“You know, it’s not me ‘n Pa you should thank. Rost-Skelda’s the one who swam out to save you.”
“That was your Dannaskeld?” Faren seemed genuinely surprised by that. Aethren wondered why Rostfar hadn’t already been to see him. “Isha said – he said she’s his lover, but I didn’t realise he’s lovebound with the Dannaskeld.” He let out a sound that might have been a laugh. Or another cough.
“Right. Well, I’ll let her know you’re up. I’m sure she’ll stop in.” With the most gracious smile they could muster, Aethren turned to leave.
They paused with one foot over the threshold.
Not looking at Faren, Aethren took a deep breath and said, “That wound. No friendly animal would do that. What happened?”
Faren moved faster than should have been possible, given his condition. He lunged forwards as if all his weight was being pulled from the head and his hands slammed, open-palmed, against Aethren’s shoulders. The doorframe dug in between Aethren’s shoulder blades and they lifted the bowl like a shield.
“None of your business,” Faren snarled.
“Get off—”
Natta’s voice sounded over Aethren’s shoulder. “What’s happening?”
Faren shuddered, tensed, and then slumped into Aethren like a wet rag doll.
“He just—” Aethren swallowed, hard. They could barely hear their own words over the thudding of their heart. “He shouldn’t have been up and moving, is all.”
“Sorry,” Faren croaked. Natta let out the same brisk huff she made when Kristan did something stupid and graced Faren with one of her withering tight-lipped smiles.
“You,” Natta said. “Should look after yourself. Come on.” She took one of Faren’s arms, and Hrall squeezed past Aethren to take the other. Suddenly freed, Aethren stumbled backwards into the main room. Their heart still refused to settle.
A gentle touch to the back of their hand almost made them jump out of their skin. They looked down to see Arketh staring up at them. No words passed through the sudden silence, but Aethren could almost feel Arketh’s thoughts. They took Arketh’s hand and squeezed it gently. Arketh didn’t squeeze back.
Her eyes were fixed on the closed door and the stranger who lay beyond.
Chapter 4
The remaining dawn hours passed in a blur. Nat brought Arketh home with a second-hand apology from Isha for his absence, told Rostfar to get some rest, then departed again.
Rostfar didn’t want to rest. She was afraid of what might happen. The doors of her mind were barricaded shut, but she could still feel the wyrdness all around her. Perhaps if it called or cajoled, scratched at her like a fox trying to get into a food store, Rostfar could have ignored it easily – but its power was simply there. Waiting. It demanded nothing from her, unlike everyone else in her life, and Rostfar found that almost irresistible.
No. Rostfar squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into her upper arms.
Beside Rostfar, Arketh turned over and snuggled closer to her side. Her forehead was pressed against Rostfar’s hip, and the warmth seemed to crawl slowly up Rostfar’s body, lulling her to sleep. Rostfar considered waking Mati, who dozed on the other side of the bed, then cursed herself for being so selfish. He was tired. They were all tired. What right did she have to wake him just because she was scared of what might happen? And even if she did, how would she explain it to him?
Rostfar lowered herself down until she could curl her body around Arketh. She hadn’t intended to sleep, and so it was with a nauseating sense of confusion that she jolted awake some time later.
The bright white glare of a whale oil candle flickered in the gloom. By its light, Rostfar saw Mati stumbling about with his blankets still tangled around his legs. He was clearly trying to be quiet, but his bulk made that impossible.
“Fishing,” Mati said when he saw her looking. Rostfar blinked groggily at him. Arketh rolled over and reached for the blanket without opening her eyes, still half-asleep.
“Fishing?” Rostfar frowned at him.
“The last proper fishing trip before the Starve.” Mati finally kicked off the blanket. “I didn’t realise it was still happening – they’re all outside. But of course it’s still happening. It has to. Oh no no no.”
Rostfar ran a hand down her face. She felt . . . disconnected, somehow. Isha hadn’t come home. Mati had to go fishing. The wyrdness had called to Arketh. All these things, unconnected and yet relevant, rolled around inside her gut like stones. Stop it, Rostfar told herself, you’re just tired. She needed to move, to speak, to do something to break the fog in her head.
