The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  Callan flinched. Angry whispers rose behind them; the Mulbernians didn’t take well to the accusation. Their indignation was aimed at the Agiennans, but Derek didn’t want to think about what would happen once they realized the truth of Logitt’s proclamation. Callan was respected, but not universally loved, and there were enough vicious rumors circulating about him already.

  “Witch or not, he’s made a promise,” Derek said, facing the clansmen. “Are you willing to discuss it?”

  “I recall him swearing you off to make us spare you, yet here you are by his side. Deception is in his blood as much as magic. This is nothing more than an egondar trick,” Aegir sneered, not taking his eyes off Callan. If looks could kill, Callan’s blood would be drenching the already wet sand, along with every last Mulbernian’s. “We’re wasting our time, listening to their lies.”

  “We know your mind, Aegir,” one of the other chieftains said, lifting her hand in warning. “You’ve brought us here. Now we want the mainlanders to speak. If this is some kind of a ruse, I swear to Dagorn they’ll pay for it.” She turned to the duke. “What is your proposal, Bergen son of Jennia?”

  Dead silence fell on the beach, broken only by the distant wailing of the wind and the rhythmic breaking of waves against the shore, an eternal heartbeat of the world. Every eye turned to the duke, who was still standing only a few feet away from his unwanted guests, still clutching his sword, the flickering light catching on the hard planes of his face. Derek sucked in a breath, but his heart thumped too wildly to calm it.

  “I’m not the one you should be asking,” Bergen said finally. He pointedly lowered his weapon and gestured toward Callan. “I grant my son full authority to negotiate.”

  Derek’s knees went weak. Whatever bad blood there was between himself and his father-in-law, at this moment, he was ready to forgive him his own attempted murder—not that Bergen seemed to be clamoring for absolution.

  Callan drew a deep breath. If the unexpected show of support from that particular quarter surprised him, he didn’t let on. You can do this, Derek urged him silently. This is your moment to mend everything.

  Even though his husband couldn’t possibly have heard him, he flashed Derek a quick smile before facing the chieftains.

  “I’ve seen enough fighting.” Callan’s voice was soft, but it carried above the noise. “When I married Idona, I thought it was all behind us. I believed we could finally have peace, after all these years. Her death dashed that dream, but it’s not too late to find it again—in honor of her memory as much for the sake of all of us who are still living.”

  Aegir grimaced at his words but said nothing. The other chieftains remained impassive.

  “But I understand you’re not here to listen to pretty words,” Callan continued. “So here is my proposal. Mulberny will bestow the Outer Isles sailors the right of unrestricted passage through its waters all along the coast for the purposes of trawling, exploration, and travel. You’ll be free to trade at any Mulberny port without additional levies or tithes, other than the usual commerce taxes.”

  The chieftains exchanged glances. The current treaty greatly diminished the scope of Agiennan seafaring, effectively limiting it to the passages between the Isles and the North Sea—if anyone was either bold or foolhardy enough to venture into the uncharted icy waters. As far as Derek knew, the abrupt cutoff of old trade routes in the aftermath of the war was the main reason for the swift decline in Agienna’s welfare.

  “And in return?” another chieftain demanded. Derek couldn’t tell which clan he represented, but he was arguably the oldest one among them, his white hair done in a multitude of tiny braids that crowned his head like a snowcap.

  “You must swear off plundering the Mulberny coastline. No more raiding. No more wars. Stop accosting our villages and our ships—and this goes for all of the clans. There can be no hiding behind rogue pirates or sending the Vanir to do your dirty work.” Callan glanced at Aegir before letting his gaze sweep across the array of unreadable faces before him. “What I want is real peace, not a temporary patchwork solution we can slap on our problems for a few more years.”

  “This is a fucking insult,” Aegir sneered. “This whelp presumes to allow us the freedoms that had been ours for generations! Our longships had been coming and going as they pleased all along these shores long before this land had a name. We don’t need their handouts. I say we kill them all now and restore what rightfully belongs to us!”

