When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  Shock, Marken said, but he and Rostfar both knew that something else was at work. Something worse. Neither wanted to be the one to speak its name.

  A knock on the door made Rostfar jump. She sat in silence for a few long, agonising heartbeats, debating if she could get away with ignoring it. Surely, they would sound the great drums if anything urgent happened. Arketh was with the Beekeeper, Urdven, and Mati and Isha were investigating a broken gate at the stables. The only person who might knock was Faren, and Rostfar had no desire to face him.

  The visitor knocked again.

  “I’m coming,” Rostfar called out, and cursed her sense of duty.

  Aethren stood on the doorstep, kitted out in travelling gear. Rostfar wrinkled her nose in confusion; there were no hunts or forays scheduled for the day.

  “Um—” Aethren took a deep breath. They cast a cautious glance back at the moothall, then blurted out, “You’re late for the meeting.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a meeting.”

  “But . . . it’s the wrong time of day.” Rostfar opened the door a little wider and narrowed her eyes. “Ren, is this some . . . I don’t know, a joke? Are you and the others up to something?”

  Aethren folded their arms. “No,” they said shortly. “Look, I dunno what’s going on. All I know is, the council’s in the hall and Pa made a – um, a suggestion – that you should know about it.”

  “What sort of meeting?”

  “How should I know?” Aethren hesitated and rubbed their bleary eyes with both hands. They had looked as exhausted as Rostfar felt during training. “I just . . . I’m doing what Pa asked. You should go see for yourself.”

  Rostfar struggled to give Aethren a grateful smile. “Thank you, for letting me know. I’ll go over in a moment,” she said, then slammed the door shut and sagged back against it.

  A meeting, without letting her know. She thought she knew what was going on. Nat had a habit of hiding things from people if she thought it was for their own good, so this meeting must be something to do with her. Of course, Marken would still make sure she was aware – he was a good friend like that – but his loyalty brought her no comfort.

  Maybe people wanted to cast her out of the council, Rostfar thought wildly. Maybe someone knew the truth about Arketh’s discovery of Faren and had threatened to blab.

  She hit her head against the door behind her and clenched her fists. There was only one way to find out.

  Rostfar hurried through the swirling eddies of snow, her boots crunching on the frozen earth. The hall looked empty, but as she got closer, she saw warm firelight spilling through a crack between the huge doors. She felt as if those familiar doors were a long, long way away. Cold sweat trickled down her neck.

  The malstennen – the objects that represented each elected council member – hung in a neat row from the doorframe. Rostfar’s miniature whalebone shield was still there, right next to Nat’s oblong of polished gemstone. Ethy had a feather, Hrall an arrowhead, Urdven the bony crown of a hivequeen, and Marken a miniature replica of his staff.

  Rostfar took a deep breath, reassured herself she had every right to be there, and walked inside.

  The doors had barely swung closed when the urge to turn tail and run seized her in an iron grasp.

  Astvald’s father sat opposite Nat at the oval table, his arms folded tightly to his chest. He fixed Rostfar with a foul look. She could remember his name now – Eyrik. Not that it would be any help here.

  “I thought she wasn’t supposed to be here,” he said. Rostfar didn’t know how to answer that, so she ignored it.

  “Your son has my prayers,” she said instead, but she didn’t believe her own words. Maybe Eyrik sensed that. Or maybe he didn’t believe in prayers either. His face was a fixed, icy mask.

  Rostfar remained standing. She had her back to a brazier, but her spine and armpits prickled with cold dampness. The continued silence from all sides was the worst part.

  “My son’s dead,” Eyrik snarled.

  Rostfar wanted to shrivel up and hide. “Wh – when?”

  “Not long ago,” Marken said. Eyrik folded his arms and looked away.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

  “Well, at least you know now.” Eyrik’s tone dropped to a scathing whisper. “For all the good it’ll do.”

  “I am truly sorry.” Rostfar twisted her hands together. She didn’t know what else to say, what else to do. Over Eyrik’s shoulder, Nat shook her head in a short, near-imperceptible movement. Stop talking. But Rostfar couldn’t stop. “I can only imagine your pain, and if my daughter was . . . I’d be angry, too.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Rostfar saw Nat’s shoulders slump. Erik’s head snapped up and his lips twisted into a snarl. “How can you be sorry? You made him crawl like an animal.”

