DOG dreams.
Not the animal dreams that make the legs twitch in some
phantom race, but the dreams made of human stuff, of mem-
ory and regret and rage, the dreams that make the heart race
and sometimes break.
Dog sits before the Fire, the Single Fire that never bums
out. He sits on his haunches, his long red tongue licking like
flame from his sharp-toothed muzzle. He sits on his haunches,
his long black hair forking like snake tongues over his naked
brown shoulders. He sits, garbed in the pelt of his kind, of his
mind. ~,
He sees the five as reflections in a bod~ of still water. Dog
they are, like him, and not quite Dog, and not quite like
himself. Brute intelligence looks back at him from under
widow s peaks of fur, wiser than it is ever given credit for.
Yellow eyes, so sage and wary, the flames dancing in the urine-
colored irises. Leery canine smiles that show teeth as well as
tongue. Coronas of fire-lit fur cloak their shoulders like royal
capes.
Gray, black, and fawn, their temperaments name them in
the way of wolves: Weatherwise, Quickfang and Cowlick, the
males old and young; Featherstep and Moondrift, the young
females, one dominant, the other dominated. The ways of the
pack can be as cruel as the laws of humankind. No wonder
wolf and human are enemies and, on occasion, allies.
Dog grunts. It is an almost human sound, but he is not all
animal now. The fire is of his making. The circling wolves
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