then he hadn’t felt very hungry for it. Nor did he this morning. Runkling seemed to savor the fish a good deal more than Rook did.
Rook heard a soft footstep outside the cave, and knew who it was even before she peered in: Rowan, with her brown braid hanging down as she bent to check on him. “Toads!” she grumbled. “Why are you feeding that pig?”
Rook shrugged. He knew Runkling found plenty to eat in the forest, especially squirmy things he grubbed up from underground. But he offered Runkling the last of the fish anyway, and the shoat slobbered all over his hand as he gulped it.
“I’m not hungry,” Rook said.
“I know, but you have to eat, Rook! You’re as thin and pale as morning mist. Go down to the hollow; we have bread and cheese. Or should I tell Beau to bring you some?”
He shook his head. These days there was a clotted feeling in his belly all the time, and nothing tasted good.
Rowan crouched at the entrance of his cave, giving him her steadiest grave-eyed gaze.
“I’m all right,” he told her.
She shook her head. “You can’t go on being a wolf, Rook. Too much has happened.”
Her calm gaze as much as her words frightened him. There was something in her eyes of a peace he couldn’t bear.
“You’re going to have to come out of your lair,” she said.
How could she live with such quiet in her heart? Rook growled, and his lips pulled back from his clenched teeth.
Then he felt Runkling press against his side, stiff and quivering, as a louder growl sounded in answer. At the mouth of the cave crouched Tykell, his yellow eyes on the piglet. The wolf-dog took a creeping, stalking pace toward Runkling.
“Ty!” Rowan snapped more sharply than Rook had ever heard her speak to anyone who was not her enemy. She nearly shouted. “Tykell, I told you, let Runkling alone!”
Tykell shrank back, suddenly looking like a puppy caught piddling on the floor. He gave Rowan a hurt look, and then with a flip of his plumy tail he loped away, disappearing into the forest.
Rowan gazed after him, puffing her lips in exasperation. “Toads take it,” she muttered, “now he’s got his parlous large nose out of joint, I won’t see him for three days.
Stinking
toads.”
Runkling ran to her with soft grunts, and she patted him absently, shifting her attention back to Rook. “And you’re just as bad,” she complained. “You won’t eat, you’re going to get sick again, and between you and Tod I’m out of feverfew, yarrow, knitbone, agrimony, everything.” With a decided gesture she stood up. “I’d better go to the meadows and see what I can find.” Walking away, she called back, “Rook, for the love of the Lady, eat something? Please?”
He didn’t. He lay in his cave, while Runkling snored beside him, and watched the angle of the sunlight move. He didn’t care whether he caught more fish to eat. He couldn’t think of anything he cared about, anything he wanted to do. The sun had passed overhead and slanted toward afternoon before an odd rhythmic sound roused him.
It was a kind of hitch-thump followed by a scraping sort of footfall, coming up the rocky slope toward his cave.
Rook sat up, his hands brushing his face from habit, although there was no shaggy mane of hair in his eyes now. He scowled as if something had hurt him, then crawled to the cave’s entrance to look.
It was Tod, on his crutch, heading up the tor all alone.
Laboring over the crags, Tod kept his eyes on the uneven ground. But when Rook slipped out of his cave and stood, Tod looked up at him.
“Hullo,” he said. “They told me I’d find you up here.”
Runkling trotted out of the cave and ran to Tod, his short tail wagging with excitement as he snorted a greeting. Rook just stared.
“Beau and Lionel told me,” Tod chattered on. “Rowan’s not there. She went to find herbs. I wanted to see her too.” He stood before Rook,leaning on his crutch and panting, but his voice quieted as he mentioned Rowan, and a
Rook heard a soft footstep outside the cave, and knew who it was even before she peered in: Rowan, with her brown braid hanging down as she bent to check on him. “Toads!” she grumbled. “Why are you feeding that pig?”
Rook shrugged. He knew Runkling found plenty to eat in the forest, especially squirmy things he grubbed up from underground. But he offered Runkling the last of the fish anyway, and the shoat slobbered all over his hand as he gulped it.
“I’m not hungry,” Rook said.
“I know, but you have to eat, Rook! You’re as thin and pale as morning mist. Go down to the hollow; we have bread and cheese. Or should I tell Beau to bring you some?”
He shook his head. These days there was a clotted feeling in his belly all the time, and nothing tasted good.
Rowan crouched at the entrance of his cave, giving him her steadiest grave-eyed gaze.
“I’m all right,” he told her.
She shook her head. “You can’t go on being a wolf, Rook. Too much has happened.”
Her calm gaze as much as her words frightened him. There was something in her eyes of a peace he couldn’t bear.
“You’re going to have to come out of your lair,” she said.
How could she live with such quiet in her heart? Rook growled, and his lips pulled back from his clenched teeth.
Then he felt Runkling press against his side, stiff and quivering, as a louder growl sounded in answer. At the mouth of the cave crouched Tykell, his yellow eyes on the piglet. The wolf-dog took a creeping, stalking pace toward Runkling.
“Ty!” Rowan snapped more sharply than Rook had ever heard her speak to anyone who was not her enemy. She nearly shouted. “Tykell, I told you, let Runkling alone!”
Tykell shrank back, suddenly looking like a puppy caught piddling on the floor. He gave Rowan a hurt look, and then with a flip of his plumy tail he loped away, disappearing into the forest.
Rowan gazed after him, puffing her lips in exasperation. “Toads take it,” she muttered, “now he’s got his parlous large nose out of joint, I won’t see him for three days.
Stinking
toads.”
Runkling ran to her with soft grunts, and she patted him absently, shifting her attention back to Rook. “And you’re just as bad,” she complained. “You won’t eat, you’re going to get sick again, and between you and Tod I’m out of feverfew, yarrow, knitbone, agrimony, everything.” With a decided gesture she stood up. “I’d better go to the meadows and see what I can find.” Walking away, she called back, “Rook, for the love of the Lady, eat something? Please?”
He didn’t. He lay in his cave, while Runkling snored beside him, and watched the angle of the sunlight move. He didn’t care whether he caught more fish to eat. He couldn’t think of anything he cared about, anything he wanted to do. The sun had passed overhead and slanted toward afternoon before an odd rhythmic sound roused him.
It was a kind of hitch-thump followed by a scraping sort of footfall, coming up the rocky slope toward his cave.
Rook sat up, his hands brushing his face from habit, although there was no shaggy mane of hair in his eyes now. He scowled as if something had hurt him, then crawled to the cave’s entrance to look.
It was Tod, on his crutch, heading up the tor all alone.
Laboring over the crags, Tod kept his eyes on the uneven ground. But when Rook slipped out of his cave and stood, Tod looked up at him.
“Hullo,” he said. “They told me I’d find you up here.”
Runkling trotted out of the cave and ran to Tod, his short tail wagging with excitement as he snorted a greeting. Rook just stared.
“Beau and Lionel told me,” Tod chattered on. “Rowan’s not there. She went to find herbs. I wanted to see her too.” He stood before Rook,leaning on his crutch and panting, but his voice quieted as he mentioned Rowan, and a
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