Kender, Gully Dwarves And Gnomes t1-2 Page 16

  When the squirrel awoke he was confused. He slept a lot, it being still winter and he having some deeply rooted NEED to sleep. But when he slept he dreamed. And there was the source of his confusion: no squirrel ever dreamed during long winter sleeps. And, as though the fact of the dreaming wasn't enough, the dreams themselves were decidedly odd.

  He dreamed about people. Not the gray-furred, broad tailed squirrel people. Humans walked in his dreams, and a dwarf, and a long-eyed half-elf with hair the color of a fox's pelt. In his dreams he knew who they were; sometimes he spoke with them and they with him. And when they spoke with him he knew — though he didn't quite understand how he knew — that they were not speaking to a squirrel.

  It was almost as though he were having someone else's dreams.

  Yawning now, stretching first his hind legs and then his front, he poked among the neatly piled acorn shells for some left-over tidbit. There was none.

  He looked around the cottage, noted that the man was gone again, though his scent still clung to everything in the place, and then felt a sudden tightening of alarm: the cat prowled restlessly from window to door to window.

  Not hungry again, are you?

  Always, the cat murmured without looking around. You sleep a lot, squirrel. He's off again, looking for the Wren.

  The wren… Yes, well, I'd like to find her myself. I think I might have some unfinished business with her.

  The tabby did look around then, his green eyes alight with a certain careful curiosity. With the Wren? And what business might that be?

  The squirrel wasn't sure, and said so. Again he felt confused and uncomfortable. He remembered thinking the night before that the wren meant something to him. Now, though, when he tried to recall what it might be, he could not. His attempts to remember were as distressing as his dreams had been.

  The cat padded silently across the room and leaped easily onto the table. When the squirrel scolded and skittered to the back of his cage, the tabby only yawned and smiled.

  Easy, squirrel, easy. He eyed the squirrel closely, and this time the squirrel had the impression that he was not being considered as dinner. After a moment the tabby twitched his tail and murmured, I thought — maybe — but I suppose not. You're just a squirrel, aren't you?

  I–I guess so, responded the squirrel, Though sometimes I don't quite feel like one. Maybe it's just that I'm trapped in here, and I hate it. I should be grateful, I suppose, that there are bars between you and me, you being as hungry as you are all the time — oh! Well, I didn't mean any offense, of course — Of course, the cat murmured.

  I didn't really, but you are a cat and I am a squirrel, and you cats do have a taste for squirrels from time to time and —

  I am not a cat .

  What? Well, of course you are. You're a cat, I can assure you. And you'd have a hard time convincing the mice you terrorize around here that you aren't.

  I am not a cat. The tabby raised his head, and for the first time the squirrel noticed a small collar of braided leather clasped loosely around his neck. Do you see that?

  The collar? Very nice.

  Aye, the cat sighed, It is, and so I thought when she gave it to me.

  She? Who?

  The Wren.

  The wren. The squirrel was beginning to have a headache. He closed his eyes and burrowed his nose into his front paws. Cat, I don't know what you're talking about.

  No, like as not you don't, being a squirrel.

  And one who is too confused to worry about wrens and collars.

  The tabby purred softly. What confuses you, little one?

  Dreams, the squirrel sighed.

  Dreams… The cat cocked his head. Dreams?

  Yes, dreams. And squirrels aren't supposed to dream. I know that. I know that because I'm a squirrel. But I still dream.

  And yet, the cat said, you wear nothing.

  The squirrel blew his cheeks out indignantly.

  Of course not, or nothing but my skin. And that only because there's a cage between you and me. What else am I supposed to wear?

  You'd be wearing something if you were more than a squirrel. The Wren wears a golden chain. I wear a collar. It keeps us, despite your form, what we are.

  The squirrel's headache was getting worse. I don't understand.

  I am a man. My name is Pytr. The wren is a woman whose name is, well, Wren. Pytr stretched lazily, then curled up on the table next to the cage. It was a long tale he had to tell, and he thought he might as well be comfortable. It had begun to snow again, and the day was waning. He was hungry and restless and worried. It helped a little to have someone to tell his story to, even if it was only a squirrel with a headache.

