When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  Can you see me? asked the Speaking Tree.

  “See what?” Rostfar asked.

  And the trance broke.

  Something had changed – she could taste it on the tip of her tongue, feel it in the sweat that filmed her skin. Groggy and shivery, Rostfar forced herself to sit up. She didn’t remember falling asleep, and that struck her as odd. It was the first time since coming to Deothwicc that Rostfar had felt safe enough to drift off alone.

  “Yrsa?” Rostfar called out into the leafy shadows. Nobody answered, and Rostfar felt foolish. Yrsa had gone with a group to find Grae, who had been gone from Deothwicc for almost four days now. At Yrsa’s insistence, Rostfar had remained here to let her battered ribcage heal.

  With her cloak wrapped tight around her, Rostfar shuffled around the Speaking Tree and followed the small trickle of water that ran from its roots until she came to a stream. Despite the unnatural warmth of the ground, the water was cool and clear. Rostfar splashed it over her face before cupping her hands to drink, soothed by the cold that pooled into her stomach.

  A reflection in the water caught her eye. She spun around, her hand at her knife, and a wolven shape split away from the darkness of the trees. It was only as the wolf came nearer that Rostfar recognised them.

  “Rostfar,” Grae said, like he was surprised to see her.

  Rostfar didn’t know whether to run to Grae or call out. A nameless fear stirred in the pit of her stomach.

  “Everyone’s been worried about you.” Rostfar spoke to Grae the same way she might have spoken to someone else’s child, then cleared her throat in embarrassment. “Yrsa was worried, that is. And Myr, and . . .” she stopped talking, aware that Grae wasn’t listening. His head was turned towards the Speaking Tree, body oddly lax, eyes unfocused. “Grae?”

  “I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Grae snapped, and Rostfar relaxed. That was more like the Grae she knew.

  “Yrsa’s out looking for you. Did you see her or—?”

  “No.” Grae took a stiff step away from Rostfar and then skittered back towards her. She didn’t like how he was moving – it wasn’t wolf like. More like a hare.

  As he turned, the moonlight broke through the trees and struck a wound on his shoulder. Rostfar’s heart squeezed.

  “Grae!” She reached out for him on instinct and then froze, fingers a bare hair’s breadth from the wound. She was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him. Grae’s ears were flat against his skull, eyes towards the ground. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t move nearer either. Rostfar swallowed uneasily. “Was this the – the unwolf?”

  “She – it, it bit me. I got away.” There was a sliver of something brittle in Grae’s voice.

  Rostfar sat back on her heels and dug around in her cloak pockets until she found a piece of cloth. She held it out to Grae, daring to shift a little closer.

  “Should I clean it?”

  Grae regarded her with that same blank, distant expression for a few more heartbeats, until something clicked behind his eyes. He turned his head away, leaving his shoulder open to her. Rostfar dipped the cloth in the stream and then gently cleaned away the half-dried blood. Grae’s body was so tense that it felt like cleaning rock instead of flesh.

  At least he wasn’t trying to kill her anymore, Rostfar thought with a wry smile.

  “There’s nothing amusing about this,” Grae snarled. Rostfar drew her hand back, cradling it in her lap as she willed her heart to calm again. For all his temper and sharp edges, there was a streak of vulnerability in Grae that made Rostfar think of Kristan.

  “No,” Rostfar agreed. “It’s just – us, like this. You remind me of someone back in Erdansten, someone who’d never stand me helping him.”

  Grae looked like he might have been about to soften, but he turned his head away.

  “I wouldn’t, not if there was anyone else around,” Grae said. “But I can’t clean it myself.”

  Somewhat cowed by Grae’s tone, Rostfar twisted the wet cloth around her fingers. Grae walked away and then hesitated at the edge of the trees.

  “I’m going to the Wyccmarshes.” Grae shifted his weight, his tail held high at a strange angle that Rostfar recognised as awkwardness. She frowned at him.

  “Not with those storms coming in you’re not,” Rostfar replied without thinking, and then cringed inwardly. She might have spoken to Kristan or Arketh like that, but not to a wolf. It was just . . . easy, sometimes, to see Grae and Yrsa as children. Even if she shouldn’t have. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it?” she added in a small voice and twisted the cloth around her fingers again, watching the water run over her knuckles.

