When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

“There will be no fire in Deothwicc!”

  “But—”

  “None,” Estene rumbled, her voice deep and impossible to disobey. Hands shaking, Rostfar used her little wooden drinking-bowl and doused the fire. She did it again and again until all that remained of her meal was a soup of mud and twigs; the hare’s leg was charred beyond edibility.

  “I’m sorry,” Rostfar croaked. “I . . . I didn’t know.”

  Estene fixed her with a level stare. “And now you do.”

  “This isn’t going to work!” Rostfar kicked her bag in frustration. “I can’t cook meals to eat, I can’t hunt without causing problems – why keep me here, Estene?”

  Instead of answering right away, Estene looked around and sniffed the air. She seemed to be ensuring she and Rostfar were alone.

  “Because,” she said at length, her tone now evenly measured. “The Speaking Tree gave me a vision, just like it gave you a vision of Yrsa.”

  Rostfar frowned. “That – that tree doesn’t give people visions.”

  “I saw a human figure with flaming hair, standing alone against a . . . a – I know no human word for this. A terrible, tortured creature of flesh and magic.”

  “A wreather,” Rostfar said softly. “That’s what we call them – all the things that are more than mere flesh beings, but less than pure magic.” And then, softer still, she added, “. . . sometimes Wolvenkind are called wreathers, too.”

  “We are not,” Estene replied; although her answer was quick, her tone was soft. She stepped gingerly across the wreckage of Rostfar’s fire and sat down before her.

  “What did it mean then? Your vision?”

  “I thought it was a warning – that fire and destruction were coming to Deothwicc. But then I saw you with your flame-red hair and your knife, standing alone in the Speaking Tree’s Clearing.”

  “And you think a tree foretold my coming here?” Rostfar couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice.

  Estene cocked her head. “Why is this so hard for you to believe?”

  Torn between embarrassment and incredulity, Rostfar looked down. She took her pouch of telling-stones out of its holder at her throat and rolled it between her palms.

  “I have a . . . special interest, I suppose you could say, in stories.” She shrugged. “It’s fascinating, working out where history and fantasy cross paths. You can figure out what’s possible and what isn’t by what people decided to set in the stones.” She took out one of the carved stones for emphasis, then realised wolves likely couldn’t read.

  “And what you find here in Deothwicc isn’t what’s in your stories and stones.” That should have been a question, but Estene didn’t phrase it like one. Rostfar managed a stiff nod. Her cheeks felt hot. “That’s why I need you to stay. The Speaking Tree has been calling out – I can hear it in my sleep – and you answered the call. You listened. You’re still listening.” Estene touched her nose to Rostfar’s shoulder, just briefly. “There is something of the wolf in you, Rostfar.”

  Rostfar swallowed. Being compared to a wolf shouldn’t have felt like a compliment, but warmth blossomed in her chest nonetheless. She rubbed her tired eyes and pulled away from Estene – from her kind, inviting words and everything they offered her; everything she shouldn’t want.

  Estene, perhaps sensing Rostfar’s unwillingness to keep talking, stood up. “You need rest while your wound heals.”

  Rest won’t heal the wounds I have, Rostfar wanted to say. She watched as Estene walked away, her grief and heartsickness aching anew.

  “Estene?”

  “Yes?” Estene sounded so patient as she looked back at Rostfar. Wolf or not, here was a mother who loved deeply and fought fiercely, even if all looked hopeless. Rostfar could see it in Estene’s scars and the way she held herself. It was how Rostfar felt, too.

  “My daughter—” Rostfar’s breath caught in her throat. “Is there any chance she’s still alive? Am I a fool for having hope?”

  “There are many things living this side of the white river – your . . . wreathers, as you call them, are barely more than prey animals compared to what else dwells here. But—” Estene came back to Rostfar and nuzzled her forehead. “The magic is ancient and unknowable. Perhaps your pup is dead, but that doesn’t mean you have lost her forever.”

  The touch was unexpected, but not unpleasant. Rostfar leant their foreheads together for a moment and shut her eyes, breathing in the scent of the forest that clung to Estene’s fur. It felt almost like an embrace between equals.

  Almost.

