When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  Kristan shuddered once, twice, and then pulled away. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.

  “Carving gives me something to do, whatever the case,” Kristan said at last. “Keeps me busy. Stops me dwelling.”

  Aethren smiled slightly. “Well, it’s . . . it’s pretty.”

  Kristan nodded noncommittally. Aethren could see him folding his emotions away and it hurt – but what could they say? They would do the exact same thing. So Aethren ruffled his hair and moved to stand up. He grabbed their arm, then let go just as quickly. Looked down.

  “Stay?” he asked quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired and grouchy. How about I stick the kettle on?”

  Aethren smiled, tight and thin. “Alright,” they said. “I’ll stay. We can be tired and grouchy together.”

  As Kristan went outside to fill the kettle from the large copper urn, Aethren bent over the carving again. They could see it more clearly now: two panels, one showing Rostfar fleeing from a pack of wolf-like shapes, one with Rostfar turning to face them alone, her shield and spear raised high.

  “There are honey cakes on that box on the shelf,” Kristan called as he opened the door. Aethren straightened up quickly. For a heartbeat, theirs and Kristan’s eyes snagged on each other. Aethren licked their lips. Kristan glanced at the carving, picked up a cloth, and tossed it across the workbench. His expression was hard and defiant.

  Sick to their stomach and terrified in a way they couldn’t name, Aethren looked away.

  The summons to the peoplesmoot came as a single, deep note that split the morning quiet, followed by the pounding of a drum. It echoed from each of the four watchtowers along Erdansten’s walls and then cut off abruptly.

  Stiff and sore, Aethren got off the bench and shook Kristan awake. He blearily followed them out into the dawn, half-heartedly muttering about breakfast. Aethren ignored him.

  Ethy and Natta were huddled together in the moothall's shadow, talking in soft whispers. Aethren stopped short when Natta looked up. She had painted her eyelashes and lips white like the new-fallen snow, and polished wooden beads shone in her braided hair. Aethren understood then better than ever how Natta had held her place as Dannhren for so long – she was the perfect blend of terrifying and awe-inspiring.

  “Almost late for your first peoplesmoot on the council, Aethren,” Natta said reproachfully. Then her eyes softened. “Here, you look like you need it.” She went to a pot that sat on one of the braziers and ladled some sort of brew into a small drinking-bowl. The liquid was dark and smelled strongly of roasted flower roots and bark. Aethren knocked it back, expecting a foul taste, and was pleasantly surprised.

  “Mati’s recipe. Isha brought it.” Nat inclined her head towards where Isha sat on an upturned barrel, staring into nothingness. He looked lost, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there.

  “We should begin,” Ethy said, sidling up to Aethren’s side with her own bowl of brew cradled close to her stomach. “Let’s not keep everyone standing in this chill any longer than needed.” She looked right at Aethren. “Don’t you agree, Yrl Aethren?”

  Aethren glanced around. The mootplace was rapidly filling up. “We can’t start yet. Where’s Pa and Laethen?”

  “There.” Natta inclined her head towards where Marken was edging around the outside of the clearing, clutching his medical bag in his hands. Laethen followed close behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” Marken huffed as he drew up.

  “Magna was ill in the night. I asked Marken to look in on him.” Laethen looked rumpled, although her blonde hair was neatly secured in a single leather-bound braid, K’anakhi-style. She massaged her temples. “Vinni can watch them for now.”

  Natta clicked her tongue sharply. “You’d think the world would stop after one tragedy, let us get our breath.” She shook her head. “But that’s not how it is. Come on.”

  Silence fell as Natta and Laethen mounted the dais, followed by Ethy, Aethren and Marken. Natta stood tall and firm before her people, ready to address their concerns.

  She didn’t get a chance.

  There was a commotion as the crowd stirred and parted, and then Aethren was looking at Faren’s sharp face. Astvald’s father, Eyrik, stepped up to Faren’s side, and the two of them made as if to walk straight onto the dais steps. Voices swirled around them in annoyance at the interruption of usual proceedings.

  “Step back,” said Urdven, lifting his hands placatingly. Eyrik didn’t seem to hear him.

