“Faren,” he whispered between shallow, trembling gasps.
“Okay. Faren.” Rostfar searched around the boat until her eyes snagged on a swathe of woven fabric. It was stiff with beeswax, probably designed to keep the boat dry and free from rot. Better than nothing, Rostfar decided. She helped Faren out of his damp outer layers, ignoring his stuttering protests, and wrapped the makeshift blanket around his shoulders.
“You?”
Rostfar hesitated before realising she hadn’t given her name. “Rostfar,” she told him as she pressed a drinking-bowl into his hands. “You’ve got to get moving. Bail out the water.”
Faren just stared at the bowl. Rostfar bit down her irritation, frightened by how sharp her temper had become. She closed his stiff fingers around the bowl’s crude handle. He hissed in pain as the joints moved, but it relieved Rostfar to see him open and close his grip when she moved away.
He bailed and Rostfar began to row.
By the time Rostfar brought them to shore, the beach was awash with torchlight and chatter. Hands reached for her, forgetting to respect her boundaries amidst the chaos and adrenaline. She could barely bring herself to stumble through the surf onto dry land.
“Is it true?” The words leapt at her from the haze of faces and torchlight. Rostfar forced her eyes to focus on Isha’s face. “Is it Faren?”
No sooner had Rostfar nodded than Isha ran past her. She didn’t watch him go, didn’t have the chance. Strong, warm arms wrapped around her shoulders and held her tight, just the way she liked it.
“Let’s get you warm,” Mati said. Rostfar realised she was shivering.
“Arketh?”
“With Nat.” Mati tried to nudge Rostfar towards the cliff path. Despite his height and build, his touch was gentle. Too gentle. He had always been afraid of his own strength.
Rostfar stood and stared at the shadowy figures flitting around Faren. She watched as Aethren, one of her brightest hunters, helped lift Faren onto a stretcher. Aethren was clearly trying to give orders, but nobody was listening to them. Beside the stretcher, Isha stood out like a spark, flitting around and getting in the way.
“Rost,” Mati said and nudged her again. She swayed into him, drained, but still couldn’t bring herself to move. He rested his hand against the small of her back. “I’m going to carry you. Is that okay?”
Rostfar nodded. Mati carefully wrapped his cloak around her and lifted her up, enveloping her in the familiar comfort of his arms. Unable to cope with the ruthless battering of the world any longer, Rostfar pressed her face into his shoulder and allowed him to carry her away from the beach.
The warm, waveless water of the bathtub gave Rostfar relief beyond words. Pale light trickled through the top of the shutters from the second moon, Sylvrast. The light had a cold, silver hue, but Rostfar took comfort from it nonetheless. It meant that morning had come at last.
“That was quite the wake-up surprise, Rost.” Mati sat on a stool by the tub, gently teasing the knots of salt and seaweed from Rostfar’s hair. She hummed a sleepy agreement, not wanting a conversation. A conversation meant thinking and explaining, and she’d done enough of that in one night to last a lifetime.
Even when her lips had been blue with cold, everyone wanted a piece of her. Marken wanted to make sure she wasn’t in danger of dying. Nat wanted to know what she was thinking. Ethy wanted to know what she had been doing out on the cliffs at night. Rostfar wasn’t entirely sure what she had told them, only that it had been a hasty lie full of contradictions.
I was sleepwalking—
No, Arketh was—
We couldn’t sleep.
I’m sorry.
I’m too tired.
And underneath it all, the panic ran circles in her head.
(they’ll know they’ll know they’ll find out it’s over they’ll know they’ll)
“Rostfar?”
Rostfar shook herself out of her thoughts. Mati’s hands had stopped moving in her hair, and she whined softly in protest. “Don’t stop.”
“You went stiff as a bowstring,” Mati said. The concern in his voice was clear, even to Rostfar, but he returned to combing her hair. Rostfar slumped against the back of the tub.
“It’s been a long night, is all.”
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“It’s . . .” Rostfar trailed off, picking a piece of seaweed from between her toes to avoid answering.
