Free Frost Wolf by Kathryn Lasky Page A

to the Sark, a hallowed power of the brain fed by tributaries of scent. And now she felt as if she were caught in a mad river of crosscurrents and eddies, rapids, whirlpools, and surges.
    She pulled down another jug, then another. Gwynneth could hear the deep inhalations growing more shallow. The owl could even hear the acceleration of the Sark’s heartbeat.
    Through the scented landscapes flashed a light —
The glint, the glint! The metallic shimmer. But the smell … that lovely smell. How often Gwyndor perched near my kiln with the fragance of rabbit-ear moss still in his head feathers. The light of the flames from my kiln on that helm — but it was all so different from when the wolf that jiggered about. That fool dancing wolf.
    “Ma’am! Ma’am!” Gwynneth was hovering just over the Sark’s face, fanning her with her broad wings. “Are you all right!”
    “Rabbit-ear moss!” The Sark’s eyes flew open.
    “Are you all right? You fainted or something.”
    “It’s the ‘or something,’ my dear!” The Sark staggered to her feet and seemed none the worse for wear. She gaped at the array of jugs.
    “You kept shouting about rabbit-ear moss.”
    “Yes, of course. That was the trigger, don’t you see?”
    Gwynneth shook her head in bewilderment.
    “You brought the voles in that rabbit-ear moss. It was scorched, so I didn’t quite recognize it, but then — why, yes, the flanges!”
    “Flanges? What in the world are you talking about?”
    “The glint came off the visor, and I recollected it in my memory jug. The flanges! I was such a fool. How could I have missed it?”
    “Missed what, ma’am?”
    “You know the special trim that your father, Gwyndor, made where the visor slid down from the helmet — it was a rather signature design of his. But it was so long since I’ve seen it, and I hate to make excuses, but I was absolutely nauseous from some tern eggs…. I didn’t recognize the helmet as Gwyndor’s!”
    “Yes, he did make lovely flanges — they were like a flat rim and allowed the visor to slide up and down on the helmet with a flick of the head. But I still don’t understand.”
    “Don’t owls often pack their helmets with rabbit-ear moss for cushioning?”
    “Yes, it’s quite a common practice.”
    “But not with this wolf — he didn’t know, nor did he need the cushioning. Fur’s as good as moss, most likely.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “I saw your father’s helm, Gwynneth! But not on an owl — on a wolf!”
    “What?” Now it was Gwynneth who staggered and felt faint.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

D ANCE I NTERRUPTED
    THE SNOWBANKS AND DRIVING winds slowed the journey toward the cairns. Though they had appeared so close, it took a day and most of a night to reach them. The five wolves had drawn up just beneath the looming blue shadow of the icy battlements of the Blood Watch, near the source of the whispers they were tracking. Very few of the cairns were topped.
    “Great Lupus!” Edme murmured, squinting toward the ridge. “How do they keep watch? There are at least thirty cairns, and only four or five wolves up there.”
    “Maybe at this distance and in this light, we can’t see them all. When we get closer, there might be more wolves,” the Whistler offered.
    “Let’s hope,” Faolan said, although there was not a trace of hope in his voice.
    “I wonder if the Prophet will be there?” Dearlea asked.
    “I don’t know. We’ve seen so many circles between the Shadow Forest and here that it’s hard to imagine he could be in so many places at once,” Faolan said. “And I would hope if he were, the Blood Watch would stop him — her — whatever. Stop the dancing.”
    “I think it spreads,” Edme said. “It’s like a disease, this dance. Maybe this prophet started it, but he can’t be there for everybody.” She paused. “Not like Skaarsgard.” She looked up at the sky. It was too cloudy to see any constellations. “I bet you anything this so-called