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Curled up in her den, Rostfar pressed her hands to her ears and tried to drown out Geren’s distant howls. No matter where she went in Deothwicc, his cries followed her.
Or perhaps it was just her guilt creating sounds where there were none.
The walls of the den rippled with light as if in response to Rostfar’s mood. In any other circumstances, it would be soothing. But Rostfar didn’t want to be soothed. She wanted something, anything, to happen, to break the unnerving stillness. By Nys, she would even be pleased with Grae attacking her there and then.
“Something is troubling you.”
Rostfar looked up with a start. She hadn’t heard Estene enter, but the wolf stood with her head lowered half inside the den.
“Geren.” Rostfar licked her dry bottom lip. “I’m sorry – can you tell him that? I never intended to get anyone hurt, but you were all moving and I just . . . did what I’d do with my people.”
Estene tilted her head and regarded Rostfar with curious eyes. “You’re just like a pup,” she said. Rostfar frowned.
“I don’t follow.”
“Even wolves must learn to speak through the wyrdness, to understand it.” Estene padded to Rostfar’s side and sat down. “I am the one who should be sorry – and I am. You’re not made to run with a pack.”
“Oh.” Rostfar drew her knees up to her chest. The statement was bluntly true, but she couldn’t deny that it hurt her. The desire to be a part of the wolves was bizarre, but it had snuck up on her nonetheless. They had looked so free bounding down the slopes in pursuit of the herd, snow in their coats and eyes gleaming; they had become a part of the land itself. Until Rostfar blundered into their midst.
The rasping warmth of Estene’s tongue against her hand made Rostfar jump. She jerked away from the unfamiliar sensation and curled her fist into her lap, unable to make sense of how Estene was looking at her.
“You’re blaming yourself.” Not a question, a fact. Rostfar shifted uneasily; she didn’t like to be so easily read. Estene’s ears softened. “Blame doesn’t belong here. You weren’t ready and I forgot myself – I shouldn’t have expected you to know Wolven ways.”
“Can I see him? Geren?” Rostfar didn’t know where the question came from, but the words tumbled from her mouth in a panicked rush. Estene’s ears flicked up.
“I won’t stop you,” Estene said. When Rostfar still didn’t move, Estene headed out of the den. “Come.” She motioned with her nose towards the forest. “I’ll make sure nobody else stops you either.”
Rostfar followed Estene to the Speaking Tree’s clearing. The roots of the tree had changed their shape, moulding around Geren like a woven cradle. Geren’s eyes were rolled up in his head and his back leg bent at an unnatural angle.
All Rostfar could hear, now that she was with him, was the beating of her own heart.
“What will you do with him?” Rostfar asked, her voice dry and brittle.
“Care for him,” Estene said. Rostfar looked at Estene in surprise, unable to control the shock that ran across her features.
“But . . . you’re wolves.” After these last few weeks spent among the pack, nothing should have come as a surprise – but the wolves kept finding new ways to shatter all her understandings. Rostfar hastened to correct herself. “I mean only that you’re—”
“Not meant to care about our wounded?” Estene headed Rostfar off, and it was just like that first conversation when Rostfar entered Deothwicc. “Why, because we’re not human?”
Heat rushed to Rostfar’s cheeks. She looked down at her feet.
“Tell me how you care for him,” Rostfar said instead. “Whatever you do, I’ll do it. I want to help.”
Estene seemed to give this some serious consideration. She looked from Geren to Rostfar, one ear pricked up.
“There isn’t much we can do,” she said slowly. “We feed our wounded; give them companionship and shelter until they heal. Or – don’t heal.”
Despite herself, Rostfar quirked a small smile. “I think there is something I can do.”
The earth beneath Rostfar’s knees was damp with melted morning frost, but Rostfar didn’t mind. She wasn’t a wolf – she couldn’t hunt like them or run with the pack. But she could source food in ways the wolves couldn’t.
Not far from the rock formation where Rostfar made her fire there was a broad, semi-deep stream. A miniature waterfall broke the bed into two tiers, and it was across there that she had strung a net made from the sinews of small animals she caught in the forest.
A slight shift in the leaf-litter behind her brought her head snapping round. Bryn paused, one foot in the air, head cocked to one side.
