This was probably the first tale written for Grey Falls Holt, way back in 1993 when the holt began. The tale introduced Kestrel, Stone, and Hilltop, who were my first characters.This also tells of Hilltop's greatest secret. You may see that these characters have evolved since then. At the time this was written, Kestrel's parentage hadn't been decided, and Stone's character wasn't yet established. All I knew about him was that he was a healer and he was considerably older than Kestrel, old enough to scold her like a parent to a cub.

Not so much as a toe mark in the moss, a turned over leaf, a patch of bruised bark did she dare leave behind her. Every step was carefully chosen, silently taken. She stopped, and sniffed the air. The scents that came back to her said all was safe, yet she still took great pains to leave no trail, make no sound. Oh, how clever she felt, and how frightened, too. The hunting games she had played with her tribe served her well. Every lesson she had learned on a real hunt now meant that she was well hidden, even from her own people, even from the best trackers.

Long hair, the color of sunshine seen through a stream of honey, spilled over her nose. Impatiently, she tugged it back and adjusted her headband. She couldn't afford to let anything impede her vision. She was at the edge of her tribe's territory, the oak grove that marked the furthest inroad the humans had made into the forest. Though she had seen the grove only a few times in her short life, she knew it well enough. When she had reached the awkward age at which childhood flees, yet maturity is slow in coming, the elders of her tribe brought her here, and showed her the human skull and human markings that were signs the Tall Ones had made for their own people, signs that said "Do not pass beyond." To the elves, it meant "Humans come here. Beware."

Standing on the carved stone that the humans had placed in the grove, she could reach up and touch the human skull that was wedged in a huge scar in the tree trunk. She passed her finger over the brow ridge, light and smooth like hers. The brow, too, was high, intelligent. There were no ridges on either side of the skull, for the bony curves had never been required to support ears like hers. Neither were the eye sockets as large. The jaw seemed heavy to her, but lighter than that of other humans. She knew why this particular head had been placed here. She knew it belonged to a shamaness of the humans, and it was thought that the spirit of the aged woman would protect the humans from enchanted wolves, and, at the same time, curse any humans who passed beyond the point, and allow the wrath of the Forest Folk to fall upon them. Of all her tribe, only this young elf knew these things.

She stepped down from the stone, and turned her face in the direction where she knew a stream lay. Far from the humans, far from the elves, she would find this stream, and the willow grove that grew along its banks. There was a narrow, barely visible human trail into the grove. There were many others that the elf could follow, rabbit trails under the thorn woods, paths among the treetops. She would follow the rabbits this day.

She passed under the thorn wood at the edge of the forest, slipping through as lithe as a stoat, and three times as silent. She found the willow grove she was seeking, by the edge of the tiny stream. He liked willows. He said his people called them moon trees, and they were supposed to inspire visions. He didn't know about that, he said, but he did like their scent, and he liked how everyone left him alone when he would walk away from his people to spend time in the grove, far away.

He was there. She smiled to herself. She was never certain if he would be there or not. As the day was fine and warm, she took her chances, and succeded. He did not hear her approach. Of course he did not. In front of him were a cluster of stone bowls, and stained pouches. He was grinding something in one of the bowls. She knew it was pigment of one kind or another: red clay, perhaps, or blue clay, or charcoal, or colored minerals or burnt bones, or any one of a number of things he took pleasure in. A bird's egg lay beside him, along with a plank of wood, rubbed smooth and painted over with white. He would paint today. She was glad for that. She liked to watch him paint.

She made a small sound, like a bird. "Alyssar!" He turned in quick surprise. His eyes lit up in delight. Blue eyes. Small eyes. A five fingered hand reached out to clasp hers.

"Kestrel! You have come!" His voice was soft, low. When he spoke his human tongue, it didn't sound so much like grunting to her ear as did the huge chief of the human village. He could even manage her elfish name without mangling it. "I thought you had forgotten me. How long has it been? Last spring? Has it really been so long?"

"I couldn't come for the longest time. I was caught last time, and they forbade me to ever come again. I had to be tricky to come here at all. They tell me it's too dangerous."

The human sprinkled more powder into his grinding bowl. "It is, you know," he said, looking away from her.

She squatted in the turf beside him, the fringes of her berry-dyed breechclout brushing the packed earth. "With you? Why?" she demanded.

"We are both in danger, if we are caught. You know what they would do to you. Not out of malice, of course, but it's what they believe. They want your spirit, to help them."

"Do you believe it?" She had asked that before, but still sought the assurance of an answer.

The pestle in the bowl stopped. Alyssar sighed. There was a long pause. "No," he finally said, "No. I don't." The grinding resumed. To Kestrel's eye, the powder looked fine enough, but he always wanted it finer, it seemed. "I suppose I should. I make images, images that are to remind my people of what they believe, images that tell the tales of our people, and the coming of First Man, and all the things that we were taught to do in those early days. I paint the images on panels, on house posts, wall hole covers, door skins, everywhere. Our village is awash with the symbols I paint, and get paid for. But I feel that I'm getting furs and meat for a lie, since I don't believe a bit of it, yet I dare not say a such a thing to anyone."

The face that was bent over the stone bowl was lined, showing age, yet the man's hair was still a ruddy brown. For a human, he had lived enough years to be considered mature, but not old enough to be an elder, not until winter overtook his hair. Yet he had only recently been mated, Kestrel knew. She asked him about that. He grimaced.

"The chief's daughter. Yes, I'd been with her only a year when you came last. It's been two, now, and still no child. She blames me, of course. She had a son by the last man she took, and she wants another. A daughter she would give to me, for the Mages' House, but she wants a sons for herself, for the Chief's House. Perhaps I can never give one to her. Ah, well."

He picked up the egg, and cracked it, letting the white drip onto the ground. Kestrel hadn't had much to eat that night, and she salivated when she saw that good egg white wasted, but she said nothing. It was early in the spring, and times were lean for the humans until the early food crops came in, so she did not intend to ask him for food. She would bag a squirrel for herself later. Perhaps she would find something for him, too, if she could find some food that he could eat here. Anything carried back to the village would arouse suspicion.

The yolk of the egg went into a smooth bowl carved of obsidian. With a special tool, Alyssar gently pierced the membrane of the yolk, and lifted out just a dab of the yellow liquid, which he deposited in another, similar dish. He mixed this with a pinch of the ground pigment, and loaded a fine brush with it.

"She is a chief's daughter," he said, picking up the trail of their conversation again, "And, as such, has been raised up to expect, no, to demand the best in all things. Her father has spoiled her beyond hope. Everything she wants, she gets, including me." He laid the first brushstrokes out carefully, guided by faint charcoal lines where he had sketched the shapes of the images he would paint. "I am a prize, an object, an ornament to her, something to be seen with, to prop up beside her in ceremonies, a body to bed with at night. I have promise of high status in the Mages' House, she will have high status in the Chief's House, so she thought it to be a prize match. I have come to envy those of low status who mate with those who please them and love them." He replenished the paint bowl. The paint dried quickly, so was mixed in minute quantities, and made up as needed. "I suppose there is little else to hope for, until I gain higher status. Then, perhaps, I will have the authority to say who I will be with."

Kestrel pondered this. The complexities of human status and mating were difficult to grasp, and seemed strange and foolish when compared with the freedoms of her own tribe. "I'm glad I'm not human," she said.

