by Evie Byrne
Wat didn’t think he was expected to say anything, so leaned he back, too, and rested his eyes.
“My family comes from Russia,” Faustin continued. “Snow is in our blood. Or at least ice, some would say. Once my grandfather, pursued by enemies, fled from St. Petersburg to the shores of the Baltic. In the winter, with no horse, no money, just his coat and a good hat.”
“Good hat’s important,” Wat murmured.
“Mmm. It was ermine. He gave it to my father. And my father gave it to me. And my youngest brother stole it and gave it to a girl with pink hair.”
Wat snorted.
Faustin said, “You have a brother, too. Are you Eldest?”
“First born, já.”
“I thought so. On his flight, my grandfather spent most of his time in the woods. Only rarely did he risk feeding on a villager. So as a matter of course, he lived on animals during his long journey. Wolves, he said.”
Wolves. Of course it would be wolves. That made a good story. Wat figured Faustin’s grandfather had sucked on rabbits most of the way and been grateful for every one he could catch.
“So, you see, my family line exists only because of animal blood. My youngest brother, too, the one of the hat, fed on animals for a time once, when he was in…bad straits. I do not hold the common prejudice against the practice.”
“You want to come hunting with me?” Wat asked with a sideways glance.
“I’d love to,” Faustin said without hesitation.
Wat rolled a shoulder and grimaced. “Safe to agree to that one, huh? I won’t be hunting for a while.”
“When you are healed, I will take you up on your offer. My word. Your promise?”
“Sure. I’ll take you out.” Ought to be fun.
“You are unhappy with Hand Sosa’s proposition.”
Wat stared at him.
“I also give you my word that the children would be well cared for.”
“That’s—that’s not half of it.”
Faustin nodded. “Usually fostering is reciprocal. It eases um…natural parental concerns. We did not discuss this with Sosa, but we’d be willing to consider it.”
“You’d be willing to send kids up here? To live like us? Why?”
“Because I want this.” Faustin’s voice dropped to a whisper, riveting Wat’s attention. Faustin’s eyes gleamed like a prophet’s. “Your Gift will change the world, and I want to lead that change. I feel it in my gut, and I did not survive so long by ignoring my instincts.” The light in his eyes faded or, rather, became shuttered. His voice returned to its usual cool, business-like register. “We could arrange a one-to-one exchange.”
“Your people would never agree to send their children up here—no more than my people would agree to send their kids to strangers.”
“I can be remarkably persuasive.” Faustin’s smile was not reassuring. “You agree it would be good for our children to learn your ways? You’re a teacher. Could you teach them woodcraft? Teach them to be strong and free and realize there is more to life than playing video games?”
“I teach willing children,” Wat said firmly. “Willing being the key word.” He imagined helicopter-loads of traumatized, kidnapped children being dropped into his lap. “At fourteen, they are really too old to begin their training, and four years is not long enough to train. Their skills would be rudimentary. And it’s painful for us, because at sixteen, our children are initiated as adult hunters. They’ll lose critical years of advanced training…” As he spoke, Wat realized that he was actually taking this crazy idea seriously and broke off mid-sentence.
In a quiet voice, Faustin said, “You know there are answers to all those concerns.”
Wat folded his arms. “It doesn’t matter. This decision is in the hands of the Women’s Council, not mine.”
“Still, it’s good to imagine, is it not?” Faustin held his hands up, as if framing a sign. “The School of the North. Together, you and this land will restore the strength in our decadent kind. You fear no one will send their children this way willingly? I believe they will fight for the opportunity. That is, they’ll fight once I explain that I will privilege graduates of your school in my organization.”
Wat felt the tickling of inspiration. And while they’re in our hands, we might teach them things you don’t expect, Faustin. He spotted Adad strolling along the opposite side of the Grove, poking at a phone. “Does your other half agree with this plan?”
“Alya, my lovely, bloodthirsty mate, aches for revenge. The fact that you are still alive shows that she’s already made many compromises in the name of peace. I will not lie. She’d love to see you balk. She’d love to raze this place. But to answer your question, I know she can be persuaded.”