“You’re going fishing?” It was the first thing that came to Rostfar’s mind. Surprise. Mati rarely went out on boats.
“Fishing?” Arketh sat up at that, her attention caught. She shook her head as if trying to dislodge water from her ears, then scrambled across the bed and joined Mati in searching for her clothes. “I’m going to catch the biggest fish! Bigger than you!”
Rostfar watched the two of them flounder for a while longer, then dragged herself up with a groan. Even though her mind felt full of fluff, her body knew what to do. She fetched clean undergarments and cloaks, then warmed some water from the stone basin so that Arketh could wash her face. Mati and Arketh quickly fell into rhythm around her; Arketh poured out oats and milk for breakfast while Mati sorted out supplies for the day. Neither Mati nor Arketh seemed bothered by Isha’s absence, but she felt it as keenly as a blade beneath her lungs.
“Do you think Isha’s had breakfast?” Rostfar asked once they had all eaten, hoping that her voice was nonchalant.
“Marken would’ve made sure he had something,” Mati said as he ushered Arketh toward the door. “And speaking of Marken, he said you need to rest, so. Rest.” He pointed at the bed with a playful smile. Rostfar tried to smile back.
“See you later, Mama.” Arketh waved, all trace of her sleepiness gone, and ran ahead of Mati into the crisp new day. Mati called for her to wait, then walked back to Rostfar. He carefully rested his hands on her shoulders and peered down at her with a furrowed brow.
“What’s the matter?”
Rostfar stared at her feet, ashamed. “He didn’t come home – it’s no matter. I’m just—” she waved her hand in a vague gesture, wishing she could brush aside her feelings so easily. “Does Ket have her cloak?”
“Cloak? Uh... yes? – wait, no – Arketh!” He snatched the red cloak from its hook by the door and rushed out after Arketh, who had run off to join the fishing party gathering at the centre of the mootplace. Once he caught up with her, he looked back as if intending to carry on their conversation despite the distance, but someone called his name. Within seconds, the crowd had absorbed him into their midst and begun to move off down an alley.
Rostfar waited until she couldn’t see the group anymore, then donned her own cloak and headed in the direction of the training grounds. Ordering her to rest was all well and good, but she couldn’t force her restless body to do something it had no interest in.
Small snowflakes drifted through the still air and settled on her clothes. A few children were trying to build snowpeople in the middle of a small street, but there was too much mud mixed into the churned-up snow. As Rostfar drew level with the children, one particularly lumpy snow-figure’s head rolled off and hit the ground with a wet thud.
“Rost-Skelda!” One of the children looked up and waved.
“Morning, Anya. Magna. Kalda.” Rostfar stopped walking and smiled at each child in turn. These three were Vinni and Laethen’s children. Both of their parents worked with Rostfar – Vinni was a hunter, and Laethen was Rostfar’s right hand – so Rostfar knew the three well. Anya was the oldest at seven winters, followed by Kalda, who was six. Magna was four, just a few months younger than Arketh, and he sat poking at his oldest sister’s snowperson with a stick. Rostfar crouched down and gently gripped the stick’s end just as Magna tried to push the snowperson’s head off while Anya was distracted.
“
No chores today?” Rostfar asked Anya as she coaxed the stick from Magna’s mitten-clad fist. He scowled and folded his arms, but didn’t complain.
“We’re doing our chores,” Anya insisted, pointing at Magna. “Looking after him. But it’s boring. We tried to go and watch the training, but Ethy sent us away.”
“She’s mean,” Kalda said. “Not like you.”
“No, not mean. Just . . . more sensible, I think.” Rostfar smiled wryly. She stood and brushed snow from her knees, but Magna scrambled forward and grabbed the end of her cloak.
“I want a story,” he said. Anya and Kalda both perked up.
“I’m going to check on the wardens’ training,” Rostfar said. She needed the simple physicality of sparring; of something entirely disconnected from the wyrdness and all its magics. Magna and Kalda pouted. Anya, who clearly thought herself too old for pouting, wrinkled her nose in an exaggerated scowl.
“Ethy said you have a day off,” Kalda said and folded her arms. “Because of all that com – commonotion, last night.”