  “Has that one been cast in?” Eyrik jabbed a finger up at Laethen. “Is she a more suitable Dannaskeld?”

  “It’s temporary,” Aethren said quickly. “Until Rostfar is found or—” their eyes met Kristan’s where he stood off to the side. “Until Rostfar is found.”

  “I didn’t ask you.” Eyrik shook his head. He was so gaunt, he made sharp-faced Faren look positively radiant. A muscle twitched over one eyebrow like something was growing beneath the skin, readying to burst out.

  Nat’s whistle cut through whatever else Eyrik was about to say. She lowered her forefinger and thumb from her mouth and fixed Eyrik with a stare that was both compassionate and cold.

  “If, Eyrik, you wish to speak, stand up here,” Natta said. “We’ve had our ways since before Erdan built us our walls. Please, respect them.”

  Eyrik looked down and scuffed his boots through the dirt. In his abashed silence, it was Faren who stepped in. He clapped Eyrik on the shoulder and stepped onto the dais’ lowest tier. For a moment, it didn’t look like Natta would stand aside for him. Aethren held their breath.

  “What did you say to Eyrik?” Natta whispered to Faren as she stepped down a tier, so softly only Aethren and Faren could hear. Faren gave her a tight smile.

  “Only the truth you’ve been blinded to,” Faren murmured and then, to the crowd he said, “Losing my niece before I truly learned to know her near broke my heart but I am glad Rostfar is gone.”

  Shocked whispers. At the rear of the crowd, Aethren caught sight of Mati trying to make his way through without causing a commotion. They silently willed him on.

  “What’s it to do with you?” someone yelled from the back. “You’ve only been here, what? Barely more’n a month?”

  Faren kept talking, raising his voice. “Rostfar had a sickness in her – a sickness my brother bravely told me was magic.”

  The silence was deafening. Aethren felt as if their muscles had locked in place. Blood roared in their ears.

  “That’s what took Arketh from us. That—” Faren’s voice broke then, and it stunned Aethren to realise his distress was genuine. He believed every word he was saying. “Is why she would never take action outright against the beasts beyond our walls.” He made a sweeping gesture in the general direction of Whiterift and the tundra.

  Aethren opened their mouth, but no sound came out.

  My brother bravely told me.

  Mati broke through the crowd. Aethren had never seen him move so fast. He cleared the steps in a heartbeat and grabbed Faren by the front of his shirt. People were shouting. Natta was giving orders.

  Someone, somewhere, called Aethren’s name. But they couldn’t remember how to respond. Faren’s words were stuck in their thoughts like thorns.

  Magic. A sickness. Magic is sickness. Am I—

  Aethren was aware of Faren falling from the dais in the confusion. Of his hand reaching for them. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered compared to the pain in their chest, the feeling of their lungs being pressed flat by frozen hands. They couldn’t breathe.

  Sick?

  Isha had arrived, and Marken was trying to pick Faren up, but Mati would have none of it. He kept shouting at Faren, pinning him down.

  Moving in a haze, Aethren grabbed Mati by the shoulders. He was almost twice their size, but it didn’t matter. They rammed their thumbs into the weak points of his shoulder and twisted one of his arms back, using his own weight against him. His body spasmed to a halt.

  “Go home,” Aethren his
sed in Mati’s ear. He was trembling in their grasp – sobs, not anger. His rage vanished as soon as it had come. “Go quietly. Don’t make this any worse.”

  “He hated her,” Mati said in a voice thick with tears. “He didn’t even know her.”

  Aethren helped him to his feet. Faren had everyone else’s attention, sitting on the ground and cradling his wrist. Blood dripped from his nose and his hairline. Aethren should take Mati into the moothall to await the council’s judgement, but they didn’t have the heart.

  “Just . . . go,” Aethren said again. Mati looked at them, looked at Isha, and left.

  Chapter 19

  In all her years as Dannhren, Natta had never seen anything like it. The mootplace was in uproar, and it was all the other council members could do to keep everyone back from the dais. Faren sat there, grey with pain and muttering as Marken assessed the damage.

  “Do we take him to my place or yours?” Marken asked, looking up at Natta. She wanted oh-so-badly to say My place – but she couldn’t. That would be as good as condemning Faren as a criminal and, unfortunately, the people saw him as a victim.