"I dare say you are. There is little to be said for it."

"Except. . ." she bit her words back.

"Hmm?"

"Oh, um, nothing." She couldn't tell him what she had hardly begun to know herself. "What are you painting?"

"This?" He nodded toward the painting, then picked up another brush, and mixed up some greenish paint. "This is what I call a little piece of hope."

"Hope?" Kestrel looked curiously at the piece. The sketched-in shapes resembled humans and elves, but she couldn't tell what they were supposed to be doing.

"Hope for your people and mine. These are for the Midwinter's ceremony. When winter turns, so do humans. It's a time to change old ways, if they need changing. A time to ask for a turn of luck if your luck has been poor. A time when mates who have grown to dislike each other's company may part. A time when the old tales are studied for messages to guide the new year. So I've gone back to the old tales, and found one I will alter just a little, to find new meaning in it."

"Something about humans and elves?"

"Yes, something that I hope will suggest to them that enough heads have been taken. I want them to stop." He looked at Kestrel, long and well, until she wondered what was going on behind those intense eyes. "If they ever caught you. . ." He turned away quickly. "I can't let that happen. It is dangerous for you to be in this part of the forest. I want to change that. Taking heads is a cruel, foolish thing to do when we could gain so much more by talking with your people."

"Do any of your people think as you do?"

He shook his head, sadly. "Some may doubt a few of the old legends, but they all obey the Law. They live by the Law, they die by it. Those who do not, die sooner. Even more, taking heads means gaining status. It is the surest, fastest way to gain rank. There are a few who whisper in the sweat lodges that they can't see how a preserved head will bring the power of the spirits, but the can see quite clearly how it will improve their rank, and gain a finer mate or better garden patch."

"But you. . .don't. . .do you?"

He smiled. "No, thank the gods, I don't. Mages don't have to take heads. Our rank is given to us by the gods, through our powers that we are said to have. It's the Chief's House that takes heads. Which is why the task I have given myself is all the harder. The men in the Chief's House are notoriously stubborn. And the men of the lower houses would all like to be invited into the Chief's House."

In the time they had been talking, only a small piece of the painting had been completed, a piece the size of the little bird's egg Alyssar had broken open. Image making was tedious, Kestrel knew, so found no need to ask why an image for the Midwinter's ceremony had to be started in the spring. She got up.

"Are you going?" he asked, and an unexpected shiver passed through her at his crestfallen look.

"Just to find something to eat. I'll be back soon." She darted away, suddenly confused and bashful.

She berated herself at her own feelings, absorbing herself in her brief hunt for food. The little animals of the forest were out, hungry, and the young had not learned wariness yet. Her arrow soon found a mark, a young possum lumbering about in the underbrush. She ate it quickly, for she knew that humans did not eat raw meat, and Alyssar might be disturbed by the sight. When she had finished, she sought out a patch of forest where lightning had struck several turns ago, for she sometimes found early spring mushrooms there. Yes, thank the High Ones, a few had emerged, and they were fresh. Black and pitted as they were, they did not look tasty, yet she knew they were. The trolls had taught them that these were prize. She tasted only one herself, and carried as many as would fit in her belt pouch back to the willow grove.

"Ah, mushrooms," Alyssar said, when she laid them out for him, "You are kind to me, indeed. Here I only bore you with my craft and my long stories, and you bring me good things to eat from the forest."

"If I were bored," Kestrel replied, "I would not come."

He looked at her, another long look. "I wonder what I should make of that?"

She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. She felt strangely shy, and could not answer. Instead, she reached into her belt pouch for fibers to spin into bowstrings and cords, and began working. Anything to occupy her hands, her thoughts, her eyes.

They worked, together in the willow grove, he intent on his painting, she spinning the fibers on her bare thigh, until the sun crept down in the west, and the insects began their afternoon hum. Then, reluctantly, Alyssar put down his brush, and cleaned up his materials.

"You've spun miles of cord today," he commented.

"Yes."

She saw that he was studying her. His paints and bowls were put away. She had risen to leave.

"Wait."

He took her hands in his.

"Will you come again? Soon?"

The lonely pleading aroused an ache in her own heart. "Um, sometime. I can't say when. But I will come."

"They know I'm working on something big, so they'll be tolerant. I'll be here every fair day. I wish you could be, too." He released her hands, and she darted into the rabbit trail, fleeing. She wasn't ready to say what it was she was fleeing from.

She reached the holt just as the sky was turning fiery in the sunset. Most of her tribe was still asleep. She heard a few voices in the tree hollows and burrows. Quietly, quickly, she made her way to her own, tiny, solitary niche, high in the tree.

"You went there again, didn't you?"

The voice siezed her on her own threshold. She spun around.

"Stone!"

His hair was silvery grey, and hung loose around his face. Under the shaggy fringe, bright grey eyes glared at her. His blood was mostly of the Firstborn, but a smidgen of Wolfrider, somewhere in the distant past of his ancestry, gave him the keener senses than the purebloods, nearly as keen as the Wolfriders.

"I can smell it on you. You've been near a human."

She felt like a scolded child under his gaze, very small, and very, very stupid. She answered like a child. "You won't tell, will you?"

"Tell? Of course I will! Foolish cub! I can only heal wounds and sickness. I can't make you grow a whole new head! Stupid cub! Go to bed. We'll decide what to do with you later."

The whole tribe, of course, was furious at her. Humans could have taken her, or they might have followed her and found the holt. Even this human she claimed as a friend might be fooling her, to lure her into the village to perform their grisly rites with her.

"Don't you have any sense, cub?" Starwing, the chieftess, roared at her, "Didn't you learn anything from Whiteface's death?"

She just had to remind her. Her own wolf friend, it always seemed, had more wisdom than she did. Loyal to the end, Whiteface had leaped between Kestrel and an adder, when Kestrel was wandering around on a rockslide, aimlessly poking around for pika dens. Two turns of the seasons ago, and yet it still hurt.

"From now on you are never to be alone," the chieftess went on, "You are never to go into the woods without one of us with you. You must always be in sight of someone, not just sending range anymore. Do I make myself clear?"

Kestrel nodded, silently, brooding. She wanted to shout out that she wasn't a cub, but she knew that's just what a cub would say. Instead, she obeyed her chief as any good huntress would, and crept silently back to her knothole. And plotted.

She whiled away the nights with hunting and sewing. Her hands were slender and quick, clever at turning raw materials into useful items. She could cut a garment from leather, just by eyeing the elf who wanted it, and the fit was always perfect. She didn't know how she could do this. She just could. When there was no sewing to do, she took grasses and roots she had gathered, and attemped to weave baskets. She had seen baskets: human women made them, and if human women could make them, she could make them better. Such useful items, those baskets. They were light, swiftly made, and could hold many things, from furs to dreamberries. Especially dreamberries. Kestrel smiled, as she bound the top edge of a basket intended for gathering dreamberries, which were nearly ripe. She thought of the many eights of days that had passed, of Alyssar, alone in the willow grove, painting his panels. She thought of what she intended to do once those berries were ripe. She had obeyed her chief, quite strictly, since the order had been given. They watched her less. They thought she had forgotten.

As soon as the dreamberries were ripe, the Wolfriders made merry as only Wolfriders can. They howled the whole night through, and on into the dawn, recounting tale after tale after tale. There were cubs in the holt, and all sat owl-eyed, listening, drinking in the tales, but not yet understanding everything that dreamberries meant.