  His words caused a reaction among the Agiennans, but Derek didn’t wait to see whether the murmurs were in agreement or in negation. He had to act before Aegir could inflame his listeners further, banking on mutual animosity.

  “There’s another thing.” Derek was surprised to find how firm his voice sounded, despite the sudden dryness that seized his throat. Everyone’s gaze shifted to him, and he had to consciously push down on his fear that once again his input would be ignored or dismissed as unimportant. But he couldn’t back down now. Callan had risen to the challenge, and Derek was going to rise right along with him, relying on the compulsion of urgency to get him through where his sense of self-worth fell short. “As the Count of Camria, and Lord Callan’s husband, I will pledge shipments of grain from my fiefdom be delivered to the Outer Isles all through the winter if this new truce holds. Camria can afford it for now.”

  “You think you can buy us off with bread?” Aegir’s voice was dangerously low this time, barely audible above the crash of the waves. Derek couldn’t decipher his expression, but his sudden eerie calm was a lot scarier than his late father’s rage-induced fits.

  “Of course not! It’s not meant as a bribe, but as an aid. Before coming to Mulberny, I had no knowledge of your plight.” Derek gestured widely, taking in everyone around him as a subject in his statement. “But now that I do, it’s the least I can do to help. I’m making the offer in good faith, not as an insult. Please, I…”

  He trailed off, too conscious of the attention his words had garnered, both from the chieftains and the Mulbernian troops. Logitt was watching him, her frail figure shrouded in thick furs. The glimmer in her eyes mesmerized him for a moment, so much that a touch on his arm made Derek jump.

  “Thank you,” Callan whispered. His hand slid down Derek’s arm, and their fingers intertwined. His smile lit his eyes from within, washing Derek’s whole soul in a warm glow. They could get through anything as long as Derek got to be on the receiving end of that smile every day for the rest of his life.

  Aegir was watching at them as well, his gaze shifting from Callan to Derek and back again.

  “When I first heard you’d killed my daughter, I vowed to take your life in return.” Aegir’s voice was still dangerously quiet, and though he was looking at both of them, there was no doubt as to who he was addressing. “Gods help me, I’ve tried. I came here tonight with this very purpose. But now I see I was wrong. You don’t deserve that.”

  He advanced toward them, and Derek instinctively stepped back, pulling Callan along with him.

  “That would be too easy,” Aegir continued, apparently oblivious to how the rest of the warriors tensed all around them, hands going to their weapons. “Your death would be redemption, not punishment. I want you to suffer. I want you to feel what’s it like to lose—”

  Without finishing the sentence, he charged at Derek. A long serrated blade flashed in his hand, and time slowed even when everything seemed to happen at once. Callan lunged in front of him, moving like a shadow, but Aegir sidestepped him and ducked, angling the knife at Derek’s ribs. Derek recoiled, stumbling backward, and collided with a hard body behind him. That someone grabbed him by the forearm and yanked him out of the way, sending him crashing into Callan. They both tumbled hard with the impact, sprawling on top of each other on the sand.

  His own shocked face reflected in Callan’s wide eyes. Derek rolled away just in time to see Aegir and Bergen locked in a deadly embrace. The knife that was meant for Derek had gone into the duke’s abdomen all the way
to its bone handle. Bergen stumbled and went down on one knee, his hand still gripping the hilt of the sword that jutted out of Aegir’s back. For a split second everything froze. Then Aegir made an awful gurgling sound and crumpled to the ground.

  Shouting erupted all around them, punctuated by the clamor of weapons being drawn. Callan scrambled to his feet, standing above the two fallen men, his arms extended to the sides as if he could keep the two warring sides at bay by sheer force of will.

  “No, stop! Stop!” he bellowed.

  A bolt of lightning speared the sky and hit the beach about half a mile to the north, followed by a roll of thunder. Derek didn’t know if it was a coincidence, or if Callan drew on his magic again, or if this was Logitt’s doing, but either way, it worked. Everyone ducked instinctively, cowering from the stroke of blinding brightness just before steel could meet flesh.

