Chapter 6: The Runt on the Snow

Wystan heard the cry before the cub did.

He had been awake anyway.

He had been awake every night for two winters, sitting just past the reach of a fire he was not allowed to sit beside.

Tonight the fire's edge was closer than it had ever been.

Thad had moved the stones.

Wystan had noticed that at dusk and had not said so.

He had also noticed that Thad hummed while he cooked.

It was a tuneless, cheerful sound with no words to it, and it went on until the cub fell asleep.

He had listened to all of it, every night, with his back against the cold rock and his hands clasped between his knees.

The cry came again, thin and high, from the direction of the Gathering Stone.

Wystan was on his feet before he thought.

Then he stopped at the edge of the firelight, the way he had promised.

"Thad," he said, low.

The lynx opened one eye at once.

He had been awake too, Wystan saw.

"There's a cry on the ridge. I'm going to the Stone. I'll be back before the moon moves."

"Take the lantern."

Wystan frowned.

"I can see in the dark."

"Take it anyway."

Wystan took it.

He stood outside with the small light swinging in his hand and felt his face go hot, and could not have said why.

He had been hunting alone in the dark since he was eleven winters old.

No one had ever told him to take the lantern.

He shifted at the edge of the trees and ran.

His four paws ate the snow, and the cold air tore through his lungs, and for a mile he thought of nothing but the cry.

He did not think about the touch on the lynx's ear, either.

He thought about it twice.

The burr had been small, no bigger than a fingernail.

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