When Allim was first outlined as a character, he was decidedly a “heavy” -- moody, prickly, argumentative, with an intense dislike of wolfriders and their wolves. Yet he could charm when he wanted to, and his weakness for the cubs showed that he had a heart somewhere in his chest and was potentially a far more complex character than he appeared on the surface. When I decided that he and his daughter Kestrel should form a growing bond, a valid criticism was raised: Why should a pureblood who has hated Wolfriders for over 7000 years suddenly change? That led me to wonder -- had he really been so unidimensional all his life? Perhaps there had been better times, under better chiefs, when some of Allim’s finer qualities had a chance to come out from under his familiar dark cloud.

This is one of those better times.

Really, it is.

The western sea growled like a monstrous wolf as blustery winds whipped the froth off of the whitecaps. Gulls overhead screeled their brassy “Ark! Ark! Ark!” calls, flapping hard just to stay in one spot, beaks pointing windward as their eyes cast on the beach for any sign of food washed up on the rocky beach below. On the horizon, a towering gray mass of clouds signaled a storm blowing in.

Allim stood at the edge of a grassy wave-cut bench with his face to the winds, squinting as the gusts made his eyes tear. The rich scents of fish and salt were familiar to him. Once again, the tribe had made the long migration to a seacoast, and this marked the second time that their travel had been westward. He crossed his arms across his lean chest to pull his fur-lined cloak closed. Winds whipped ribbons of his long-black hair free of the cloak’s neckline and sent them streaming behind him. He was exhausted, but he ignored that. He was hungry, and so was the rest of the tribe.

Dawn had broken before Lightheart finally called a halt to their long-night’s march. No one grumbled at the chieftess, however. Speed was imperative to move the tribe down from the mountains where game was scarce. They were out of food, but not yet out of hope, for the sea lay before them and the purebloods assured the young Wolfriders that they would surely find food there. None of the wolflings left among those who followed Lightheart were old enough to remember the sea.

From down near his feet came a whimper, soft, but just audible above the roar of the waves. Sweetspring hunched there clutching a fur around her shoulders. Her lupine eyes were fixed on a three fat, sleek forms visible in the dawn’s light on the sandy beach.

*Seals,*Allim sent, an abrupt monosyllable.

*Food?* came the little throwback’s almost wolfish send.

*Yes. Rich food.*

Sweetspring nodded, and though she was famished, she did not move. A stronger force than hunger kept her near him, and Allim felt the urgings of Recognition burning almost unbearably in his loins.

It had happened on the trail, while they were still in the mountains. Allim was appalled. Of all the tribe, Sweetspring was the most wolfish. She knew his repugnance, yet she came to him immediately with wide, trusting eyes and an expression of expectation. Simple cub. Hardly out of cubhood. But there was no time for it then. “We must get down to where game is, and fast,” Lightheart had said. “Our supplies are gone and the cubs will suffer. Can you bear it a few days, elder?”

He said that he could, and the tribe marched on. They found a narrow valley cut by a small river and followed it, and there found some green plants and a few possums to sustain them, though hardly relieving their hunger. When the tribe smelled salt winds blowing up the valley and tasted brackishness in the water, they had howled out their joy. They’d soon find food.

*Elder?* came a send. Allim turned to see Lightheart clambering down the stone face of a bench above. Slim, strong, and sharp of senses, Lightheart looked the typical Wolfrider. But she had qualities that set her apart from the rest of her tribe. She was wiser by far than her mother and prior chieftess, Firstmoon, who even now was leading a handful of Wolfriders in a futile war against humans back on the plains. Lightheart listened to the purebloods instead of shunting them off to the fringes of the tribe, knowing that their long memories held a great deal of useful information that could keep the tribe alive and strong.

*What think you, elder?* she asked.

Allim scanned over the beach. *The tribe can rest and feed here.*

*If there’s food to be had. As soon as everyone has rested, I’ll send scouts to look where the larger river we saw from the mountain meets the sea,* she said. *There should be ducks or something like them in the marshes.*

*Look there,* Allim said, and pointed a long hand toward the seals resting on the beach. Sweetspring shifted at his feet, a hunter’s gleam in her eyes.

Lightheart looked, and sniffed the air. *Aye, those must be the things the purebloods say were hunted on the eastern sea. We will find them here, too, eh? Think we can get close to them?*

*There are other hunters after them already. Look.* Allim pointed now to the waters just off of the narrow inlet where the river they’d followed flowed into the sea.

Black fins cut through the waters behind the breakers, moving nearer to the beach. Some were pointed, but one was massively tall and squared off. As they watched, the beast with the tallest fin broke off from the pack. A small, dark head poked up from the waters ahead of the fin -- another seal. A hunter-beast’s back, boldly patterned in black and white, rolled above the water’s surface and down again. Mist sprayed from a blowhole on top of its head as it rushed toward the hapless prey. The seal dove, and appeared a moment later in the nearest breakers, making for the beach.

And just when it looked like the seal would reach the safety of the beach, the finned hunter surged through the breakers. Its blunt head came down on the seal. It seized its prey in strong jaws and shook it like a wolf shaking a rat while the other seals scattered. With a flip of its powerful body, the hunter disappeared back into deeper waters.

Lightheart stared. *It was huge! What sort of beast is that?*

*If seals are the deer of the sea, those finned hunters are the wolves,* Allim replied. *So the tribe called them sea-wolves. The humans had another name for them: Orca. Do not underestimate them. They are extraordinarily intelligent.*

Sweetspring whined at the disappearance of the seals from the beach. *Hungry,* she sent.

*And our potential game gone,* Lightheart sighed. *Let’s hope the scouts can find something to bring back back.*

*No need to wait so long,* Allim said. *There is meat to be had far more easily.*

Lightheart gave him a curious look, and Sweetspring looked up with a hopeful expression.

*Come.* Allim stepped off the edge of the bench and gingerly made his way down the half-consolidated sand face to the beach below. The Wolfriders followed, both keeping a wary watch on the sea.

*The sea-wolf won’t spring out at you,* Allim assured them. *It’s rare they do that, and then only in pursuit of a seal that is escaping them. This way.*

He led them to a long stretch of black rock that stretched out into the waves and clambered up on it. *Mind the breakers,* he said. *Keep back from the edge. Every now and then the sea hurls a bigger wave than you expect.*

In moments Allim found what he was looking for, and bent down with a short, stout knife.