  Derek crawled toward the duke, the rush of blood in his ears as deafening as the thunder. His hands shook as he half lifted the older man’s shoulders. He spared a glance at Aegir, but his body, slumped over the duke’s leg, was immobile.

  Blood trickled down Bergen’s chin, but he was awake, his breath coming in loud rasps. His bony fingers closed around Derek’s wrists, digging in painfully.

  “You saved my life,” Derek whispered. “Why?”

  Bergen closed his eyes briefly, but his gaze, when he opened them again, was steady.

  “Couldn’t let Aegir…hurt my son. He loves you…too much.”

  Derek swallowed hard, his mind racing. The din of raised voices and Callan’s angry shouts as he desperately tried to stave off the impeding battle drifted in the background while Derek frantically searched for a response. But before he could say anything, one of the duke’s lieutenants, Xarin, crouched beside them.

  “My lord?”

  Bergen’s grip on Derek’s hand tightened further as he pulled himself into a sitting position, grunting with pain. His forehead shone with sweat, despite the cold.

  “Please, don’t—” Derek began, but Bergen silenced him with an impatient glare and turned to Xarin.

  “Stand…down. All of you, now.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I said, stand down!”

  Xarin’s mouth tightened, but he nodded and sprang to his feet, calling out the order. Derek thought he could hear the Agiennan chieftain—the woman who’d spoken to them first—issue her own commands in a language he couldn’t understand, but he didn’t dare look up to see whether she was following Bergen’s suit or not. His hand hovered above the handle of the knife, which glistened with blood, but the duke shook his head.

  “Don’t.” He was pushing the words out now, each followed by a wheezing sound. “It’s over.”

  “Father, no.” Callan lowered himself beside them. Derek started to rise to give them a moment of privacy which he knew would be their last, but Bergen held on to him, so he had no choice but to stay in place. “I’ll summon the physician.”

  “Too late…for that. I’ve been in your way…long enough, Callan. The Unnamed has had her sacrifice. It’s time…for the young blood to lead the way. To leave…the wounds of the past behind.” Bergen looked at Derek. “And you…promise me…you’ll make my son happy.”

  “I promise,” Derek said around the lump in his throat. “I will.”

  Bergen’s eyes rolled back. The grip on Derek’s wrist slackened. A shudder went through the duke’s body, and then he was still.

  “Father!” Callan shook Bergen’s shoulders, but it was clear no answer would be forthcoming. The expression on his face was one that Derek knew only too well, one he’d hoped never to see again—stricken and lost, his cheeks streaked with tears and rain. Derek reached out to him, his own breath catching with resurfacing grief, but Callan wheeled around as a stooped, dark figure approached them.

  “You. Do something! Help him!”

  Logitt shook her head. Her gaze traveled from Bergen’s face to Aegir’s lifeless form, the tip of the duke’s sword protruding out of his back at an awkward angle. Derek knew he didn’t imagine the flicker of sorrow in her eyes.

  “No magic can cure death,” she said. “Be at peace. They died like just as they wanted; now you have to live the same way.”

  She turned away and hobbled back down the shore toward the ships. The crowd of Agiennan warriors, held back by their chieftains, parted before her and closed in her wake until she was out of sight.

  “I’m sorry,” Derek said, biting his lip. Considering Duke Bergen had caused Count Johan’s demise, perhaps Derek playing an inadvertent part in his death served some kind of poetic, fated justice, but the notion brought no solace, only more heartache. “Callan, I’m so sorry.”

  Callan’s exhale sounded more like a sob, but he shook his head jerkily.

  “It’s not your fault. He did what he believed was right. That’s what we all hope to do, in the end.”

  He got up and helped Derek to his feet. They were standing on a narrow strip of sand between two tidal waves of tightly pressed human bodies, ready to crash into each other. Shouts and angry murmurs sounded on both sides but subsided when Callan addressed the Agiennan leaders again.

  “This changes nothing. My offer to you still stands.”

  “You will let your father go unavenged?” the older chieftain asked. He leaned on the long handle of his battle-ax, but his posture betrayed no frailty. “Then you’re either a coward or a saint.”

