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The three days following the return to Erdansten were longer than they should’ve been. Desperate to get away from the blame she was certain she saw on Mati and Isha’s faces, Rostfar moved back into her old home. She hoped the small cabin, nestled in the outskirts of Erdansten’s North-East sector, would give her some anonymity.
It did not.
Small gifts piled up on the steps around Rostfar’s cabin as if washed there on a tide of shared grief. When she tried to escape it by resuming her duties, everyone regarded her with such soft eyes that she wanted to scream. People kept asking how she felt, if she needed anything, if she wanted to talk – and Rostfar couldn’t explain that she didn’t know the answers to any of those questions.
Lying in a makeshift bed in this place that had once been hers, Rostfar stared at the ceiling and drifted. Nat had reassigned it as a guest-house, available to immigrants, traders, emissaries, or anyone else who needed it. Scores of unfamiliar feet had passed through here over the last five years; strange hands had moved the shutters, dusted the hearth; families had stayed here, loved here, lived here. It wasn’t hers anymore. It wasn’t home.
But she didn’t know where her home was. Not now that her family was falling apart.
A knock on the door broke through her thoughts. Rostfar ignored it. The knocking came again, louder, and Rostfar’s anger spiked. Why did everyone think they had a right to intrude on her grief? This pain was a deep, lonely thing; one nobody else could understand. She was mourning twofold, once for the daughter she loved and again for what they had shared. Without Arketh, Rostfar was alone in more ways than she could ever explain.
“It’s bloody freezing out here, Rost-Skelda, and I’ve no mind to turn into an icicle today.”
The harshness of Ethy’s voice was so unexpected that Rostfar sat up.
“I’ve come to talk and I won’t be ignored,” Ethy continued, and – did she kick the door? It rattled in its frame, shaking loose a cloud of dust. Stiff from lying still, Rostfar stumbled across the room and opened the door a few fingers.
“You better not give this back, Rost-Skelda,” Ethy said and shoved a sealed clay jar towards her. “I made it special for you.”
“Please, Ethy, I keep saying if anyone has to leave gifts, leave them with Isha and Mati.” Rostfar gripped the edge of the door and wondered why she couldn’t make herself close it. “I can’t make use of it all.”
Ethy raised an eyebrow and said, perfectly calm, “But Isha and Mati don’t like my bitter ales. You do.”
“Uh,” Rostfar cleared her throat. She looked at the container in Ethy’s hands and down at the flowers and prayer knots heaped around the steps. “Do . . . you want to come in?”
Ethy stepped past Rostfar and into the gloomy interior. Rostfar continued to hover by the door as Ethy lit the candles and pulled back the shutters.
“Sit.” Ethy pointed with the poker to the low table Rostfar had shoved into a corner. Rostfar didn’t have any chairs – those had gone to the new place once Isha took over from their old blacksmith – so she sat on a dusty chest.
“I – I’m sorry about the mess.” Rostfar watched Ethy open the jar and pour the brew into Rostfar’s cooking pot. She had to push aside the piles of furs and blankets Rostfar was using in place of a bed to reach it.
“No need to be sorry.” Ethy dusted off her hands and went in search of some drinking-bowls.
“Why are you here?” Rostfar asked in a small voice.
“That sister of yours asked me a favour,” Ethy said. “Asked me to make sure you didn’t try to sneak out of town. T’ain’t the usual sort of favour people ask me for – I’m more used to watching over little’uns than adults.”
Rostfar went cold all over. She felt suddenly, inexplicably sick to her stomach. Ethy continued her hunt for drinking-bowls and a spoon in Rostfar’s cluttered boxes. Her silence was asking Rostfar for something, but Rostfar was too busy fighting the nausea clawing its way up from her stomach to figure out what.
Ethy continued as if she hadn’t stopped. “So, I can only assume she’s worried you’ll try ‘n take care of our animal problem by yourself.”
