"One reason I wished to guide you was because Starsong returned my feathers, and I am at loose ends." Skif wondered if he should tender sympathy, surmising from the content that "returned his feathers" meant his lover had dissolved the relationship.
But Wintermoon evidently saw something of his uncertainty in his expression and shook his head, smiling.
"No, this was not painful. I have no wish to avoid the Vale, or her.
But I simply have no partner now, and there is no one else I care to partner with at the moment. So I am at loose ends, and would just as soon have other things to think on." He wiped his fingers clean on a swatch of dry grass, and tossed it into the fire. "That is what I envy you, do you see," he said, watching the grass writhe and catch. "Strong feelings. I have never experienced them." Skif coughed, a little embarrassed. "I don't know that this is anything other than infatuation or attraction to the exotic."
"Still, it is strong," Wintermoon persisted. "I have never felt anything strongly. Sometimes I doubt I have the ability for it." The statement was offered like a gift; Skif was wise enough to know that when he saw it. He searched his mind for an appropriate response.
"the birds," Cymry prompted.
"You feel strongly about Corwith and K'Tathi, don't you?" he countered.
Wintermoon nodded slowly as if that simply hadn't occurred to him in such a context.
"Well then," Skif said and gestured, palm upward. "Then I wouldn't worry. You're capable. The way I see it, we all feel strongly about things, we just might not know we do. Valdemar is like that for Heralds; we lay our lives down willingly for our coun" and Monarch when we must, but most of the time, we just don't think about it. If you encounter someone you can feel strongly about, you will. You haven't exactly been given much of a choice of potential mates what with three-fourths of the Clan gone, and your tendency to, well, stay to yourself."
"True." The scout sat back a little, and only then did Skif realize, as he relaxed, that he had been tensed. "My father thinks that being born without the Gift for magery shows a serious lack in me. Sometimes I wonder if I have other, less visible lacks." Before Skif could change the subject, Wintermoon changed it for him-to one just as uncomfortable. "What do you intend when we find Nyara?" the scout asked, bluntly. "We shall, I promise you. I am not indulging in vanity to say that I am one of the finest trackers of k'sheyna."
"I-uh-I don't know," Skif replied. "Right now, to tell you the truth, all I'm thinking about is finding her. Once we do that-" He shook his head. "It just gets too complicated. I'm going to worry about it when it happens. What she says and does when we find her will give me my direction."
"Ah," the scout replied, and fell silent.
After all, I spent less than a week in her company, he thought. I could have been misreading everything about her.
Except that she had saved his life at the risk of her own. She'd attacked her own father, a creature that had held absolute control over her all of her life, and for Skif's sake.
She'd gone after Falconsbane with nothing; nothing but her bare handsor rather, claws-And thoughts like that made him realize all over again just how alien she was, yet that realization didn't change how he felt in the least. Whatever it was, it was very strong and very real.
What's going to make a difference is what's happened to her-and what happens to us. If she's handling the things her father did to her. And if we can find someplace where people will accept her-and maybe even us.
That place might not be Valdemar; that was something he was going to have to admit. They might not be able to deal with someone who had tufted, pointed ears, catlike eyes, and a satiny-smooth pelt of very, very short fur. It wasn't obvious, but a close examination would show it. The Heralds were open-minded, but were they open-minded enough for that?
To accept someone who looked half animal?
And he was going to have to go home eventually...That question kept him thinking until Wintermoon shook his shoulder.
After that, he was too busy breaking camp and following the scout through the darkness to worry about anything else. And when they finally made camp again, he was too tired to think at all.
*Chapter Five - Wintermoon., Corwith.. and K'tathi
The two hunters began using a different pattern than a follower might expect; they were on the move from about midafternoon to after midnight.
With the owls helping him, Wintermoon was completely happy doing most of his scouting after darkness fell, and even Skif's nightvision gradually improved with practice. He would never be Wintermoon's equal, but he grew comfortable with searching the forest in the darkness. There were advantages to this ploy that outweighed the disadvantages; the strongest advantage being that with K'Tathi and Corwith scouting for them, there was nothing that was going to surprise them-and nothing that would be able to follow them easily. Few creatures hunted the night by preference, and those few, though formidable, could be watched for. So for several days, they hunted and camped, and remained unmolested even by insects. But Skif knew that the situation could not last. Sooner or later, they were going to run into one of the kinds of creatures that had driven the Tayledras borders back in the first Place. Sooner or later, something was going to come hunting them.
That, in fact, was what he was thinking when they paused along a deer trail, and Wintermoon sent the owls up to quarter the immediate vicinity, looking for disturbed areas or other signs of someone who was not especially woodswise. Cymry began acting a little nervous, casting occasional glances back over her shoulder. But Wintermoon, who was sitting quietly on Elivan, didn't seem to sense anything out of order.
His first real warning that something really was wrong and that Cymry just wasn't being fidgety was when Wintermoon suddenly tensed and flung up his hand, and Corwith came winging in as fast as slung shot, landing on his outstretched arm, and hissing with fear and anger. Skif held out his hand as Wintermoon had asked him to do if one of the owls ever came in fast and showing distress. K'Tathi arrived a moment later, and K'Tathi hit his gauntleted wrist as if striking prey. It was the first time that the owl had landed on Skif, and nothing in his limited experience in hawking with merlins and kestrels prepared him for the power and the weight of the bird as it caught his wrist and landed. Those thumb-length talons closing-even with restraint-on his wrist could easily have pierced the heavy leather of the gauntlet. They did not although the claws exerted such powerful pressure that Skif could not possibly have rid himself of the bird short of killing it. K'Tathi hissed angrily, and swiveled his head away from Skif, pointing back the way he had come.
Before Skif could ask what was wrong, Wintermoon cursed under his breath and the dyheli stag he rode tossed its antlers and reared, its eyes shining in the moonlight, wide with fear. Wintermoon kept his seat easily, but Corwith flapped his wings wildly to keep his balance.
Tilredan, the second stag, the one laden with their provisions and extra gear, bolted; it was Skif's turn to swear, and not under his breath.
But he had reacted too soon; in the next breath, Wintermoon's mount followed the other stag, and Skif only had Cymry's warning, Mindcall of "Hold on." before she was hot on his heels.
Hold on? With an owl on one arm?
He dropped the reins-useless in a situation like this one-and grabbed for the pommel of the saddle with his free hand, deeply grateful that he had not given in to Wintermoon and exchanged Cymry's old saddle for a Shin'a'in model. Shin'a'in saddles had no pommel to speak of.