Ice Wolves (Elementals, Book 1)

by Amie Kaufman

  “There were,” Hayn said, sounding tired. “Three on the ground, one in the air. They left once they had their spy. It will be a different matter completely if they start setting fires.”

  “We’ve seen them off before,” she reminded him, soft. “We can do it again.”

  “We have,” he agreed. “But the price was very high.”

  Anders silently pulled on the clothes Dama Lindahl had given him—underwear and thick woolen socks, a shirt and trousers, all of it better than anything he’d ever owned—better than anything he’d ever touched, except when he was pickpocketing. They were all in wolf gray, but with white touches and trim, as the students’ uniforms always had when he saw them out in the city. White buttons on the shirt, white stitching on the trousers.

  When he finally padded out, Dama Lindahl checked his feet and dug out a pair of shiny black boots. Hayn waited as he crouched to lace them up, then turned to lead him from the supply room.

  “I’ll see you soon enough, I’m sure,” Dama Lindahl told him with a smile. “There was talk it was a bad sign that we had no new students this month. But here you are, after all. I’ll start gathering up the rest of your things.”

  Anders murmured a thank-you as he headed out the door on Hayn’s heels. She might be friendly enough now, but she didn’t know his secret. The wolves would have questions, and he wasn’t sure he had answers—but Rayna was depending on him. His brain was scrambling as he tried to pull together a tale that would explain why he’d bolted on their first meeting. “I’m sorry I—when I transformed, I—”

  Hayn held up a hand to stop him. “The Fyrstulf will want to hear from you herself,” he said, sending a chill straight down Anders’s spine. How much trouble was he in? Did they even want him here as a student? Dama Lindahl had seemed to think so, but she only managed the supply room. But then Hayn glanced back and softened a touch. “It was an unusual day,” he said. “She’ll listen.”

  “The dragons . . .” Anders ventured, not even sure what he was asking. Wondering what Hayn would say, perhaps.

  “We’ll see them off, if we have to,” Hayn replied. “We knew there were dragon spies in the city, and now we’ve been proven right. The humans are starting to forget how dangerous they are. The humans forget the price we’ve paid to protect them.”

  It made Anders’s skin prickle, to hear Hayn use that word: human. As if the wolves—as if Anders—were something else. He watched the man’s broad back as he followed him down the hallway, wondering if all wolves felt so separate from everyone else, or if something had taught Hayn to feel that way.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Hayn was saying. “We’ve met them before, and we’ll meet them again.”

  Anders felt cold as they made their way toward the Fyrstulf’s office, and it had nothing to do with the stone walls around him.

  Hayn led him from the school corridors into the adult barracks, though Anders wouldn’t have known the difference, except that the occasional student in a white-tipped uniform gave way to older, grimmer adults all in gray. The gray stone corridors with their lamps and thick wooden beams overhead stayed the same.

  Eventually, they reached another doorway like all the others, except that a tapestry was hung on the wall opposite it. Stretching twelve feet long, it was of the last great battle with the dragons, bright with flames. An army of wolves was arrayed along the bottom of the scene, driving the dragons from Holbard with their ice spears.

  Hayn knocked on the door opposite the tapestry, then opened it, glancing in. He exchanged a few quiet words with whoever was inside and withdrew.

  “Good luck,” he said quietly to Anders, clapping him on the shoulder with a grip that nearly made Anders’s knees give out. Then he tilted his head to indicate Anders should head inside—a wolflike movement—and strode off down the corridor.

  Anders wondered for a wild moment whether he could simply slip behind the giant tapestry and hide there. Would anyone notice his legs sticking out the bottom? Probably not.

  Instead, he made his feet move, forcing himself to walk through the Fyrstulf’s door and close it behind him.

  The office itself was large—Sigrid sat behind a wooden desk opposite the door, with bookshelves running down either side of the room. Her pale skin and short blond hair almost seemed the same color by the light of the lamps, and she sat with that strict, upright posture he’d seen so many times at monthly Trials.