  Pulling away, Rostfar wiped her eyes with her sleeves and drew her knees up to her chest. She mustered a smile for Estene, but it felt weak.

  “I’ll get that rest now.”

  Estene bowed her head in acknowledgement, and left Rostfar alone with her whirling thoughts.

  Chapter 22

  Someone, somewhere, was knocking on a door. Aethren pulled the blankets up over their head and tried to go back to sleep. They had been dreaming about a woman growing yellow flowers from her hands. Her face had been obscured by shadow, but for some reason, Aethren thought she was their mam. They just needed more time, a few more moments in the dream before it slipped—

  “Aethren!” Marken called. The dream shattered.

  Aethren sat up to see their pa’s head and upper body emerge through the hatch in the floor, a bowl of barley broth topped with honey in one hand. Aethren’s stomach growled.

  “Oh, thank you—”

  “What?” Marken glanced at the bowl as if he had forgotten he was holding it. “Oh, no. This is mine. You’re eating with Ethy this morning.”

  Aethren tugged the blankets tighter around their shoulders to squash the cold, sickly feeling in their stomach.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t fancy breakfast with Ethy.” Aethren groaned.

  Marken smiled sympathetically. “Kristan’s waiting downstairs. I have to go out on a call.”

  That woke Aethren up. “Who?”

  “Magna’s taken a turn for the worst. Vinni says he wouldn’t get out of bed this morning. I’ll see you later.” He mustered a weak smile and climbed back down the ladder. By the time Aethren had splashed water on their face, dressed, and descended into the house, he had already gone.

  Kristan sat at the table, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He looked up sharply when Aethren came in. “We’re late now.”

  “I didn’t know I had anywhere to be,” Aethren muttered and then, louder, “When was this decided?”

  “Oh, last night.” Kristan shrugged. “Ethy said she wanted us both to stop by for breakfast. I thought it’d be nice, is all.”

  Aethren smiled tightly and managed not to tell Kristan that spending time with Ethy was the furthest thing from nice they could think of.

  Ethy’s home was in the second ring of houses that radiated out from the mootplace. The alleys weren’t as spacious here, but there was still room for a fair-sized rookery attached to the side of her house. Much like Urdven’s bees, these ravens weren’t exactly tame – but they were pleased to work with Ethy, carrying messages in exchange for food and shelter. Several of the birds watched Aethren with too-intelligent eyes as they stomped up the path behind Kristan.

  Ethy greeted the two of them with a flagon of warmed ale and a breakfast spread the likes of which Aethren hadn’t expected to see again until the Bloom. Cheese, fresh barley bread and thinly cut slices of meat awaited them, all neatly set out on a round table in the middle of Ethy’s home.

  There were a series of tiered shelves along the back wall, and several ravens nested there. One had a splinted wing, another a scar that obscured its left eye. They were asleep, but Aethren’s presence seemed to rouse them.

  “This is impressive,” Aethren said with a strained smile and sat with their back to the ravens. They gingerly took a slice of bread and watched as Kristan piled food up onto his plate with no compunction. “Did you . . . uh, go hunting on your own or something?”

&nb
sp; “Hah! Not at my age. One of the older lads in the scouting group’s like a son to me, always brings back a treat.” Ethy sliced up more cheese and dumped it on Aethren’s plate, and Aethren decided not to point out Ethy was still more capable than most of the hunters in Erdansten put together. “I suckled him, you see, when his dear old mam couldn’t.”

  Kristan snorted his weak ale up his nose. “Ew.”

  Aethren kicked him under the table. They didn’t know what Ethy was getting at, but they could taste the oncoming plot like salt on their tongue. The bread formed a hard lump in their throat.

  “So,” Aethren coughed as politely as they could and took a deep swig of ale. “Was there something you wanted to discuss, or . . .?”

  But Ethy didn’t seem to be listening any longer. She swirled honey into her tea and stared into the middle distance. Aethren and Kristan shared a confused glance.

  “I’d just lost my own boy,” Ethy said. Kristan’s expression sobered at once.

  Aethren swallowed and wiped their clammy hands on their lap. “I didn’t know.”