  Grae sounded a bit sheepish when he said, “Well obviously not with the storms. After.” And Rostfar had to bite the inside of her cheek. Definitely like a child. “I thought . . . you’d want to come, too?”

  Rostfar’s head jerked up. She wrinkled her nose and tried to read Grae’s body language for some trick or cruel joke. But no, she reminded herself – that was not the way of the wolves.

  “I could smell the marshes on the unwolf,” Grae continued, sidling nearer to her again and lowering his voice. Rostfar didn’t think she had heard a wolf whisper before, so secretive. “It must be hiding there.”

  Grae’s words plucked at the half-healed scab over Rostfar’s heart, one that all the screaming and hunting and wolf company in the world wouldn’t heal. She reached under her cloak and repeatedly ran her fingers over the soft leather bag of telling-stones, finding some comfort in the sensation. Cold sweat prickled uncomfortably on her brow.

  “That’s . . . not a good idea,” Rostfar forced herself to say.

  “It’s all hunting, one way or another.”

  The skin of her wrist tingled with the phantom sensation of Yrsa’s teeth, stopping her from running into the mist. She bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head.

  “One wolf against both of us. She’s sick, starving.” Grae touched his nose to her shoulder, although the action had none of the warmth that came with Yrsa’s gentle nuzzles. “And once she’s gone, you can go home. You won’t have to deal with us wolves anymore.”

  I don’t want to go home, Rostfar thought wildly. Then she caught herself. Of course she wanted to go home: back to Mati’s strong arms and Isha’s clever, calloused hands and Arketh waking them up with burnt bread—

  And Arketh.

  But that wasn’t possible, because Arketh was dead.

  Rostfar clenched her teeth.

  “Fine,” she said. “We’ll go hunting.”

  Part IV

  Blight

  Chapter 35

  Consciousness teased Aethren with its presence. They were being carried on a stretcher, passing beneath arches of polished black stone. Patient hands lifted them onto a bed, poured warm soup down their throat, manipulated their body. They saw necklaces of bone and precious silver stained by firelight.

  A raven sat at the foot of their bed, and then it was a woman with long, black hair. Her cheeks were smooth and unscarred, but she looked . . . familiar.

  “Mam?” Aethren asked. The woman smiled.

  “Not quite,” she said.

  Aethren nodded and went back to sleep.

  When Aethren woke next, the woman was sitting cross-legged on a stool and weaving something invisible with nimble fingers. Aethren propped themself up on their elbow to get a better look.

  The woman had mottled grey skin, and when she moved the silver on her wrists and fingers whispered quietly. A simple circlet sat upon her brow, the white silver stark against her skin. She looked as if her bones were made of willow, as if she would pitch forwards off the stool at any moment and fly.

  “I know you have questions,” the woman said without looking up. “And I will answer them, hrafaïn, but not now.”

  “That . . .” Aethren’s voice cracked. “That’s not my name.”

  “It is. You just don’t know it yet.” She stood with her palms spread in front of her as one w
ould carry a drape of fabric. There was a moment when the world felt thin and Aethren saw a blanket of iridescent wool in her arms. She gripped it at the corners, shook it out, and draped it over Aethren’s body.

  It was like sinking into a warm bath – but there was no water, no weight. Aethren sank into the mattress. The woman placed a cool hand on their forehead.

  “Sleep. You’ll feel better come morning.”

  Aethren slept.

  Morning was marked by a swirl of wings and black fabric bursting in through the entrance. Aethren started awake and reached for a bow that was nowhere to be found, but the woman from the previous evening was there with a placating hand on Aethren’s wrist.

  The newcomer had a scar on her cheek. Her eyes lingered on Aethren for a moment too long, before darting away.

  “You can speak, Thrigg,” the woman said. Thrigg’s head bobbed.

  “We’ve no luck with the wraiths or piskies.” Thrigg fixed her gaze on the other woman, something unspoken passing between them.

