An old tale revived, in which one of Allim's abundant offspring seeks to prove himself. Of course, if he didn't end up in even more trouble, we wouldn't have a tale, now, would we? For those who have never met some of these characters -- Cathunter is the mother of Greeneyes, who is the mother of Crowfeather by Allim. It was an unpleasant incident, hence Greeneyes' animosity for the sire of her child. Greeneyes' lovemates are Bristletail (he of the eye-blinding sartorial tastes) and Skybird (a glider of unknown origins). Halfmoon is the daughter of Ronti, a pureblood.

She had spotted this stag once before, and let it live. Now it was long enough into mating time that there would be plenty of fawns later--yet it was still, nonetheless, mating time, and the stags were still distracted. A good time to teach cubs how to bring down a big one.

*Ready... now!*

Six arrows flew out at the stag. Cathunter only had three cubs. The stag dropped; when it was done kicking, Cathunter led the cubs over to inspect it. One fairly good strike; one perfect hit through the throat; and another near it, an arrow fletched with black feathers. Another black-feathered arrow had hit the deer's rump. The sixth arrow, also black-fletched, was stuck in a tree.

Cathunter turned to the three cubs. "Briarheart, you're almost there. Good job. Halfmoon, perfect shot -- try to do the same next time, too. Crowfeather..." He had turned his dark green gaze away into the trees, and stood with a rigid back. He was growing as quickly and as slender as grass by the water; Cathunter didn't know what they would do with the boy once he grew taller than a Wolfrider. "Cubs, collect your arrows."

As they sat around the stag Cathunter showed them the finer points of what to do once the deer was down, and gave them all more advice on their hunting skills. "Crow, you're fast, but you're also wasteful." She saw the cub stiffen. "One clean strike was all you needed. Besides, Crow, in a danger situation you could have --"

He looked up -- long narrow eyes, narrow face, and an aloof expression that reminded her unpleasantly of his sire. "I'm not a bird. My name is Crowfeather."

**And you're as clever and quick as the birds you were named for, Meko.**

The cub shrugged off the use of his soulname and looked down at the work on the carcass. Tender words would get her nowhere with this one. He listened only to Greeneyes and Bristletail, and sometimes to Starbird; and she wasn't sure how long even that obedience would last.

Cathunter sat back and let the cubs share the liver among themselves. She already saw the makings of an excellent hunter in Halfmoon, but she didn't know how much longer the cub's mother would let Cathunter carry Halfmoon all over the woods with her. And her sister Redmane's cub -- once again there was proof that something good could be made of Allim. That cub seemed as unlike a Wolfrider as Cathunter often felt herself; but neither one of them would ever be Pureblood, and Briarheart needed to learn to live as a Wolfrider.

They tied the deer on a pole and headed back to the holt. Crowfeather was reluctant to help carry, but Cathunter made him take his turn with the others. She was the only person allowed to relax, and she certainly needed to after such a day.

Allim's cub -- no, she wouldn't think of him as that. Never. But it was hard not to, watching him move. Quietly as any wolfrider cub, but not like a wolfrider cub at all, nor like Briarheart or a Pureblood or anything at all. The one thing wolf about him was his howl. A strong, eloquent, Bristletail howl -- which was one of the few things about Bristletail Cathunter had ever been impressed by.

No sooner was their little hunting party back to the Grandfather grove than Crowfeather disappeared. As always. Cathunter took a look at his pile of belongings in his parents' den. He had taken his bow and quiver and all his new arrows. Going to practise again. He would probably come back even faster at shooting than he was already; and twice as sloppy. Every hunt with him was spent unteaching what he learned on his own. Cathunter climbed back down and gave her attention to the cubs who were at least getting some benefit from their days with her.

Crowfeather pulled the first arrow from the quiver slowly, drew it back, slowly, let the wood bend until it would give no more, until the arrow's feather just brushed his chin. He sighted his target, a knothole in a dead tree -- with a twang the arrow flew true. He whipped out the next arrow while the bowstring was still humming from the first shot; and then another. They flew one high, one low. He screwed up his face. Why was it so hard? He tried a fourth arrow, missed badly and startled a mask-eyes out of its hiding hole; he resisted the urge to throw down his bow in disgust. He crouched with the bow balanced across his legs, elbows on knees and chin in hand.

"Perhaps," said a voice behind him, "you are not what they're trying to make you."

