When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  “I . . . hadn’t even thought about that,” she said slowly. “Do you think she’ll be well enough to go?”

  “I think there’d be nothing better for her,” Marken said, and grinned.

  Chapter 9

  A little of the tension Rostfar carried on her shoulders dissipated, as it always did whenever she approached Whiterift. The camp never seemed to change, no matter what the years did to it. She could see it ahead of the walking procession: the clean swathe of the tundra interrupted suddenly by a cluster of yurts that sat beside the vast, glittering river.

  The past two weeks before their departure for Whiterift had rolled along beautifully. True, Arketh was withdrawn and quiet – but she slept through the night now, and hadn’t had any more terrible dreams. And yes, the scouts had had some disturbing reports from Whiterift, but animals often got into the yurts when nobody was there to maintain them.

  The Whiterift holiday was going to be good for Arketh, and Rostfar didn’t want anything to change that.

  Mati’s voice drifted from further up the scree path. He, Isha, and a dozen or so others had gone on some way ahead. Arketh glanced at Rostfar as if asking permission.

  “Go on then.” Rostfar nudged Arketh forwards. “Go tell them off for leaving you behind.”

  Arketh grinned. She hared towards her fathers, her arms up in the air in a silent plea to be carried. The plea seemed to be directed towards Isha, but it was Mati who swooped in and lifted Arketh up onto his shoulders in one clean movement. Arketh’s shrieking giggles curled back on the wind to where Rostfar held the rear.

  “Good to see the lass smiling,” Ethy said fondly, appearing at Rostfar’s side. “Seeing her like this, it’s hard to remember she’s sick.”

  The little bubble of joy in Rostfar’s chest burst, painfully. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Ethy patted Rostfar on the shoulder in that clinging, gentle way Rostfar hated. “Isha told me she’s been poorly lately, but I won’t tell anyone else.”

  “No, of course.” Rostfar forced her lips into the shape of a smile. “I appreciate that.”

  Ethy continued to catch up with the main group, and Rostfar trailed slowly behind.

  “Yrl Rostfar!”

  Rostfar turned as Ornhild broke away from a huddle of people standing just off the path and started towards her. Ornhild’s eyes were bright with a sense of adventure and, Rostfar thought, fear.

  “Is it true?” Ornhild leant in as if conspiring with Rostfar, but Rostfar knew Ornhild’s friends could hear every word.

  Rostfar took a measured step back. “Is what true?”

  “That they found wolf shit on the beds?”

  Rostfar inhaled air through her teeth, a slip Ornhild surely noticed. Lying when asked a direct question had never been Rostfar’s strongest point; it robbed her of the chance to get the words together properly. Ornhild waited, almost bouncing on her tiptoes, hands clasped.

  “There were traces of animals here, yes.” Rostfar managed. “But – we looked and couldn’t find much else.”

  Relief and disappointed scudded across Ornhild’s face in quick succession. Rostfar resisted the urge to laugh – not an unkind urge, just one of fondness. She knew what was going on in Ornhild’s mind.

  “If you’re looking to prove yourself, you’ll get a chance.”

  Ornhild’s cheeks turned an even darker shade of red. “I—” Ornhild glanced back to her friends, among whom Rostfar could make out Aethren and a few more of her most ambitious trainees. “Well, we . . . uh.” She looked down at her feet.

  “You’ll have your chance,” Rostfar reiterated carefully, “So long as you don’t go looking for trouble.”

  Ornhild gulped audibly. “Yes, Rost-Skelda.”

  “And tell Aethren.” Rostfar did her best to put some humour into her tone. “That if I sent you lot out unprepared, their pa would slip some poison in my tea.”

  There was laughter, and the easy atmosphere Rostfar expected from Whiterift returned. She made a round of the camp’s perimeter, then finally went and joined her family.

  Mati was outside, chatting with people from neighbouring yurts as he tended a large fire. Isha and Arketh stood at a wooden table with Enaak, a K’anakhi man who had come to them from A’avenshka last Bloom. Arketh was on a step-stool and had a chopping board with some potatoes on it in front of her, but seemed far more interested in Enaak’s hair. Like all K’anakh storykeepers, Enaak wore a sheath-like wrap of soft leather, called a vaansket, around his long braid. It was finely tooled with symbols, and Arketh kept running her fingers over them while Enaak skinned a hare.