  ..and so, the wren sighed, When I wouldn't agree, when I refused to forsake Pytr for him, the mage laid an enchantment upon us both.

  "Wren," he said, and she fluttered her wings a little, a small shudder, "Wren you are called and wren you shall be." and — and Pytr he made into a cat. Then I escaped. I flew far and came to Solace where I found the little kender who heard me and came to help. And now the mage has him, too.

  Oh, is there no way you can help us?

  On the strength of that tale, Wren had led them far and long, flying ahead and darting back, making sure the five did not deviate from the way. All of her small strength was for leading, for bringing help. She had none to talk and so, though Caramon wondered and Sturm speculated, Tanis and Raistlin agreed that greater detail must be garnered later when Wren had recouped her strength. Flint neither speculated nor wondered. He feared. And, since he did not like to show it, he hid his fear behind a spate of grumbling in which stone-headed kender played a large part. He fooled no one.

  They followed her through all of the snowy day and as much of the night as they could. When camp was made, Wren dropped again to her perch on Sturm's wrist. She was comfortable there, sensing a steadiness and kindness in the young man that gave her confidence. She only gripped him lightly and tucked her head beneath her stippled wing as though to rest.

  "Wren," Sturm said gently. "Wren?"

  She looked up, weary with flying and fear, and cocked her head.

  "What happened to the kender. Wren?"

  The squirrel was unharmed when I saw him last Sturm frowned, puzzled. They heard Wren's voice as a bird's song with their ears, but in their minds they heard the soft, gentle voice of a woman. This, at times, could be confusing. But Sturm suddenly understood Wren's reply when he heard Raistlin's dry, whispered laugh.

  "What else?" the young mage asked. "What else would you make a kender? This mage, whoever he may be, understands kender as well as any it seems."

  He's caged the squirrel. It amuses him, I think, as it amused him to make a cat of Pytr and a bird of me.

  Tanis winced at that. Flint growled low in protest. The soul of a kender caged or bound would wear the bruised colors of misery. "Who is this mage, Wren?"

  Rieve is his name.

  Raistlin lifted his head then, the way a man who scents smoke on the wind does. Tanis glanced at him. Caramon, silent till then, sat forward.

  "Raist?" Caramon said, his hand moving reflexively to the hilt of his sword lying scabbarded at his feet. "You've heard of this mage?"

  "He has an evil reputation, this Rieve. I've heard of him." Raistlin smiled slowly then, humorlessly, as though he understood the question his twin hesitated to ask. "But you need have no fear, brother mine. Though I would be foolish indeed if I did not acknowledge that Rieve's skills are greater than mine might be now, I think he has gone so far in his cruelty that he has given me a weapon against him."

  "A weapon?" Tanis asked.

  Raistlin's pale blue eyes glittered. Had there been light from the moons that night, its wash across the new snow would have been as cold. "A weapon. Or perhaps four."

  But though they pressed him, the young mage only settled back into the warmth of his cloak and did not answer further. He stared into the fire.

  As Tanis set the night watches he wondered w
hat weapons Raistlin might be forging out of the silence and the flame.

  Pytr knew that the squirrel was in trouble. This was not, he realized, a squirrel after all. The dreams said that. But what he might be, Pytr did not know. He did know, however, that whatever the squirrel might have been before now would fade and vanish one day. With no piece of his real self to cling to, whoever he might have been, he would wake, dreamless, to find that he was indeed a squirrel. And likely, Pytr thought with a cold shudder, he would never know that there had been a time when he wasn't.

  Come, squirrel, tell me your name

  My name? Squirrel, I guess.

  No, tell me your real name. I don't think you are truly a squirrel. What is your real name?

  I don't know.

  Think, won't you?

  The squirrel tried, but thinking only made his head throb worse. Let it go, cat — Pytr. I think I'll nap.

  I don't think you should.

  Why? Maybe I'll dream again, maybe…

  Ah! The dreams. Pytr purred softly, nudged the squirrel through the bars, and managed to ignore the cat-hunger that reminded him just how tasty a squirrel could be. Don't sleep, squirrel. Talk to me, eh? Tell me, how did he catch you?

