A Companion to Wolves

by Sarah Monette

  Then Viradechtis was beside him, pack-warmth and the scent of pine needles that were not fallen and brown. She nudged his armpit with the point of her nose, and Isolfr blinked at her and bit his lip, and wondered.

  Help, he thought, experimentally, reaching out to the pack-sense, surprised to find it there, not just Viradechtis but the whole pack, all the knowledge of the wolves, their presence and awareness. Feel me. Please. Feel me. Not words, of course, but need, needing his brothers and willing them to find him—

  And to his absolute surprise, the wolfthreat felt him, and took notice.

  Night was on them before the pack arrived, and the troll warren stirring. Isolfr and Viradechtis lay together still on the bluff, watching. He had identified two main entrances to the warren and knew that the lower, the one farther from the bluff and what remained of Ravndalr, was the wyvern’s lair, for not even the largest troll would need a hole of that size. He felt the pack before he smelled them, and he didn’t hear them at all; even in the midst of his fear for his family and his father’s liegefolk, his grief for Ravndalr, and his choking, all-consuming hatred for the trolls, he felt a warm ember in his chest that this was his pack, these his brothers.

  He felt Grimolfr belly-crawling beside him, and did not startle when the wolfjarl said in his ear, “The pack says trolls.”

  “They’ve …” It was hard to say it, even though he’d been staring at it for hours. “They’ve destroyed Ravndalr and warrened the bluff. There’s a wyvern, too, farther entrance.”

  “Do you know how many?”

  “Enough?” Isolfr said hopelessly. “There’s been movement, but they haven’t really come out yet. Ravndalr was not … was not very large.”

  “No, I remember it.” Grimolfr hesitated, then laid one hard hand on Isolfr’s shoulder and said, “You’ve done well. Come now. We must plan our attack.”

  And Isolfr wriggled back to where the rest of the pack waited, and felt for a moment giddy-headed with relief that it was not his burden any longer, that he could now do what he was told and let older, wiser heads do the thinking.

  He pushed away the little voice that said, uneasily, But Grimolfr has not been telling us the truth. That was a different matter; tonight was simple: a battle to fight, people to defend, the dead to avenge, brothers to stand beside.

  Communicating mostly through the pack-sense, trusting the wolves to carry the meaning of his murmured words to their brothers, Grimolfr said, “As we don’t know how many of them there are, we can’t let them get out in the open. But we don’t want to let them lure us into the warren, either. In those tunnels, the advantage will be theirs.” He divided the threat quickly into two groups—the smaller, but with more seasoned warriors, to take the near entrance, the larger to take the wyvern’s hole. The key to beating a wyvern was distracting it, and thus the more moving bodies, the better. Isolfr found Frithulf beside him and gave his friend a half-smile.

  “I’m glad you found them, instead of the other way around,” Frithulf said, and clouted Isolfr companionably on the shoulder. And they moved with the pack down into what had been Ravndalr.

  It was ugly, dirty, brutal work, and it took them all that night.

  When daybreak came, there were three men dead, and five wolves, but the wyvern had been hacked horribly to pieces, and Yngvulf, Grimolfr, Ulfgeirr, and Skjaldwulf, their brothers with them, were searching the halls of the warren to be sure they left no surviving trolls. Sokkolfr had Frithulf and Skirnulf helping him examine the wounded, and Isolfr, troll blood under his fingernails and matting his hair, labored with Hrolleif and the rest of the werthreat to drag the dead trolls together so that a pyre could be lit. You couldn’t leave troll corpses to rot; they poisoned the ground, and even ten years later plants would be stunted and sickly.

  At noon, Sokkolfr and the younger members of the werthreat started for the wolfheall, travoising their injured and dead behind them; Hrolleif sent Isolfr and Viradechtis with them, because he and Grimolfr needed Hringolfr—and Randulfr, who still limped, but not as badly. It was already plain to both Hrolleif and Isolfr that Viradechtis was more than capable of keeping order among a dozen wolves, especially when those who weren’t injured were exhausted. Unspoken was the further consideration that this would keep Vigdis and Viradechtis separated a little longer. Isolfr knew that they were merely putting off a conversation that was going to be painful to both of them, but he was bone-weary and selfishly glad that the conversation could be put off a little longer.