*What is it, elder?* Lightheart asked, watching closely.

*Mussels.* Allim dug with his knife, separating one of the shelled creatures from the rest that blanketed the rocks, tearing at the stout byssal threads that held it fast to the rock. Once it was free, he struck it with the hilt of his knife to crack the shell, then forced the shells apart with the point.

*There.*

Lightheart stared at the brilliant orange meat cradled in the shell. Sweetspring sniffed at it curiously.

*You can eat that?* Lightheart asked.

*Try it.*

The chieftess gingerly removed the animal from its shell and nipped at the meat with her sharp teeth. She chewed thoughtfully.

*Hmm... salty, but sweet, too. What is it? How did the meat get in these little cases?*

*They’re animals that wear shells. Snail-like, in a way. Some kinds grow in rivers. As you can see,* he added, waving a hand at the rocks, *this kind blankets the rocks just below the highest tide line.*

*Then here is meat in abundance!* Lightheart said, brightly. *You’ve fed us, elder!* She struck him lightly on the shoulder, then called for the tribe. *Ayooooo! Come! There is food here! Gather what you can and then we’ll get to shelter. Storm’s coming!*

The tribe was soon scrambling over the rocks, tearing away several sheets of mussels from the colony to carry back to cover. Little eels and tiny crabs, sheltered under the mussel beds, startled at the sudden loss of cover and wriggled away. The Wolfriders scooped them up and ate them eagerly. They found snails in the tidepools, along with other more curious creatures, some of which the purebloods assured them were edible.

*Where the river cuts through, where the big trees are -- we’ll make camp there,* Lightheart said as the wind-whipped rain began pelting down. *Once we’re rested, we’ll scout the area to see if there are any humans nearby. Treeshapers, I need you to make shelters for us.*

The tribe made a dash for the river cut, and the three treeshapers of the tribe set to work, first fashioning a temporary rain shelter where the tribe could eat and shake the rain off their leathers, then shaping den-holes in the largest of the trees.

*Elder,* Lightheart said, laying a hand on Allim’s shoulder, *Let Firstleaf and Redblossom finish this task. You have other work to do.*

Sweetspring crouched nearby, rain running in little rivers down her oilskin cloak. She looked up at Allim and whined softly. Her soul name echoed in his head. **Ahm...**

*Very well,* he said gruffly, beckoned to Sweetspring.

She jumped to her feet and trotted after him eagerly. Allim picked up his bundle of bedfurs and led her to a tree somewhat apart from the camp where he set to work shaping a small den. Sweetspring stayed close by his side, every now and again butting her face against his side and nuzzling hard. Her eagerness inflamed him, making it difficult to concentrate on his work. Her bondwolf, Greytail, drawn near by the mounting emotions, whined softly and wagged his tail slowly.

When the hole in the tree was sufficiently large to accommodate his own considerable length, Allim dumped in his bedfurs. He hardly had them spread before Sweetspring had tumbled in next to him. Her own scant leathers, just enough to cover her sweetest attributes, were shed in a flash and her hands slid under his leathers, tugging at them, while she nipped at him and called him by his soul name.

Her limbs were strong and covered in places with a fine, silky down; not the coarse hairiness of humans, but fur-like and distinctly wolfish. Her sends were brief, composed more of picture and feeling than word. Hardly his dream mate, and yet... and yet he burned for her, bound unwillingly by the forces that would make a cub between them. He shaped the doorhole down to keep the curious bondwolf out, then gave in to Recognition.

Her eagerness was stunning. For Sweetspring, it seemed, there was no fighting Recognition any more than one fought hunger. It was a need: she needed him. And she came to him, frank and open-hearted, growling and nipping, wrapping her downy legs around his hips and pulling him in, insistently, until they were both rocked by the mindless joy of Recognition fulfilled.

When the last waves of emotion crested and broke and the sea smoothed, Sweetspring gave her lover’s chin one last lick, then snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder, tired but content. She was asleep in moments.

Allim lay awake far longer, staring at the walls of the dimly-lit den. Another Wolfrider cub. Another nameless cub. And Sweetspring herself -- so trusting, so honest, never doubting that Recognition was a bond between them. Yet so wolfish, and because of the blood, short-lived. To feel anything more for her than the passing fury of Recognition would leave him open to the inevitable pain of loss. Yet the hollow loneliness in his heart called for someone to fill it. A wolfling? Ah, never for long. If only Tilvah... but she was generous with her favors and never settled on one lovemate. It was never enough to fill him.

“There are signs of a human camp on the near side of the bigger river to the south of us,” Wanderer reported to the chief’s council when he and the scouts returned. “No one is there now, and the last traces are old. But it looks well-established. Maybe a summer camp where humans come to gather food for the winter. There are lots of signs of food gathering -- drying racks, fish traps, and such. But no permanent lodges.”

Lightheart nodded thoughtfully. “Where there is game in abundance, expect humans. We can hunt the marshes until summer, then, and let the tribe grow strong again. In the meantime, we’ll scout other rivers to see if humans use them, too. We will need an even safer haven to retreat to once the humans return.”

The tribemates nodded, for unlike Firstmoon’s followers, all who gathered around Lightheart preferred hiding from humans over fighting them for territory. The world was wide, and though humans bred like rabbits, there were still places where elves could find haven far from humans.

*With Lightheart in charge, I think we will have years of peace,* Tilvah said to her fellow purebloods after most of the Wolfriders had wandered away.

*Better than what we had with Firstmoon, at any rate,* said Vrelen. She stroked her silvery hair back from her delicate face. *She seems to think her father shamed himself by retreating from humans.*

*One-Howl was a sorry specimen of a chief,* Yharren said, leaning back on one elbow. *The only wise thing he ever did was retreat from the humans.*

*A pity so many of the wolflings interpreted that as just another form of weakness,* Allim added.

*But they turned to us for leadership,* Tilvah reminded them.

Yharren laughed. *What choice did they have? One-Howl and Sundance were too giddy with one another to care what happened to their own people. Someone had to give the tribe guidance.*

Allim grimaced. *Then Firstmoon put us right back in the middle of conflict when she dragged us inland to that valley.*

*The Valley of the Humans, you mean?* Yharren smirked.

