An Apprentice to Elves by Sarah Monette
“You’re a fool,” Otter said without heat, a casual observation of an obvious fact.
“I want to be with Tin and my father.”
“What about Idocrase?”
Alfgyfa blinked at Otter, unable to believe Otter had actually said the thing that Alfgyfa had so carefully avoided thinking of.
Alfgyfa forced herself to shrug casually. “Perhaps Idocrase will decide that there’s a Master-piece to be written on the conduct of the war?”
Otter rolled her eyes, but Alfgyfa knew her well enough by now to pick out the hint of a smile behind it.
“I’m going south,” said Alfgyfa, with finality. “The Rheans are already bleeding north, obviously. We have to stop them at the source. Maybe I can help.”
But that wasn’t it, exactly. There was something inside her, demanding that she go. She touched her chest with a loose fist, because she couldn’t find the words to express it, and at that gesture, Otter’s face softened.
“So that’s how it is, is it?”
Alfgyfa, still at a loss for words—and how unlike her that was—bit her lip and nodded.
At that, Otter visibly drew herself together and looked Alfgyfa in the eye.
“There’s only one way to stop the Rheans,” she said, and the ache in her voice told Alfgyfa everything—that Otter knew what she was asking for. “We have to cost too much for them to keep on coming. Tell our defenders that when you go.”
There was nothing anyone could say to that, or to the bleakness in Otter’s expression.
So Alfgyfa nodded, and hugged her, and turned away.
* * *
Idocrase found Alfgyfa while she was packing, rolling extra socks tight and wedging them into a pack beside food, blankets, a fire starter, a closely woven canvas tarpaulin, a penknife sharp enough to shave or perform surgery with, and other necessities of the road. She had laid out on her bed a fur cloak that would double as a sleeping roll, and she had mittens and a scarf tucked away against need. A long knife lay sheathed upon the cloak. A short bow and a quiver hung beside the door: never let it be said she couldn’t learn from hard experience.
The scratch at the door frame made her heart leap. She’d told Idocrase what she meant to do right after she had told Thorlot. They were the two whom she didn’t want hearing it from anyone but her. They were the two she didn’t want to hurt under any circumstances.
She couldn’t help hurting them.
Maybe that was adulthood: doing what you thought you ought to do, even when it was awful.
He’d said he needed time to think it over. She’d been afraid he meant time to cut her loose.
But she knew that scratch, and when she turned, he was smiling slightly up at her.
She meant to say something calm and heroic-sounding. What came out, on a squeak, was, “You’ve decided to come with me?”
“You’re still planning on going alone if I don’t?”
She nodded, with a lie of a shrug that said it was nothing to her either way.
His smile turned into something else, but she still couldn’t call it a frown. “You’re a grown thing,” he said. “I believe you can get yourself safely south hundreds of miles across frozen, wolf-infested country overrun with enemy soldiers. And you will travel faster without me.”
His tone was teasing, proud. And yet she flinched. Tried to hide it, but he must have seen it, because he reached out and laid his fingers on her wrist. “I have to go back to Nidavellir. There’s something else I need to do.”
She blinked at him, uncomprehending, a twist of panic in her breast.
“Mar died to save me,” he explained.
“Yes…,” she said doubtfully.
“I owe Mar a life-debt.”
And when she still stared at him, his free hand described an arc of self-reproach. “Of course you don’t know. I owe Mar a life-debt, Alfgyfa. Which means Galfenol and my clan-mother owe the konigenwolf a life-debt. Which means, not to sharpen the point on the pen or anything, that Nidavellir owes Franangford a life-debt.”
“That’s why Tin went south,” Alfgyfa said, so shocked with realization that she lost the thread of a conversation she was really quite interested in.
Apparently her revelation was more interesting to Idocrase, too, because he shook his head and blinked. “What?”
“Tin. Because I got in trouble rescuing Girasol that time…”
Idocrase was just staring at her. Not because he was surprised by her epiphany, she realized. But because he was surprised to realize that it was an epiphany.
