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A day’s walk from Erdansten, nestled into jagged folds of rock, sat the sunken town of Eahalr.
Aethren’s heart beat hard in their throat, swelling with every step they took. They weren’t breaking any rules. There wasn’t any reason to fear. But every time they made this journey, their stomach grew heavy with slick, queasy guilt. They didn’t relax until they left the coast path and caught sight of Kristan, waiting with Aethren’s pony at their usual meeting point. He waved and Aethren grinned in relief.
Aethren didn’t know how many people knew about Eahalr, but they were certain the number was small. Oh, there were stories, but few had ever thought – or dared – to look. Mam had though, when she could still get up and walk around. She used to bring Aethren here during the endless daylight hours in the Bloom.
“Hands up!” Kristan called, flinging a saddlebag at Aethren. They caught it square in the chest. “I’ve been waiting here for ages. What took you so long?”
“Oh, the usual,” Aethren responded, dry as ice. “You know, ‘Aethren do this! Aethren do that! Where’s Kristan, Aethren? Where are you going, shouldn’t you help your pa?’” They pushed their face into the side of Pony’s neck, breathing in the scent of open air and sea breeze. “I was one goat’s beard hair away from pitching a fit.”
Kristan ruffled Aethren’s hair and pushed their head away from Pony’s side. “You should be less of a stickler for rules,” he said. “Then nobody’d have such high expectations of you.”
Aethren just rolled their eyes. Kristan had two advantages for getting out of Erdansten that Aethren didn’t: his position as a healer’s apprentice, and his reputation as an incorrigible little shit.
“Let’s just go,” Aethren mumbled and tugged on the strap of Kristan’s support harness, which helped him maintain his balance in the saddle. He clicked his tongue, and the three of them set off.
The flat stone roofs of Eahalr’s half-submerged houses made perfect training grounds. Aethren knelt on the damp stone and took an arrow from their quiver. They shut their eyes, even though it was pointless – Caerost hadn’t risen yet, and the darkness was absolute.
The air was so cold it felt like something alive, crawling inside their lungs. Aethren took a deep breath and let it in. Their heartbeat, red and warm, was the loudest thing in the night.
“Okay . . .” Aethren flexed their fingers around the grip of their bow and drew back the string.
It always came down to strings. The fine threads of the air, the faint tendrils of sound from other living creatures, the feeling of something guiding their hand. Aethren didn’t fight it. They feared a lot of things in life, but not this. Not archery.
Through the crack of their eyelashes, Aethren saw
(felt)
the barest flicker of movement. They let the arrow fly.
“Oh, shit!” Kristan shouted, his fist held aloft in triumph as if he had been the one to shoot the arrow. His face emerged, spectral but alight with glee, from the doorway of the only unsubmerged dwelling in Eahalr.
The hut was small and dome shaped, situated on a flat river boulder that extended into the marsh. It overlooked the rest of the sunken city like a lonely eye. In the depths behind Kristan’s scrawny figure, firelight painted its grey-black walls gold, and smoke spilled from the tiny brick-built chimney.
Aethren scowled and let out a deliberately slow breath. It frosted in the night air.
“Are you going to get that?” Kristan pointed in the vague direction Aethren had been aiming. Aethren squinted, eyes adjusting to the gloom. They could just make out a small lump floating in the brackish water.
Picking up a long stick, Aethren crept to the edge of the roof and carefully pulled the carcass close. A ptarmigan. They pulled it, soggy and still warm, out of the water and held it up by its feet.
Their arrow had pierced it straight through the neck.
Kristan whistled in appreciation. “That looks a lot more appetising than the dried caribou you brought.”
“I hadn’t intended to catch anything,” Aethren said quietly. Kristan gave them an odd look, and they shook their head to clear it. “Whatever – can’t waste it now.”
A natural stone bridge connected their rooftop to the hut. Aethren crossed it carefully and then joined Kristan in the warmth, clapping their hands to get the blood going again. Kristan took the dead bird from them and sat on the floor to prepare it, holding the carcass steady between his feet.
Aethren left him to it and took a pail of oats through to the wooden shack attached to the back of the hut. It was newer than the rest of Eahalr, and always strangely warm inside, as if someone had just put out a blazing fire. Pony stood dozing at the back, but she lifted her head when Aethren arrived and snorted a quiet greeting. They smiled and set to work making sure she would be comfortable for the night.
By the time they returned, Kristan had their dinner well underway. Aethren helped him with the last stages of roasting the meat, and they ate in companionable silence.
