our steps and see if you can find it. Take your time.’
As he spoke, he drew a necklace from his pocket, wrapped it in his kerchief, and handed it to me. I pocketed it. He opened his clothing-case, shot me an accusing look at the compressed jumble inside it, and then fished about until he discovered the pot of salve. He handed it to me.
‘Shall I lay out your clothing for dinner before I go?’
He rolled his eyes mockingly at me as he drew a crumpled shirt from his clothing bag. ‘I think you’ve already done enough for me, Badgerlock. Just go.’ As I moved towards the door, his voice stopped me. ‘Does the horse suit you?’
‘The black is fine,’ I assured him. ‘A good healthy beast and fleet, as we proved. You chose a good horse.’
‘But you would rather have chosen your own mount.’
I nearly said yes. But then, as I considered it, I realized that was not true. If I had been choosing the horse, I would have sought for a companion to bear me through the years. It would have taken me weeks, if not months, to select one. And now that I was unwillingly confronting the wolf’s mortality, I felt a strange reluctance to offer that much of myself to an animal. ‘No,’ I replied honestly. ‘It was much better that you chose one for me. She’s a good horse. You chose well.’
‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. It seemed to matter to him a great deal. If the wolf had not been waiting, it would have given me pause.
Many are the tales told of Witted taking on their beasts’ shapes to wreak havoc upon their neighbours. The bloodier legends are of Witted in wolves’ skins, who in that guise rend their neighbours’ families as well as their flocks. Less sanguine are the tales who depict Witted suitors taking on the shapes of birds, or cats, or even dancing bears to gain access to a bedchamber in the course of a seduction.
All such tales are imaginative nonsense, perpetuated by those who seek to fuel hatred of the Witted. Although a Witted person can share the mind of his beast, and hence, its physical perceptions, he cannot metamorphose his Human form into that of an animal. It is true that some Witted who have been long in a partnership with their animal sometimes take on some of their habits of posture, diet, and mannerism. But a man who eats, dens, scavenges and smells like a bear does not become a bear. If that myth of shapechanging could be vanquished, it would go far to re-establishing trust between the Witted and unWitted.
Badgerlock’s Old Blood Tales
The wolf was not where I had left him. It rattled me, and I took some few moments convincing myself that I had not mistaken the spot. But there were the spatters of his blood where he had sprawled on last year’s leaves, and here were the spatters in the dust where he had lapped water from my hands. He had been here and now he was not.
It is one thing to track two shod horses with riders. It is another to follow the spoor of a wolf over dry ground. He had left no trace of his passage, and I feared to reach out towards him. I followed the tracks of the horses, believing that he would have done the same. As I trailed them through the sun-drenched hills, their tracks went down into a draw and crossed a small stream. They had stopped here to let the horses water. And then in the muddy bank was a wolf’s paw-print atop the horse’s hoof-mark. So. He was tracking them.
Three hills later, I caught up with him. He knew I was coming. He did not pause to wait for me, but moved on. That gait caught my eyes. It was not his purposeful trot. He walked. Myblack was not especially pleased to approach the wolf, but she didn’t fight me. As I drew closer, he stopped in the shelter of some trees and awaited me.
‘I brought meat,’ I told him as I dismounted.
I felt his awareness of me, but he sent no thought towards me. It was eerie. I took the meat out of my shirt and gave it to him. He wolfed it down and then came to sit beside me. I took the salve out of my pouch. He sighed and lay down.
The claw-swipes along his belly were livid ridges of lacerated flesh, and hot to the touch. When I applied the salve, the pain became an edged thing between us. I was as gentle as I could be and still be thorough. He tolerated it, but not gladly. I sat for a time beside him, my hand resting on his ruff. He sniffed at the salve I had applied. Honey and bear grease, I told him. He licked the long scratch and I let him. His tongue would push the ointment deeper into the wound and do him no harm. Besides, there was no way I could have stopped him. He already knew that I would have to go back to Galekeep.
It would be wisest for me to keep following them, even if I don’t go swiftly. The longer you are delayed, the colder the trail will be. Easier for you to come to me than to try to follow fading tracks.
There is no arguing with that. I gave no voice to my worries that he could neither hunt nor defend himself just now. He knew it, I knew it, and he had made his decision. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. He knew that too, but I could not refrain from the promise.
My brother. Be careful what you dream tonight.
I won’t seek to dream with them.
I fear they may seek you.
Fear smoked through my mind, but again there was nothing to say. I wished, vainly, that I had been brought up knowing more of the Wit. Perhaps if I had understood Old Blood better, I would know what I was dealing with now.
No. I think not. What you do, how you link to him, that is not just Skill. It is the crossing of your magic. You open the door with one and travel with the other. As when I attacked Justin after he had bridged into you with Skill. His Skill made the bridge, but I used my bond with you to run across it.
He had deliberately shared that thought with me, acknowledging a worry that had been growing in me for some time. Dog-magic, Justin had called my Wit, and told me that my use of the Skill stank of it. Verity had never complained of that. But Verity, I admitted unwillingly, shared my truncated education in the Skill. Perhaps he had not detected a staining of the Wit in my use of the Skill, or perhaps he had been too kind to ever rebuke me with it. Now I worried for my wolf. Do not follow them too closely. Try not to let them know that we track them.
What did you fear? That I would attack a cat, and two men on horseback? No. That battle belongs to you. I will trail this game; it is up to you to bring it to bay and down it.
His thought created unpleasant images in my mind all the way back to Galekeep. I had entered into this to track down a boy, runaway or perhaps kidnapped. Now I was facing not only a boy who did not wish to be returned to Buckkeep, but his confederates. How far would I go in my efforts to return him to the Queen, and what limits would he set in his determination to have his own way?
Would those with him have any constraints as to what they would do to keep him?
I knew Lord Golden was wise to continue our play. Much as I longed to drop all pretence and simply hunt down the Prince and drag him back to Buckkeep, I could see the consequences of that. If the Bresingas were certain that we pursued him, they would certainly get a warning to him. He would flee faster and hide deeper. Worse, they might directly interfere with our pursuit of him. I had no wish to meet with an untimely ‘accident’ as we tracked Prince Dutiful. As matters stood, we could still hope to move secretly to regain the Prince and discreetly convey him back to Buckkeep. He had fled Galekeep at our arrival, yet not gone far at first. Now he was on the move
