The Wolf People unveiled their canoes when the solid plane of white surrounding the island thinned then fragmented under the weight of the new sun. Within days all that remained were a few stubborn ice-blocks drifting in the fast-flowing current separating the isles. Like the boats fashioned by the Bear People at the Mirror Sound, the canoes of the Wolf People were all constructed from hollowed-out tree-trunks, varying widely in size. Most were capable of carrying no more than four people at once, others were of sufficient size to accommodate up to ten, but there were three of such dimensions it seemed incredible they could float at all.
“Hewn from the great red trees that grow to the south,” Astorek explained as one of the huge craft was manhandled towards a slipway in preparation for launching. “Trees that grow tall as mountains over the life-span of twenty men. Only once in a generation do the Wolf People permit themselves to take a red tree. It’s a cause for great celebration when a new big boat is made.”
The purpose of the huge craft soon became clear as Astorek led his wolves on board along with the other packs. There was a definite tension in each of the shaman as they stood amidst their wolves, faces set in concentration. The wolves all sat in placid obedience, though every once in a while one would turn towards a different pack, a low growl building in its throat before snapping back to instant placidity at an insistent gesture from its shaman. Without the shaman’s command they become wolves again, Vaelin realised, once again wondering at the fortitude of the Gifted found among these people. They use their gifts for hours yet never tire.
“It’s not strength,” Kiral said, appearing at his side with her cat in tow. In accordance with Lonak custom she hadn’t named the beast, though the other Gifted had predictably dubbed it One Ear. It was the least well behaved of the cats, prone to voicing a nightly chorus of forlorn wails and a hissing disinclination towards any human company save Kiral’s. It greeted Vaelin now with a brief snarl and kept close to Kiral’s side with a low-backed wariness.
“It’s skill,” the huntress went on, nodding at Astorek. “Born of centuries-old necessity. Our gifts are useful, but we can still survive without them. These people need their power or the ice will kill them. So they learned to control it, share it, use only as much as they need.” She smiled faintly, eyes still lingering on the Volarian. “We must seem like clumsy children to them.”
Vaelin and the Gifted were given places on one of the huge boats, whilst Orven’s guardsmen and the Sentar were obliged to crowd into the smaller craft, some newly constructed to accommodate the increased number taking part in this yearly migration. Scar trembled a little as he was led onto the canoe, pacified only slightly by a handful of berries. The warhorse had grown partly accustomed to the presence of the wolves but the proximity of so many in a confined space was clearly trying his patience.
“Calm now, old fellow,” Vaelin said, trying to soothe him with a scratch to the nose. Today, however, Scar was in little mood for reassurance, eyes wide and fixed on the silent mass of wolves as he tossed his head, teeth bared in alarm.
“Let me try,” Dahrena said, moving closer to press a hand to the warhorse’s neck. She closed her eyes, a small line appearing in her forehead as she concentrated. Scar calmed almost immediately, his head lowering, eyes blinking in placid contentment.
“I showed him the stables back home,” Dahrena said. “He thinks he’s there now.”
“Your skills grow, my lady,” Vaelin said, inclining his head.
“A little.” She turned to the nearest shaman, a lean-faced veteran standing with five wolves arranged in an unmoving circle. “Though I doubt any of us will ever match them. Some skills require a lifetime’s teaching.”
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