by Maria Vale
“And so does Thea. I trust her. She doesn’t want to be part of the Pack. She clearly has no interest in belonging to any hierarchy. All Elijah wants is that the Pack accept her enough to let her live.”
On my way out, I rub the lintel.
This evening meal is already off to a bad start, with wolves snarling at one another. The subordinates are tired of being bossed around. The dominants are tired of being responsible. Evie watches with a careful eye to make sure that the Alphas keep their echelons in check, putting out the thousand small fires.
It doesn’t help that Marco got stabbed yesterday. It was a flesh wound, but now seaxes must be sheathed during meals. Wolves feel the absence of their carefully honed daggers and jabbing at food with dull knives just makes them surlier.
The front door opens, and the hall falls silent. Some Pack stand frozen, their plates at the ready in front of the table clotted with bowls and casseroles and platters; others hover with one leg half swung across the bench; still others close their mouths, cutting off the rough babble of the Old Tongue or the oilier language of humans.
I head immediately to the door, the one that stands between the foyer and the main hall. Elijah suggests Thea put her boots on the windowsill, because the pups, he says, will mark anything with an unfamiliar scent. He puts her coat on a hook and then covers it with his own; he doesn’t say it, but I know it’s so no wolf’s outerwear smells like human.
He is making reassuring noises, but because westends don’t hear well, the whisper meant only for the female is loud enough for the wolf standing at the door.
As soon as he sees me, he holds Thea against him, his chest out and shoulders forward, an instinctive attempt to look stronger.
I lick my teeth before turning to the human with lips curled up in greeting. “Welcome, Elijah and westend.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Shielder,” Elijah says, looking away with a shudder. “Do not try to smile.”
I let my mouth fall back, glad to be relieved of that particular burden.
The Pack remains silent as the three of us head to the serving table. The westend’s jaw is clenched, but that is the only sign she gives of discomfort. Her back is straight, her head held high, and she does not smell of fear. Elijah seems more on edge. His eyes move back and forth, his top lip curling upward in the near-snarl that dares any wolf to challenge his mate’s right to pack hospitality.
I follow them to the serving table. Trying to maintain her distance, Evie only nods before continuing her conversation with Tara. The Pack listens as Elijah explains the various dishes. She is, it turns out, a vegetarian, which would explain why she stinks of steel but not carrion, that other defining human smell.
Victor stands suddenly, dropping his napkin to the plate in front of him. He glares at Evie, who spares him a disdainful glance but no more. Clearly, their relationship has deteriorated further. Then he heads for the tables to the east side, the tables occupied by the younger echelons, catching his toe on a bench sticking awkwardly into the space between tables. He stumbles, his face red, but then tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, waiting.
The 10th, the 11th, the 13th. Lorcan. One after another, the younger Alphas look briefly toward Evie, then to Victor.
Victor is forcing them to choose their loyalties, but Evie says nothing. They are not children who must be made to eat dinner.
I watch as too many of these younger wolves stand and follow Victor lightheartedly. They don’t understand what they’re doing, and their mood is more like juveniles making mischief than like wolves embarking on the dangerous business of pulling a pack apart. A few in the 12th are more hesitant, looking toward me, but I am not here as the 12th’s Alpha Shielder. I am here as Varya, who told Evie that I would make sure nothing happened to a human.
There is one member of the 12th who doesn’t go. Nobody notices that Arthur is left behind, standing in the corner, waiting and watching.
The human looks stricken. Elijah whispers to her, rubbing her back through her long, black hair.
When the last of the 12th files out after Lorcan and Victor, Eudemos, Alpha of the 14th, stands and my heart sinks. Alone among the younger echelons’ Alphas, he had refused to follow Victor’s lead, defending Silver and Tiberius. He is gruff, a little sloppy, not the most brilliant strategist. I’d come to admire his courage and understanding of what it means to be an Alpha.
There are strong wolves in the older echelons, but the Great North needs leadership in the younger echelons, too, if the Pack is going to survive.