Kestrel sat near the others, but not too near. She was alone in her generation. There were no elf lads near her age, hot-blooded and ready to tempt her. A few of the older elves would have been at her side in a hearbeat, had she only winked at them, but she didn't. Though her body was mature enough, she chose to act as the little cubs did, listening innocently. She didn't want to be noticed. She chewed on a handful of berries, but most of them were not dreamberries.

They would sleep well, those Wolfriders, long and well and deeply. Even the wolves would sleep. A few would be alert, guarding the beloved holt, but it would be an easy matter to slip out, and be gone all day. If she overslept that evening, no one would notice. Dreamberry season would be her season.

She was gone when the silver sky brightened to blue. She took a different trail this time, so she did not pass the skull marker. No sense in taking the same trail each time, and lead her tribe to the secret place. The willow grove was greener than when she had left it last. Summer was in full flush, and the warmth of the sun pierced the grove, filling it with the tangy scent of willow, and the rich, musky scent of . . .

"Alyssar!"

"At last!" the pleasure in his face was stronger, the eyes more urgent. "I have waited so long for you. Just when I think you've forgotten your old friend, you suddenly pop out of nowhere. Ah, I've missed you." He siezed his painted panel. "Look! Look how much progress I've made with this. There will be three in all, and this one is nearly finished."

Kestrel looked over the symbols and images that swirled together on the panel. It was nothing like the organized images she'd seen when she had spied on the village. This was far more fluid, organic, water and earth melding together. In the tangled images, she saw elf and human, linked by a misty shroud. "Tell me about it." she said, "What does it mean?"

"There are many things I want to tell my people. Many stories to be retold for Midwinter." He sat back, cross-legged, and stared off into the leaves. "The Shamans of the Mages' House say they can talk to the spirits of the dead. My people believe that when we die, we go to a rich, green land, where food is abundant, and we stay young forever. It is said we can even fly there. But sometimes, once in a great while, it is said that a person can be so fond of this world that, when he dies, his spirit pines so much for this world, or for a beloved someone left behind, that the gods allow him to come back to it. He may come back as a human again, or he might wish to be in the world as something else. An animal, perhaps. There are certain animals that my people do not hunt, for it is believed that these are the animals that souls may come back as." He turned to her, his eyes suddenly intense with his ideas. "What if it is true? What if our souls can travel back to this world, and take another form? And what if that form were yours?"

Kestrel, who had been sitting back on her heels, fell on her backside with a thump.

Alyssar laughed. "That's just the sort of reaction my people will have, I'm sure."

"But. . .but the souls of elves go to live with the High Ones. We know that, because we can feel it. We feel a soul when it leaves the body. In fact the body is like a jar that. . ."

". . .holds a soul. That is exactly what I mean. If my people can believe that a human soul can fill that jar, maybe, just maybe, they will be less inclined to part that soul from the body it chose to inhabit. It would be an outrage to the soul. Killing one of your people would be like killing an osprey, or any other sacred animal. If I can reveal this in a convincing way, if may mean safety for your people. Let us hope!"

She watched him work on the panel: finishing touches, really. Two others lay near, sketched out, with some washes of color on them already. As he worked, she watched. She liked to watch. She could see the tendons working in his hands, long, tapered hands. He applied the paint with a delicate touch, a touch so light, the elves of her tribe would not believe her if she told them about it. He was not so coarse as the other humans. He was lighter in build, finer in feature. Even his scent was different. He was cleaner, for one thing. He disliked dirt and odor. And he walked differently than other humans. More thoughtfully, for he was always in thought. The other humans thought he was odd, but Kestrel thought. . .thought. . .the dreamberries were intruding on her thoughts, though she had eaten so few.

"I wonder where souls come from in the first place," she said abruptly.

"Mmm, who knows?" he replied, carefully applying a thin line of paint, filling out some details.

She had never thought about that. She knew that souls went to the high ones after death, but no one knew where they came from in the first place. Did they just appear when a cub began in it's mother's belly? She pondered the idea, and the more she pondered, the more the idea of cubs made her feel awkward. She rose to leave.

"Must you go? So soon?"

"The sun is already at it's highest. If I get back earlier, maybe I won't be caught this time."

"But I see so little of you."

"It's dreamberry season. I'll be able to break away more, now. I'll be back."

Hastily, she exited, via a rabbit trail.

She made it back to her knothole safely this time. The holt was deep in a dreamberry sleep. Before she scrambled up to her furs, she snitched a few, slightly shriveled dreamberries from a forgotten basket, and let the sharp tang drip down her throat as she fell asleep. She dreamed as she slept; warm, musky dreams, where soul met soul in a silken mist.

When she awoke, darkness has already fallen. Most of the tribe was up and about, and, when she poked her head out of her knothole, a few chose to tease her about the number of dreamberries they thought she had eaten. She smiled weakly, and got dressed. Her knees wobbled. Her furs were damp with sweat. Let the tribe think it was dreamberries, she told herself. Perhaps it was. The dreams she had dreamed were nothing she had ever dreamed before, not like that, not that clear, not that intense. She wanted to go back to the willow grove. She was too frightened to go back to the willow grove. She couldn't, she musn't.

And, after the next dreamberry revel, she did.

"I'm half done with the second panel, can you believe it?" he said, happily. Alyssar was always happy when he painted, and he felt inspired to paint, morning and night. He painted all day in the willow grove, he said, and painted half the night in the Mages' House. His mate was complaining that he never bedded in her house any more. He said how he explained to her the importance of the work he was doing.

"She said I should be painting for good hunts, and new children," he said, as he ground out some mica, to add a sheer, shimmering wash to one part of a panel. "I paint an image of a hunt, and the hunters go out and bring back game. They say the image made the hunt go well, and they give me my share. I paint a woman's belly with symbols, and, much later, she bears a child. They say I made it happen, and made the child emerge safely. They give me furs and food. Do my images really make those things happen? Or do they happen because my people are confident they will happen? I once tried to talk with my mate about this. She called me a crazy old man, and sent me from her house. Only a chief's daughter can speak to an image maker that way." He sighed. "I think I spend so much time out here because I don't want to go back. There are times, more often now than when I was younger, that I can't stand to be with my own people."

He went back to his painting. The work absorbed him so completely, she almost thought he had forgotten her presence. She studied him closely, so closely it hurt. His shirt, which he had taken off and lain behind him, was plain, the stitching clumsy to her eye, clumsy even for most humans. It was worn thin at the elbows. His leggings, too, were thin at the knees, and his boots would soon have a holes in the toes. The man was mated to the chiefs daughter, she thought, and that was the best this human woman could provide him with in leathers? His only ornaments were a pendant of crystal, which marked him as a member of the Mages' House, and a woven amulet, with a pattern that belonged to him alone. Even a mangled body found days after death could be identified by such an amulet. Kestrel thought of the leathers she made for her own people, the petal-soft, and dyed in subtle, soft forest hues. If only she could do the same for her human friend. How his people would stare and wonder! She didn't dare, of course.

And she wondered if the only reason he came to the willow grove was to be away from his own people.

Every morning following a dreamberry revel brought her to the willow grove, where she would sit at watch Alyssar paint. Always, when she rose to leave, he would ask "so soon?" And always, she saw the pleading look in his sky-blue eyes. It was almost too much to resist, but she knew she had to break away, to assure that she would be able to come again.

