The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  “I wanted to speak with you.”

  “With me? Where’s your brother?”

  The inquiry came out harsher than he’d intended, and Ivo raised an eyebrow at his tone. The drizzling rain plastered his usually wavy hair to his head, and he was shivering despite his thick wool cloak with its goldwork collar, but neither his voice nor his expression had lost any of their ingrained cynicism.

  “Which one? Macon is probably asleep in our camp, and by all accounts, you should have much better knowledge of Derek’s whereabouts than I.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the one married to him, aren’t you? Against his will, I might add.” Ivo’s fingers clutched the edge of his cloak tightly, but his gaze, directed straight into Callan’s eyes, was unwavering.

  “I never forced him. Into anything.”

  “Maybe not. But your father did. Pushing for this marriage and this ridiculous agreement only to use my brother as a sacrifice for his schemes. Arranging for him to be kidnapped and killed to stoke the fires of his revenge. Derek told me everything just now,” Ivo added, probably reading Callan’s expression correctly. “I knew it was a mistake from the very beginning. I tried to warn him. But he’s always been too high-minded for his own good.”

  “Unlike you?” Callan said before he could stop himself. He didn’t know where Ivo was headed with this conversation, but he had no patience to continue it.

  “Unlike me,” Ivo agreed easily. “But very much like you. You too have a very similar sense of what is right and proper. And that’s why I’m sure you will do the honorable thing.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Letting him go.” Ivo raised his hand before Callan had the chance to scoff at him. “Hear me out. You know Derek was practically coerced into this marriage. We’ve drafted a petition for the High Queen to annul it.”

  Callan’s stomach lurched. “We?”

  “My family. Derek included. Look,” Ivo said, taking another step toward him. “I know you and he have shared…something. But you cannot expect him to stay with you now. Not after what the duke did—and not after what you’ve revealed yourself to be.”

  Callan went very still, his throat so dry he couldn’t form coherent words. It was as if for a moment he forgot how to breathe. A dull ache spread in his chest, a hopeless anticipation of loss.

  That was exactly what he’d always been afraid of. He could endure the personal repercussions of exposure; he was no stranger to acrid whispers and judging glances, and he cared little for what others thought of his character. But no one else around him deserved to be ostracized for Callan’s sins—or what society perceived as sin.

  “You’re a witch, Callan,” Ivo said into his silence. “Which may be fine for the Outer Isles, but witchcraft is a dangerous thing to be accused of in Ivicia. Once the Queen hears of it, she won’t hesitate to dissolve this marriage—and do much more besides.”

  “Is that a threat?” Callan found his voice again, but it sounded hollow rather than infuriated.

  “All I’m saying is you should release him before someone else does it for you,” Ivo said.

  “What if ‘he’ doesn’t want to be released?” Derek stepped up to them from the shadows. The horse closest to them in the line snorted and tossed its head, spooked by the sudden movement.

  Callan’s heart leapt before he could stomp down on the surge of irrational hope.

  “What do you think you’re doing here, Ivo?” Derek said, rounding on his brother.

  “What you should have done a long time ago.” Ivo raised his head defiantly. “Mulberny has been our enemy all along. It’s high time to disassociate yourself from this wretched fiefdom.”

  “Whether or not I should is not your decision to make,” Derek said.

  Callan had never heard him use that kind of tone before. He was, of course, aware of his husband’s title, but he hadn’t actually thought of him as a count until now. Now, he could well imagine him issuing commands or conducting hard negotiations in that voice. It certainly made Ivo shift uncomfortably.

  He recalled Logitt’s earlier words. It would seem “the Witch of Irthorg” wasn’t the only one coming into his own. The Sparrow of Camria was showing he had talons too.

  “I care about you. I care about our family. I’m only trying to help,” Ivo said.

  “If this is your idea of help, then I don’t want it.” Derek turned to Callan, his eyes bright in the faint, distant glow of the campfires. “I did plan to ask for an annulment. But it was before I got to know you. Before I fell in love with you. I want to be with you, now and always, whatever the future brings. The question is…do you want that too?”

