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one of the sister wolves for a while. There was always something that fascinated him about their eyes, especially now. And oddly enough, as the two she-wolves stared back at him, each felt a slight stirring in their marrow. What was it about him? Why had they wanted to protect him when he was still a gnaw wolf?
    “So what’s going on in there?” Edme asked. “What are they arguing about?”
    “They seem to be arguing about finding Alastrine,” Mhairie said.
    “Alastrine — your
skreeleen
? Why?” Faolan asked.
    Wearily, Mhairie began to explain. “Liam wants her to consult with wind scouts. He’s hoping for a storm, not a blizzard.”
    “He wants her to read the
ceilidh fyre
?” Faolan asked in disbelief.
    “Yes,” Mhairie answered. “He can’t make up his own mind what to do. His mum isn’t around anymore to do it for him. So he looks to the sky. But he’d do a better job looking to the Blood Watch.”
    “What do you mean?” Edme asked.
    “The Blood Watch hasn’t changed in over a moon,” Dearlea explained.
    Edme and Faolan exchanged glances. So what the Fengo had told them was true. The Blood Watch was unstable.
    Dearlea continued. “The same blooders are still at the border. No new wolves have been sent.”
    “Our mum’s been gone since the end of the Moon of New Antlers.” Mhairie paused. Her voice cracked a bit when she began to speak. “We miss her.”
    “How long has it been this way? The disorder, the arguing?” Edme asked, nodding toward the
gadderheal
.
    “Since Cathmor died. First, Liam sank into this ter rible grief. It was after that, I think, that he started wandering off. As if he didn’t care anymore. And he just wasn’t able to make decisions about anything. When he’s here, it’s not exactly like he’s still grieving, but he’s not himself. That’s the best way I can put it,” Dearlea said.
    “I think we need to find Caila. We need to find yourmum,” Faolan said grimly. “And I think we need to find the rest of your clan’s blooders.”
    Faolan and Edme turned toward the cave opening. The tumult inside had grown louder. The two wolves looked at each other. Resolutely they entered the din and darkness of the
gadderheal
, their tails high, their ears shoved forward.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
R AGHNAID
IN S HAMBLES
    AS THEY ENTERED THE CAVE, FAOLAN looked around.
Why are the enormous caribou antlers slightly askew?
he wondered. Beneath the antlers, the chieftain sat on a pile of pelts, his own ceremonial headdress tipped at an odd angle. These were two slight irregularities that should not mean anything, and yet they were the first things that Faolan noticed. How different everything seemed now that Cathmor was gone. The fire in the center pit was sputtering because no one had bothered to tend it. Many of the
raghnaid
members were not wearing the headdresses or bone necklaces that were required when a session was called. But was this a session? Some wolves seemed to be sleeping, oblivious to the din around them. All of them looked extremely thin, and their pelts were far from lustrous. But then again, theWatch wolves had grown thinner as well, their coats duller.
Yet
, thought Faolan,
we still hold ourselves with dignity.
    That was it, he realized — the decorum, the dignity, and the solemnity of the
gadderheal
had vanished. The props were still there. The beautifully carved bones that generations of gnaw wolves had incised still gleamed with their intricate designs. The pelts of animals brought down in
byrrgises
still hung from stone pegs, many turned inside out and decorated with designs etched from charred wood. But the artifacts of death seemed more expressive of this venerable clan’s majesty than the clan wolves themselves. There was nothing noble, nothing dignified, and not a trace of majesty left in this
gadderheal
that had once inspired a gnaw wolf to seek a righteous life and honor bones with his finest carving.
    Even the beautifully incised bones seemed to mutter