An Apprentice to Elves (47 page)

“You could not have saved Mar,” said Skjaldwulf. “He knew that.”

She quickened her pace, because her eyes still burned at mention of Mar, and the kitchen made a perfectly reasonable bolt-hole, though she drove herself out again soon enough.

“You're being overnice,” Isolfr was saying. “In any event, I won't have a wolfcarl here who has sworn enmity with my housemaster. That's my decision, not yours.”

“Backed up by both his wolfjarls,” Vethulf said dryly.

“His one wolfjarl,” Skjaldwulf commented. “I'm the historian to the Wolfmaegth now, remember?”

Otter smiled at that. He
would
find a way to remain a scop, even when he decided he was no longer young enough to bond with a fighting wolf.

Her last trip was to the far corner where there was always something overlooked, and as she came back with an abandoned and very sticky trencher, Sokkolfr reached out a long arm from where Tryggvi, tail thumping madly, had pinned him to the bench, and pulled her close, so that she heard the end of what Isolfr was saying: “… Freyasheall because they have actual rebuilding to do, and I think the work will do Varghoss good.”

“Or at least cause blisters,” said Vethulf.

“He is of no use here,” Otter said. “We”—meaning the women of the heall—“would be glad to see him gone.”

“I'm sending two of the other new wolfcarls as well,” Isolfr said, “and they'll all be gone by Thors-day.”

“Freya's blessing on your head, wolfsprechend,” Otter said, and meant it. She leaned into Sokkolfr and said, surprised at her own daring, “I think you might be ready for bed, Tryggvisbrother.”

“I might,” Sokkolfr agreed, one of his rare smiles lighting his face. “But it's Tryggvi you'll have to persuade. I've had no luck.”

Tryggvi had gotten up on the bench and draped himself over Sokkolfr, his hindquarters on one side and his shoulders and head on the other. His mismatched eyes were lambent with delight in his own cleverness.

“First successful lap wolf I've ever seen,” Vethulf said, grinning.

“All the way back, he wanted to run,” Skjaldwulf said, more softly. “He did not—he was faithful and did not once leave my side—but he wanted to.”

Otter rumpled Tryggvi's ears the way he liked and said to Sokkolfr, “Tell him he can pin you even more thoroughly to the bed.”

“I have better things to do in the bed,” Sokkolfr grumbled and shoved at Tryggvi's midsection until the wolf finally moved—though not without a reproachful look.

“Come along then, brother,” Sokkolfr said, twining his fingers through Otter's. “Good night, shieldbrothers, wolf-brothers, wolf-sister”—and Viradechtis made a noise of acknowledgment, half grumble, half croon, from where she lurked beneath Isolfr's feet—“my bed awaits me, and I am hopeful about what I may find there.”

He smiled down at Otter, and she realized, as she smiled back, that this strange light feeling in her chest, which she hadn't felt in so long she couldn't even count the years, this was hope.

*   *   *

Hreithulfr found him at the bleak cliff's edge.

They didn't speak for a long time, but finally Fargrimr said, “You must have come out here for a reason.”

“To tell you that we're going to rebuild,” Hreithulfr said. “Isolfr says that this all just proves how important it is to have a wolfheall in the south.”

“I suppose it does,” Fargrimr said.

“I wanted to ask.”

He was silent for long enough that Fargrimr turned and raised his eyebrows. “If there was something you wanted to ask, I suggest you put it into words.”

“You will also rebuild, of course.”

“I am jarl of Siglufjordhur still,” Fargrimr said. A jarl without an heir, to be sure, a jarl who would have to adopt a boy not of his blood—and the sagas were just full of examples to demonstrate what a good idea
that
was—but still jarl.

“Will you take the old keep back? Or will you rebuild beside us?”

Fargrimr opened his mouth to answer, but stopped before the words had even reached his tongue. Of course he was going to take the old keep back. It was Siglufjordhur, where his father and his father's father and all the long line of his ancestors had held their land and their people, and the burning shame of having it taken from him was not entirely gone. But the new keep, built shoulder to shoulder with Freyasheall, for all that it had been intended as no more than temporary shelter, had become a home, and not just because Randulfr and Ingrun had been there.