"Maybe I'm what, then?" He pivoted, still crouching, and faced Allim.

Allim gave a slight shrug, enough to send black hair rippling back over his shoulder. "A shaper. Look for it -- reach, deep inside." The tall elf made a gesture as if he would reach in for him. "You'll feel the magic, the pure blood. It may not be strong enough to use yet, perhaps not for a long while, but it's there." He tilted his head to one side. "Treeshaping is a great skill. I believe you will inherit this from me."

Crowfeather rose and strode over to the dead tree. "I don't want to twist and mangle living things."

He couldn't see Allim's reaction, but after a few moments the treeshaper said, mildly, "I notice that you don't mind having a safe den to live in."

Crowfeather brushed aside the grass with his foot. The grass was knee high and thick. "I feel the grove's pain whenever I'm there."

"You do not."

"The trees can hardly stand us." He regarded Allim, who looked rather annoyed. "They've been tortured into letting us live there."

"Next you'll tell me the caves are crying."

"The stones feel it when they're shaped." He watched Allim's reaction carefully. Adults were so easy to bother.

Allim peered long and hard at his child. "Bristletail is ruining you," he said finally.

Crowfeather raised an eyebrow. It was something he had been practising; his mother was very good at that. He had just figured out how to lift the one eyebrow without wiggling the other one or scrunching up his face.

It got a very satisfying effect. Allim's eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened to a thin line. "I've heard that near-wolf teaching you to bark...."

Crowfeather couldn't help himself -- he wanted to be sly and mysterious, but he thought of how Allim would react if he were to bark at him, and he began to grin. And to his horror Allim misinterpreted it. "Yes, you do see how ridiculous he is," he said. "How foolish they all are." Allim gave him a solemn nod. "We'll speak again."

The Pureblood left the clearing. Off to find Briarheart, no doubt; he would have better luck with her. Crowfeather watched him for a long time, listened for longer.

He tried barking like the wolfkin: yip yip yip, louder and louder, until he was positive Allim could hear him.

He never did find his fourth arrow.

Music circled the grove and rose into the trees. The dreamberry bowl was about to be passed. He was about to be sent to sleep. At any moment Starbird might swoop down on him and carry him off, so he had to be careful to stay under thickest branches. Normally he would grab any chance to be with Starbird; soaring, sweeping, almost up to the stars. But once the glider got hold of him tonight there would be no escape; Starbird was likely to spend the whole night in the den, sound asleep and blocking the way out.

Crowfeather lurked in the shadows, where nobody would notice him. The bowl went by right under his nose. He dropped in what he had been holding in his hand. The music let up on a gentle note as the bowl was passed to Whitefox, and she reached slender fingers toward the berries.

There was an undignified yelp. Whitefox dropped the bowl and sat half crouched, back arched. "What's wrong?" asked Cathunter, retrieving the bowl and frowning into it.

"There's a spider in the berries," Whitefox hissed.

Cathunter picked out something large and bloated. She looked at the dangling creature, puzzled for just a second before she looked toward Crowfeather. Everybody looked at him. He shrank farther back from the circle. They kept looking at him.

"It's just a spider," he muttered.

"I don't like spiders." Whitefox glared menacingly as she stood.

He stared up at her, unflinching, jaw set.

**Don't ever do that to anyone again.** She lock-sent just how she intended to deal with him if he did, and drove it home with a persuasively scary force of anger. He let his eyes drop and his shoulders sag, and went to crouch behind Greeneyes and Bristletail.

Greeneyes, leaning half asleep on her lovemate's shoulder, opened one eye, then closed it.

"Don't do it again," mumbled Bristletail.

**Go to sleep, Meko,** sent Cathunter.

Crowfeather turned to his parents. Greeneyes opened both eyes, looked right at him.

He ran back to the den.

The next morning, his wolfrider father wouldn't leave him alone.

"Why would I wear that?" Crowfeather sat crosslegged in the center of the den. "The humans will see me before I leave the holt."

"You shouldn't be anywhere near any humans." Bristletail held up the multicoloured vest once again. Crowfeather had to concede that Bristletail had outdone himself this time. The colours played off each other in a harmonious way that made them seem almost iridescent. "Black is dull," Bristletail went on. "Black and red all the time. You look like an old stick."

