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Once they had eaten and cleared away, Mati took Arketh out to watch the skyfire with the others from nearby yurts. Isha hadn’t looked happy when he realised that he would be alone with Rostfar, but he hadn’t changed plans, either. She’d felt hopeful about that. Foolishly.
“You’ve been ignoring me,” Rostfar said. She didn’t tear her gaze away from the flames, but she heard Isha’s sharp intake of breath. He sat further down the log, sewing up a hole in Arketh’s cloak.
“I’ve been talking to you?” It sounded more like a question than a denial. Rostfar closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“But not . . . it’s only when the others are around.” Rostfar forced herself to look up so she could see the expression on Isha’s face. He hadn’t looked up from the needle and thread in his hands.
“Rost, I don’t want to fight.”
No, Isha never wanted a fight. That was the problem.
“Maybe we should,” Rostfar said flatly. “Fight, that is. Maybe there’re things we need to say.”
Isha’s mouth opened without a sound. His dark eyes glittered with moisture and his lower lip trembled. Guilt twisted in her gut.
“I’d like to know you’re on my side.” Rostfar tried desperately to keep her voice level. “I’d like to know you trust me, even with all this going on.”
“I am, I do.” Isha said. “I love you.”
Those words snapped something brittle and sharp inside Rostfar. She sucked in a deep breath. “Before we left, Faren was saying things – as if I’m hurting Arketh, and you didn’t . . . you let him. Like you agreed with him.”
Isha flinched.
Silence opened between them with a noise like thunder. Rostfar’s arm hair prickled as ice slid into her gut. Her breath snagged around the anger in her throat, but when she spoke, her voice was tiny. “Isha?”
“It’s not – I know you can’t . . . but, you.” Isha balled his fists and shook his head. “I don’t agree with him but maybe, maybe he’s got a point?”
“Is that why you’re telling people Ket’s sick?”
Isha’s head jerked up like a ragwork doll pulled by a string. “How d’you know about . . .?”
“She overheard you and asked me if she’s dying.” Rostfar didn’t want to raise her voice, but the wild anger she kept so carefully stifled was rising beyond her control. He seemed about to speak again, and she cut right across him. “When did you last pick her up? Spend time alone with her? You treat her like she’s diseased!”
“Oh, by Keh and Keh-Ahn.” Isha’s voice cracked, and still he tried to keep talking, tripping over his own tongue. “I only mean that this thing – this, this wyrdness, it’s no good for our girl. It’s like having a ghost in the house some days.”
“Don’t.” The broken plea was like poison on Rostfar’s lips. She’d stood up at some point, and she didn’t even remember. Her knees were like water. Her stomach was liquid. Fuck, fuck.
“You might’ve dealt with all this before, but we haven’t.” Isha shook his head. “You don’t know what it’s like for us, and you wouldn’t help her!”
Rostfar’s fingers went, unbidden, to the scar on her top lip. She’d gotten it while sleepwalking; the wyrdness had called to her, and she followed until she fell down a shallow ravine miles and miles from Erdansten. Nat said she’d been half blue when they finally found her.
“We’ll put a bell over the door,” Rostfar said, but she knew it was futile. “There’re ways, things we can try.”
“I’m already trying. But that draught from Marken isn’t doing shit.”
“The wyrdness is part of her – of me – and we can’t suppress it. The healthiest I’ve seen her these last weeks was when she was letting the wyrdness in!”
Isha took his turn to gape at her. “But . . . we agreed. We agreed we weren’t going to let the wyrdness get her! When were you – in there, before dinner? Is that what you—?” He didn’t seem able to finish.
“Yes, we were. And you know what?” Rostfar lifted her chin in defiance. “She’s amazing. Her power – it’s twice mine, maybe more. I’m not going to make her supress it.”
“Maybe if you weren’t around her so much,” Isha spoke slowly and deliberately. “If you didn’t encourage her, it’d go away.”
“But—”
“Your magic is killing her,” Isha’s voice turned sharper than she’d ever heard it. “And I can’t stand by to watch.”
It would have hurt less if Isha had plunged his hand into her stomach and wrenched her guts out. Rostfar stepped back. Her shoulders slumped. Isha seemed to realise what he had said then, because he reached out as if to take her hand. Rostfar pulled away from him.
