He was silent for long enough that Fargrimr turned and raised his eyebrows. “If there was something you wanted to ask, I suggest you put it into words.”
“You will also rebuild, of course.”
“I am jarl of Siglufjordhur still,” Fargrimr said. A jarl without an heir, to be sure, a jarl who would have to adopt a boy not of his blood—and the sagas were just full of examples to demonstrate what a good idea that was—but still jarl.
“Will you take the old keep back? Or will you rebuild beside us?”
Fargrimr opened his mouth to answer, but stopped before the words had even reached his tongue. Of course he was going to take the old keep back. It was Siglufjordhur, where his father and his father’s father and all the long line of his ancestors had held their land and their people, and the burning shame of having it taken from him was not entirely gone. But the new keep, built shoulder to shoulder with Freyasheall, for all that it had been intended as no more than temporary shelter, had become a home, and not just because Randulfr and Ingrun had been there.
He would miss the wolves, he realized. And the wolfcarls, who were plainspoken, clean in their habits, and skilled fighters—the kind of neighbors any sane man would cultivate.
He said, “The Rheans expanded the keep, you know.”
“Did they?” said Hreithulfr.
“They are an industrious people,” Fargrimr said dourly. He turned his face into the wind, letting it flap his braids against his shoulders.
Hreithulfr came up beside him. “We lost half the threat,” he said—not asking for pity or demanding admiration for his heall’s sacrifice, just telling Fargrimr where they stood.
“The keep is foolishly large for my household,” Fargrimr said. “I think it may require some work to make keep and heall separate—for I will not have your wolves in my hall, wolfsprechend—but I do not see why it cannot be done. And then we can be whispered of with shock and abhorrence for doing this thing which no one has ever done before.”
“Isolfr thinks it’s a good idea,” Hreithulfr said. “And the wolves like you. They don’t usually bother naming wolfless men, but they named you as the snap of salt in the air and the harsh cry of a gull.”
“I appreciate the commentary,” Fargrimr said dryly.
“Wolves,” Hreithulfr said with a shrug, and Fargrimr surprised himself with a rasping laugh.
He debated, but in the end said truthfully, “It strengthens my position, which is otherwise weak in the aftermath of war.”
“Well,” Hreithulfr said with a smile, unbothered. “That’s all to the good, then. Now, Signy’s waiting, so come along inside, will you, before my stones freeze solid?”
Surprised by friendship, Fargrimr followed him away from the cliff and the sea.
* * *
Thorlot’s forge was not large; two humans and three alfar were straining the limits of its capacity, especially when two of the alfar were each pretending, as careful as any pair of konigenwolves, that the other was not there.
Idocrase felt no such compunction; he was avidly listening to Osmium talking about her stone-shaping work. Alfgyfa and Thorlot and Tin were standing around Thorlot’s anvil arguing about why the bindrunes kept breaking the swords. Tin rejected the idea that there was any inherent reason the metal would not accept the rune; they had gone back and forth over the problem, and Alfgyfa had three new ideas to try in the forging.
Tin and Thorlot had gotten into a discussion of sources of iron and possible contaminants, which Alfgyfa was too junior to know anything about, so she was looking at Idocrase when he turned to look for her.
He beckoned her over. She went willingly.
Osmium said to her, “I can’t describe a trellwarren. I think you ought to try.”
“It’s a pity we can’t just show him one,” Alfgyfa said.
“My dama would skin me alive,” Osmium said. “Besides, they put some extra wards on it when they went and closed it up again. I don’t think we’d get in a second time.”
“Your people are very thorough,” Alfgyfa said crossly. “All right. Let’s start with the stones that roll the wrong way.”
“I foresee that this is going to be the sort of conversation Master Galfenol calls unedifying,” Idocrase said cheerfully, and he leaned into her when she sat down next to him on the floor.
* * *
Tin looked across at Alfgyfa’s silver-blond head. She was still an infuriating child, and she would make journeyman if Tin had to beat sense into every smith in Nidavellir one by one.
Thorlot followed her gaze and said, “You won’t give up on her, will you?”
And Tin said, “No. Not for all the gold in the dragon Fafnir’s hoard.”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
SARAH MONETTE is the acclaimed author of Mélusine and The Virtu as well as award-nominated short fiction. You can sign up for email updates here.
ELIZABETH BEAR was the recipient of the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. She has won two Hugo Awards for her short fiction, a Sturgeon Award, and the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Together, they are the authors of A Companion to Wolves, The Tempering of Men, and An Apprentice to Elves. You can sign up for email updates here.
TOR BOOKS BY SARAH MONETTE AND ELIZABETH BEAR
A Companion to Wolves
The Tempering of Men
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
About the Authors
Tor Books by Sarah Monette and Elizabeth Bear
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
AN APPRENTICE TO ELVES
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Monette and Elizabeth Bear
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Cliff Nielsen
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-2471-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-4812-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781429948128
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: October 2015
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