When Dealing with Wolves

by A. R. Thompson

  Anger and nostalgia twisted together in Aethren’s gut.

  They closed their eyes – maybe I need to be dangerous now – and reached for the tangle of power in the back of their head.

  Aethren remembered Marken’s hand on their back and the firmness of the wall against their spine; the rush of relief that came with letting go. One hand moved from Thrigg’s shoulder to cup her jaw, feeling for something that couldn’t be touched.

  There.

  Aethren got the sense they’d just snagged on something – a thorn in fine threads of their awareness – and they held on to it. The snag was cold, drenched in Ylla’s fear and venom. A metallic taste coated Aethren’s tongue. They could smell blood. But that was okay; it didn’t matter. This was wrong, and by all the stars, they were going to put it right.

  Instead of pain, Aethren felt a curious warmth flood their insides. The darkness behind their eyes turned white, then red, as if a bright light were shining down on them. Now that Aethren wasn’t running on fumes of fear and pain, they could feel every thread and sinew of magic in the air. Just like archery. Like breathing.

  Aethren found the right string – and let it snap.

  Thrigg gasped. She jerked like a puppet, then slumped forwards into Aethren’s arms and hid her face in their shoulder. They could feel her heart beating madly, her shoulders shaking – from effort, or relief? Aethren couldn’t tell.

  “Did it work?” They couldn’t keep the giddy excitement out of their voice as they opened their eyes. Because that had felt natural, clean, like water flowing into a parched riverbed.

  Thrigg drew in a sharp breath – and the words came pouring out of her. “We’ve lost contact with Ysaïn. No birds have flown in or out, and the wraiths and piskies that dwell there have gone silent. When we heard Arketh’s cry through the wyrdness, Ylla flew to rescue her. I thought it was a strange thing for Ylla to do, even if the child were wyrdsaer, but I quickly realised the truth. Arketh’s sensitivity to the wyrdness runs deep, and Ylla wanted to use it. But Arketh resisted. Her soul has fled high into the eðir and she won’t come back, and so Ylla keeps her here.

  “I know that Ýgren would never have wanted this and I argued against Ylla’s decision, but I’m no match for her power or ability. None of us are. When the ravens said that you had left Erdansten and were coming in this direction, I knew Ylla would take you. I tried to warn you when you left Erdansten before and again when Ylla came to hunt you, but I couldn’t get to you. I’m sorry. I tried, and I wish I’d been able to try harder, but then maybe I’d never have met you and remembered what it’s like to be alive.”

  Aethren stared at Thrigg, who managed a faint smile before collapsing. They barely caught her before she fell completely, guiding her down into a sitting position.

  “But Arketh’s okay?”

  “She’s . . . safe.” Thrigg looked furtively at Arketh’s – sleeping? soulless? – body and bit her lower lip. “Ylla surrounded her flesh in weaves to keep it intact, reminding her lungs to breathe and her heart to beat. None of us could have done that, so we dared not interfere.”

  “So, what? Ylla wants to use her, and so she’ll do anything to keep her alive,” Aethren said flatly. Thrigg winced but didn’t try to contradict them. “Do you think I could wake her?”

  “No.” Thrigg offered up a sad smile. “Perhaps she would come back for her family – her mother is wyrdsaer, too – but she will be hard to reach, even for them. It has to be her choice now.”

  “Then I’ll find her family,” Aethren said. “Do you know where Ylla sent Isha?”

  “Not for sure.” Thrigg fiddled nervously with the clay plug in her left earlobe. “Perhaps Deothwicc. Wait—”

  Aethren, halfway to their feet, paused. “What?”

  “Take this.” From under her cloak, Thrigg produced a delicate knife. Unlike the ones Aethren usually used, it was thin-bladed and lightweight, made for stabbing. The leather handle was well worn, but the blade had been kept in excellent condition. “We’re not allowed weapons, but . . . Ýgren let me keep it. As a reminder.”

  “A—” Understanding dawned as Aethren took the handle. “The knife you used to kill that trader?”

  “Yes.” Thrigg closed Aethren’s fingers around the grip. “You can get out through the waterfall. There are steps, and then a tunnel. You’ll need this knife once you get out into the marsh. It’s iron.”

