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whitely. Once again I felt that I was failing him, I in my wolf form. I brought him meat, but it was of no use to him. All I could do was lick his face and lie close beside him. The warmth of my furry body seemed to ease the pain in his belly. In the night he would stir and moan and whisper of Tirell and Shamarra and Fabron the doomed dog his father until I pressed my muzzle against his face, and then he would throw his arm around my neck, hug me and sleep for a little while.
    I knew I should wish for my human form again and nurse him properly, but I could not. Wishes are like dreams—they will not be directed. Without true desire I could not make the change, and I felt sure that Frain would never have put his arm around Dair the man or let me warm and comfort him in the night. Guiltily, foolishly, I kept bringing him meat and the touch of warm fur, until one morning after a restless night he turned his head and looked at me.
    â€œDair,” he murmured.
    I sat up, ears pricked at attention, scarcely daring to breathe.
    â€œWhat … I have been sick.”
    I nodded.
    â€œI—how long?”
    I had lost count of the days, but with a forepaw I made many scratches in the dirt. Frain gazed back at me in amazement.
    â€œBut I do not remember anything,” he said softly, and I think my eyes narrowed somewhat as I looked back at him. For perhaps he could not remember, did not want to remember the things he had seen and the things he had said, but I felt certain that a part of him had always been aware, like the watcher in a dream, the one who whispers in the ear of the mind, “this is a dream,” even as the mind is screaming. I felt sure he would not have been awake and speaking to me if it were not so. For the first time then I guessed at the hidden strength of Frain. And I guessed as well that the hidden fears, the darkness he did not want to face, lay closer at hand than he was willing to admit.

Chapter Seven
    All his strength of body had left him. He could scarcely stand or walk. Nevertheless, with my help, he crawled to the wood I had gathered for him and made himself a fire, and he managed in a crude fashion to boil meat for broth. He lapsed into a sitting stupor while it was cooking, but as soon as it was ready I roused him, and after it had cooled he drank it down. He nibbled at shreds of the meat, and then he slept, quite soundly.
    For several days thereafter he ate as often as he was able, a little at a time. I brought him every sort of food that I could forage. As I saw that he would be well, and as my fear for him lessened somewhat, I became moody and fearful on my own account, though I felt I should be glad. Sense of failure was strong in me—I had been so long a wolf, I wondered if I would ever again make a human companion for him. If only we had reached my mother’s abode, perhaps she would have been able to help me.… I became impatient with the slowness of Frain’s healing. My muddle of feeling came to a head one evening as I studied the flames of the campfire, restless and ashamed by turns, and fervently eager to have the journey over with—Maeve’s home lay only a few days’ travel away. I wished we had a horse for Frain to ride. I wished that I could carry him myself. He was so helpless still—I pictured him lying hacked by robbers. Unease and the image moved me to a woeful howl.
    Frain was startled. “Dair, whatever is the matter?” he asked. Then he walked over to me unsteadily and caressed me, patting my head and the thick fur of my neck. “Everything will be all right,” he assured me.
    Feeling foolish and abashed, I skulked off to hunt myself some supper. Later, when I came back to camp, he was asleep. I lay beside him and dozed, and in my doze I dreamed of the horse. It was strong and slate gray, and in the dream I wanted to be that horse, to carry Frain swiftly to Maeve and safety. I would never have thought of it in daylight, I