  Rostfar was close enough now to hear the three of them talking in Kanh’ken. While Rostfar could only manage a few odd phrases, Arketh had taken to speaking both Ysmalír and Kanh’ken like an auk to the air. It warmed Rostfar’s heart to see her so content.

  Arketh suddenly stopped poking Enaak’s braid and turned around. “Mama’s here!” She cried, and leapt down from her stool. Isha set down his knife and came around the table to take her hand in his. His smile was small and uncertain.

  Rostfar and Isha hadn’t been alone together for days. Rostfar felt as if they had called a tenuous truce, but it only held when other people were there to ease the tension. She looked at her fingers entwined with his for a moment too long. Isha told me she’s been poorly lately. Rostfar mustered up a smile.

  (Not now. We’re okay now, don’t ruin it)

  “Faren’s not here then?” Rostfar asked stiffly, trying not to show her relief. Isha looked away.

  “Ethy offered him a place with her,” Mati said. He didn’t seem to notice the tension. “I said he didn’t have to, but he seemed to think he’d enjoy himself more if he had some space.”

  “Oh,” Rostfar said. Mati finally seemed to realise that the silence was an uncomfortable one. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, glancing between Rostfar and Isha. Isha just wandered back to the food preparation table without a word.

  “Can we try the stones again, Mama? I’ve been waiting ages.” Arketh tugged on Rostfar’s sleeve. Did she know what she was interrupting, or was it a coincidence?

  Rostfar tore her gaze away from Isha so she could smile at Arketh. “Alright then.”

  Arketh cheered and scampered into the yurt, leaving Rostfar to follow.

  Inside the warm dimness, Rostfar nestled into the bed and pulled Arketh into her lap. She took out her small pouch of telling-stones and emptied them onto the bedspread.

  “They’re almost faded,” Arketh said sadly as she held three in her palm and turned the inscriptions to the light. Rostfar frowned at the rest of the set, realising that Arketh was right. They’d become worn from constant rubbing, even inside the protection of a leather pouch.

  “We can repaint them when we go back to Erdansten.”

  Arketh’s face immediately lit up. “I’ve never seen you do that before!”

  “Time I showed you then, isn’t it?” Rostfar smiled at Arketh, who scrambled out of her lap so she could sit at the other end of the low bed. “But you need to know how to read them first, so’s not to mess up the symbols.”

  Arketh turned the inscriptions back and forth and her face fell. Rostfar waited in tense silence for Arketh to speak. Arketh pushed a stone towards Rostfar.

  “Why didn’t they save him?” Arketh’s voice was unusually solemn.

  “Oh, Ket . . .” Rostfar didn’t know what else to say. The stone was painted with the symbol for a bird, intersected with three carved lines. Rostfar had known this symbol before she could talk.

  Hrafmaer. The wards of the god Hrafnir. He was rarely worshipped in Erdansten – the people preferred to recall their founder-god, for whom the town was named – but his legacy still clung to their stories like mist.

  “You said they help lost children.” Was it Rostfar’s imagination, or was there an accusatory hint in Arketh’s voice? Rostfar swallowed.

  “In some stories, yes,” Rostfar allowed. She didn’
t want to admit to Arketh that that was all they were: a story. The closest Rostfar ever came to praying was to the hrafmaer; it had comforted her as a child, that somewhere in the Wyccmarshes there might be a society of all the lost and wayward souls. People who, like her, had never quite fit with society. But it was only a story. And Arketh would have to learn that one day.

  Rostfar licked her lower lip.

  “Ket, the hrafmaer haven’t been seen for a long time.” Rostfar gave Arketh a soft half-smile. “And sometimes . . . sometimes people die, and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

  Arketh turned the stone over and over in her hands in a gesture learned from Rostfar. She frowned deeply.

  “Am I going to die?” Arketh spoke so quietly Rostfar almost didn’t hear her.

  “What—?”

  “Because Papa Isha says I’m sick. Heard him telling Ethy so.” Arketh still didn’t look up. “And Uncle Faren told him it’s your fault.”