The leaves were changing and falling when dreamberry season came to an end. Though there were dried berries stored away, the revels caused by the full, juicy berries would be no more until the next summer. After the last revel, Kestrel came one more time to the willow grove.

"Then I won't see you again?" he said, though it sounded more like a statement. His eyes were so full of sorrow, she felt as though she had betrayed him.

"Next season, I'll be back."

"So long to wait. . .look, the panels are nearly done." He took them from their deerskin coverings. "I suppose it's getting too cold to be working on these outdoors, anyway. But I had so wanted to show you the finished images."

The panels were memory aid, calling up the tales of his people. He showed her the nearly finished third panel, and gave a sketchy telling of the tale that went with it. "I hope this telling will work. I hope my people take the message well."

"I hope so, too."

He sighed, heavily, and put the panels back in their covering.

"Aren't you going to work today?"

"It's too cold."

She waited for him to say more, but he did not.

"What will you paint in the spring?" she asked, for lack of anything else to say that she dared say.

He shrugged. "It's winter, I'm thinking of. It will be a harsh one." He picked at the ragged edges of his sleeves, and took a deep breath before he spoke again. "My mate has taken a fancy to one of the younger brutes in the Chief's house. I think she means to cast me off at Midwinter." He picked a stone up from the earth beneath him, and hefted it in his hand. "I was never really happy with her, anyway, though I tried to be. I suppose I ought to be relieved. And yet. . ." The stone went pelting into the bushes. "I'm angry." Another stone followed, thrown just as forcefully. "I feel like a tool, used and discarded." His head sank into his hands. "There are mates in our village who are true companions to one another. That's all I wanted. I don't care about the power, the rank, any of that. I just want to paint, and have someone to talk to. Someone who doesn't laugh at my strange ideas. If only. . ."

His head rose from his hands, and he looked at her, long and well. She swallowed hard. Words froze in her throat.

"Child," he said, at last, "You'll be having to get back to your people before they notice that you're missing."

"Yes." She disappeared through the rabbit trail, and ran back to the holt. She ran so fast that the tears dried on her face. She ran until she was safely in her knothole, buried in her furs, silently sobbing her heart out. And not knowing why.

The snows came early and harsh that turn, catching the forest by surprise. The holt filled its caches with meat from animals frozen to death in the blizzard. In the teeth of the blizzard, a litter of wolf cubs was born. Kestrel heard one calling to her. She named it Icewind, and waited for it to be weaned, anxiously visiting each day to see that the little wolf was healthy and fed.

Hunts went out, on snowshoes that Treesniffer had taught them to make, having learned from the Go-Backs to the north. Deer could be driven into snowbanks, where they floundered, and could be killed easily. They stored as much meat as they could, knowing that the early abundance would soon give way to cold and want.

The humans had their food plants, but, lacking snowshoes, the hunts were less than successful. The village counted on the fall hunts to store up meat for the winter. But winter had come too early, and the storage baskets were far from full. Kestrel went out with a spying party to see what the humans were up to, and saw baskets of food being carried into one central structure. Families were walking away with small rations to their own lodges. Fearing a famine, the humans were already rationing their food, making it last. It would be a hard winter for them, and they didn't intend to let it get any harder.

Kestrel looked in vain for a familiar tall, spare figure. Disappointed, she turned away, to follow the rest of her party back to the holt.

The snows were harsher that year than for many eights of years. No sooner had one snow finished melting, than the next began. A rain came, cold and full of sleet. There was hope that the rain would bring relief from the snow, but it only brought flood, as the water rolled off the frozen earth. The wolfriders who lived in the burrows around the holt tree moved in with those who lived in the tree itself, as the little stream that flowed past the holt swelled its banks, spilling icy water into the burrows closest to it.

The humans, too, were threatened by an overfull stream. In the pelting rain, Kestrel saw them working, piling rocks into a wall between the stream and the pallisade that surrounded the village. As the stream rose, the wall diverted most of the water. A few lodges were muddied, but the garden patches inside and out of the pallisade were spared.

She knew how he disliked dirt and cold, yet he was there, bare-chested, icy rain sluicing down his back, for when the whole village was threatened, the whole village pitched in.

The snows returned, heavier this time. Then the sun came, but not a warming sun, for the cold became even more intense. The forest was silent, still, snow frozen to the branches. A loud pop broke the silence from time to time as a branch, overladen with snow, broke and fell.

The cold only intensified at night. High in her knothole, Kestrel lay, huddled in her warm furs, wondering if the humans were warm. The silence of the forest left her alone with her thoughts, without so much as the howl of the wind to distract her. She idly thought of moving in with another family, with vague complaints of cold.

Gimmerwater was found, her headless body lying in the snow, with three stone knives and a shell necklace carefully arranged on her breast.

Strangely, the body was found on the holt side of the skull marker. The humans must be hungry to go so far into the forest, but, as Kestrel had explained the meaning of the marker to the tribe, they knew they could extract their revenge on the humans, and the humans would think it right and just. The body was fresh; the humans could not be too far away.

They hadn't realized how fast humans can travel, even in snow, when goaded by superstitious fear. By the time the Wolfriders were on their trail, the humans were safely in the village, hooting and crowing over their grisly trophy. The Wolfriders had no wish to take on the whole village. The human party had been small, only three young men, and they were busy lying through their teeth about where they had found Glimmerwater, and the honors they were due. Kestrel could see the shrewish chief's daughter fawning over one of the men. There was only one figure, though, that her eyes sought.

He was standing apart from the others, his head bowed in grief. He clutched a thin skin cloak around his shoulders. Even at the distance from which she watched, Kestrel could see that he was shivering.

The Wolfriders had their own way of marking Midwinter, and the dreamberries were brought out. Kestrel found many of the old tales bubbling up in her, which surprised her. Perhaps she had other talents beyond crafting leathers. She munched a few of the dried dreamberries, and thought of Alyssar, and the tales he was telling that night. She pictured the humans sitting, owl-eyed, listening, for he, being an image-maker, was a talented storyteller as well. They would believe him. They would trust in his new knowlege. There would be no more ruined bodies found in the snow.

She felt a great curiosity to see the village, to see him. She wanted to see the honor he would hold. She resolved to slip out, when the tribe fell asleep after the long howl, and look at the village. She would slip quickly between grey dawn and sunlight, and be back before the humans even opened their gates.

There were still stars in the blue-black emptiness of the winter sky when she silently left the holt, still fastening her leggings to the belt of her breechclout. A short, fur-lined jacket covered her sleeveless top, and an oiled cloak covered her shoulders to keep out the killing dampness. She traveled by treetop, leaving no prints in the snow under the trees. Still, her trail would be easy to follow, if no new snow fell on the branches, so she must hurry.

She smiled as she neared the skull marker, for she found that she was drawn, irresistably, toward the willow grove. It was not too far out of her way. She decided she would pass through it, and on to the village.

She did not expect to find him there

"Alyssar!" she cried, as she dropped from the trees. He turned in swift surprise, and the sweet delight on his face was tainted by a look of heavy sorrow.

"What has happened?"

"Come no closer if you do not wish to see a ghost."

"I don't understand. . ."

He was sitting on a log, wrapped in a worn fur, a bundle at his feet. He rested his head on his hand.