  Callan crossed the short distance between them. They were standing so close Callan felt Derek’s breath on his skin, coming out in small white puffs, instantly dissipated by the falling rain. He smelled the moisture in his hair, almost heard the blood rushing in his veins.

  “You already know the answer,” Callan said. “I do.”

  “I’M SORRY ABOUT that,” Derek said once they escorted Ivo back to the Camrian side of the makeshift camp. Macon was already asleep, but Hamlin kept watch by a fire and nodded when Derek ordered him not to lose sight of his brothers.

  “Your brother was just trying to protect you,” Callan said. “And he wasn’t wrong. When the word reaches the High Court that I’m a witch—”

  “We’ll worry about that when it happens,” Derek said firmly. He took Callan’s hand and led him away from the edge of the camp. “It’s all a terribly stupid superstition anyway. Magic is not evil in itself; what matters is how you apply it. You have done nothing but try to do right by everyone, friend or foe. Maybe it’s time for people in this realm to confront their prejudices and bigotry.”

  Callan couldn’t help but smile.

  “You always know what to say. Aren’t you a bit too young to be so wise?” he teased gently. The bitterness of unshed tears still burned at the back of his throat, but now, with Derek walking by his side, their hands tightly clasped together, he could breathe through it.

  Derek was silent for a few moments. The night closed around them as they walked farther away from the light of the campfires.

  “I’ve never thought about myself as wise,” he said finally. “And neither did anyone else.”

  “I think so,” Callan said, squeezing his hand. “I think you’re smart, and brave, and selfless. I think I’m lucky to have you in my life.”

  “My only regret is that our marriage was possible because your first one had ended,” Derek said softly. “That my happiness came at the expense of someone else’s.”

  Not so long ago the mere mention of Idona would have felt like a stab to the heart, but now, it only brought forth a kind of quiet sadness. Perhaps somewhere amid Callan’s attempts to make peace with the world he’d made peace with himself, too, putting some of the old pain to rest.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “You didn’t take her away from me. In fact, you came along when I needed it the most. And I think…she would have liked you. I have to believe she would wish this—us—for me.”

  Derek squeezed his hand.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Where are we going?” Callan asked after a few more minutes of trudging through wet, windswept grassland.

  “Remember when we talked about slipping into the woods alone, just you and me?”

  Callan stopped. “I don’t…I can’t do this tonight. Not when my father—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Derek said gently. “But it seems to me we both need a few minutes to ourselves. We might not get them again for a very long time.”

  They proceeded to a tiny copse just by the side of the main road. It wasn’t a wood by any means, only about a dozen trees, their trunks gnarled and bent by the strong winds. The fires of both camps flickered in the distance like tiny dots, separated by a dark swath of sloping beach, and farther away the lights of the fishi
ng villages grew fewer as the night waned. From there they couldn’t hear the whinnying of the horses, or the rasp of blades being sharpened, only the rustling of grass and creaking of the tree branches. If it weren’t for the freezing cold seeping under their soaked clothes and chilling them to the bone, it’d be almost peaceful there, now that the storm had passed.

  It was too wet to sit comfortably on the ground, so they stood, leaning against one of the thicker trees, looking down at the shoreline, distinguishable only by the reflection of the moon on the water.

  Derek snuggled closer, and Callan threw his arm around his shoulders, pressing against him.

  “We can’t stay here for long,” Callan said, even as he wished for the opposite.

  “I know.” Derek shifted, putting his head on Callan’s shoulder. “Do you think they’ll take you up on your offer?”

  “It could go either way. Aegir’s death certainly made a mess of things.”

  Derek scoffed. “You mean Aegir made a mess of things. That was madness. What was he trying to accomplish?”

  “It was a desperate last act.” Callan closed his eyes briefly, letting the salty breeze wash over his face. “An effort to stop his world from changing as much as it was an attempt to mete his final revenge on me. For what it’s worth, this is not the end I’d wish for him.”