  The wild, angry thing Rostfar kept stifled in the depths of her soul lifted its head at those words. Rostfar curled her fist under the covers so Arketh wouldn’t see.

  “No.” Rostfar managed not to shout, but she couldn’t stop her voice from shaking. “No, you’re not sick. You’ve been . . . you’ve got a gift, Ket, and don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “I know,” Arketh said, but she didn’t sound convinced. The worst of it was, Arketh looked sick. Her pale brown skin had an ashen cast, and her eyes lacked their usual spark. Ever since she’d started taking Marken’s medicine, it was like she was fading away before Rostfar’s eyes.

  Rostfar sat back and swept the telling-stones back into their pouch before holding out both of her hands.

  “I want to show you something,” she said. “I’m going to show you the place where magic went to hide.”

  “But I thought we’re not allowed to,” Arketh whispered, leaning in close. “You’re always saying I mustn’t.”

  “We’ll be quick.” Rostfar glanced at the doorway and put a finger to her lips. “Nobody’s here but us, and I think this’ll do you some good.”

  Arketh’s eyes went wide, and she took Rostfar’s hand. Her palms were tiny and cold inside Rostfar’s calloused fingers. Where their skin touched, Rostfar felt the wyrdness twine about them like invisible string. Arketh must have felt it too, because she stared in wonderment as if she’d never seen hands before. Despite all her guilt and fear, Rostfar grinned.

  “Ýgren – Aethren’s mam – showed me how to do this,” Rostfar said quietly, feeling a small pang of old grief as she remembered Ýgren’s slim, smooth-skinned hands around hers. Arketh looked up, her eyes full of firelight and wonder, and her little fingers held on tighter. “Shut your eyes and follow the current. Can you do that?”

  Rostfar waited until Arketh’s eyes were firmly closed, then cast a last glance at the door. If anyone came in, it would look like they were meditating, or playing some sort of game. Hopefully.

  She forced down her fears and shut her eyes.

  It usually took Rostfar a few moments to let the solid world melt away, and even then, she couldn’t feel much. The stories claimed the wyrdsight was more beautiful than all the stars, spring sunrises, and night-time skyfires put together; that seeing through it was like looking into another world. Rostfar used to dream about what the wyrdsight might be like, but she’d gotten no further than that. She didn’t know how. 

  Tonight, some new, thrilling power set her awareness free.

  Arketh’s consciousness was a moth with wings of white fire, flitting through the fuzzy lights of the wyrdness as easily as a fish in water. Far away in her body, Rostfar felt a surge of pride. She wanted to follow Arketh’s glorious light, but her body was already calling.

  Between one heartbeat and the next, Rostfar fell back into the confines of her flesh. She reluctantly opened her eyes.

  Arketh’s face was slack, her eyes still closed. Rostfar waited with bated breath as Arketh’s eyelids fluttered. A thin slit of grey-blue appeared beneath her lashes. Her fingers spasmed in Rostfar’s grasp.

  When Arketh finally opened her eyes, they were glistening.

  Horror plunged through Rostfar’s gut. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  Arketh shook her head and grinned.

  “I saw Astvald,” she said. Rostfar forgot how to close her mouth. She just stared at Arketh. “He’s with the whales and the ghosts, all of them swimming in the stars. Did you know there’s more, above the wyrdness?” Arketh’s voice was distant and dreamy, but her eyes were bright with clarity.

  “Um. Yes,” Rostfar croaked. If she wasn’t so enraptured by Arketh’s joy, she might have felt a bit jealous. “That’s the eðir.”

  “Ooh.” Arketh clapped her hands twice and wriggled her whole body in sheer delight. “It’s so pretty. Why’s magic got to hide up there?”

  “It’s waiting for more little shrubs like you to see it,” Rostfar said seriously. “For children who aren’t afraid of what they don’t understand.” And for some reason Rostfar couldn’t place, she added, “Never change that, Ket. It’s stronger’n any magic.”

  Arketh moved forwards without warning. She planted a wet kiss on Rostfar’s cheek and Rostfar, unprepared, toppled backwards.

  A messy wrestle ensued, Arketh all elbows and sharp knees and Rostfar laughing too hard to tell her off. It felt so good to forget, just for a while, the problems of life. They both rolled off the low bed and Arketh sat on Rostfar’s chest with a toothy victory grin, cheeks flushed.

