When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  Rostfar nodded and frowned at the water, trying to eke out the words she wanted from all the noise in her head. Some of that noise was anger, betrayal; some was sadness; but most of all, she felt an overwhelming amount of pity. She placed her hands over the back of Norðunn’s.

  “My children will burn,” Norðunn murmured, and although her voice seemed perfectly calm, Rostfar could feel her panic. “They will burn, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

  “Then let me go.” Rostfar was proud of herself for how she said it: not a plea, but a command. Norðunn turned those sad eyes on her.

  “But you’re burning too,” she said. One clawed finger reached out and touched Rostfar’s forehead.

  And Rostfar tumbled backwards into the sweat of her fever-dream.

  There wasn’t even time to cry out before Rostfar slammed into her own body again, shivering and coughing up salty water. She lifted her hand to brush a tangle of seaweed from her eyes and pain lanced through her from head to toe.

  A hand landed on her shoulder and gently turned her onto her back.

  “Isha?” Rostfar croaked, reaching for his face. Isha stared at her hand as if he had never seen it before.

  “You were . . . you vanished.”

  Rostfar swallowed and tried to smile, but the smile made her dry lips crack. She tasted blood when she licked them. “I . . . sleepwalked, I think.” She tried to touch the Speaking Tree, but her arm was too heavy. Numb. She was so cold.

  “No – you actually vanished. I found you here, and when I tried to lift you up my hands just went through you.” Tentatively, Isha touched his fingertips to hers and then kissed her knuckles. Rostfar could almost feel his tension dissipate as if it were her own. “What happened?”

  “I saw Norðunn,” Rostfar replied and slumped into the bark behind her. She frowned at Isha. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”

  “You’re sick, Rost. I’m going to carry you back to the den—”

  “No!” Rostfar pressed herself against the trunk until her spine hurt. Panic shot through her gut and she slapped Isha’s hands away. “She’s so lonely, Isha. She’s hurting and I – no, I won’t leave her.”

  “It’s no good for you, being out in the open. Please.” There were tears in Isha’s eyes.

  Rostfar didn’t think there was anything to cry about – she had found Norðunn, they should be glad. She smiled. Isha didn’t smile back.

  “Alright,” he said, and lay down at her side. “Alright, but I’m staying with you.”

  Rostfar curled up with her forehead against the roots of the tree and sank back into the sea. She did not wake again.

  ⁂

  Yrsa watched. She waited. But the horizon remained stubbornly empty. Other pack members came, they sat with her, they went. Myr brought her a fish from Rostfar’s store, but she didn’t eat it. Didn’t have any appetite. How could she? Rostfar was dead. She lay at the roots of the Speaking Tree, her boundmate, Isha, holding her as if his warmth might bring her back. Rostfar was dead, and Grae was gone, and Yrsa couldn’t stand the thought that she was alone.

  The moons dipped and rose. Time flattened out.

  “He’s gone,” Bryn said, creeping into Yrsa’s vigil with his tail between his legs.

  Yrsa bristled. “He’ll be back.”

  Bryn said nothing. It was only the two of them, alone in a bitter, bloody morning with the world crumbling around them. Yrsa howled out her grief and rage into the still air, but only silence answered her. If Grae heard, he gave her no sign. Bryn nuzzled her shoulder.

  “He’s gone, Yrsa.”

  “I know.” The words felt like defeat. Nothing in Bryn’s body spoke of surprise – he was resigned, grief-wracked, but in a way that suggested he had expected this to happen. Yrsa couldn’t look at him, so she looked at the ravens huddling around Other’s corpse. “You knew, didn’t you? That he was slipping.”

  Bryn’s silence was an answer in itself, but he eventually found the words. “I suspected. I’ve always suspected.”

  “Why not tell me?”

  “Because you weren’t there when Nessen died.” Bryn’s shiver was strong enough that Yrsa could feel his distress in the air. “It was so . . . so—” Bryn bit down on his words with a growl. “Can I show you?”

  Yrsa nodded.