*Humans, indeed,* said Tilvah. *Of all the tribe, one would think that Lightheart herself should hate humans enough to make war on them. They killed her lifemate, after all. Though she doesn’t let it show, I know she grieves hard for Obsidian. She is brave for us to keep everyone’s spirits up.*

*Well, Lightheart’s son is aptly named,* said Vrelen. *Wanderer. Firstmoon took it as an insult, but it turned out to be prophetic.*

*Not too prophetic, I hope,* Yharren said. *We need to stay in one place and increase our numbers for a while.* He leaned back and looked up at Allim. *And you, old friend, have promptly gotten busy with that sort of business.*

Allim grimaced, but said nothing. Sweetspring sat curled up at the base of the boulder he was perched on. Recognition had not faded though even now she carried the makings of their cub, and she was still drawn to him.

*Every time the tribe is decimated by one war or another,* Yharren went on, *Who is the first to cook up a replacement or two?*

*Yharren, stop,* Tilvah said tiredly.

*Will you keep your little pet in your den to raise the litter there?*

*Yharren!* Tilvah silenced him with a glare.

*It’s a good thing, you know,* Aleetan shyly put in from where he sat quietly, a little apart from the group. Vrelen smiled at him. The healing powers of her Firstcomer mother had skipped her and settled in her children, and when Aleetan was born during One-Howl’s reign, the tribe had rejoiced in the birth of a new pureblooded healer.

*Of course it is,* said Tilvah. *Your children are fine and strong and wise, Allim. It is good that your blood runs strong in the tribe.*

Allim looked over at her, then turned away in silence.

**I know your dream, dear friend,** Tilvah added privately. **You want a pureblooded child. I wish with all my heart that your dream comes true for you, as we are too few in number. But in the meantime, I wish you could take pleasure in the cubs you bring into this world.**

**If only...** A wistful look passed briefly across his face and he looked from Tilvah to Aleetan in a meaningful way.

Tilvah smiled. **One cub at a time, my friend. And you know very well that you seek one who will stay by your side. That’s not my way. If you could only be content...** It was Tilvah’s turn to give a meaningful glance, hers in Sweetspring’s direction.

Allim grimaced.

**Her heart is loyal,** Tilvah said. **She is sweet and true...**

**And a wolfling and short-lived.** Allim cut her off abruptly.

Tilvah sighed. **She lives entirely in the Now, and you live anywhere but.**

Yharren was watching them intently. *What secrets are flashing between you two, hmm?*

While Allim often enjoyed matching wits with Yharren, at that moment he was hardly in the mood for it. He slid down off the boulder and marched off into the darkness between the trees. Sweetspring trotted after him like a small shadow. He sensed her need for him rising and tried to ignore it, but stopped in his tracks and wondered -- why? Why was life such a struggle? Why did good things come in halves? He could have loyalty, or he could have a pureblooded lover, but not both. Never both.

And why, as Tilvah often wondered, could he not be content?

Sweetspring looked up at him, her head tilted in curiosity.

He sighed. “Very well, then.” With a curt gesture, he motioned for her to follow him back to their den.

Early spring storms drenched the coastline, but the storm-powered waves washed a multitude of things ashore, some of them meaty -- storm-weakened seals, fish, snails and crabs from deeper water, sheets of mussels torn from rocks further out. Even so, Lightheart ordered hunts into the river gorge and up and down the coast, knowing that if the tribe lived only on shellfish, they would soon deplete their patch of coastline, for the hungry tribe could gobble down mussels and snails faster than the creatures could reproduce.

Wanderer’s hunts brought back huge hooved beasts, much larger and more robust than the little deer they’d chased on the plains, as tall as the horned shagbacks that traveled in huge herds across the grasslands. The purebloods remembered these beasts from their last forays on the western coast, and recalled the humans calling them “elk.” The Wolfriders didn’t find the name very descriptive, but adopted it because it was short and easy to remember.

There were deer here, too, as well as bears and tawny cats. Squirrels and treewees lived in luxurious abundance in the trees, and some of the side streams harbored flat-tails and water rats. Seals came to the beaches, not in abundance but often enough, and their fat meat gave new strength to the tribe.

“Life would be sweet here,” Lightheart said at a tribal council, “if it weren’t for the threat of humans.”

“We found traces of another camp further down the coast as well,” Wanderer said, “but we haven’t tried the other direction.”

Lightheart nodded. “Take a scouting party, then, and see what you can find. Perhaps a small river that the humans don’t bother with. That would be enough for us.”

Wanderer nodded and chose his scouting party, and the next night set forth to find a safer spot for the holt they’d already named Seahaven.

Three nights later, news came back from the scouting party by way of wolf howls, but not a report of safe haven.

“Healer!” Lightheart called to Aleetan, who rose in alarm from the group of purebloods huddled under the rain shelter. “Wanderer sends word that someone is badly hurt. Something about a tawny cat and a cliff, I don’t know... but you must go to them. Nightbird and Horn will take you. Go!”

And Aleetan was away with the two hunters.

“Aleetan should be with them by now,” Lightheart said two nights later. “I’m sure they traveled much faster than the scouts.”

“In the meantime, we need food,” Vrelen said. “The cache is nearly empty. The tidepools again?”

Lightheart nodded. “Might as well. Dawn is nearing and the big game near our camp seems to have fled. The sea will have to feed us tonight.”

Lightheart called to the tribe, and those remaining in the holt followed her eagerly, for the last time they’d eaten had been at sunset and that had been scant enough. “We’ll take just what we need and eat it there,” the chieftess said. “We’re already leaving gaps in the shellfish beds that aren’t filling in.”

The tide was out, and the tribemates found easy pickings in the exposed beds. The purebloods remembered finding bigger mussels closer to the tideline, and larger shellfish might be exposed by the retreating tide if it went low enough. Keeping a close eye on the surf, they explored the exposed end of the rock where it jutted out into the waves.

Sweetspring stayed at Allim’s heels, pausing to dig out mussels with her own sturdy knife or to pry snails off the rocks.

*Be careful,* Allim warned her. *The seaweed makes the rocks slick.*

Ironically, it was he whose foot went out from under him just as he finished his warning. He tried to catch himself before he could tumble into the surf, and came down hard on one hand. The Wolfriders near yelped in laughter but Allim cursed aloud as a lancing pain shot up from his wrist. Sweetspring rushed over to help him back up. He cradled his injured hand in the other, hunched over it in pain.

