“Maybe if you weren’t around her so much,” Isha spoke slowly and deliberately. “If you didn’t encourage her, it’d go away.”
“But—”
“Your magic is killing her,” Isha’s voice turned sharper than she’d ever heard it. “And I can’t stand by to watch.”
It would have hurt less if Isha had plunged his hand into her stomach and wrenched her guts out. Rostfar stepped back. Her shoulders slumped. Isha seemed to realise what he had said then, because he reached out as if to take her hand. Rostfar pulled away from him.
“Wait, Rostfar—”
“I need a walk.”
“You can’t go out there alone! It isn’t safe.”
“You want me gone, don’t you?” Rostfar whirled on Isha when he tried to follow her. Their noses were almost level; the proximity was like an attack on Rostfar’s skin, but she stood her ground. “Then that shouldn’t be a problem.” She turned and stalked off into the night.
⁂
Aethren stood in an alert stance, their spear held ready, only half listening to Kristan talk about healing salves. In theory, Aethren was accompanying Kristan to protect him while he gathered herbs that only grew around Whiterift. Natta hadn’t explicitly stated that Aethren was to protect him from wolves; she hadn’t needed to. The thought was on everyone’s minds, even though Whiterift Camp hadn’t been attacked in living memory.
It was a good thing, probably, that Natta had such faith in Aethren’s abilities. But what use would they be? They had only seen wolves once, about a year ago: two had come inexplicably close to Erdansten, and one had fallen into a practise trapping pit.
Those wolves had been small – children, according to Marken – and helpless. An adult wolf was another matter entirely. Wolves were big. Tall as a pony, some of the older hunters said, and in possession of magic.
No, Aethren would be as much use as a teapot made of ice against such a creature.
“Hey, Ren?” Kristan poked Aethren in the small of the back. They spun on one heel and snapped into a defensive stance, cursing themself for their lapsed attention.
“What’s wrong? Is – is – oh.” Aethren slumped when they realised that Kristan had just been trying to get their attention. He laughed and slung his small willow-weave basket over his armless shoulder, then held the handle in place with his teeth as he secured the straps around his waist as well. Aethren glared at him. “You startled me.”
“Well, that was obvious. Come on, Jumpy, I want to get back for dinner.”
“There’s no point in hurrying. We’ve missed dinner,” Aethren grumbled, but picked up their pack and followed Kristan down the incline back to camp anyway.
Halfway along the path, Aethren stopped. Kristan continued to walk on ahead, oblivious, but Aethren couldn’t make themself catch up. The skin on the back of their neck prickled. Determined to squash this irrational anxiety – and it would be irrational, because it always was – Aethren shielded their eyes from the snow-glare and looked away from the camp.
Their heartbeat stopped. Their stomach turned to stone.
Across the lake, where the tundra morphed into rocks and hillocks, a storm was rolling in. Bruise-dark clouds crackled above a bank of mist so thick it looked like cream. The hair on the back of Aethren’s neck prickled. They had the distinct impression the mist was loping towards them like an animal.
“We have to get back,” Aethren spoke softly, but panic rose in their chest.
Kristan wrinkled his nose in confusion. “That’s . . . what we’re doing?”
“No, there’s—” Aethren’s mouth had gone dry. “Something’s wrong. That’s not a storm.”
“Uh, I know what a storm looks like.”
“That’s not—” Aethren bit off the rest of that sentence. They could have sworn the clouds had eyes; that a huge head and spiny teeth were emerging from the depths of the mist. It had looked, for a breath-taking moment, like a wolf. And then it was over. The first drops of frozen rain struck their upturned face.
“It’s a storm,” Kristan said again. Aethren shook their head and looped one arm through his, urging him on.
By the time they reached the camp again, the first tendrils of mist had already settled and the wind begun to gust. People scurried to and fro with ropes, battening down the hatches for the storm to come.
The camp would be fine – it had weathered many such tempests, uniquely situated as it was in the shallow remnants of a valley – and yet. There was a bad taste in Aethren’s mouth.
