She sought Skjaldwulf where he worked in the dusty yard, helping the not-quite-weaned cubs become strong by teaching them to sit upright on their haunches in return for bits of meat. It looked ridiculous—as if he were surrounded by a half dozen giant, shaggy squirrels—but he said it strengthened their backs.
He stopped as soon as he noticed her, handed out the last few tidbits, and dried his bloody hands on a rag as he came over. The pups gamboled about his ankles, nipping and jumping and climbing over one another. It seemed as if they had been featureless grubs making small meeping noises as they competed for their mother’s teats only a few days before. Now, Skjaldwulf winced as their needle-sharp puppy claws and teeth pierced his breeches and found the skin beneath.
As he came up to Otter, he put on an ostentatious performer’s frown. “I see by your face, daughter, that I am in trouble.”
His expression and voice, mock-grave, might have moved her to laughter, tears, or both simultaneously. But she could not bear either, so she raised the back of her hand to her mouth and bit down hard enough to hurt and leave red marks from her teeth.
“Hey,” Skjaldwulf said, and gently drew her hand away. “We have other food, sweetheart.”
“You can’t take Mar,” she told him, all in a rush, because if she temporized, she would lose her courage. “He won’t survive it.”
He stopped. He squeezed her fingers abruptly, and now it was him causing pain, but she did not flinch. She saw him draw a quick breath, surprised, and then a slower, thoughtful one.
“Of course you’re right,” he said. “How do you propose I convince him to stay?”
And that, right there, was the rub. Because Mar was old, but Skjaldwulf was his brother. And Skjaldwulf was not so young himself—though hardly an ancient to be left behind. Every man who could swing an axe would be needed on the war trail.
“You’re the wolfjarl,” she answered brusquely. “You think of something.”
Skjaldwulf frowned at her, but then his eyebrows lifted, in surprise or insight. One of the young wolves around him whined, and he turned away from Otter without speaking further, but that did not distress her. No one could know Skjaldwulf for more than a handful of days without understanding that his words and his love were not weighed on the same scales.
Still, she watched him go—the heaviness in his step, his heavy-shouldered posture—and she could have cursed. Not him, and not the wolves. Not even the Rheans, for the moment.
But just the world, the damned world that took a man whom the gods had cut out to be a poet and sent him over and over again into war.
* * *
For all her weeks of effort and patience in bringing the svartalfar and aettrynalfar to the table together—if there was even going to be a table in that hole in the ground they were determined on using as a conference hall—Alfgyfa was rewarded by being shunted aside with the other apprentices, servants, and humans when the hour of the Alfarthing finally approached. Even Idocrase got to saddle his pony and head out with Tin and Galfenol to the cavern. Pearl and Manganese and Yttrium were left behind, but Pearl and Manganese were busy with practice work in Thorlot’s forge, and Yttrium had gotten into a complicated discussion of metallurgy with Thorlot, which was—the final blow to Alfgyfa’s stung pride—too esoteric for a mere apprentice to follow.
She wandered from place to place forlornly, trapped inside while a summer storm soaked the courtyards, looking for something to occupy herself and incapable of concentrating on any of the tasks she was offered.
Mjoll took pity on her and set her to mucking out the stables—hard physical labor and just enough mental engagement that her growing anxiety didn’t wash her away—but there were enough tithe-boys around that even that extravagantly self-perpetuating task consumed only the morning. Then Alfgyfa was back to sulking about the heall, irritating herself nearly as much as anyone else, until, finally, Brokkolfr huffed at her like an annoyed wolf—except his wolf was never annoyed—and said, “Why don’t you go and visit Osmium?”
It was the perfect solution, and the best part was that Alfgyfa realized she didn’t even need to get permission. Her master was away, a wolfcarl had told her to get out of the heall’s collective hair, and she might be an apprentice but she was also a woman grown. She had every right to walk where she pleased. She wasted exactly enough time to pull on her walking boots and braid her lights into her hair before she was out the gate at a gentle jog.