*Are you all right, elder?* Lightheart called, clambering over the rocks toward him.

*No,* he growled. Already he could feel his wrist starting to swell. Had he broken it? He couldn’t tell for certain, but there was pain of another sort as well. He gingerly turned his palm up and found a large shard of mussel shell protruding from the pad of his thumb. Sweetspring whined at the scent of her mate’s blood.

“Pull it,” he said through clenched teeth.

The little wolfling obeyed, taking the end of the shard between her thumb and forefinger and giving it a sharp yank. Allim grunted in pain, then tried squeezing the wound to make the blood flow. A bleeding wound, he knew, would clean itself. But the pain in his wrist made it difficult.

*Aye, elder, that looks painful,* Lightheart said as she reached them.

*I think it’s broken,* Allim said tersely, still cradling his injured wrist.

Lightheart touched it gently. *You should have Vrelen put herbs on it and bind it. The healer should be back soon, High Ones willing, and he’ll finish the job, but we should do what we can to fix it with what we have.*

Allim nodded and let Sweetspring lead him away to find Vrelen.

Despite Vrelen’s expertise with herbs and wound-binding, Allim’s wrist and hand throbbed with growing pain all through the day, ruining his sleep. His head pounded as well, and the light filtering into the den made his eyes hurt.

“Let me have a look at it,” Vrelen said, shaking the rain from her cloak before settling down by Allim’s furs. Sweetspring crouched nearby, watching closely as the herbalist removed the wrappings.

“Sweetspring was right to fetch me,” Vrelen said. “It’s badly inflamed, and I don’t like these red streaks running up your forearm. I’ll see what I can do... but I hope Aleetan hurries back. Does it hurt?”

Allim grimaced. “As though my fingernails are trying to tear themselves free and my skin wants to split apart. And I ache all over.”

“Orelan has made a fire and has water warming. We’ll soak this -- gently, of course. I think as you do that you’ve broken something inside. The bones I can't mend, but seawater is said to have healing properties and heat can draw out infection. I have but little cool-leaf and what I have is dried, but I’ll see if it will help draw out whatever is troubling you.”

A steaming water-tight basket was brought in and Vrelen carefully laid Allim’s injured hand in it. He winced at the heat, barely tolerable, but didn’t interfere with the herbalist’s work. She crumbled her last bit of cool-leaf into the water, letting its properties infuse into the seawater brew as its sharp menthol odor wafted through the den.

“I hope it’s enough,” she said. “Drink this. It’s willowbark tea. It will help with the pain.”

The brew was bitter, but Allim choked it down and laid back on the furs. Sweetspring nuzzled gently at his ear, then sniffed the contents of the basket where his hand was soaking.

“It will help, little one,” Vrelen assured her. “You must be patient.”

But as the light faded from the rain-gray sky, and night fell to the sounds of a storm lashing the sea, Allim began to doubt, as far as his feverishly muzzy thoughts would allow him, the veracity of Vrelen’s assurance. Though the water had been re-heated with fire-reddened stones several times, his hand was still badly inflamed and the willowbark tea did little for the pain that wrapped him like a binding cloak of fire. Sounds seemed exaggerated, and he jumped at a spoken voice or the rumble of thunder as skyfire lanced through the storm that was howling outside.

*What now, healer?* Lightheart asked, crouching by the denhole where she’d come to watch and wait.

Vrelen bit her lip, and lightly traced the red patch, like a burn, that had traveled up Allim’s arm past his elbow. Even so light a touch made him wince. *Where the skin has turned red, it is hot, too. His hand is swollen and fiery.* She pressed her lips together. *I wish my son would return. But if I can’t have him, would that I had an ample supply of fresh cool-leaf. We’re slowing the progress of the inflammation’s spread, but slow it is all I can do. It needs stopping before the redness reaches the heart and cool-leaf is the only thing I know that can draw it out.* Vrelen looked in Allim’s eyes, and he knew what her expression was telling him.

*Stupid thing to die from,* he murmured. *Nothing but a broken shell.*

*I don’t want anyone’s death to mar my time as chief, especially yours, old one,* Lightheart said. *We need our elders. Where can we find some cool-leaf?*

*I found a patch just putting on spring growth on a rock face above the stream we followed to get here,* Vrelen said. *That’s where I gathered the bit that I had. But the storm -- it’s too fierce to go out in.*

Lightheart glanced outside. *It is. Chances of getting hit by a falling branch or stumbling down a rockface are too high. But the moment it abates a bit, I’ll send someone out. In the meantime, I’ll have the wolves call for the scouts, if it will draw them any sooner.*

*Bring me my blue herb pouch,* Vrelen said. *I have my strongest cures in there. I’ll look through it again and see if there’s anything else that will help.*

*I will.* Lightheart drew a hood over her shoulders and jumped out of the den to do the herbalist’s bidding.

Allim turned his head aside and closed his eyes, hoping for a bit of sleep to take him away from the all-encompassing pain.

He didn’t notice when Sweetspring slipped away from his side.

*There’s nothing more I can do,* Vrelen said.

*Healer, there must be,* Lightheart insisted. *He can’t...*

Allim lay with his eyes closed, his whole body throbbing. He could hear the words, but it was too much effort to respond to them. Even breathing was painful.

*Fetch the rest of the purebloods,* Vrelen said. *Maybe we can muster up enough power between us to keep his body and soul together long enough for Aleetan to return.*

*I will. If only this bloody storm would go away and we could fetch your herbs...*

Her words were cut off by a whine at the denhole, then Sweetspring tumbled in, drenched, shivering, clutching a soggy bundle in her arms which slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Out tumbled an armload of wet green herbs with the pungent odor of menthol.

“Cool-leaf!” Vrelen cried. “High Ones, child, did you go all that way in the storm for these?”

Sweetspring couldn’t answer. Her teeth were chattering audibly and she was so chilled she could hardly stand.

*Off with your wet things, little wolf,* Lightheart said. *Healer, call for your helpers, while I tuck this one in the furs with her mate. She can cool him as he warms her.*

As Vrelen sent for Orelan and Tilvah, Lightheart peeled away Sweetspring’s sodden leathers and put her down in the furs. Allim gasped as her icy skin touched his feverish form. *It’ll do you both good, elder,* the chieftess said.

