When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  The door swung open. Aethren lifted their hand from the bowl to the doorway in one smooth motion, and a sharp tug went from their gut to their fingers. Half over the threshold, Isha juddered to a halt.

  Pain and panic washed through Aethren. They leapt to their feet, knocking back their chair with a loud clatter. Something tense and powerful in the air between them snapped and Isha staggered forwards as if pulled. He made it only a few steps before his knees gave out and he struck the floorboards with a groan. All the blood had drained from his face, and his mouth hung open like that of a landed fish.

  Taking no time to think, Aethren snatched up their spoon and lurched across the room. Isha grunted as they hauled him up and slammed him against the wall, the end of the spoon’s handle pressed into his throat.

  The two of them remained in suspended animation, staring, waiting for the other to make a move.

  “Are you threatening me . . . with a spoon?”

  Aethren dug the spoon in deeper. Isha let out a ragged choking sound as something in his throat ground beneath the smooth wood, and Aethren’s panic broke. Reality rushed in. They staggered beneath its sudden, crushing weight and the spoon clattered to the floor.

  Still breathing shakily, Isha sank down the wall until he was sitting on the floor with a hand to his throat. “Magic?” His voice sounded strained.

  “I – I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” Isha said, more to himself. “Well, that’s – that’s okay. Unexpected, but. Okay.” He stumbled to his feet and walked back to the door, which had swung shut on its own – or perhaps that had been their doing, too. Aethren tensed. If Isha ran now, would they give chase? Stop him? Their pa’s words to Kristan pounded in their head. They’d all come for us with fire and steel.

  Isha fastened the latch.

  “Isha,” Aethren said, alarmed, but their words died in their throat. Isha wasn’t threatening; he was small, forlorn, rumpled. He fidgeted as he stood there, twisting his fingers together.

  “I’ve been trying to talk to you,” he said. “Alone. I – I need your help. You’re not like the others.”

  “I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.” Aethren tried to keep their tone light and unassuming. They didn’t understand what Isha was going. They’d obviously frightened him – his hands were shaking like an old man’s – but he wasn’t running away. In fact, he’d locked himself in a room with someone who’d just proven to be dangerous.

  “You know what I mean,” Isha said. He made his way over to the table and sank down onto Marken’s usual chair.

  “No,” Aethren said. “I don’t. D’you mean like what I just did?”

  Isha shook his head. “You seem to have hope. You talked about Rost being found when everyone else wanted to move on – but even before that, you’ve always been . . .” He sucked on the inside of his cheek and frowned at the tabletop.

  “Prickly, insufferable, rude, short-tempered, disinclined to give a shit about appearances?” Aethren suggested. Isha winced, but didn’t contradict them. Good. Few things annoyed Aethren more than people trying to tell them they were good or nice or not as bad as they thought.

  “I need your help, Aethren. Rostfar liked – likes – you. Always said you’re a bright spark. I think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to give up.”

  “Nobody’s given up.” Aethren replied in impulse.

  “You know that’s not true.” Isha turned to look Aethren straight in the eyes. “They’re all pretending the world hasn’t stopped moving. That . . .” a sob caught in his throat. Unsure what else to do, Aethren walked over and placed an awkward hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

  “I’m sorry,” Aethren whispered.

  “I’m not looking for an apology.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  Aethren slowly sat down opposite Isha and blurted out, “I can’t stand it either. I think I’d do anything so’s to get a reaction. To make them listen.”

  “It’s like they want to forget her.” Isha ran a hand down his face.

  “Not everyone wants—”

  “And it’s my fault,” Isha ploughed on as if Aethren hadn’t spoken. “I told Faren, and he told everyone, and now they’re . . . scared, I s’pose. Like I was – like I am. Maybe it’s easier for them if Arketh and Rostfar never come back.”

  “I honestly don’t give a fuck what’s easier for everyone else.” Aethren resisted the urge to flinch as the words left them. For all they wanted not to care about other people’s opinions of them, they did. The worry was always there, needling at them, wearing them down. Even here, alone with Isha, Aethren was afraid.

