouth.
No, not his kin.Not anymore.
He wanted no more of them. They cared nothing for the lives they toyed with in silent schemes for a world they claimed was theirs. They would sacrifice those he had come to care for-all for some purpose they would not share with him.
In their vicious complacency, they cut him apart and left only those pieces that served them best.
Gentle fingers threaded through the fur on his back and up his neck.
Wynn knelt beside him, her face scratched and dirty. One abrasion on her hand and a shallow cut in the side of her forehead left smeared blood on her skin. She looked small and frail.
"I am sorry," she choked out. "I meant no harm… no offense. I worried for you, when I heard what they said… what you said."
He looked in her brown eyes. She had nothing to be sorry for. What was happening to her-her sight, the way she now heard him-was not herfault. He only wished he understood why it was happening or how to stop it.
Lily crept in, leaning around Wynn to sniff at him cautiously. The rest of the pack stayed at a distance and would not come near.
Had they seen him turn on his own kin? Did they look at him now as some being they did not recognize, which hid within a deceptively familiar form?
Only the inky black elder stalked through the open clearing. His gaze stayed on Chap until he was close, and then his grizzled muzzle lifted toward Wynn. He trotted quickly off into the branches of the fallen birch, but at least he no longer growled at the sage in disapproval.
Lily stretched out her muzzle, sniffing Chap again. He lowered his head. How would she now see him?
The warmth of her tongue slid up his jowl and across the bridge of his nose. But relief made him suddenly weary.
"You are not alone, Chap," Wynn whispered. "That will never happen."
A long mournful howl rose from the downed birch.
Chap lifted his head, and he, Lily, and Wynn looked to where the elder had slipped between the branches. When the pack had come, three had gone in after Lily and Wynn.
But only two had emerged.
Chapter Twelve
Chane turned his horse around a jagged stone outcrop. He followed Welstiel each night southeast into the Crown Range as directed by the old Mondyalitko couple. At any moment, he expected one of their mounts to drop.
The beasts moved slowerwith each passing dusk. Welstiel did not appear to notice and pressed on relentlessly.
On a few evenings they had awoken trapped within the tent by heavy snowfall. Chane dug them out, but once it was so severe they spent the night inside. Not a pleasant night, for any delay aggravated Welstiel.
Tonight was cold but calm, and Chane reined in his horse as Welstiel suddenly halted to look up at the stars.
"How much farther?" Chane asked.
Welstiel shook his head."Until we see signs of a ravine. What did the woman say-like a giant gouge in the mountainside?"
"Yes," Chane answered.
For half the journey, Welstiel seemed lost in thought. The last time Chane had heard the man talk in his sleep was the morning he awoke shouting; since then, Welstiel's dreams had grown infrequent. He had also nearly ceased any pretense of grooming. Dark hair hung lank down his forehead, and his once fine cloak continued deteriorating. Chane's was no better.
"I should look for a place to set up the tent," he said.
Welstiel just stared at the night sky.
Chane urged his mount onward, searching for natural shelter. It was some relief to be alone for a moment, as he believed Welstiel might well be going mad.
The man's state of mind grew worse each night, though at times he was as lucid as the first time Chane met him. They passed the time with Chane's lessons in Numanese, not perfectly enjoyable, but it broke the silent tension and kept Welstiel's wits from wandering. And Chane now spoke Wynn's native tongue in short but complete sentences.
Welstiel had made sure they would not starve, but feeding through his arcane methods was hardly satisfying. How a Noble Dead could settle for such bland and unpleasant sustenance was beyond Chane.
Chane's thoughts often slipped to the memory of a stimulating hunt: the taste of flesh between his teeth and blood on his tongue, and how his pleasure sharpened with the fear of his prey. Welstiel's method might last longer, and was necessary under their circumstances, but he appeared to prefer it. Chane would never understand.
He dismounted and trekked up the rocky slope to an overhang below a sheer face of granite. It would do for the day. He could tie off the canvas on the overhang's projections, weight the bottom edge with stones, and create a makeshift chamber. The extra room would be a small luxury, so he returned to his horse and began untying the rolled canvas.
He paused to scan the firs with their sparse branches and listen to the last of the night, but he heard only the coarse wind gusting across the mountainside. He dreaded another dormant day, locked in by the sun with Welstiel, only to emerge into another night of icy winds on an exhausted mount. Language lessons were his only respite.