  “Our Dannaskeld did exactly what she should have done,” Nat said. Not sister, not Rostfar – Dannaskeld. Nat’s voice was flat and hard. “There are creatures out in the tundra that have stolen a lost child’s face before. We had to be sure.”

  “Did you?” Eyrik narrowed his eyes, but he wasn’t talking to Nat. Rostfar felt pinned under his gaze, like a squirrel caught in a snare. “Because there're things I’ve heard about you, about how much you like those monsters from the stories. And I have to wonder if maybe you wanted to meet one for yourself—”

  Nat smacked the flat of her palm on the tabletop. “Eyrik.”

  Eyrik shivered as if physically shaking her off. “With respect, Nat-Hrenna, my questions are for your sister.”

  “It’s alright,” Rostfar forced herself to speak. She felt sick.

  “No,” said Hrall. “It isn’t. Rost-Skelda has served Erdansten steadily for years.”

  “Yrl Hrallvir’s right.” It was Marken who spoke next, his mouth a hard line beneath his brown beard. “What happened to your boy is a tragedy, but there’s nobody around this table who’s to blame. His injuries were the work of a wolf.”

  Eyrik’s mouth twitched. “No,” he spat. “That just doesn’t happen. Not if the Dannaskeld does their job. It doesn’t.” His eyes had a fevered, trapped-animal quality to them that made Rostfar’s heart ache for him.

  “Come now.” Ethy chose that moment to step in. She put her hands on Eyrik’s shoulders, her beetle-dark eyes glistening with moisture in the firelight. “Let’s you and I have a hot drink. We can work out what you want to do next.”

  Ethy had a charisma about her that made people listen. Eyrik swallowed his next words and allowed her to guide him away from the table. Rostfar mouthed her thanks to Ethy, who merely gave a serene smile and put an arm around Eyrik’s shoulders.

  As soon as they left, Rostfar sank against the table. Her heart stuttered madly in her chest and her palms were slick with sweat. She wondered if she was coming down with a sickness.

  “We’d intended to deal with that without you,” Hrall said softly and pulled out a chair for her. “To save you the experience.”

  “I’d rather know if someone’s unhappy with me,” Rostfar said. She tried to keep her voice pleasant; she liked Hrall a lot, and he had always had faith in her. It wouldn’t be fair to get angry at him when Nat was in the wrong.

  “I think we should call it for today.” Nat stood up and pointed to the doors.

  Urdven cleared his throat nervously. “Um, shouldn’t we discuss what to do about the wolves?”

  Nat looked at him like she had forgotten he was there, which wasn’t hard. Urdven was excellent at avoiding detection; it was how he had befriended a nomadic hive of bees.

  “And we need to plan for our newest arrival,” Hrall added. “Find him a home, learn about why he left Myrardaen, discover his skills – all that.”

  Nat pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s staying with his brother, yes?”

  Rostfar opened her mouth to say Yes, but couldn’t they find somewhere else. Nat didn’t give her a chance.

  “Good,” Nat said, as if Rostfar had answered. �
�We’ll go into more detail another time.” Her voice was final. Everyone around the table knew better than to argue.

  Hrall and Urdven filed out.

  “Should I send Arketh home?” Urdven asked, hesitating in the doorway.

  “If it’s no trouble, can she stay a bit longer? I’ll be by to pick her up after . . .” Rostfar gestured at the council table.

  Urdven grinned. “Your girl’s never any trouble. I’ll see you later.”

  The door closing behind him felt too final, too damning. She sank back into her seat, knowing she couldn’t avoid this talk forever.

  “Is it true?” Rostfar turned to look at Nat and Marken. Neither of them would meet her gaze. “People are getting suspicious?”

  “No,” Nat said, at the same time as Marken said, “Yes.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Rostfar stared at Nat, her tone dry and acidic. “At least I can trust my sister to be honest with me, right?”

  “Of course you can,” Nat said.

  “You just lied to me!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did! And you tried to keep me out of a council meeting.”