When Orelan had hot water ready once again, Vrelen prepared a steaming poultice of the fresh herb. She and Tilvah laid it on Allim’s arm, slathering it from the end of the red streaks toward the wound the shell had made, chasing the infection back to its source. Allim groaned as they touched the wound with the hot green mash, for even their gentlest efforts seared. Sweetspring, asleep yet still shivering, woke briefly to nuzzle his shoulder. Tilvah stroked his hair back from his forehead. *Easy, old friend. A little pain is needed to cure the greater hurt.*

Allim could no more than nod in reply, his breath coming hard through parched lips. He would hang on. He knew he must. He was too stubborn to die of such a ridiculous cause.

*They call it cool-leaf, yet you lay it on hot?* Lightheart asked.

*It goes on hot, but it cools the wound,* Orelan explained, as she went out for more hot water.

When the poultice cooled, Vrelen prepared and laid on another. When a third was nearly cool, the red streaks had retreated a bit and a white-topped bulge had risen under the wound on Allim’s palm. *Now I need the sharpest knife we have, boiled clean, and a cleansing infusion.* She handed more herbs over to Orelan, who took them away to prepare. Lightheart found a knife, and ran to fetch some clean shells that the herbalist asked for.

*Someone hold him, for this will hurt,* Vrelen said. Tilvah laid her arms over Allim’s shoulders, holding his arm in place. Lightheart stood ready, while Orelan waited at the denhole. Vrelen took the knife and sliced open the bulge on Allim’s hand.

Allim cried out, but willed himself not to jerk away as Vrelen put pressure on the sides of the wound and the yellow-white blood-tinged corruption spilled out globs and rivulets into a clean shell. Much of the pain drained out with it, now that the pressure in his hand was relieved.

*A bit of shell still in there after all,* Vrelen said, looking into the mess. *Such a tiny thing to cause all that trouble.*

*Here’s your infusion,* Orelan said, bringing a metal bowl filled with a steaming liquid. *He’ll be all right now, won’t he?*

*Once it is clean.* Vrelen scooped some of it with a clean shell and poured it over the fresh wound.

*Good. I would miss our arguments if anything were to happen.*

Vrelen smiled, and scooped more of the infusion over the wound, washing it again and again until it was clean. She packed the wound with cleansing herbs, then wrapped it in clean strips of squirrel skin.

*Rest now, my friend,* she said, laying a hand on Allim’s shoulder.

Allim nodded. *I think I can now. Much of the pain is gone.*

*We will both stay with you,* Tilvah assured him. *Just in case it happens to get worse again.*

*Yes,* Allim said, before he faded into welcome sleep.

It wasn’t until well into the next night that Aleetan finally arrived with Horn and Nightbird. “Treedancer managed to break his leg, three ribs, and pierce a lung when a tawny cat surprised him and ran him off a cliff,” the healer explained. “He’s fine now, and rest of the scouts will be along with him later this night, I’m sure. But why didn’t you send for me sooner?”

“We tried, but even wolf howls didn’t carry in the storm,” Lightheart explained.

“This could have been bad, very bad,” Aleetan said, kneeling by Allim’s furs. Sweetspring raised her tousled head, sleepy-eyed, and coughed. “And sending Sweetspring out in the storm, when the coming child might have been harmed...”

“Worrywart,” Allim chided him.

“No one sent her, healer,” Lightheart explained, glaring. “She sneaked off by herself, and a good thing, too.”

“If she hadn’t, I might be dead,” Allim said flatly.

Aleetan’s soothing hands made short work of the remaining redness over Allim’s wound. The flesh was soon whole again, and the cracked bones in his wrist were properly knit together, bringing blessed relief. It would take several days’ rest, however, to feel like himself again. Sweetspring, too, received the healer’s attentions, as he cured the cough she’d caught from her drenching and made certain her cub was unharmed.

“That looks much better,” Lightheart said. “How do you feel now, elder?”

“Weak as a blind wolf pup,” Allim said, “And limp as kelp. But on the mend, I think.”

“Now rest, both of you,” Aleetan ordered. “Sounds as though the scouts have returned already with Treedancer, and I should go see to him.”

“Away with you, then,” Allim said, sinking back into the furs. “I’ll be all right.”

The healer and the chieftess departed, leaving the den in quiet peace. Allim closed his eyes, feeling strangely light now that the fever and infection were gone entirely and his wrist was whole again. Sweetspring snuggled close to his side.

*Mate,* she sent sleepily, with a feeling of contentment. Not a call to action, but a declaration of belonging.

Allim stifled a sigh. Mate, she called him. It was hardly the love he’d been longing for all those turns. Recognition had bound her to him, and she laid at his feet the faithful, unconditional devotion of a wolf to its bond-elf. But was it the sort of love he needed? Was it love at all?

“All that way in the storm just for him?” said a voice from outside as someone came within earshot.

“I didn’t even notice when she left, or I probably wouldn’t have let her.” That was Lightheart. “But if she hadn’t gone, I don’t know if he would have survived until the healer got here.”

“As though he could possibly appreciate it. She gives him everything, now she risks her life for him, and he treats her like a pet. And an unwanted one at that.”

“Quiet, Horn, he’ll hear you!”

“I don’t care if he does,” said the hunter. “I don’t know why you set such a store by the purebloods, anyway. Spend all their time yapping, then eat all our meat.”

“The elders know things that are good for the whole tribe,” Lightheart replied. “It would be stupid not to use all our resources.”

“Well, I think...”

Allim was not to hear what else Horn thought, as the speakers were out of hearing range before the hunter finished his sentence. The treeshaper stared up at the ceiling of his den, thinking. He wasn’t entirely pleased with another Recognition with a wolfrider. He wasn’t pleased by criticism, either, least of all from a gruff old brute like Horn. He thought long and well before sleep finally overtook him again.

The next night he felt well enough to rise from his furs and dress, and join the tribe around a fresh-killed deer that they’d carried back to the holt. He still felt weak in the knees, but a few day’s rest would cure that. Sweetspring followed him and hunched down beside him as he knelt by the carcass and cut away a piece. He handed it to her, knowing full well that Horn’s critical gaze was upon him. He felt no need to meet those yellow eyes. To ignore the old hunter and go about his business would present a higher, more satisfying level of challenge. He cut himself a piece, then moved away to let others in.

“You should have let someone else get you meat,” Orelan chided him as he took a seat under a tree. “You’re still not well. Do you want that cooked?”