"A ghost. A spirit. I am dead. My people have killed me."

In alarm, she cried out, and looked for a wound, but saw none. "What do you mean, dead? You have no wound."

"I am a Mage. No one can touch a Mage with a weapon. The only way to kill us is with magic. Another Mage says you are dead, and so you dead. At least, in the eyes of the village, you are."

"But. . ." she began to understand, but could make no sense of it. "But. . .why?"

"It went badly, the ceremony."

"But your paintings. . ."

"Gone." He smacked his thigh with his fist. "Broken. Burned. Too fearful to even be looked at." His head sank into his hands. "She cast me off, as I thought she would. Baden, with his bloody trophy, rose in rank. She will bundle with him now." His head rose again, the slender fingers of one hand still covering his lips. "I thought she would throw me off only because I couldn't set her with child, or for spending all my time painting and too little with her. But that wasn't enough. She declared me mad, out of my head, and, worst of all, blasphemous."

He looked up at Kestrel.

"If they had believed my tale, Baden could not have claimed his new rank. My old mate had to protect her prize, so she came out against me, saying that I had demons in my head. The call of blasphemy was a master stroke, for the Mages could not defend me against that, according to the Law. Judgement was swift. They sang the death chant, and no longer saw me."

A small smile touched his lips. "At least the Mages were loyal to my memory. My old mate was screeching that my posessions must be burned right away, but the Shamaness yawned and said she was too weary, that there would be time enough in the morning. Since she was the only one who could carry out the cleansing, I had time to gather up my belongings, and some food, before I left. So here I am, a dead soul, wandering in the forest."

"But. . ." she knelt at his feet, and took one of his hands in hers. "But here is flesh. You breathe, you speak. You are not dead."

He smiled. "I know that," he said, "Perhaps my people know that, but what they know isn't half so important as what they believe. Still, the death chant is as effective against a Mage as a knife is against a Chief."

Her head turned to one side as she gave him a curious look.

"You really don't understand, do you, my little friend?" He put a finger under her chin. "I am a Mage. Mages don't hunt, we don't gather, we don't cook or sew or any of those everyday tasks. Those are done for us by the village, so that we can devote our whole time to our craft, be it image making, or music, or magic. Though I have food in my bundle, it won't last me the winter, and I have little idea of how to procure more. Without a village to feed them, Mages soon starve. By spring, I will truly be a ghost."

"Don't be silly!" Kestrel cried, "The holt is full of food. I will talk with my chief. I know they won't like the idea at first, but maybe I can convince them to let you come and stay with us."

"Do you think you can?" A note of hope touched his voice. "I would be honored by such an invitation."

"I will try. Come. I know of a cave up on a hill where you can be sheltered for awhile. How long will your food last?"

He hefted the bundle. "Ten days. Longer, if I am careful. It depends on how warm I can keep the cave."

"Then I will take you there, and I will be back before your food runs out."

He followed her out of the willow grove, and, before the sun had risen far from the horizon, they came to a small cave, hardly more than a gash in the hillside. Too small for bears, it was just right for one lone human. They chased a family of bats out of the cave, and a badger gave them some trouble, as well, but they soon had the cave cleared, and a small fire lit in the entrance soon had the little cave warm. Alyssar laid out the poor furs that he had into a sort of a bed. "Ah, this will be cozy, for the time being. Small enough to warm with a little fire. I will occupy myself with gathering wood to keep it going, while you go back to your people." He gave her a warm look. "I hope all goes better for you than it did for me." He took her hands in his, and looked down into her eyes. "Thank you," he said, in a low voice, which she could hardly hear for the pounding of her heart was loud in her ears. "Thank you for not letting me die alone and friendless." He released her hands, and, without another word, she dashed out of the cave, and back to the holt.

Evening was falling when she arrived, and the Wolfriders were just putting together an angry search party when she came dashing back to the holt. Before they could let lose their tirade on her head, the whole story of Alyssar and his banishment came tumbling from her lips. The faster she talked, she knew, the less they could say back, so she raced through the tale in a swift and fiery telling, and added to her narration with lock-sending, hoping to play on their emotions.

"So what was it you had in mind for us to do about this?" drawled Treesniffer, in that Go-Back accent that he knew grated on her nerves.

"Well. . .I thought maybe he could. . ."

"You thought he could come here!" Starwing roared, "A human in the holt? Are you mad, cub? Did a foam-mouthed fox bite your rump out in the forest? We've worked all our lives to keep humans our of our holt! How could you even think of bringing one in?"

Her shoulders sagged. This wasn't going to be easy. The firstborn were looking at her like she was dung, and the Wolfriders were either raging or laughing.

"A human in the holt!"

"What madness struck her?"

"Of all the kinds of pets. . ."

"Somebody check the dreamberries for rotten ones."

"She always was a foolish cub. . ."

Kestrel ground her sharp teeth, with her hands pressed against her head. "But he's a Mage!" she finally roared, "Mages don't hunt. They were never taught. If he's left to fend for himself in the forest, he will die."

"Oh, well, one less human to worry about," Treesniffer said.

She grabbed Treesniffer by the front of his winter shirt. "He's never done anything to you. In fact he's done his best to keep the humans from hunting us." She shoved Treesniffer away, though her push hardly moved the sturdy elf. "He grieved when Glimmerwater was taken, and he's done his best to convince the humans to stop killing elves, and he was banished for it. The least we can do is keep him from starving."

She was met by stony, unyielding looks.

"Well, if you won't let him come here now, at least let me take food to him once in awhile, until he learns to gather for himself."

"Absolutely not," Starwing commanded, "You will stay at the holt, if I have to tie you down."

For an eight of days, she stayed with her tribe, bringing up the issue every day, trying every argument she could think of. It did no good. A human living in the holt was more than the tribe could bear. Soon, they no longer listened to what she said, hoping that ignoring her would make her shut up.

As the eighth night came to a close, Kestrel was sitting, alone, huddled on a branch outside her knothole. Tilvah, one of the firstborn, came to her. Tilvah said little in the tribal councils, but that little usually said much.

"You know, child," she said, getting to the point with no small talk, "If you brought your human here, and another elf was killed by the humans, have you thought of what the tribe might do to your human?"

"But he's not like that. He doesn't take heads. He hates the practice."

"Would that matter, in the eyes of the tribe?"

Kestrel looked into her liquid green eyes. "Do we hate the humans so much that we can't see them as anything other than animals, that we see them as all the same? Do we hate them so much that we can't tell one from the other, and love those who love us?"

"Do you love him?"

Kestrel didn't answer.

"I see." The firstborn rose to leave. "Then you know what to do."

"Oh," the young Wolfrider said, long after the firstborn left, "Oh."

Dawn was breaking, and the sleepy-eyed cubs were being tucked into their furs when Kestrel was finished tying her belongings into a bundle. She took a large basket and filled it with stored food, slung her bundle on her back, and walked away from the holt.

"Where are you going?" Starwing demanded, leaping in front of her.

"To Alyssar." She stepped to one side. Starwing grabbed her by the arm.

"I order you to stay, cub!"

"You'll have to kill me to keep me here." She shrugged her off, and continued walking.

"Let her go," she heard a voice, behind her. That was Tilvah. "If there is something there that pulls her more than the holt, none of us can keep her from it."

"She hasn't found her soul name yet." That was Stone. "How many of us have had to go out alone in the forest to find it?"