  “I know you don’t. That’s the point.” A tiny, fleeting smile turned one corner of Isha’s mouth. “That’s why I – or, I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while – I mean, I had no idea you were also . . . y’know, with the wyrdness. But Rostfar trusts you ‘n your pa, and she was friends with your mam, and so—”

  “Please, just spit it out.”

  “I made a promise to Mati. I said I’d make all this right, but I can’t do it alone.”

  Aethren knew what was coming. They wished Isha would stop talking. They also wanted him to ask.

  “If I could leave, go out there into the Wyccmarshes, I’d have a chance at doing something right. But I need someone who can track and hunt, someone who wouldn’t blabber to anyone else – and you’re the only one I could trust to do that.” Isha shrugged. “‘Sides, now I’ve seen you do what you did—”

  Aethren tensed. “Are you trying to threaten me?”

  “No!” Isha looked horrified at the thought. “I’m just saying we know we can trust one another, is all.”

  A part of Aethren was furious at Isha for asking them – for tempting them. If they could get out of this place, stagnant with fear and secrets, they would have a chance of doing something good. No more mindless drills with the spear or bow, or hours spent practising for hunts that never happened. No more responsibility, foisted onto their unwilling shoulders by Ethy and the rest of the council.

  “Aethren?” Isha prompted, watching them with shiny, hopeful eyes.

  A clear, sharp tone of yearning resonated inside Aethren like the ring of metal on glass.

  No no no.

  Aethren pressed their hands to their wounded face and held onto the pain, desperate for something grounding. What good would leaving do, other than let down the few people Aethren really cared about? They could just imagine Kristan’s betrayal, Marken’s worry. Worse – Natta’s voice, cold and sharp. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted them.

  Isha must have been able to read Aethren’s answer in their silence. “I understand,” he said. His voice was dull. They looked up and watched him leave, somehow even smaller than he had been when he entered.

  Chapter 28

  Curled up in her den, Rostfar pressed her hands to her ears and tried to drown out Geren’s distant howls. No matter where she went in Deothwicc, his cries followed her.

  Or perhaps it was just her guilt creating sounds where there were none.

  The walls of the den rippled with light as if in response to Rostfar’s mood. In any other circumstances, it would be soothing. But Rostfar didn’t want to be soothed. She wanted something, anything, to happen, to break the unnerving stillness. By Nys, she would even be pleased with Grae attacking her there and then.

  “Something is troubling you.”

  Rostfar looked up with a start. She hadn’t heard Estene enter, but the wolf stood with her head lowered half inside the den.

  “Geren.” Rostfar licked her dry bottom lip. “I’m sorry – can you tell him that? I never intended to get anyone hurt, but you were all moving and I just . . . did what I’d do with my people.”

  Estene tilted her head and regarded Rostfar with curious eyes. “You’re just like a pup,” she said. Rostfar frowned.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Even wolves must learn to speak through the wyrdness, to
understand it.” Estene padded to Rostfar’s side and sat down. “I am the one who should be sorry – and I am. You’re not made to run with a pack.”

  “Oh.” Rostfar drew her knees up to her chest. The statement was bluntly true, but she couldn’t deny that it hurt her. The desire to be a part of the wolves was bizarre, but it had snuck up on her nonetheless. They had looked so free bounding down the slopes in pursuit of the herd, snow in their coats and eyes gleaming; they had become a part of the land itself. Until Rostfar blundered into their midst.

  The rasping warmth of Estene’s tongue against her hand made Rostfar jump. She jerked away from the unfamiliar sensation and curled her fist into her lap, unable to make sense of how Estene was looking at her.

  “You’re blaming yourself.” Not a question, a fact. Rostfar shifted uneasily; she didn’t like to be so easily read. Estene’s ears softened. “Blame doesn’t belong here. You weren’t ready and I forgot myself – I shouldn’t have expected you to know Wolven ways.”

  “Can I see him? Geren?” Rostfar didn’t know where the question came from, but the words tumbled from her mouth in a panicked rush. Estene’s ears flicked up.

  “I won’t stop you,” Estene said. When Rostfar still didn’t move, Estene headed out of the den. “Come.” She motioned with her nose towards the forest. “I’ll make sure nobody else stops you either.”

