“I didn’t say that,” Sassy snapped.
“Then what did you say,” Socks said, letting his hackles rise.
“Enough,” Fog thundered.
All lowered their eyes, acknowledging his dominance.
“There is still time for a Chosen to appear,” Fog resumed. “Our Lady’s health is good, even if her memory fades. She is cared for and well-guarded.”
“The humans will want to—” Long Tongue started, but Fog cut him off.
“No. There is no mage in Athelbryght and there will be none. We will not allow her to be touched by foul magic.”
“And when she dies, for she will die,” Whiskers said calmly, “will we leave here? Fade from the lands of man?”
“Leave the people we have aided and lived among for many of their lifetimes?” Fog asked. “Leave them to their fates?”
“I do not know the answer,” Whiskers said.
“Nor do I,” Fog said. “The time may come when we must find them, but that time is not now. Dust,” he said, shifting the Packmoot’s attention back to her. “As to your marcus.”
“He seeks to return to the Wastes,” Dust said. “Through the mountain pass.”
“Where we cannot venture,” Whiskers said.
“What advantage to us in aiding him?” Fog asked.
“What disadvantage?” Dust asked. “To give him escort and supplies?”
“That trail is narrow and dangerous.” Sassy said. “And the dangers of the Wastes are as wide and vast as the grasses it once held.”
“Used to be good hunting, though,” Long Tongue said wistfully. “I remember—”
“Yes, well, aiding him keeps our options open.” Fog said. “Bright Fang, you just talked of spreading our search wider.”
“The marcus knows of our need, and would send word if he found such a child,” Dust said, then shifted uncomfortably at their glares. “I talked to the Liam,” she admitted. “But it was needful.”
Fog stared at her and she knew that she’d face more questions about Vren at some point, though for now, Fog just shrugged. “We will aid him then, with supplies and an escort through the pass. Dust, you will take him, but though the marcus is free to venture out there, you are not. You will return and report on the conditions of the trail.”
Fog made eye contact with each of the gathered vore. Dust and the others lowered their heads in turn.
“So let it be,” Fog said.
Iris shifted slightlyin her tree perch, concealed by wind and rain and dark of night. Sap clung to her cold hands and dripping hair. She’d never be rid of the smell of pine and she was tired almost beyond measure.
But she was downwind of the farmstead. Safe enough from the vore. Safe fromallthe vore.
Who knew there were so many? Who knew that the fields would be filled with farmers harvesting grapes in winter?
Her stomach complained; she ignored it. But she couldn’t ignore the need, the drive, the ache in her bones.
There was no way she could enter the Manor of Athelbryght. Too many guards, too many workers, too many people who knew one another. Too many damnable vore, with keen noses and swift intelligence. A tight community. She’d thought about limping in as a wounded warrior seeking shelter, but there were too many dangers. She wasn’t sure she could pass, and if her bondmark was seen…not worth the risk. Iris nibbled at her lip.
There was no way she could do this. Just no way. She’d be found, caught, killed perhaps. The damn vore and their damn senses.
Her heartbeat echoed with her failure. She glanced at the bondmark on her wrist, which quietly thrummed with the demand to hunt. The Bonded seemed content to wait for news.
Iris was not.
