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admitted his guilt as well as his profound regret. From my private conversation with him, I can say that he knows deep in his marrow that he can do better, that he can become a clan wolf.”
    What private conversation was this? When did I ever say that? Faolan wondered.
    “And so,” the chieftain continued, “from the time of the Ice March, I invoke the privilege of the Sayer. I say that this gnaw wolf shall stay in the clan. He shall resume his lowly position as gnaw wolf in the Pack of the Eastern Scree. He shall be required to visit every outflanker of every pack of the MacDuncan clan, present this bone gnawed by Heep, and perform the third-degree submission and veneration rituals, as dictated by section thirty-two ofthe byrrgnock code of the gaddernock . Following the contrition rituals, he shall gnaw a bone of contrition to be left with the pack outflankers. Thus shall he gain absolution.”
    Duncan paused now, his legs trembling with fatigue from standing, his chest heaving from speaking. His mate, Cathmor, touched his flank. “Please, dear, rest.”
    He growled, “Rest! There is eternity for resting! I have one more announcement I have to make—an important one. I have received a message from Finbar Fengo of the Watch. We have agreed that another gaddergnaw must be held.”
    A murmur of excitement swept through the wolves. Tails began to wag. It had been years since the last gaddergnaw .
    “All the clans shall gather here in the Moon of the Singing Grass. This is what I, Duncan MacDuncan, chieftain of the clan of the MacDuncans, say.”
    And let us hope, Duncan thought to himself, that indeed the grass will be singing and not still locked under frozen ground . His eyes were more filmy than before, and a terrible rattling wheeze shook his frail body. He sank onto the pelts, weak from his efforts.
    A hush filled the cave. It was very rare that a chieftain invoked the privilege of the Sayer. But DuncanMacDuncan just had, and the word of a dying chieftain carried great weight.
    As Faolan was led away from the chieftain, he took one more glance at the fire. He blinked and hesitated. In the flames, he spied a pattern that was familiar—a swirl of bright orange and yellow buried deep at the base of the smaller flames hovering just above the coal bed.
    I see it—the same spiral that marks my paw. By my marrow, I see it in the fire of the gadderheal!

CHAPTER SIX
M HAIRIE’S D EN
    MHAIRIE SLID DOWN THE SHORT steep tunnel to her den. She was so happy to have her own private space. The new litter of pups that her mum, Caila, had delivered four months before had made everything so crowded. So she and her sister Dearlea took turns living in this solitary den while the other helped Caila tend the new ones.
    The pups were at that most difficult age. Old enough to get into trouble but not old enough to get out of it. They were fascinated—as all young pups were—by the tantalizing whiteness at the mouth of their den. They thought the white light that flooded the opening was a wall and not simply the light of day. Mhairie wondered if she had felt that way when she was their age. But she could hardly remember.
    Caila had chosen a whelping den with an especially long tunnel. “Keep them from the light as long as possible,” she said to her mate, Eiric. “I can’t go chasing after them if they get out, and you know they always try as soon as their milk teeth come in.”
    Sure enough, when their milk teeth broke in, chaos broke out! Especially with six! The worst part was their howling. Mhairie wasn’t sure why, but wolf pup cries were nothing like the melodious howls of mature wolves. For at least six moons, their howls were sharp barks, like the clash of hard rocks tumbling against one another in a slide. When the earthquake of the previous winter had struck, at first it sounded to her like ten thousand pups storming out of their whelping dens. And then there were the pups’ whiny whimpers when they begged. Not as loud