  “I didn’t want you to have to face Eyrik’s accusations.” Nat paused and gave Marken a withering look, as if her mistakes were his fault. “I was only doing what I thought’d be best for you.”

  Rostfar scoffed. “This is exactly why Kristan doesn’t talk to you anymore.”

  All the blood vanished from Nat’s cheeks. She took a step forwards, her lips twisting, but Marken grabbed her shoulder.

  “Please,” he said softly. “Sit down.”

  Nat bristled, and Marken’s fingers tightened on her shoulder. She didn’t sit, but she did take a step back.

  “Nat, I told you I wouldn’t stand for secrets.” Marken sat down at the head of the table, his fingers laced together and tucked under his chin.

  Rostfar couldn’t stop the wry laugh that tumbled from her lips. “Isn’t that what we’re doing here?” she said. “Keeping a secret?”

  “No. We’re keeping you and Arketh safe.” Marken’s voice was as patient as ever, but Rostfar thought she could detect some steel in it, too. She looked away from him and let her eyes fall on the crackling embers of a brazier. He was right; he usually was.

  “Who?” Rostfar asked at last. “Who’s suspicious?”

  “Ethy, I think.” Marken sighed out through his nose. “She’s very, um . . . interested, in how Arketh just happened to find her uncle moments before he succumbed to the elements.”

  “Ethy’s fine. Nosy, perhaps a bit too keen to wriggle into everyone’s business, but fine. She’s more a problem for me than you.” Nat shrugged, finally sitting down. She folded her hands on the table. “It’s Ket’s night terrors I’m concerned about. They’re getting attention.”

  Rostfar put her head in her hands. “But this is all the stuff that happened to me, and nobody raised any questions then.”

  “That was different; we had anonymity on our side, then.” Nat’s voice rang with impatience. “But everyone’s looking at us now – at you. We’re the Dannhren and Dannaskeld.”

  Rostfar glared at Nat through the gaps between her fingers, wanting to snap that she’d never asked to be Dannaskeld. That had been Nat’s idea, and Rostfar had never been much good at saying no. She still wasn’t. Her stomach felt full of tangled worms. She’d been doing her best; she was careful what she said, what she did, where she went. Nat had most of the responsibility, because that made it easier for Rostfar to hide in her shadow.

  Rostfar had done everything right. And it wasn’t enough.

  “There’s a sedating draught I can make for Arketh,” Marken said. Rostfar clenched her jaw so hard it hurt.

  “We’re fine.”

  “It’ll lessen the hold magic has on her.”

  “No.” Rostfar shook her head. The wormy, twisting feeling in her stomach was advancing up her throat. “She doesn’t need any of your medicines, because she isn’t sick.”

  Nat looked like she wanted to say more, but Rostfar stood up. She could feel herself trembling and she couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset. Maybe both. The only thing Rostfar felt for certain was guilt.

  Rostfar didn’t want help. She wanted someone to talk to who understood. Nat and Marken could try to understand, and they did alright most of the time, but sometimes . . .

  Stars save her, sometimes Rostfar wished they wouldn’t try at all. They didn’t know what it was like to have magic when everyone trusted you to protect them from it; nobody did.

  “I’m going now,” she said.

  Nobody tried to stop her.

  Chapter 7

  A day’s walk from Erdansten, nestled into jagged folds of rock, sat the sunken town of Eahalr.

  Aethren’s heart beat hard in their throat, swelling with every step they took. They weren’t breaking any rules. There wasn’t any reason to fear. But every time they made this journey, their stomach grew heavy with slick, queasy guilt. They didn’t relax until they left the coast path and caught sight of Kristan, waiting with Aethren’s pony at their usual meeting point. He waved and Aethren grinned in relief.

  Aethren didn’t know how many people knew about Eahalr, but they were certain the number was small. Oh, there were stories, but few had ever thought – or dared – to look. Mam had though, when she could still get up and walk around. She used to bring Aethren here during the endless daylight hours in the Bloom.

  “Hands up!” Kristan called, flinging a saddlebag at Aethren. They caught it square in the chest. “I’ve been waiting here for ages. What took you so long?”