“Wait, Rostfar—”
“I need a walk.”
“You can’t go out there alone! It isn’t safe.”
“You want me gone, don’t you?” Rostfar whirled on Isha when he tried to follow her. Their noses were almost level; the proximity was like an attack on Rostfar’s skin, but she stood her ground. “Then that shouldn’t be a problem.” She turned and stalked off into the night.
⁂
Aethren stood in an alert stance, their spear held ready, only half listening to Kristan talk about healing salves. In theory, Aethren was accompanying Kristan to protect him while he gathered herbs that only grew around Whiterift. Natta hadn’t explicitly stated that Aethren was to protect him from wolves; she hadn’t needed to. The thought was on everyone’s minds, even though Whiterift Camp hadn’t been attacked in living memory.
It was a good thing, probably, that Natta had such faith in Aethren’s abilities. But what use would they be? They had only seen wolves once, about a year ago: two had come inexplicably close to Erdansten, and one had fallen into a practise trapping pit.
Those wolves had been small – children, according to Marken – and helpless. An adult wolf was another matter entirely. Wolves were big. Tall as a pony, some of the older hunters said, and in possession of magic.
No, Aethren would be as much use as a teapot made of ice against such a creature.
“Hey, Ren?” Kristan poked Aethren in the small of the back. They spun on one heel and snapped into a defensive stance, cursing themself for their lapsed attention.
“What’s wrong? Is – is – oh.” Aethren slumped when they realised that Kristan had just been trying to get their attention. He laughed and slung his small willow-weave basket over his armless shoulder, then held the handle in place with his teeth as he secured the straps around his waist as well. Aethren glared at him. “You startled me.”
“Well, that was obvious. Come on, Jumpy, I want to get back for dinner.”
“There’s no point in hurrying. We’ve missed dinner,” Aethren grumbled, but picked up their pack and followed Kristan down the incline back to camp anyway.
Halfway along the path, Aethren stopped. Kristan continued to walk on ahead, oblivious, but Aethren couldn’t make themself catch up. The skin on the back of their neck prickled. Determined to squash this irrational anxiety – and it would be irrational, because it always was – Aethren shielded their eyes from the snow-glare and looked away from the camp.
Their heartbeat stopped. Their stomach turned to stone.
Across the lake, where the tundra morphed into rocks and hillocks, a storm was rolling in. Bruise-dark clouds crackled above a bank of mist so thick it looked like cream. The hair on the back of Aethren’s neck prickled. They had the distinct impression the mist was loping towards them like an animal.
“We have to get back,” Aethren spoke softly, but panic rose in their chest.
Kristan wrinkled his nose in confusion. “That’s . . . what we’re doing?”
“No, there’s—” Aethren’s mouth had gone dry. “Something’s wrong. That’s not a storm.”
“Uh, I know what a storm looks like.”
“That’s not—” Aethren bit off the rest of that sentence. They could have sworn the clouds had eyes; that a huge head and spiny teeth were emerging from the depths of the mist. It had looked, for a breath-taking moment, like a wolf. And then it was over. The first drops of frozen rain struck their upturned face.
“It’s a storm,” Kristan said again. Aethren shook their head and looped one arm through his, urging him on.
By the time they reached the camp again, the first tendrils of mist had already settled and the wind begun to gust. People scurried to and fro with ropes, battening down the hatches for the storm to come.
The camp would be fine – it had weathered many such tempests, uniquely situated as it was in the shallow remnants of a valley – and yet. There was a bad taste in Aethren’s mouth.
“Aethren!”
Aethren looked around at Isha. He looked awful, his eyes red-rimmed and his brown skin had an ashen pallor. Worried. Aethren’s own panic flared up in sympathy.
Aethren headed over to where he stood in the shelter of a yurt. “What is it?”
“Have you seen Rostfar?” Even this close, Isha still had to shout over the thin, high-pitched keening of the wind.
“No, why?”
“She went out on over.” He motioned in the bridge's direction. “And nobody’s seen her since.”
Aethren bit their lower lip and stared northwards. Over the bridge. They couldn’t think of a single reason anyone would want to venture out into the tundra on Whiterift’s far side.
And then they remembered Isha’s red eyes, his drawn face. His guilt.