“Aethren!”
Aethren looked around at Isha. He looked awful, his eyes red-rimmed and his brown skin had an ashen pallor. Worried. Aethren’s own panic flared up in sympathy.
Aethren headed over to where he stood in the shelter of a yurt. “What is it?”
“Have you seen Rostfar?” Even this close, Isha still had to shout over the thin, high-pitched keening of the wind.
“No, why?”
“She went out on over.” He motioned in the bridge's direction. “And nobody’s seen her since.”
Aethren bit their lower lip and stared northwards. Over the bridge. They couldn’t think of a single reason anyone would want to venture out into the tundra on Whiterift’s far side.
And then they remembered Isha’s red eyes, his drawn face. His guilt.
Aethren rounded on him.
“What did you say to her?” They demanded. Isha jerked back as if slapped although Aethren had deliberately left a few feet between them.
“Nothing, we just had a fight.”
Aethren was about to snap again and found that someone had a hold of their elbow.
“What’s going on?” Kristan looked between Isha and Aethren. Aethren grimaced.
“This – this—” They bit back an insult. “Isha upset Rost so bad she went off into the tundra.”
“Oh.” Kristan sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes were glassy with horror, but he wasn’t looking at Aethren and Isha anymore.
“What is it?”
Kristan could only point. Aethren turned around.
The mist was now so thick Aethren could barely see their outstretched hand. They didn’t even remember how the change in weather had come about – it simply came.
“Maybe we should stick together?” Isha offered. Under other circumstances, Aethren would have called him a coward. But not in these. Their hand reached for Kristan’s, drawing him closer.
Someone began to scream. It was high and unearthly, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Kristan tried to run forwards, his hand already reaching for his medical pouch, but Aethren grabbed at the hood of his cloak.
“Don’t!”
“Someone’s hurt,” Kristan hissed. “A child. What if it’s—”
“You’re a child.” Aethren knew that would hurt Kristan, but they didn’t stop to watch the words register on his face. “Stay here.”
Aethren crept around the side of the yurt, their heart in their mouth. Figures flitted through the fog. Inhuman. Intangible. Aethren kept going until they found the smouldering remains of a fire. A long stick protruded from it as if someone had been stoking the embers before—
Before whatever happened to them.
Aethren gripped their spear tighter. Something ran past, so close Aethren could feel the heat coming off it. They whirled and blindly lunged. A sharp yelp cut through the eerie silence, then – nothing.
Aethren wished they had their bow and arrow with them. A spear was good, but it wasn’t what they were best at. Their hands were clammy, the wood in their grasp slick with sweat. They shifted into middle-stance, light on their feet but hard to topple. Ready to move or hold their ground, whichever the situation called for.
Heavy breaths sounded off to their right.
“Show yourself,” Aethren called. Oddly enough, the hollow, gnawing fear that lived in their stomach had vanished. In its place was a steely determination. “Come on, face me.”
The thing snarled, but Aethren still couldn’t see it. T
hey turned towards the sound, slowly, wary of making any sudden moves.
“A child of the raven,” said a disembodied voice. And then again, with more urgency. “A child of the raven, here among humans.” The voice was thick and low and not at all human. Aethren bit back the impulse to correct the creature, to demand a clearer explanation, and snapped into attack-stance.
An achingly familiar voice drifted from the mist, and Aethren shuddered to a halt.
“Mama?” Arketh called. Aethren’s blood ran cold. A wind buffeted past, and they turned to follow it with their spear’s point. Too late. They couldn’t say how they knew, but the thing had gone.
Gone after Arketh.
“Run!” Aethren screamed. Was it their imagination, or was the mist starting to thin? They thought they saw the wolf’s outline and whirled for it, only to find Mati at the of their spear.
Mati looked panicked, but not because of the weapon levelled at his chest. He swatted it aside without a thought and took Aethren by the shoulders.
“Where did she go?” Mati shook Aethren so hard their teeth rattled. “I had her hand – then she – did you see where she went?”
Aethren could only shake their head.