“If you please,” he said, turning the bloody meat over to the firemaker, who didn’t bother lighting a fire but heated it directly in her hands.

Sweetspring looked askance at the product and clutched her own share protectively. Allim raised an eyebrow as he gingerly took the steaming meat from Orelan. “An unusual crispness you’ve added to the edges, I see. Something bothering you?”

“It’s just... talk.”

“There’s always talk.”

**About you and...** She tilted her head toward Sweetspring.

**Ah. That talk. I’ve heard snatches of it.**

**Well?** Orelan glanced sideways at him.

**Well, what?**

**Doesn’t it bother you?**

**If I worried about pleasing everyone, I would please no one. It bothers you, I take it?**

Orelan snorted.

**And which parts bother you the most?**

**Only the true parts,** the firemaker snapped, **which seem to be all of it.**

**Sweetspring doesn’t seem to be bothered. Why should anyone else?**

Orelan huffed. **I don’t know why I bother with you half the time!** She rose and stalked off. Sweetspring looked up with a whine, sensing the firemaker’s anger.

“Orelan is just being herself,” he explained to her. “Expressing her relief by yelling at everyone.” He bit into the meat, then held it back for a critical look. Singed on the outside, still red on the inside. Orelan was losing her touch

A full return to health was longer in coming than he thought. A hand of days later, Allim was still feeling winded just walking down to the beach. He sat on the edge of the wave-cut bench, looking out over the gray, wrinkled sea which tossed restlessly under the last glowing remains of a brilliant sunset. The hunt had gone out as the sun was falling, and Sweetspring was with them. She’d grown restless in the den, and felt a new liveliness as she sensed the growing cubling’s first bursts of magical energy that would later become true sending. When a hunt had been called, Allim encouraged her to go. She needed a good run. *I bring back something nice,* she’d promised him, and had trotted off with thought-pictures of eggs and tender young birds floating off behind her.

Bring back something nice. As though she hadn’t already brought back something “nice” when she’d risked her own life dashing off into a skyfire storm to save his. She’d already gone back to the spot where the plant grew and brought back another armful for Vrelen. Unusual for his little wolf to think of the future.

His little wolf. Allim put his head on his hand. What a thought. His little wolf-friend. He struggled with the idea, wavering between acceptance and rejection. Both sides held promise and pain.

Pain. Pain! Allim clutched his head at the agony that overwhelmed him. What was it? Where was it?

**Ahm...** The name spoke itself in his mind. His eyes widened. “Oh, High Ones...”

He leaped to his feet and dashed back to the camp, arriving just as the hunt returned laden with small game. He gasped for breath, clutching at his chest where his heart pounded wildly.

*Where’s Sweetspring?* he demanded, still gulping air and unable to speak.

“Off fetching her faithful lifemate something choice, she said,” drawled Horn, who gave the chieftess a sly wink. “Why, isn’t she quick enough for you?”

Allim seized him by the front of his shirt and shook him. “Where IS she?”

“Elder, what is it?” Lightheart asked, stepping quickly between them. Horn gave him a dazed look.

“Something’s wrong, I felt it. Something... that way!” He pointed off down the coastline. “Quickly!” He surged forward.

“Not you, elder.” Lightheart held him back. “You’re already done for. Wanderer, take Horn and Nightbird and go look for her.”

Allim cried out, with his hands to his head, as another wave of pain drove him to his knees.

“And take the healer,” Lightheart added, grimly.

“The humans are back,” Wanderer said.

“Humans!” Lightheart cried in dismay. “Is she...?”

“She’s alive. Greytail was near, and he chased off the walking dung-heaps, then stood guard over her. Too bad he didn’t bite their throats out. They’ve done... something to her. I don’t know. Her sendings were all confused. They cut her, but they did something else, too.”

Allim paced nervously in the moonshadow of a tree. The rescuers had returned in a mad dash, bearing Sweetspring who was crying and moaning and bleeding rivers as Aleetan attempted to begin work on her. They’d hustled the little wolfling into her den with the healer, and Allim was left outside, feeling very much in the way. He could feel her pain, a wrenching, nauseating agony that made his knees tremble and his gut ache. What had they done to her? Her sends were a wild confusion, but at last she called for him, grabbing him by his soul, just as Aleetan emerged from the den, pale and looking as though he’d aged a wolf’s lifetime while he’d been in there.

“How is she? What happened to her?” the chieftess demanded.

Aleetan slowly shook his head. “I didn’t know... such evil... such...” His face contorted into a grimace of horror.

“Healer, speak!” Lightheart cried. “What happened?”

“They... pinned her down and forced... forced joining on her. Not for the pleasure of joining but... for the pleasure of causing pain.” Aleetan went another shade whiter and looked ready to vomit. The tribe stared, uncomprehending.

“And then they cut her... to kill or mutilate or take trophies I don’t know. One tried to cut off a breast and another an ear, but Greytail came in time and chased them off before they could finish.” Aleetan looked over the gathered tribe and caught sight of Allim. “Go to her! She’s asking for you,” he shouted, in a tone verging on hysteria. “Her father is dead and her mother off with Firstmoon, and you’re all she has!”

“Yes...” Allim said, moving forward as the eyes of the tribe turned to him. The shock of the horrible tale lent a dream-like quality to the scene, and he desperately wished to wake up. “Aleetan... the child?”

The healer put a hand to his forehead. “The child is gone. It all came out in a bloody mass at once. I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t even find...” His voice broke.

Allim closed his eyes and said nothing. In truth, he’d already known.

Blindly, he pushed his way into the den.

Sweetspring was curled up in a tight ball of anguish in the middle of the furs, her blood-stained leathers cast carelessly on the floor and trampled on. Allim moved uncertainly toward her, not quite knowing what to do. How did one give comfort? **Ahm?**

She let out a bird-like cry and rose up, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the hollow of his throat. He lay down with her as she wept stormily. A jagged red line of recently-healed flesh over one breast showed where the humans had tried to mutilate her. An ear, too, Aleetan had said. Why? She sent broken images, like visual sobs, fragments of her recent horror that slowly wove themselves into a coherent story that still made no sense. **Why?** she kept demanding. **Why? Why? Why?**

He had no answer because he could not fully comprehend what the humans had done to her. Were they mad? He’d seen human cruelty before, but never anything like this. And to his innocent, guilless little friend, who had never even seen a human before, and had thus certainly never harmed one.