  “I’m neither,” Callan said. “The one responsible for his death is with the Unnamed now. The blood spilled tonight was enough to quench my thirst for revenge, should I have wished for it.”

  The raw pain Derek had witnessed a few moments before had been wiped clean from Callan’s face, replaced by his usual mask of calm iciness. The burden of responsibilities suffered no reprieve, however deep the grief. It was a lesson Derek had hoped Callan wouldn’t have to learn for a long time yet, but fate was as impatient as it was cruel. Derek wanted nothing more than to hold his husband’s hand and offer him comfort, but this was neither the time nor the place for gentleness.

  “We are neighbors,” Callan continued. “I was told we are brothers. Brothers sometimes fight and do awful things to each other, but they cannot escape the bond of blood. Let it be something that unites us rather than tears us apart.”

  “We hear you, son of Bergen,” the tall woman said, once again hushing the men behind her. “I’m Gunnara, chieftain of the Herig clan. Aegir was my uncle, and since he had no direct heirs, I now speak for the Danulf as well, until the Council of the Chieftains chooses a new leader. Call your men off. We shall discuss your proposal and give our answer in the morning.”

  “Give me your word that you will not wage an attack until you give me your decision, face-to-face.”

  Gunnara nodded. “I swear it. There will be no more killing tonight.”

  “It’s a trick.” Xarin spoke up once Gunnara and the rest of the Agiennans who followed her were safely out of earshot, gathered by their ships. “They will betray your trust if you’re not careful, my lord.” Glancing down at the tangle of bodies behind them, he amended, “Your Grace.”

  “Perhaps. But I’m willing to take that chance.” Unlike Xarin, Callan didn’t look back, but his hand sought out Derek’s, their fingers lacing together, sharing a spark of warmth despite the clamminess of their skin. Derek squeezed his husband’s hand, hoping to convey through the brief touch everything he couldn’t put into words.

  “Set up camp for the night. Arrange for my father to be taken back to Irthorg and surrender the Danulf chieftain’s body to his kin.” Callan raised his face up to the sky. The moon shone brightly, gilding a path on the water for a few brief moments before the clouds shrouded it again. “Tomorrow we’ll see how the dice fall.”

  Chapter Twenty

  THE NIGHT STRETCHED on and on, seemingly reluctant to end and leave him in peace. Contrary to what his father’s lieutenants might have thought, Callan wasn’t entirely comfortable with the immediate
proximity of a potentially still-hostile army right on his doorstep. He went about allotting patrols and scouts that would range all the way to the fishing villages along the bay, to make sure their dwellers were undisturbed, and arranged for a messenger to be dispatched to Irthorg with the grim news.

  He hated not to be the one to inform Adele of what had happened or be there for her during that outburst of initial shock, but at least it would prepare her for the inevitable before the cortege with the duke’s remains arrived at the castle. For all her delicacy, Adele was a strong soul, maybe much more so than him. But everyone deserved to have a shoulder to cry on when they were notified of their parent’s death.

  The thought reminded him of Derek—the tenderness of his touch, the softness of his voice, the sharpness of his gaze. The memory of Derek’s hand in his, that small solace amid strife, filled his already battered heart with bittersweet longing. Callan wanted nothing more than to hold him in his arms again and be held back as he allowed himself to give in to his misery, even if it was only for a short while.

  But he hadn’t seen Derek since they’d broke off with the Agiennans on the beach. They’d made their camp in a field close to the main road, high enough above the shoreline to have a vantage point to the moored Agiennan ships. Having come prepared to engage in battle rather than spend the night, the troops had no tents, so most of them huddled around campfires, keeping an uneasy watch on similar fires that had sprung up at the water’s edge. Rest seemed a lifetime away at this point.

  Cold, tired, and soaking wet, Callan had finished making a final round, inspecting the perimeter of the camp, when a hooded figure stepped in front of him from behind the line of tethered horses. Callan reached for his sword, but the newcomer threw his hood back, revealing a pale, youthful face.

  “Ivo.” Callan relaxed marginally, but the sight of Derek’s younger sibling did nothing to alleviate his mood. “What are you doing here?”