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Tired and hungry, Rostfar traipsed back to the clearing with the den. She hesitated to call it her den – nothing here belonged to anyone; it was all so wild and alive – but nobody bothered her there. If she crouched with her back to the tiered pools, she could see anything coming before it saw her. Less chance of getting jumped again as she had in the Speaking Tree’s clearing.
Rostfar sighed in relief as she sat by the fire pit she had already built. Before long, she had a fire going and the young hare’s leg roasting on a handheld skewer. It wasn’t much, but the crackle of roasting meat gave her a sense of familiarity amid the strangeness of the forest.
Rostfar had just begun to relax, cheered at the prospect of her first decent meal in days, when a furious snarl broke the illusion. She reached for her newly-reclaimed knife – too late. The only thing between her and the wolf was the fire, and Rostfar had no doubt the wolf would leap over it at a moment’s notice.
“It’s going to kill us,” he said to someone over Rostfar’s shoulder. She spun around and saw a second wolf had climbed onto the ledge of the lowest pool. This one almost looked like Estene, but she was smaller, and her eyes were blank and unseeing. She thrust her head forwards so that her bared teeth were only a finger’s breadth from Rostfar’s face. Rostfar didn’t dare to move.
“Where’s the fire?” The second wolf sniffed at the air. “What’s the human doing with it?”
“I’m just—” Rostfar paused. Would wolves know anything about cooking? Could she explain it to them, or would they attack her for speaking? “I’m not doing any damage.”
“You’ve brought fire into our home,” the first wolf snapped and stepped forwards. Too close to the open flames.
He leapt back with a yelp as an ember landed on his muzzle. Rostfar started towards him, but something closed around the hood of her cloak. The second wolf’s breath was hot against her ear.
“Ysmir! Geren!” Estene’s voice rang out in a shout that went deeper than sound. Rostfar didn’t have the wyrdsight – but she didn’t need to. She could feel the power of it in her bones; it made her teeth hurt and her vision blur.
The pressure around Rostfar’s neck vanished, followed by the sound of running paws.
Estene stood before her, but the sight brought no comfort. Like her children, Estene was bristling and snarling in pure, cold fury.
“Remove it,” Estene said in a tone that reminded Rostfar of Nat.
“But I—”
“There will be no fire in Deothwicc!”
“But—”
“None,” Estene rumbled, her voice deep and impossible to disobey. Hands shaking, Rostfar used her little wooden drinking-bowl and doused the fire. She did it again and again until all that remained of her meal was a soup of mud and twigs; the hare’s leg was charred beyond edibility.
“I’m sorry,” Rostfar croaked. “I . . . I didn’t know.”
Estene fixed her with a level stare. “And now you do.”
“This isn’t going to work!” Rostfar kicked her bag in frustration. “I can’t cook meals to eat, I can’t hunt without causing problems – why keep me here, Estene?”
Instead of answering right away, Estene looked around and sniffed the air. She seemed to be ensuring she and Rostfar were alone.
“Because,” she said at length, her tone now evenly measured. “The Speaking Tree gave me a vision, just like it gave you a vision of Yrsa.”
Rostfar frowned. “That – that tree doesn’t give people visions.”
“I saw a human figure with flaming hair, standing alone against a . . . a – I know no human word for this. A terrible, tortured creature of flesh and magic.”
“A wreather,” Rostfar said softly. “That’s what we call them – all the things that are more than mere flesh beings, but less than pure magic.” And then, softer still, she added, “. . . sometimes Wolvenkind are called wreathers, too.”
“We are not,” Estene replied; although her answer was quick, her tone was soft. She stepped gingerly across the wreckage of Rostfar’s fire and sat down before her.
“What did it mean then? Your vision?”
“I thought it was a warning – that fire and destruction were coming to Deothwicc. But then I saw you with your flame-red hair and your knife, standing alone in the Speaking Tree’s Clearing.”
“And you think a tree foretold my coming here?” Rostfar couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice.
Estene cocked her head. “Why is this so hard for you to believe?”
Torn between embarrassment and incredulity, Rostfar looked down. She took her pouch of telling-stones out of its holder at her throat and rolled it between her palms.
“I have a . . . special interest, I suppose you could say, in stories.” She shrugged. “It’s fascinating, working out where history and fantasy cross paths. You can figure out what’s possible and what isn’t by what people decided to set in the stones.” She took out one of the carved stones for emphasis, then realised wolves likely couldn’t read.
“And what you find here in Deothwicc isn’t what’s in your stories and stones.” That should have been a question, but Estene didn’t phrase it like one. Rostfar managed a stiff nod. Her cheeks felt hot. “That’s why I need you to stay. The Speaking Tree has been calling out – I can hear it in my sleep – and you answered the call. You listened. You’re still listening.” Estene touched her nose to Rostfar’s shoulder, just briefly. “There is something of the wolf in you, Rostfar.”
Rostfar swallowed. Being compared to a wolf shouldn’t have felt like a compliment, but warmth blossomed in her chest nonetheless. She rubbed her tired eyes and pulled away from Estene – from her kind, inviting words and everything they offered her; everything she shouldn’t want.
Estene, perhaps sensing Rostfar’s unwillingness to keep talking, stood up. “You need rest while your wound heals.”
Rest won’t heal the wounds I have, Rostfar wanted to say. She watched as Estene walked away, her grief and heartsickness aching anew.
“Estene?”
“Yes?” Estene sounded so patient as she looked back at Rostfar. Wolf or not, here was a mother who loved deeply and fought fiercely, even if all looked hopeless. Rostfar could see it in Estene’s scars and the way she held herself. It was how Rostfar felt, too.
“My daughter—” Rostfar’s breath caught in her throat. “Is there any chance she’s still alive? Am I a fool for having hope?”
“There are many things living this side of the white river – your . . . wreathers, as you call them, are barely more than prey animals compared to what else dwells here. But—” Estene came back to Rostfar and nuzzled her forehead. “The magic is ancient and unknowable. Perhaps your pup is dead, but that doesn’t mean you have lost her forever.”
The touch was unexpected, but not unpleasant. Rostfar leant their foreheads together for a moment and shut her eyes, breathing in the scent of the forest that clung to Estene’s fur. It felt almost like an embrace between equals.
Almost.
Pulling away, Rostfar wiped her eyes with her sleeves and drew her knees up to her chest. She mustered a smile for Estene, but it felt weak.
“I’ll get that rest now.”
Estene bowed her head in acknowledgement, and left Rostfar alone with her whirling thoughts.