Crowfeather picked at the red lacings up the side of his black pants until he had them straightened out. He wanted to get up and leave, but Bristletail was between him and the exit, still trying to coax him to wear the vest. Now Bristletail was saying the weather might turn chilly. Crowfeather bent his head down until his hair fell all around his face. He sat in the dark cave of hair and watched the silver disk at the end of his one thin braid swing back and forth across his ankle, dragging the three crow feathers, back and forth. "All right," he said.

Bristletail stopped in the middle of whatever he was saying. "All right?"

Crowfeather took the vest, took his bow, and climbed out of the den. He pulled the vest on as he jumped down toward the ground. People were staring.

Let them stare. He was proud to look like his father, he told himself, and kept telling himself until he believed it.

Wild pigs roamed the mountains, hairy, tusked, and dangerous.

"Are you sure we can get one?" Briarheart chewed on a nail. "They're fast."

"How fast could that fat round thing move?" scoffed Crowfeather. "Anyway, that's just the excuse to go out. Something to show the rest of them when we get back."

"What are we looking for?" asked one of his companions.

"A special place."

"What place?"

"I'll let you know when we find it," he growled, then followed it up with a crafty smile.

They followed the spoor of the wild pig, then found recent tracks. They knew they were close, but even so they were taken by surprise when it turned on them out of the brush, aggressive as a human, ready to charge them with its threatening tusks. The hunting party backed up in confusion, legs and arms tangling. Crowfeather was the only hunter ready; one arrow would never have taken down that beast, but three from the same bow slowed it, stopped it, and it skidded to a heap just handspans away.

They scene was frozen in silence until a large bird flew up from the trees, flapping noisily. Crowfeather squinted up at its broad wingspan. He stretched his arms wide; the bird's wingspan was wider still, he judged.

The others gathered around the boar, their laughter at first uncertain, then confident.

"We were silly!"

Halfmoon jabbed it with her spear. "It's not scary at all. Crowfeather, you were right."

"Crowfeather saved our lives!"

"Right through the throat two times. Ayooah!" cheered Kaylamale's cub, Redleaf, throwing his head back into the howl.

He basked in the praise.

But Brightsun had nothing but a sneer. "Luck, Crow," he said. "Your shooting is horrible."

"Don't call him Crow," advised Halfmoon.

"Try one arrow at a time, maybe you'll be a better hunter," said Brightsun.

Some of the others snickered. Crowfeather felt suddenly cold. "One arrow wouldn't have stopped it," he hissed. Brightsun shrugged.

"We've got it trussed up," said Hilltop. "Let's carry it back."

"Take it back yourself," Crowfeather snarled.

"What about the place we're supposed to be looking for?" asked Briarheart. He ignored her, walking away.

"At least get your arrows out of the pig," called Brightsun.

He turned back, pulled off his quiver and tossed it at Briarheart, who almost tumbled over backwards catching it. Then he dropped his bow to the ground. Briarheart looked upset, so he said, as gently as he could manage, "Take them back for me, please," before he wheeled around and continued off away.

Brightsun was calling after him again, and Briarheart was sending, but he refused to hear them.

He climbed a very high tree and sulked very deeply, walking from branch to branch. He sort of remembered a network of branches connecting one tree to the next here, that had looked sturdy enough to follow. The ground appeared intermittently through the arms of the trees, dizzyingly far below. When the aerial pathway from tree to tree gave out, Crowfeather climbed even higher, up to where the limbs bent with his weight, where each sigh of the wind swayed his perch. He sat, then hung upside down for a while, until the ground began to swivel and swing. Then he sat up, head dizzy; now the sky swiveled and swung. It would have been so wonderful if he could just slip off the branch and float or fly or swoop down to the ground anywhere he wanted. He hated Kaylamale and sometimes he didn't even like Starbird very much, both of them with their showing off. It wasn't fair. He wished he could reach inside and find flying, not treeshaping. If only Starbird had been his real sire, instead of just his sort-of father.

What was the point of being a Crow, if all he could do was sit in the nest?

He supposed people would be starting to worry about him not having returned with the others. Or maybe they wouldn't care. Either way, he didn't want to go back. His other father, Bristletail, was right. Grey Falls had too many people trying to give too many orders. Crowfeather tried not to care -- but every time he turned around, he met Cathunter on one side, Yharren on the other, Blaze in front of him, Tilvah behind him. And now Allim and Brightsun, too.