The summer afternoon was balmy and cool. The storm had blown through, but beads of rain still bowed the heads of flowers and rye grass. Light caught in the droplets as if the meadow plants too wore hairnets of stonestars, and the spiderwebs were tattered veils sewn with jewels. Alfgyfa felt a great weight of foreboding lift from her as she moved.
It was chilly among the trees, but as she was running, it only cooled the surface of her skin. The muscles stayed warm beneath. Coming to the cave mouth, she slithered in. Points of light cast through the jewels in her hairnet swayed and tossed around her as she trotted along the starstone-edged path to the gates of Aettrynheim, amused at herself now that she had ever found the precipice intimidating. At the gates, she rang the bell, and the apprentice horticulturalist who answered let Alfgyfa through the gate and sent a messenger straightaway for Osmium.
In a stroke of real luck, it was Osmium’s rest day, and she had just finished breaking her fast. She arrived slightly out of breath and grinning widely not half an hour later, with a pot of ale and couple of mushroom pâté–stuffed buns still warm in the bag.
The aroma made Alfgyfa realize that her bread and cheese had been on the other side of several hours with a shovel and pitchfork, and also a run. And that she hadn’t washed her hands after the stable work.
Fortunately, there was a public washroom nearby, so once Alfgyfa had the compost smell of horse shit off her hands there was no impediment to lunch. She sat on a bench with Osmium across from her, using a pedestal marked out for an esoteric alfish game called steinntafl as a lunch counter, and bit into the first of the stuffed buns. Chewy wheat—grown in the warm, well-lit caverns of Aettrynheim—was an uncommon treat for Alfgyfa, accustomed as she was to crumbling rye bread, buckwheat, and oats. And alf-mushrooms were better than any mushrooms grown under the light of the sun, no matter how dim and sweaty the forest that spawned them, especially when those mushrooms had been fried in thyme and butter from Franangford’s cows.
Alfgyfa belched contentedly and reached for the ale. Osmium beamed at her.
“How did you know I was hungry?”
“You’re an apprentice. You’re always hungry. And I remember how much you liked our mushrooms.”
While Alfgyfa drank her ale and consumed the second bun, Osmium told her about the notes she’d started to receive from a journeyman-hydrologist—this being apparently an accepted method of courtship among the aettrynalfar. “She writes a good, clear hand,” Osmium said, “and I like her directness. Certainly, I would learn more of her.” She smiled. “And what of you, cave-sister? Is there no one to lure you into indiscretions?”
Alfgyfa thought instantly of Idocrase and felt herself blush painfully red. She had questions she would have liked to ask Osmium, who seemed to know much more about these things than Alfgyfa did, but there was no way she could do it. The words stuck in her throat like sideways bones.
And she was afraid Osmium would be horrified.
She said, “Don’t tease. I’ve been in Nidavellir. When would I have had the opportunity to meet anyone?”
“You have been back at your father’s wolfheall for some time,” Osmium said.
“Tithe-boys,” Alfgyfa said with loathing. “The only indiscretion they could lure me into is murder.”
“Then what?” said Osmium. “You are clearly bursting at the seams with some impatience, and if it isn’t matters of the heart, I don’t—”
“Knowledge,” Alfgyfa said, feeling as if the word were a sword she was drawing out of her own heart. “Stonesmiths in Nidavellir use
tools, not their bare hands. And there isn’t even … when they talk about Master Hepatizon—”
“Vaidurya,” Osmium corrected reflexively.
“Vaidurya. Beg pardon. When they talk about Master Vaidurya, they never say what she did. They never tell us that there’s an entire world of lore and scholarship that we can’t take into consideration in our work, because we don’t know it’s there. And if rumors reach us, well, we’re expected to play dumb and curl up our ears and look in some other direction until the urge to find out what trolls and aettrynalfar can do to stone goes away!”
Osmium stared at Alfgyfa. Her ears, indeed, were a bit curled at the edges, but Alfgyfa thought—hoped—it might be more humor than aggravation. Osmium’s nose wrinkled, then, and she chuckled.
“What?”
“No one will ever accuse you of diplomacy.”
Despite herself, Alfgyfa felt the sting. “Who was it that brought the aettrynalfar and the svartalfar to this very meeting they’ve locked us out of?” She drummed her fingers on the table edge, wondering if Osmium had had anything to do with making this one. “Besides, aren’t I among friends here?”