And then it sank in that his child was dead. High Ones knew he’d lost children before, but never before they’d even had a chance to take life’s first breath. Never like this. His arms tightened around Sweetspring, and his whole body shook. Perhaps the whole world was going mad. Perhaps he was going mad with it, he thought, as grief and rage welled up in him and his tears mingled with those of his little mate.

“How is she, elder?” Lightheart stood outside the den at the next dusk. Behind her, the Wolfriders were already packing belongings, ready for a swift move.

“Still weak. She lost a lot of blood, and she’s still grieving.”

The chieftess glanced back at the busy tribe. “How soon do you think she’ll be ready for travel?”

“A few nights? I don’t know. Aleetan might tell you better.”

“Elder, I’m sorry, truly sorry for the loss of your cub and for Sweetspring’s horror. But the humans...”

“I know. The humans have come and we must make haste.” Allim’s face darkened. “Before anyone else is hurt.”

The chieftess nodded. “I’m glad you see it that way.”

“In One-Howl’s time, the wolflings would have called it cowardice. It is good not to live in One-Howl’s time.”

“It is good to keep a tribe alive instead of watching it dwindle to nothing because of reckless war,” Lightheart replied. “I know too well the costs of war with humans. We’ll wait for a time and keep as quiet as we can, and hope those mad beasts don’t brag about doing cruel things to Spirits. When Sweetspring is well, we’ll move and leave no trace we were ever here.” The chieftess moved off to call orders to her tribe.

Allim turned away from the denhole and back to Sweetspring, who sat huddled on the bed, a thick fur pulled up over her head so only her face showed. *We go?*

*Soon,* Allim replied, sitting down beside her. *When you are strong enough to ride again. Wanderer has scouted out a place where there are no humans. That will be our Seahaven.*

She leaned against him. *Cub...* she sent mournfully.

*I know.*

*Cub...* she repeated, fresh grief rising.

He put an arm around her, feeling awkward. Giving comfort wasn’t something he was practiced at.

*Make another?* she sent.

*I...* Her trusting innocence stunned him. **Ahm... you’re still weak, hardly healed.**

**Make another!** she pleaded.

**Ahm...**

**Please?**

**I...**

**Make another?**

**I... don’t know how. I only know Recognition.**

A haunting whine rose in her throat as the tears flowed again. **Cub...**

**I know. Cub.**

Allim awoke at sunset to the sounds of Sweetspring pulling on new leathers. He sat up in the furs. *Where do you think you’re going?*

*Come,* she urged, and pushed his leathers toward him.

*Where?* he asked.

*Put on. Come.*

*All right, all right,* he replied, and dressed quickly. Sweetspring tucked a flint knife in her belt and took him by the hand, pulling him out of the den. She sent for Greytail.

**You should tell Lightheart where you’re going,** he sent. **You know she’s ordered everyone to stay near the holt.**

**Not far. Come.**

Allim sighed. He couldn’t imagine where she was taking him.

Or could he? Wasn’t this in the direction of...?

**Lightheart!** he sent back to the holt. **Sweetspring insists on showing me something in the forest downcoast.**

**What?! Wait for me, elder!** the chieftess sent back.

**I don’t think she’ll wait. But follow. In case of trouble.**

Sweetspring tugged at him, urging him onward. They scrambled up the steep forested slopes, crossed shallow ravines, and jumped across small streams trickling through rocks and moss. Allim followed the little wolfling and her shaggy bond-wolf closely, wondering why her errand was so urgent. He would have thought she’d be shy of ever going near the place of horror again.

*There.* She pointed downslope to a spot where a stand of young spruce trees grew thick, shutting out the sunlight. A few ferns straggled in the shade, but otherwise the brown needlefall lay flat and barren.

*Is that where...?*

Sweetspring nodded. She leaned against him. She had no words to send, only pictures. Neither of them knew any word that described what the humans had done.

Greytail’s ears pricked up and he growled. Sweetspring lifted her head and listened, sniffing the air as well.

A scream rent the air.

*Down, child!* Allim ordered. *Away from here!*

*Wait!* Sweetspring held her ground and drew her knife. *They come.*

*Humans?*

Sweetspring nodded. *I smell.*

*Then we should leave.*

*No. See.* The little wolfling stared eagerly at the brush beyond the glade.

A young girl dressed only in a leather kilt came dashing under the trees, her streaming eyes hungry for a hiding place. There was a great crashing in the bushes behind her, and a moment later there loomed a larger human, a male well beyond adolescence but not in his maturity yet. An evil leer gleamed on his dark face.

Another form ran through another path in the bushes and leaped out in front of the girl, frightening a second scream out of her. It was another male, the same age as the first. They both grabbed the girl and threw her to the ground, where they pinned her down with their hairy hands. One held a shell knife to her throat, while the other fumbled under his leather loin-wrap. The girl kicked and struggled, and the man with the knife pressed the blade against her throat.

Allim’s lips drew back in a snarl of repulsion. Was this what they had done to his little friend? The sight of it was even more disgusting than her mind-pictures. What were these humans made of? Beside him, Sweetspring and her wolf growled ominously. *Like that,* she snarled. *Now they hurt her.*

He knew he should let humans take care of human affairs, he knew he should keep the tribe’s presence secret, but this...

*You want blood, don’t you?*

Sweetspring pulled out her knife in response.

Allim laid a hand on the side on a small tree beside him. At the touch of his treeshaping powers, a length of wood grew into his hand, forming into a heavy cudgel which he broke free. *Go.*

With a howl, Sweetspring charged at the men and drew first blood when her little flint knife struck the man who was shoving the struggling girl’s legs apart. He roared in pain and lashed a fist out at her, sending the little wolfling sprawling. The man with the knife stood up and brandished the blade at Greytail, then grunted something in a language Allim did not understand. But the lewd gestures and the hip thrusts that accompanied his words made his meaning clear. Sweetspring jumped back up and crouched, knife at the ready, while Greytail backed off and growled at her side. The human girl scuttled back, shaking, but her lips were curled back in fury and she groped behind her for a weapon.

The first man was slowly advancing on Sweetspring, but when Allim rose up behind her, the sight of a tall, vengeful male Spirit standing protectively beside the little female gave the man pause. He rocked in place uncertainly.

*What now?* Allim asked.

