Chapter 25-Wake

Canisp shifted uncomfortably, reluctantly dragged from the welcoming shadows and into the waking world.

Her left foreleg was numb and tingling; she had fallen asleep with most of her weight on top of it. Her wing ached as well—as much from its cramped, tightly-bound position as the wound that had necessitated such cramping. She tried to mutter something about Calormene mongrels, which came out as a garbled sort of whimper.

Sighing deeply, she blinked sleep-encrusted eyes and looked around.

Her ears pricked forward immediately. It was the kind of place that put a Wolf at ease; a snug, dry cave of gray stone, with rough walls and a rush-covered floor worn smooth by use. She was sprawled out in a comfortable sort of nest; a loose pile of sweet-smelling sage, covered with a tanned bearskin. The irregularly-shaped entrance was small enough that a Wolf of average size would have to duck their head, but large enough that doing so would not be inconvenient. A gentle breeze rustled outside, but didn't blow into the cave—a good location. In cold weather, such a draft could prove irritating at best, and deadly at worst. This cave would be warm and welcoming in winter. Cocking an ear, Canisp could even hear a stream racing along not far away.

The sunlight filtering into the den didn't seem to have changed at all, which was disconcerting until she recalled their condition upon arriving. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising to think that they might have slept through the night and most of the following day, after all. She certainly hoped Vesta had slept at least that long—she deserved the rest. They all did.

However, that probably meant it was time to get up.

She stood slowly and gave a long, luxurious stretch, shaking the life into her foreleg and letting the tired stiffness work its way out of each and every one of her muscles in turn. Yawning widely, she gave her fur a vigorous shake. Her wing twinged, but only slightly.

She was alone, but it was clear that the residents of this cave had been there recently; their mingled scents were strong, and Vesta's saddlebags had been carefully placed in a corner, along with Ilona's clothes.

Hosni's, she corrected herself mentally, feeling the loss as a tangible ache. Hosni's clothes now. There had been several spare tunics and a change of pants in the bags, she remembered.

Ilona, as usual, had thought of everything.

The sound of the nearby stream shook her out of the sudden wave of grief. It reminded her of the long, thirsty journey across the desert, and she slipped out of the cave in search of a drink, taking care not to bump her wing on the entrance.

The moment she had emerged, she stopped short.

"Oh…" she whispered.

The sight was breathtaking. The den, perched halfway up one of the steep foothills to the Archenland Mountains, provided a view fit for a king, with the entirety of the Southern March laid out before her in all its glory. The trees were thick and full, almost shimmering as they rippled gently in the late summer breeze. Down below, afternoon sun flashed off the curve of a small river where it struck out across an open meadow, dancing over shallow rocks before taking the bold plunge back into the trees.

"It's beautiful."

The black Wolf, quiet and solemn, stepped up to Canisp's right side, gazing out over his country. She nodded silently; he gave no sign that he had seen, content to let her have her thoughts, as he had his own.

After a time, she turned her attention from the landscape to the Wolf at her side. She studied him; he was…unusual. His pelt was the least of it—black as ink and shifting in the light breeze so that it looked almost as liquid. His chest was strong and deep; his legs and shoulders were well-muscled and sturdy, and he had a proud, handsome face. Startling ice-blue eyes—serious, watchful, steady—held the barest hint of a snapping fire deep within.

He was powerful—oh, yes. His every line spoke of power and control, and that in itself was enough to set Canisp on edge, his scent alone setting off instinctive alarms in her gut. And yet, he seemed… sad. Not depressed, not even truly unhappy, but…

Canisp knew loss. She could recognize it when she saw it.

He had to have been aware of her scrutiny, but didn't acknowledge it. He let her make her assessment at her own pace, and seemed to be simply enjoying the afternoon.

"What's your name?" she asked finally. Her voice was hoarse with sleep.

"Kiro," he responded simply, as if they had been holding a perfectly normal conversation the entire time.

A cheerful bark drew their attention down the mountain; Kiro's red-furred mate called up in greeting, tail wagging when she saw Canisp. She bounded up to them, and Canisp got her first good look at the Wolf. She was surprised to find light scars on the she-wolf's legs and muzzle. They were far from disfiguring—the scars were noticeable only as irregularities in her fur. Canisp found herself liking this Wolf even more—those were the kinds of scars common among scouts and skirmishers; in a proper pack, perhaps she was a border guard. Of course, it was also possible that she had at some point been trapped in a thorn bush.

The red she-wolf touched her nose gently to Kiro's shoulder before dipping her head to Canisp, as if acknowledging an Alpha rather than an interloper. "If your wing hurts too badly, there's a poinsettia bush by the den," she offered. "They keep a few growing wild for emergencies, and I wasn't sure if you noticed it." Canisp turned her head; after a brief search, she spotted a scraggly-looking plant clinging to life near the entrance of the cave. In high summer, its leaves were an almost sickly-looking pale green.

"It's not as powerful out of season," the she-wolf apologized, "But the healers are running a bit low and Angela said you shouldn't need them anyway—they're good for helping you sleep, if nothing else."

"It's fine," Canisp assured her. At the very least, she'd learned something—living in eternal winter, it had been a shock at first to discover that poinsettia leaves even had cycles, and she hadn't known there was any use for green poinsettia at all. Besides, her wing was sore, but bearable. "Thank you…" She hesitated. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The two Wolves exchanged a look that was brief but meaningful.

The female stepped forward first, extending a delicate paw and speaking as if to an injured child.

"My name's Jenga, Canisp," she said gently. Her deep amber eyes were worried.

Canisp stared at her. Those eyes…

Firebird.

"I think…" the she-wolf said hesitantly. "I think you knew my father."

A wild, impossible hope surged violently through Canisp's blood. "Your father," she breathed. "Mercury?"

But the pups had died, all three of them, even though Erina's had been an accident, they weren't supposed to kill the females, it was possible…

The she-wolf, Jenga, shook her head, slow, not recognizing the name at all, and the sudden flame of hope faded into darkness.

Possible, if Erina hadn't been eviscerated.

"Warrior," she corrected warily, and it flared up, brighter than before.

Warrior had joined the Vereor with no indication to anyone that he was even under consideration. He met his niece exactly once, and he gave her the only gift he could.

"His… His name was Warrior," she said haltingly.

"Well," Ignavus sneered, sauntering up to a pair of she-wolves with red fur. One of them had tears in her warm amber eyes. "Your brother has been accepted into the Queen's Secret Police. I expect you're proud, the both of you."

"What our littermate does is his own business," Jenga said coldly. "We have no brother."

"He was… and I'm not proud of it… he was in the Vereor."

A year later, tears in her eyes and teeth at his throat, she learned she was wrong.

"No," Canisp found herself saying in a daze. "He was a hero."