  “Got you!” Arketh crowed. Rostfar flopped back onto the hard-packed earth with a breathless laugh.

  A noise from the doorway made Rostfar sit up. Isha stood there, half inside the yurt, a fond smile on his face.

  “If you’re quite finished playing fox cubs,” Isha said with a laugh in his voice, “Dinner’s ready.”

  Chapter 10

  Once they had eaten and cleared away, Mati took Arketh out to watch the skyfire with the others from nearby yurts. Isha hadn’t looked happy when he realised that he would be alone with Rostfar, but he hadn’t changed plans, either. She’d felt hopeful about that. Foolishly.

  “You’ve been ignoring me,” Rostfar said. She didn’t tear her gaze away from the flames, but she heard Isha’s sharp intake of breath. He sat further down the log, sewing up a hole in Arketh’s cloak.

  “I’ve been talking to you?” It sounded more like a question than a denial. Rostfar closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “But not . . . it’s only when the others are around.” Rostfar forced herself to look up so she could see the expression on Isha’s face. He hadn’t looked up from the needle and thread in his hands.

  “Rost, I don’t want to fight.”

  No, Isha never wanted a fight. That was the problem.

  “Maybe we should,” Rostfar said flatly. “Fight, that is. Maybe there’re things we need to say.”

  Isha’s mouth opened without a sound. His dark eyes glittered with moisture and his lower lip trembled. Guilt twisted in her gut.

  “I’d like to know you’re on my side.” Rostfar tried desperately to keep her voice level. “I’d like to know you trust me, even with all this going on.”

  “I am, I do.” Isha said. “I love you.”

  Those words snapped something brittle and sharp inside Rostfar. She sucked in a deep breath. “Before we left, Faren was saying things – as if I’m hurting Arketh, and you didn’t . . . you let him. Like you agreed with him.”

  Isha flinched.

  Silence opened between them with a noise like thunder. Rostfar’s arm hair prickled as ice slid into her gut. Her breath snagged around the anger in her throat, but when she spoke, her voice was tiny. “Isha?”

  “It’s not – I know you can’t . . . but, you.” Isha balled his fists and shook his head. “I don’t agree with him but maybe, maybe he’s got a point?”

  “Is that why you’re telling people Ket’s sick?”

 
Isha’s head jerked up like a ragwork doll pulled by a string. “How d’you know about . . .?”

  “She overheard you and asked me if she’s dying.” Rostfar didn’t want to raise her voice, but the wild anger she kept so carefully stifled was rising beyond her control. He seemed about to speak again, and she cut right across him. “When did you last pick her up? Spend time alone with her? You treat her like she’s diseased!”

  “Oh, by Keh and Keh-Ahn.” Isha’s voice cracked, and still he tried to keep talking, tripping over his own tongue. “I only mean that this thing – this, this wyrdness, it’s no good for our girl. It’s like having a ghost in the house some days.”

  “Don’t.” The broken plea was like poison on Rostfar’s lips. She’d stood up at some point, and she didn’t even remember. Her knees were like water. Her stomach was liquid. Fuck, fuck.

  “You might’ve dealt with all this before, but we haven’t.” Isha shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like for us, and you wouldn’t help her!”

  Rostfar’s fingers went, unbidden, to the scar on her top lip. She’d gotten it while sleepwalking; the wyrdness had called to her, and she followed until she fell down a shallow ravine miles and miles from Erdansten. Nat said she’d been half blue when they finally found her.

  “We’ll put a bell over the door,” Rostfar said, but she knew it was futile. “There’re ways, things we can try.”

  “I’m already trying. But that draught from Marken isn’t doing shit.”

  “The wyrdness is part of her – of me – and we can’t suppress it. The healthiest I’ve seen her these last weeks was when she was letting the wyrdness in!”

  Isha took his turn to gape at her. “But . . . we agreed. We agreed we weren’t going to let the wyrdness get her! When were you – in there, before dinner? Is that what you—?” He didn’t seem able to finish.

  “Yes, we were. And you know what?” Rostfar lifted her chin in defiance. “She’s amazing. Her power – it’s twice mine, maybe more. I’m not going to make her supress it.”