  The shelves were lined with books, but more than that—in front of the books, and sometimes between them, sat small metal devices and all manner of trinkets. There was a long, coiled piece of metal, a water skin with an elaborately designed metal spout, a set of scales. Every one of them was engraved with runes. Anders spotted the Staff of Hadda in a bracket on the wall. If these other artifacts could channel essence as powerfully as the staff, this would be the most important room in Holbard.

  Sigrid spoke, jolting him from his thoughts. “Good afternoon.” If anything, she sounded faintly amused, and that snapped Anders back to his fear—why was she amused? What did she have planned for him? “Please take a seat . . .” She trailed off deliberately, and Anders realized she was waiting for his name, and she was amused because he’d been gawking at her office.

  “Anders,” he said quietly. “Anders Bardasen.” He hadn’t given his real name to an adult since he was six, those were the rules, even if his was a common enough surname. But if he was going to last here as a student, maybe for weeks, he needed something he’d actually respond to when people called him. And that meant the truth. He felt naked just saying it out loud. And lately, he really knew exactly how naked felt.

  “Bardasen,” she echoed. “I’m sorry.”

  It took Anders a moment to think why his name would make her sorry—he knew plenty of kids on the street with the same last name—and then it clicked into place. Bardasen was an orphan’s name. Barda was an ancient word meaning “battle” that someone had dug up after the last great battle. It was the surname given to children who lost their parents in that terrible fight against the dragons. Children whose real surname was unknown.

  And of course, Sigrid had been one of those fighting. He’d heard her talk about it on the dais at the trial. He’d heard her say she felt personally responsible for every death. Now her expression softened a little. For the first time in his life, his name was an asset.

  “Please,” she said, rising to her feet. “Sit, we should talk.” The Fyrstulf nodded at the space behind him, where two couches sat facing each other. She moved out from behind her desk to settle into one. Anders noticed the cut on her forehead—the injury from when the dais crashed and he fell beside her.

  Anders took the other couch, sinking down into the soft cushions, as aware of that luxury as he was of his fine clothes, and uncomfortable with both. “I’m sorry I ran,” he started, stumbling over his words. Usually Rayna did the fast talking, and for some reason he found it hard to lie to this woman, as though the wolf in her could read the wolf in him, even in human form. He had to make this story convincing. “I thought the dragon would come back, and I—I’m not proud of myself. I should have been braver. I didn’t come back at first because I was embarrassed.”

  The Fyrstulf met this news with silence, and as the words echoed between them, Anders could hear how weak they sounded. “And now?” she said eventually.

  “Now I’d like to take up my place as a student, Dama,” he said, trying to inject as much respect as possible into the words, trying to remember all of Rayna’s tips. Eye contact, but not too much, or it looks like you’re trying. Don’t fidget.

  “Just Sigrid,” she said. “We are wolves, which means of course we have a hierarchy. Such a thing is vital, if we are to keep Holbard safe, and it is natural to us. But we use first names here. It’s our way of remembering that as well as pack, as well as soldiers, we are also a family.”

  “Yes, D—yes, Sigrid,” he murmured, the name feeling unnatural in his mouth. She was still looking him over far too keenly,
and he knew some part of what he was telling her wasn’t adding up. She didn’t entirely believe his story. But slowly, she nodded.

  “Fleeing once is understandable,” she said. “I would not be so sympathetic a second time. Nevertheless, welcome to Ulfar.” He had to stop himself letting out a breath of relief. Apparently she wasn’t quite suspicious enough to refuse him entry. Or, he thought with a shiver, maybe she doesn’t trust me, and she wants to keep me where she can see me.

  Sigrid rose and walked over to her desk, picking up a mirror there. It was small, about the size of the palm of her hand, but when she held it up, Anders could see the runes on the back of it. She spoke again. “When you see Lisabet, please send her to my office immediately,” she said.

  Anders flicked a glance around the room, trying to figure out who she was talking to. Not him, surely? He didn’t . . . though actually, he did know who Lisabet was. That was the name of the girl he’d met, the day of his transformation. The Ulfar student—the one who had smiled at him. Was he supposed to find her?

