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Aethren tossed and turned in a mire of pain and half-realized dreams. All they were aware of was the hands flitting over them and the raw, terrible pain that radiated out from their shoulder in merciless waves. Voices muttering soothing nonsense faded in and out of their perception.
Thrigg was definitely there at some point, holding Aethren’s hands. Then there was Rostfar, except – it wasn’t Rostfar. Her eyes were luminous amber and her skin shimmered with a pale green haze. Aethren tried to tell the imposter to go away, but whatever foul liquid Marken had tipped down their throat robbed them of speech.
Time slipped. Aethren broke the surface of their fevered sleep to see two familiar sets of hands – Marken’s, calloused and steady; Thrigg’s, slender and quick. They moved in wordless tandem, passing strips of cloth and bloodied bandages back and forth without exchanging a word.
“I can’t do much more,” Marken said. His voice sounded very distant. “If Ylla were here, perhaps—”
“I doubt Ylla will be coming.” Thrigg spoke quietly, but not quietly enough to hide the anger in her voice. “No. I’ll stitch the wound. That’s the best we can do.”
Silence. Blurry figures moved at the edges of Aethren’s vision.
“I can do this alone,” Thrigg said. Aethren heard Isha’s voice, sharp and insistent. –
“Mati said that Ethy—?”
– and Marken, telling him to be quiet. Their voices receded. Thrigg’s eyes met Aethren’s, and she smiled reassuringly, brushing their sweat-soaked hair from their forehead with cool fingers.
“You’ll be alright,” Thrigg said quietly. Aethren wanted to argue – but not with Thrigg. If she said they would be alright, they probably would be.
“Nat?” Aethren croaked.
“Resting. She’s going to be fine.”
“And Kristan—”
“Aethren,” Thrigg said with stern fondness, “you need to focus on yourself. They’re all okay.”
Aethren slumped against the back wall of the den with a tired nod. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not something you need to apologise for.” Thrigg took a fine needle from Kristan’s bag, and her expression turned grim. “This, however . . . I’m afraid it’s going to hurt.”
“Just do it. Can’t hurt any worse,” Aethren said. They were wrong.
They didn’t remember passing out again, but they must have done, because they awoke to see Rostfar dozing in a corner. There was no sign of Thrigg. Aethren stared at her groggily. They didn’t dare to move, to breathe, to make even the slightest sound.
With her eyes shut and her head nodding onto her fist, Rostfar looked . . . ordinary. She looked peaceful, too – and what Aethren had to tell her would ruin that. Perhaps Aethren had dreamt up the strange, new Rostfar with the luminous eyes, but this was real. Fragile. Guilt and anxiety churned together in their stomach.
“I can feel you watching me,” Rostfar murmured, a little smile playing around her lips. She lifted her head, stretched – and opened her eyes. Aethren was barely able to stifle their croak of shock.
Hurt flashed across Rostfar’s face, but it was gone before Aethren could be sure. She cleared her throat and picked up a full waterskin from beside her, holding it out to Aethren. The gentleness on her face just made Aethren feel worse.
“Marken says you need to keep your fluids up,” Rostfar said.
Aethren let her prop them up and tilt the skin to their lips, but they only took enough water to wet their throat before turning their head away. They couldn’t stand to look up at her face.
“Aethren—”
“No,” Aethren croaked. They tried to lift their uninjured arm to push Rostfar away, but their limbs were too heavy. Rostfar sat back on her heels and frowned, turning the waterskin’s cork between her fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Rostfar asked.
“I got stabbed in the shoulder,” Aethren replied dryly, but regretted it at once. They couldn’t be sarcastic with Rostfar; it wasn’t fair.
“I know I look different, but I’m still me. I’m – a bit more, that’s all. But I can get Marken if you’d rather—”
“No!” The word leapt out of Aethren’s mouth harsher than they’d intended. They lifted their uninjured arm and ran a heavy hand down their face, trying to catch their breath.
“You . . . want to talk to me?”
Aethren shook their head. Nodded. Winced. There was so much to say, and they didn’t know where to begin.
“You’ll be furious with me,” they said at last.
“If this is about your magic, Aethren, I’d never be angry with you for that.”
Rostfar’s voice was so soft. It made Aethren’s chest ache.
“Don’t.” Aethren pressed both hands to their face despite how much it hurt to move their shoulder. A small sob burst in their chest.
“Ren? Do you need me to get your pa?” Rostfar’s alarm and concern grated against Aethren’s already raw nerves. They sucked in a deep breath, held it, exhaled. The words they needed to say felt like broken glass in their chest; rising through their throat towards their lips, refusing to be kept down.
“Arketh’s alive.”
Complete silence. Aethren lifted their head.
Rostfar’s face was white as bone. She uttered a small, incoherent noise and jerked back.
“The hrafmaer – Ylla – had been . . . she said that Arketh was our last hope, whatever that meant, and she’d been keeping her safe in this cavern. Said that her soul was lost, wandering . . .” They broke off as Rostfar cupped a hand to the base of her throat, her eyes fixed on the doorway, unseeing. Panicked, Aethren ploughed on, talking faster. “I promise, I wanted to bring her to you, but Thrigg said it was impossible. I had to escape and find you. I—”
“Stop.” Rostfar spoke in a frosty, clear voice. She didn’t shout, didn’t even raise her voice above a throaty whisper.