  Rostfar followed Estene to the Speaking Tree’s clearing. The roots of the tree had changed their shape, moulding around Geren like a woven cradle. Geren’s eyes were rolled up in his head and his back leg bent at an unnatural angle.

  All Rostfar could hear, now that she was with him, was the beating of her own heart.

  “What will you do with him?” Rostfar asked, her voice dry and brittle.

  “Care for him,” Estene said. Rostfar looked at Estene in surprise, unable to control the shock that ran across her features.

  “But . . . you’re wolves.” After these last few weeks spent among the pack, nothing should have come as a surprise – but the wolves kept finding new ways to shatter all her understandings. Rostfar hastened to correct herself. “I mean only that you’re—”

  “Not meant to care about our wounded?” Estene headed Rostfar off, and it was just like that first conversation when Rostfar entered Deothwicc. “Why, because we’re not human?”

  Heat rushed to Rostfar’s cheeks. She looked down at her feet.

  “Tell me how you care for him,” Rostfar said instead. “Whatever you do, I’ll do it. I want to help.”

  Estene seemed to give this some serious consideration. She looked from Geren to Rostfar, one ear pricked up.

  “There isn’t much we can do,” she said slowly. “We feed our wounded; give them companionship and shelter until they heal. Or – don’t heal.”

  Despite herself, Rostfar quirked a small smile. “I think there is something I can do.”

  The earth beneath Rostfar’s knees was damp with melted morning frost, but Rostfar didn’t mind. She wasn’t a wolf – she couldn’t hunt like them or run with the pack. But she could source food in ways the wolves couldn’t.

  Not far from the rock formation where Rostfar made her fire there was a broad, semi-deep stream. A miniature waterfall broke the bed into two tiers, and it was across there that she had strung a net made from the sinews of small animals she caught in the forest.

  A slight shift in the leaf-litter behind her brought her head snapping round. Bryn paused, one foot in the air, head cocked to one side.

  “Impressive,” he said. “You’re getting faster.”

  Rostfar felt a small rill of pride at that, but it was quickly pushed aside by the gnawing worry in her stomach.

  “I’m not going to use any fire.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.” Bryn padded around Rostfar to the edge of the stream and leant over to sniff at her net. Rostfar watched him warily. Bryn was . . . unnerving, if Rostfar had to pick a word. He almost reminded her of Faren.

  “It’s a net,” Rostfar said, because she had to say something. Bryn’s tail quirked in amusement.

  “Yes, I know.”

  The sound of a disturbance in the water caught Rostfar’s attention. A silvery back broke the surface and leapt down the break in the streambed. It hit the net and Rostfar lunged forwards with her spear. The trout didn’t have a chance.

  Rostfar dropped the fish into a pile on top of her cloak. She wasn’t sure how much a wolf would need to eat, but it looked like she had enough.

  Bryn was watching Rostfar intently. She swallowed, suddenly nervous.

  “Is this not allowed?”

  Instead of giving her a proper answer, Bryn said, “There is brilliance in how you humans hunt, even if it seems unusual. Fish are difficult to catch.”

  Bryn was hard to read, even by wolven standards, but Rostfar got the sense he was genuinely impressed. She smiled, feeling warmth creep through her chest.

  “Look, I should . . . get this back to Geren.” Rostfar picked up the corners of her cloak, turning it into a temporary bag. She expected Bryn to melt back into the forest, but he kept pace at her side. Rostfar bit the inside of her cheek, waiting to see what he would do.

  Shortly before getting back to the Speaking Tree’s clearing, Bryn spoke up.

  “The mood is changing,” he said. The hair on the back of Rostfar’s neck prickled inexplicably. “Your compassion seeps out into the wyrdness for all to see, but you should know – this act alone will not change their minds. They won’t instantly like you.”

  Rostfar blinked at him. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.” Heat rushed to her face, but from anger instead of embarrassment. “Is that what you think, that I’m only doing it so your kind will like me?”

  Bryn’s ears pricked up, but he didn’t growl. Rostfar wasn’t sure that she would have been able to stop, even if he had.

