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Aethren entered the moothall quietly. The table and chairs had been pushed to one side, leaving space for four makeshift beds – and in each bed, a sick child.
The sickness began with a persistent weakness, exhaustion and loss of appetite. After a few days, the afflicted child sank into an open-eyed slumber. They would take a little broth if you held their heads up and poured it carefully down their throat, and they would soil themselves when the food passed through their systems, but they made no move of their own volition. Marken had decided after the fourth fell ill that he needed to keep them in one place, instead of travelling from house to house.
Magna was nearest to the door. His eyes were open and unseeing, and his skin had an unhealthy, ashen cast. Marken sat by him, rubbing some sort of concoction into the pulse-point on one of his skinny wrists. Absorbed in his task, he didn’t seem aware that Aethren had entered.
“Pa?” Aethren tapped the doorframe. He startled and turned, blinking as if he couldn’t get his eyes to focus.
“Aethren. What’re you doing here?” Marken’s voice was stuck in a raspy whisper. He cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything else. His fingers still worked at Magna’s wrist.
"You need a break, Pa," Aethren said.
“I can’t.” Marken rubbed his eyes, leaving a smear of the paste on his cheek, and sat back. He nodded to the furthest bed from the door, where a child of eight winters lay. Her light blonde hair fanned out across the pillow, and her dark eyes were half-open. “Narven was still talking last night, Ren. Not much – nonsense, really – but she was responding. And then . . .”
“You couldn’t’ve done anything.”
“Yes,” Marken agreed coldly. “Which is rather the point.”
“I’m sorry,” Aethren muttered. “But I’m worried about you. You’re exhausted. Here—” Aethren picked up a bowl from Marken’s workbench and filled it at the large water-urn Mati had carried inside. They handed it to Marken, who took a long drink.
"You shouldn't be up and about yet,” Marken said when he had finished. His voice was still worn from lack of sleep, but it didn’t sound so dry.
Aethren's face ached beneath the bandages, as if obligingly proving Marken's point. They scowled, which just made it hurt worse. The wolf's claws had struck at an angle, leaving two deep slashes from the bridge of their nose to their jaw and two shorter, shallower cuts on their cheek. Marken was worried about infection and how much blood they had lost, but Aethren was just glad it had missed their eye.
"I'm fine. I’ve been in bed or sitting around doing nothing for a week and a half. It’s driving me wild."
"Aethren," Marken said sternly, "You still look too pale." He washed his hands in a bowl of water and crossed the room. They remained still as he pressed the back of his hand to their forehead, beside the bandages that covered half of their face. "And you're clammy. How's your pain?"
"Fine," Aethren lied and batted his hand away. "Look, you need another pair of hands here. Don't deny it."
Marken sighed heavily, which was as good as an agreement. Laethen had decided with the council – now meeting in Natta's home – that they needed to lay the traps to gather herring eggs at the Merrow Coves. The Roe Trapping was one of the biggest events of the year. Kristan was there in case of injuries, watching over more than half the town’s population as they cut hemlock tree branches and carried them to the sea. Unable to distinguish between leaves or seaweed, hundreds of herring laid their eggs in the branches. By the Bloom’s height, the traps lay heavy in the water with a bounty of roe, ready for trading. Such a vital tradition could not wait – even when the world was crumbling around them.
"Urdven said he'd come at midday and bring Anthen to lend a hand," Marken said. "I can manage on my own until then."
"But—"
"Go home, Ren," Marken said, sterner than before. "You need to rest."
"I've been resting!" Aethren snapped, then winced as their voice rang out in the hush of the hall. None of the children so much as twitched. Aethren could barely hear their shallow breaths.
Marken sank down onto the workbench’s stool. "If the wolf hurt you . . . you saw what it did to Astvald, what's happened to these children. If that happens to you—"
"You've no reason to think that a wolf did anything to these children," Aethren said, softer this time. They put a hand on Marken's shoulder and felt his muscles tense.
"No, it isn't the wolf I'm worried about." Marken shook his head. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, and Aethren had to lean in to hear, although he didn't seem to be talking to them. "It's the wraiths. I know what their work looks like, and this . . ." He shook himself and finally realised Aethren was standing over him. His eyes were dark and startled.
"Wraiths?" Aethren prompted.