He had to find what he was looking for. He had to find a way to stay out of the holt. Anyway, he had left five of his fattest spiders in Whitefox's den, so staying around the holt was not such a good idea.

"So what's so important?"

"Something we all want," Crowfeather told the group, once he got them out on another expedition.

Hilltop hopped on one foot, picking a rock out of her sandals. "I want to sit down."

"A den of our own," he went on. "No old people."

"A place of our own would be good," said Brightsun, moving alongside him, as if he were leading also. Crowfeather hadn't wanted Brightsun along, but Brightsun wasn't an adult. He was younger than Hilltop, for one thing. There might still be time to fix him. Elfshaping, Crowfeather thought, thinking of an alternative to the tree-mauling talents Allim thought he had, and chuckled to himself.

He halted the group. They'd reached it; the place he'd stumbled upon while making his way back from his high-up perch. Trees hunched together thickly, but one gargantuan oldster, an entirely different type of tree, sat alone in a clearing made up of old stumps and high thickets and fragrant flowers buzzing with harmless flutterbys. A pleasant hum drifted over all the bright clearing; a pleasant shade rested under the tree itself. The ancient tree rose up partway from ground, as if stretching itself skyward, pulling its roots from the soil.

"Mmm," murmured Briarheart, breathing deep. "Smells good here."

He smiled her way; he wanted to please her as much as he wanted to satisfy himself. "And there's dreamberries here," Crowfeather informed them. "That's why it's an especially good place for a den." He showed them the spot marked by a largish stump covered with pinked fist-sized flowers. He pulled back some of the confusion of plants and revealed, in its small patch of sunlight, a tiny thing with three little berries on it.

Hilltop screwed up her face. "I went through here with my mother looking for more berry patches," she said, "and we never saw it."

"You didn't look hard enough," said Crowfeather. "Clear some of this bush, so it can grow." Halfmoon and Briarheart set right to it. When he was satisfied the little plant had space to grow, he gestured toward the mighty tree that dominated the clearing. The others gradually realised... He smiled with satisfaction as understanding dawned and they noticed the spacious area under the roots.

"What a wonderful den!"

"And it isn't even shaped!"

One by one they crawled between the interwoven legs.

"Ow!"

"Get off my foot."

"Hey -- they're snuggling."

"Are not!"

*Cut it out, you two.*

"Pebble-head."

"Settle down," ordered Crowfeather, planting himself before the entrance to the hollow. The others looked up, some crouching, some leaning back, two of them still holding hands. Crowfeather drew himself up to his full height, the top of his head brushing the roots. "This is our private holt, and we're calling it Under-Tree, and I'm the chief."

Brightsun interrupted his speech. "I should be chief."

Not again. "Why you?"

"My sire was chief of Grey Falls."

"So's other people's sire, Hilltop pointed out.

"Crow found the holt," said Briarheart cautiously.

"Crowfeather," whispered Halfmoon, with a grin.

"Doesn't matter," said Brightsun. "I'd be a better chief. At Grey Falls, here, or anywhere."

Crowfeather stepped in close. "Is this a challenge?" He was two turns younger, and they were the same height.

"I should be chief," Brightsun maintained. They leaned nose to nose.

Crowfeather frowned. "Well, you can't be chief until you prove yourself." He gestured toward the others. "Right? Prove himself to us." Crowfeather leaned on his bow, thinking hard. This was dumb. He had found the hollow; he had gathered them; he had the idea to find them a place where the old ones couldn't bother them. He had stolen and planted the dreamberries and coaxed them to grow. Brightsun was ruining all of it. If he wanted it that badly -- "Bring back one of the humans' almost-wolves. One of the chief's pack."

Brightsun laughed incredulously. "I'm not doing that."

"Coward," Crowfeather whispered.

"Leave off," Brightsun warned.

Crowfeather grinned now -- half a grin, half a smirk -- and peered around the faces. "What do you think, holtmates? What good is a chief who's afraid of the humans' wolfkin?"

Brightsun walked out of the hollow, knocking roots aside.

After the long silence that followed the last faint sounds of Brightsun's stomping away, Briarheart said, "He won't go."

Halfmoon shook her head. "He's going to go tell what you told him to do."

"What if he does?" Scowling, Crowfeather set his bow on a shelf formed by the rippling of the tree.

"I think he's going...." said Hilltop, softly.