  The first woman pressed her lips together and said, steely calm, “Then we persevere.”

  Thrigg disappeared.

  “You’re the hrafmaer,” Aethren managed, the words lurching out of them.

  “That is one name for us, yes.” The woman sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress barely dipped under her weight. “I am Ylla.”

  “I’m—”

  “Aethren. I know.” Ylla smiled, perhaps a touch ruefully. “You have much of your mother in your face, but your father’s eyes. Old eyes.”

  Aethren hesitated, surprised. They had no recollection of ever meeting this woman – and they were certain that Ylla’s face was one they would remember – and yet she spoke with such familiarity. Fragments of the events since the Wyccmarshes began to piece together in Aethren’s head.

  “You said . . . you said ‘not quite’ when I thought – just for a moment, you reminded me of Mam.” They frowned. “What did that mean? How do you know my father?”

  Ylla seemed to take a moment to gather herself for what she was about to say. “Aethren . . . your mother was my blood-sister. I am, as I believe your human traditions state, your aunt.”

  Aethren’s thoughts scattered off in all directions like clay marbles on a wooden surface. They stared at Ylla, waited for their mind to catch up with the vast weight of knowledge she had just dropped on them. Ylla said nothing.

  “I would remember if my mother was one of you.” Aethren made a gesture designed to encompass the entirety of Ylla’s non-humanness. “She’d never have been allowed in Erdansten! I don’t – I don’t—” They choked off as Ylla placed a gentle hand on their shoulder.

  “Come. Eat, talk,” Ylla said. Aethren was too shocked to do anything but agree.

  It took a while to find the strength to get out of bed, but Ylla was patient.

  All of Aethren’s clothes, save for their undergarments, had been taken away and replaced with a simple sleeveless black shift, leggings, thick socks, and soft boots. They dressed reluctantly and joined Ylla at a table spread with bread, cheese, and dried fish.

  “Where’s Isha?” Aethren asked, looking around for any other doors or exits.

  Ylla looked blank.

  Fear rose in Aethren’s stomach. “The man I was with, he went into the lights—”

  “Oh!” Ylla waved a hand dismissively. “We sent him where he’d be needed.”

  Now that Aethren’s initial awe had subsided, they felt wary. “Surely I’d be needed there too?”

  “I had you brought here. It’s where you need to be.”

  Aethren looked at Ylla, trying to see if anything in her face matched up with their memories of Mam. Ylla stared straight back, her raven-like eyes unblinking.

  “Why?” Aethren asked.

  The question seemed to take Ylla by surprise. “We’re family.”

  “Maybe we are.” Aethren nodded slowly. “But Mam never spoke of you.”

  Pain flitted across Ylla’s face. If Aethren hadn’t been watching her reactions so intently, they would have missed it.

  “Ýgren would not have spoken of me,” Ylla said it as if she were permitting something unpleasant but necessary. “She . . . wanted a human life. Apparently, the world outside Hrafnir’s protection could offer her more.”

  “Did it?”

  “Well.” Ylla shrugged her dainty shoulders. “She got you out of it.”

  Aethren thought Ylla would have liked to answer “No”. The hair on their arms and the back of their neck began to prickle. They stood up.

  “I . . . I need some air,” Aethren said, their throat tight.

  And bolted for the door.

  It swung open, their palms stinging from impact, and Aethren stumbled out into bright sunlight. They froze. Ylla’s cold fingers curled around their shoulders, but left Aethren where they were.

  This was not a village of huts and crumbling stone like Erdansten. Tall, spindly buildings rose out of the earth like fingers. Platforms and walkways connected the tallest points at dizzying heights, and the lower parts of the buildings melded together like warrens. Aethren craned their neck to take in the spiralling steps that went up and up, connecting a honeycomb network of doors and windows. The domed rock roofs reminded Aethren of the stone hut in Eahalr.

  “Where – where is this?” They tried to take another step forwards, but Ylla’s grip was like iron.

  “Hrafnholm,” Ylla said. Her voice was right by Aethren’s ear, although she shouldn’t have been tall enough for that. “My home. Our home, if you wish.”