Wat realized he was being railroaded. Yet he didn’t think he had agreed to anything yet, not in so many words. But did he agree with the plan in outline? Maybe. Maybe it was the best thing on offer. His body ached down to his bones. Gods, will I ever get to go to sleep again?
“Would you send your children here,” he asked Faustin, “to this School of the North?”
Faustin’s lips curved into a smile. “I would insist on it. Would you send your children to foster with Alya and me?”
“Never!”
Mikhail laughed. “Let’s go talk to our women.”
Chapter Twenty
Wat returned to the little group huddled around the brazier. Gunnar was shoulder-hunched and miserable. Maren and Eva both looked like they’d been crying. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to touch it with a stick.
“I’ve been talking to Faustin,” he said and proceeded to repeat the entire, strange conversation. Tired as he was, he didn’t trust himself to pick out what was important and what to skip. And he didn’t get the sense that Faustin ever spoke a word without specific intent.
When he finished, Eva said, “They play a wicked game of good cop/bad cop.”
Gunnar interpreted for Wat. “She means they pretend one is mean and the other is friendly—to get what they want.”
“Ah!” Maren said. “I see. He also plays the men off the women. Pretends he and Wat can figure it out all by themselves.”
“Solid strategy. Very effective.” Eva gave Wat a pointed glance. Yep, she was angry. “I was going to bring reciprocal fostering to the negotiating table later. It’s very positive that Faustin has raised the possibility himself.”
Wat spread both hands. “Yes, but are they lying? And if so, why? Does Faustin want what he says? Is there another game at play?”
“I saw his face when he learned about the Gift,” Alya said. “He wants it, all right. More than Alya, I think, but he can convince her. It’s reasonable to think he’d be willing to deal to get it.”
“Maybe they want us to let down our guard, so they can, you know, get at our junk.” Gunnar said.
Eva shook her head. “They could kidnap you all now, or try to, without so much talk. They don’t mess around.”
“Then let’s move this forward a step,” Wat said. “Let’s take Faustin at his word. If he’s lying, well, we can’t be much worse off than we are now. What about his proposal for reciprocal hostages—I mean, fosterlings. Maren?”
Maren nodded slowly. “That proposition shows good faith. That I like. I imagine these Southern children will be difficult. More work for us all. A huge burden to those who keep them. And you’d have to school them, Wat. I don’t envy you that.”
Wat turned to Gunnar. “What do you think?”
“Fostering, it’s in our history, too, isn’t it? In the old stories.” Gunnar rubbed the fine hair on his chin. “There’s no dishonor in it. And I think we need to know what’s out there, so we’re not so afraid of it. And, I was thinking…” The tips of his ears reddened. “There’s not so many of us anymore. Kids my age—where are they going to find mates? If we don’t mix, we’ll end up all inbred or celibate or whatever.”
“You’re right,” Wat said. “Necessity forces adaptation. I’ve been so fo
cused on dying lately that I hadn’t even thought about the future. Even if Adad and Faustin vanished from the earth—”
“Wish they would,” muttered Maren.
“Even if they did, we’d still have a logjam of problems. Population being the first of them.”
As he spoke, he checked on Adad and Faustin. They were at the far end of the Grove, talking. He didn’t want to put his faith in those two, but sometimes you had to take a leap. Eva hugged herself, her face pinched and grim. This plan was hers, and she had been blessed by the gods. Who was he to doubt her now, after all he’d seen? Who was he to hurt her so?
And so I leap. “The Guardian of the Spring has presented this plan. As regent, and as the former Guardian, I support it. Prince Gunnar, what is your will?”
“That we move forward.”
“Maren, we don’t have time to convene the whole Council. In an emergency, you can speak for them. What is the will of the Council?”
Tears welled in Maren’s eyes. “I will go along with you. I don’t know how I’ll break it to the others. May the Blessed Mother forgive us all.”