  “Yes, Sigrid,” said another voice. Where did that come from?

  Sigrid set down the mirror and looked over at him, registering his confusion. “The mirror allows two-way communication,” she said. “I have asked the wolf on duty to send us a student, who will be your guide until you learn your way around.”

  Anders’s jaw dropped. A mirror that allowed you to speak to somebody in a completely different place? He’d seen smaller artifacts plenty of times—devices to help with cooking or trading—but never something as powerful as this.

  “Lisabet will explain the Academy rules,” Sigrid continued. “Show you your assigned room, help you find your classes. We will expect to see you in classes tomorrow morning, and I myself will see you in the afternoon. My duties as Fyrstulf entail leading our warriors and managing Vallen’s safety for the most part, but I make it a point to teach one class for our younger students. I want all of you to know me, and to know you can come to me at any time. This includes you, Anders.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, weakly imagining himself bringing his one and only problem to Sigrid. My sister transformed into a dragon. Any idea how to solve that one, Fyrstulf?

  “The dragons have us on high alert at the moment, as I’m sure you know,” said Sigrid. “If they come to Holbard in numbers there will be a battle, but we will ensure you’re ready to join the fight. We are always ready, Anders. Always on guard. We will always stand against the dragons.”

  It felt like a threat, as if she could see straight inside his head, see his connection to Rayna—as if, when her gaze bored into him, she was looking straight at his link to the dragons. Except he’d told her he’d run because he was scared. Perhaps she was, in her own terrifying way, trying to reassure him.

  He was saved from the need to answer—just as he was hopelessly groping for words—by a knock at the door.

  “Come,” Sigrid called, and it opened to reveal Lisabet, the girl Anders had met the day of his transformation. She shared Sigrid’s upright posture, the same lift of her chin—all wolves were alike in the end—though her black, curling hair and the thousands of freckles on her face were as messy as the Fyrstulf was perfectly, flawlessly neat.

  “You sent for me?” Lisabet asked politely.

  Sigrid nodded. “Lisabet, this is Anders, our newest student. I believe you met shortly after his first transformation. Please help him collect his uniform and take him to dinner.”

  Lisabet kept up her serious expression, but as soon as Sigrid rose to walk back to her desk, and her back was turned, the girl offered him a quick wink.

  “Thank you, Sigrid,” Anders said, pushing to his feet. Of all the students at the Academy, they had to pick the one who’d seen him lose his clothes and make a run for it. Of course they did. Still, her company was less terrifying than the Fyrstulf’s. He beat a hasty retreat, Lisabet close on his heels.

  Lisabet spoke again once they were some distance down the hallway. “Looks like you survived that all right,” she said, quirking a smile. When she smiled, it completely wiped away the serious expression her face fell into the rest of the time. “She likes to eyeball everybody on their way in. Did she give you the bit about being family, and how she teaches classes so you know you can trust her?”

  “She did,” Anders admitted.

  “She wouldn’t know what family meant if she read about it in the dictionary,” Lisabet confided. “She teaches us so we’ll all know her and remember to be appropriately terrified. The Trials for Fyrstulf are every five years. Last time, nobody even challenged her.”

  “I don’t blame them,” Anders muttered, and Lisabet snorted.

  “Me neither.”

  They reached the crossroads of several different hallways, and Lisabet pointed up to a large bell hanging in the middle of the junction. “That’s the class bell,” she said, jumping up to tap one fingernail against it. It sang with an almost inaudible note, so light was her touch.

  Anders didn’t know what a class bell was, but he was also pretty sure that question was approximately number seven hundred and forty-two on his list, so he kept it to himself. He’d figure out why she thought he needed to know about it later.

  Lisabet took him back to Dama Lindahl, who was waiting with the rest of his uniform.

