Lone Wolf

nothing to sniff at.
    Seconds later, she was skimming the treetops. Taking a bearing on the second star in the Golden Talons, she veered and flew a course two points to the south. The howls rose through the night, a filigree of sound inscribing the wind. Gwynneth had flown a league or more when she spotted the young wolf in a funnel of moonlight. She alighted deep in the branches of a tree to listen.
    Though Gwynneth understood the phrases of the song, something confused her. From behind a screen of pine needles, she could see that the wolf, a male, had stationed himself by a large skull of a grizzly. It was to this grizzly that the wolf was singing with such passion. But what was the meaning of that phrase that he howled? "We are all part of one ..."?
    Gwynneth listened carefully as the wolf launched into a second gwalyd:
    Milk Givers, Milk Givers, do you both walk the sky, climb the ladders to starry caves and wait for me to die?
    When my time comes to leave
    where shall my spirit walk?
    For am I wolf or bear?
    I know not where to start.
    When the wolfs howling ended, Gwynneth saw him slide the side of his face into a patch of earth near the grizzly's skull and begin to rub his head and his neck vigorously. Gwynneth recognized it as a scent roll, in which the wolves announced a territorial claim. But this wolf did not plan on hunting. Far from it, especially if one considered the keening lament at the heart of his song. By this time, the wolf was dashing about the skeletal remains and rolling wherever he could, as close as he could to the bones. She began to suspect that the wolf had detected perhaps a second aroma. And then it came to her in a sudden flash -- two Milk Givers. Two mothers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    ***
    A FIRESIDE CONVERSATION

    "WE HAVE MUCH IN COMMON ," Gwynneth said, swooping down from the tall pine and alighting a respectful distance from the skull. Faolan looked up. He held a bone from what had been the paw of Thunderheart in his teeth and stared at the Masked Owl.
    "Put the bone down, dear, and follow me." Almost as soon as Gwynneth said the words she realized her error. Faolan shook his head vigorously.
    "No, of course not. Your milk mother's bone. Bring it with you, but follow me." She spread her wings and lofted herself into the air.
    Faolan looked up. When the owl had first appeared, he had been confused by his overwhelming grief. But slowly he realized that an owl, possibly an owl from the Great Ga'Hoole Tree, had actually spoken to him. He rose on wobbly legs and began to follow her flight.
    Faolan was amazed at how quiet she was even as she flapped her immense wings in takeoff. So much quieter than the ravens. This was perhaps what drew him to her. Her quietness. It soothed him in his grieving. He wanted to be near her. It was Thunderheart who had first told him of the intelligent owls of Ga'Hoole.
    Tipping his head up, he watched the dark silhouette of the Masked Owl's wings printed against the full moon. He began to slip through the blue shadows of the trees and every few paces he would lift his head up to follow the owl's flight against the sweep of the stars. It was not long before he picked up the scent of smoke from her smoldering forge.
    ***
    When he first saw the fire in the Masked Owl's forge he backed away. He had only seen fire once, from a distance, when he was first learning to fish with Thunderheart. It had been an immense forest fire. The smoke had turned the day to night, and the flames, like red claws, shot up as if to tear the sun from the sky. This fire was hissing and spitting sparks. There were crackling sounds as well that reminded him of the small bones of prey he had caught in his jaws. The crackling noise was punctuated by an occasional loud snap and a hiss.
    "Come, come," the Masked Owl said. "It's safe. The fire will not leap from my forge. Don't worry." She took out her tongs. With a slightly alarming twist of her head, she indicated to Faolan that he should make himself comfortable near the fire with his bone.
    Suddenly, there were several new sounds, sounds he had never heard before. The clank of the iron tongs, the crackling of the fire, the huff of the wind-catcher claws that the Masked Owl squeezed and pointed at the embers in the fire to bring the flames to life.
    "What are those claws?" asked Faolan, his ears tilted toward her.
    Gwynneth turned around and churred softly to herself. "These? These are bellows. I'm a Rogue smith. A blacksmith. I craft things