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Aethren awoke gazing up at the washed-out sky. They could feel the gentle rocking of the boat underneath them and hear the ripple of running water. They turned their head and saw Ylla still sitting at the prow of the boat, staring out into the marsh. The only indication that any time had passed was the position of the moons; it was now almost noon.
“I wouldn’t try to move yet,” Ylla said. Her voice was flat and distant. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”
Ignoring her, Aethren tried to sit up – and promptly lurched to the side of the boat, bile rushing up their throat.
“Here.” Ylla pushed a clean cloth into their hand. Aethren wiped their mouth and leant against the edge, trying to get a sense of where they were.
The boat was moored by a half-sunken jetty. A rickety wooden walkway crossed over tussocks of peat grass, leading up to a lopsided shack, rotten and long abandoned.
“Where are we?”
“Isn’t this what you wanted, to be out of Hrafnholm?” Ylla quirked an eyebrow.
“Why help now?” Aethren backed away slowly. They reached the end of the boat and stopped, tensed to leap over the side if they had to.
“You’ve made it quite clear that I cannot contain you.”
Aethren frowned. They hadn’t been compliant, but they were no match for Ylla’s magic. The phantom ache in their fingers was proof enough of that.
“No, I don’t think that’s it.” Aethren eyed Ylla levelly. “Are you about to tell me that I remind you of Mam, and so you’re letting your emotions cloud your judgement?”
Ylla’s lips twisted. “You can believe that, if you like.”
“So, if I leapt out of this boat, you wouldn’t try and stop me?”
“You’re welcome to.” Ylla shrugged. “But wouldn’t you prefer to accept my offer of help?”
That gave Aethren pause. They didn’t want to listen to any more of Ylla’s lies; the way she talked in circles, never answering anything directly. They wanted to get moving and not look back.
But.
“Will you answer me a question, honestly?”
“Fine.”
“Why do you have Arketh?”
A tiny spasm of surprise crossed Ylla’s face. “You’re not the girl’s family. She isn’t you concern.”
“She’s more family to me than you are. So – why?” Their temper started rising again, and Aethren let it. Ylla deserved to know what she had done. “Everything fell apart when she disappeared. You’ve ruined us.”
Ylla’s eyes drifted to the marshes again. “No, I haven’t. You know as well as I that this reckoning has been coming for a long time.” She spoke in a soft, distant voice. “The child was alone and afraid, pursued by an unwolf. She cried out to the wyrdness, and myself and a wolf answered her. I could have allowed the wolf to drive off the unwolf, but I needed that girl. I felt her power and I knew she could help me.”
“Help with what?”
At last, Ylla looked at Aethren directly. Her eyes were haunted. “Ýgren told me I was making a mistake, driving apart your kind and the wolves. I never really believed it, not until the ravens brought word from Ysaïn in the depths of the Quiet – tidings of blood, a massacre, something unspeakable.” Her voice wavered. “I hoped with the child’s aid, I could regain control – make nudges in the right direction, try to find out what had happened and how to smooth it over. The situation required a delicate touch, and she was it.”
“But?” Aethren pressed.
“But she fought me, refused to co-operate. And now—” Ylla swallowed. “Now . . . her soul won’t return to her body. She is hiding in the eðir, far above my reach. Please, believe me when I say that I would return her if I could – I am so tired of playing at being a god.”
A laugh was building in Aethren’s chest. It was small at first – no more than a tickle beneath their lungs – but growing fast. The corner of their mouth twitched uncontrollably.
“Are you alright?” Ylla reached for Aethren’s shoulder. And the laughter burst free. Part of Aethren knew that they were having hysterics, but they didn’t care.
“Gods, I’m sorry—” They tried to inhale, but the laughter sat in their throat, blocking the air. Wiping their streaming eyes, Aethren cupped their mouth and breathed into their fingers until the lump in their throat budged. When they looked up, Ylla’s expression was almost fearful. “I’m sure you’re giving me a perfectly reasonable explanation, but I can’t hear it over that shit you’re chewing on.”
Ylla’s jaw went slack. “Excuse me?”