  “We should be no more than a day behind you,” Hrolleif said to Sokkolfr and Isolfr, and they nodded and set out for home. The werthreat’s shoulders sagged; the wolfthreat’s tails were dragging. The brothers of injured men kept the pack-sense roiling with their anxiety, and the men whose wolves were hurt were little better. Isolfr found his nails digging into his palms, found himself wanting to turn and howl at them all to shut up. He felt flayed with exhaustion, raw and a-twitch.

  Sokkolfr touched his shoulder gently. “Isolfr? Did Viradechtis’ heat go badly?”

  “How should I know? We’d never done it before.” He was appalled at the bitterness of his words even as they came out of his mouth. “Sokkolfr, I’m sorry. Truly. I didn’t—”

  “Hush,” Sokkolfr said. “You have as much right as anyone.”

  “To snap your nose off? No, I don’t think—”

  “Isolfr.” Exasperated now. “No one expects you to behave like a wolfless man. What you have to say, say it.”

  Isolfr ducked his head, so that Sokkolfr wouldn’t see him blushing. “Sorry.”

  “Forgiven,” Sokkolfr said fondly, and Isolfr found the fretting of the pack-sense easier to bear after that.

  They reached the wolfheall staggering with weariness, well after dark, guided the last mile and a half entirely by the wolfthreat’s land-sense. But the gates were open when they got there, and Asny’s brother waiting in the gateway to welcome them. He kissed Isolfr on both cheeks, as werthreatbrother to werthreatbrother, and Isolfr was so astounded it took a sharp nudge from Frithulf to keep him from simply standing there like a man struck to stone.

  Two hours’ worth of mad bustle, and the injured were settled, the dead laid out to wait until dawn for burning, the hale—or relatively hale—fed and bathed and settling into sleep, and Isolfr could make his way to the bathhouse and finally, finally wash away soot and blood and mud and the clinging grime of the wyvern’s foul death.

  He was close to drowsing with the heat and the blissful relief of cleanliness when a voice said, amused, “If you fall asleep in here, it’ll just mean Viradechtis has to drag you out.”

  He startled, catching his head a sharp knock against the wall.

  Eyjolfr was standing in the aisle, looking at him with his head cocked to one side.

  “Eyjolfr.” Isolfr floundered to his feet, excruciatingly aware of his own nakedness when Eyjolfr was wearing shirt and trews, his hair lank with steam and his face shining with sweat. “I … I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I could tell,” Eyjolfr said dryly. As Isolfr came level with him, he reached out and laid his hand along Isolfr’s cheek, turning his head gently so that they were looking at each other.

  Isolfr’s heart was pounding; he could not read the expression in Eyjolfr’s eyes.

  Eyjolfr smiled and said, “You are very beautiful, you know. Now go to bed before you fall asleep standing up.” His hand lingered a moment longer, an unmistakable caress; then he let Isolfr go and stood aside.

  Isolfr bolted like a spooked deer.

  Lying in his furs and blankets that night, with Frithulf’s back fitted warmly against his own and Viradechtis sprawled out like a wanton, her ears twitching against his chin, he tried to think on it like a konigenwolf’s brother, not like the virgin Hrolleif had called him. Would it be so bad, if it was Eyjolfr?

  Viradechtis adored Glaedir, and the silver wolf was not so much older than she that he had lost his humor. If he ever would: there was an enduring sparkle to t
hat one. Moreover, Isolfr had not forgotten the arrogant power with which he had fought for the right to sire Kolgrimna’s pups. He was worthy of Viradechtis—more worthy than Arngrimr.

  And in a moment of selfishness, Isolfr thought of Eyjolfr’s hand on his cheek, and remembered Hrolleif’s words. Wolfjarls can be taught.

  Yes.

  He thought Eyjolfr could be taught. If Randulfr had not taught him enough, already.

  But that thought led to other thoughts, a different wolfjarl and a different kind of teaching. As soon as he could, he resolved, he would speak to Grimolfr. He might not be wolfsprechend, but he was Viradechtis’ brother. And she had found the trellwarren. They had acquitted themselves well in the battle. And Grimolfr had sworn that he would treat Isolfr as a wolfcarl rather than a cub—

  Yes. When the wolfjarl returned to the wolfheall, he would speak with Grimolfr. And find out what else the wolfjarl had been keeping to himself.

