Between them, the thread of gray thought became sharp. Dion let her mind flow along that thread until her consciousness sank into the mind of the wolf. Odors filled her mind and nose; colors shifted in her eyes. The sickly sweet scent of blood and bile almost overwhelmed her. Automatically, she blocked both off.

Hishn growled in her head. Then her mind was caught in a sudden wrench. Her vision rushed inside, to the left, spun dizzyingly, and dropped. And then the wounded woman's body opened up before her.

Mjau's pulse became hers, the ragged breaths her own. She steadied herself against the shock of the archer's pain. She could feel every aspect of the woman's body, every inch of flesh and bone. The wolf blanketed her senses with Aranur's strength until their presence was a thick, gray, pain-killing fog -a shield against the agony that wracked the archer's torso. She could feel Monteverdi's presence too, but it was as an observer, not as part of that fog. And in Mjau, she felt the blood. Bile. Muscle contractions. Raw edges of tissue that had pulled apart.

Lower. Farther. Deeper. In. She sank her consciousness lightly into the slashed belly. Sound faded from her ears-now she felt, deep in her own bones, the throbbing heartbeat of another life. Bone, tissue, fluid, blood... all became one with her consciousness. She followed the flow of life through the wound as blood spurted from severed blood vessels and fluids spilled into the torso. Blood, bile, white cells, pollens... On OldEarth, the pollens stayed in the lungs; but here they could force their way into blood vessels before they were broken down. In a healthy person, the body could compensate; but the tiny holes they tore in Mjau's body would make this healing worse. Dion followed the blood, calling more white cells to her, breaking down pollens, and forcing the spills and leaks of bile into tiny, stable pockets. She touched vessels, drew edges together so that the blood flowed smoothly again. She bound the breaks tightly against the pressure that threatened to break through their new, unstrengthened walls. Then, as the vessels set, she began to reach farther to the severed threads of tissue. She touched, then bunched the intestinal tubes so that they nestled together again. The tiny threads of supporting tissue were woven back into place. Not strong enough yet to hold the woman's jumbled guts, the tiny threads lay flaccid against the movements from Mjau's quick and shallow breathing. But Dion pulled at the tissues, melting and melding them together until thin membranes formed to hold the shape of the organs. Piece by piece and strand by strand of tissue she wove and placed and secured the archer's body. Mjau's lungs breathed with hers; Dion's pulse pushed blood for both of them. And slowly, gradually, the archer's heartbeat strengthened enough to stand by itself again.

Dion's focus began to slow. Around her the gray fog thinned. There was energy lost to the archer's body that had come dangerously out of hers. She weakened, and the wolf urged her out. Aranur's voice pushed behind the wolf, tugging at her brain. The strain pulled at her concentration like taffy. The pain-killing barrier thinned. She could feel the ache in her mind that signaled the start of deep weariness. Long before she lost herself to exhaustion, long before the fog could form hands to yank her from the body, she let herself be drawn away, drawn back. Her consciousness began to withdraw, feeling Mjau's body again as a layer of threads, not as something within herself. Her pulse split into two: hers and Mjau's; her breathing was once again her own. She opened her eyes. For a moment she was disoriented. The fog swirled at the edges of her vision, and the chill she felt was like the end of strength. Then her sight cleared, and she realized that the fog was in the Gray One's mind, and the chill was merely the cold touch of moisture that had settled on her skin.

Monteverdi caught her glance. "Is it enough?" She nodded.

Aranur absently chafed Dion's hands, checking on their temperature. The wolfwalker's tunic was damp with dew, mud, and blood, and her hands were colder than they had been before. "All right?" he asked softly.

She nodded again. Aranur got to his feet, giving Tule a significant look.

"I'll get her a cloak. Watch her for a few minutes." The one-armed man nodded. As Aranur left, Tule eyed Dion thoughtfully. To his gaze, the wolfwalker looked no different than before. But he had felt the energy she had drained from his own body. When, for a few minutes, his hand had taken the place of Aranur's, that pull had been sharp as a hook. And the howling that had echoed on the inside of his skull had been like an eerie song. He had heard the wolf packs singing late at night to the distant moons. But this had been different-it was as if he had been drawn into something that lay behind the howling. Wolf voices had spent their words in his head; wolf tones had caught at his mind. Wolf limbs had stretched along trails he didn't even know. For the first time since he had lost his right arm, he'd felt the weight of one hang from his shoulder. "Moons," he said under his breath.