“Yes,” she said in exasperation. “I did just figure that out, thank you. No, I hadn’t realized until now.”
He laughed, and kept laughing, while she crossed her arms and glared. When he could stop, he knuckled his eyes and said, “I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re so at home among us, and then—” He shrugged. “I forget there are things that everyone knows that you just don’t.”
She kept glaring, but her heart wasn’t in it. “And you know everything about human society.”
“That’s not the point! I know nothing about human society! But if I’m going to keep spending time with you, I expect I’ll learn.”
That hit her hard enough to drop her hands to her side. “Didn’t you just say you were going home?”
“Oh, by the deeps,” he said. He dropped down on the floor, all of a sudden, in a puddle of robes whose bullion embroidery caught red-metal glints off the fire. “I’m going home because I’m going to bring you an army, Alfgyfa.”
He stared up at her. His bushy eyebrows twitched with concentration. As if he were willing her to understand.
And suddenly she did, and her knees went weak with the revelation. She thudded down in front of him, cobbler-style, though her mannish trews and tunic made it a less graceful picture than did his robes.
She stared at him. He raised his long hands before his breast, doubled up into a nut, and let them flare apart like opening wings.
“It seems like the least I can do.”
“Because of your life-debt to Mar.”
He nodded, smiling.
“And then you’re coming back here.”
“If it’s where you’ll be,” he said. “If you’ll have me, I mean to say.”
She stared at him. He dropped his eyes to his hands. His mouth opened, but he bit the words back. She saw the force of will with which he made himself wait. Her heart thrummed with something too terrified and bright to be called joy.
She reached out, her hand broad and pale and graceless against his, and touched the backs of his fingers. “I’ll make terrible mistakes,” she said. “I always do.”
“I feel sure,” he said, “that you will not be alone in that,” but he was smiling as he said it, turning his hand so that their hands were palm to palm.
She knew svartalfar did not kiss, and in general she found this a very sensible choice. She closed her fingers carefully, as gently as her work-hardened grip could manage, around Idocrase’s hand, knowing that it was presumptuous of her, apprentice that she was, the sort of thing that Master Galfenol called “brass-faced” and curled her lip at.
She’d never thought about how sensitive the skin of her palms and fingers was, even with her calluses and burn scars. But she could feel the softness of his skin, much softer than hers—a scribe had to be careful of his hands, and writing calluses were not the same as hammer calluses—the bones and tendons across the back of his hand. For a moment, she had the terrible, nonsensical fear that Idocrase was going to agree with her imaginary Galfenol, but then, shyly, his fingers trembling just a little, Idocrase returned her grip.
SIXTEEN
The weather turned, brutally. Fargrimr had expected it sooner or later, but the cold that swept in a day after the rain was hard and sudden even by the standards of the Northlands. It froze the earth beneath their feet so fast that the army’s boots crunched through a hard layer of frost into soft mud beneath. The mud then froze against the edges of the boots, lea
And that was nothing to the suffering of the horses and the reindeer. The mud froze on their hooves and ice shards worked their way into the crevices of their feet. The Army of the Iskryne, Fargrimr guessed, would lose a half a day’s travel before the earth froze hard enough for them to move easily across. And Fargrimr knew too well that this early in the season, the freeze was likely to result in a thaw, and deeper mud and more.
What was worse was that in these conditions their track was as obvious as if they had dragged plows through the forest behind them. There was no subtlety to their movement, and Fargrimr knew as well as any of the war leaders that the Rheans were on their tail like wolves following the musk ox herds, waiting—just waiting—for the weary or weak to stray.
What had encountered him and his men—before he was relieved by the konungur’s army—could have been no more than an expeditionary force. It had been devoid of heavy infantry, devoid of trebuchets, and devoid—most tellingly—of the terrible shaggy tusked beasts of war that Randulfr had learned from Otter were called mammoths.
It had still been more than enough to roll over the entire complement of Siglufjordhur as no more than a tough morning’s work, though, and that fretted at Fargrimr like a knot he could not unpick.