  “What?” Ethy looked over at Aethren sharply. “No, of course. Forgive me, letting my head get tangled up in the past. You didn’t come here for that.”

  “Why did you call us here, Ethy?”

  “Oh, I thought you’d need your moods lifted after Faren’s vile lies the other day.”

  Aethren scoffed. “He’s just blowing hot air from his arse half the time,” they said.

  “He’s a prickly one, yes.” Ethy frowned. “But . . . Arketh had been sick, hadn’t she? Isha told me so himself. And then there’s Rostfar’s reluctance to pursue the wolves.”

  “None of us wanted trouble.” Aethren picked their words carefully. “Rost-Skelda knew we couldn’t handle the wolves and their magic.”

  “According to Faren, she could’ve.”

  Aethren set their flagon down. Hard. Ethy looked so innocently startled they almost felt guilty.

  “I joke,” Ethy said. “‘S a funny collection of happenings, is all I’m saying.”

  There’s nothing funny about it. Aethren held their tongue. Kristan had gone silent and his smile, when Ethy asked if he was alright, was tighter than a pulled bowstring.

  “But anyway.” Ethy began layering cheese and meat onto her bread. “None of us are denying our fondness for Rostfar. She was a bright spark, that’s for sure.”

  “Is,” Aethren said.

  Ethy didn’t seem to hear. “And maybe she wasn’t magic. Maybe her love of stories made her forget what was real – forget the wolves are dangerous.”

  “Maybe.” Kristan shrugged.

  “Kristan.” Aethren gaped at him, appalled. He flushed.

  “You remember those wolf pups who fell in a pit, right? And some of Skarnvir’s lot were throwing stones at it?” Kristan used his knife for emphasis, stabbing at the air as he spoke. “Mam didn’t like what the other children were doing, but she wouldn’t interfere. Rost did, though.”

  “Because hurting a pup would’ve invited trouble,” Aethren said. Kristan glanced at Ethy, then shook his head.

  “That’s not what Rost said. She actually wanted Marken to help it, as if it was an animal caught in the wrong trap.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Ethy said. “That kind of sympathy is dangerous. Much as I loved Rost, I hope you and Laethen’ll be more sensible.”

  That did it.

  Aethren made as if to reach over for more bread and knocked their ale into Ethy’s lap. The raven on the perch let out a croak that sounded suspiciously like laughter as Ethy jerked back. Familiar panic at doing something wrong rose in Aethren, but they shoved it back down. They had to do this.

  “I’m so sorry!” Aethren ignored the look Kristan gave them and continued. “I’m so distracted, the stress of the council is getting to me – shit, your dress – hold on . . .” Aethren dug through their pockets for a cloth they knew they didn’t have. Ethy stilled their hands with both of hers.

  “Don’t get yourself in a lather.” Ethy smiled reassuringly. “I’ll get some dry clothes and a fresh bowl.”

  Kristan waited until Ethy had left the room before he rounded on Aethren. “What was that?”

  “I don’t like this,” Aethren hissed over the clamouring birds. The writhing, winding power in the back of their head was building again, but it felt different.

  A younger raven with a white streak in its feathers dropped onto the table and chittered something that sounded suspiciously like clever raven, clever raven.

  “Sh.” Aethren glared at it, wishing the birds would settle down so they and Kristan could speak before Ethy came back.

  “It’s just breakfast.”

  “No, I don’t think it is.”

  Kristan studied their face. “The stress really is getting to you, isn’t it?”

  “We need to leave, Krist—”

  “You didn’t know,” Kristan said shortly. Aethren hesitated.

  “What?”

  “Her son, he was slaughtered in his cradle.” Kristan held his flagon tighter and swirled the contents around. “Dragged out of her house when she went to get firewood. Nobody was sure if wolves or wreathers did it – they couldn’t tell from what was left. Only a few weeks old, he was.”

  Aethren felt like Kristan had just doused them in cold water and flung them out into a freezing storm. They shivered. Took a deep breath. There were no words for this situation.

  “She . . . told you that?”

  “Yes.” Kristan pushed his half-eaten plate of food away. “Ethy’s trying to help and nobody else will listen. She knows what it’s like to lose someone to the things outside, the consequences of sitting on your arse.”