  “He was your enemy.”

  “He was a bereft father. I think we can all understand how devastating grief can be.”

  “Yes.” Derek’s breath was tickling the lobe of his ear. “All too well. If you let it fester, it becomes poison, a fire that has to be fed with other lives, other dreams. It will consume you and everyone around you. You made the right choice down there, letting go of the anger.”

  Callan swallowed. His father’s face surfaced in his mind, haggard with strain and agony. Children losing their parents was the way of the world, but he hadn’t been ready for that at all. Whatever disagreements they might have gotten into, whatever sacrifices Callan had to make to appease Bergen’s ambitions, whatever unspoken things had passed between them, Callan had always known he was loved—and had loved his father in return.

  Tears burned his eyes, and this time, he didn’t hold them back.

  “He’s really gone,” he said, his voice thick. “It’s so… I can’t grasp it. He’s always been there for me, and somehow I believed he always would be. Immutable, like a rock.”

  Like the cliffs of Irthorg that withstood the fury of the sea year after year, generation after generation. It was a silly, childish notion to entertain in a family that’d seen its fair share of death and suffering, but Bergen had been one to defy the odds until the very end.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But you’re also right. I’ve had enough of anger,” Callan said, closing his eyes against the blur of tears. “I can’t let it take up all the space inside me anymore. I have something else with which to fill it now.” He turned his head, making Derek draw back and look up at him. “I love you, Derek. So much.”

  “I love you too,” Derek said softly. His eyes shone in the moonlight, their color hidden by the darkness but their keen intelligence and loveliness impossible to disguise. “My beautiful, feral wolf.”

  “My fearless sparrow,” Callan whispered and leaned in to taste the salt on Derek’s lips.

  THE DARKNESS AROUND them slowly faded to gray as they made their way down to the camp. With morning still a long way off, not even the chirping of birds broke the silence, but most of the men were already up, tending to the horses and heating up quick breakfasts.

  “What a long night this has been,” Derek said, looking up at the sky. Wet earth squelched under the soles of his boots. Even his gait felt weary. “But I’m not sure I want it to be over.”

  “Remember that first night on Cirda?” Callan asked. “I was sure I was going to die in the morning, my heart and lungs ripped out of me.”

  Derek shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”

  Callan stopped, making Derek turn and look at him.

  “But you came for me, and we lived through it. We lived through the next one, too, and the next. I can’t promise you we’ll live to see this dawn, but I have a hunch we’ll pull through once again.”

  Derek smiled. “A witch’s precognition?”

  Deep shadows lurked under his eyes, his jaw sporting a hint of stubble. Callan was sure he presented an even worse sight, drained as he was first by the mental effort of contacting the Agiennans on the high seas, and then by the horrible shock of watching his father draw his last breath, but Derek didn’t seem to mind.

  “More like a foolish hope,” Callan said. “Don’t they say it’s always the last to die?”

  One of the watchers saluted them as they approached.

  “My lords,” she said. “Commander Rema was searching for you not a moment ago. They said it was urgent.”

  Callan and Derek exchanged a look and hurried to the temporary headquarters—which was no more than a sheet of waxed canvas stretched over high poles as a shelter from the rain.

  Rema was already there, as well as several of Bergen’s lieutenants, save Xarin, who’d departed to Irthorg with the duke’s body earlier. Fully armed and geared, they were drawing lines in the damp sand, arguing about something, but all hushed and bowed when Callan entered the “tent” with Derek on his heels.

  “Your Grace,” Rema said with noticeable relief. “The Islanders are stirring.”

  All traces of fatigue drained from Callan’s mind. Derek’s sharp intake of breath indicated he was on alert too.

  “Stirring how?” Callan asked, taking a mental stock and readying himself for impending combat. “Are they moving on the offense?”