  “Oh, the usual,” Aethren responded, dry as ice. “You know, ‘Aethren do this! Aethren do that! Where’s Kristan, Aethren? Where are you going, shouldn’t you help your pa?’” They pushed their face into the side of Pony’s neck, breathing in the scent of open air and sea breeze. “I was one goat’s beard hair away from pitching a fit.”

  Kristan ruffled Aethren’s hair and pushed their head away from Pony’s side. “You should be less of a stickler for rules,” he said. “Then nobody’d have such high expectations of you.”

  Aethren just rolled their eyes. Kristan had two advantages for getting out of Erdansten that Aethren didn’t: his position as a healer’s apprentice, and his reputation as an incorrigible little shit.

  “Let’s just go,” Aethren mumbled and tugged on the strap of Kristan’s support harness, which helped him maintain his balance in the saddle. He clicked his tongue, and the three of them set off.

  The flat stone roofs of Eahalr’s half-submerged houses made perfect training grounds. Aethren knelt on the damp stone and took an arrow from their quiver. They shut their eyes, even though it was pointless – Caerost hadn’t risen yet, and the darkness was absolute.

  The air was so cold it felt like something alive, crawling inside their lungs. Aethren took a deep breath and let it in. Their heartbeat, red and warm, was the loudest thing in the night.

  “Okay . . .” Aethren flexed their fingers around the grip of their bow and drew back the string.

  It always came down to strings. The fine threads of the air, the faint tendrils of sound from other living creatures, the feeling of something guiding their hand. Aethren didn’t fight it. They feared a lot of things in life, but not this. Not archery.

  Through the crack of their eyelashes, Aethren saw

  (felt)

  the barest flicker of movement. They let the arrow fly.

  “Oh, shit!” Kristan shouted, his fist held aloft in triumph as if he had been the one to shoot the arrow. His face emerged, spectral but alight with glee, from the doorway of the only unsubmerged dwelling in Eahalr.

  The hut was small and dome shaped, situated on a flat river boulder that extended into the marsh. It overlooked the rest of the sunken city like a lonely eye. In the depths behind Kristan’s scrawny figure, firelight painted its grey-black walls gold, and smoke spilled from the tiny brick-built chimney.

  Aethren scowled and
let out a deliberately slow breath. It frosted in the night air.

  “Are you going to get that?” Kristan pointed in the vague direction Aethren had been aiming. Aethren squinted, eyes adjusting to the gloom. They could just make out a small lump floating in the brackish water.

  Picking up a long stick, Aethren crept to the edge of the roof and carefully pulled the carcass close. A ptarmigan. They pulled it, soggy and still warm, out of the water and held it up by its feet.

  Their arrow had pierced it straight through the neck.

  Kristan whistled in appreciation. “That looks a lot more appetising than the dried caribou you brought.”

  “I hadn’t intended to catch anything,” Aethren said quietly. Kristan gave them an odd look, and they shook their head to clear it. “Whatever – can’t waste it now.”

  A natural stone bridge connected their rooftop to the hut. Aethren crossed it carefully and then joined Kristan in the warmth, clapping their hands to get the blood going again. Kristan took the dead bird from them and sat on the floor to prepare it, holding the carcass steady between his feet.

  Aethren left him to it and took a pail of oats through to the wooden shack attached to the back of the hut. It was newer than the rest of Eahalr, and always strangely warm inside, as if someone had just put out a blazing fire. Pony stood dozing at the back, but she lifted her head when Aethren arrived and snorted a quiet greeting. They smiled and set to work making sure she would be comfortable for the night.

  By the time they returned, Kristan had their dinner well underway. Aethren helped him with the last stages of roasting the meat, and they ate in companionable silence.

  Once done, Aethren made two bowls of tea, and then the two of them sat down in the hut’s arched doorway. With a fire at their back and the dark wetlands and floating roofs sprawled before them, Aethren felt more at peace than anywhere else.

  Kristan also seemed to be watching the scenery, but Aethren doubted he was really seeing it. Now that he thought Aethren wasn’t watching him, his face was tight and nervous. They could see him chewing the inside of his lower lip.