Mika felt so terrible the next morning, he could conceive of no danger greater than moving. Opening his eyes was sheer agony. He was afraid to turn his head for fear that it might fall off his neck. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a midden heap, and someone, probably Whituk, was beating a drum somewhere nearby. It pounded incessantly. Mika groaned. He thought he might die. He hoped that it would be soon. Suddenly, bright light flooded the room, cruelly lancing his brain like fire.
"Hush, Mika," said a soft voice that rumbled like boulders clashing together. "Here, drink this. You'll feel better soon."
Groaning, trying to uncross his eyes, Mika crawled shakily into a seated position in front of the long dead fire. He took the carved wooden mug Celia handed him and allowed her to help him guide it to his rubbery lips. The first scalding sip flowed down his throat and Mika recognized the acrid taste of roanwood tea, a well-known remedy for the aftereffects of too much mandrake wine, one cure he was personally familiar with, although never could he remember feeling quite this dreadful. It seemed that he had slept where he had fallen, on the hard-packed earth floor of Enor's home.
TamTur groaned. His legs stiffened and twitched. He moaned again, a pitiful sound, one that Mika could sympathize with completely. "Celia, give Tam some, too," he whispered.
"Don't be silly, Mika. Wolves won't drink roan-wood tea. It tastes terrible," Celia said, cocking a well-rounded hip to one side and shaking out her mass of flowing hair. She had dressed quite carefully that morning, putting on her newest tunic of pale ivory doeskin, edged with velvety moleskin and hung with hundreds of tiny silver bells and turquoise beads, hoping to create an image that Mika would remember on the long journey.
"Please, Celia, don't argue, give him some," Mika groaned, burying his head in his hands and covering his ears to shut out the horrible jangling of the bells and beads.
Celia pouted but did as he directed, pouring a bowl full of the strong tea and placing it in front of the wolf. To her amazement, TamTur turned his head and began lapping the contents of the bowl from a recumbent position. Only when the bowl was empty did he rise, although somewhat shakily, and lean against Mika, his head hanging low and his tongue lolling from his mouth. The whites of his eyes were yellow, and even his whiskers seemed to hang limply from his muzzle.
"Oh, you're too awful. And that stupid wolf is just like you, doing everything you do! I don't know why I bother to care!" Celia cried, and turning, she stomped out of the room, leaving the miserable pair wincing at the noise of her steps.
One at a time they staggered from the building and made their way to the stream where they soaked their aching heads in the icy water and made extremely brief ablutions.
Squinting against the clear bright light of morning, Mika walked back into the center of camp and was handed a hot plate of food by an older woman who had seen many mornings after mandrake and knew that, although it often seemed like punishment, hot food eased the ravages of the drink.
Mika seated himself on a log worn smooth by many generations of Wolf Nomads, and gingerly swallowed the scrambled hawk eggs, fried loin of hart, and hunks of toasted mealybread.
The elder woman appeared at his side, took the empty plate from his hands and handed him a large mug filled with fragrant coffee ground from kara beans and heavily laced with honey and a hair of the wolf, a dollop of mandrake.
"You'll feel better soon, lad," she said kindly, and took herself away, sparing Mika the effort of speech.
And surprisingly enough, he did. Whistling for TamTur, who had slunk out of the forest and obviously did not share Mika's renewed interest in life, Mika made his way through the camp to the Far Fringe where the caravan was still quartered, guarded by a full complement of twenty men. The men were fully armed and alert, an unusual circumstance, for who would be fool enough to attack a Wolf Nomad camp?
Mika located the captain of the command and made his way to the man's side, delighted to find that it was Hornsbuck, a grizzled nomad with whom he had lifted many a cup.
Then, his step slowed as the strangeness of the situation struck him. If the caravan were truly in danger and truly important, why place Mika above Horns-buck? Hornsbuck had long passed his fortieth winter and had seen much combat. He was far senior to Mika in warfare, weaponry, and the command of men.
Mika began to suspect that he had been given command in tide only. Hornsbuck was really in charge and Mika had been fed the lie simply to ease him out of camp and avoid an unpleasant confrontation with Whituk.