  Aethren’s hand slammed onto the tabletop, making the crockery leap. “Shut up.”

  And Kristan did.

  He stared at Aethren with his eyes wide, mouth gaping soundlessly. For a dizzy heartbeat, Aethren thought they felt

  (saw)

  A long strand of something connecting their hand and Kristan’s tongue. The ravens were silent, too.

  Aethren stood up in the middle of Ethy’s eating area and felt the power pull taut in their gut. They might have collapsed, if not for Ethy’s abrupt return.

  “You’ve gone very quiet, Kristan. Fox stole your tongue?” Ethy said, eyeing the two of them quizzically. It was an old joke, but Aethren wasn’t laughing. The pain in their gut spread, up and up and up, until it began to invade their chest.

  “We have to go, other callings,” Aethren said and all but bodily hauled Kristan from the chair. They curled their fingers tight in his cloak for support and held on the entire way back home.

  At the door, Kristan forced Aethren to stop walking. He mimed towards his nose.

  “What?” Aethren snapped. Kristan repeated the motion and Aethren realised with a shock that their nose was bleeding. “Oh.” They felt dizzy.

  Kristan shouldered his way through the door and they both stumbled inside, Aethren barely able to hold their own weight and Kristan too unbalanced to help. Marken was inside. He stood up so suddenly he knocked his stool over.

  “What happened?” He demanded. Kristan didn’t – couldn’t – answer. And it was all Aethren’s fault. They dropped to the floor, unable to make it any further, and Marken helped them sit up against the nearest wall.

  “I said – and now he can’t . . .” Aethren gestured towards Kristan with blood-flecked fingers and then tapped their gut. “Hurts.”

  “Okay, okay.” Marken used a cloth to wipe Aethren’s nose. “Listen, Ren. We’ll treat this like one of your panics. Sound good?”

  Aethren almost managed a nod. Marken smiled and placed one hand on their lower back. His touch was warm and heavy.

  “Breathe into my hand,” he said. “That’s all you need to do.”

  Aethren screwed their eyes shut and listened to his voice. They knew the mantra inside-out, but sometimes you just need your parent to sit by you.

  “What’s ha
ppening—” Aethren’s breath stuttered. “To me?”

  “Breathe,” Marken said again, much more firmly. Aethren leant their forehead on their knees and breathed.

  The knot in their gut came undone. Aethren pressed their spine against the wall and swallowed a shout of pain. Across the room, Kristan staggered as if released from some huge pressure.

  Aethren waited for Kristan to shout, to scream at them and curse in their face, or to leave. But he stood there, staring at Aethren as if he had never seen them before.

  “That,” Kristan said breathlessly. “Was bloody brilliant.”

  Aethren’s mouth dropped open.

  “Do you . . . feel okay, Krist?” Marken asked slowly. Kristan nodded.

  “I mean, obviously it’s not brilliant that it hurt you, and it was pretty scary for a moment there, but—” he laughed, too loud and breathless. “Shit. What else can you do?”

  Aethren wiped their nose purely so they could have a moment to process Kristan’s reaction.

  “I don’t know,” Aethren said, relieved to be telling the truth. “I didn’t . . . it’s not magic. It’s not—” they shook their head. “Kristan, aren’t you furious at me?”

  “Why would I be?” Kristan raised his eyebrows. “You can do something amazing. And maybe that’ll give us a chance.”

  Aethren’s stomach sank. “A chance?”

  “You said Rost knew we’d never make it against the wolves and their magics, but if we’ve got you—”

  “Kristan, no,” Marken said sharply. “If anyone knew what happened here today, do you think they’d leave Ren alone?”

  “But—”

  “They’d all come for us with fire and steel, and Ethy would be leading that charge.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Aethren barked a sharp, brittle laugh. “You’re so fucking blind, Kristan. You’re talking about murder; do you get that? Magic, revenge, a battle – it’s still murder.”

  Kristan’s face paled. “But – no, I mean – it’s not—”

  “Get out.” Aethren’s voice didn’t sound like their own. It felt hard as stone in their throat, and Kristan flinched as if struck.

  “Ren,” Marken said in a soft warning. “I think we should all talk about this.”