  “That wrist needs treating, yes?” Natta said instead. Marken nodded. “Then yours, obviously.”

  “Obviously?” Kristan echoed incredulously. Natta hadn’t noticed him until then, but he had appeared by Marken’s side and was staring at her as one might regard a ghost. Natta took a few slow, deliberate breaths through her nose.

  “Yes, Kristan. He’s wounded.”

  “But he was saying that stuff about Auntie, lying at a moot—”

  “He’s wounded,” Natta repeated, because she couldn’t bear to think about all the questions Kristan would want to ask now. Rost had been against hiding her magic from Kristan; she said lying would come back to wound Natta in the end.

  But now Rostfar was gone, and Natta was wounded anyway. What difference would another twist of the knife make?

  Natta turned away from Kristan. “Hrall?”

  “I’ll handle things out here,” Hrall said. Natta almost sighed in relief. At least she could still rely on him.

  With a sharp jerk of her head, Natta motioned for Marken and Laethen to take Faren across the mootplace to Marken’s home. With her leading the way, nobody stopped them – but the tension and doubt were still there, passing from whispering mouth to whispering mouth. Ethy brought up the rear.

  Inside Marken’s home, away from Kristan’s questioning eyes, Natta let some of her composure slip. Just a little. She crossed the room in a few measured steps and grabbed Faren by his injured wrist. He released a strangled yelp.

  “Nat-Hrenna,” Marken said sharply. Natta ignored him.

  “What was that?” Natta demanded coldly – because she had to be cold. It was either that or break completely. Faren’s mouth gaped. “I’ve half a mind to call you straight to trial for disturbing our traditions, you slimy little—”

  “Natta!” Ethy’s hands were surprisingly strong as they closed around Natta’s. “Let him go. Don’t deal with him like this.”

  Natta looked around. Laethen was staring at her with blank-faced confusion, Marken with disappointment. Aethren looked horrified.

  Natta let go. Faren slumped. Marken made to help him, but Natta held up a commanding hand.

  “No,” she said firmly. “Not yet.”

  “But Nat—”

  “No.” Natta fixed Marken with the same icy glare she had just used on Faren. He recoiled, and if that made her feel guilty – well, it was necessary.

  Faren quailed under Natta’s gaze as she returned it to him. His eyes were full of pain and shock.

  “You’ll answer me two questions – and you’ll answer honestly,” she said. “And then I’ll let Marken look at you.”

  Faren gave a stiff nod. Some resentment was creeping into his eyes now, but he was still badly shaken. Good. Natta could work with that.

  “Did you truly get your – information – from Isha?”

  “Yes,” Faren said hoarsely. “He needed someone to talk to, after Whiterift. I was there for him.”

  Natta let her voice drop to a cool, level tone. She didn’t look away from Faren. “Are you attempting to insert yourself into our council as Dannaskeld in my sister’s place?”

  To Natta’s surprise, Faren laughed. The sound was unbearably bleak and tinged with hysteria.

  “No, Nat-Hrenna,” he said, lips curling bitterly. “I never want to be Dannaskeld again.”

  Natta almost lost control of her expression. She could feel the surprise in the room; it turned the air taut and brittle.

  “That’s impossible!” Aethren burst out. “I met the Dannaskeld of Ysaïn at the last tradesmoot. She taught me to fletch arrows.”

  Faren’s grim smile looked almost skeletal. “None of Darmir’s arrowcraft helped her when that – that wolven beast ripped her up.”

  “A wolf,” Natta repeated softly. “And how, exactly, did—”

  “You said two questions,” Marken interrupted. Natta wanted to scream at him, but that wouldn’t do. She had to stay in control of this situation; she had lost too much else today.

  “Pa . . .” Aethren looked like they might throw up as they put a hand on Marken’s shoulder to stop him. “This is a security matter, right? So.” they paused and glanced at Natta and Laethen, as if asking permission to continue. Natta’s heart almost ached in sympathy for Aethren. Almost.

  “So,” Natta continued. “What happened?”