He ignored her. Crowfeather set his tribe to work -- cleaning up, stamping down the dirt to make a decent floor. Then he assigned a hunt leader and a dreamberry keeper.

"What do I get?" asked Hilltop.

"You can be either tale-teller or lookout."

Halfmoon in the dark rear of the hollow shook something off her hand. "Ugh -- spiders."

"Give 'em to Crowfeather -- I mean, the chief."

"Almost-chief."

"Why can't I be both?" demanded Hilltop. Crowfeather wondered if he should get the spiders. It would be a shame to waste good spiders. Hilltop tapped him on the head. "Why do I have to choose between tale-teller and lookout?"

No -- a chief couldn't be bothered with collecting spiders. "Lookout," he decided. "But at the howls you always tell the first tale." She nodded, satisfied.

But someone said, "Shouldn't we wait for Brightsun before deciding all this?"

Crowfeather spun around on him. "That's it. You're not hunt leader anymore." He opened his mouth to protest; Crowfeather gave his best narrow-eyed stare, and the other backed down. "Now," he went on, "when Brightsun returns, we still have to decide if we want him as chief. Him or me." He glared at all of them, and felt another grin tug the corners of his lips when some of them flinched and look down. Some of the others weren't taking this at all seriously, though. Raising his voice just a little, he told Briarheart, "You be my chieftess," and her eyes lit up.

He stared out the entrance into the growing gloom. Hilltop was perched in a branch above, looking-out. He could hear the others behind him, cleaning and settling in, discussing how they'd sneak enough furs away from their dens to make the hollow -- the new holt -- comfortable.

**He went,** Hilltop sent.

Crowfeather hoisted himself up to her branch. "How do you know?" he asked softly.

"He told me," she answered.

"Oh."

He dropped back to the ground. Several pairs of eyes were peering out at him. "I'm going after Brightsun," he announced. "Alone."

"Alone?" she repeated.

"Alone. Because I'm the chief. I'm responsible for the safety of my tribe." He scanned the others' faces, satisfied himself that he had impressed on them the seriousness of his decision. Briarheart solemnly handed him his bow, and he left.

He turned quickly into one shadow among many, then not even that. When she was sure he was out of hearing range, Hilltop hopped down to the others. "And I'm holt elder," she said. "Under-Tree is going to get help from Grey Falls."

He eventually sniffed out Brightsun hiding near the humans' village.

"I can't get in there," said Brightsun.

"'Can't' means too scared," Crowfeather jeered. As soon as Brightsun admitted it, they could both go back.

"They built their fence even higher," Brightsun used as an excuse.

"So?" Crowfeather shrugged. "Go over it."

"They'll see me if I go over."

"Go quietly."

"You go if it's so easy."

Crowfeather leapt over the thicket they were crouching in and began to walk across the cleared area around the stockade. He was not actually aware of having made the decision to do so, but there he was. He heard a patter of feet and suddenly he had the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground with Brightsun on top of him. Brightsun was much more heavily built, and easily pulled him back into shelter.

"Owtch!" Crowfeather growled, as a twig poked him in the eye.

"Let's leave," Brightsun pleaded.

He twisted his arm free of Brightsun's hold. "You're just afraid," he goaded. "I hear the humans have gone soft since Hilltop found that little human mump."

"Let's leave," the other insisted.

"The humans have gone nice. The humans are soft, and you're still afraid."

Brightsun went still, chin raised, the last of the sunset glinting on his hair. "You wait right here! I can get one of these almost-wol -- "

His shout cut off abruptly as a hand came down to grab each of them by the hair.

While they had been arguing, Allim had slithered up on them, and Crowfeather hadn't even smelled him coming.

Brightsun sank down as Allim let go. Crowfeather wrenched himself free and turned to face the pureblood elder. "How come you're here?" he demanded.

Allim shook his head. "I was watching out for you."

He was looking out for Briarheart, Crowfeather decided. Allim had probably followed them from Under-Tree to the human village out of curiosity, not concern.

"The two of you have gotten yourselves into an interesting amount of trouble here," he was saying.

Crowfeather struggled with the impulse to keep his mouth shut. It wouldn't be right for both of him and Brightsun to get into trouble. It had been his idea. Brightsun would never have risked upsetting the humans if he hadn't been pushed into it.

"It was my idea, Allim," said Brightsun. "I was showing off. Crow came here to bring me back."

