When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  “Is something wrong?”

  Kristan shook his head, but he wouldn’t look at Aethren. A scab stood out on his lower lip where Eyrik’s flailing fists had struck him, and the shadows made him look older.

  “Are you – are thinking about Astvald?” Aethren picked their words and tone carefully.

  “They’ll be burning his body tonight.”

  “I know,” Aethren said. “But we didn’t know him. We don’t need to be there.”

  “‘S not just that.” Kristan tucked his knees up to his chest. “I’m not meant to say anything, so don’t go telling – but Eyrik’s accusing Rost of failing her duty as Dannaskeld.”

  “Is that why they tried to hide a council meeting from her?” Aethren asked sharply. “That’s mostly why I was late. Pa sent me to fetch her.”

  “I heard Mam talking about it with your pa, before the meeting. Well . . .” Kristan paused and wrinkled his nose. “Arguing about it, more like. Marken was livid that Mam had changed the meeting without telling Rost.”

  Aethren opened their mouth to ask how he’d heard all this, but Kristan ploughed on without stopping to draw breath. “‘S like Eyrik thinks Rost could’ve been in two places at once, but if anyone’s done wrong here, it’s Mam.”

  “Krist!” Aethren stared at him, appalled.

  “Aethren.” Kristan mimicked their tone and met their shocked gaze with a stubborn expression.

  “That’s barmy.” Aethren shook their head in disbelief. Kristan was angry at his mam, and Aethren understood that – Natta showed how much she loved Kristan by simultaneously coddling him until he wanted to scream, and holding him up to strict high standards. But this . . .

  Didn’t Kristan realise it was Rostfar who organised the security of Erdansten? Or had he willingly forgotten?

  Wary now, Aethren tried to change tact. “How’s it Natta’s fault?”

  “Because Mam won’t take the fight to the wolves,” Despite the confidence with which Kristan spoke, Aethren had the nasty feeling they weren’t his words. He’d said nothing like it before.

  “What’re you—”

  “Ethy says the only way is to go burn down their forest so’s to stop them causing trouble with their magic.”

  “You should stop talking to Ethy so much,” Aethren said. Kristan flushed.

  “She’s interesting.” Kristan’s voice rose in pitch. “I don’t see why it’s a problem.”

  “Ethy’s too extreme!” Aethren rubbed their forehead with the heel of their hand, caught between exasperation and anger. “She once told me to pretend I’m not so good at archery, in case someone thinks I’ve got magic and wants to cut my head off. Who even says that to a ten-year-old?”

  “Well, she’s right! You can shoot arrows in the dark.” Kristan threw up his hand, scattering his dinner. “And you still don’t miss. It’s unnatural.”

  Aethren froze. Their breath stuttered to a halt. He means I’m unnatural. A sudden, ravenous desire to hit Kristan around the head with his own bowl reared up in their stomach. They clenched their jaw and let out a deep breath.

  “Let’s . . . let’s not fight.”

  “You’re just miffed I’m right.” Kristan retorted, but some bite had left his voice. He looked peeved instead of outright pissed off and, Aethren thought, sheepish. The tension flooded out of his hunched shoulders.

  Aethren didn’t understand what was going on between them lately. Every conversation seemed to veer towards an argument, no matter how light the subject or how amiable their moods.

  Kristan was headstrong and gullible – and Aethren had always known that about him; always found a kindred spirit in his outbursts. His mischievous streak and quiet acts of rebellion were why they could tolerate him better than anyone else. But now their friendship was changing, becoming . . . what? Enmity?

  Aethren curled their fists inside their sleeves and berated themself for such extreme thoughts. Maybe the gap between Aethren’s eighteen winters and Kristan’s fifteen had finally gotten too wide.

  Or maybe it was Aethren’s fault. Somehow.

  “Let’s just go to sleep,” Kristan said. His voice sounded small.

  Aethren curled up in their sleeping bag with their back to Kristan, listening to the soft humming of the nightlife that inhabited Eahalr’s murky wastes. Just as they were about to drift off, Kristan cleared his throat.

  “I . . . I didn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you, Ren,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  Aethren smiled a drowsy, bittersweet smile and said nothing in reply.

