The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  Callan nodded. The snoring of the sailors sleeping on the open deck and the muted voices of those manning the oars punctuated the heavy silence.

  “How did you find me?” Derek asked. He dreaded thinking about the future, but the past was equally troubling.

  “I heard you’d received an urgent missive. When I tracked you down to the south gate and was told that only a single cart had gone through, I knew you must have been on it. Then it was about overtaking it in time.”

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve known it was a trick. And now you’re here, and Leandre… It’s all my fault.”

  Callan shook his head. “Blaming yourself will get you nowhere.”

  Derek reached out for Callan’s hand, cold and clammy where it rested on the damp wooden deck. After a moment, Callan’s fingers entwined with his own.

  “Thank you for coming for me,” Derek whispered. “Even though I was never the husband you wanted.”

  “Maybe,” Callan said, his eyes glinting, infinite dark pools beneath swollen red eyelids. “But I think you are the one I needed.”

  Chapter Ten

  DAWN GREETED CALLAN with the sight of a jagged shoreline. The Outer Isles were a massive archipelago, consisting of hundreds of closely situated islands, but the three larger ones, occupied by the more numerous clans, were the heart of its territory.

  Callan had been there before, first on a reconnaissance mission and military forays, then as part of the delegation for the peace treaty. His guess regarding their destination was right—they were being taken to Cirda, the land of the Danulf. The discontent among the clans must have reached a critical level if they were willing to risk a high-profile kidnapping, even if the original target had been Callan’s spouse rather than Callan himself.

  He glanced at Derek, who was sleeping again, his head resting against Callan’s shoulder. It’d gone numb sometime during the night, but he hadn’t moved so as not to disturb Derek. He needed whatever rest he could get.

  Callan’s head throbbed, and nausea made bile rise to his throat with each sway of the ship, though he was hardly a stranger to sea voyages. Sometimes his vision blurred and went dark around the edges, and he purposefully didn’t let himself fall asleep for fear of slipping into deeper unconsciousness. That blow to the head had come just short of splitting his skull, but otherwise, he’d been lucky. He was still alive, which was more than he could say for his best friend and sister-in-arms.

  I’m sorry, Leandre. Sorrow washed over him, threatening to leave him a quivering, teary-eyed mess. Death always followed in his footsteps, so close he could feel her ghostly breath, the cold almost-touch of her bony fingers. The Unnamed Goddess favored him with her attention, but she was a jealous one, taking away those he loved so he could court none but her until the day he’d succumb to her eternal embrace.

  But not yet. The steady rise and fall of Derek’s chest, pressed against him, was both a comfort and reminder the fight wasn’t over. I won’t let you have him. You’ll have to take me first this time.

  The keel of the ship hit the sand, and he blinked. He was talking to gods in his head instead of watching his surroundings. They really had knocked his brain out.

  The deserted shoreline was marked with piles of smooth rounded stones, spaced on the edge of the grassland at regular intervals—holding markings, a sign for other Agiennan seafarers. In the distance, the tops of conical thatched roofs peeked from behind a line of low pines, and smoke rose from the chimneys even at this early hour.

  Derek groaned beside him, stirring into wakefulness. He sat upright, rubbing his forehead.

  “Where are we?”

  “Cirda Island. The Danulf holding.”

  One of the sailors came up to the cage and shoved a bowl of dried fish and a waterskin through the bars, preventing Derek from asking more questions. The pungent smell of food made Callan’s stomach turn, but he forced himself to drink his fill, watching as several of the Undin men jumped into the shallow water and made their way to the shore, undoubtedly to bargain. When they reached the stony outcrops, three or four Danulf watchmen stepped out from the line of trees, stopping them. After a short exchange, two of the watchmen escorted the Undin sailors toward the houses.

  The clansmen would be here any minute. Callan looked around but saw no way they could take advantage of the short intermission. Plenty of crewmen milled around the deck, keeping an eye on them. With Derek and Callan both too weak to break out of the cage even if no one was paying them any heed, they’d have to take their chances when they were off the ship.