It was the human girl who made the call. Before Sweetspring could answer, the girl-child grabbed a stick from the forest floor and swung it hard at the back of the knees of one of the men. He fell to his knees and lashed a fist out at the girl, but Allim was on him and swung the cudgel savagely at his head, knocking him to the ground. He struck again, drawing blood. Sweetspring leaped on the man and pressed her fists down on his windpipe, while Greytail held one arm down in his jaws and the human girl held the other.

The other male bellowed and charged at them. With a snarl, Allim turned and held the cudgel straight toward his attacker, shaping it into a long, razor-sharp point so swiftly that the man could not stop before he had impaled himself through the heart on it. He gasped and stared blankly at his opponent. Allim gave a shove and the man toppled over backwards.

Sweetspring was still growling as she pressed her fists in the broken throat of the first man. Allim laid his hand on a tree root jutting out from the soil. He made it twine and writhe, dividing into hands of rootlets that wrapped themselves around the man’s arms and his throat. The human girl gasped and jumped back. Sweetspring stayed where she was, growling wolfishly, as the enlivened roots helped her finish the job.

Allim rose to his feet and looked down at the human girl who was still crouched on the ground. She stood slowly and looked back at him, trembling under the cold gaze of his brightmetal eyes.

He thought quickly as he looked down at the girl, barely begun to turn woman, who shook under his stare yet looked steadily back. If he let her go alive would she tell her people that there were Spirits in the woods? Would the senseless wars begin again? The logical thing to do would be to kill her and let the wolves drag the bodies away where they would never be found. And yet...

*Were these the same humans?* he asked Sweetspring.

*Yes.*

The girl was hardly more than a child. And despite her tender age, she’d nearly been a victim of the same horror Sweetspring had endured at the hands of these men. Was it all humans in this tribe who did this, or only these two? Would the consequences of killing them be the start of a war... or the end of horrors known to both elf and humans?

Allim held a finger to his lips, then pointed downcoast. “Go,” he said quietly.

The girl put her hands together and bowed low toward Allim, then turned and dashed off.

*Holt now?* Sweetspring asked, her fighting mind already gone. Her eyes looked dark with fatigue and she leaned against Greytail.

*One more thing,* Allim said. He turned back to the body of the man he’d killed, who lay face up on the forest floor with the shaped cudgel still protruding from his chest. Allim took the end of the still-living wood into his hands and let his powers flow into it. Roots flowed downward, digging into the earth beneath the body, seeking water far below. Shoots sprouted from the top, grew fresh green leaves, and burst forth into tender blossoms of a green sapling growing up through the body.

*There,* he said, looking between the two dead men, looking for all the world as though the forest itself had risen up against them. *Let the humans figure that out.*

Lightheart caught up with them as they were making their way back up the slope. *Arran’s madness! What happened down there?*

Allim urged Sweetspring on to Greytail’s back, for she had drained her scant energy fighting the humans and needed rest. *Those were the humans who hurt her.*

Anger flared in the chieftess’ eyes. *Was that wise, elder?* she cried, waving her hand at the dead men below.

*Probably not,* Allim replied, moving up the slope. *But it was just, don’t you think? For this is what we found here.* He sent a mental picture of the attack on the human girl.

*It’s a human affair!* The chieftess yelled. *You should have let the humans deal with it.*

*It was no longer just a human affair when those two walking horrors chose one of ours to attack. Besides, I have the impression they would have done their vile act with any living thing they could hold down. They were a sickness, and they’ve been purged.*

Lightheart clenched her teeth. *You should have waited for me to arrive, pureblood! You should have waited for my word!*

*There was no time to wait. You know,* he went on, cutting off her response as he helped Sweetspring get more comfortably settled on her wolf’s back, *that I am not the bloodthirsty sort who goes looking for trouble with the humans every time we encounter them. And you know that I have always advocated having as little to do with humans as possible. Is that not so?*

*Yeeees...* the chieftess said, slowly.

*Then you know that only an extraordinary event would cause me to act in such an extraordinary fashion*

*Hmmm...*

*And,* he went on in a low tone as they reached the top of the slope and he turned his brightmetal eyes on her, *chieftess though you may be, if you ever snarl at me like that again, as though I were an errant cub instead of an elder many times your age, and if you ever use the word “pureblood” in that tone again, I will lay your ears back in a manner you will never forget.*

Lightheart looked downslope at the bodies in the glade. *I believe you, elder... I believe you.*

The tribe moved out as soon as they arrived back at the camp. There was no sense waiting any longer, risking discovery by curious or vengeful humans. As soon as their packed good were loaded up and the dens sealed forever, the tribe turned away and rode upcoast, toward a smaller river, two nights away, which Wanderer said would be human-free.

Sweetspring was weary and in need of sleep, but she would not let the tribe slow down for her sake. Horn strapped her to her mount’s back while Allim gathered up their few belongings and closed the den. They were gone moments later. No human setting foot among the trees would ever know anyone had been living there.

A soft drizzle fell as they moved silently through the dripping forest. They traveled as quickly to cover as much ground as they could the first night. Allim wrapped himself in an oilskin cloak and draped another over Sweetspring as he marched alongside her wolf. His little friend was asleep, her face cradled in Greytail’s ruff. His little friend. The notion came so easily now -- too easily, for he knew that in accepting her he was inviting the pain her loss would bring someday. Well, he finally concluded, one cannot always live alone. And if Sweetspring wanted him, dark moodiness and all, he might as well take what was offered and make the best of it. His heart’s desire might come later, or it might not. In the meantime, here was something that might be pleasing after all.

Recognition had drawn her and bonded her to him without choice, but she accepted it without question. Recognition, as he had known from times before, did not fade immediately after its fulfillment, but often drew its bonded pair together for moons afterwards before finally drifting away. Sometimes it left love in its wake, sometimes not.

Never had he known it to flare again in quite this way, but then, he had never lost a child before its birth before. Recognition had meant to make a child between them and its purpose had been thwarted by the mad humans. And Recognition, not yet faded, meant to set things right again.

**High Ones! Ahm...**

Sweetspring lifted her head from her wolf’s neck and smiled.

**Not yet, child, not yet. You know you must rest. You’re hardly healed and we have a long way to travel. But...**

**Make again.* She reached out a hand to grasp his.

There would be joy in it this time, in giving her the only thing she’d ever asked of him.

**Yes, little friend, when we reach Seahaven, I think we will.**