On his return trip Gath, parched and dry, was forced to stop and water frequently. When he reached his root house, he was exhausted and feverish. His bandaged wounds were seeping. He looked around outside, then inside for Sharn. The wolf was not there. He moved to the table, noticed the rosebuds had begun to blossom. He swore, lay down on the furs in front of his fire with a wine jar and began to drink. After two cups he was asleep.
He woke fitfully during the darkest part of the night. His mouth was again dry and his lips parched. He took a drink of wine and put more wood on the fire, then looked around. Sharn had not returned.
He went outside and stood in the cool moonlight, listening. The shrill clutter of nocturnal melodies soothed him. Then another sound rose above them and cut into him painfully.
It was the distant howl of a wolf. Not the normal night cry of that breed, but the sad, forlorn howl of an animal without a mate.