“Yeah,” Anya agreed. “So tell us a story!”
Rostfar could feel her resolve crumbling. Her hand crept to the pouch of miniature telling-stones sewn into her cloak, near to where it fastened at her collar bones. She could have blamed her weakness on the children’s’ earnest pleas, but that would have been a lie. Stories were safe. They were familiar.
“Okay.” She sighed. Kalda jumped up and ran across the street to where a brazier burned between two houses. This far from Erdansten’s centre, the homes were closer together, half-dug into the ground and heaped with earth on all sides, so that the flat rooftops were level with a person’s shoulders.
Rostfar followed as Magna and Anya joined their sister. The three children were small enough to sit on a dry patch of ground beneath the roof’s overhang, but Rostfar couldn’t fit, so she crouched beside the brazier for warmth with her back to the street.
“I want to hear about the Wyrdraegen,” Anya said, eyes shining. “How Norðunn drove back the nasty wreathers. Please.”
“No! You always want that one. Tell us how Erdan built the walls!” Magna demanded and tugged her cloak again. Kalda nodded in agreement with him.
“How about both?” Rostfar said. “Erdan and the Walls first, then the Wyrdraegen. How’s that?”
Anya sighed loudly, but nodded. Rostfar took the pouch of telling-stones from its pocket, but didn’t get them out. That set was simple and very old; it only told the story of how Almr Wyrdsaer had met the ancient god, Hrafnir, and woken him from his slumber. The weight of the pouch was comforting in her hands as she began to speak.
“Before the earth had settled, before magic allowed itself to be bent and shaped, humans lived in terror. Most dwelt on Ysaïn, where the weather was warmer and the lands fertile, but one group dared to settle here. On Ys.”
“The Herdannan,” Anya rushed out. “Our ancestors.” She sounded proud of herself. Rostfar grinned at her.
“Yes, the Herdannan. They fished these teeming waters all year ‘round, but they couldn’t tame the land. Piskies led travellers astray and stole clothes, and kowlings snuck among the yurts at night to play tricks. Harmless things, by and large, but they were a harbinger for something worse.” Rostfar paused for a few heartbeats, savouring the rapt attention and enthralled expressions of the three children. Firelight danced across their faces from the brazier and their eyes glittered. “The Wyrdraegen was over. Norðunn, Erdan and Hrafnir had defeated the other wyrdaetha and secured the world for humankind. But wreathers still remained. They were twisted, tortured beings – not so grand as wyrdaetha, but still too magical to be considered animals – and they resented humankind. They stole food, spoiled crops, brought plague and famine. The Dannhren was ready to relocate his people back to Ysaïn, so great was his despair—”
“But then a beast came walking!” Magna finished, bouncing slightly in excitement. Rostfar blinked at him. He’d said exactly what she was about to.
“Erdan’s not a beast,” Anya hissed, shocked. “He’s a god.”
“The Herdannan didn’t know that yet,” Rostfar said.
“Just let Rost-Skelda tell the story,” Kalda grumbled. “You’re ruining it.”
“Stories are for sharing, Kalda,” Rostfar chided her gently, but she was relieved that the other two didn’t seem eager to interrupt again. The words rolled out of her so easily, effortlessly, like spring water in a brook. She didn’t want anything in their way. “One day, they would worship the beast as a god. But he was also a monster, and for this, the people feared him. His eyes gazed out on the world beneath brows of blooming fireweed, and the antlers of a caribou wreathed his head like a crown. Moss grew on his back and bees nested in the branches of his antlers, for he moved so slowly and so infrequently that he became a part of the land itself.
“Shambler, as they knew him then, was someone to live in awe of. Not someone to trust. He was magic itself, and magic had not been a friend of the fishers for many a year. They debated among themselves long into the night, but at last the old man who served as their Dannhren decided they had no choice. As dawn broke, Old Man walked out of the walls to where Shambler slept. ‘Oh, great mountain-walker, have you come to help us?’ Old man asked.”
(Rostfar’s voice roughened inside her throat. When it left her, it was with the reedy, time-worn warble of Old Man. Anya, Kalda and Magna all leaned in even closer).