Despite that, he was pleased to be reunited with the Franangfordthreat, and he could tell that his brother was as well. And jarl of Siglufjordhur and wolf-bitch’s brother—and the Freyasheall wolfheofodmenn—were invited to Gunnarr’s councils, which was pleasing, and a little flattering, as well. Along with Erik of Hergilsberg—who seemed pleased, himself, that Fargrimr had brought his agent Freyvithr back to him, though who really knew what the old bear-sarker thought—and all the wolfjarls and warlords of the North.
All their conferences and shared intelligence came to one thing, though: the Army of the Iskryne ran west, away from the main Rhean army, toward Hergilsberg, south of where the secondary Rhean force was thought to have landed.
A benefit of having so many wolves and wolfcarls embedded in the group was that the army could not become separated. It might seem a small thing, but the wolves’ sense of smell and their ability to know where each member of the wolfthreat ran, meant that the wolfcarls saw to it that no wolfless man became lost—accidentally or through desertion. There was not a great deal of that latter, fortunately: the Northmen were far too aware that they were fighting for their homes and the freedom and the lives of their families.
On that first morning after they rejoined, Fargrimr nevertheless dropped to the rear of the army to check for stragglers. He found himself pacing Skjaldwulf, who trotted beside his borrowed wolf and occasionally winced a complaint at knees that had seen more than their share of miles. Ahead of them jogged a ragged line of men, mostly wolfless, who blew great horsy clouds of steam from their mouths and nostrils into the chill.
The conversation turned quite naturally to the enemy as bard and sworn-son and wolf jogged along together, occasionally knocking the heavy frozen mud from their feet. Skjaldwulf had more experience of the Rheans than anyone in the North save Otter, and Fargrimr was eager to get his opinion about the offer tendered by Marcus Verenius. He outlined the situation briefly, then waited while Skjaldwulf thought.
Skjaldwulf listened and then spent a fair amount of time jumping from root to hillock, trying to avoid the deepest mud—worse here at the back where the army had tramped it over. As the old wolfjarl was generally laconic and thoughtful, Fargrimr chose to regard his slow-spokenness as time spent in thinking.
He wasn’t disappointed. When they slowed again to kick their boots clean, Skjaldwulf picked a knot of half-frozen sap from a spruce, popped it into his mouth to chew, and said, “Well, it seems to me that this is natural. The downside of the Rhean meritocracy Iunarius is so proud of is that ambitious men will try to sabotage their leaders.”
“Won’t some see that they can rise with their masters?”
“Of course,” Skjaldwulf said. “But say the master has enemies. Say he’s in a fragile position—”
“You might want to discard him for someone else’s favor.”
“Or see him fail and make yourself look smarter, so you’re promoted into his place.”
Fargrimr thought about that. He continued thinking about it even as they began again to trot. Finally, as they forded a shallow stony river, he shook his head and said, “Honorless.”
On the far bank, the lupines had long since shed their blossoms, and the grass was crisping at the edges in new, sudden cold. When they ran, it was merely chilly. But whenever they slowed, the cold nibbled at Fargrimr’s ears and fingertips. His lip had split, and he cursed himself mildly for neglecting to smear it with beeswax or bear-grease or the compound of both those and mint leaves that the women of the keep made for winter.
Of course, he first would have had to have figured out where it was packed, and who was carting it.
As they came up the stone-tumbled riverside, Skjaldwulf staggered. Fargrimr reached out to steady him and was startled by a sharp painful whine from the borrowed wolf, Tryggvi. Skjaldwulf doubled over, clutching himself, as if someone had knuckled him in the soft part of the belly. The sound that came from his mouth wasn’t speech: it was a high savage whine that hurt Fargrimr’s ears. The sound of an animal mortally, lingeringly wounded.
Fargrimr ducked down and got his shoulder under Skjaldwulf’s arm, which required prying his arm loose from around his belly. Fortunately, the wolfjarl was helping, insomuch as he could, and Fargrimr got him halfway upright again.
“Your heart?” Fargrimr asked, trying to keep stark panic from his voice—because that was what he thought when a man with gray streaks in his beard doubled over in the midst of a strenuous day’s activity.