“A touch,” Osmium conceded, after a moment’s thought. “Anyway, it’s not the same thing, exactly.”
“What’s not the same thing?”
“What trolls do—did—as compared to alfar.”
“Not all alfar,” Alfgyfa said tartly.
Osmium smiled, showing the first gold inlays of adult skills decorating tea-stained teeth. “Anyway. Our tunnels don’t make you nauseated, for one thing.”
Alfgyfa wadded up the little sack the buns had come in and stuffed it into her pocket. “Thank goodness.”
“You never considered the difference?”
“I had assumed that was because you cared more about comfort than the trolls did.”
Osmium shook her head, her braids moving over her shoulders like so many beaded snakes. They tended to catch on the ornaments on her cloak. She paused for a moment to shake them loose, unpicking a few strands that had gotten snagged around a pin. “Alvish or Iskryner?”
“Alvish,” Alfgyfa said. The alfar’s language was better for talking about theories and hypotheticals in, and there were any number of technical terms that she only knew in Alvish—if they had equivalents in Iskryner at all.
Osmium gave her a little lift of the eyebrows that translated as, you’re serious, then, and said in Alvish: “It’s because the trolls cared less about the integrity of dimensions than we do.”
Alfgyfa thought about that. “I’m not sure I understand what ‘the integrity of dimensions’ means.”
Osmium glanced around. “Here, look.”
She hunkered down on her haunches, knees splayed out to either side—an easy crouch that showed the fitness of someone whose profession kept her hopping up and down off the ground all day. Alfgyfa squatted beside her and held her breath as Osmium dug her fingernails into the stone.
Carefully, Osmium lifted her hand. The stone pulled up like thick syrup with it, sliding between her fingers. Alfgyfa thought of wet slip on a potter’s wheel. She could see the stone stretching, and the way Osmium made a tiny hole to allow air into the hollow space beneath the surface that she scooped it from. Alfgyfa heard the air hiss into the hollow. This was necessary, she realized, because otherwise lifting the stone would be as impossible as working a bellows that would not draw, or pulling up the dasher in a too-tight butter churn. An empty space could suck like a pursed mouth if air couldn’t get into it.
“See where it comes from?” Osmium said, pausing a moment with the stone stretched like pine gum between her hands.
“Sure,” Alfgyfa said. “So that’s how the great caverns are made? The stone that was in them is what’s shaped into the pillars and the residences?”
“Some of it has to be taken elsewhere, too,” Osmium said. “We can’t just create or destroy the stuff. It’s more that we coax it from place to place.”
“And that’s not what the trolls did.”
Osmium shook her head. “What the trolls did—it’s more like they pushed the stone aside. Or pulled it into place.”
Alfgyfa watched Osmium’s hands as the alf gently pushed the stone of the cavern floor back flat and smoothed it out gently She burped a little air bubble out of it, even, as if punching down dough, then settled the stone with a pat of her hand. When Alfgyfa ventured to touch it, it was as solid as it had ever been.
“Pushed it aside where, though?”
“Ah,” Osmium said, with a waggling eyebrow that would have done Antimony proud. “That’s what makes it all so unsettling, isn’t it? The trolls didn’t put it anywhere, exactly. And they didn’t bring it from anywhere. But they didn’t create or destroy stone, either. They just put it aside.”
“They didn’t have to worry about the integrity of dimensions?”
From the way Osmium’s mouth worked, Alfgyfa saw that the concepts she was attempting to describe made her deeply uncomfortable. “It’s almost as if they had extra directions. Like they could stack it up in a place we can’t even see.”
Alfgyfa thought of the nauseating twists of trellwarrens, the way the floor might seem to slope up when a marble would roll down.
She thought of the round stones Osmium had given her, and how she had used one to help rescue Mouse, to help herself understand how the warren was working. She thought of how it could seem you must be about to walk back through a cross-tunnel you’d come down fifteen minutes before, and then find yourself miles from where you expected.
“That’s how they traveled so quickly through stone, then?”
“Something like it,” Osmium said. “That’s the theory, anyway.”