Mati must have understood her silence, because he sighed and said, “That’s the worst of it.” He helped her out of the bath and into some dry clothes, and the two of them sat down by the fire with bowls of tea.
“I have a bad feeling,” Rostfar finally said. “About Faren. And I know Isha will be happy – I would be too if I hadn’t seen Nat for years – but it’s something . . .” She shook her head, teeth clenched. A careful glance up at Mati’s lower face revealed a tight jaw and lips clamped in a thin line.
“You had one of your—” despite them being alone, Mati lowered his voice, “moments?”
Rostfar’s heart sank through her stomach. “No,” she forced herself to say. She couldn’t hide the truth now. “Arketh did. She’d – I don’t know, dreamed Faren was out there? And I can’t shake the feeling something’s wrong. Why else would the wyrdness call her?”
“But do you know it was . . . that?”
“Yes!” Rostfar snapped. She slammed down her tea, then groaned and cupped her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. But I know what it was. I’ve been through it too often myself.”
For a while, there was a blessed silence punctuated only by the crackling fire and Mati sipping his drink. Rostfar tried to coax her tired muscles to relax, to recapture the pleasantness of the bath and Mati’s fingers in her hair.
“Have you spoken to Nat yet?” Mati asked at length. Rostfar gripped her drinking-bowl a little too tight, grimacing at the thought of talking with her twin sister. They already had much to discuss, and that was without the addition of the night’s chaos. The impending conversation sat like a lump of chewed wood in the pit of her stomach.
“I don’t know what she could do.” Rostfar shrugged miserably and stood. She mustered up a smile. “No point fretting, as Isha would say. Don’t lose too much sleep on my account, you.”
Mati smiled back, easy and soft and open. “Don’t worry about me, love.”
Rostfar clucked and pressed a kiss to Mati’s temple, breathing in his body heat and the scent of his skin.
He leant against her touch and whispered, so quietly she almost didn’t hear. “It’ll be alright. You know that, don’t you?”
“I wish I did,” Rostfar murmured back.
Chapter 3
By the time Aethren had helped Hrall, the ex-Dannaskeld, haul the drifter’s boat in and empty it of possessions, Caerost had dropped to the horizon. Sylvrast was up now, far larger than her red twin, and her light painted everything in ethereal hues. There was no daylight – the sun wouldn’t rise for another few weeks – but a faint shimmer of grey-blue banded the skyline, promising the bitter months of the Quiet would soon be at an end.
Aethren was damp, stiff and bitterly cold, but they could finally breathe now that nobody was around. The streets were eerily still, and Aethren’s footsteps crunched sharply as they crossed the expanse of the mootplace towards home. Light spilled through the cracked-open shutters at the front of the large log house. Like most of the homes in the centre of Erdansten, it had a peaked, grass-covered roof and earth heaped up around the sides so it appeared to be sinking. The red blood-cloth hung from the doorframe, wordlessly denying access to all but the healers, patients, and family. Aethren went down the side alley and entered through the back door instead.
“Pa?” Aethren called as they stepped inside.
The house had turned from home to healing room since Aethren last saw it. Their pa, Marken, was Erdansten’s healer. He had pulled out a dividing screen to hide his bed and moved the ladder for Aethren’s attic room.
&n
bsp; “‘M here.” Marken poked his head out of the door to one of the side rooms. He had a small, sharp cutting tool sticking out one side of his mouth, and he’d tucked his beard down his shirt. “Could do with some help,” he added.
Aethren cursed inwardly, but still found a smile. They rolled up their sleeves, hung their damp cloak on the rack, and followed him into the room.
The air smelled of herbs, but that wasn’t enough to cover the stench of stale sweat and vomit. The drifter – Farla? Faren? – sat on the narrow bed in the corner. His eyelids drooped over unfocused eyes, like he wanted to look at something but couldn’t remember what. Half of his clothes were already off, some of them cut along the seams.
“I had to give him a sedating draught,” Marken whispered as Aethren closed the door. “So, while he’s calm, help me get the rest of these off.” He helped Faren lay back on the pillows and pointed to his boots.