“I heard,” they started to say, but Mati brushed them aside and made a beeline for the next person. Aethren stumbled and hit the ground.
People were everywhere, calling out names of family and friends. The mist had thinned to a faint cloud, bringing with it a fresh fall of sleet. Aethren could smell burning. A child stumbled in front of them, sobbing, but a parent snatched her up. The world ground on in slow motion.
“Aethren!” Marken’s voice cut through to Aethren as if from a great distance. They forced themself to look at him.
He came limping from between two yurts, moving as fast as he could with his lopsided gait. His hair was wild and tangled, and there was blood in his beard. Aethren reached for it in mute horror.
“Tripped. Bit my tongue,” Pa panted as he pulled them to their feet. “Are you—”
“Arketh,” Aethren hissed. “Pa, I had her – and the wolf was – and it . . . all because I was too slow—” Then they could say no more, because Marken pulled them into a crushing hug.
“Don’t,” he breathed. So, Aethren didn’t.
Chapter 11
Rostfar spent the storm crouched in a small hollow between boulders, rocking and shivering as her anger rampaged like the winds outside. Only once both storms – the one inside and the one without – had abated did she pick herself up and walk back to camp.
The snow inside camp was churned into muddy sludge, frenzied with the marks of running feet. Rostfar’s step slowed. Her breath caught in her throat. A child’s ragdoll lay on the snow; its head dangled by a few threads as if it had been wrenched from someone’s hands, and a boot mark marred its pretty red dress. Rostfar hadn’t thought there was anything left inside of her to feel, yet a keen blade of guilt and horror slid into her spine.
She walked further. A crowd of people emerged from the mizzling rain.
“What’s going on?” Rostfar forced herself to ask. The crowd parted for her without a word.
Isha and Mati sat at the front. Faren was there too, his hand on Isha’s shoulder as if letting go of his brother would spell doom for them all.
No Arketh.
Rostfar couldn’t make herself move another step.
“How?” she asked, her voice too shrill. Isha flinched. Mati looked down. It was Faren who spoke, his mouth twisted in a sneer.
“She went looking for you,” he spat the words at her feet like a curse and his grip on Isha’s shoulder tightened.
“We don’t know that,” Mati cut in, but he sounded unconvinced.
“Maybe Eyrik was right,” Faren muttered. Rostfar blinked at him and drew a shallow breath.
“No.” Her hands were up before she gave herself time to think, shoving Faren away. He caught her by the wrist. Rostfar twisted his hand around, bending and trapping it between them. The lack of space was sudden and violent.
Faren’s mouth was open as if there was something he could say to take those words back, as if he had any right to speak about family. Her family. Rostfar felt the crowd shifting around her, but she refused to back down.
It was this or accept the reality of what had happened.
Someone behind her said something, a warning, but she ignored it. Everything fell into place.
Arketh was gone. The wilderness and the wolves had taken her.
“You weren’t here, you—” Faren began, and Rostfar punched him.
Or, she would have punched him.
Nat got to Rostfar before she could do any damage.
“He’s a slimy little salamander,” Nat hissed. Her fingers curled into the back of Rostfar’s cloak. “But don’t do this here. Come on.”
Rostfar looked around at the crowd’s wide, shocked eyes. She shoved Faren backwards with all her strength, so that Mati had to catch him, and allowed Nat to lead her away.
Nat took Rostfar back to her place, where she gave Rostfar blankets and a steaming bowl of tea.
Nat’s cabin, half underground with two of the original stone walls still intact, had been at Whiterift long before anything else. By some unspoken agreement, each Dannhren passed it down to the next along with the title, but nobody had held their place in it longer than Nat. There were chips in the doorframe recording Kristan’s growth and colourful rugs on the floor. Rostfar’s heart ached.
“Hungry?” Nat’s voice at Rostfar’s ear made her jump. Tea splashed out of the drinking-bowl onto the wooden table and Rostfar tried to wipe it up with the sleeve of her undershirt. Nat stopped her. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I do.” Rostfar pulled herself free and soaked up the rest. Then she sat there staring at her sodden sleeve and wondering why she had thought that would be a good idea. The liquid was cold and unbearable against her skin.