  Chapter 8

  Rostfar approached Urdven’s home slowly. It was just before first moonrise, and most people were settling in for dinner. Behind her, a few communal fires glowed merrily between the clustered houses; ahead, a long path stretched down to where Urdven’s home sat, squat and slightly lopsided, right in the shadow of the walls. The path that branched away from the town towards Urdven’s house still gleamed grey-white in the darkness, with only a few lines of footprints to mark where Urdven and Arketh had passed. Well-liked as Urdven was, few would willingly approach a hive of bees. Not even a friendly hive like this one.

  Rostfar could hear the faint, undulating buzz of wings as she stepped up to the door to wait. A small, insectoid figure, about half the size of her littlest finger, rose from the shadows around the eaves and zipped up toward the roof. Urdven let her in moments later, a warm, gap-toothed smile on his face.

  “How’s she been?” Rostfar asked. She shook the snow from her hood, then entered the sweet-smelling warmth of Urdven’s home.

  “Excellent as always. She wanted a bit longer up there, so I let her have it.” Urdven took Rostfar’s cloak and hung it by the fire to dry. He cleared his throat and stood by the drying rack, twisting his fingers together, eyes on the floor. Rostfar waited for a few heartbeats before she realised that he was waiting for something. Or hesitating. Those two things could be similar, sometimes.

  “What is it?”

  Urdven glanced warily up at the hatchway to the attic, then motioned for her to follow him. He pulled aside a curtain at the back of his living area, revealing a long workbench littered with various bone and steel tools. Nervous now, a bad taste building in her throat, Rostfar stepped through the curtain.

  “What do you make of that?” he asked. “I’d have said at the council, but . . . well, there wasn’t time.”

  Rostfar stared.

  There on the workbench, half-wrapped in a piece of cloth, was a hivequeen. She was recognisable by her size and the black, antler-like crest that protruded from her forehead. At full height, she would easily be as long as Rostfar’s hand – but she was curled up, her gangly limbs tucked to her body, her iridescent wings crumpled at all angles.

  “Yours?” Rostfar asked, horrified. Urdven shook his head, but his expression was still sad.

  “I was checking on one of the new tundra hives. They were thriving last week and I was just earning the hivequeen’s trust, but when I found them yesterday . . .” He shuddered. “All the workers, dead. I brought her back, thinking she’d be okay, but—” a choked sob ripped through him.

  “What was it?”

  “No signs of illness, Rost-Skelda, and a hunter or forager would’ve taken the honey and larvae. No, the whole hive was in ruins and the little family of honeybears that nested by them were dead, too. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Bile rose in Rostfar’s throat. “I – I’ll look into it, but it’s late. Arketh . . .”

  “Yes, yes.” Urdven flapped his hands, gesturing for Rostfar to go upstairs. “She doesn’t know, of course. Thought it’d be best.”

  Rostfar thanked Urdven, then climbed the ladder to his upper floor. The worker bees, each with robust fuzz-covered bodies and spindly legs, scurried through the rafters with no regard for Rostfar’s presence. She could see a few scouts as well, small and lithe like the one who had been watching outside. Should someone enter the hive without permission, these were the ones
who would attack – although small, their teeth and stings were lethal in great numbers.

  A chittering sound made her look up. The hivequeen crouched on the rafter directly over Arketh’s head. She was eerily humanoid in shape and manner, although there was nothing really human about her. Her wings moved slightly with each breath as she leaned forward, spindly fingers resting on the wood beneath her, and scoured Rostfar with her glossy black eyes. With no mouth or nose and a narrow, pointed face, her gaze was a haunting thing.

  After an agonising wait, the hivequeen bowed her head.

  Enter.

  “Thank you,” Rostfar said. The hivequeen simply spread her wings and disappeared into the humming depths of her hive.

  Arketh lay in her usual place beneath the roof-join, watching the heart of the beehive. It spread throughout the rafters in a bulbous, orange-yellow mass. Small shadows moved beneath its membranous skin, illuminated by some unknown source deep within. Rostfar thought that a hiveheart looked like someone had chewed a lump of bread, then spat it out. Arketh thought it was beautiful.

  “Do I have to go now, Mama?” Arketh asked without looking away from the hiveheart. Rostfar laughed, feeling the stress of the day melt away from her shoulders.

