A Companion to Wolves by Elizabeth Bear Page A

and was thankful—beyond thankful—that his voice did not crack.
    Isolfr lay down for Hrolleif, and Hrolleif taught him carefully, patiently. Lying flat on his back, staring up at the
stars, Isolfr said, “They won’t all be as kind as you, will they?”
    â€œNo,” Hrolleif said, one hand stroking Isolfr’s sex, warm and callus-rough, while two fingers of the other, slick and burning, moved inside him, making him ready. “I will teach you how to prepare yourself before Viradechtis has an open mating. But, no, you may not be lucky in your wolfjarl at first.” Isolfr cried out, his hips bucking, as those fingers, relentless, found something inside him he had never imagined the existence of.
    â€œBut I will tell you something else,” Hrolleif said, and Isolfr could hear the warm, self-satisfied smile in his voice. “Wolfjarls can be taught.”
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    L ater, on his knees, his face pressed into the thick wolf-smelling blankets of their bedrolls, his fingers digging desperately into the earth beneath him, Isolfr learned that which his father had feared, learned what it was to submit to a man—and learned, hearing the rough cadence of Hrolleif’s breath, hearing his low, sweet moans as Isolfr moved against him, that he could take as well as give, that like the politics of the wolfthreat, this heady darkness was richer, earthier, more complicated than it seemed when you had not tasted it for yourself.
    He came for Hrolleif, and Hrolleif came for him.
    Afterwards, wrapped together in the sleeping roll, they heard Vigdis and Viradechtis return with their kill, felt their triumph. And moments later there was a rush of massive furry bodies, and the men were flanked by their sisters.
    Viradechtis licked Isolfr’s face carefully, snuffled in his ear. “Go to sleep, little sister,” he said, and Hrolleif said, his concern bright through the pack-sense, “Are you all right?”
    Isolfr considered. He was sore, but that was not what Hrolleif was asking. “I am … grateful. That it was you.” And then a sudden, horrifying thought, “Grimolfr isn’t going to kill me, is he?”

    Hrolleif laughed, a purring, delighted chuckle. “No. Grimolfr knew before we left.”
    â€œOh.”
    Hrolleif’s arm reached across, drawing Isolfr close, breath moving against his ear. “I know it is not easy, Isolfr. You need not fear that I will think you craven or … ‘womanish, ’ as you once said, if you are doubtful, or hurt. Or angry.”
    â€œI …” His throat was threatening to close; he swallowed hard. “I don’t want you to think you hurt me.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œBut …” He couldn’t explain, couldn’t find words that even got near the tangled lump of fear and sated pleasure and shame and delight, power and weakness, the terrible feeling of having come adrift from what he had been and not knowing how he was going to become what he had to be—for the wolfthreat, for the werthreat, for his family, for Viradechtis. One made choices in going to war, and sacrifices. Because one had to. Because the alternative was not to stand between Halfrid and Kathlin—and even his father, and Alfleda, and those who wouldn’t forgive his choice—and the cold north and the trolls.
    â€œNo one will force you to remain with the wolfheall, Isolfr,” Hrolleif said. “Though we will mourn you if you go, and none so more than Viradechtis. And I for one think she’s chosen well.”
    Hrolleif’s voice trailed off, embarrassed, and Isolfr realized that the wolfsprechend was babbling, trying to make things all right. Finally, Isolfr took pity on the man and answered, because there was nothing else he could say, “She’s worth it.”
    And Hrolleif said, “Yes,” and held him tight in the warm dark between wolves, until he