  Something in Thrigg’s voice set alarm-drums pounding in Aethren’s head. “Why?”

  “There’s no weaves there. We’ve never needed any.” Thrigg held Aethren’s hand a little tighter. “It’s where the slycraed dwells. She might not smell you – your scent is close to ours, after all – but if she does, you fight.”

  “I can do that.” Carefully, reluctantly, Aethren pulled away from Thrigg’s touch. Her hands fluttered in the air a moment before she folded them together over her abdomen.

  “Come with me?” Aethren asked. Then, realising how that sounded, they winced. “Not because of any slithering monsters in the marshes, but I can find Rostfar and Isha and return them to Erdansten with Arketh, and make it known that you’re the reason for her safety. You can have your life back.”

  Thrigg lurched forwards. Aethren braced themself to catch her, thinking she was about to fall again, and was unprepared for the press of her lips against their cheek. Although her skin was inhumanely cool, her breath was warm.

  “What was that for?” Aethren asked stiffly, tense under her touch. Thrigg laughed sadly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t think I can.”

  Aethren tried not to think about the sharp sinking feeling in their stomach. “Be safe,” they said, and set off around the pool towards the exit.

  The tunnel that led out of the caverns was long and gloomy. Aethren had never been afraid of the dark, but alone without anyone to distract them, the oppressive sense of underground was crushing. It was with a deep sigh of relief that Aethren clambered through the exit and skidded down a brief slope of dark, damp earth.

  In the eternal Bloom twilight, the Wyccmarshes looked unreal. They spooled out ahead of Aethren, humming with bloodflies and salamanders and other, stranger creatures. Fog coiled lazily through the stunted trees that grew in tight clusters across the landscape; it blurred the edges of rocks and turned the long grasses into disembodied fingers. Aethren turned to look at Hrafnholm one last time but saw only more fog.

  In the absence of stars, Aethren had to rely on Sylvrast’s sunlit ghost as a guide. The sky above them was a washed-out, pearly hue, and the silver moon stood out like an eye. Unblinking. Glaring. Aethren squinted up and tried to ignore the crawling sensation that crept down their spine.

  Feeling watched was a natural reaction to a place like this.

  With one hand on the hilt of Thrigg’s knife, Aethren kept up a brisk pace through swarms of bloodflies and watery mud. Stride by stride, the mud gave way to stinking, brackish water. Fish and salamanders moved unseen through the sagebrush and hemlock trees, the splash of their bodies unnaturally loud.

  Aethren thought they must have been walking for hours, but the silhouette of the Harra Mountains never got any closer. The water grew deeper and the fog dense, forcing Aethren to slow down. They couldn’t afford to fall out here. Isha and Rostfar were out there somewhere in the wilds, looking for answers that only Aethren could give.

  Answers that Ylla could have given if she wasn’t such a rotten-hearted salamander. She had known she was sending Isha on a wild ghost chase, and she’d done it anyway. Aethren jabbed at the ground in front of them with a stick, testing for sink-mud and imagining it was Ylla’s face.

  Before long, Aethren had to step from root to root, clinging to the hemlocks and dead spruces to keep out of the water. Swimming wasn’t high on their list of skills, but the trees were sparse and their options few. All they could see ahead was marshland, pockmarked by clumps of sagebrush and waterweed. No path. And still, still, the mountains hadn’t gotten any nearer.


  Nothing about this felt right. Had Thrigg been wrong? Had she lied?

  No. Aethren gave the slick ground a particularly savage jab. The skin of Aethren’s cheek tingled with the memory of her lips. Thrigg had thought she was telling the truth; Aethren could trust her.

  Hrafnholm doesn’t like to be abandoned, Ylla had said. Aethren had sneered at her, assumed she was talking about herself – and maybe she had been. But apparently there was truth in those words, too.

  Aethren turned back towards Hrafnholm, cupped their hands to their mouth, and yelled, “I won’t stick around here, so you may as well let me go!”

  Their voice fell dead in the water. Aethren kept walking.

  They must have fallen asleep on their feet at some point, because they jerked awake and found themself waist-deep in thick, stagnant water. A splash – or another splash? Was that what had woken them? – burst from the fog. As Aethren looked around, desperate for some sign of life, they saw a sleek, black back break the water’s surface not ten feet away.