Aethren rounded on him.
“What did you say to her?” They demanded. Isha jerked back as if slapped although Aethren had deliberately left a few feet between them.
“Nothing, we just had a fight.”
Aethren was about to snap again and found that someone had a hold of their elbow.
“What’s going on?” Kristan looked between Isha and Aethren. Aethren grimaced.
“This – this—” They bit back an insult. “Isha upset Rost so bad she went off into the tundra.”
“Oh.” Kristan sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes were glassy with horror, but he wasn’t looking at Aethren and Isha anymore.
“What is it?”
Kristan could only point. Aethren turned around.
The mist was now so thick Aethren could barely see their outstretched hand. They didn’t even remember how the change in weather had come about – it simply came.
“Maybe we should stick together?” Isha offered. Under other circumstances, Aethren would have called him a coward. But not in these. Their hand reached for Kristan’s, drawing him closer.
Someone began to scream. It was high and unearthly, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Kristan tried to run forwards, his hand already reaching for his medical pouch, but Aethren grabbed at the hood of his cloak.
“Don’t!”
“Someone’s hurt,” Kristan hissed. “A child. What if it’s—”
“You’re a child.” Aethren knew that would hurt Kristan, but they didn’t stop to watch the words register on his face. “Stay here.”
Aethren crept around the side of the yurt, their heart in their mouth. Figures flitted through the fog. Inhuman. Intangible. Aethren kept going until they found the smouldering remains of a fire. A long stick protruded from it as if someone had been stoking the embers before—
Before whatever happened to them.
Aethren gripped their spear tighter. Something ran past, so close Aethren could feel the heat coming off it. They whirled and blindly lunged. A sharp yelp cut through the eerie silence, then – nothing.
Aethren wished they had their bow and arrow with them. A spear was good, but it wasn’t what they were best at. Their hands were clammy, the wood in their grasp slick with sweat. They shifted into middle-stance, light on their feet but hard to topple. Ready to move or hold their ground, whichever the situation called for.
Heavy breaths sounded off to their right.
“Show yourself,” Aethren called. Oddly enough, the hollow, gnawing fear that lived in their stomach had vanished. In its place was a steely determination. “Come on, face me.”
The thing snarled, but Aethren still couldn’t see it. They turned towards the sound, slowly, wary of making any sudden moves.
“A child of the raven,” said a disembodied voice. And then again, with more urgency. “A child of the raven, here among humans.” The voice was thick and low and not at all human. Aethren bit back the impulse to correct the creature, to demand a clearer explanation, and snapped into attack-stance.
An achingly familiar voice drifted from the mist, and Aethren shuddered to a halt.
“Mama?” Arketh called. Aethren’s blood ran cold. A wind buffeted past, and they turned to follow it with their spear’s point. Too late. They couldn’t say how they knew, but the thing had gone.
Gone after Arketh.
“Run!” Aethren screamed. Was it their imagination, or was the mist starting to thin? They thought they saw the wolf’s outline and whirled for it, only to find Mati at the of their spear.
Mati looked panicked, but not because of the weapon levelled at his chest. He swatted it aside without a thought and took Aethren by the shoulders.
“Where did she go?” Mati shook Aethren so hard their teeth rattled. “I had her hand – then she – did you see where she went?”
Aethren could only shake their head.
“I heard,” they started to say, but Mati brushed them aside and made a beeline for the next person. Aethren stumbled and hit the ground.
People were everywhere, calling out names of family and friends. The mist had thinned to a faint cloud, bringing with it a fresh fall of sleet. Aethren could smell burning. A child stumbled in front of them, sobbing, but a parent snatched her up. The world ground on in slow motion.
“Aethren!” Marken’s voice cut through to Aethren as if from a great distance. They forced themself to look at him.
He came limping from between two yurts, moving as fast as he could with his lopsided gait. His hair was wild and tangled, and there was blood in his beard. Aethren reached for it in mute horror.
“Tripped. Bit my tongue,” Pa panted as he pulled them to their feet. “Are you—”
“Arketh,” Aethren hissed. “Pa, I had her – and the wolf was – and it . . . all because I was too slow—” Then they could say no more, because Marken pulled them into a crushing hug.
“Don’t,” he breathed. So, Aethren didn’t.