Dion glanced up. He shook his head silently. He had seen no change in the archer's body, but Mjau now breathed with more ease. The woman's heartbeat was stronger too-he could see the pulse in her pale neck-and when Mjau's eyes finally opened, they were pain-filled, but calm instead of wild with fear. The raw, crimped gash in the archer's belly being bandaged by the intern spoke of a dangerous wound. But the woman lay quietly on the ground, and it was the wolfwalker who shivered. His voice was uneven, and he steadied it carefully. "Your jacket's back at the road; Aranur's bringing a cloak."

Dion nodded. "Any others this bad?" Her voice sounded flat to her ears, and

she forced herself to put more energy in it, bringing it back to the steady, brisk tone she had used before.

"Not that I saw. One broken arm, one gashed leg that's already been

bandaged. Scrapes and cuts. One dead."

She didn't ask who. She had seen the dead man with Monteverdi.

Tule watched her eyes, but the glaze he saw there was not exhaustion, he

realized, but distance, as though the wolfwalker was pulling back and away.

Her face seemed suddenly remote, and he felt as if he studied a mask.

"Dione," he said sharply.

She looked at him, but her eyes were not focused.

He grabbed her arm. "Wolfwalker-"

She looked down, but he didn't remove his grip, and he saw the anger build

in her eyes. The wolf, who had moved away, was suddenly back beside her, its yellow eyes gleaming into his.

"Don't," he said softly.

Dion just looked at him. Abruptly, her eyes focused.

The one-armed man released her. "Don't stop feeling," he said softly.

"Don't remove yourself like that."

"You don't know what I feel, Tule."

"I can see it in your eyes."

"See what?" she asked sharply.

"That you've been too long on the trail, Wolfwalker Dione. Too long behind the steel."

"Aranur needs me with him."

"Then he can need someone else."

"He is my mate, Tule.""That doesn't change what's happening to you." He nodded at her. "I've seen that expression on others. You need to back off from all of this. You've carried enough life and death for your years. It's time to put it aside."

Dion stared at him, then almost laughed. "Put it aside? With the elders calling me to scout every other month? With the council adding healing jobs every other ninan? I stay out of more venges than I ride on, Tule, and I try to stay back from the action."

"But you don't really stay back, do you, Dione? If you were truly only a scout, you would mark the position then fall back to the road. But you stay to make sure Aranur-or someone else- doesn't need you. You carry steel to kill, not just heal. And each time you do kill, even if it is in defense or protection, it's still a piece of your soul. You only have so much in you, Dione. Don't throw away what's left."

She had listened to him, her face still. When she spoke, her voice was low.

"Saying no to the elders when there is a need for my skills, when people could die without them... Could you live with yourself if you did that?"

He met her question frankly, and she was surprised to see the depth of pain that writhed within his gaze. His voice was equally soft. "What good are your skills if you kill yourself carrying such burdens? No one can ride

forever, Dione. Not even the Gray Wolf of Randonnen. Step aside, Wolfwalker. Let someone else bear the weight. There has always been and will always be a need for people like you. Your turn will come again."

She looked at Hishn and let the gray voice wash over her mind. "You think it's the elders, the burdens, the fighting? It is and it isn't, Tule. The wolves pull me and make me as much as I make myself." Yellow eyes gleamed, and Dion felt Hishn's protectiveness surround and engulf her. "I don't know if they would let me go. Or if I can let go of them." She looked up at him then, and the shadows in their eyes seemed to meet and merge. "What do I do then, Tule-if neither Hishn nor I can let go?"

He touched her scarred hand with his single one. "Find something beyond yourself, something stronger than the wolves to pull you. And leave this if you can. You weren't made for this- weren't raised for this the way your mate was raised to lead and protect his people. There is joy in you, not just duty. But you'll kill that joy if you stay in the violence for the sake of duty alone."