"I've not said anything, because I fear the panic it might cause. There're old healer's stories, of children who’ve been wraith-struck. They become unresponsive and lie as if dead, with only a few functions to prove them alive." He surveyed the room with a grim expression, then rubbed his eyes as if he thought that might change what he saw there. "But if the wolves and wraiths are working together . . . well." He touched his fingers to the bandage for a heartbeat, then drew his hand back. "I worry, Ren. Worrying is all I seem to do these days."
Aethren took his large hand in both of theirs and squeezed it. "We can deal with this. I can—" They broke off as the door swung open and Urdven came in.
"Ethy said she could spare Siggren as well. He'll be along soon," Urdven said as he stepped in, apparently unaware that he was interrupting anything. Aethren swallowed down the rest of what they had been about to say and tried to smile at Urdven, which caused pain to flare in their cheek again.
"Go home, Ren," Marken said again. "I'd be happier if I knew you were resting, getting your strength back."
Aethren clenched their jaw and used the pain that caused to ground themself. The moment, tense and ready to burst, had passed in an eyeblink. There was no point in arguing.
Not trusting themself to say anything more, Aethren trudged out of the moothall and crossed the short distance back home. They discarded their boots by the door and got a bowl of stew from the pot that Marken had left over the fire that morning, then slumped at the table. They needed to be useful, to be better.
Useful, like the power that slumbered in the back of their head, waiting for the smallest opportunity to strike.
Aethren set down their spoon, no longer hungry. An image of the wolf flashed before their eyes, its body twisted and frozen at an unnatural angle. The pain in those eyes . . . that distant, glassy look had shattered for a moment, replaced by pure horror. Just thinking about it made Aethren feel ill, and yet. It was the edge they needed, wasn't it? For all Aethren had been angry at Kristan for suggesting fighting the wolves of Deothwicc, they had to admit he was right. They did have a power that could help people.
A power that could also see them exiled or killed.
No, marching on Deothwicc was foolish. The journey across the Harra was hard, and once they got there the people would be at a severe disadvantage on unfamiliar territory. But if what the wolf at Eahalr had said was true, they didn't need to go to Deothwicc – Aethren just needed to find these two beasts and end them.
It was a good plan, save for one thing: Aethren barely understood what they could do.
Tentatively, almost idly, Aethren lifted their hand and held it out to their stew. So far, they had only manipulated living things. Each time by accident. On instinct. That proved they could do it, but how?
Strings, whispered a small voice in their head. It all comes down to strings.
A memory rose to the front of their mind. Sitting on Mam's lap as she wove. She'd been singing something, but Aethren couldn't remember the words. Her voice was low and whispering, strained by illness, but her hands were nimble as she worked on the rug. It's all connected, my little raven. So many fibres and threads and strands to make a whole. Mam's hands drew back, but the loom continued to move on its own.
Aethren gasped. Tears pricked their eyes. That – that had been a dream, hadn't it? A memory distorted by grief. They had never shared it with anyone for fear of being called insane, but now—
The door swung open. Aethren lifted their hand from the bowl to the doorway in one smooth motion, and a sharp tug went from their gut to their fingers. Half over the threshold, Isha juddered to a halt.
Pain and panic washed through Aethren. They leapt to their feet, knocking back their chair with a loud clatter. Something tense and powerful in the air between them snapped and Isha staggered forwards as if pulled. He made it only a few steps before his knees gave out and he struck the floorboards with a groan. All the blood had drained from his face, and his mouth hung open like that of a landed fish.
Taking no time to think, Aethren snatched up their spoon and lurched across the room. Isha grunted as they hauled him up and slammed him against the wall, the end of the spoon’s handle pressed into his throat.
The two of them remained in suspended animation, staring, waiting for the other to make a move.
“Are you threatening me . . . with a spoon?”
Aethren dug the spoon in deeper. Isha let out a ragged choking sound as something in his throat ground beneath the smooth wood, and Aethren’s panic broke. Reality rushed in. They staggered beneath its sudden, crushing weight and the spoon clattered to the floor.
Still breathing shakily, Isha sank down the wall until he was sitting on the floor with a hand to his throat. “Magic?” His voice sounded strained.
“I – I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Isha said, more to himself. “Well, that’s – that’s okay. Unexpected, but. Okay.” He stumbled to his feet and walked back to the door, which had swung shut on its own – or perhaps that had been their doing, too. Aethren tensed. If Isha ran now, would they give chase? Stop him? Their pa’s words to Kristan pounded in their head. They’d all come for us with fire and steel.
