Astrid turned her head, fussed with the comb, so she could pretend she hadn’t seen it.
“Until later.” Dekla began walking away, but backwards, her eyes fixed on the comb. She unbalanced on the uneven ground of the field, and fell over with a shout.
That’s right. Astrid stood herself, shaking with rage, and walked away. This comb will trip you up.
Chapter Thirty-two
Dekla shuffled, uneasy now they were at Bjorn’s cell. Proof of her deceit lay just beyond the door, if Astrid was any judge.
She stood still and relaxed, watching the troll, her hand in her pocket. A reminder to Dekla of the precious thing within.
Dekla’s eyes followed a cliff spider scuttling down the corridor. “Keep silent. If someone realizes you are in the castle, I cannot protect you.”
Astrid lowered her gaze. “I’ll keep silent. I only cried last time because I was so disappointed.”
“I am sure you will not be disappointed this time.”
Astrid did not answer, but raised her eyebrows as she looked at Dekla. Saw the slyness in the set of her jaw, the way her eyes shifted over Astrid’s shoulder. She turned and slid the key into the lock.
“I’ll see you at dawn.” She edged the door open just enough for Astrid to slip through, then slammed it behind her.
Exactly as Astrid hoped she would.
She leant back against the rough wood a moment but she could sense Dekla on the other side, ear pressed to the lock.
Astrid shivered and stepped away, the door tainted by Dekla’s leaning presence. She took in the room in the fluttering candlelight; the glint of moisture off the walls, the gleam of black spider eyes in a corner.
Bjorn lying fast asleep.
She had known he would be. Had been certain of it. And yet, one tiny part of her must have hoped otherwise. Because suddenly she wept. Heart wrenching sobs that tore from her chest.
She walked to Bjorn’s bed, clambered over him and lay squashed against him and the wall, holding on to him as if he were a life raft in the sea of her tears.
She heard the sharp, ringing steps of Dekla walking away, no doubt satisfied that the little village girl had been disappointed once again. The thought helped calm her.
She hadn’t lost.
She and Dekla had tied this round, and she intended to win the last one.
She sat up, eased herself off the bed and took the piece of charcoal from her pocket. Lifted the candle, wobbly in its holder, and looked for a place to leave her message.
The walls all seemed too dark, too damp, but she tried a few strokes. Writing black on black was not going to work. She turned to the door, but the wood was blackened as well, and just as useless.
Her eye fell on the dull grey wood of the table, a surface both light enough and dry enough to leave her message. She kept it short and could only hope Dekla did not notice it.
Then she took the little wooden bear and placed it in Bjorn’s hand. Closed his fingers around it.
There was nothing more she could do except wait until morning, so she wriggled back between him and the wall, watching over him until the candle burnt out. Then lay with her head on his heart until morning.
* * *
He woke to the sight of Dekla’s back as she closed his cell door, a dripping cloth in her hand. Astrid’s scent seemed to cling to him, and though he hadn’t cried since he was a child, tears pricked the back of his eyes as he breathed in her fading perfume, fresh as sunshine.
He noticed water dripping from his table to the floor, and remembered the wet rag in Dekla’s hand. He frowned, struggled up, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. She wouldn’t have been cleaning it, surely?
He took the single step necessary to reach the table, and saw that far from cleaning the table, Dekla seemed to have rubbed black soot into it.
He sat back down on the bed, holding his pounding head with both hands, wondering what was wrong with him, and felt something hard digging into his thigh.
He patted the bed and his hand closed over a small wooden bear. It stood with head held high, sniffing the wind, all four paws solidly on the ground.
It was familiar. He rubbed his forehead, trying to place it.
And then a scene lit his mind.
Of a freezing night and a tearful goodbye. Astrid kissing each of her family in turn, and blinking with surprise as the one she expected the least from handed her a gift.
His fingers tightened like bands of steel around the precious thing.
He leapt up, no clear plan of action in mind, just needing to move, and then collapsed to his knees, a scream frozen in his throat as his mind frantically sought a way around the wooden bear. Around what it meant.
Norga had hunted Astrid down. Had probably started the morning she took him from the mountain.
And here was the fruit of her labor. A slyly left message that his lady was dead.
He opened his fist and examined the bear in the pale light seeping beneath the door.
If Norga thought this would break him, she was wrong.
It enraged him.
It stripped him of his obligations in this bargain. Stripped him almost of his humanity.
It made him want to kill.
He breathed—deep, uneven breaths—as he looked at the small thing lying gleaming on his open palm.
The sweet scent that had filled his nostrils earlier was gone. Instead he smelt the mold and must of his cell. The sharp evil stink of sweat and troll from the filthy sheets. The sour tang of crushed cliff spiders.
Norga thought to chain him to her with this bear. Instead she’d unleashed the bear in her own castle. Stripped of his magic and power, he could still teach her he was a force to be reckoned with, even if it meant using his bare hands.
He struggled to his feet, and walked to the locked door. Stood looking at it, his rage building in him until he could contain it no longer. He punched out with his free hand so hard the wood cracked like a tree in deep snow. A thin sliver of a gap appeared, a salve to the pain.