Allim slid his eyes over to his son. Crowfeather went red, which he did quite easily and vividly.

But there was no chance for further conversation. The gate to the human's holt was hauled open, and more humans than Crowfeather had ever hoped to see at one time came striding across the clearing. Allim placed himself in front of Crowfeather and Brightsun. "Nothing to worry about here," he told them mildly.

The humans hesitated at the sight of the tall elf.

*Keep moving, children,* Allim sent, as if he would hold the humans back just by looking at them. Brightsun ducked away. Crowfeather backed up slowly, then stopped. He was not going to run. He would do better than scampering like a treewee.

Cathunter had warned him many times about the humans. Humans turn on you, she had said. Humans can't be trusted. And he wouldn't turn his back on these and be chased into the trees. The humans had regained their courage and continued to cross the clearing. Crowfeather pulled an arrow from his quiver and shot, aiming only for the humans' legs. He caught one under the knee. The scene dissolved into confusion as the humans broke in all directions, many of them surging forward; Allim turned and shouted for Crowfeather to run.

He stood his ground. Three more arrows, he decided -- he would give the humans a real scare.

The next arrow whistled between them past their hips; that certainly made them pause. The next arrow hit one in the thigh; the third following close behind went wild from his bow; it hit Allim at very, very close range.

Crowfeather could tell, he had pierced Allim's chest clean through. The Pureblood looked confused, stepped back a few paces, then fell down. He didn't move again.

Crowfeather stared, in horror. Brightsun was dragging at his arm, but stopped abruptly. From the corner of his eye, Crowfeather saw Brightsun duck into the bushes and hide.

Allim -- Allim was dead. He'd killed Allim.

The humans were around him, trying to pull the bow from his hands. They were squabbling among themselves, but he couldn't understand their jabbering. He didn't speak human; he knew a word or two, but couldn't concentrate on what they were saying, all of them barking around him at once, the musk of their bodies and hair overwhelming him. They grabbed his arms; two crouched over Allim's body. The humans clutching his arms lifted Crowfeather up over it -- then dragged him through the clearing -- through their wall of cut trees and into their village.

He tried to look back over his shoulder, but he could see nothing but hairy human chests until they set him down in one of their huts.

Trapped, in the human village.

One of their mages, a stringy greybeard, entered the hut with two other humans who stared at Crowfeather unabashedly. One kept rubbing the round tips of his own tiny ears. The other, a cub no bigger than Crowfeather himself, hung back near the hut's door. At first Crowfeather thought the mage was doing some ritual over him, then he understood the human was trying to communicate. But that was all he understood. The mage made bird motions with his hands, as if he was playing shadow figures on the wall. Then he pulled black feather from a pouch around his neck and held it up near the three feathers in Crowfeather's hair.

Crowfeather still didn't understand what they wanted; he shook his head in their sign for "No," and they looked disappointed. Finally the greybeard gave up. He reached forward and lifted a thick handful of Crowfeather's hair, let it fall, then gestured to one of his helpers. The cub showed what he was carrying -- an arrow bloodied all along its shaft, the black feathers an accusation. The old one pointed at the arrow, grinning.

The edges of room went grey. Crowfeather was certain he would faint. The human set the arrow down on the floor, patted it, then rose; they all three left and drew the woven-wood door shut behind them.

He didn't know which he would do first -- throw up or faint. He threw up. He crawled off to a corner of the hut, sank to the floor, and drew his knees up tight

He had killed Allim. Maybe no one would care about that. Only Kestrel. No, Briarheart would care. He nearly threw up again. He couldn't imagine what the humans would do to him. No one could guess anymore how the humans would react to anything. And certainly not how they would react to a spirit who had killed another spirit. That would be especially bad, wouldn't it? He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gagging at the taste of bile in mouth.

He wondered where Brightsun was, the coward. And he wondered what the others at Under-Tree will think of him now.

Briarheart would hate him.

That thought made him more sick at heart than speculating on anything the humans might do to him.

He scanned the exits. The door was made of woven sticks, sturdy looking, and the shadow of a very large human hovered just beyond. Above him was a smoke hole. If there were some way he could climb up, he could get out. Maybe. If only he could fly; fly away from there.

Time passed, and he crouched in his corner, head buried in his arms. He didn't move until he heard a noise at the door.