  The wyrdness that surrounded Bryn began to sprawl out. There were dozens of pale threads, each one imbued with myriad fragments of Things That Had Been. Here a raven, circling against a washed-out sky; there the taste of regurgitated meat, the bitterness that swelled in the throat. The strands were like cool water against her fur, but they didn’t soak her. Yrsa waited with tensed muscles as the net wove itself together, binding around her head.

  —Grae, crying.

  Nessen, dead.

  The stench of blood.

  Snapping a raven out of the air, scattering stones and freshly dug earth.

  Sweat. Spittle. Pain.

  And Grae again.

  Hauling him out from under the corpses.

  Half-mad, eyes rolling, fur matted with blood.

  (—the wyrdness, where’s the—)

  He can’t hear Bryn’s pleas.

  Pain. Grae’s teeth, needle-sharp.

  (It’s me, it’s okay)

  The ravens are back.

  A fox utters a high, keening shriek.

  Victory. Meat. Hunger.

  Running—

  She came out gasping for breath, shaking all over. Bryn was there in an instant. He waited patiently as Yrsa returned to the world of flesh and bone.

  “I brought Grae back to Deothwicc and he cried for days. I think . . . I think I knew then that the only thing this world offered was more of the same for him. And I knew he wouldn’t—” Bryn broke off with a sound that was suspiciously similar to a whine. It startled Yrsa. She nuzzled into his shoulder and gave his ear a tender lick.

  “None of us could have saved him,” she said and the pain in her chest grew even tighter. “And besides, we shouldn’t talk in possibilities.” The irony of that was like a claw in her throat as she spoke. “There’s only what is, and what has happened – and what we must do now.”

  Bryn turned and looked down at Yrsa, fondness written in every inch of his body.

  “Little Yrsa, wiser than the rest of us,” Bryn said and returned her earlier nuzzle with gentle affection. “When did you grow up?”

  “Not very long ago at all.” Yrsa’s head hung low. “All it took was losing all my littermates.”

  Chapter 41

  The world fell back into place piece by piece.

  Aethren lay with their cheek pressed against the floor, curled around a pillow that was wet with their own tears. The skin on their forearms stung. Their head hurt. Somewhere beyond their sight, water splashed and trickled.

  “It’s okay,” said Thrigg, pressing a cool, wet cloth to Aethren’s forehead. They closed their eyes, trying to shut out the hot, throbbing pain in their skull. The ends of Thrigg’s hair tickled their face. “You’re okay.”

  “I’m not.” Aethren whispered. Talking left a raw, bloody flavour on their tongue. “I’m—”

  (sick)

  “I just . . .”

  “You don’t need to talk.” Thrigg’s hands were surprisingly strong as she helped Aethren sit up, pressing a wooden drinking-bowl into their hands. “This’ll help.”

  Aethren stared at the dark liquid. It smelled familiar, like Marken’s soothing tea.

  Tea which he had probably learned to make here among the hrafmaer.

  The bowl slipped from Aethren’s fingers. Thrigg caught it and put it aside.

  “Do you want anything? Food? Water?”

  Aethren managed to nod. They stared at the fine bands of colour in the floor until Thrigg returned, this time with a tin mug that was cool to the touch. Aethren gripped it between their numb hands, taking small sips and focusing on the cold as it slid down their throat.

  Some sense crept back into Aethren’s roiled head. A flash
of memory.

  “I hit you,” they croaked, looking up at Thrigg. Her bottom lip was scabbed with dried blood. Black blood. She touched it gingerly with one corner of a cloth, shrugged.

  “It’s fine. I heal quickly.”

  Aethren looked down at their forearms. The skin was criss-crossed with red lines, some bloody and others raw. They put their face in their hands.

  “Fuck.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Thrigg said. She had her hand on Aethren’s shoulder again, her fingers rubbing careful circles over the ball of the joint. Aethren couldn’t help it; they leaned into the touch.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve already said you needn’t be sorry,” Thrigg reminded them gently. Aethren frowned. They thought they recalled something like that happening, but their thoughts were in ruins.

  “But—”

  “No.” Thrigg’s face was unusually tense. She turned to face Aethren fully, drawing her hands back to her lap. Her eyes glittered wetly. “I don’t want you to apologise to me. It’s – wrong. I don’t . . . it shouldn’t be that way round. I’m sorry.”