Eudemos picks up his plate, the saltcellar, and a water jug, stuffs the last roll in the breadbasket into his pocket, and with a nod to the 14th, moves to the table next to the 9th. Gathering their plates and food, his echelon follows, closing the gap left by Lorcan and the others. Now when Elijah and Thea sit with the 9th, they will not face table after empty table left by angry wolves.
Tiberius stands, a plate in one hand and a pup balanced on each of his huge shoulders, while Silver calls to Arthur to join them.
When they are finally all rearranged and reseated, Silver pats the seat next to her for Arthur, who swoops in carrying two more pups. One wriggles desperately until he reaches the floor and then skitters off between the big legs and big feet that will be his playground for years to come.
I’ve always come late to the serving table, waiting until the 12th is hunched over their plates, before taking whatever is left. With so many wolves gone, though, the table is still laden with a confusing array of choices. Dumping the remains of whatever is in the mahogany stoneware crock, I turn back to find a place to sit.
Elijah motions for his Gamma to move over, making a spot for me next to the human. A pup whimpers under the table, little black paws on the human’s knee. She leans down, her head to the side, and emerges holding her tiny namesake, Theo Tiberiusson, cupped in her hands. He stretches his head up for her marking, and even though she is human and can’t truly understand what it means to mark and be marked in return, she rubs her cheek against his muzzle on both sides. He licks his nose and crawls up against her neck until he is perched on her shoulder, under her hair.
Many of the wolves who stayed did so because they felt constrained by Evie’s example or the example of their echelon’s dominants. Doesn’t mean that they are reconsidering a millennia-old hatred of the hunted for the hunter. Too many of them look to me. They all know something about the end of Pack Vrangelya and my abiding fury at the westends who killed them, but those humans would never have allowed a pup to nuzzle into their necks, completely hidden except for the scrawny black tail beating against the curtain of her black hair.
They would never have confronted one of their own to protect us. I know enough about those other humans to recognize that there is a difference.
Pins prick my own leg. A brindle pup digs her tiny claws into my jeans and clambers up the slope of my shin. I try to shake her off, but she rides my leg until I pick her up. She clings to my lap like Velcro, this little bit of fur, and won’t let go. Ignoring her, I go back to my food. Then she lifts herself up on her hind legs, her paws on the table, looking first at my eggs and mushrooms, then, in case I’m too dense to understand what she wants, she turns her head to me.
In Vrangelya, pups knew better than to beg for scraps. Those who were strong and fast stole. Those who weren’t starved.
The little brindle’s tail wags hard, banging against my ribs.
I look down at her fuzzy pleading face, her tiny pink tongue, her sharp teeth and hopeful eyes. I wasn’t lying when I told Eyulf that the reason I loved Mitya was that I loved hope. I love it still. I would not want the Great North to be like Vrangelya. And to spite Vrangelya and Illarion and all those bitter adults, I hold pieces of egg between my fingers and feed them to the tiny pup with the needle-sharp teeth. She eats so eagerly, biting me twice, but the fuller she gets, the sloppier she gets. Until almost all of it end
s up in my lap. Only then do I stop her.
“Hæfst þu genoh, grædig wulfling.”
You’ve had enough, greedy wolfling.
Greedy wolflings never know when they’ve had enough, so she mewls a complaint, but when I push the plate away, she gives up and crawls into the crook of my arm, turning and fussing until she is on her back.
I stare down at her little belly, so exposed and vulnerable.
“Sigeburg likes her tummy rubbed.”
The human has to learn to speak more softly. Her voice carries too far. I will remember to tell Elijah.
Sigeburg’s little legs stiffen, then bend, relaxing as I stroke her rounded belly with my thumb.
Thea suddenly puts her hand on Elijah’s much bigger one, holding tight to his pewter mug. “Whatever it was, don’t.”
Theo peeks curiously from under the curtain of the human’s hair.
“You promised. No matter what. That was the deal.”
I hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation of the 8th’s Beta pair. They’d been talking in the Old Tongue about planting, though I suppose I should have been suspicious about why they needed to use the Old Tongue, which is not particularly suited to modern farming. Then Kieran, the Beta mate, lowers his voice further.