“Eva, go to them,” Wat said. “Hammer out the details. We trust you to bargain well.”
Eva hugged herself tighter and gave him a brittle, cynical smile. But she said to Maren, “I’ll do my best for the kids. I’ll fight for visits, supervision, spot checks—everything.”
“You do that.” Maren walked to the Mother’s tree and began to pray.
Wat said, “Gunnar, could you leave us for a moment?”
When he was gone, Wat said to Eva, “I’m an ass.”
He reached for her hand, but she stepped out of reach. “I should go.”
“Don’t go angry.”
“How could you doubt my intentions? After everything?” She lifted her hand and showed him his own teeth marks on her palm.
He winced. “I’m tired. I’m hurting and hungry. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“I’m tired, too, Wat.”
“Then maybe we should talk about this later.”
“Fine.”
He and Gunnar followed her across the Grove. She spoke a few words to Adad, and then turned to back to the Brunnrheimers. “They’re going to withdraw. I’m going with them. We’ll finish negotiations at their hotel.”
You’re leaving? If only they could speak mind-to-mind like Faustin and Adad seemed to be able to do. Are you coming back? Are you safe with them? But he could only nod along with Gunnar and mumble platitudes about their new partnership. Before he knew it, Eva was climbing into the helicopter. She didn’t say goodbye. He watched it lift and turn south. He watched it until its taillights were lost in the stars. He didn’t know if she ever looked back.
“They’re all gone,” Gunnar reported after a while. Wat realized he’d been staring into the sky for a long time. “The soldiers, the cars. They drove off. Just like they said.”
“All gone,” Wat repeated. All over. The tension that had kept him moving all night evaporated, leaving him stupid and empty and numb. Gunnar frowned and offered him his arm. Wat reached for it—and fell.
The next thing he knew, he was in his own bed, and Mathilde was stripping him. “I’ve always wanted to do this,” she said with a grin. Maren was there, too. She spooned something into his mouth, and he went down gratefully.
Chapter Twenty-One
He woke and found Gunnar beside him, holding a child’s sipping cup. “Drink.” Wat took the cup from him, though his hands were none too steady, and guzzled warm reindeer blood. Gun took the empty cup and went to the fire to refill it. “I’m supposed to feed you up.”
“How long?” Wat whispered. “Where’s Eva?”
“She’s not back yet. It’s not been that long, really. You slept the rest of the night—the night they came, I mean. And all the next day and most of the night. It’s around three in the morning.” He handed Wat the refilled cup. “Steady. Mathilde says you’ve overdone it. Way overdone it. You’ve got nothing left inside.”
Nothing left inside. Had Adad detained her? No. If she’d intended to punish Eva, she would have done it on the spot, to make it more painful for everybody. Eva would come back soon.
Gunnar took the empty cup from his hand. “You’re supposed to eat and sleep. Nothing else.”
Next time he woke, it was dusk, and Ivar was there.
“Is she back?” he croaked.
Ivar handed him the cup. “Not yet.”
The bottom fell out of his stomach. He’d been dreaming that she wouldn’t return. Awake, he decided it was inevitable. Why would she come back, after all? She’d complete the negotiations, because they touched on her honor, but once she was back her glittering world, with her hot showers and eager lovers, she wouldn’t miss Brunnrheim. And she’d be glad to be rid of him. When she’d most needed his support, he’d attacked her.
He tried to give the cup back to Ivar. “I’m not hungry.”
“Drink it, or I’ll force it down your fucking throat.” Ivar hooked a finger toward Wat’s mouth.
Wat slapped his hand aside and realized how little strength he had. “Thrice damned. Give it to me.” After he forced down the first few sips, his body woke to the hunger, and he let it sate itself.
On the third night, Wat got out of bed and paced around the house, chewing his thumbnails. He should have been better. Should have said this. Should have said that. Should have, should have, should have.
By that time, even the others had begun to worry.
“Shouldn’t we have heard something by now?” Maren said. “What if the deal went bad? It’s terrible not knowing.”