  Aethren looked down at Thrigg’s hands. Her fingers were very close to theirs. Aethren’s skin itched with a sudden desire to close that gap, but their wrists felt frozen in place. Everything ached.

  What the fuck do you have to be sorry for? Aethren would have asked if their tongue didn’t feel like so much lead.

  Taking in a shaking breath, Thrigg patted the back of Aethren’s hand. Her touch didn’t linger. “You need to rest,” she said.

  “Stay?” Aethren asked.

  Thrigg’s nod was so quick that Aethren thought they had imagined it. But still, Thrigg stayed.

  Aethren blinked awake with their head pillowed on something warm and firm. Something clad in deerskin leggings. The pillow shifted, muscles tensing and relaxing beneath Aethren’s cheek.

  Thrigg.

  She was asleep, slumped sideways against the headboard of the bed with a blanket around her shoulders. Aethren didn’t remember putting their head on her lap, but there was no denying the position they were in now. Gingerly, Aethren sat up and padded across to the hearth.

  There was still water in the kettle and warmth in the embers; setting everything up for a bowl of tea didn’t take too long. Aethren went through the motions as they would on an ordinary day at home – as they had done a thousand times before, after one of their panics had kept Marken up most of the night.

  Thrigg woke as soon as Aethren touched her shoulder. She didn’t wake slowly; there was no grogginess or confusion. Her eyes opened and she sat forwards, transferring from one state to the next as easy as blinking. There was, however, a moment of uncertainty as she looked at the drinking-bowl in Aethren’s hands.

  “For me?”

  “Least I could do,” Aethren said.

  Now that they were both awake, sitting next to Thrigg felt wrong. Aethren perched uncomfortably on a chair by the table, turning their own drink around and around in their hands. The aftereffects of the tea were wearing off slowly but surely, leaving Aethren feeling drained but rested.

  “Does that happen often?”

  Aethren blinked at Thrigg. There was genuine concern on her face. “Often enough.” Aethren shrugged, an ironic half-smile twisting their lips. “Must say though, this is probably the first time I’ve had an attack over something tangible. The cause isn’t always so clear.”

  “Ylla?” But Thrigg didn’t need to ask, and they both knew it. Aethren decided there wasn’t any point in answering.

  Thrigg finished the rest of her tea before she spoke again. “I like you, Aethren.”

  “Nonsense.” Aethren frowned at her. “You don’t get to meet many people – I’m a change of pace, ‘s all.”

  “No.” Thrigg met their self-deprecating expression with determination. “I’ve enjoyed your company. I have. And – I can’t keep lying to you.”

  “What?”

  “Ylla . . . has bound our tongues, so we couldn’t – let something slip. But I can’t—” Thrigg shook her head in frustration, as if that would free her from the weave. “Hare or fox or raven, you’re not made to be trapped here. I won’t be part of it. I didn’t want to be part of it.”

  Aethren sat forwards on the edge of the chair, every line and ligament humming with tension. “What . . . are you saying?”

  “Tonight,” Thrigg said. “I promise.”

  Aethren spent the day helping Flannað, the hrafmaer with the yellow apron, in the storeroom. Flannað wasn’t talkative, and Aethren was thankful for that. Other than taking instruction on how to bind the wheels of cheese and stack them, or how to repair the baskets that had broken during the winter, they didn’t need to expend any energy on listening. They moved through the motions, slow and wooden, and tried not to wonder what Thrigg was up to.

  Thrigg came for Aethren at early evening. She walked them back to the prison-room as usual and made to close the door on them.

  “But—” Aethren broke off when they saw the look on Thrigg’s face. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, the muscles along her neck and jaw visible with tension. She made a small, near-imperceptible movement that Aethren took to mean Wait and closed the door in their face.

  Aethren didn’t need to wait long. They were pacing tight circles around the table when a ripple in the back wall caught their eye. A moment later, the solid stone peeled apart like torn linen. Thrigg’s face appeared in the gap; her brow was creased in concentration, and her hands trembled where they were splayed outwards in the air.

  “Hurry,” she grunted.