  Aethren went still, but they could do nothing to stop the chattering of their teeth. Thrigg’s knife was sheathed at their waist, but their hands were too numb and their clothes so heavy with water. Would it be so bad, asked a small voice in their mind, to just sink and let all of this end?

  “Aethren!”

  A voice distorted by the water and mist but no less familiar. Aethren, deep in a sluggish sort of delirium, was certain they had imagined it. Then—

  “Aethren!” Marken shouted again.

  “I’m here!” Water washed into Aethren’s mouth as they shouted. When it gotten so deep?

  A light flickered in and out of view. The nearer it got, the clearer Aethren’s thoughts became. They recognised the outline of a boat – and the small figure sitting at its stern.

  No. No.

  Not Marken. This person was too small, too slender, and they didn’t appear to be rowing. Aethren’s heart sank.

  “I’m not going back with you!” Aethren recoiled as Ylla drew up alongside them. Ylla scoffed and threw out a length of rope. It hit the water with a dull, resounding smack.

  “Look around you, hrafaïn,” Ylla said. “You don’t have any choice.”

  Aethren stared at the rope in defeat. They were exhausted; they couldn’t stay here, treading water, for much longer.

  Aethren took the rope. They didn’t like this, but Ylla was right – they didn’t have another choice. But that didn’t mean they had to do what Ylla expected.

  The boat remained unnaturally steady as Aethren used one hand to climb in, the other down by their side. Ylla helped them in, taking the cloak from their shoulders, picking up a blanket from a box by the prow.

  “I’m impressed, hrafaïn, I’ll give you that.” Ylla said, her voice too light and flippant as she shook out Aethren’s soaked cloak.

  Aethren made their voice small, tremulous. “Ylla?”

  Ylla turned around, her expression softening.

  Aethren lashed out.

  The blade passed through thin air. Carried on by their momentum, Aethren lurched forwards, the side of the boat rushing towards them. Claw-like fingers dug into their shoulders and hauled them back, and Aethren turned again. But Ylla wasn’t there.

  A hand closed around Aethren’s wrist. They tried to twist free, but a sudden, white-hot pain exploded in the tendons of their wrist. Bent by a will other than their own, Aethren’s fingers opened. They dropped the knife over the side.

  “No more games,” Ylla said, her face more inhuman than ever in the harsh, grey light. Aethren’s knees buckled. Their vision swam. “You’re done.”

  Her fingers pressed into Aethren’s forehead, and the world vanished.

  Chapter 44

  Aethren awoke gazing up at the washed-out sky. They could feel the gentle rocking of the boat underneath them and hear the ripple of running water. They turned their head and saw Ylla still sitting at the prow of the boat, staring out into the marsh. The only indication that any time had passed was the position of the moons; it was now almost noon.

  “I wouldn’t try to move yet,” Ylla said. Her voice was flat and distant. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

  Ignoring her, Aethren tried to sit up – and promptly lurched to the side of the boat, bile rushing up their throat.

  “Here.” Ylla pushed a clean cloth into their hand. Aethren wiped their mouth and leant against the edge, trying to get a sense of where they were.

  The boat was moored by a half-sunken jetty. A rickety wooden walkway crossed over tussocks of peat grass, leading up to a lopsided shack, rotten and long abandoned.

  “Where are we?”

  “Isn’t this what you wanted, to be out of Hrafnholm?” Ylla quirked an eyebrow.

  “Why help now?” Aethren backed away slowly. They reached the end of the boat and stopped, tensed to leap over the side if they had to.

  “You’ve made it quite clear that I cannot contain you.”

  Aethren frowned. They hadn’t been compliant, but they were no match for Ylla’s magic. The phantom ache in their fingers was proof enough of that.

  “No, I don’t think that’s it.” Aethren eyed Ylla levelly. “Are you about to tell me that I remind you of Mam, and so you’re letting your emotions cloud your judgement?”

  Ylla’s lips twisted. “You can believe that, if you like.”

  “So, if I leapt out of this boat, you wouldn’t try and stop me?”

  “You’re welcome to.” Ylla shrugged. “But wouldn’t you prefer to accept my offer of help?”