“Look at you, capturing a child because you think she’ll let you regain control, and you can’t even say her name. Hasn’t it occurred to you to just . . . I don’t know, help? No strings, no weaves, no meddling.” Aethren stood and faced Ylla head-on. She stepped back.
“Aethren—”
“Except, of course you’ve thought about that. It’s well within your power.” They jabbed a finger at Ylla’s chest. “But you’re a coward, too scared to fix your mistakes and too scared of making new ones. You’re only letting me go because you think I’ll clear the shit pile for you, but you’re wrong. Your own people are afraid of you, and you’ve got your head so far up your arse that you’re never going to see clearly again.”
The fear vanished from Ylla’s face. Aethren didn’t know if she had been feigning it, or if she was now feigning her cold veneer. She folded her arms.
“Take the tunnels,” Ylla said. Aethren opened their mouth to ask what tunnels, when Ylla made a complex gesture and the ground by the walkway opened as if split by a great blade. A deep, dark tunnel mouth yawned up at Aethren, ringed with broken roots and jagged rocks. “They will lead you where you need to go.”
Aethren hesitated halfway out of the boat and glanced cautiously at Ylla. They felt like they had to say something to fill the gap between them – they couldn’t decide between a begrudging Thank you, or a heartfelt Fuck you. In the end, Aethren merely shrugged.
“Wish you could’ve been better,” they said, and left.
⁂
Kristan sat down on the crates outside the moothall so he would have a good seat. He watched them all mill in – friends, family, people he thought he knew – their faces grim and eyes determined, and the sight made him shiver. These people needed protecting, and Kristan realised he had no idea who would do it without Mam and Rostfar in the lead.
“Who’s going to run for Dannaskeld?” Kristan whispered to Ethy, who was sitting beside him and sipping some dark brew. “If you’re – I mean, I assumed you’re going in for Dannhren, so . . .”
“Didn’t you realise?” Ethy asked with her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew – we’re not casting anyone else in.”
Kristan blanched. “Then why’re we here?”
“Trust me, Krist.” Ethy patted Kristan’s shoulder and set down her drinking-bowl on the empty crate beside her. “I’ve got a plan to make everything alright.”
Kristan watched as she stood and moved through the crowd, touching elbows and shoulders as she went, until she reached the dais. Silence fell. Hundreds of eyes followed her as she mounted the steps, Hrall and Urdven following close behind.
“Friends, children, my people—” Ethy began and extended her hands. It was weird, the way she stood with no armour or status symbols. All she had to make her stand out was the love she had poured into Erdansten.
The same love Rost and Mam had poured into it, too, Kristan’s traitorous heart whispered.
Behind the dais, outside of the stone perimeter of the mootplace, Kristan could see a knot of wardens waiting in an alley mouth. Waiting for Ethy’s signal to go and fetch the wolf.
“Your Dannaskeld has betrayed you. Your Dannhren was ruined by her sister’s lies—” she broke off as angry mutters of agreement spread through the crowd. Kristan shifted to get a good look around, but he couldn’t see Mam’s bright copper-red hair anywhere. It was easy to picture her sitting at home, licking her wounded pride, but something in Kristan’s stomach wouldn’t sit right. He swallowed and brushed it aside.
“Faren?” He called in a half whisper. Faren was standing at the end of the line of crates, his arms folded and his jaw set. His eyes cut straight to Kristan, and he raised one eyebrow.
“Shouldn’t I get Mam? She’s not Dannhren anymore, but . . .” Kristan made a helpless gesture with his hands. “She should be here, shouldn’t she? And – where’s Laethen?”
“Ethy knows what she’s doing,” Faren whispered back as Ethy began to speak about the troubles that had swept through Erdansten. “Just let her talk. Laethen needed to rest. I don’t know where Natta is, but she doesn’t need to be here if she can’t be bothered to show.”
“. . . and with all of that, the time has come for change. No more shield blocking our view of the danger, no more clever tongue to spin us all in circles!” Ethy’s voice rose, and the susurrus rose with it. “We go to the wolves. They want to come at us with magic? Then we’ll come at ‘em with fire and steel.”