  “We could try to reason with them,” Derek whispered. “They must understand that by harming you they’d be starting another war.”

  It was undoubtedly true. But seeing the recent organized raids, the spike in violence, Callan wasn’t at all sure war wasn’t exactly what the Danulf (if not the rest of Agienna) wanted.

  Long minutes passed before a group of people emerged from behind the trees. Callan recognized the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Aegir, the Danulf chieftain, even before he could discern his face. His mouth dry, he watched as the Danulf approached one of the stone piles and halted. At the sign of one of their compatriots coming back with the Danulf, the Undin crewmen hauled Callan and Derek out of the cage, tied their hands behind their backs, and shoved them over the railing.

  Their muscles cramped after sitting for so long, they crashed awkwardly, splashing into the water. Callan heard Derek gasp and curse, but then the Undin took hold of them and dragged them onto the sand, right at the feet of the waiting chieftain and his envoy.

  Callan tried to rise, but a strong hand clamped on his shoulder, forcing him back down on his knees. He gritted his teeth and raised his head in the only act of defiance he could manage.

  Aegir had aged since he last saw him, though barely three years had passed. Deep crow’s-feet lined the gray eyes under bushy eyebrows, and his long hair, braided with carved metal and bone beads, had gone almost completely white, as had his long beard. But his heavy gaze, as it settled on Callan, was no less sharp and unsettling than he remembered.

  “I see you, Callan son of Bergen,” Aegir said gravely in Agiennan, greeting him for all the world as if Callan were an official guest rather than a prisoner.

  “I see you, Aegir son of Ainar,” Callan said with the same inflection.

  “And this—” Aegir turned to Derek. “—is your new husband?”

  Derek shifted uncomfortably on his knees under the chieftain’s scrutiny, but wisely said nothing.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Callan said, keeping his tone neutral. His only chance of keeping Derek out of harm’s way was to feign disinterest, even dislike toward him. Otherwise, he was sure, the Agiennans would have no qualms about making sport of Derek just to elicit a reaction out of him.

  At least Derek couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  “It’s him. Pay them,” Aegir said to a man on his right, indicating the Undin.

  “Shall we call for the assembly of the Council of the Chieftains?” the man asked, his voice so low Callan barely heard him.

  Aegir paused, considering. “No,” he said finally. “This is Danulf business. Bring the mainlanders inside.” Without a second look, he turned and strode off.

  This was not a good sign.

  “Whatever happens to me, say nothing,” Callan murmured to Derek, keeping his eyes averted and his voice level. “Let them think you’re harmless, or they’ll torture us both.”

  Derek’s expression grew grimmer, but he nodded before they were hauled up and pushed toward a narrow path that wound through the trees toward the homestead.

  News of their arrival must have spread like wildfire, because people gathered outside of the houses to watch their escort through the village with unmistakable hostility. The wounds of the war ran too deep, even before Idona’s death had shattered the tentative peace. There was too much Danulf blood on Callan’s hands to be forgiven, to have earned anything but their lasting hatred. The word
s followed them, murmurs and shouts. Oath-breaker. Murderer.

  Callan paid them little heed, used as he was to the sort of infamy that carried dark looks and hushed whispers, but he could tell Derek was nervous. His posture was tense, and he kept casting wary glances at the crowd, as if expecting them to start throwing stones at them at any moment.

  Callan’s head was spinning so hard he was afraid he’d slip and fall flat on his face. The village sprawled amid the pine forest, much larger than he remembered it, the thatched-roof houses built haphazardly with no outward sense of order, surrounded by sheep pens and pigsties. The main hall, a large wooden structure surrounded by a spiky stockade, stood a little to the side on a gentle elevation. It served as the residence of the chieftain, a place of gathering, and a point of muster during times of war.

