'I am the hands of the weaver,' Kerlew thought to himself, and suddenly the image was real. Here were the lines of their lives, of Heckram and Tillu and Carp, of Lasse and Elsa and Joboam, coming into his fingers like the strands of fiber and root that the herdwomen wove. He it was who plaited them together, who made a pattern of their days. They passed through his fingers and were changed by his touch. He it was who could shape their days to come. He wove them, making power for Carp, and for Elsa, revenge. The thin strands, red and brown, that were Heckram and Tillu were limp in his hands. Idly he twisted them together, marking the contrast of the colors. It pleased his eyes and he left them so. He took up the cold rough cord that was Joboam. It was white against his fingers, biting his skin, scratching as if to escape his will. He twisted it around his fingers, longing to snap it off short. But it was a stout and ugly thread, twisted like badly cured hide. It ruined the pattern of the other threads. It could never be made to blend.
'Little shaman, what do you weave?'
Kerlew looked up from his weaving. Wolf's eyes were on him, yellow against the bright blackness of the world. Kerlew was careful to keep the smile from his lips. He did not answer Wolf with words, but only stretched forth the rough twine of Joboam.
Wolf frowned, his lips drooping red all about his white teeth.
'Who has given you that which is mine?' he demanded in a low growl.
'I have taken that which I would shape,' Kerlew replied.
'And that, too, is mine. It is for Wolf to take what he would. Not some shaman's brat.'
'But I have it,' Kerlew challenged and held up the thread.
Wolf stared at it, and Kerlew let himself grin. Come closer, spirit beast, he murmured to himself. Come within the touch of my hand.
Wolf's yellow eyes narrowed. 'Do you remember, little shaman, what I told you the last time we met?'
Kerlew nodded slowly, '"If you would be Wolf's brother, learn to follow the herd." I go, and soon, with the herdfolk, to follow the herd. I will be as you are. Wolf. Following the herd and taking what I want.'
Wolf rose suddenly. His breath was hot and smelled of meat. Kerlew's words had been too bold. But he did not flinch from that hot breath or look away from the shining yellow eyes. Wolf held his tail higher, then shut his jaws with a snap. 'Follow the herds, then. And hold what is Wolf's.' He turned and trotted away. He glanced back at Kerlew over the long fur of his shoulder and grinned. 'But not too tightly, little shaman. For you are not yet Wolf's brother, and may never be. That which you hold will be demanded of you one day. See that you give it then, for I have made a bargain about it.'
Kerlew looked down at the rough strand in his hand, 'I have a Knife,' he said to the night, 'I could cut this off short, at any time I please.' Then he thought of Wolf, leaping from star to star, setting the night sky a thunder with the clattering of panicky hooves.
'I will wait for you to claim what is yours,' he promised. 'But then I will claim you. I will be Wolf's brother.'