He would miss the wolves, he realized. And the wolfcarls, who were plainspoken, clean in their habits, and skilled fighters—the kind of neighbors any sane man would cultivate.

He said, “The Rheans expanded the keep, you know.”

“Did they?” said Hreithulfr.

“They are an industrious people,” Fargrimr said dourly. He turned his face into the wind, letting it flap his braids against his shoulders.

Hreithulfr came up beside him. “We lost half the threat,” he said—not asking for pity or demanding admiration for his heall's sacrifice, just telling Fargrimr where they stood.

“The keep is foolishly large for my household,” Fargrimr said. “I think it may require some work to make keep and heall separate—for I will not have your wolves in my hall, wolfsprechend—but I do not see why it cannot be done. And then we can be whispered of with shock and abhorrence for doing this thing which no one has ever done before.”

“Isolfr thinks it's a good idea,” Hreithulfr said. “And the wolves like you. They don't usually bother naming wolfless men, but they named you as the snap of salt in the air and the harsh cry of a gull.”

“I appreciate the commentary,” Fargrimr said dryly.

“Wolves,” Hreithulfr said with a shrug, and Fargrimr surprised himself with a rasping laugh.

He debated, but in the end said truthfully, “It strengthens my position, which is otherwise weak in the aftermath of war.”

“Well,” Hreithulfr said with a smile, unbothered. “That's all to the good, then. Now, Signy's waiting, so come along inside, will you, before my stones freeze solid?”

Surprised by friendship, Fargrimr followed him away from the cliff and the sea.

*   *   *

Thorlot's forge was not large; two humans and three alfar were straining the limits of its capacity, especially when two of the alfar were each pretending, as careful as any pair of konigenwolves, that the other was not there.

Idocrase felt no such compunction; he was avidly listening to Osmium talking about her stone-shaping work. Alfgyfa and Thorlot and Tin were standing around Thorlot's anvil arguing about why the bindrunes kept breaking the swords. Tin rejected the idea that there was any inherent reason the metal would not accept the rune; they had gone back and forth over the problem, and Alfgyfa had three new ideas to try in the forging.

Tin and Thorlot had gotten into a discussion of sources of iron and possible contaminants, which Alfgyfa was too junior to know anything about, so she was looking at Idocrase when he turned to look for her.

He beckoned her over. She went willingly.

Osmium said to her, “I can't describe a trellwarren. I think you ought to try.”

“It's a pity we can't just show him one,” Alfgyfa said.

“My dama would skin me alive,” Osmium said. “Besides, they put some extra wards on it when they went and closed it up again. I don't think we'd get in a second time.”

“Your people are very thorough,” Alfgyfa said crossly. “All right. Let's start with the stones that roll the wrong way.”

“I foresee that this is going to be the sort of conversation Master Galfenol calls
unedifying,
” Idocrase said cheerfully, and he leaned into her when she sat down next to him on the floor.

*   *   *

Tin looked across at Alfgyfa's silver-blond head. She was still an infuriating child, and she would make journeyman if Tin had to beat sense into every smith in Nidavellir one by one.

Thorlot followed her gaze and said, “You won't give up on her, will you?”

And Tin said, “No. Not for all the gold in the dragon Fafnir's hoard.”

 

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

SARAH MONETTE
is the acclaimed author of
Mélusine
and
The Virtu
as well as award-nominated short fiction. You can sign up for email updates
here
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ELIZABETH BEAR
was the recipient of the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. She has won two Hugo Awards for her short fiction, a Sturgeon Award, and the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Together, they are the authors of
A Companion to Wolves, The Tempering of Men,
and
An Apprentice to Elves
. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

 

TOR BOOKS BY
SARAH MONETTE
AND
ELIZABETH BEAR

A Companion to Wolves

The Tempering of Men

 

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