  Right outside the door. The squirrel sighed. Right outside the door.

  That's why I thought you were really a squirrel. I didn't see him change you. I thought — well, I'm sorry, but I thought you were dinner.

  I can understand how you would. But I still think I am.

  Dinner?

  No. A squirrel. I don't remember being "changed." I think I've always been a squirrel.

  Squirrels don't dream, remember?

  Maybe crazy squirrels do

  No, no, you're not crazy, squirrel. Pytr made a sound low in his throat that might have been a chuckle. You're not crazy.

  The squirrel looked up then, and Pytr thought he saw the light of some memory shine in his black eyes.

  Not crazy — stone-headed.

  What?

  A stone-headed… something. That's what he always calls me. I don't think he really means it, but that's what he always calls me.

  Pytr purred his satisfaction. Who? Who calls you that?

  But the light and the memory were gone. The squirrel curled up again, nose to tail, and sighed heavily.I don't know. I can't remember. Won't you let me sleep now, Pytr? I need to sleep. It's winter. I need to sleep.

  Poor squirrel, Pytr thought. He slipped from the table and crossed the room to the hearth. He didn't see any way he could help, though he badly wanted to.

  Rieve, he thought, growling at the moonless night and wondering if there were any mice to be had, You are going to have so much to pay for.

  There was a certain elegance about Raistlin's plan. Tanis acknowledged it with a grin.

  "What do you want us to do, Raistlin?"

  "Eat."

  Tanis frowned. "What?"

  "Eat. Eat everything you can, all the provisions we brought along." The young mage's lips twisted in a wry smile. "That should be no trial for my brother, but everyone should eat until he is full."

  "But — »

  "Don't debate with me, Tanis. I know what I'm doing. But, I will tell you why. These are not the shapes of animals that you will be taking on. You will BE these creatures. And the primary need of an animal in winter is to be sure that his belly is full. If that need is not satisfied, all of your other purposes will fall aside. You will have, to a degree, your own minds, but not your own bodies, nor your own instincts. And instinct to an animal is what your mind is to you. Do you understand?"

  Tanis did, and he was not certain now that the plan was quite so elegant. "Raistlin, I — »

  The young mage raised an eyebrow, offered a mild challenge. "Afraid, Tanis?"

  "I'd be a fool if I wasn't."

  "Yes, you would be. What does it come down to, then? Can you trust me? You'll have to answer that. For yourself and for the others. They will do what you ask of them."

  Tanis knew that this was true. It had been proved many times before now. He looked away from the young mage to where his friends sat near the mom-ing's dying fire. Caramon, he thought, would not require convincing. He trusted his twin completely. Sturm, speaking quietly with Wren who yet rode his wrist, could be made to understand. But Flint? There would be a problem. The old dwarf disliked and mistrusted anything that had to do with magic.

  As though he heard the half-elf's thought, Raistlin leaned forward and spoke quietly. "Let Flint be the first. I'll do it quickly, before he knows."

  "Why?"

  "If you give him a chance to argue, we could be here until the day after tomorrow."

  Tanis smiled without humor. It was true. "He'll be all right?"

  "He'll be fine. You all will be. They trust you, Tanis. Do you trust me?"

  Trust was a habit, gained slowly and lost quickly. The habit of trusting Raistlin was still on him, despite the unease Tanis felt now. "I trust you."

  "Good. Then go tell them to eat. The last thing we need is one of us turning on another out of hunger. Most particularly," he said, smiling as though over some private jest, "my brother."

  I trust you, Tanis thought as he rose to leave, but you do make it hard sometimes.

  Raistlin was kind with his choices. And kind in other matters. Tanis knew that when he saw the young mage step silently behind Flint as though the old dwarf was the last thing on his mind. The air around the two shivered, sighed softly, and before Tanis could draw a breath, Flint was gone.