“Huh,” Alfgyfa said. She touched the stone again, fitting her finger into one of Osmium’s shallow, rippled fingerprints. It was too narrow for her pad, and she could feel the little divot made by Osmium’s nail. It was hard as—well, hard as stone.
“And no alf can do that?”
“It’s proved damaging to the ones who have tried. Our own stone-shaping shares aspects of what the trellkin did, but it’s a somewhat different art.”
Alfgyfa nodded, thinking hard. “So for example,” she said, after a few moments, “the aettrynalfar cannot tunnel with the speed that trellkin could.”
“Not even close,” Osmium agreed, standing up. Or as up as an alf ever got. She rocked from side to side, stretching out her knees and hips. “A trellwitch, one of their best stone-shapers, could push the stone aside as fast as she could walk.”
“That’s how they fled Othinnsaesc, then,” Alfgyfa said. She remembered her father telling her of the earth outside Franangford seeming to open up as if doors slid aside, and the trellkin just boiling up out of the earth like geyser water.
Osmium was still watching her with the intent gaze of somebody waiting for the last bell of the ceremony to drop into someone’s hand and ring. With Alfgyfa crouched and Osmium standing, their eyes were nearly on the same level.
Alfgyfa frowned over her thoughts. Then she blinked and rocked back on her heels. She stood herself, too fast, and felt dizzy. “That’s why they came up aboveground here at all!”
Osmium tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Because Aettrynheim was in the way.”
“And they couldn’t just go around it?”
“Our stone-shaping,” Osmium said, “fixes the dimensions in the stone. They couldn’t just push an alfhame out of the way—whatever ‘out of the way’ means to a troll—the way they could the natural stone.”
“So they had to come up in Father’s yard.” Her dizzy sensation wasn’t just from standing up too fast. It was the stunning sensation of getting the perfect answer to a question nobody had ever even thought to ask.
Why would the trellkind emerge from the earth just at Franangford? Just where men and wolves would come down upon them and slaughter them?
Because something stood in their way underground.
“Can you show me the di
fferences?” Alfgyfa asked. “How your stone-shaping differs from a troll’s?”
The alf laced her knobby fingers together, nails like a wolf’s blunt black claws interweaving. Alfgyfa was reminded of the rib cage of some winter-killed beast, revealed by spring thaw.
“Not here,” Osmium said slowly. Worriedly. “But if we went to the trellwarrens … then I could.”
Osmium’s bright eyes were waiting for her reaction. And for a few moments, Alfgyfa wasn’t honestly sure what it would be. Then, a chill shivered from her belly to the top of her head. She let it out with a chuff, and it dragged a grin after it.
“We could get in trouble.”
“So much trouble,” Osmium agreed, grinning back.
* * *
Osmium cloaked herself for the surface, and Alfgyfa thought to be grateful that the darkness did not burn her the way the sun burned the alfar. And then they were walking out through the gates, giggling together while they tried to remember the last time Osmium had come aboveground with Alfgyfa. Alfgyfa had been in her seventh year, she thought. It must have been spring, because the hazel and walnut trees were decked in drooping pale-green catkins, and the bark of the white birches shone through leaves that were still translucent and membrane-thin.
Amma had been babysitting them, of course. And they had been giggling just like this, and had let the big wolf shepherd them.
Now it was the two of them walking side by side through the heavy shade of late summer, and the canopy overhead was so dense that Osmium unwound her face covers. She did not put back her hood or pull her smoked spectacles off, but she did straighten up and take great breaths of the open air and cock her head curiously around.
“This is almost like being in a cave,” Osmium said.
Alfgyfa looked around. The scent of unseen blossoms hung between the trees. Birds in a half-dozen colors flitted from tree to tree, and the air was bright with song. A red squirrel skittered up a great trunk, gone so fast it left nothing behind but the quick sound of nails and the rhythmic one-two jerk of a tail.
“A cave that’s nothing like a cave,” Alfgyfa finally said, failing utterly to keep her laughter out of her voice. “Get a lot of cave squirrels in Aettrynheim? Red or gray?”
An Apprentice to Elves Page 19