“Ne biþ ðǽr nǽnig mæþ umwæstmbære lond becswincan.”
It is too soft for either Arne, the 8th’s Alpha, to hear or for Evie. It was meant for Elijah.
It is not fit to plow barren land.
Elijah’s face turns white, then red, and when he lets go of the mug, the crushed pewter topples over, water spilling across the table.
By law, an open insult can be met with a challenge across echelon lines. No one would dispute that, but this was not an open insult. It was a carefully couched taunt aimed at Thea, who because she is human, will never bear Elijah’s young. She rubs the head of the tiny pup on her shoulder. I cannot discipline wolves who are not of my echelon, but here’s the thing: while mæþ means rightness or fitness, it also means honor. And whether he meant to or not, Kieran has left me an opening. Wolves fight to protect their own. They fight to maintain discipline. They fight for position in the hierarchy.
And for centuries, they have fought for honor.
Not so much anymore. Not here, in the gentled Great North. But in Vrangelya, that bellicose pack, we certainly did.
I don’t bother to turn around. “Ne biþ ðǽr na mæþ on læðendum þara mægenleasena.”
Nor is there honor in speaking ill of the powerless.
With a seax, the crusty loaf in front of me would be easy to cut. But because some wolf cut some other wolf, my seax must stay sheathed, so instead, I stab the butter knife into it over and over again until the last cut, when I thrust the dull blade through bread, through wooden trencher, and into the table. I leave the knife shuddering next to the perforated hunk of rye.
“But, Kieran Thoriansson, there is honor in fighting me.”
With the use of his Pack name and the word honor, Kieran began to exude the peculiar scent of salt and old leather that is the unmistakable scent of fear. I do not look at him, because I do not intend to acknowledge his submission. It has been so long since anyone has consented to fight me. My tongue toys with my dismally flat teeth. My fingers flex and remember the feel of hide giving way under claws. The elation that is both mind-numbing and clarifying and peculiar to fighting wild.
“Shielder, I meant no—”
“Kieran Thoriansson, by the ancient rites and laws of our ancestors and under the watchful eye of our Pack and our Alpha, I, Varya Timursdottir, challenge you to mæþ holmgang, to prove the steadfastness of your purpose and the strength of your marrow. With fang and claw, I will attend upon you the last day of the Iron Moon.”
Technically, this does nothing to our positions, as we are not in the same echelons. But a wolf who loses the mæþ holmgang, the honor challenge, loses respect, and the wolf who loses respect loses everything.
At least that’s how it was in Vrangelya.
The stench of salt and old leather picks up his damn plate and turns toward the kitchen.
“Take this,” I say, pointing to my own plate. And he does.
Chapter 32
Evie calls for Thea and Tiberius to ready themselves at the access road. She sends Tara to find Victor and the others, but I ask to go in her place, because I want to hear the excuses of the wolves who would tear this Pack apart over a human they have not taken the time to know. Before the moon takes my words, I would have them with the Deemer.
“Alpha! Wait.” Quicksilver lopes down the stairs, flying toward me. “Sigeburg?”
I don’t know how I could have forgotten the brindle pup snuggled in the crook of my arm, asleep. Her tail and one little leg swinging loose against my wrist.
Silver scoops her up, leaving my arm oddly cold, though I am an Arctic wolf, and spring is coming.
Sigeburg.
“Quicksilver.” As the Alpha did with me, I address her by name, not by rank, because I am asking her as one wolf to another. “You named your pup after the previous Deemer?”
“A sign of my great respect.”
“You did not name either of your males after Victor?”
She rubs the jaw of the little pup in her arms, who turns and begins to gnaw on the finger with her tiny white teeth. Quicksilver doesn’t say anything, but she is a wolf and doesn’t insult me by equivocating either.
“I am asking because there is a fault line in the Pack. Except for your own echelon, all the younger wolves follow Victor unquestioningly. I am trying to understand.”