Isha fastened the latch.
“Isha,” Aethren said, alarmed, but their words died in their throat. Isha wasn’t threatening; he was small, forlorn, rumpled. He fidgeted as he stood there, twisting his fingers together.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you,” he said. “Alone. I – I need your help. You’re not like the others.”
“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment.” Aethren tried to keep their tone light and unassuming. They didn’t understand what Isha was going. They’d obviously frightened him – his hands were shaking like an old man’s – but he wasn’t running away. In fact, he’d locked himself in a room with someone who’d just proven to be dangerous.
“You know what I mean,” Isha said. He made his way over to the table and sank down onto Marken’s usual chair.
“No,” Aethren said. “I don’t. D’you mean like what I just did?”
Isha shook his head. “You seem to have hope. You talked about Rost being found when everyone else wanted to move on – but even before that, you’ve always been . . .” He sucked on the inside of his cheek and frowned at the tabletop.
“Prickly, insufferable, rude, short-tempered, disinclined to give a shit about appearances?” Aethren suggested. Isha winced, but didn’t contradict them. Good. Few things annoyed Aethren more than people trying to tell them they were good or nice or not as bad as they thought.
“I need your help, Aethren. Rostfar liked – likes – you. Always said you’re a bright spark. I think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to give up.”
“Nobody’s given up.” Aethren replied in impulse.
“You know that’s not true.” Isha turned to look Aethren straight in the eyes. “They’re all pretending the world hasn’t stopped moving. That . . .” a sob caught in his throat. Unsure what else to do, Aethren walked over and placed an awkward hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.
“I’m sorry,” Aethren whispered.
“I’m not looking for an apology.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Aethren slowly sat down opposite Isha and blurted out, “I can’t stand it either. I think I’d do anything so’s to get a reaction. To make them listen.”
“It’s like they want to forget her.” Isha ran a hand down his face.
“Not everyone wants—”
“And it’s my fault,” Isha ploughed on as if Aethren hadn’t spoken. “I told Faren, and he told everyone, and now they’re . . . scared, I s’pose. Like I was – like I am. Maybe it’s easier for them if Arketh and Rostfar never come back.”
“I honestly don’t give a fuck what’s easier for everyone else.” Aethren resisted the urge to flinch as the words left them. For all they wanted not to care about other people’s opinions of them, they did. The worry was always there, needling at them, wearing them down. Even here, alone with Isha, Aethren was afraid.
“I know you don’t. That’s the point.” A tiny, fleeting smile turned one corner of Isha’s mouth. “That’s why I – or, I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while – I mean, I had no idea you were also . . . y’know, with the wyrdness. But Rostfar trusts you ‘n your pa, and she was friends with your mam, and so—”
“Please, just spit it out.”
“I made a promise to Mati. I said I’d make all this right, but I can’t do it alone.”
Aethren knew what was coming. They wished Isha would stop talking. They also wanted him to ask.
“If I could leave, go out there into the Wyccmarshes, I’d have a chance at doing something right. But I need someone who can track and hunt, someone who wouldn’t blabber to anyone else – and you’re the only one I could trust to do that.” Isha shrugged. “‘Sides, now I’ve seen you do what you did—”
Aethren tensed. “Are you trying to threaten me?”
“No!” Isha looked horrified at the thought. “I’m just saying we know we can trust one another, is all.”
A part of Aethren was furious at Isha for asking them – for tempting them. If they could get out of this place, stagnant with fear and secrets, they would have a chance of doing something good. No more mindless drills with the spear or bow, or hours spent practising for hunts that never happened. No more responsibility, foisted onto their unwilling shoulders by Ethy and the rest of the council.
“Aethren?” Isha prompted, watching them with shiny, hopeful eyes.
A clear, sharp tone of yearning resonated inside Aethren like the ring of metal on glass.
No no no.
Aethren pressed their hands to their wounded face and held onto the pain, desperate for something grounding. What good would leaving do, other than let down the few people Aethren really cared about? They could just imagine Kristan’s betrayal, Marken’s worry. Worse – Natta’s voice, cold and sharp. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted them.
Isha must have been able to read Aethren’s answer in their silence. “I understand,” he said. His voice was dull. They looked up and watched him leave, somehow even smaller than he had been when he entered.
