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The mootplace had a haunted, ghostlike quality in the darkness of night. All the braziers were dead, and Caerost’s light washed the dirty snow a pale pinkish hue. The frost crunched under Aethren’s boots as they crossed over to Natta and Kristan’s home. The main house was dark and silent, but candlelight bled from a crack in the curtains of Kristan’s work-hut. They didn’t bother knocking.
The hut was tiny and lopsided; there was just enough space for an enclosed brazier, a chest, a short workbench, and some shelves, but that was all Kristan needed. This place existed primarily as a space he could call his own.
Kristan didn’t notice Aethren right away. He was hunched over the workbench, holding something steady against his knee with his foot as he worked. A spare tool hung out of the side of his mouth and another was stuck behind one ear, where it also served as a hair clasp to keep his curls out of his face.
Aethren awkwardly cleared their throat. The delicate knife Kristan was using slipped and skittered across the worktop as he bolted up, wide-eyed and stricken like a leveret facing a fox’s teeth. He went to shove the carving away, but it was too late.
“Kristan . . .” Aethren croaked. They were cold all over.
Kristan was making a torðstenne – a memorial for the dead.
Aethren snatched the half-finished piece from the desk and held it to the fire for light. They just made out the shape of wolves pursuing a figure they could only presume to be Rostfar before Kristan grabbed it. He shoved it to the back of the workbench, out of their reach.
“A memorial? Really?” Aethren arched an eyebrow. “Honouring her?”
Kristan flushed. He looked down at his boots and murmured a near-silent, “Yes.” Then, gruffly, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why didn’t you just get something to help with that from Marken?” Kristan continued to watch Aethren with a near-hostile gaze – not hostile like a predator, but hostile like a cornered animal.
“I saw light from here, so I—” Aethren stopped and frowned at the flat piece of whalebone Kristan had been working on. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I just – do you really think she’s dead?”
“You’re the one who found her tracks. If she walked into the Wyccmarshes, asleep . . .” Kristan didn’t need to finish that sentence.
“Everyone seems so quick to move on! We don’t know she’s dead for sure – can’t, unless we find a body.” Their temper was rising. They ground their teeth together, trying to swallow it down, but they couldn’t. “It’s like they want her gone.”
“You think I want my aunt to’ve died?” Kristan hissed. He tilted his head back slightly and Aethren realised with a stab of guilt that he was trying not to cry. Their anger crumpled. Without a word, they went to him and drew him into a hug.
“When Mam died, I felt it. I was out on my first hunt, just carrying the bags, but as soon as it happened, I turned and ran home.” Aethren murmured into the top of his head. “I can’t help thinking, maybe I’d’ve felt it if Rostfar died, too.”
Kristan shuddered once, twice, and then pulled away. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Carving gives me something to do, whatever the case,” Kristan said at last. “Keeps me busy. Stops me dwelling.”
Aethren smiled slightly. “Well, it’s . . . it’s pretty.”
Kristan nodded noncommittally. Aethren could see him folding his emotions away and it hurt – but what could they say? They would do the exact same thing. So Aethren ruffled his hair and moved to stand up. He grabbed their arm, then let go just as quickly. Looked down.
“Stay?” he asked quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired and grouchy. How about I stick the kettle on?”
Aethren smiled, tight and thin. “Alright,” they said. “I’ll stay. We can be tired and grouchy together.”
As Kristan went outside to fill the kettle from the large copper urn, Aethren bent over the carving again. They could see it more clearly now: two panels, one showing Rostfar fleeing from a pack of wolf-like shapes, one with Rostfar turning to face them alone, her shield and spear raised high.
“There are honey cakes on that box on the shelf,” Kristan called as he opened the door. Aethren straightened up quickly. For a heartbeat, theirs and Kristan’s eyes snagged on each other. Aethren licked their lips. Kristan glanced at the carving, picked up a cloth, and tossed it across the workbench. His expression was hard and defiant.
Sick to their stomach and terrified in a way they couldn’t name, Aethren looked away.
The summons to the peoplesmoot came as a single, deep note that split the morning quiet, followed by the pounding of a drum. It echoed from each of the four watchtowers along Erdansten’s walls and then cut off abruptly.
Stiff and sore, Aethren got off the bench and shook Kristan awake. He blearily followed them out into the dawn, half-heartedly muttering about breakfast. Aethren ignored him.
Ethy and Natta were huddled together in the moothall's shadow, talking in soft whispers. Aethren stopped short when Natta looked up. She had painted her eyelashes and lips white like the new-fallen snow, and polished wooden beads shone in her braided hair. Aethren understood then better than ever how Natta had held her place as Dannhren for so long – she was the perfect blend of terrifying and awe-inspiring.
“Almost late for your first peoplesmoot on the council, Aethren,” Natta said reproachfully. Then her eyes softened. “Here, you look like you need it.” She went to a pot that sat on one of the braziers and ladled some sort of brew into a small drinking-bowl. The liquid was dark and smelled strongly of roasted flower roots and bark. Aethren knocked it back, expecting a foul taste, and was pleasantly surprised.
“Mati’s recipe. Isha brought it.” Nat inclined her head towards where Isha sat on an upturned barrel, staring into nothingness. He looked lost, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there.