  That gave Aethren pause. They didn’t want to listen to any more of Ylla’s lies; the way she talked in circles, never answering anything directly. They wanted to get moving and not look back.

  But.

  “Will you answer me a question, honestly?”

  “Fine.”

  “Why do you have Arketh?”

  A tiny spasm of surprise crossed Ylla’s face. “You’re not the girl’s family. She isn’t you concern.”

  “She’s more family to me than you are. So – why?” Their temper started rising again, and Aethren let it. Ylla deserved to know what she had done. “Everything fell apart when she disappeared. You’ve ruined us.”

  Ylla’s eyes drifted to the marshes again. “No, I haven’t. You know as well as I that this reckoning has been coming for a long time.” She spoke in a soft, distant voice. “The child was alone and afraid, pursued by an unwolf. She cried out to the wyrdness, and myself and a wolf answered her. I could have allowed the wolf to drive off the unwolf, but I needed that girl. I felt her power and I knew she could help me.”

  “Help with what?”

  At last, Ylla looked at Aethren directly. Her eyes were haunted. “Ýgren told me I was making a mistake, driving apart your kind and the wolves. I never really believed it, not until the ravens brought word from Ysaïn in the depths of the Quiet – tidings of blood, a massacre, something unspeakable.” Her voice wavered. “I hoped with the child’s aid, I could regain control – make nudges in the right direction, try to find out what had happened and how to smooth it over. The situation required a delicate touch, and she was it.”

  “But?” Aethren pressed.

  “But she fought me, refused to co-operate. And now—” Ylla swallowed. “Now . . . her soul won’t return to her body. She is hiding in the eðir, far above my reach. Please, believe me when I say that I would return her if I could – I am so tired of playing at being a god.”

  A laugh was building in Aethren’s chest. It was small at first – no more than a tickle beneath their lungs – but growing fast. The corner of their mouth twitched uncontrollably.

  “Are you alright?” Ylla reached for Aethren’s shoulder. And the laughter burst free. Part of Aethren knew that they were having hysterics, but they didn’t care.

  “Gods, I’m sorry—” They tried to inhale, but the laughter sat in their throat, blocking the air. Wiping their streaming eyes, Aethren cupped their mouth and breath
ed into their fingers until the lump in their throat budged. When they looked up, Ylla’s expression was almost fearful. “I’m sure you’re giving me a perfectly reasonable explanation, but I can’t hear it over that shit you’re chewing on.”

  Ylla’s jaw went slack. “Excuse me?”

  “Look at you, capturing a child because you think she’ll let you regain control, and you can’t even say her name. Hasn’t it occurred to you to just . . . I don’t know, help? No strings, no weaves, no meddling.” Aethren stood and faced Ylla head-on. She stepped back.

  “Aethren—”

  “Except, of course you’ve thought about that. It’s well within your power.” They jabbed a finger at Ylla’s chest. “But you’re a coward, too scared to fix your mistakes and too scared of making new ones. You’re only letting me go because you think I’ll clear the shit pile for you, but you’re wrong. Your own people are afraid of you, and you’ve got your head so far up your arse that you’re never going to see clearly again.”

  The fear vanished from Ylla’s face. Aethren didn’t know if she had been feigning it, or if she was now feigning her cold veneer. She folded her arms.

  “Take the tunnels,” Ylla said. Aethren opened their mouth to ask what tunnels, when Ylla made a complex gesture and the ground by the walkway opened as if split by a great blade. A deep, dark tunnel mouth yawned up at Aethren, ringed with broken roots and jagged rocks. “They will lead you where you need to go.”

  Aethren hesitated halfway out of the boat and glanced cautiously at Ylla. They felt like they had to say something to fill the gap between them – they couldn’t decide between a begrudging Thank you, or a heartfelt Fuck you. In the end, Aethren merely shrugged.

  “Wish you could’ve been better,” they said, and left.

  ⁂

  Kristan sat down on the crates outside the moothall so he would have a good seat. He watched them all mill in – friends, family, people he thought he knew – their faces grim and eyes determined, and the sight made him shiver. These people needed protecting, and Kristan realised he had no idea who would do it without Mam and Rostfar in the lead.