  It almost had the air of ritual about it now. Isolfr came upon Grimolfr as Grimolfr was crouched beside Tindr, showing giant, purposeful Leif some detail of the pup’s design, and waited respectfully until the wolfjarl stood and met his eyes. “You wish to speak with me, Isolfr?”

  “Yes,” Isolfr said, and forced hands that wanted to clasp behind his back to relax at his sides as Tindr—freed—bounced up and planted both feet on Leif’s belly, wriggling. Meeting Grimolfr’s eyes wasn’t easier than it had been, but it was more practiced, and perhaps—perhaps—Grimolfr did not lean quite so hard as he once might have. Isolfr lowered his voice, trying for the fair tone his mother used when she disagreed with his father, and came a step closer. “Wolfjarl, why have you not spoken before of how far south the trolls have warrened?”

  “Have you considered that I have spoken, perhaps, and simply not to you?”

  Isolfr hid his startle, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. Viradechtis bumped his knee; he noticed that Skald was nowhere to be seen. “I—” Then he firmed his jaw, and didn’t care that his tone went sharp. “Haven’t I proved myself?”

  Grimolfr smiled. “It has nothing to do with proof. It has to do with not troubling you with a problem that is not your concern, when there are many, many problems that do require your attention.”

  Isolfr swallowed. “But how am I supposed to—”

  “You’re not.” Another man would have cut Isolfr silent with a gesture, a flat-palmed hand. Grimolfr did it with the touch of his eyes. “You are not a wolfheofodman yet, Isolfr. But you have the instincts of one. You’re like your little girl, a heart full of the need to be doing and not yet the sense to know what must be done—no. Listen. You do not need to know because your place is not to choose for the wolfheall; your place is to learn what you must know when it will be your duty to keep the wolfheall strong. And then fighting trolls will be the least of your problems.”

  Isolfr pressed his palms to his thighs and considered, chewing his lip lightly. It made sense; he could see the sense in it. But something in him chafed at backing down so easily, and he squared his shoulders and asked, “And when will that be, wolfjarl?”

  Grimolfr shrugged. “Three, five years or so?”

  Isolfr crossed his arms, uncertain whether he should say so soon? or so long? and anyway uncertain how he and Hrolleif would keep Vigdis and Viradechtis from killing each other in the meantime. “Three years?”

  “At the earliest,” Grimolfr said. “It depends on Viradechtis. And when she comes back into season.” He crossed his own arms and permitted himself a wicked, unsubtle grin. “And whether she gives you one year or two between matings.”

  He thought about Grimolfr’s words for the rest of the day, in between a thousand and sixteen other things that somehow needed his urgent attention. Skirnulf shyly came to talk to him about the trouble Authun was having with Frar; Frar was an older wolf, a gray-muzzle like Hroi, and he seemed to have decided Authun was a threat to him. Skirnulf didn’t know why, assuring Isolfr anxiously that Authun didn’t want to hurt Frar at all, and Frar’s brother would only laugh and say, “Let them sort it out themselves, pup.”

  Skirnulf’s pride was hurt, Isolfr thought and felt the sting of too-close empathy. And through the pack-sense, he caught a memory of Kolli’s scent and understood that Skirnulf was afraid for Authun, who was a big gangly creature without an ounce of vice or malice in him. He listened more widely, letting Skirnulf tell him about Authun, and felt Frar, old and wise and angry.

  Why angry? Isolfr did not ask, exactly, and the wolfthreat did not answer, exactly, but he felt the gaps the dead wolves—six now, after Ravndalr—had made in how the wolfthreat thought of itself, and he could see that Frar stood too close to the edge of one of those gaps, and Authun too close to its other side. And Frar, disliking change and feeling himself too old for fighting, was trying to back Authun off from threatening his place in the pack.

  “Frar doesn’t want to fight, either,” he said to Skirnulf. Skirnulf was all but deaf to the pack-sense, and Isolfr abandoned after only a moment’s thought any attempt to explain to him exactly what was going on. “You’ll have to be patient. It’s part of Authun growing up, and you can’t stop that, or help with it, either.”

  “Oh,” Skirnulf said. And then, “Oh! You mean Frar thinks Authun’s an adult now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh!” Skirnulf was almost beaming. “I thought we’d done something wrong. Thank you, Isolfr.”

