The Tempering of Men by Elizabeth Bear & Sarah Monette

Author:Elizabeth Bear & Sarah Monette [Bear, Elizabeth & Monette, Sarah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

While the sun set, the Rheans built a pyre. There was no sign of Lucius or the centurion he had gone to fetch; Skjaldwulf guessed unhappily that the centurion had decided to take a more aggressive approach to his blindness rather than make any effort to disrupt Sixtus’ plans.

Skjaldwulf could not count on anyone putting a stop to this madness, then. There was no telling when Tribune Iunarius might return, and Skjaldwulf did not want to be a greasy pile of ashes and bones when he did. Otter might help him—and then again, she might not.

Pack, said Mar.

We don’t know where they are, Skjaldwulf said.

Pack, Mar said patiently, and showed Skjaldwulf: Ingrun, Kothran, Afi, and Dyrver, with their brothers warm shadows beyond them. They were not far away, and they were quick to answer Mar. Skjaldwulf could not follow much of the conversation that followed, if conversation it could be called. Wolves did not use words, and the flickering mix of images and scents was confusing to anyone who did. But he understood that their small threat was moving toward them. If he could free Mar, at least they would have a target to flee toward.

And it was not that he could not free Mar, merely that he could not do so unobserved. Perhaps as it grows darker, he thought, knowing that a misjudgment would mean both their deaths.

He waited, watching the competence and precision with which the Rheans toiled. They’d done this before, and he wondered if they often burned witches, wondered if many Brythoni had been burned for not being what the Rheans expected. A thousand leagues, Iunarius had said. Skjaldwulf couldn’t imagine a distance that great, much less the different peoples who might live within its span. He wanted to tell the Rheans that burning was the wrong answer, but he thought of Iunarius and Lucius and knew that many of them knew that already. A jarl should not be ruled by villagers, and Skjaldwulf thought it would be a terrible pity to die just to prove that hoary truth one time more.

As he was starting to wonder if the shadows might not be deep enough to hide his movements, a Rhean bearing a torch came to stand just outside the limit of Mar’s chain. His face was stony, his eyes hard; even if Skjaldwulf had spoken the Rheans’ tongue, he would not have been able to reach this one. Mar whined.

Easy, brother. We aren’t defeated yet.

Skjaldwulf could feel Kothran most easily, of the other wolves, for reasons he doubted would ever make sense but had something to do with Viradechtis. Kothran’s thoughts were bright, clear, and fast-moving; the wolves’ name for him was the smell of a wet spring morning, the rich green liveliness of the world waking up. Through Mar, Kothran showed Skjaldwulf the wolves and their brothers approaching the Rhean camp from the south; they had made a wide, cautious circle during the day, while Skjaldwulf and Mar sat chained at the base of this tree.

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