Once done, Aethren made two bowls of tea, and then the two of them sat down in the hut’s arched doorway. With a fire at their back and the dark wetlands and floating roofs sprawled before them, Aethren felt more at peace than anywhere else.
Kristan also seemed to be watching the scenery, but Aethren doubted he was really seeing it. Now that he thought Aethren wasn’t watching him, his face was tight and nervous. They could see him chewing the inside of his lower lip.
“Is something wrong?”
Kristan shook his head, but he wouldn’t look at Aethren. A scab stood out on his lower lip where Eyrik’s flailing fists had struck him, and the shadows made him look older.
“Are you – are thinking about Astvald?” Aethren picked their words and tone carefully.
“They’ll be burning his body tonight.”
“I know,” Aethren said. “But we didn’t know him. We don’t need to be there.”
“‘S not just that.” Kristan tucked his knees up to his chest. “I’m not meant to say anything, so don’t go telling – but Eyrik’s accusing Rost of failing her duty as Dannaskeld.”
“Is that why they tried to hide a council meeting from her?” Aethren asked sharply. “That’s mostly why I was late. Pa sent me to fetch her.”
“I heard Mam talking about it with your pa, before the meeting. Well . . .” Kristan paused and wrinkled his nose. “Arguing about it, more like. Marken was livid that Mam had changed the meeting without telling Rost.”
Aethren opened their mouth to ask how he’d heard all this, but Kristan ploughed on without stopping to draw breath. “‘S like Eyrik thinks Rost could’ve been in two places at once, but if anyone’s done wrong here, it’s Mam.”
“Krist!” Aethren stared at him, appalled.
“Aethren.” Kristan mimicked their tone and met their shocked gaze with a stubborn expression.
“That’s barmy.” Aethren shook their head in disbelief. Kristan was angry at his mam, and Aethren understood that – Natta showed how much she loved Kristan by simultaneously coddling him until he wanted to scream, and holding him up to strict high standards. But this . . .
Didn’t Kristan realise it was Rostfar who organised the security of Erdansten? Or had he willingly forgotten?
Wary now, Aethren tried to change tact. “How’s it Natta’s fault?”
“Because Mam won’t take the fight to the wolves,” Despite the confidence with which Kristan spoke, Aethren had the nasty feeling they weren’t his words. He’d said nothing like it before.
“What’re you—”
“Ethy says the only way is to go burn down their forest so’s to stop them causing trouble with their magic.”
“You should stop talking to Ethy so much,” Aethren said. Kristan flushed.
“She’s interesting.” Kristan’s voice rose in pitch. “I don’t see why it’s a problem.”
“Ethy’s too extreme!” Aethren rubbed their forehead with the heel of their hand, caught between exasperation and anger. “She once told me to pretend I’m not so good at archery, in case someone thinks I’ve got magic and wants to cut my head off. Who even says that to a ten-year-old?”
“Well, she’s right! You can shoot arrows in the dark.” Kristan threw up his hand, scattering his dinner. “And you still don’t miss. It’s unnatural.”
Aethren froze. Their breath stuttered to a halt. He means I’m unnatural. A sudden, ravenous desire to hit Kristan around the head with his own bowl reared up in their stomach. They clenched their jaw and let out a deep breath.
“Let’s . . . let’s not fight.”
“You’re just miffed I’m right.” Kristan retorted, but some bite had left his voice. He looked peeved instead of outright pissed off and, Aethren thought, sheepish. The tension flooded out of his hunched shoulders.
Aethren didn’t understand what was going on between them lately. Every conversation seemed to veer towards an argument, no matter how light the subject or how amiable their moods.
Kristan was headstrong and gullible – and Aethren had always known that about him; always found a kindred spirit in his outbursts. His mischievous streak and quiet acts of rebellion were why they could tolerate him better than anyone else. But now their friendship was changing, becoming . . . what? Enmity?
Aethren curled their fists inside their sleeves and berated themself for such extreme thoughts. Maybe the gap between Aethren’s eighteen winters and Kristan’s fifteen had finally gotten too wide.
Or maybe it was Aethren’s fault. Somehow.
“Let’s just go to sleep,” Kristan said. His voice sounded small.
Aethren curled up in their sleeping bag with their back to Kristan, listening to the soft humming of the nightlife that inhabited Eahalr’s murky wastes. Just as they were about to drift off, Kristan cleared his throat.
“I . . . I didn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you, Ren,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Aethren smiled a drowsy, bittersweet smile and said nothing in reply.