  “I don’t have anything—”

  “Hurry,” Thrigg said again, more urgently. Aethren slid through the gap, barely managing to stumble through the side before the stone melted back together. Unable to resist, they pressed their hand against it. The surface was as smooth and unyielding as it had always been.

  “Wish I could do that.”

  “You would probably be better at it than I.” Thrigg’s voice shook breathlessly as she bent down and picked up a bundle from the ground. “Here. You’ll need these.”

  Aethren’s mouth fell open. Inside the bundle was their bow, their arrows, and all the rest of their clothes from before. They looked up, gratitude on their lips, and noticed Thrigg was leaning too heavily against the stone wall.

  “You don’t look good.”

  Thrigg wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “I had to undo some very strong weaves to get these. Delicate work – it took me most of the day. Ylla knows what she’s doing.”

  “Fuck her,” Aethren said. “You know what you’re doing, too. And me? I know how to use this.” They shouldered their quiver, immediately calmed by its familiar weight. Thrigg smiled weakly.

  Thrigg and Aethren moved through the smaller, winding streets on Hrafnholm’s outskirts in a wide circle, hugging the shadows of buildings where they could. Every flutter of wings made Thrigg flinch, and Aethren’s fingers leapt to their bow each time. The city was silent – too silent – and the spring sun above felt like a great, baleful eye.

  As the two of them cut through the sleeping streets towards the cave, Aethren’s anxiety returned – but it was different, this time. This wasn’t a nameless, stifling dread; it was a keen-edged instinct, reminding them to keep their ears pricked and eyes peeled.

  Thrigg went into the cave first. She didn’t conjure up a light, and Aethren tried not to think about what that might mean. Thrigg still looked exhausted from whatever she’d done during the day, and her footsteps were slightly uneven as she walked ahead. Aethren kept one hand on the wall and the other half-extended, ready to catch Thrigg if she fell.

  “Here,” Thrigg said at last. The all-encompassing darkness flickered as a small light appeared between Thrigg’s forefinger and thumb. Unlike Ylla’s orb, this one cast shadows; Thrigg’s face looked ghastly and ethereal where it hovered above the light, apparently disembodied. Aethren could only just see their hand in front of the
ir face.

  Thrigg crossed the cavern without hesitation and went to the back wall. Aethren followed more slowly, feeling off balance in the wide, dark space.

  “Not much further now,” Thrigg called softly. Aethren watched her as she pulled apart the stone, her hair obscuring her face. The noise of pain she made as the gap opened filled Aethren with dread.

  “I – I can go alone,” Aethren said once they were both through, putting a hand on Thrigg’s shoulder. She was so tense that it was almost like touching rock.

  Thrigg let out a soft, dry laugh. “No, you cannot.”

  “But what’s the matter?” Aethren forced Thrigg to face them. She seemed to be struggling to focus on their face.

  Thrigg swayed, gripping Aethren’s arm for balance. Aethren didn’t think she was aware of her doing it, but she continued to hold them in a soft grip even after regaining her balance. “Ylla isn’t cruel. I don’t . . . think she’s cruel, anyway. Or – she doesn’t mean to be.”

  “It doesn’t matter what she means,” Aethren snapped. “Surely, she can see what her actions have done. Shit, Thrigg – what’s happening to you?”

  Black blood trickled in a steady stream from Thrigg’s nose. She didn’t make any effort to wipe it away. “I tried to undo it, her weave around my tongue. Should have known better. It is taking a lot to simply loosen it.”

  “Can you carry on?”

  Thrigg groaned, her grip on Aethren’s arm tightening. “There isn’t a choice.”

  “Yes, there is!” Aethren tried to stop Thrigg from walking on, but she was surprisingly strong. Even now. “You don’t have to choose to help me.”

  “I’ve already chosen,” Thrigg said, her eyes fixed defiantly on Aethren’s face. There was no point in arguing.

  Down and down Aethren went, not letting go of Thrigg. Her light flickered, then puttered out completely. Aethren didn’t ask her to bring it back and, to Aethren’s relief, she didn’t try. The tunnel grew colder, the air damp. With every step, the sound of running water became louder and clearer.

  At last, the tunnel floor evened out. Aethren heard Thrigg’s breathing quicken, followed by the eery groan of moving stone.