She began to shake her head, but Tule cut her off. "Spend time with your mate and your sons, Dione. Stay away from the venges and swords. I know what I'm saying, Wolfwalker. I've lost an arm, but you-you've lost a part of your heart. Yours is the harder loss."

Aranur returned then, to wrap a heavy cloak around her shoulders and help her to her feet. His gray eyes looked deeply into hers. Then, unobtrusively, he pressed a packet of food into her hand. He was away again in a moment, striding toward a small knot of men and women, pausing only briefly to drop his hand reassuringly on Royce's shoulder where the young man knelt vomiting in the dirt.

Dion followed him with her eyes as she slowly unwrapped the meatroll. Her ears, still sensitive through the wolf, heard his quiet words clearly. "Some people say you shouldn't look," Aranur murmured to the young man in the dirt. "I say look, and look well. Know what you've done to that man, and why. He attacked, he robbed, and he killed for greed. Now he won't do it again. Stay sick, stay angry if you must, but keep your guilt at bay."

Weakly, Royce nodded.

"And get yourself a different bow," he added. "Details like that stand out and catch the eye. They'll make you more of a target." Aranur motioned sharply to another man, who was wiping his hands continually on his leggings as if to scrape off blood he could no longer see. "Ibriam." Aranur broke the man's abstraction. "Gather the loose weapons, then go with Tehena to get the dnu."

In the morning chill, Aranur's gray eyes were shadowed, and his dark hair lifted slightly with the wind as he gave his orders. The bodies of the raiders were carried to one side and thrown into a shallow depression. Branches and debris were tossed on top. The boughs gave a rude protection to the dead, but no words were spoken over that scant grave before it was lit on fire. Within the hour, the mountain men and women had cleaned the trail and packed their gear to move to a temporary camp. They spoke little as they lashed the body of their own dead man onto a funeral pyre. They built it hot so that the flames forced them back, away from the smell of flesh. It was Aranur who finally spoke the Words of the Dead, and his voice seemed to blend into the raging fire so that the words rose with the smoke to guide neHendar's soul.

Half of them rode carefully to the campsite with Mjau and the other wounded. Dion, Aranur, and five others stayed at the cliff to scout for the raiders' trail. But with the pass blocked up to the ridgetop, there was little else to see. By the time Dion confirmed that, the insect scavengers were already at work near the burial pyres, and clouds of daybats, attracted by the smoke, had gathered overhead.

Aranur joined Dion at her dnu. He gave her a hand checking the cinch while she packed the healing kits back into her saddlebags. She caught his glance at her bandaged arm. "It's just a scratch," she said.

"Dacarr said you were limping."

"Scraped my ankle again. It's just bruised."

"I didn't see you until after we had taken most of them down."

"I know." She paused in what she was doing. "I was cut off."

His gaze sharpened. "Cut off-deliberately?"

She nodded.

"To keep you out of the action?"

"At first, that's what I thought."

"But then?"

She shook her head, more to herself than to him. "There was only one

raider," she said. "But he was highly skilled-as good as you and Gamon.

He had to be a master in Abis, if not in other arts also. Knives, swords, hand-to-hand... For a while, I thought I could hold my own until I got help, but it was he, not I, who controlled the fight."

"What do you mean?"

"He cut me off, Aranur. He pushed me back, chased me down into the draws so that you couldn't see me. Every time I tried to move, he was there before me. Every strike-he could see it coming. He was fast. Deceptive.

Intent... "

"Intent?"

She nodded. "There was a moment when we simply faced each other. He

looked at me as if I were a goal. As though he would go through whatever defense I had to get me."

"Dion... "

"He didn't want to kill me, Aranur. He wanted to capture me- take me

alive. He wanted me, not just any Ariyen."

Aranur's voice, when he spoke, was low, so that only she could hear. "Are you sure?"

She glanced over her shoulder and kept her own voice quiet. "His blows

were flat, not lunging."

"He knew who you were?"

"He spoke my name."

Aranur was silent for a moment. Then he nodded curtly. But his hand was