“And you’re here to . . .?” Rostfar eyed Ethy as she returned to the table with two drinking-bowls of the warmed ale. Rostfar breathed in deep. The pungent, bitter scent filled her with an aching familiarity. She took a sip to hide the welling in her eyes with the burning of the drink.
“There’s a search party leaving again, day after next.” Ethy sipped her own measure with a ponderous attitude, as if the two of them were discussing something as casual as fletching or weaving. “Aethren isn’t supposed to let you know – you need time to yourself, is what Marken’s been saying. I assume that he ‘n Natta have been colluding.” Something glittered in Ethy’s eyes and Rostfar was immediately uneasy. Ethy cleared her throat and smiled. “To protect you, of course. They want what’s best for you, as do we all – you mustn’t hold it against them.”
“No.” Rostfar looked into the fire. It was easier to trace the patterns of embers as they burst and fell, than it was to consider Nat’s underhanded dealings. She tipped her bowl to drain it and found she already had.
“Here.” Ethy pushed another bowl towards Rostfar, and Rostfar took it, saying nothing. Rostfar didn’t remember Ethy’s ales being so strong before, but her head was already swimming and her thoughts unravelling.
A small voice in the back of her head was warning her this wasn’t the way to handle the situation, she should stop drinking, but she wanted to take an easy route. Didn’t she deserve that small mercy at least?
“Why?” Rostfar swirled the remnants in the bottom of her bowl.
Ethy looked momentarily surprised. “Why what?”
“Why’d she assume I’d hunt the wolf?” Rostfar asked. Ethy merely smiled. Of course, that’s what you want to do, that smile said.
“Nat will never take the measures necessary, and I know you’ve been reluctant in the past, but . . . things’ve changed. Neither me nor anyone else would hold it against you if you did.” This time, Ethy’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She stood up. “Get your rest, lass. I’ll see you for the hunt.”
Rostfar was dimly aware of Ethy walking past and out of her line of sight but didn’t see her leave. Cold air rushed in, the fire sputtered, and Rostfar was alone again in the warmth and the silence.
Won’t take the steps necessary. Rostfar didn’t believe that – Nat had once discovered a man stealing dried goods and bargained with him using a knife and her stone-cold glare.
Yes, Nat would do whatever was necessary. But would she let her only sibling go out into the wilds of wolf country?
Rostfar glared into the depths of the fire. Or, tried to. Her eyes were growing heavy and her limbs leaden. The ale had turned her brain to sludge.
There was a wolf in the flames with fur like autumn leaves. Rostfar leaned forwards a little to watch it, following its desperate run through the howling tundra winds. The scent of humans and blood and terror was heavy in the air. The wyrdness screamed with the pain of a small
(pup)
child.
Rostfar thought dimly that this wasn’t her body. She was staring through foreign eyes at her daughter, her mouth full of saliva as the hunger snarled through her veins. Arketh’s eyes flew open. She began to scream.
Rostfar lunged—
And woke. She had spilled the remnants of her drink down her front, cold sweat coated her skin, and the fire was dead. Shivering and wheezing, Rostfar closed her eyes again. The floorboards were cool against her sweaty cheek. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it was real. Grounding. Her side ached and throbbed where she had fallen from her seat, and the arm beneath her had gone numb.
Somewhere very far away, a door banged. Hands shook her, tugged at her clothes, hooked under her arms. Rostfar tried to push them away.
“Stop fighting me,” Isha said. “Rost, please.”
Rostfar’s eyes snapped into sudden, startling clarity. Rostfar allowed herself to be guided to her makeshift bed and wrapped in the stuffed blanket. Her throat ached. Her head hurt. She sagged against the pillows and watched as Isha picked up her drinking-bowl.
Isha let out a noise of frustration. “I’ll get Marken.”
“No.” She reached for Isha. “Leave that, I’m . . . can you—?” The words wouldn’t cooperate, but Isha knew what she was after. He sat down beside her and Rostfar folded into him.