"But we need the lifegivers here," Starwing said, helplessly, and Kestrel didn't hear the rest of what she had to say for she was already too far away.

**Be safe, cub,** came a sending. That was Stone, again. It was a softer sending than she'd heard from him before. Tilvah, Starwing, and even Treesniffer echoed it. She almost looked back, but didn't.

Alyssar was sitting outside the mouth of the cave, on a stone, chewing on a piece of smoked meat when Kestrel arrived at the cave. He leaped up when he saw her, and the joyful look on his face fell when he saw her grim expression.

"They said no, didn't they?"

She walked into the cave, and dropped her bundles. "What a hard-headed lot! They wouldn't even listen."

He had followed her into the cave, and was leaning against the wall, looking crestfallen.

"But I'm not going to let you just roll over and die." she said, firmly.

"I wasn't planning on it. I've been doing some thinking, remembering how my people set up snares for fish and small game. My first attempts have been terribly clumsy, but an aged possum did wander into one, so I have hope for myself. I may be able to learn to hunt after all."

"Don't worry about that. I will teach you to hunt. Or, I can hunt for the both of us."

"That's kind of you. But how often can you get away?"

Kestrel started untying her bundle. "There is no need for me to get away." She unrolled her furs.

"But. . .you don't mean to say that you. . ."

"Yes," she said, "I'm staying."

He came to her, took her hands in his, and lifted her to stand before him.

"But to leave your people? I can't make you do this."

Kestrel laughed. "Of course you can't! You can't make me do anything I don't want to do!"

He pressed her hands to his chest. "You mean you want to? You want to be with me?"

She looked long and deeply into his eyes. "Yes."

He seized her in his arms, pressing her tight against his chest. "By the gods," he whispered, his breath coming ragged, "You don't know how many times I've swallowed words that I feared you would laugh at. I was sure you saw me as some kind of a monster."

"You? A monster?" She wrapped her own arms around his ribs. "My beloved Alyssar. You think too little of yourself."

He lifted his head, to look at her again. "So, you've come to teach me to hunt, have you?"

She smiled. "There will be time enough for that." And she drew him down, into the warm depths of her bed furs.

The winter passed quickly, and, despite the harsh weather, all was comfort in the little cave in the hill. The two learned to live with each other's life cycles, she, becoming less a creature of the night, he, learning to love the darkness. She taught him how to make snowshoes, and together they floundered deer in the snow. One night, they heard a whining outside the cave mouth, and found Icewind laying there, still far too small to ride, but waiting patiently to join her bond-elf. The little wolf joined them on the chase, and caught small game of her own to help fill the food baskets in the cave.

Another eight of days had passed, and when Kestrel and Alyssar returned from the hunt, they found a basket of dried meat and tanned skins sitting just inside the cave. "A Wolfrider has left these!" Kestrel cried in delight, and, sniffing the basket, added "Stone, perhaps, though many have handled the basket."

The skins were most welcome, for Alyssar's leathers were in pitiful condition. She soon had him dressed in breeches and a shirt like a Wolfrider's, and cut the better parts of his old leathers into a sturdy pair of boots.

"These are beautiful," he said, when he had them on, "So soft, so warm." He held her close. "Thank you."

Winter passed into spring, and the forest greened as it warmed. The two lived as the predators of the forest, out and about in dawn and twilight, asleep at midnight and noon. As Alyssar learned the ways of the hunt, and learned to shoot with the bow and arrows Kestrel made for him, his muscles grew firm and taut, his skin browned in the sun, and his senses grew keener. He learned quickly, and the years seemed to fall from him as he grew healthy and strong from life in the forest.

He, in turn, taught his elfin lover the ways of the paints and pigments. Together, they ornamented the walls of the caves with sweet images of tales of the life bringers. She added to the images with stories of the early Wolfriders, and the legends elf and human merged into a single story on the walls of the cave, just as elf and human joined in the furs beneath the images.

"I am so happy," he murmured, one midnight, as they lay together in the furs. She snuggled contentedly in his arms, drinking in the his warm, musky scent. "I was never so happy in the village. I never dreamed I could be so happy. I thought life was to endure." He reached over to a small niche in the cave wall, where he kept his crystal pendant and woven amulet when he slept. "You know these well, don't you?" he said, and she nodded."We are given these at birth, and, when we die, we are buried with them. It is thought that when we reach the next world, the gods need these to recognize us, and put us in the proper house." He turned over, to face her, his eyes intent in the firelight. "I want you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"You say that so lightly and easily, I think you would promise to bring me both moons on a platter in a trice if you could," he chuckled, then grew serious again. "You must not forget this. I am not so superstitious as the rest of my people, yet the feeling I've had about this has been strong. You know how short our human lives are, next to yours, and I have lived a good deal of mine already. Someday you will lose me, and when that happens, I want you to promise not to bury me with these. Instead, I want you to keep them, and wear them. It is said that our souls go with them. I want a part of me to be with you, always."

She held him tightly. "I can't bear the thought of losing you."

"You will, you know. You must promise me that you will do this."

"I promise."

All was silence in the cave. Kestrel listened to her lovemate's heart beating slowly in his chest, and wished it might beat forever.

"Maybe when the end comes I will go as your people do," he mused, "To turn flesh back to flesh, instead of being buried in the cold earth. My people have a horror of being eaten, but, as I've cast off so many of their ways, perhaps I'll cast that one off, as well. What do you think, Icewind? Do you think I would taste good?"

"You taste better this way," Kestrel laughed, and kissed him deeply.

Icewind whined and yipped, shoving her cold nose into the warm tangle of flesh in the furs. "Away with you, wolf!" Kestrel shoved her wolf friend away, "Find a mate of your own."

As summer flowed away, and the leaves turned again, Kestrel found that her people still thought of her. More gifts were left in the cave: furs, skins, blades and arrow points of troll metal. The gifts were never large, nor did the come often, but just enough that Kestrel knew she still had a place among the Wolfriders. But the Wolfriders themselves did not come to talk, to howl, or to bring the two of them back to the holt, as she often wished.

She found that she did not miss her tribe, for she fully enjoyed the company of her lovemate, and the two were never at a loss for things to talk about or do. They worked, they played, they hunted, and they loved, as freely as they wished, with no one else around to tell them what to do.

But time passes quickly for a Wolfrider, especially for a contented one. Living in the Now meant giving little thought for the time that passes like water over the Grey Falls. Kestrel did not notice when Icewind's muzzle first grew white, until the aging wolf sickened, grew weak, and died. Wrapped in the hide, she howled out her grief for her lost friend, then turned to Alyssar for comfort.

"How could she die so young?" she cried.

"My sweet love, it's been twelve years."

"Oh." And she noticed for the first time that he, too, was showing signs of grey in his hair, and the lines in his face were becoming creases. "Don't you leave me, too!"

"Not just yet," he said, and kissed her, "I'm still strong, and good for many more years with you."

But she watched over him more closely after that, watching for any more signs of aging. He was right about being strong, still. He was as vigorous on the hunt as ever, yet he seemed to take longer to rest up afterwards. Beyond that there seemed to be little to worry about. Still, she made plans to use snares more, so there would always be a way for him to hunt.

He grew clever with snares, setting up complex, invisible ones that caught small game quickly and surely. He set up a weir in the stream nearby, and was able to corral fish, keeping them until needed. He still went with Kestrel on the hunt, for it kept him strong and young, he said.