  Faren couldn’t hold her gaze this time. “Darmir and her daughter hadn’t come back. I took people to look for them when it was clear something’d gone wrong. We got to the girl in time, but Darmir – there was barely enough left of her to bring home.” He blinked quickly and looked down, but didn’t wipe away his tears.

  “And that’s how you sustained your own injuries?”

  “Yes,” Faren said. His voice was tight – and Natta didn’t think that was because of pain. She would have dearly loved to accuse him of lying, but Marken had clearly had enough. He took Faren’s wrist as if to examine it, placing himself between them.

  “Very well.” Natta stepped back. “But this isn’t over. I’ll be at home if I’m needed again.”

  Natta left by the back door and stood in the little herb garden outside, her breath shaking in the eerily still air.

  “Best if you let it be over for now, Nat-Hrenna,” said Ethy, stepping up to Natta’s side. She put a hand on Natta’s arm, and Natta had to fight her impulse to pull away.

  Ethy was a slippery one. Oh, she was loved and respected – and with good reason – but still. Natta trusted her less and less with every year she spent as Dannhren. There was something sharp and hungry in Ethy’s eyes when she thought nobody was looking at her, and she always knew far too much about the goings-on in Erdansten.

  Ethy’s eyes now were soft – but in a calculated way. Natta could recognise it, even if nobody else ever did. She had pulled the same expression too many times herself.

  “Let it be over?” Natta repeated dryly. Ethy nodded.

  “Move against him too quickly, and people might become . . . suspicious.”

  “Of?”

  “Well—” Ethy laughed bitterly. “Your poor sister, of course. And maybe you.”

  Internally, Natta seethed. Gods damn her, Ethy was right. Natta’s hold on her position was bound by dozens of threads – the trust and respect of the people, her skills and her decision-making, her past record of leadership. And those threads could break so easily. She couldn’t afford to bring Faren to a trial, but doing nothing would be as good as admitting he was right . . .

  He is right, Natta thought to herself. That’s the problem.

  Externally, Natta gave Ethy a tight little smile. “Of course. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Ethy patted Natta’s shoulder in a friendly manner. “Well, I must be off. I promised Kristan I’d let him spend some time with my ravens after the moot, and I’d better keep that promise, don’t you think?” With a li
ttle wave and a smile, Ethy turned and walked away.

  Natta watched Ethy go, her hands clenched into fists beneath the folds of her cloak.

  There was another thread, one she didn’t think about as often as she wanted to: her relationship with Kristan. It was small, but it was the most important thread of all. She could feel it wrapped around her heart, so tight it often drew blood. If it ever snapped, she knew it would cut her deeply.

  She didn’t know what to do about it. Rost had always been the one she went to, and now . . .

  And now, I’m alone.

  There in Marken’s herb garden, hidden from everyone else, Natta allowed herself a single heartbroken sob.

  ⁂

  The house around Mati felt far too big. He sat at the table, trying to crochet a blanket. He had been working on it since before Arketh’s disappearance – the bright yellow and red yarns had been her choice. She had helped dye it.

  The hook fell from Mati’s trembling fingers. He was just about to pick it up when the door slammed.

  Isha stood just inside the threshold, his chest heaving, eyes bright and glassy.

  “You broke his wrist,” Isha said.

  “And you broke Rostfar’s trust.”

  Isha went silent. They stared at one another across the expanse of the room, separated by a table and a million unspoken thoughts. Isha’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t say anything else. He looked pale and clammy, as if he had just been sick.

  With a weary sigh, Mati gestured for Isha to sit opposite him.

  Isha sat slowly, his eyes shifting around the room. It was too quiet. Too big.

  “Why did you tell him?”

  “He was convinced that Rost was – is – like Pa was.” Isha put his face in his hands, but Mati couldn’t muster up the energy to comfort him. He didn’t feel angry anymore, just . . . tired, right down to the bone. “Every time I changed the subject, he took it as another sign he was right. I thought—”

  “You didn’t think.”

  “Yes, I did!” Isha stood abruptly, his hands planted on the tabletop. “I couldn’t bear to have her remembered like I remember my pa and I couldn’t stand anyone to think she’d raise a hand against Arketh. He broke my trust. He—” Isha choked off and turned away.