It's not supposed to snow in the South Forest, but the weather in the second-emptiest corner of Shelha is not the only thing behaving strangely. When an ex-tyrant started acting up again, Sethral had hoped it meant the end of lazy days and monotonou...
It was always easy to tell when Winter was in one of her moods. It didn't happen often—for the most part she was an eerily composed leader—but Sethral liked to watch for the moments when the queenly demeanor shattered; when nothing seemed to be going her way and her pack would scramble about trying not to draw her attention. It was reassuring to know that even the most known figure of the North War acted like a kit sometimes.
This morning's blowup seemed to have something to do with Winter's collar, which had disappeared overnight. It was a shiny thing, all yellow metal and set with three oversized stones the Mountainair had acquired around the time of the North Forest fire. They were probably meant to mimic the Leasorrels—the blood gems—that terrified everyone in Lowland stories. The Leasorrels, it was said, followed trouble around through history like a Draklet followed its parents. Winter liked dramatic symbolism. That said, she was far from the first to pretend to have the gems.
Most of Winter's pack had fled the mountain hollow, leaving their leader to fume at rocks. Without creatures to dodge it, her tantrum became a lot less interesting. Sethral rolled over and treated the grey Mist Moon sky to a baleful gaze. An attack on the Coppertails had brought promise of more unusual behaviour, but the most exciting event in Winter's camp in two days had been the burglary of a trinket. The rest of the world was not compensating. The South Forest had been known as the Forest of Legends before the Royals had disappeared, but not much in it today lived up to the reputation. Running away here would have been a lot more fun if the silver cats had still held sway, with their complex clan structure and legendary cave-fort in the cliffs. She would probably have been welcome among them, too. Their clan and hers had been on good terms.
But she'd been born three hundred years too late for that, and come here too late to even intercept news of the end of the North War and Winter's glory days. She had barely caught news of the fire. Five years ago she had met the Coppertails, who had taught her how to find food when running away proved more difficult than anticipated. Three years ago, Winter had chased the herd for straying accidentally onto her new northern territory. Last year, the Coppertails had met Rose's little band, and the two herds had joined forces. It had taken all of three days to get to know the newcomers.
Sethral jarred her horns on the branch as she tipped her head back. She groaned. She was bored.
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The upper edge of the South Cliffs was an unbroken band of boulder fields, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see. Whipper had always found it funny how so many rocks could be found at the top of the cliffs, when so few were found below.
Past the sheer cut of the cliffs, the Rock Flats spread like a dropped sky, an expanse of baked brick-red as featureless as the blue dome above. Whipper set the collar in a tree fork and sat back to groom the dust from his fur. A gleam made him glance up. The trees rustled in a light wind, and a sliver of sunlight danced across the collar. Where it crossed the three gems, it was swallowed without a trace.