  He remembered the heavy oak doors, carved with the shapes of entwined serpents. Here, he’d taken Idona’s hand in marriage before the stony faces of her kin and her gods. Here, they’d made love for the first time—not that awkward fumble they’d had on their wedding night, but the next day, when Idona had taken him up the forest path to a clearing where the cliffs dropped abruptly into the sea. She’d laid him down in the grass and rode him, wild and free like a creature of starlight and seafoam, until they were both falling into dawn.

  Callan’s breath hitched in something close to a sob, which earned him a hard shove from the man who was leading him. He shook his head, grasping for clarity. Now was not the time to lose himself in old memories, not while he had to fight to save the life of the man walking beside him.

  The dim interior of the hall was illuminated only by a fire, which burned low in an open hearth in the middle of the long space. Aegir sat on a high chair at the far end, surrounded by the clan elders. Several guards, armed with spears and axes, lined the walls.

  The air was stuffy, stale. Callan swallowed hard, fighting another bout of nausea, and focused on the way the feeble light reflected off the scales of the serpent that decorated the heavy fibula holding Aegir’s fur-collared cloak closed.

  They were shoved down on their knees again. This time, Callan didn’t try to resist.

  “Finally, the murderer is brought before us,” Aegir said, speaking in the common tongue. It was no doubt done for Derek’s sake, although why the chieftain would bother was a mystery to Callan. “Do you deny your guilt?”

  Callan shook his head. He always knew this day would come, the day he’d pay in full for his failure.

  “This is bullshit,” Derek said angrily beside him, in complete disregard to his earlier promise.

  “Be quiet,” Callan hissed at him. Of all the opportunities to exhibit assertiveness, Derek picked the worst time to start.

  “I will not! Your daughter’s death, as tragic as it was, was an accident,” Derek said, addressing Aegir, his head held high, his eyebrows knitted together in consternation. “Callan didn’t murder her. He tried to save her.”

  “Were you there?” asked an old woman who sat on Aegir’s left. Her graying hair hung in thick braids past her shoulders, her robes covered with blue and scarlet embroidery. Her pale eyes traveled from Derek to Callan, and back again.

  Callan knew her. Logitt, a clan elder and Aegir’s maternal aunt. A healer. A witch.

  “Well, no,” Derek said. “But I know Callan, and he would never—”

  “Derek. Shut. Up,” Callan managed to grit out. All he wanted was for Derek to stop talking and for the room to stop spinning.

  Derek fell silent, his brown eyes smoldering with an emotion Callan would’ve found touching under other circumstances. But Derek’s indignation was counterproductive to the goal Callan was desperately trying to achieve.

  “This is a sign from the gods,” another elder said. Some nodded, but the rest seemed dubious.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this moment,” Aegir continued as if no one else had spoken, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall. “The moment I will make the proud Mulbernian scream his pain.”

  “If I could trade my life to have Idona safely returned to your side, I’d do so gladly,” Callan said, locking his eyes with Aegir’s. “But I cannot. All I want is to spare both our people the hardships of another war. Let him”—he nodded to Derek—“carry a message back to my father stating that I’ve submitted to your judgment willingly, and that he’s not to retaliate against Agienna. Then do to me what you will.”

  His heart was pounding too loudly in his ears, drowning the sound of his own words. He could only hope he’d made his point. The elders exchanged glances but stayed silent. Logitt pursed her lips, her eyes boring into his soul.

  “War,” the Danulf chieftain scoffed. “There will always be war. It’s just another turn in the Great Cycle. It only makes us stronger, makes us harder. Maybe the next time it will be the Duke of Mulberny to offer his daughter as expiation, to be married to one of our children to secure yet another treaty—and we’ll be the ones dictating the terms.”

  Callan knew Aegir only mentioned Adele to get a rise out of him, but the thought of her having to carry his burden was more than he could bear. His heart sped up, his vision blurring dangerously around the edges. He should say something, anything, to steer the conversation back to whatever they’d been discussing before going so far off topic, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

  Your groom will be disappointed, Adele said in his head. And then he was falling, the worn wooden floor rushing to meet him out of unfathomable depths.