A band of humans entered, carrying Allim. They laid him on the ground and folded his hands over his bandaged chest. The humans wrinkled their noses at the smell in the room, cleaned up the floor, and took the arrow with them when they left.

Crowfeather crawled over, leaned right up against Allim's face. He never been this close to him, but the scent was all too familiar. Allim was definitely alive -- Crowfeather could see his nostrils move as he breathed. Someone had braided his hair in a single narrow plait.

He compared himself to his sire. Allim of course was much taller, taller than Crowfeather could ever expect to be, and for a moment Crowfeather was jealous. He looked at Allim's hands -- treeshaper hands. He laid his right hand over Allim's right hand. The same long fingers, smaller version. He wondered what difference there could possibly be between himself and Briarheart.

But if he himself had the talent hiding in him -- the talent to twist trees -- he certainly didn't feel any of it. Just the opposite: he shuddered at the idea of it. That was the difference between himself and Briarheart.

He remembered to check that Allim's injuries had actually been tended to; humans had no real healers, after all. With a deep breath to brace himself, he lifted and peeked under the bandage. Allim had been crudely stitched up like a piece of clothing, but he wasn't bleeding much.

Crowfeather picked up the simply twisted braid. No wonder the mage had gestured at Crowfeather's own hair; it was exactly the same. Now he wondered where the parts of him that were his mother were.

Allim's eyes opened a slit -- grey-blue, ice cold. Not a thing like Crowfeather's own dark green eyes. The Pureblood was conscious just long enough to give Crowfeather a look of chilling contempt, then his eyes closed.

Crowfeather sat crosslegged next to his sire.

A clod of dirt thumped him on the top of the head.

Crowfeather sprang to a crouch and looked up. Brightsun's head appears at the smoke hole. "I stole a rope," he called down. The knotted end of the rope uncoiled down from above. "I got a rope."

"Where did you get a rope?"

"I stole it. I saw it in one of their storerooms." Brightsun sounded as giddy as Greeneyes with a bowlful of berries. "I snuck in and got it and they didn't even see me," he giggled. Then his tone changed abruptly to urgency. "Hurry."

They struggled to get Allim up to the hole. First Crowfeather tied what he hoped would be an adequate sling around the Pureblood, then he scrambled up the rope to the rooftop. Together he and Brightsun hauled on the rope: two, three, four hands... and suddenly two more.

Crowfeather didn't turn. He could certainly recognise Starbird by scent alone. For his part, Starbird remained silent while he carried them one by one over the humans' wall, as effortlessly as a leaf in the wind. Bristletail and Greeneyes awaited them on the other side of the stockade.

Starbird deposited Allim into Bristletail's arms before he glided to a soft landing. Brightsun seemed just as surprised as Crowfeather to see the three adults.

As they escaped to the trees, Crowfeather stumbled under his mother's tight arm hold. And, when they were well into the forest, Brightsun began telling the whole story, embossing it to flatter himself.

They paused, safely distant, where the older Wolfriders had left their wolves, and settled Allim from Bristletail's shoulder to ground. The patches of Bristletail's vest that were formerly pale were now stained red. The wolves whined and fretted; Bristletail hushed them with a few soothing whispers. Starbird flew on ahead to bring back the first healer he could get his hands around.

"How did you know?" Crowfeather finally asked.

"Hilltop found the three of us..." Bristletail grinned "... in a resting place we have near here...."

Joining place, thought Crowfeather.

Allim was bleeding heavily, the humans' bandages soaked through. Greeneyes scowled at the blood, then met Bristletail's eyes. *Beloved -- *

The sending went on. Crowfeather looked from one to the other. He couldn't hear the rest of it, but he felt the sending like a taut thread between his mother and father -- all the more so because Greeneyes had to try so hard to make Bristletail hear her -- and the sense of it vibrated through. She couldn't want to... No, he wouldn't even think it.

He tried to lift Allim to wolfback himself. "Hey -- he's too long for me to pick up by myself," he called.

"All right," Greeneyes snarled. "But we'll never have a chance like this again."

Crowfeather blotted it out. Out from his hearing, out of his memory. He knew they were not seriously considering it. They couldn't be.

They moved swiftly but carefully back toward the holt. Crowfeather trudged behind, next to Brightsun.

He peered at Brightsun. Tomorrow, they would determine beyond question who would be chief at Under-Tree.