“Impressive,” he said. “You’re getting faster.”
Rostfar felt a small rill of pride at that, but it was quickly pushed aside by the gnawing worry in her stomach.
“I’m not going to use any fire.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” Bryn padded around Rostfar to the edge of the stream and leant over to sniff at her net. Rostfar watched him warily. Bryn was . . . unnerving, if Rostfar had to pick a word. He almost reminded her of Faren.
“It’s a net,” Rostfar said, because she had to say something. Bryn’s tail quirked in amusement.
“Yes, I know.”
The sound of a disturbance in the water caught Rostfar’s attention. A silvery back broke the surface and leapt down the break in the streambed. It hit the net and Rostfar lunged forwards with her spear. The trout didn’t have a chance.
Rostfar dropped the fish into a pile on top of her cloak. She wasn’t sure how much a wolf would need to eat, but it looked like she had enough.
Bryn was watching Rostfar intently. She swallowed, suddenly nervous.
“Is this not allowed?”
Instead of giving her a proper answer, Bryn said, “There is brilliance in how you humans hunt, even if it seems unusual. Fish are difficult to catch.”
Bryn was hard to read, even by wolven standards, but Rostfar got the sense he was genuinely impressed. She smiled, feeling warmth creep through her chest.
“Look, I should . . . get this back to Geren.” Rostfar picked up the corners of her cloak, turning it into a temporary bag. She expected Bryn to melt back into the forest, but he kept pace at her side. Rostfar bit the inside of her cheek, waiting to see what he would do.
Shortly before getting back to the Speaking Tree’s clearing, Bryn spoke up.
“The mood is changing,” he said. The hair on the back of Rostfar’s neck prickled inexplicably. “Your compassion seeps out into the wyrdness for all to see, but you should know – this act alone will not change their minds. They won’t instantly like you.”
Rostfar blinked at him. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.” Heat rushed to her face, but from anger instead of embarrassment. “Is that what you think, that I’m only doing it so your kind will like me?”
Bryn’s ears pricked up, but he didn’t growl. Rostfar wasn’t sure that she would have been able to stop, even if he had.
“Humans have done too much to wolves – like Nessen, that pup who died. It was awful and cruel and should never have happened, and I don’t expect you to do anything but hate my kind for it.” Rostfar sucked in a sharp breath, but it wasn’t enough. The words wouldn’t stop. “And I won’t pretend I’m better than other humans, but Geren is in pain because I fucked up, and I’ll fix it because that’s the right thing to do.”
Bryn’s ears laid flat against his skull, but his eyes studied her with a cool intensity.
“I don’t think that’s entirely true,” he said. Rostfar couldn’t help herself; she turned on him where he walked at her side, her teeth bared.
“I don’t care how you feel about me. I’m used to people hating me for what I am,” she snapped. “But don’t call me a liar when all I want to do is help.”
“I’m sorry,” Bryn said, and he actually meant it. He bowed his head. Startled, Rostfar stepped away from him.
She realised they weren’t alone. She only got a brief glimpse of a few sets of eyes, a flash of tail, and the scuffle of padded paws – but it was enough.
“Did you . . . set that up?”
“I told you,” Bryn said. “The mood is changing. I believe you, though. Just thought they needed to see it, too.”
Rostfar watched Bryn walk away, her chest heaving from the force of her pounding heart.
⁂
Yrsa was on her feet when Rostfar entered the Speaking Tree’s clearing.
“Are you alright? I heard your voice rising—”
“I’m fine,” Rostfar said, even though she didn’t look it. The wyrdness trembled and crackled every time she breathed out. “Bryn just wanted a – talk. I brought this, for Geren.” She lifted the stolen skin she usually had wrapped around her shoulders and let one corner fall open. Inside were the bodies of silvery fish. Yrsa’s stomach growled in excitement.
Rostfar must have either heard the growl or noticed the way Yrsa was looking at the fish, because she let out a little laugh. “You can have some too, if there’s enough.”
Following close on Rostfar’s heels, Yrsa watched as she approached Geren. He was awake now and watching Rostfar warily. Yrsa tensed in readiness for Geren to snap or snarl. But Geren just sniffed at the fish and then looked back to Rostfar, tilting his head.
“Where did you get these from?”