Her eyes catch mine, her nose twitching. Even in skin, she is more wolf than most.
“Victor,” she says, weighing each word, “has always taught the law as infallible. What is on paper is absolute and must be followed exactly as written. For him, it is a simple matter of cause and effect. But Gran Sigeburg was always subtler, teaching the law in context.
“Because of my leg”—Sigeburg looks up at me, still chewing on the runt’s finger—“I couldn’t always run with the echelon, so I’d be left with Gran Sigeburg, and she told me not the law, since I had to learn that from Victor, but our history and our stories, the things she knew gave flesh to the bones of our law. She also knew that we could not understand the intent of the lawgivers unless we understood the minds that created the law. She said the stories were the keys that gave you entrance to those minds.
“Not so hard,” she says to Sigeburg, tapping her nose with her finger. “And you, Alpha? Who Victor has always held up as the most æfast. What about you?”
“I am law-strong because I believe the law serves the interests of the Pack.” I raise my head, sniffing at the breeze from the east. “But I have never believed that the Pack serves the interests of the law.”
* * *
In these hours before the Iron Moon, it’s dangerous to be wild. Nobody wants to take the chance that moonrise will come before they’ve had a chance to change completely into skin and will find themselves stuck as a forever wolf. Our wild may be sacred, but it is also dangerous.
Even in skin, though, it’s easy to follow the thick muddle of four echelons of wolves. At least until it is not. The muddle disappears into Bear Creek and does not come out the other side, which means they walked up or down the river before coming out and confirms my suspicion that they are up to no damn good.
Running back and forth, I finally track them downstream through the tangled woods to a little house with a steeply sloped roof, topped by a cupola, and an attached shelter that had been emptied of logs years ago.
I am no skulking sneak thief and don’t bother to disguise my footsteps or keep downwind. The voices inside slow, then stop.
The sap-house entry is made of two doors of weathered wood wide enough to accommodate a sled. One warped long ago and has been unusabl
e for years. It just needs to be kicked hard enough, and it swings opens with a splintering crash.
The warm scent of a hundred wolves mixes with moldering wood, smoke, and burned sugar and rust. And salt and old leather.
“The Iron Moon is coming.” Wolves clear a path, pressing against the walls of the little space to get away from me. “You all have responsibilities. The Alpha is dividing the Pack. The elders, the 2nd, 3rd, and 14th have already left for the High Pines. The 12th will follow your Alpha to the Great Hall. I will meet you there. The rest of you better find out where you’re supposed to be.”
One wolf begins to ask why.
“If you had been with your Pack, you would know,” I growl, and no one says anything else.
Watching the wolves file out, I lower my eyes for none of them. Not the Alphas, not my Alpha, and definitely not Victor.
“You will wait here with me, Deemer.”
“I…?”
“Will wait,” I snap.
He shifts from foot to foot. He is always given a place at the kill and no longer has to hunt. If he did, he wouldn’t expend that kind of unnecessary and noisy energy.
“I know,” he says when the last of the wolves have disappeared into the forests heading toward Home Pond. “I know that you stayed with the westend because your Alpha asked it of you. I know—”
“You know nothing. I stayed not because the Alpha asked me, but because Evie did. I stayed because it is my duty to protect the Pack. I stayed because I wanted to find out for myself whether Thea Villalobos was so dangerous that she was worth tearing the Pack apart.”
“She is a westend,” he spits out. “They are all despoilers of land and wasters of life. Have you forgotten what they did to Vrangelya?”
“Do not dare to lecture me about Vrangelya. I was there. I saw each and every death. But if the humans built the trap, it was the wolves who stayed in it, fighting among themselves instead of finding a way out.”
I am close enough that my belly grazes the button on his white shirt. “I know the price of lawlessness, but I also know the price of whispered dissent. If you speak your mind like a wolf, I will always listen. But”—I lean in, my nose touching his, my fingers a claw just below his rib cage—“if you shuffle wrohtgeorn through the Pack, know that I will eat your liver and pay whatever price the law demands.”