Nat got Rostfar a fresh shirt without either needing to say anything. By the time Rostfar had gotten changed in the small, divided-off corner, Nat had served up two bowls of stew. Rostfar sat with her knees tucked up to her chest and stared at it.
It was usually her sitting in Nat’s position. She had only had to deliver the awful news to parents twice before – once when a child fell through the ice at Whiterift, and again when a young woman died of exposure after getting separated on a hunt. Rostfar remembered finding that last body, frozen stiff and torn into by foxes. The patterns in the ice that coated the girl’s exposed sinew had been sickeningly beautiful.
Rostfar swallowed down the bile in her throat with a scalding mouthful of stew.
“It was a wolf, wasn’t it?” Rostfar finally asked.
Nat pressed her lips together. “Do you really want to hear this?”
“Tell me,” Rostfar said, because that was better than lying. She didn’t want the details, but she had to understand.
“Mati says it was a whole pack, they just appeared out of the mist and vanished again without a trace. Others claim they saw one or two, some say there was no wolf at all. Whatever it was, it caused chaos.” Nat ran a hand down her face. “All anyone can agree on is those bastards sounded just like humans.”
“And Arketh?”
Nat lowered her voice, possibly to hide the faint tremor building in her tone. “Mati lost her in the confusion. Everyone scattered and we think . . . Arketh might’ve followed the voices. They couldn’t find her.”
“Okay,” Rostfar said, because she didn’t know what else to say. An unhinged sort of noise bubbled up in Rostfar’s throat. “Fuck, no, it’s not. It’s – what do we do? What do I do?”
“You do nothing,” Nat said firmly. “You need time, for the shock, and you’re half blue with cold.”
“I’m not in shock. I need to find my daughter.”
“Rost, you’ve got to look after yourself.” Nat reached out for Rostfar’s hand as she would have done for any other upset townsperson but remembered herself
at the last moment and pulled back. “Do you want a hug?”
“No.” Rostfar turned away. The memory of Faren so close to her personal space still burned her skin, the way he looked at her as if he knew exactly how it was her fault. Rostfar wondered if Isha had told his brother her secret. She wondered if she could ever trust Isha again. Or if he’ll trust me.
Nat was still talking, outlining plans for a search group. But Rostfar had lost the ability to listen anymore. She got up, went to one of the beds, and curled up with her head under the covers until the rest of the world just went away.
Part II
The Fall and the Fury
Chapter 12
The three days following the return to Erdansten were longer than they should’ve been. Desperate to get away from the blame she was certain she saw on Mati and Isha’s faces, Rostfar moved back into her old home. She hoped the small cabin, nestled in the outskirts of Erdansten’s North-East sector, would give her some anonymity.
It did not.
Small gifts piled up on the steps around Rostfar’s cabin as if washed there on a tide of shared grief. When she tried to escape it by resuming her duties, everyone regarded her with such soft eyes that she wanted to scream. People kept asking how she felt, if she needed anything, if she wanted to talk – and Rostfar couldn’t explain that she didn’t know the answers to any of those questions.
Lying in a makeshift bed in this place that had once been hers, Rostfar stared at the ceiling and drifted. Nat had reassigned it as a guest-house, available to immigrants, traders, emissaries, or anyone else who needed it. Scores of unfamiliar feet had passed through here over the last five years; strange hands had moved the shutters, dusted the hearth; families had stayed here, loved here, lived here. It wasn’t hers anymore. It wasn’t home.
But she didn’t know where her home was. Not now that her family was falling apart.
A knock on the door broke through her thoughts. Rostfar ignored it. The knocking came again, louder, and Rostfar’s anger spiked. Why did everyone think they had a right to intrude on her grief? This pain was a deep, lonely thing; one nobody else could understand. She was mourning twofold, once for the daughter she loved and again for what they had shared. Without Arketh, Rostfar was alone in more ways than she could ever explain.
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