Only Ivar wasn’t concerned. “If it went off, we’d know it. They’re just jawing. Probably got lawyers in on it and everything.”
“If we had a phone—just one phone—Eva could check in with us. Or we could call her.” Gunnar folded his arms and leaned against Wat’s door. “Everyone in the world has a phone but us.”
“Huh,” Ivar said. “If only you were a prince, maybe you could do something about it.”
Gunnar blinked. “Could I?”
Wat sighed. “Answer yourself.”
Gunnar spun toward Maren, “Would the Women’s Council agree to installing a phone in the village?”
“Who wants to be a slave to bell?” Her tart expression softened when Gunnar gave her his puppy eyes. “I’ll bring it up at our next meeting. In the meanwhile, you better start convincing the other Council members.”
Grinning, Gunnar shot off into the night. As he left, Mathilde came in and took Wat back to his room to check his progress.
“I’d guess you’ve lost thirty pounds feeding this burn,” she said, as she inspected the new skin on his back and shoulders. “Keep stuffing yourself. You need to make up what you’ve lost. But your skin looks good as new.”
As he put his shirt on, she continued to study him, her eyes serious and far too penetrating. He turned his face aside, unwilling to be the object of sympathy.
Taking hold of his hand, Mathilde pointed to the faint bite mark on the heel of his palm. “But I am worried about this wound, Wat. Will it fester?”
Wat turned his hand over. “I’m fine.”
In bed that morning, he traced the tiny wound with his fingertip. Soon the marks would be gone, as if they’d never been there.
Mathilde was only partially right. Eva’s absence wasn’t a festering sore—it was a slow, bleeding wound to the gut. He fantasized about seeking her out, changing her mind, but he didn’t know where to start looking. Faustin and Adad had been staying at a hotel within helicopter distance. Even if he could find that hotel, there was no saying they’d still be there. All he could do was go to Los Angeles, make trouble, and hope to get himself dragged in front of her. Gunnar was right—they needed a phone.
A week after Eva left, Wat lit the fireplace in his bedroom, determined to be antisocial. As long as he was working and alone, he was fine. Idleness led to thinking, which was never good. And anyone he spoke to a
pproached him with either unanswerable questions about what was happening with the treaty or the too-gentle consideration for a lonely man who’d gone and married a sudrmadr woman—only to have her run off as soon as possible. Or both.
He sat in front of the fire with his guitar and picked out the tune of an old, old song about a wanderer shipwrecked far from home. Wat remembered the words and began to sing, thumping on the belly of the guitar and beating the floor with his feet as the song reached its climax, where the piteous wanderer begged the gods to kill him, so that he might go home at last. Eyes closed, he sang, completely absorbed—until his bedroom door slammed open.
“Wat!” Gunnar raced in full speed, skidded to a halt, and looked around in confusion. “What happened?”
Wat lowered his guitar. “Nothing. I’m singing.”
“Singing?” Gunnar tilted his head, confused. “I thought I heard…Oh. Um. That was singing?”
Nettled, Wat said, “It’s called a dirge.”
“I thought you’d hurt yourself.”
Ivar appeared in the doorway and took Gun by the shoulders. Wat thought there was something a little odd about his expression. Then again, all folks did anymore was look at him oddly. “Gun and I are going to go visiting so you can…sing…as loud as you want.”
Wat nodded, appreciating the respite.
Ivar steered Gunnar down the hall.
Wat listened for the front door and began to strum his guitar again when he heard it close. He’d only played for a minute when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. His head snapped up, and he saw Eva standing silently in his doorway, dressed all in white
Feeling as if he were in a dream, that she couldn’t actually be there, he stood, the guitar in one hand. Maybe this was a fetch. She wore a long, white, sheepskin coat and flat-soled sheepskin boots, a long white skirt, and a white fur hat. Those weren’t Eva’s clothes. Oh, gods, but she was beautiful. She didn’t smile, only studied him seriously.