“A stream,” Rostfar said, obviously unsure how she was supposed to answer the question. “Just now. They’re fresh – good to eat. Estene said you needed to eat and rest, so . . .” she put the fish down and started to back away. Yrsa didn’t like seeing Rostfar look so guilty and unsure.
“We share our meals,” Yrsa said, nudging Rostfar’s leg with her nose. “You should stay with us.”
Rostfar swallowed. She started to sway forwards as if pulled towards the invitation with invisible strings, then hesitated. Glanced at Geren.
“Would you be alright with that?”
“Yes, he will,” Yrsa said, fixing Geren with a pointed look. His eyes momentarily showed exasperation, but he didn’t argue.
“You may . . . sit,” Geren agreed. Rostfar did so, slowly, and fiddled with the bag she kept inside her stolen skin.
Yrsa settled comfortably at Rostfar’s side. She gnawed on one of the fish in silence, happy to let the ever-present warmth of the Speaking Tree seep through her. Having a human by her side as she ate didn’t feel wrong
(had never felt wrong)
even though it probably should have done. Rostfar had a slow, warm temperament like Myr and an insurmountable stubbornness like Estene. And if her sadness sometimes made Yrsa uncomfortable, well, Rostfar had been happier of late. Yrsa liked to think she had helped with that.
“Rostfar . . .” Geren said, surprising Yrsa. He had eaten his share of the meal and was looking at a collection of stones in Rostfar’s lap. She was turning one over and over in her hands, tracing shapes on its surfaces.
“Yes?” Rostfar glanced up sharply, but her tone was more nervous than snappish.
“What are those?”
Yrsa pricked up her ears. She had wondered, too, but never felt as if she could ask. The wyrdness hummed with regret and love whenever Rostfar looked at them.
“They’re . . .” Rostfar’s brow crumpled, and she tucked some of her head-hair behind her ears. “Do you tell stories?”
Stories. Geren and Yrsa looked at one another, studying this new word between them. It had a meaning they thought they recognised, something old and buried in the depths of the pack-memory, but it wasn’t in a shape they knew. Geren shuffled a little closer to Rostfar, dragging his wounded leg behind him.
“Is that like . . . a memory that you share with other wolves? Or—” Geren struggled for a moment, and Yrsa touched her nose to his shoulder reassuringly, feeling him relax. “With other . . . humans.”
“Sort of like that, yes.” Rostfar brought her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. “Well, these stones have messages in them.”
Geren sniffed at the stone nearest to him. “I can smell no message in these. Just . . . human smells.”
“We don’t share messages like that.” Rostfar made one of her little laughter noises. “It’s – here, where there are shapes in the stone. The shapes have meanings, and they help us remember our stories.”
“Like a pack-memory,” Yrsa blurted out, excited by this new parallel between wolvenkind and humankind. She liked finding them; it was like putting together a big picture made of lots of little discordant pieces. “The Speaking Tree – and the wyrdness – helps hold our memories.”
“I like the sound of that,” Rostfar said. “I wish I could see it.”
A growl from behind made all three look around. Grae hovered at the trees on the edge of the clearing, half-hidden in shadow. Cold claws dug into Yrsa’s stomach.
“Grae—” her voice felt wrong, like it didn’t want to work. “We’re sharing a meal. Rostfar hunted for Geren.”
Grae twitched his nose, but he didn’t come any nearer. The wyrdness was thick with some emotion Yrsa didn’t recognise: a nasty green-brown, like blight. His teeth flashed.
“There are some things that are ours,” Grae said in a low, quiet voice, his eyes still fixed on Yrsa. “Hunting, the pack-memory – the human doesn’t get to join them.”
“She’s helping me.” Geren sounded as tense as Yrsa felt. Yrsa tried to catch Grae’s gaze, to ask him what he was thinking – but he wouldn’t look at her.
Grae shook his head and spoke to Yrsa instead. “I caught a wounded hare. I thought you would share it with me, but you’ve already had your fill.”
If Yrsa didn’t know better, she would have described the tremor in Grae’s scent as pain. But that didn’t make sense because he wasn’t wounded. She started to get up, pushing aside the remains of the fish.
“I’ll join—” she started. Stopped.
Grae had already gone.