He felt an icy draft blow through it, sharp as a blade.
It blew in his face, reminding him of how the wind always seemed to hound him when he was with Astrid. Unfriendly as an older brother with their sister’s lover.
He held his fist, knuckles dripping blood, up to the crack and the cold stream of air seemed to sooth them.
Not like with Astrid, then.
Now that she was gone . . .
He collapsed against the door, slid to the floor and threw back his head to howl in anguish.
“You make a better bear than you do a wolf, Mountain Prince.”
Bjorn’s howl died in his throat as the whisper chilled his ear.
“Who . . .”
A shape rose like mist off an ice-covered lake. A man his own size wavered into being. Wispy clouds formed a strong face and he stared into cruel, hawk-like eyes.
Unfriendly, and yet, not threatening.
“Who are you?” Bjorn kept his words to a whisper.
“The North Wind.”
There was nothing to say to that. Bjorn stared at him in amazement.
“I serve the Wind Hag.”
Bjorn thought of how the wind obeyed Astrid, how Jorgen had said the Wind Hag must have given it leave to serve her, and knew with gut-wrenching certainty why this emissary was here.
“Norga has already given me proof of her death,” he said bitterly. He lifted up the little bear.
“You are mistaken.” The North Wind sunk to the floor, and Bjorn thought he looked weary. Barely able to talk. “My mistress has spent the last two nights weeping at your side while you slept. It was she who left you the bear.”
The air became even colder, and Bjorn’s breath came out in puffs.
“Why would the Wind Hag come here? And if she has done as you say, how did I not know it?” He shook his head. “And how does she come to have this bear?”
The North Wind sunk lower. “Do not touch your food and drink today.”
He began to fade away, but on the last wisp of icy air he whispered, “Remember this favor I have done you when you are free, Mountain Prince. Remember it well.”
* * *
Astrid did not know how long she sat on the beach, staring at the sea.
Too long.
Dekla had seen her message. She’d glanced too often at the table for there to be any doubt, and there had been fury in her eyes. She’d said nothing, though. Pretended all was well. And Astrid knew the moment she was out the castle, Dekla would go back and scrub it all away.
She’d been cautious, at least. She hadn’t said who she was, just told Bjorn not to drink or eat the food that day. That he was being drugged. But that was all for nothing.
Which left only the bear.
And perhaps Dekla would discover that, too.
She rocked a little on the uneven pebbles of the beach, ignoring the cold and the stink of rotting kelp. A local village girl would not be giving carved bears to the Bear Prince. If Dekla found it, Astrid was no longer safe with the troll. Her secret was out.
Dekla would delight in showing no mercy.
In bringing her like a prize to her mother.
“I’m going to meet Dekla again.” She stood, feeling truly like a hag; old, bent and stiff. Weighed down. She glanced at North, and started when she saw he wasn’t there.
He’d been lying on his rock when she’d come down from the castle, the knowledge that her message was in vain hollowing her out. Her clever plan had failed, and Bjorn would be drugged again, if Dekla even agreed to one last bargain.
North had asked her what was wrong and she remembered trying to explain, her words slowly dying in her throat as she battled her pain. As she retreated deep into herself to look for strength.
He was a silent but comforting presence. Or so she thought.
She stared at his rock, a terrible, growing fear blossoming within that he’d somehow . . . expired. That carrying her all this way had been too much.
“North?” she called in a whisper, although in her heart it was a shriek, a throat-wrenching scream.
A breath of wind eddied around her feet. And she felt a chill down her spine.
Wind? In this place?
“I wanted to test my strength.”
“North?” She turned and found him standing behind her, upright for the first time since they’d arrived, his hawk-face etched deep with exhaustion. She held out her arms and stepped up to him, felt the strange wonder of hugging the wind. All quick air—cold and concentrated as a gale through the cracks in a glacier. She shivered.
“Rest. I need to get to the meadow before I miss Dekla.”
“Even though she’s destroyed your message and the Mountain Prince may sleep through the night?”
“I have no choice. I can only hope the bear is enough.”
“Perhaps it is,” North murmured as she slipped the flute out of the sack and into her pocket, and somehow, his words comforted her. Gave her strength all the way along the bottom of the cliffs, and helped her climb the steep rocks beside the waterfall.
Every step she took shook loose a shower of sparks within her.
She would never give up.
She chanted it in her head, every time she put her foot down. Her steps became quicker and quicker. She was running by the time she reached the meadow, her feet beating in time with her determination. No matter how slim the chance, she would take it.
She threw herself to the ground in the field and pulled out the flute, perspiration sliding through her hair and down her back, making her shiver as it cooled in the chill air.
She was breathing in gasps, and thought only to sound a whistle with the delicate instrument. But instead, her first blast of breath produced a mournful melody that seemed to wind itself around her. Glittering gold in the still air.
She blew again, more carefully this time. High notes, piercing and pure, wove around her head, touching something deep inside with its loveliness.
She got to her feet before she blew again. It seemed . . . disrespectful to play the flute sitting down. And when she did start playing, everything faded away. The world consisted only of her, the music, and the beautiful instrument in her hand.