“We should begin,” Ethy said, sidling up to Aethren’s side with her own bowl of brew cradled close to her stomach. “Let’s not keep everyone standing in this chill any longer than needed.” She looked right at Aethren. “Don’t you agree, Yrl Aethren?”
Aethren glanced around. The mootplace was rapidly filling up. “We can’t start yet. Where’s Pa and Laethen?”
“There.” Natta inclined her head towards where Marken was edging around the outside of the clearing, clutching his medical bag in his hands. Laethen followed close behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Marken huffed as he drew up.
“Magna was ill in the night. I asked Marken to look in on him.” Laethen looked rumpled, although her blonde hair was neatly secured in a single leather-bound braid, K’anakhi-style. She massaged her temples. “Vinni can watch them for now.”
Natta clicked her tongue sharply. “You’d think the world would stop after one tragedy, let us get our breath.” She shook her head. “But that’s not how it is. Come on.”
Silence fell as Natta and Laethen mounted the dais, followed by Ethy, Aethren and Marken. Natta stood tall and firm before her people, ready to address their concerns.
She didn’t get a chance.
There was a commotion as the crowd stirred and parted, and then Aethren was looking at Faren’s sharp face. Astvald’s father, Eyrik, stepped up to Faren’s side, and the two of them made as if to walk straight onto the dais steps. Voices swirled around them in annoyance at the interruption of usual proceedings.
“Step back,” said Urdven, lifting his hands placatingly. Eyrik didn’t seem to hear him.
“Has that one been cast in?” Eyrik jabbed a finger up at Laethen. “Is she a more suitable Dannaskeld?”
“It’s temporary,” Aethren said quickly. “Until Rostfar is found or—” their eyes met Kristan’s where he stood off to the side. “Until Rostfar is found.”
“I didn’t ask you.” Eyrik shook his head. He was so gaunt, he made sharp-faced Faren look positively radiant. A muscle twitched over one eyebrow like something was growing beneath the skin, readying to burst out.
Nat’s whistle cut through whatever else Eyrik was about to say. She lowered her forefinger and thumb from her mouth and fixed Eyrik with a stare that was both compassionate and cold.
“If, Eyrik, you wish to speak, stand up here,” Natta said. “We’ve had our ways since before Erdan built us our walls. Please, respect them.”
Eyrik looked down and scuffed his boots through the dirt. In his abashed silence, it was Faren who stepped in. He clapped Eyrik on the shoulder and stepped onto the dais’ lowest tier. For a moment, it didn’t look like Natta would stand aside for him. Aethren held their breath.
“What did you say to Eyrik?” Natta whispered to Faren as she stepped down a tier, so softly only Aethren and Faren could hear. Faren gave her a tight smile.
“Only the truth you’ve been blinded to,” Faren murmured and then, to the crowd he said, “Losing my niece before I truly learned to know her near broke my heart but I am glad Rostfar is gone.”
Shocked whispers. At the rear of the crowd, Aethren caught sight of Mati trying to make his way through without causing a commotion. They silently willed him on.
“What’s it to do with you?” someone yelled from the back. “You’ve only been here, what? Barely more’n a month?”
Faren kept talking, raising his voice. “Rostfar had a sickness in her – a sickness my brother bravely told me was magic.”
The silence was deafening. Aethren felt as if their muscles had locked in place. Blood roared in their ears.
“That’s what took Arketh from us. That—” Faren’s voice broke then, and it stunned Aethren to realise his distress was genuine. He believed every word he was saying. “Is why she would never take action outright against the beasts beyond our walls.” He made a sweeping gesture in the general direction of Whiterift and the tundra.
Aethren opened their mouth, but no sound came out.
My brother bravely told me.
Mati broke through the crowd. Aethren had never seen him move so fast. He cleared the steps in a heartbeat and grabbed Faren by the front of his shirt. People were shouting. Natta was giving orders.
Someone, somewhere, called Aethren’s name. But they couldn’t remember how to respond. Faren’s words were stuck in their thoughts like thorns.
Magic. A sickness. Magic is sickness. Am I—
Aethren was aware of Faren falling from the dais in the confusion. Of his hand reaching for them. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered compared to the pain in their chest, the feeling of their lungs being pressed flat by frozen hands. They couldn’t breathe.
Sick?
Isha had arrived, and Marken was trying to pick Faren up, but Mati would have none of it. He kept shouting at Faren, pinning him down.
Moving in a haze, Aethren grabbed Mati by the shoulders. He was almost twice their size, but it didn’t matter. They rammed their thumbs into the weak points of his shoulder and twisted one of his arms back, using his own weight against him. His body spasmed to a halt.
“Go home,” Aethren hissed in Mati’s ear. He was trembling in their grasp – sobs, not anger. His rage vanished as soon as it had come. “Go quietly. Don’t make this any worse.”
“He hated her,” Mati said in a voice thick with tears. “He didn’t even know her.”
Aethren helped him to his feet. Faren had everyone else’s attention, sitting on the ground and cradling his wrist. Blood dripped from his nose and his hairline. Aethren should take Mati into the moothall to await the council’s judgement, but they didn’t have the heart.
“Just . . . go,” Aethren said again. Mati looked at them, looked at Isha, and left.