Isha didn’t say anything for a while. He just dragged his fingers through her tangled hair, nails hard against her scalp as he teased out the knotted remains of an old braid. Bit by bit, Rostfar’s system shivered back to life.
When Isha spoke, it was in a rattled tone. “Please don’t scare me like that. I thought—” he drew a deep breath and his fingers stopped moving, “I don’t know, it just scared me.”
“Sorry,” Rostfar whispered, her face hidden in Isha’s shoulder. “Ethy made a . . . something. Said it’d help. I didn’t have much.”
“It’s okay,” Isha said.
“No, it isn’t. Arketh’s ashamed of me. It’s why she gave me that dream.”
Isha tensed. Rostfar sat up just enough that she could see his face: bloodless lips, creased brow, flared nostrils.
“You’re not making any sense.” Isha tried to get up and Rostfar’s fingers tightened reflexively around his upper arm.
“Listen to me.” Rostfar grabbed his hand in hers. “There’s magic at play here. I saw it, and I saw her.”
Isha looked away. “I think I should get Marken.” He sounded scared – of her, not for her.
Rostfar’s fingers went slack. Isha left without another word, the door slammed behind him.
Marken arrived some time later. Rostfar thought she had fallen asleep again, but she wasn’t sure. Her mind wasn’t attached properly.
“Oh, Rost,” Marken said. “You look like a ghost.” He carefully manoeuvred her into a sitting position, then counted her pulse and felt her forehead. His expression was grim. “Take off those damp layers and wrap yourself up. You need to eat, too. Here.” He nipped back outside and returned with a waxcloth-wrapped box of flatcakes.
Rostfar did as he commanded. The box gave her numb fingers some trouble, but she didn’t ask for help. She felt like too much of a burden already.
“I saw Arketh,” Rostfar said.
Marken lined up three glass vials as he considered what to say next. Rostfar didn’t give him the chance.
“It was like a dream, but it wasn’t. I saw . . .” She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to dredge up those few moments before she awoke. Arketh had been screaming, hadn’t she? Trapped, helpless, on the precipice of death – but there was more. A sense of anger and dissatisfaction; of hunger unsated. As if whatever had tried to take her had failed. “Marken, I think she’s still alive.”
Marken ran his hand down his face. “I’ll give you something to help you sleep. We can talk once you’ve rested.” He dragged a stool over to the bed and held out a vial to Rostfar. She looked at it, looked at him, and slapped it out of his hand. The thick glass rolled on the rug with a dull thud.
“Ýgren would’ve believed me.” Almost as soon as the last word was out of her mouth, Rostfar felt guilty. Marken had flinched at the mention of his dead lover. Rostfar shuffled out of bed and picked up the vial, which gave her an easy excuse to avoid his gaze. If she couldn’t see it, she couldn’t let herself worry about what it meant.
“I’m talking as your friend, believe me.” Marken took the vial back. His hand was painfully warm around hers. “Arketh isn’t coming back, there’s no way. And I want her to – I do, but I don’t want to give you empty hope. I can’t let you hurt yourself like that.”
“You came back,” Rostfar said quietly. She heard Marken’s breath catch in his throat and knew she had got him.
Marken’s tone turned unusually terse. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Rostfar knew she should stop there. Marken’s two-year disappearance wasn’t a subject that anyone liked to dwell on, and Rostfar had been happy to oblige for almost twenty years. Twenty years of pretending to believe his story about fleeing to Ysaïn, where he met Ýgren in the tiny swamp-side settlement of Argenatten. Twenty years of questions left unasked and unanswered.
“I’ve left you the draught,” Marken said stiffly. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Tell me the truth.”
Marken twisted his fingers into the tough leather of his bag. “If I could, Rost, I’d tell you in a heartbeat.” He gave her a small, sad smile. His expression was sincere and full of grief. “But I can’t. I honestly can’t.”