  “‘Fraid so, Ket. Urdven’s going to want to get some sleep soon.” Rostfar reached out invitingly. Arketh groggily climbed into her arms, letting Rostfar carry her back down. “You had a nice day though, didn’t you?”

  Arketh nodded then shrugged – and if that wasn’t as reassuring as Rostfar would have liked, it was at least better than seeing Arketh upset.

  Mati had dinner ready and waiting when they returned home. Faren was already curled up on his makeshift bed in the corner, which suited Rostfar just fine. She wanted to be with her family tonight.

  Mati and Isha discussed the best way to fill in an order of nails from Ysaïn before the Bloom tradesmoot while Rostfar ate in silence, content to listen to their half-bickering, half-teasing banter. She only stopped them when Arketh almost fell asleep in her stew.

  “I’ll put her bed,” she said. Isha and Mati kissed Arketh’s forehead and blessed her with sweet dreams, then Rostfar carried her up to bed. As she put Arketh down, Arketh reached out and latched onto Rostfar’s sleeve.

  “Want me to stay awhile?”

  Arketh nodded. Rostfar tucked her in and then lay down on the low bed, pulling Arketh close.

  Rostfar didn’t think she slept. No dreams came for her, and she felt as if she had barely put her head down when she became aware the bed was empty.

  “Ket?” Rostfar croaked, easing herself up. She was stiff from sleeping in such a cramped space.

  “They’re hurting,” Arketh whispered. She knelt in the middle of the floor, illuminated by Caerost’s red light.

  Rostfar half stumbled, half crawled towards her, tripping on the blankets and Arketh’s discarded shoes. Night terror, she told herself. Unpleasant, but normal. All children dreamed of terrifying things sometimes.

  “You’re safe, Ket, and nobody’s hurting.” Rostfar said softly and took Arketh’s hands in hers. “Come on, you’re awake now. The dream can’t get you anymore.”

  “Not now. Then. They were hurting when the not-wolves came.” Arketh lifted her head and stared straight at Rostfar.

  Rostfar wanted to shout for Mati and Isha, but she couldn’t get enough air. A cold, queasy weight sat on her chest, stopping her from breathing properly.

  “Ripping, tearing . . . they had a hunger, but not for food. For joy. It liked killing and they hurt. They hurt. The scouts first, stinging, but it couldn’t feel, and their blood was golden in the snow—”

  “Please, Ket. You can ignore it, whatever it’s showing you – you don’t have to let it in.”

  “—the honeybears tried. Too small though, far too small. Red blood next, as well as the gold. So much of it—”

  “Stop!” Rostfar squeezed Arketh’s hands and pulled them close. Her skin was cold and clammy.

  Arketh lurched away from Rostfar. She tripped on something and landed hard on her backside. She blinked. Her eyes cleared.

  Rostfar dared to suck in a breath of relief.

  And Arketh began to scream.

  “Ket!” Isha’s face appeared through the hatch, pale and haggard. His eyes widened in alarm.

  “Get Marken!” Rostfar didn’t explain. Didn’t know how. Arketh was almost convulsing, her face screwed up as she wailed. Rostfar pulled Arketh into her lap, trying to soothe her as they rocked together.

  Hours seemed to pass in the space of minutes. Arketh eventually stopped shaking and lapsed into Rostfar’s arms, limp as a rag, her eyes rolled back to show nothing but white. By the time Marken arrived, Rostfar was trembling so hard she could have been convulsing herself.

  Mati peeled Rostfar away and helped her down the ladder to the dining table, where they all sat in tense silence as Marken examined Arketh upstairs. Rostfar could feel Mati’s desire to ask what happened; she had learned the pattern of his body so well she didn’t even need to look at him to read it. Isha was a little more difficult, but the incessant drumming of his fingers on the tabletop told Rostfar enough. Neither would broach the subject while Faren sat stiffly on a stool by the fire, his dark eyes fixed intently on the floorboards.

  Mati, Rostfar, and Isha looked up in unison when Marken descended from the hatch. He accepted Mati’s offer of a hot drink and a chair and sat heavily.

  Rostfar had to squeeze the question out of her throat. “Is she—?”