  For what? Isolfr thought, watching Skirnulf call to his brother and stride out into the beautiful spring day. I told him exactly what Frar’s brother told him.

  Viradechtis, resting her chin on his shoulder, pointed out that dignity was something wolves and men both needed, and Isolfr grinned and said, “What do you know of dignity, sister?”

  She laughed back at him and licked his ear.

  But that was how his day went, that day and the days that followed. He had less and less time for himself, between drilling the tithe-boys, talking with those members of the werthreat, mostly the youngest, who did not want to bring their problems to Hrolleif, and learning everything he could from Hrolleif—even though he had to send Viradechtis away with Sokkolfr or Frithulf to do it. He and Hrolleif could not talk with Vigdis and her daughter both beside them, for every hint of dissent or dissatisfaction between them was immediately caught and magnified by the konigenwolves, and it took no more than minutes for the snarling to start.

  Isolfr had been right; Viradechtis didn’t roll over.

  She hated to be sent away from him. She thought it was punishment and was anxious and clingy with the need to understand what she had done wrong. But Isolfr could not explain it to her; her instincts were too deep and too clear. And even if he could have, he would not have ordered her to submit to Vigdis, firstly because Viradechtis was konigenwolf as much as her mother and she might do as he asked but it would rip her heart out, and secondly because Vigdis was konigenwolf as much as her daughter and there would be no way for Viradechtis to submit enough.

  So he told her to go play with Kothran, or sleep with Hroi, and Vigdis relaxed and even liked him a little again. She appreciated his understanding of her place in the wolfthreat.

  He knew now what Grimolfr had meant, as Hrolleif talked to him more and more openly about what the wolfsprechend’s job entailed. It was too big for him, too big for his sister, and he could admit that. Spring warmed to summer, and Asny’s pups chose their brothers—Tindr choosing Leif, as everyone had known he would, and the last of Isolfr’s tithe-mates became the Great Ulfbjorn and laid his bedroll in the roundhall. Isolfr concentrated on taking as much of the load off Hrolleif’s shoulders as he could.

  And in dealing, most often scarlet-faced and flustered, with the increasingly obvious attempts of certain members of the werthreat to court him.

  Eyjolfr led them, but he was far from the only one. Fostolfr and Skjaldwulf—and also Ulfgeirr, which so consternated Isolfr that even Sokkolfr could not help laughing. Other men, the brothers of young wolves,
strong wolves, wolves who wanted standing in the pack—men who would like to be wolfjarl and knew it would not happen while they were wolfcarls under Grimolfr and Hrolleif. Men who saw in Isolfr their way to power.

  It terrified him, and only partly because it forced him face to face with a destiny he wasn’t sure he could stand up to; Viradechtis was konigenwolf, he would be wolfsprechend, and he could do nothing but pray he would not fail. But more than that, what made his hands icy and his face hot was that the men courting him were not simply courting a wolfsprechend-in-waiting. They were courting him. Isolfr. You are very beautiful, Eyjolfr had said, and he saw that same truth in Skjaldwulf’s eyes and those of some of the others. They wanted him, and he thought of Hringolfr and felt cold fear like deepest winter in his bones.

  He did his best to keep it to himself, not to let it influence Viradechtis. She wasn’t afraid, but showed lively interest in each of her suitors. He thought she liked Glaedir best, but she liked Mar as well, and sometimes scorned them both in favor of another wolf.

  “Your little girl’s a flirt,” Hrolleif said in his ear one late summer afternoon.

  “I know,” Isolfr said helplessly. “I thought she’d … choose.”

  “Like Vigdis and Skald? It is not the only way of doing things in a wolfheall, although it suits us very well. Viradechtis knows what she wants.”

  “Yes,” Isolfr said, and could not help the note of long-suffering in his voice.

  Hrolleif laughed and tugged gently on one of his braids. “Do not worry so much, Isolfr. I think you may be sure that your wolfjarl, whoever he is, will wish to please you.”

  And Isolfr found himself blushing again.

  The long summer offered a reprieve from troll raids on into autumn, and Viradechtis’ second season came on her just before the equinox. This time, she recognized its coming and woke Isolfr from a sound sleep, very early one morning, with an emphatic thought of male-wolfness.