When the last note sparkled away to nothing, she had to pull herself back to the meadow, to the now, as if waking from a deep sleep.
Dekla stood right before her, dark and looming as her mother’s castle, and Astrid leapt back, her jerk of fear hardening the troll’s expression.
“Very beautiful.” The princess held out her hand, as if to examine the flute, and Astrid flexed her knees, ready to run. She could not give this to the troll. It was against the fabric of nature itself.
“Just to look,” Dekla said, half-pleading, and Astrid shook her head. She clutched the flute to her chest and forced her feet to stay still.
She must not run. She needed to deal with Dekla again. It was her last chance.
“Same bargain as before?” Dekla’s lying eyes shifted left as she spoke, and Astrid wanted to launch herself at the troll. For once, it was her fingers that twitched in their desire to do violence.
“I don’t get anything out of the bargains, so no.” Astrid had meant to sound unsure, but with the flute in her hand, her words held an ominous ring of finality. She made a show of putting it back in her pocket, her hands shaking. What had she done?
“If the prince pretends to sleep through your visits, it is nothing to do with me.” Dekla sneered, contemptuous.
“He does not pretend. It is no natural sleep he sleeps.”
“Do you call me a cheat, peasant?”
Even with the flute out of her hands and in her pocket, Astrid still stood longer than was wise, longer than was acceptable, thinking about her answer.
Too long.
Dekla moved her arm across her body, lifted it high and lashed out for a backhanded blow.
Winning was getting Bjorn, Astrid reminded herself, as Dekla’s blow caught the top of her head as she ducked, throwing her back into the grass.
The pain in her head exploded across her eyes and her ears, for a moment making her blind and deaf, and she did not get up. She lifted a shaking hand to the lump, and winced as she felt the swelling.
Winning was walking out of here with Norga defeated.
Her pride. Her sense of outrage. They had no place here.
Slowly, feeling like a bent crone, she picked herself up, and stood with her head resting in her hands.
“I do not call you a cheat, Princess.” Her voice came out faint, and she felt lightheaded. “But I have lost two precious things for no gain. Many would say I was beyond foolish to throw away the best of my possessions in the same way.”
The troll princess lowered her fists. “I cannot promise you he won’t be asleep again.”
Of course not, as promises were binding, even for trolls, and Dekla intended to drug Bjorn again. Astrid gave a stumbling curtsey.
“I will be very disappointed if he is.” She lifted her head and put her hand in her pocket, caressed the flute.
Dekla’s eyes twitched as they followed the movement of her arm.
“Perhaps he will be recovered from whatever afflicts him, but whether he is or not, tonight is your last chance.” Dekla gave a bitter smile. “I’m marrying him tomorrow, and when I do, there will be no more bargains.”
“I will try one last time then.” Astrid curtsied again, and as she watched Dekla walk away, her hand crept up to fist over her heart. She knocked once in silent promise.
She would go to the castle tonight, and she would give up the flute. She would trust this was not a trap, that Dekla hadn’t found the bear.
Because no matter how small the chance, she was willing to risk everything.
Chapter Thirty-three
Bjorn lay, back turned to the door of his cell, and heard the slap of Dekla’s feet on the stone floor of the passage. The door creaked open, but Dekla did not even walk over to examine him.
Things looked as she
expected them to.
Her grunt of satisfaction made him grit his teeth, furious that this had happened two nights in a row and he’d been none the wiser.
Her steps receded, echoing in the stone passageways.
Where was she going?
While he waited, Bjorn’s heart beat in time with the water dripping from his ceiling. It calmed him, helped him release his anger and relax.
Time seemed to stretch out, and he couldn’t say how much time had passed when she returned. There was a second set of footsteps with her, tense and hurried, and his scalp prickled with anticipation.
The Wind Hag?
Why else would the North Wind warn him against eating or drinking tonight, if his mistress did not intend to return?
“Remember, no noise,” he heard Dekla whisper as the door opened again. It closed quickly and the lock turned.
Someone stood behind him, trapped with him in the cell. He could hear breathing, short, sharp gasps as if the visitor were frightened or panicked. Not what he expected from the Wind Hag.
“No.”
The whisper chilled him, sent a shiver down his spine he had to fight to suppress. It was the sound of a heart breaking, and he rose up on his elbows and turned to see.
He looked at the bowed head of the woman weeping silently on her knees before him.
A roaring filled his ears.
“Astrid?”
He whispered her name so quietly, he was sure she could not have heard him, but her crying cut off and she raised her head, her eyes wide.
Shock ran through him, a lightning strike, freezing him in place.
It was Astrid, and yet, it was not.
The eyes of the woman before him were those of someone powerful. Someone who had struggled and faced death and dared. He blinked.
She stared back, and unease scuttled down his spine like a cliff spider.
What did she see in the depth of his eyes? A broken man? A defeated, powerless prince who had nothing left to give?
But her expression lit up with joy, not sadness or pity.
Her delight galvanized him. He stood, swept her up, held her, his hands smoothing down her shoulders, down her back, marveling at the feel of her in his arms again. She smelled of the sea, of outside air. Precious commodities in here.
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