Aethren got to work, but couldn’t resist muttering, “Couldn’t Kristan help you? He is your apprentice.”
Marken gave them a dry, amused look from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Kristan’s with Arketh. I thought he’d rather look after his cousin than a stranger.”
Aethren scowled and yanked off one of Faren’s boots, probably a bit too hard.
Their annoyance vanished as Marken peeled off Faren’s wet undershirt.
“Pa—” the word was involuntary, a request for reassurance that Aethren instantly regretted. Marken’s mouth compressed into a thin line.
“I see it.”
A half-healed wound stood out on Faren’s left shoulder, discoloured with loose threads from his clothes.
Aethren felt sick. Not that they hadn’t seen bad wounds before, but this wasn’t the usual hunting or work injury. It was a bite.
And Aethren only knew of one animal capable of a bite like that.
“Pa,” they whispered again, sharper than before. “That’s a—”
Marken hushed them and nodded. His eyebrows were so drawn together that his eyes were in shadow. He examined the bite with his nose almost touching the broken skin, then nodded again as if making a mental note.
“Carry on,” Marken said. Aethren knew better than to push him any further.
Once Aethren had finished helping Marken put dry clothes on Faren, they followed him out of the treatment room. His mouth was pinched tight and his eyes were grave.
“Go and clean up,” he said.
“But that was a wolf bite,” Aethren hissed back. Marken shrugged.
“My business is only to treat the wounds.”
“And mine,” Aethren said. “Is to keep people of this town safe.”
“Aethren.” Marken’s voice, though tired, took on a stern tone. “First, Faren isn’t from here. Second, it’s Rost-Skelda’s job to keep people safe. You’re a hunter, and as important as that is, there’s no call for you to pile that sort of weight on your shoulders.”
Blood rushed to Aethren’s cheeks. Aethren knew their pa was right; they were just one of dozens of hunters training with Rostfar. But still, still . . . they wanted to do more, be more, because they would never be good enough otherwise.
“I mean it, Ren. You get yourself freshened up, then come down for breakfast.” Marken put a hand on their shoulder and squeezed warmly. “I’ll go sort this out.”
Aethren lingered after they had washed and changed. They lay on their bed, and listened to the rise and fall of conversation below. A door slammed and Aethren picked out the distinct sound of Kristan’s raised voice, followed by Natta’s shorter, snappier tones. Aethren flopped an arm over their face in exasperation; Kristan was probably getting told off for being out at night, even though most of Erdansten had been out after curfew. Getting involved in that was not how Aethren wanted to start a new day.
At last, when the clamour of people coming and going had died down, Aethren hauled themself off the bed. Downstairs, most of the dividers were back in their storage place with the cloaks, and a few more people had come inside.
Aethren looked around, hoping to see Kristan, but there was no sign of their friend. He’d probably slipped away as soon as Natta’s attention moved elsewhere to avoid any mother-son talks. Natta was very fond of having talks the other participants wanted to avoid.
Hrall sat with Ethy, one of Erdansten’s more senior hunters, and Natta. Isha hovered at the edge of the group as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. All four were deep in conversation, talking quietly and casting furtive glances at the door of the side room. Marken sat with Arketh on some big cushions in one corner.
Aethren tiptoed around the edge of the room so as to not disturb the group around their table and put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll finish here, Pa,” they said, giving Arketh a smile. Arketh grinned back. She was the only one who seemed unaffected by what had happened. Marken rubbed his forehead.
“I’m alright,” Marken replied, but Aethren knew it was a lie. And so, it seemed, did Arketh.
“You don’t look alright.” Arketh pointed out. “If I was you, I’d tell you to go lie down.”
Aethren bit the inside of their cheek to keep from laughing. Marken’s face broke into a tired grin.
“Alright, alright.” He ruffled Arketh’s hair. “A good, hot meal and some rest’ll see you right – you too, Ren,” he said, and limped off towards the back room. Aethren didn’t relax until the dividing curtain pulled shut behind him. If Marken was limping again, then Aethren intended to make sure he didn’t do anything else until he had given his leg a rest.