  “Too soon to tell,” one of the older warriors said. “But if I were them, I wouldn’t wait till dawn to strike a sleeping enemy.”

  Callan tended to agree with him. The Agiennans may have given him his word, but he knew as well as anyone that oaths had little to do with strategy. The fact that they hadn’t yet attacked the Mulbernian camp was a good sign.

  “Rouse the troops, but have them hold positions,” he said. “No one does anything without my direct order.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “You should probably send your brothers back to Irthorg for now,” Callan said, turning to Derek. “It would’ve been better if they’d never come, or left last night, but I admit I was too preoccupied to consider their safety. This might turn ugly, and I don’t want them caught up in the melee.”

  “They’re here for me.”

  “I know. But if things go awry, I’d rather not lose any more family members.”

  Derek pursed his lips but nodded in assent. Callan opened his mouth to summon a messenger but was stopped by a soldier ducking under the sagging canvas roof.

  “My lords,” they said, a little out of breath, and bowed when they saw Callan. “The Agiennan envoy wishes to enter the camp.”

  Callan and Derek exchanged a look again.

  “Escort them here,” Callan ordered. “Allow them to keep their weapons.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise, Your Grace?” Rema asked.

  “I’ll risk it to respect their honor,” Callan said. “Show them in.”

  The soldier bowed again and left. Derek’s hand slid the length of Callan’s arm, but he said nothing. A few tense minutes passed in silence until several Agiennan chieftains entered the tent, escorted by half a dozen of the duke’s guards.

  If tensions were high before, now the air could practically be cut with a knife. The envoy only included four people—Gunnara of the Herig; the older chieftain with the snow-white braids, whom Callan recognized as Siggeir of the Vanir; and the leaders of the Sebald and Urfan clans.

  “I see you, elders,” Callan said in Agiennan.

  “We see you, Callan son of Bergen,” Gunnara said, switching to the common tongue. “We have come to accept your proposal.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Callan said.

  In truth, he wa
s struggling to hold his sigh of relief, as, he was sure, were all those present. Up until now, he hadn’t quite believed his wild gamble would pay off. He’d been let down by hope too many times to have any faith in it. But perhaps that wasn’t true anymore. Not when the most precious thing he could ever wish for was right there, within reach—and it wasn’t a new political alliance.

  “You’ve sacrificed your reputation and your blood for the chance of peace,” Gunnara said. In the faint light of the slowly rising autumn sun, the lines in her face were more pronounced, a testimony to her age and experience. “We trust you to uphold your end of the bargain. The raids will cease, as you requested.”

  Callan’s heart leapt at her words, but he’d had plenty of practice hiding his excitement when he had to.

  “What about the Vanir?” he asked. “They’re the ones who’ve been harrying us the most.”

  “I will vouch for the Vanir,” Siggeir said, “if you’ll vouch for Camria’s aid.”

  Callan nodded. “I will.”

  “We both will,” Derek said, coming to stand beside him. When the Agiennan elders’ eyes all turned on him, he didn’t flinch. His inflection was as soft as ever, but there was nothing soft about his demeanor as their gazes met in silent understanding—old enemies, new allies, joined with nothing more than good faith. Perhaps, in the end, it was all that was needed. “A word spoken cannot be undone.”

  Epilogue

  DEREK LAY ON the bed in a casual sprawl. He thought, lazily, that he should probably get up and clean himself, but he couldn’t be bothered, and there was something unexpectedly erotic in lingering in bed, the evidence of their mutual pleasure still clinging to their skin.

  Callan’s breath tickled his neck, and he turned his head to look at him. His husband’s face was more relaxed than he’d ever seen it, as if some of the perpetual tension he always bore had seeped away into the sweaty sheets. Derek smiled at the thought that he could do that, that he could ease Callan’s unseen burden, even for a little while. It felt almost better than the sex itself.

  “I’ve never had anyone boss me around so much in bed,” Callan said gravely, but laughter was sprinkled in his eyes. “And so early in the morning too.”