Tryggvi whined, hard and sharp. The young wolf shoved his head between Fargrimr and Skjaldwulf, which was less help than it might have been. Ahead of them, some of the back ranks of the army were starting to take notice. Maybe someone would send for a chirurgeon. Fargrimr could only hope there was somebody within earshot with some sense.
Skjaldwulf shook his head. “My brother,” he gasped—and collapsed where he stood, so he might have broken his head on the stones if Fargrimr hadn’t cushioned him.
The ones they left at home were supposed to be safe, Fargrimr thought, from an awkward position with stones digging into his shins, a larger rock pressing, not comfortably, against his ribs, and a wolfjarl, white-faced and unconscious, across his thighs. He knew it was mere foolishness, but it hurt all the same, that Skjaldwulf had come all this way, had left his own wolf behind him so that he should not be killed by the journey or the winter or the war, and yet the wolf had died. And not peacefully.
You could not outrun your wyrd, his father had always said, but that was not a comfort, either.
* * *
Tin found Skjaldwulf huddled beside a fire—a risk, that, but a bigger risk was losing a wolfjarl—bent low over a tin cup full of steaming water laced with honey, brandy, and (by the smell of it) a spoonful of good sweet butter. Vethulf sat beside him, leaned shoulder to shoulder, unspeaking. Kjaran curled against his other hip, and Viradechtis and Tryggvi lay alongside. Isolfr crouched nearby, tending the fire, doing an admirable job of not even once glancing up to check on how Skjaldwulf was doing.
Of course, he wouldn’t need to. His wolf would tell him far more than his eyes could see.
Tin shuffled up behind Isolfr, consciously making enough noise that he would hear her coming. A quick twitch of his head served as acknowledgment, so she knew she would not startle him.
When she was close enough to speak for his ears alone, she gave him a low tone. “I came as soon as I heard.”
He settled on his haunches. The axe she had given him glittered on his back. It occurred to her with a pang that he had not been much more than his daughter’s age when they had first met.
They aged so fast,
He breathed out hard.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Better than I would be in his place,” Isolfr said.
“What happened?”
He spat onto the coals. “Viradechtis says Amma says Rheans. It’s confused; Amma’s also upset about something to do with Sokkolfr and one of the tithe—I mean, the new wolfcarls. And one of the cubs was killed, too.”
Tin glanced across the fire. The konigenwolf had raised her head, and gazed at Tin with bottomless amber eyes.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Tin said, raising her voice to be heard by all. She kept her eyes on Viradechtis, though; after all, it was the queen-wolf’s mate who had been killed.
The wolf dipped her ears ever so slightly, an acknowledgment, and continued her inscrutable gaze.
Skjaldwulf, though, stirred himself from within. He looked up, blinked, and seemed to realize there was a mug cooling between his palms. He lifted it and drank, three swift swallows, deep enough that he tilted his head back for the last of them. Color faded back into his cheeks, and only then did Tin realize how pale he had been. The humans she had met always seemed ice-white to her, though she had heard—from Skjaldwulf, in point of fact—that some came darker. Almost as dark as svartalfar, he said. It was unsettling to be reminded that they could bleach still paler.
“Thank you,” he said. He looked at his hands and the mug. “It’s not unexpected.”
“That doesn’t make it easy,” Vethulf replied. His tone had its characteristic edge, but Skjaldwulf gave him a grateful smile anyway. Here, Tin thought, were two men who understood each other.
“No,” Skjaldwulf said. “It doesn’t.” He looked back at Tin. “Will you sit awhile?”
“If you don’t mind.” She hunkered on a rock close enough to the fire that the rime had melted off it. Isolfr handed her a mug without asking. The warmth was welcome. The deep caverns never got cold enough to freeze, and svartalfar were not well-used to the cold. Tin especially hated the way it crept up into her nose and cracked the tender tissues there so blood leaked and clotted.
She inhaled the steam from the mug, which made her feel better. Brandy, though, was something to be approached cautiously. She took a tentative sip and found it delicious.