“Rost—” Aethren reached out to rest a hand on Rostfar’s shoulder, but Rostfar sprang to her feet and stormed from the den.
⁂
Rostfar walked towards
(Norðunn)
the Speaking Tree with her hands clasped into fists. She thought someone said her name, but the rush of blood in her head drowned it out.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Rostfar screamed and threw her fists against the tree with all her might. “If you’re so concerned about your children, why didn’t you save mine? I had a right to know!” She struck the bark again. The skin on her knuckles broke on impact, but the Tree remained unyielding. Impassive. Rostfar pulled back to launch a new assault, but strong arms closed around her abdomen and hauled her away.
“Rost, stop it. You’ll hurt yourself.” Mati. His grip was gentle but firm, familiar in its warmth. As soon as Rostfar struggled, Mati turned her to face him and let her go. His forehead was furrowed with deep lines, his lips parted as if he wanted to ask a question but didn’t know where to begin. Isha was just behind him, a little off to one side, his hands reaching for her.
“Arketh,” Rostfar gasped, looking from one to the other. “She’s alive.”
Isha spoke in an unbearably gentle voice. “Rost . . .”
“Don’t.” Rostfar’s lip curled. “You really should trust me by now – but ask Thrigg, if you have to.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, almost rocking on the balls of her feet.
“I believe you,” Isha said – uncertain, but still sincere. Rostfar hardly heard him.
“Ket asked me about the hrafmaer, you know? After Astvald. She asked why they hadn’t saved him, and now they have her.” Looking up, Rostfar met only blank faces. Isha looked down. Mati stepped back.
Wiping her stinging eyes, Rostfar turned and fled to the seclusion of the hot pools.
It didn’t take Mati and Isha long to follow.
The three of them sat in silence – Rostfar with her toes dangling in the water, Mati and Isha on the fallen log. She knew they were waiting for her to say something more.
“We found her cloak,” Isha said at last. Rostfar kept her eyes fixed on the shimmering stoneghost at the bottom of the pool. “Something – those wolves – had left it for me and Aethren to find. They said then that she was probably alive, but I couldn’t believe them. I should—” he didn’t seem able to say any more.
Rostfar sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Her eyes still stung, but she couldn’t let herself shed any more tears. Surely now was a time for laughter, for celebration.
Her chest ached with longing to see Arketh again; to hold her hands and swing her around until they both collapsed from laughter. This news was the answer to every desperate night-time bargain with gods she only half believed in. It should have healed the rift in her heart and made the world right again. So, why did she feel like she was grieving?
“Arketh is alive,” Rostfar repeated, trying to inject more feeling into the words. “So, why’s everything still so wrong?”
“You’ve changed,” Mati said. Isha uttered a quiet, bitter laugh. Rostfar turned and frowned at Mati, waiting for more. He cleared his throat. “I mean, more than just your . . .” he made a gesture to encompass the marks of the Speaking Tree and the wyrdness. The reminders that Rostfar had died.
Rostfar considered that. Change was – it didn’t feel right, somehow. She was still herself. That much she knew for certain. But then again, the Rostfar who had been Dannaskeld of Erdansten would never have run with wolves or embraced her magic.
“I don’t think I’ve changed,” she answered.
“I meant nothing bad by it.” Mati squeezed her hand. Rostfar nodded.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that I have grown. And there’s no going back from that, is there?”
Mati shook his head.
“So, we get Arketh back, and then what? Where do we go? There’s no home for her now.” Rostfar kicked up water and, when that didn’t help, slammed her heels against the hard rocks. The pain smarted up her leg. “I wish all this’d never happened.”
“I don’t,” Isha said. Rostfar and Mati both looked at him sharply. “I mean – I’m glad for what we’ve got out of it.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” Mati sounded almost angry.
“How it happened was awful, but Rost—” Isha turned to her – “I’ve never seen you so relaxed as you were when you connected to the wyrdness. And I can see now I never should’ve been scared of magic – of you.”
Rostfar turned around so she had her back to the water and leaned her elbows on her knees. “Isha, it shouldn’t have taken our world falling apart for you to realise how wrong you were.”
“I know.” His shoulders slumped. “I’m just wondering – would you lose what you’ve found here, and go back to living as we did before?”
Rostfar flinched. She could hardly be angry at Isha for saying something she had already thought about.
Mati started to stand up. “I don’t think you’ve any right to talk about—”
“Mati.” Rostfar held up one placating hand and gave him a weary smile. “Isha’s right. I could never go back to how things were. Could you?”
Mati sank back into his seat, his head lowered. “No.”
“So . . .” Rostfar steadied herself with a deep breath, “we get through this, I suppose, and then we get our girl back. And the rest we’ll just have to figure out as it comes.”
“And us?” Isha asked.
Rostfar considered that. “Whatever happens, you’ll be with me this time? With all of us?”
“I will.” Isha stood and crossed the distance between them, coming to kneel at her feet. Rostfar ran her fingers through the stubble on his head and then down his jaw, finally tilting his chin up so she could see his face. His eyes were wet with tears, but his expression was set hard. Determined. She kissed his forehead, lingering a moment before reaching out for Mati.
The three of them sat in deep, comfortable silence as the wyrdness hummed softly around them. Their world might have come apart, but at least Rostfar had Mati and Isha; at least she knew, really knew, they were on her side.