Mika seriously considered turning around, taking a horse, and riding away, leaving everything and everyone behind. Starting new somewhere else.
But he did not own a horse, nor a saddle, nor did he have food or equipment for such a journey. The whole supporting the few. Enor's words rose up to confront him and he knew them to be true; he had not earned his place at the fire.
His detractors, those who had spoken against him, were undoubtedly waiting for him to fail, to allow some harm to befall the caravan. Well, he would surprise them! He would conduct himself in absolute propriety and deliver the caravan safely to Eru-Tovar. He would honor the memory of his father in the only way left open to him.
"We are ready to leave as soon as you give the word," Hornsbuck said in a neutral tone. "Unless you wish to check the supplies and the men personally."
"No, Hornsbuck. I'm certain that nothing is lacking if you are in charge," Mika said with a smile, determined not to offend the venerable warrior.
Hornsbuck's huge grey-blond mustache and beard twitched in surprise at the compliment, and his green eyes gave Mika an appraising glance. Then, bowing slightly from his thickened waist, he strode off on muscular legs, bowed from many years of life in the saddle.
Mika returned to camp to dress himself in the soft leather tunic, waist-high leggings and gloves that comprised the normal traveling gear. He left off the wolf-skull headpiece all of the others wore, in deference to his still-pounding head, which he now recognized was pounding of its own accord and not from any drumming of Wintuk's.
When he returned to the caravan, the men were mounted and ready to leave. Wolf banners hung from tall staffs and fluttered in the cool morning air. Wolves of all sizes and colors circled the horses of their human companions, yipping sharply and howling with excitement, anxious to be on their way.
The sharp-spined, grey stallion was as ornery as ever. As he mounted, the stallion whipped its blocky head around and attempted to nip his leg. Mika kicked it in the muzzle and pulled back sharply on the reins, causing the beast to rear up on its hind legs in an attempt to shake him from its back.
Mika clung expertly, hugging the massive ribcage with his knees, determined to rid himself of the obstinate creature one of these days. Moving to the front of the caravan in a bone-jarring trot that amplified the pounding in his temples, he gave the signal to move out.
Reining in on a slight rise, with the grey high-stepping in place and champing at its bit, Mika watched with a critical eye as wagons, wolves, guards, and the heavily loaded supply wagon paraded before him.
As the last of them passed, he turned to look back toward camp, thoughts of his father rising unbidden before him.
Enor and Celia broke free of the crowd of well-wishers and relatives who had gathered on the edge of the Far Fringe to see the caravan off and walked out to where he stood.
Mika was not pleased to see that Celia was accompanied by Matin the Pleasant, a tall, well-built, good-looking young Wolf Nomad who had his arm wrapped around her narrow waist in a conciliatory- and most proprietary-manner. Lurking over Celia's shoulder was Enor-oba, smirking with satisfaction. The smile on Celia's fair face was more ambiguous-hurtful and coy.
"Here," said Enor as he handed a leather pouch up to Mika. "This holds your father's spell book, magic scrolls, his healing herbs, and ungents. They were his personal property and as such belong to you now.
"You possess the basic knowledge necessary for healing which could come in useful if you run into trouble on the plains. And if you don't, you can always study.
"There's nothing to stop you from becoming a magic-user if that is what you wish. It's up to you, Mika. You can become as much… or as little, as you choose.
"Some of us will be interested to see what you decide. Take care of yourself and the caravan. May the Great She Wolf guide your steps and bring you back safely."
Celia seemed more interested in tracing Matin's jaw line than in saying good-bye, but her father turned to her and called her name sharply with a frown on his face.
"Oh, yes! Well, good-bye, Mika," Celia said prettily, her dimples creasing her rosy cheeks. "Try not to get yourself killed. And don't worry about me, I'm sure I'll be fine."
Matin said nothing, merely grinned at Mika and pulled Celia closer, causing her to joggle and protest laughingly.
Anger merged with suspicion as Mika glared down at Celia, noting the handsome tunic that showed her figure in all its soft curves. Had he only imagined the tears and concern?
It would serve her right if he got killed! Muttering to himself, he kicked the stallion hard and rode swiftly after the departing caravan, TamTur at his heels.