  She had a warm gray jacket for him and a thick cloak to go over it. He’d never owned a cloak before—a decent coat like the one he’d lost the day of the Trial was better. A coat had pockets you could drop the things you pickpocketed straight into, but a cloak had nowhere to hide anything.

  The Ulfar crest was emblazoned on his clothes. He’d seen it before but never had the chance to examine it like this. It was a metallic blue, showing a wolf standing up on its hind legs, fierce and ready to protect the city of Holbard in the background.

  While he was studying the crest, she opened the safe on the wall, producing an amulet of his very own. Just like that—as if all these luxuries were nothing.

  And to the wolves, they were. They had no idea what it was to go wanting.

  His fingers itched for a second amulet—he’d need it when he found Rayna—and he eased sideways to try and glimpse the combination on the safe, but Dama Lindahl’s fingers were quick as she pushed it shut and gave the tumbler a spin, the amulets locked inside. The leather strap on his amulet was new, but now he could see that though the design was finely sculpted, it was worn. A line of wolves chased one another around the amulet’s edge, runes carved inside the circle they made.

  “We pass them on,” Lisabet said, watching him turn the amulet over in his hands. “We can’t get new ones, so we have to make the amulets we have last as long as possible.”

  Wondering about the wolves who had worn this amulet before him—wondering what they’d make of him, there only to steal this amulet and stay until he knew how to find his way to the dragons—Anders fastened it around his neck. He felt a faint tingle against his skin, the metal warming, and then there was nothing.

  Dama Lindahl also plunked him down on a stool and cut his hair regulation short, showing him his reflection in a mirror when she was done. Before, his black curls had been longer than his finger when he pulled a lock of hair straight. But the boy looking back at him had short hair, barely long enough to curl at all. He wore an amulet at his throat, and the gray wolf’s shirt seemed to drain the warmth from his brown skin.

  The boy staring back at him looked like a wolf.

  He looked nothing like Anders.

  With his arms full of his spare clothes, Anders was silent as Lisabet led him to his room, opening the door for him so he could carry them inside. The room held four beds (two made, two not), with a couple of sets of drawers and wardrobes for the occupants to share.

  “That’s mine,” Lisabet said, pointing to one of the two made beds. “And that’s yours.” She indicated the other, and Anders walked forward to dump his new clothes on it, leaning down to press one hand against the mattress. He’d never slept in a
proper bed before, as far as he knew. He’d barely ever slept without Rayna there to curl up beside him, so they could keep each other warm.

  He forced his gaze up to take in the room. The other two beds were messily unmade, and Lisabet came up beside him to eye them thoughtfully. “We weren’t expecting company,” she said. “That’s Viktoria,” she continued, pointing to the bed beside his. “She, um . . . she doesn’t always remember there’s nobody to make the bed for her.”

  Hearing her careful tone, Anders wondered what Viktoria was like. Someone used to having the bed made for her? Was she from a rich family? What would she think of a street boy like him?

  “And that’s Sakarias,” Lisabet said, pointing at the bed next to her own, diagonally across from Anders’s. Along the stone wall beside it, the unknown boy had tacked up a series of sketches of people and wolves, mostly done in ink or pencil, a few with color.

  “Those drawings are really good,” he said, walking over to get a closer look. The snarl of the wolf in the picture was all too real, and he stepped back.

  “He’s really talented,” Lisabet agreed. “That’s rare for a wolf. The dragons were always the artists.”

  Anders shot her a sharp look. Dragons as artists? What did that even mean? Dragons as kidnappers, more like.

  A moment later, at the thought of Rayna, he was berating himself. Anything could be happening to Rayna right now, and Anders was letting this girl lead him around to get a haircut and go to dinner. He had to find some way to ask questions, to search for information.

  But there was nothing else he could do for now, except try to blend in. He couldn’t make them suspicious. He had to trust that Rayna knew how to fool the dragons, that she’d be in there making speeches right now about how excited she was to set things on fire, how she killed people for fun in her spare time. That somehow she’d be keeping herself safe.

  It was better than believing the dragons knew Rayna wanted nothing to do with them and their cruelty.