The mootplace erupted into cheers and stamping feet. Kristan looked around at the fierce faces – at those dedicated to Ethy and those too scared or angry or exhausted to protest – and hoped he was part of the right thing.
“You okay?” Faren broke into his thoughts. Kristan looked away from him towards where Mati stood at the periphery, his expression dark and grim.
“I’m . . . tired. Been tending to the sick all night.”
Faren glanced to Ethy, and then to Kristan. “You can leave. I won’t tell.”
Grateful for the out, Kristan hurried to the outer edge of the mootplace and slipped down an alley between two houses. He didn’t want to be at the moot, but he didn’t want to be at home, either. Not if Mam was hiding there, licking her wounded pride. His feet carried him to the back door of Marken’s house; nobody would be there, and he could sit on his own in the familiar side-room with the herbs and poultices. At least he knew what to do with those.
But the latch was open, the door ajar.
Taking up a stick from outside, Krist shouldered his way into the room. He started to lift the stick, his pulse thundering in his ears in time with images of wolves or piskies or, or—
Aethren.
They were sitting at the table, a spoon halfway up to their mouth as they stared at Kristan, their other hand clasped around a knife.
“You’re back!” the words came out unplanned as Krist launched himself across the room and flung his arm around Aethren. He heard the spoon and bowl clatter on the floor and didn’t care. All that mattered was his nose in Aethren’s shoulder and the familiar, wiry strength of their arms.
Kristan realised Aethren smelled strange; of fruits and earth and goat’s blood and a faint odour of rot. He pulled back to look Aethren up and down, noticing the strange attire. “Are you alright? You’re not hurt?”
“Never mind that,” Aethren said – rather rudely, Krist thought, and grinned. This, at least, hadn’t changed.
“But you’re back!”
“Krist—” Aethren stood so they could grab both of his shoulders. Their face was tired and grim. “Please, please tell me that things haven’t gone entirely to Nys. Where is everyone?”
“Marken needed more yarrow, and everyone else—” Krist paused, frowning. “You’ve . . . not seen the mootplace?”
“The tunnels brought me—” Aethren winced, seemed to mentally go back on their words. “I came through the southern gate, snuck through the back. Why? What’s going on?”
Krist opened his mouth. Closed it. Shame burned his cheeks and the back of his throat.
“. . . you left,” was all he could think to say, his voice small. “Someone had to fill the gap, and Ethy’s good—”
“No, she isn’t.” Aethren held up both hands as if to physically stop him from arguing with them. They really looked exhausted, and – scared? Krist had seen their panic attacks, but this was different. Deeper. Kristan bit the inside of his cheek and let Aethren speak. “What kicked all this off?”
Krist flinched internally. He shifted from foot to foot, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “It was—” he cleared his throat, but the thick, queasy feeling refused to budge. “There was a wolf. It said someone injured Rost, and it needed a . . . a healer. Ethy said it was lying, because wolves lie, so I thought – I mean, we all decided to . . .”
“To what?” Aethren stepped closer, their eyes sharp. Krist wished the floor would open a passage to Nys and let him fall. He was probably headed there anyway at the rate things were going.
“It’s going to be at the moot.”
Aethren jerked back. “What?”
“Ethy said to give it a trial.” The words felt jagged in Krist’s throat. “To – to make it answer for all that’s happened to Ket, to Rost. And Astvald, of course – wait, Ren—”
But Aethren was past him, pushing out of the door. Krist hurried after them with his pulse beating a mad rhythm in his temples.
“Where are you going?” Krist put himself between Aethren and the exit, his hand planted firmly on the doorframe. “What’s happening?”
“Is your mam at the moot?”
Krist faltered. “. . . No. She’s at home – probably sulking because she’s lost her stupid precious position . . .” but his voice died at the expression on Aethren’s face. “What?”
“Bloody skyfire, Krist.” Aethren ground the heel of their palm into their forehead. “No wonder they brought me here. Right, let’s go get Natta.”
“And then?”
“I’m going to rescue the wolf.” Aethren fixed him with a damning look. “So, you can either help me, or get the fuck out of my way.”