  “Humans have done too much to wolves – like Nessen, that pup who died. It was awful and cruel and should never have happened, and I don’t expect you to do anything but hate my kind for it.” Rostfar sucked in a sharp breath, but it wasn’t enough. The words wouldn’t stop. “And I won’t pretend I’m better than other humans, but Geren is in pain because I fucked up, and I’ll fix it because that’s the right thing to do.”

  Bryn’s ears laid flat against his skull, but his eyes studied her with a cool intensity.

  “I don’t think that’s entirely true,” he said. Rostfar couldn’t help herself; she turned on him where he walked at her side, her teeth bared.

  “I don’t care how you feel about me. I’m used to people hating me for what I am,” she snapped. “But don’t call me a liar when all I want to do is help.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bryn said, and he actually meant it. He bowed his head. Startled, Rostfar stepped away from him.

  She realised they weren’t alone. She only got a brief glimpse of a few sets of eyes, a flash of tail, and the scuffle of padded paws – but it was enough.

  “Did you . . . set that up?”

  “I told you,” Bryn said. “The mood is changing. I believe you, though. Just thought they needed to see it, too.”

  Rostfar watched Bryn walk away, her chest heaving from the force of her pounding heart.

  ⁂

  Yrsa was on her feet when Rostfar entered the Speaking Tree’s clearing.

  “Are you alright? I heard your voice rising—”

  “I’m fine,” Rostfar said, even though she didn’t look it. The wyrdness trembled and crackled every time she breathed out. “Bryn just wanted a – talk. I brought this, for Geren.” She lifted the stolen skin she usually had wrapped around her shoulders and let one corner fall open. Inside were the bodies of silvery fish. Yrsa’s stomach growled in excitement.

  Rostfar must have either heard the growl or noticed the way Yrsa was looking at the fish, because she let out a little laugh. “You can have some too, if there’s enough.”

  Following close on Rostfar’s heels, Yrsa watched as she approached Ge
ren. He was awake now and watching Rostfar warily. Yrsa tensed in readiness for Geren to snap or snarl. But Geren just sniffed at the fish and then looked back to Rostfar, tilting his head.

  “Where did you get these from?”

  “A stream,” Rostfar said, obviously unsure how she was supposed to answer the question. “Just now. They’re fresh – good to eat. Estene said you needed to eat and rest, so . . .” she put the fish down and started to back away. Yrsa didn’t like seeing Rostfar look so guilty and unsure.

  “We share our meals,” Yrsa said, nudging Rostfar’s leg with her nose. “You should stay with us.”

  Rostfar swallowed. She started to sway forwards as if pulled towards the invitation with invisible strings, then hesitated. Glanced at Geren.

  “Would you be alright with that?”

  “Yes, he will,” Yrsa said, fixing Geren with a pointed look. His eyes momentarily showed exasperation, but he didn’t argue.

  “You may . . . sit,” Geren agreed. Rostfar did so, slowly, and fiddled with the bag she kept inside her stolen skin.

  Yrsa settled comfortably at Rostfar’s side. She gnawed on one of the fish in silence, happy to let the ever-present warmth of the Speaking Tree seep through her. Having a human by her side as she ate didn’t feel wrong

  (had never felt wrong)

  even though it probably should have done. Rostfar had a slow, warm temperament like Myr and an insurmountable stubbornness like Estene. And if her sadness sometimes made Yrsa uncomfortable, well, Rostfar had been happier of late. Yrsa liked to think she had helped with that.

  “Rostfar . . .” Geren said, surprising Yrsa. He had eaten his share of the meal and was looking at a collection of stones in Rostfar’s lap. She was turning one over and over in her hands, tracing shapes on its surfaces.

  “Yes?” Rostfar glanced up sharply, but her tone was more nervous than snappish.

  “What are those?”

  Yrsa pricked up her ears. She had wondered, too, but never felt as if she could ask. The wyrdness hummed with regret and love whenever Rostfar looked at them.

  “They’re . . .” Rostfar’s brow crumpled, and she tucked some of her head-hair behind her ears. “Do you tell stories?”