  Aethren felt themself shaking. They sagged against the doorframe, staring and staring as if that might force the world to make sense. There were goats here, and little walled gardens full of crops, and trees bearing fruits Aethren couldn’t recognise. But there were also empty windows and barred-shut doors; too many of the towers looked like they had been abandoned. The streets were empty.

  Had Eahalr been like this once?

  Aethren turned back to Ylla. “Why am I here?”

  “We saved you,” Ylla said. Aethren remembered a hand over their mouth, pushing them back into darkness.

  “No,” they said slowly, carefully. “That’s not what happened.”

  “Aethren . . .” Ylla sighed and looked down. “Do you remember what I called you?”

  Aethren licked their lower lip, recalling the odd diminutive. “Hraf . . . hrafaïn?”

  “Yes.” Ylla took one of Aethren’s hands in both of hers. “For you are so much like me and my sisters, and yet – not. There is a power in your veins that you cannot deny, even if Ýgren would have wanted you to. It’s dangerous.”

  Aethren felt as if something in their stomach had given way. They were

  (sick)

  different; they knew that. It was an obvious, inescapable fact. But they had never been a danger to anybody, except maybe the stuffy-dolls on the archery range.

  “You stopped a human tongue,” Ylla continued. “How long do you think it will be before you stop a human heart?”

  “How d’you—?”

  “Ravens are talkative creatures,” Ylla said with a trace of amusement. Or maybe it was irony. The expression on her curved lips was bitter and rueful. “I told Ýgren she could leave if she wished – undergo the Iron and Salt ritual to become human, even, if that was her desire – but she could never have a child. That was the bargain.”

  “Did – did Pa know?”

  Ylla shook her head. “I never thought it necessary to tell him.”

  “But why?” Aethren demanded. “Why ban her from having children? Why force me here?”

  Ylla turned away from Aethren abruptly. “You call us the ‘children of the raven’, but we aren’t just Hrafnir’s spawn. Ýgren and I were created with Hrafnir’s magic, yes – but Almr Wyrdsaer was our mother.” The bitterness in Ylla’s voice grew more and more pronounced. “‘Legendary’ and ‘heroic’ you call her now, but she was a fool. Humans and magic were never supposed to mix so intimat
ely, and to bear children with a god . . . it gave us power that no being has had before or since.”

  Aethren’s mouth was dry. “What – what power?”

  “Before Ýgren and I came into the world, it wasn’t possible to use the wyrdness to control or alter sapient creatures. Animals, yes – it’s not so easy as making plants grow or shaping rock to our will, but binding an animal with weaves was still possible. But a human or a wolf? None had that power. Even those we turned into hrafmaer with our magic over the years cannot work weaves on sapient life.” Ylla closed her eyes briefly, seeming weighed down by some invisible force. “None but us. And now, as I feared, that same power has come to you by our blood.”

  Aethren sagged against the doorframe. Pain built in their temples, ricocheting off the inside of their skull. Power twisted through their gut.

  “I don’t wish it,” Aethren said, only half aware of their own words.

  “What?”

  “You said – ‘ours, if you wish’. But I don’t wish.” Aethren stood, swaying, and fixed Ylla with a hard stare. “I have to go. I have to leave, Ylla. I need to find Isha.”

  Aethren reached out, searching for the tendrils of magic in the air; for the same snagging sensation they had felt before binding Kristan’s tongue. Ylla’s eyes widened. Moving faster than humanely possible, she brought both her hands up and pulled on thin air.

  The world turned inside out.

  One moment Aethren was standing outside; the next, they were sprawled on the floor. Ylla stood in the doorway, barring their exit. Her outline crackled and blurred like living black fog.

  “There have been great tragedies in this world I could have prevented, and didn’t,” Ylla said, soft and deliberate. “I will not be responsible for more. I’m sorry.”

  Ylla dissolved into smoke, and the door swung shut. The heavy clunk of the bolt sounded far too loud.

  Half-curled on the floor, their hands pressed to their mouth, Aethren shook with impotent fury. Ylla had looked so forlorn in those last moments, as if she were truly sorry. As if she truly believed herself to be kind.