“Shambler lifted his shaggy head with surprising speed. Old Man was afraid then, but he would not show it. ‘You’ve woken me,’ Shambler said in a voice that wasn’t a voice at all. His words went right through Old Man’s head, clear as day, although he had no mouth to speak with. ‘For what purpose?’.”
(Erdan’s voice was deep and ancient, made strong by his unfathomable age. It welled up inside Rostfar, barely like her voice at all, and she felt a small twist of worry in the back of her mind. Was this her doing, or something else? Something . . . something she dared not think about.)
“Uneasy but undeterred, Old Man said, ‘You have come to us in a dire time. Will you aid us?’
“Shambler hummed, and the earth hummed with him. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied. ‘We are kin, after all. Or perhaps not, for those you would have me defeat are my kind.’ Then he rose until he stood on his hind legs with his long, long arms dangling down past his knees.
“‘We will give you anything,’ Old Man said, too hastily. He did not understand that the ancient mountain-beast had already decided.
“Shambler laughed. ‘Do not give me thanks. That is all I ask.’
“Old Man was perplexed. ‘Do not thank you?’
“‘I will not accept any instruments of debt from you, little one,’ Shambler told him sternly. ‘Not when I am going against my kind." And with that, he turned and loped back into the mists from whence he came.
“That night, the Herdannan were woken by the thunderous grinding of stone on stone. They stumbled from their yurts, children clinging to their parents in mute terror. Illuminated by Caerost’s bloody light, his body cut from the shadows of deep night, Shambler was an awesome sight to behold. In his long arms he held great boulders, and to these stones he whispered the words of a language that only the earth knew. When the rocks would not listen, he hurled them out into the tundra and then went to retrieve them – all with a gentle, serene gait.
“In the morning, Shambler lay down near his huge pile of stone slabs and half-closed his eyes. The children, curious and frightened in equal measure, edged ever closer. They did not near him that day, nor the next. But after three nights, when Shambler had laid the foundations of the wall, he was no longer frightening. The first to approach him was a girl. Her name was Almr, a name that people would love and fear in equal measure in the centuries to come.”
(Rostfar pictured Almr in her head. The stories said that Almr had black hair and cool, stone-grey eyes, but it was Arketh she saw; Arketh, whose love and curiosity shone from her like the sun. Yes, Arketh would al
so have been the first to venture forth and meet the beast.)
“Almr rode on Shambler’s shoulder the next day, half-hidden amongst the fireweed and lousewort. He made strange flowers blossom from his palms and Almr wore them in her black hair with pride. Crisp, sweet berries grew along the ridges of Shambler’s spine for the children to eat and he would hold them up so high that they could pretend to touch the clouds. They loved him, and he loved them in return. That, for Shambler, was worth more than all the thanks and gifts in the worlds.
“By the Bloom’s end, Shambler had finished the walls around the settlement, but he showed no signs of leaving. The people grew accustomed to seeing him asleep outside their walls, or carrying most of the village children on his back. He helped with the roe-harvest and whispered old words to the earth to make it fertile. Beads of clay and silver adorned his antlers, glinting in the sun and moonlight, and the birds that once found safety on his body fled for quieter, child-free heights. The children wanted to share their sweetcakes, so Shambler made himself a mouth and sat at mealtimes, tiny little drinking-bowls clasped in his huge fingers. In time, the adults loved him, too.
Only Almr withdrew from Shambler’s shadow. She heard how the adults spoke – asking favours when Shambler was content by blazing fires, using their children as mouthpieces if they thought he would not otherwise agree – and it rattled her. Shambler had trusted Almr with his true name, told her secrets and showed her how to let the magic of the wyrdness into her soul. Old Man’s game made her bristle.
“In the depths of the night when everyone was asleep, Almr donned her cloak and crept out to Shambler’s sleeping-place. Seated upon his shoulder, she whispered her suspicions and begged him to leave. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said, holding on to the crags of his face so she could gaze into one drowsy amber eye. ‘But if you stay here, they’ll chain you up with your own kindness.’ Shambler did not believe her. He didn’t want to. And he continued to dismiss her claims night after night, until the fateful feast on the last day of the Bloom.
When Dealing with Wolves Page 3