  FOR ONE TERRIFYING moment after opening his eyes, Callan couldn’t remember where he was.

  Then the pain kicked in. He was lying on something soft but prickly. Straw. His head throbbed, and he felt weak as a newborn kitten, but he made himself open his eyes. Above him, long metal hooks were affixed to smoke-charred beams on a low ceiling. When he tried to move, he discovered his leg was chained to the wall, his boots gone.

  Someone shifted on the straw beside him.

  “How are you feeling?” Derek asked, his voice laced with concern.

  “Like crap,” Callan said. He rolled onto his side, wincing as colorful spots danced before his eyes. Gods, how he hated being so fucking helpless. He wasn’t even wounded, really, yet he could barely stay conscious, let alone move. “How’s your shoulder?”

  Derek sat a few paces away, leaning on the wall, chained in much the same manner. Pale and dirty, he looked only marginally better than Callan felt.

  “As well as can be expected,” he said, which probably meant it hurt like hell.

  Their prison was small and cramped, only a few feet wide. Judging by the smell of the rotten straw, it hadn’t been used in a while. A bucket of water had been left in the corner between them, just within range of their chains. But at least they were together—for the time being.

  “Listen,” Callan began, his voice scratchy as dry sand.

  But he didn’t have the chance to tell Derek everything he wanted, for at that moment, the door opened and Logitt came inside, the hem of her fur-lined wool cloak trailing behind her in the mud. Callan caught a glimpse of armed guards just outside, but the door shut behind the clan elder almost instantly.

  “You’re awake. Good,” she said, raking him with her watery blue eyes.

  Anxiety spiked and his pulse quickened. Callan hated to admit it even to himself, but Logitt terrified him far more than Aegir ever could.

  His own obscure connection to magic notwithstanding, Callan knew why witchcraft had been forbidden throughout the realm for generations. It was dangerous, unpredictable, corrupting. These were the reasons why he’d fought so hard to quell every trace of it in his own blood. An unwanted legacy of darker times, it threatened to overwhelm him if he wasn’t careful, yet it eluded him the only time he’d called upon it willingly.

  Not the only time. That time when Derek had come upon the wolf in the forest, Callan had drawn upon the dormant magic. But it wasn’t really witchcraft, was it? He hadn’t actually talked to the wolf, or commanded it, like the young U
ndin witch had done with his horse. The wolf had simply…understood.

  He recoiled—or at least tried to—when the old woman knelt by his side, but she pressed a warm, dry palm against his forehead, easily overpowering him. Pain exploded behind his eyes, as if a spike had been driven right through his brain, and he couldn’t hold back a gasp.

  “What are you doing to him?” Derek demanded. His chain rattled as he pushed himself upright.

  “Hush, child,” Logitt said, her thick accent making the words sound almost foreign, even though she answered him in the common tongue. She brought her face closer to Callan’s, watching him carefully, as if measuring every infinitesimal reaction, the depth of every breath. “I’m healing him. He was hit too hard on the head. It will wear off soon enough on its own, but magic speeds things up.”

  It was more than he could take. Callan thrashed, clawing futilely at the straw, but then the pain receded as quickly as it had sprung. He slumped on his back, gulping air—but his headache was gone, as was the nausea. He could focus on minute details once more, and all the little sounds around him were crisp and clear, instead of reaching him as if from underwater.

  “Callan?” Derek said tentatively. The chains were too short for them to actually touch each other, and in any case, displays of affection, even simple concern, under the Agiennan woman’s intent gaze would be dangerous. Despite his best intentions, Derek was making it increasingly difficult for Callan to convince the Agiennans there was nothing between them but mutual antipathy. It was hard enough to fake as it was, and he pushed the thought firmly down.

  “I’m all right,” he rasped. “I’m all right.”

  A shiver went through his body at the notion of her using witchcraft on him, as if he could feel its tainted residue on his skin. But there was no denying it had worked, even if he was still too feeble to move.