He was with her when she found her soul name. She nearly blurted it out, but kept it inside, only telling him she had found it at last. He knew how private the name was, and knew better than to ask more.

He was with her when she first discovered that the tree-shaping skills of her ancestors were awakening in her. They joined in the forest one spring, under a flowering vine, and when they were resting in the afterglow, she reached up to the vine and made the flowers mature into sweet fruits before his eyes. They laughed together, and feasted on the fruits. "You never stop amazing me," he said.

"I wouldn't want you to get bored."

"Bored? With you? Easier to be bored in a skyfire storm!"

The seasons passed, as seasons do, slipping by without a thought for the ravages they leave behind. Kestrel watched the grey patches in her lovemate's hair spread into a fine rime covering his head, until the color faded, leaving all the silvery shade of water in the moonlight. She had a new wolf friend now, a huge sturdy brute she called Bear. She taught Alyssar to ride, for though he still hunted, he grew tired more quickly these days, and she could let him ride part of the way home. She noticed he liked to paint more, and hunt less than he had, and his paintings took on a new subtlety, as he pursued the idea of painting, not in symbols, but the way his eye saw.

"I wish sometimes that I could teach this to my people," he mused, one night, as he painted by firelight, "Not that I'd ever go back to the village. I think, though, that it would be nice if they sent a youngster up here to learn from me, as I once taught the novices in the village." He laughed at himself. "I keep forgetting I'm dead."

She came up behind him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "You're not dead, beloved. In fact, with me, you're quite lively."

"Imp!" he cried, and reached around, hugging her, rolling on the floor, laughing together

"I feel guilty, these days," he said, when they had both caught their breath, "You seem to be doing most of the hunting, in fact, most of the work, while I'm spending all my time with my paint pots."

"Do what makes you happy," she replied, "For that is just what I am doing."

The seasons turned three more times. Alyssar found that his knees were growing stiff, and the cold bothered him more.

"I'm still happy, though," he murmured in her hair, as they lay, staring into the fire.

He drifted off to sleep, and she stared at the fire longer, reflecting on her own contentment. Suddenly, she felt him jerk. She flipped over to look at him. His eyes were wide open, staring. His breathing was labored. "What's wrong?" she cried.

He didn't reply. He couldn't. He seemed to want to rise, so she helped him up, and he staggered to the cave mouth, where he stood, panting, shaking his head as though to clear it.

His head. She felt her own heart pounding in fear. He had told her of people in his village who were suddenly struck by the gods, whose brains suddenly bled. Sometimes they recovered, sometimes they didn't. His body seemed to be sagging. Gently, she guided him back to their furs, and covered him. His breathing had slowed, but, thank the High Ones, he was still breathing. The holt was half a day's run away, too far to send. She didn't want to leave him alone that long. There was no hunting party within sending range, and Bear was out on adventures of his own. If only her magic had been that of a healer, not a plant shaper! Alyssar had slipped into unconsciousness, though he still breathed. Kestrel stroked his forehead, brushing his hair out of his eyes. She wished she could send to him. There was no response on the outside. She would stay by his side until she could summon a healer, or there was no reason to.

The sun rose and set twice before Alyssar moved again. Kestrel heard him make a sound, waking her out of a light sleep by his side. She held his head in her hands, and spoke his name, urging him to wake. At long last, he opened his eyes, and she saw that he recognized her. A good sign. The damage might not be too severe.

"Alyssar, beloved, can you speak?"

With much labor, he spoke her name.

With a little more effort, she got him to drink. "Rest, beloved," she said, and, seeing the sorrowful look in his eyes, added, "I will stay with you. Where else would I want to be?"

He fell asleep in moments, a natural sleep. She knew the healing would take long for him, but she would be with him all the way through. As long as he could paint again, all would be well.

She settled down beside him, and was nearly asleep, when a great shudder siezed him. She scrambled to her knees, leaning over him. His jaw went slack, and his breathing slowed. "No!" she cried, "No, please, wake up!"

Frantically, she sent, to any elf who may be within range. She found an hunting party. Thank the High Ones!

**Help! I need a healer!**

**Are you hurt?** came the reply. It was Sharpwit, Starwing's son.

**It's Alyssar. He's dying!**

After a long pause, the reply came.

**Humans do that.**

Aghast, she cursed them in a fierce sending, then fell to sobbing, for she knew that in moments her beloved would be beyond a healer's help. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his ear, and whispered "Fahl. I am Fahl." She lay her head on his chest, and listened as his heart slowed to a flutter, then stopped altogether.

She lay there, until the sun rose, and the body cooled. She could not let his dear body grow stiff in the cave. Bear was back, looking interested in the still form in the furs. Gently, Kestrel stripped away the leathers her lovemate wore. She tied them in a tight bundle that would not lose its scent too soon. She took Alyssar's amulet from the niche in the cave wall where he had left it, and put it around her own neck. Then she called for Bear, and draped Alyssar's body over the wolf's back.

"He wanted to go back to the forest, as Wolfriders do. Take him, my friend, but take his dear empty husk far away, and leave nothing for us to stumble across later. Then come back."

The wolf knew what to do with his burden, and set off, happily to do his bond-elf's bidding. When he was gone, Kestrel packed every belonging they had shared into a bundle and two small baskets. There wan't much, for they had lived with only what they needed.

The sun rose and set again on the empty cave before Bear returned, and found Kestrel sitting still as stone in the same spot and the same position she had been in when he had left. Kestrel fixed her bundle on his back, and mounted. Away they rode, toward the holt.

The leaves were turning and falling again, though it was still warm. Winter would come late, Kestrel thought, but there was no smile on her face, and the thought of autumn hunts only brought fresh waves of sorrow. She was passing through familiar territory. The willow grove was not too far away. She had no urge to visit there, for she feared that some other human may be using it, and that would spoil the memory. The skull marker was ahead.

**Aaugh! Help! Humans!**

The sending was unfamiliar, a young Wolfrider who must have been whelped in her long absence. She urged Bear forward, and howled a long "Ayooooah!" as she charged into a clearing, knife drawn, teeth bared.

There were humans, all right, a small band of young hunters, and an old Mage who was directing them. A wolf was trussed up nearby, and a hunter was attempting to comfort it, while it writhed and snarled. Four more had the young Wolfrider pinned to the earth, and the Mage was uttering mystical words over the prisoner. Two of them jumped up and grabbed their weapons as Kestrel came charging and howling into the clearing.

"Let her go!" she commanded, "Touch her, and I'll be feasting on your livers!"

"Brash spirit," the Mage challenged, "We ask a gift, and leave one. You would stop us, I see, but can you defeat us all?"

Kestrel had halted her charge, but made Bear walk close to the Mage, nearly close enough to sniff. "No, Mage," she snarled, "Just you."

The Mage's eyes went wide, and Kestrel remembered she still wore her lovemate's crystal and amulet around her neck. She sat up straighter, as the meaning of the symbol took hold in the human's brain. "Wait," he said to the hunters, in a voice barely above a murmur, and he leaned forward to study the amulet. "I know that pattern," he gasped, "The man who wore that taught me, when I was a novice, when it was thought I could make images." His body was siezed with trembling. "Alyssar?" he whispered, against all taboos, in a quavering voice.