  In his place stood a dog who shook himself as though shaking off rain. Tanis grinned. This was no lean-shanked mongrel, but a broad-chested, thick-furred shepherd's dog. Though the dog's muzzle was white with invading age, his long, tapered jaws were still powerful. Those jaws, Tanis knew, could tear the throat out of a marauding wolf. Or, under noble restraint, could lift a kitten carefully by the scruff of its neck to carry it out of harm's way. It was to this breed that shepherds had trusted their flocks and their families for generations.

  Right now, though, Flint the dog looked dangerous. Ears back, he snarled and bared long teeth made for slashing.

  Wren left Sturm's wrist and dropped to the ground before the dog. She whispered something that sounded like encouragement and the snarling faded to a familiar low grumbling. As he'd planned with Raistlin, Tanis dropped to his knee beside the dog — FLINT! he reminded himself — and tied around his neck a bright blue square of cloth torn from the spare shirt in the dwarf's pack. There was a look in the shepherd dog's eyes that made Tanis glad he resisted the urge to ruffle the silky ears.

  Caramon drew a breath to speak — to laugh or question, Tanis didn't know — and suddenly a tawny panther, muscles rippling, tail switching restlessly, stood where once Raistlin's twin had sat.

  Well done! Tanis thought. Across the panther's thick chest and shoulders he strapped Caramon's belt in the form of a harness. He looked around for Sturm but saw neither the young man nor a beast to which he might have been changed.

  "Raistlin?"

  The mage pointed upward to the trees. A black-headed, gray-bodied peregrine falcon sounded a long, high wail and spread its wings with unconscious grace.

  He knows them, Tanis thought, he knows them well to choose so fittingly. He offered his wrist, and the falcon glided down, gripping with sharp talons.

  "Easy, Sturm, easy!"

  The grip relaxed a little; when the falcon lowered his head Tanis slipped a tightly knotted thong and the signet ring from which Sturm was never parted over the peregrine's head.

  "Only one left, Tanis," Raistlin said softly.

  "I'm ready."

  Raistlin met the half-elf's eyes and held them. "I'll be with you," he assured. "I'll be right with you to bring you back."

  "I know."

  Once more the air shivered, then sighed. Raistlin was alone in the clearing with Wren, the shepherd dog, the panther, the bright-eyed falcon, and a quick, red-pelted fox.

  "What else?" Raistlin sa
id to Wren when she cocked her head as though to question his choice. "A fast and far hunter." He collared the fox with another square of cloth, this garnered from Tanis's pack, and sat back on his heels. "Follow the wren and the hunt well, fox. Use all your cunning. And remember, do not harm the mage, for I can only undo those spells of my own working."

  Pytr smelled danger in the wind. Rieve, back since the afternoon from another fruitless search for Wren, brooded darkly before the fire. The danger smell did not come from him. In him Pytr noted only the hard, bitter scent of anger. This smell was different. It was a combination of odors, woven together to send a fearful message of disparate creatures banded for some common purpose. Dog, he smelled — and fox. Pytr lifted his head and caught the scent of a bird, large and bold and bright: a deadly raptor. Over them all rode the thick, musky scent of a far-removed cousin; a mountain panther prowled near. They hunted, their scents told him, but they were not hungry.

  In the cage on the table the squirrel roused and sniffed the air.

  Cat! Pytr! Do you smell it?

  I do. The scent of enemies.

  Enemies? The squirrel's tail danced. Yes, these were the scents of enemies. And yet the dream from which he'd just woken was not one of enemies.

  Cat — Pytr, I thought when I was dreaming that I scented friends.

  Pytr's tail switched impatiently, then slowed to a considering wave.Friends?

  Well, it's hard to explain. It's… I smell the dog and the fox, the falcon and the panther. And my nose tells me to be afraid. but… in my mind I don't see the beasts the smells are supposed to show me. I… I don't know how else to explain it.

  Pytr wondered then if maybe the squirrel was crazy. He sighed and left his place by the window. He gave Rieve wide berth and leaped to the table. What do you see in your dreams, then, squirrel?

  I don't know. I don't see anything that I can tell you about for sure. I just don't see a dog. or a fox, or the rest of them. What about the man?

  Rieve? He's nose-blind, like all his kind.