  “She’s sleeping.” Marken smiled at Rostfar and then glanced at Faren. Rostfar followed his gaze just in time to see Faren look away, fiddling with his hands in his lap. She tried to brush it off. “I’m recommending bed rest for the next couple of days. What happened?”

  Rostfar swallowed. “She . . . fell, and then – I’m not sure.”

  Marken looked for a moment as if he would like to push further but seemed to realise the reason for Rostfar’s reluctance. He scratched his beard.

  “Well,” Marken said, picking his words carefully. “I think perhaps it’s time to try that medicine we talked about, for her sleepwalking.”

  “What medicine?” Mati came over, bearing enough drinking-bowls of tea for everyone in the room. Stirring for the first time in a while, Isha leant across the table with his eyes fixed on Marken.

  “You can stop – it?”

  Rostfar looked down at her hands. Her knuckles had gone white, she was clenching them so tightly into fists.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Marken, no—”

  It was too late. Both Mati and Isha had seized onto the idea.

  “Rost . . .” Mati put his hand on her shoulder. “If it helps her, I think it’s a good idea.”

  “Me too.” Isha nodded.

  Rostfar opened her mouth to argue but, to her surprise, Faren spoke up. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “‘S up to all of you, isn’t it? Not just Rost-Skelda.”

  Rostfar didn’t know what was worse: hearing her honorific title under her own roof or having Faren break into a conversation he couldn’t possibly understand. She jerked back into her chair, stung.

  “Rost had a – a similar condition,” Mati said, his hand never leaving her. Usually, Rostfar would find that weight reassuring. Not tonight.

  “I want to try it,” Isha said with unusual fervour. Rostfar looked at Mati, hoping so hard it hurt.

  Mati tore his eyes away from her. “I think we should.”

  “If it helps, I don’t see the problem,” Faren added, which made Rostfar’s blood boil.

  “You wouldn’t,” Rostfar snapped at him. He stared back at her as if genuinely shocked.

  “It was just a suggestion,” he said, curling his upper lip.

  The mounting argument was interrupted by the deliberately loud screech of chair legs on the floorboards. Marken eased himself to his feet.

  “I’d like a word with Rost, outside?”

  Once they were out in the
chill night, bundled from head to toe, Marken dropped his healer’s facade. His eyes softened and his face went sad.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.” Rostfar scuffed her feet in the snow.

  “Her – dream – it was about a hive and its bears. Being killed by a wolf. Or, rather – something like a wolf.”

  Rostfar’s eyes widened. “Ket told you that?”

  “In pieces, yes. Not coherently. I’m guessing.” Marken grimaced. “What could have brought it on? Do you have any ideas?”

  Rostfar wanted to snap that the wyrdness was unknowable, uncaring; it showed terrible things without any consideration for those it picked. How would she know?

  “Urdven . . . found a hive, all dead. He showed me the hivequeen earlier on. Said the hive had been destroyed.” Rostfar said instead and hugged herself, digging her fingers into her upper arms. “What does it mean, Marken? What do I do?”

  “She’s a brave girl, Rost, but enough is enough. Having to see and feel things like this, it isn’t fair on her.”

  Guilt iced the inside of Rostfar’s chest. “I know. I just . . . I don’t want her thinking she’s sick, or like she has to hide.”

  “She does have to hide.” Marken’s voice was soft and sympathetic. It clung to Rostfar like a sheet of ice.

  “I know,” Rostfar said again. In the absence of all her panic, she felt tired. Empty. All she wanted was to curl up in bed with Isha and Mati and wait for all this hardship to pass.

  After a while, Marken cleared his throat and touched her elbow. “You know,” he said. “You’ve got one thing to look forwards to with her.”

  Rostfar frowned. “What?”

  “Ket’s old enough to come to Whiterift this year.”

  Rostfar blinked in surprise. Whiterift. Every year, as the frozen Quiet began to thaw and the world passed into the lean, in between-time of the Starve, the people of Erdansten would pack up and spend a week in the fork of the two great rivers. They had honey cakes and spiced mead, and sang old songs to welcome the return of warmer weather. Everyone worked together to build the Bloom Tower, which sat on the middle of the frozen river; when the ice thawed and the tower collapsed, all knew that the Bloom had come again. It was Rostfar’s favourite time of year.