Arketh’s fingers latched on Aethren’s sleeve and tugged for their attention. She motioned for Aethren to lean in closer.
“Uncle Faren is very sad,” Arketh whispered. Her eyes flickered to the side door that joined the living space and the treatment room. It was open just wide enough for Aethren to make out the light of a candle and the outline of Faren’s shoulders. A shiver went down Aethren’s spine as they thought about his wound.
“. . . Ren?”
Aethren shook themself and looked down at Arketh.
“Sorry, I—” Aethren cleared their throat. “Yes, he . . . probably is a bit sad. He had a hard journey.” They knelt and smiled at Arketh, doing their best to sound excited. “Do you want to take him breakfast in bed?”
A shadow passed over Arketh’s face. She crossed her arms and scuffed socked feet across the floorboards, her loose curls hiding her eyes.
“No,” Arketh said, in a flat, cold tone that shouldn’t have come from the mouth of a child. Aethren recoiled inwardly.
“I know you don’t know him, but I’ll be with you, if that’s what—”
“It’s not that.” Arketh bit her lower lip. “I . . . don’t think I like him.”
Aethren was dismayed. “You’ve barely met him!” After a moment of deliberation, they smiled their best inviting, child-friendly smile. It felt stiff and uncomfortable. “I’ll introduce you. It’ll be fine.”
Arketh shook her head. She seemed to struggle to find the right words, and Aethren wondered if the shock of the night had finally caught up with her.
“I don’t want him to be sad. It’s not right. And it wasn’t right that he was in danger, so I had to make sure Mam saved him,” Arketh said with an authority that would have made her aunt Natta proud. She then took a deep breath and continued with the moral certainty that only children can manage. “But I also think he did something bad, and that’s not right either.” She walked off and clambered up onto Isha’s lap, leaving Aethren kneeling on the floor with their mouth hanging open.
Doing their best to brush it off, Aethren took a bowl of stew from the pot by the fire and stepped quietly into the side room. Faren was awake, judging by the sound of his breathing, but his back remained an immovable wall. Aethren cleared their throat.
“You should try to eat something,” they said. Faren let out a rattling breath and coughed.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Silence followed, and then Faren groaned. He sat up, moving like a man afflicted with lockjoint. Bandages covered his ears, and the tip of his frostbitten nose was covered in a stiff salve.
“Ta,” Faren mumbled as he took the bowl with both hands. His fingers were also lightly bandaged, but they didn’t seem to give him too much trouble.
Now that he was no longer shrouded by hat and hood, Aethren could pick out the brotherly resemblance between Isha and Faren. Faren was Ysish instead of K’anakhi, evidenced by his paler skin, but he and Isha shared the same lean features and strong nose. Faren was sharp, though. He had a set to his mouth that suggested he was used to spitting out cruel words to defend himself, and he moved his head in short, stiff increments like a bird readying to strike a fish.
“You want something?” His eyes snapped from his bowl to Aethren’s face with an unsettling intensity. Aethren could understand why Arketh was uncomfortable with him.
“I’m waiting for the bowl,” Aethren said, and it took a considerable amount of willpower not to match their tone with Faren’s. He had been through a lot. Anyone would be jittery after an ordeal like his.
Faren looked down. He had lost so much weight Aethren could see his jaw working beneath his skin. His whole body slumped.
“I’m sorry.” Faren rubbed his hand over his head. “I . . . thank you, is what I mean.”
Aethren gave him a small, wry smile. The gratitude in his voice made them more uncomfortable than anything else. “It’s just stew.”
“No, for everything. You’ve saved my life.” Faren held out the bowl to Aethren with all the reverent tentativeness of a Bloom offering. “I was – this is all so much. You’re too kind, really.”
“Okay . . .” Aethren took the bowl and turned it between their open palms as they tried to make sense of Faren. Pointy and mean-looking one minute, meek as a foal the next. They cleared their throat. “‘S what we’d do for anyone in your position.”
Faren snorted under his breath, but the humour there was dark. “Don’t suppose you get many like me.”
When Dealing with Wolves Page 2