In death he did what in life he could not.

The Mage fell to his knees "Forgive," he pleaded, his hands folded together, "We did not listen to you, and killed you. Forgive, I beg you."

"Let the young one go," Kestrel commanded, "Leave this place. Leave us in peace."

The humans scrambled to do as they were told. In a flash they were gone, and could be heard crashing through the forest, far away.

The young Wolfrider had remounted, and rode alongside, back to the holt.

"Are you Kestrel?" she asked, "The one who went away?"

Kestrel nodded.

"Oh. I am Birch. I was born after you left. Where is your human?"

"Dead." Kestrel swallowed. It was the first time she had said it, even to herself.

"Oh." And nothing more was said.

When they reached the holt, Birch rode on ahead, and was babbling the story to the amazed tribe. Apparently, the silence on the ride was unusual for this Wolfrider, hardly more than a cub. Kestrel said nothing, but rode to the holt staring straight ahead, dismounted, and climbed to her knothole.

It was just as she had left it, those many turns ago. The tribe had left it empty, hoping she would return. She laid her bundles down, then set to work reshaping the knothole, until it was nearly the size and shape of the cave in the hill. She unpacked, laid out her furs, and unfolded the bundle of Alyssar's leathers. His scent wafted up to her, and she fell, sobbing, into her furs, her face buried in the scented skins.

The tribe left her alone all that day, and the night, and the next day, too, until it looked as though she might never come out of her den. She had refused all food, and all company, and they feared she had lost her senses to the point she may starve herself. At last they sent Stone up to her, to apply a healer's touch. She would not speak to him, but his healer's gift eased the pain in her heart, so she allowed him to continue. At last, she slept.

And when she awoke, she was hungry again, and knew that in time the pain would ease, and she would be left with only a gentle ache. She went down to the forest floor, where a hunting party had brought back a deer, and the tribe was gathered around, feasting on the warm meat. She joined them, eating slowly, thoughtfully, lest she sicken. No one spoke to her, as they were waiting for her to speak, but by their looks and their postures, she knew she was welcome.

It was Birch, never one to stand on ceremony, who finally spoke to her.

"Why did the humans run away? Why were they scared of you?"

Kestrel wiped the blood from her hands. She put her hands under the amulet and crystal, and cradled them there. "This is why," she said, "These are his. Alyssar's. Every human is given an amulet like this when they are born. Each one is different. They believe their souls rest there, and that they must be buried with these to go to their gods."

"So why do you have it?"

Kestrel smiled, in remembrance of the night, long ago, laying in his arms, when he had extracted the promise from her. "Humans believe that a soul can come back to earth if it really wants to. There are some animals that they won't kill, because those are supposed to be favorites of those souls that come back to earth." Did her lovemate believe this? He had never said for certain, but perhaps he hoped it was true. "When the humans saw this on me, they thought his spirit had come back in my body. Maybe now they will stop killing us for our heads, if they believe that their dead can come back in our form."

Birch shook her shaggy head. "Humans are silly," she concluded, "Everyone knows souls go to be with the High Ones."

When night began to fade, and the elves were going back to their furs, Kestrel was suddenly stopped, halfway up to her den, by the sending of her soul name.

**Fahl!**

She turned slowly. At the base of the tree stood Stone, looking just as astonished as she did.

**Tark!** she sent back, **Oh, no, not so soon.**

She slowly climbed back down the tree, and stood before him. "I don't know that I am ready for this," she said.

"Is anyone ever?"

She looked into his icy-grey eyes, and the truth of Recognition was confirmed. Though she still grieved for her lost love, she accepted what she saw in the depths of those eyes.

"Come with me," she said, and mentally called for Bear.

"Where are we going?" Stone asked, anxiously, for the fires of Recognition were already aflame in him.

"Just follow," she said.

They rode all that morning, and, after a time, Stone gave up asking where they were going. Kestrel did not speak, except to repeat "just follow" to each inquiry. "I think living alone so long addled your brains," he muttered.

The fire in the cave mouth had died, too, and the ashes were as cold as death. Kestrel led the way into the cave, where the walls were still aflame with warm color and fantastic images, and would be, for seasons upon seasons to come. "What is this place?" Stone asked, in a hushed voice.

She took his hands in hers. "Let me lock send with you," she said, "And I will tell you."

She started at the very beginning, when she had first seen Alyssar painting in the willow grove, and saw that he, unlike all humans she had seen, carried no weapon. How curiosity had brought her back, and back again, and carelesness had allowed him to see her. There were the long conversations, the growing feeling, and the events that led to her leaving the tribe to. . .

**Here?** Stone asked, wary, **He made these markings?**

The sending continued, until Stone drew away in shock and disgust.

"You loved him?"

"Of course. What did you think?"

"We thought he was a. . .a pet of some kind."

"A pet?" She was almost angry with him, but she sought to understand his meaning.

"You loved a human? And you. . .you. . .joined with him? Why didn't you just join with a bear, or a longtooth, while you were at it?"

**Anlari joined with a wolf.**

"Yes, but she was in wolf form at the time."

**Come back,** Kestrel commanded, **Pay attention.**

The sent tale continued to spin. Kestrel left nothing out, pulling every memory of her years in the cave from her mind and passing it to Stone. Acceptance was slow in coming, but, as she finished the tale with the death of her lovemate and her journey back to the holt, he finally bowed his head, and said "I'm sorry. I didn't know. None of us knew"

He laid his head on her breast, and they both let the walls fall, and the fires of Recognition take over, under the symbols of tribal tales that adorned the walls, in the cave where Alyssar's spirit was freed. How different, she thought in the midst of it, is the Wolfrider's bloodsong. I wonder which I prefer.

When all was done, she lay beside her Recognized, and they talked, unlike most Wolfriders, of the future.

"I don't know how you feel about me, but the cub will need upbringing."

Kestrel sighed. "I still grieve, but with a healer's help, the pain will ease."

"And. . .a den?"

"I like my own."

"That is well. I'm tired of my burrow, anyway. I suppose I can get used to the human odor that lingers there."

"You'll have to, if you expect to be there at all."

Before long, the tribe remarked that the making of a cub in her had done her a great deal of good, and that she seemed to have forgotten her pain. She sang and smiled, as her belly grew, and when she grew too round and ripe to hunt, she occupied herself with tree shaping. She altered her den to allow room for the cub, and helped others add room to their own holes. She got out the paint pots, despite the odd looks her tribe gave her, and painted symbols of her own on the walls of her den. Stone was patient and kind, bringing her food, and whatever he thought would add to her comfort. She knew that she would love him, too, in time.

When the cub was born, the whole tribe rejoiced with song and dreamberries. They named her Hilltop, for the place where the cave lay in which she was begun. The birth was clean and swift, yet Kestrel said she was tired, and asked to be left alone with her cub for a little while. The tribe obliged.

She sat up in her furs, her back against the wall of her den. Her new cub lay wrapped in a soft deerskin, on her thighs, where she could look into the violet-blue eyes that all newborns had. The cub gazed back, her focus unsteady. Kestrel lifted the amulet and placed it in the tiny fist.

"It's your's, you know. You were right, all along."

She gathered the infant in her arms, holding her close as she rocked back and forth, and the cub's soul name echoed in her head as it had all through her long pregnancy.

**Alyssar. . .Alyssar. . .Alyssar. . .**