“Hakkinnen was a champion in the field,” Lemminkal mused. “They say in the village, he could get more harvested in a day than most men in two.”
“And well if the boy can. He can hire himself out to some of the other farmers in exchange for woodcutting and other work. As he grows into that scythe, the magic will fade, as it should. Eventually, the skill and strength will be all his.” Aleksia could hear the pride in the smith’s voice. And no wonder; that was a tricky bit of magic. It was one thing to put magic into an object. It was quite another to get it to recognize when it wasn’t needed anymore. “I learned my lesson with that damned hand-mill, brother. Never again will I make a thing that never fails, never fades. Bad enough that the hand-mill attracted the attention of half the black sorcerers in the North. Worse that it became a bone of contention that nearly destroyed a family. But worst of all—to keep it grinding what was asked of it nearly drained people to death!”
“That was a bad business,” Lemminkal agreed. “But you were young.”
Ilmari snorted. “And an idiot. Enough, I haven’t had my supper, and neither have you. Who brought us what today?”
There was no talk then, as the three men fell on their food like starving wolves, and with little more than grunts of satisfaction. And then, it seemed, they were minded to go straight to sleep. She broke her spell with a shrug. Perhaps something would turn up another day.
The deer were hitched and waiting, and Aleksia was dressed in her most impressive of Snow Queen gowns. She watched the preparations out of her window, readying the strongest of the All Paths Are One spell in her mind. She would otherwise have a very long way to go. And if only this was to be a pleasure trip! But alas…
This was a christening. She would be the only Godmother there. There was no reason for any evil Witches, wicked queens, dark Sorceresses to turn up, either. No, the reason she was going was an entirely ordinary one.
She was going to intimidate the stuffing out of King Bjorn of Eisland’s Court. And the King, too.
“All is in readiness, Godmother,” said the Brownie Rosemary from behind her. And with a sigh, Aleksia went out into the bitter air that was held away from her by a spell, and with her driver’s aid, stepped up and into her sleigh. As they drove out of her gates and over the pristine snowfields, she called up the spell she had ready. She had to wait until they were off the mountain and down among the trees for it to work, of course—you couldn’t have the spell without a path for it to work on. And every Godmother as far away as Elena would know she was using it, too—it was very powerful magic—to twist space—and that sort of thing echoed and echoed again for anyone with the talent to recognize it.
Which, now that she came to think of it, meant that this false Snow Queen was not using Godmotherly magics much. Aleksia would know if she was. Elena would know. And that, of course, was how Elena knew that it wasn’t Aleksia working mischief among the Sammi, for Aleksia hadn’t used this magic for herself in a very long time. Not since she last visited her sister. As for using it to further or thwart The Tradition, every time she did that she wrote it down in her Commonplace Book, and any Godmother who cared to could have a copy of that just by telling her library to get it.
Aleksia chuckled wryly to herself as the sleigh entered the forest and she let the spell run free before her. Trust, but verify. She had no doubt Elena was doing just that. Well, good. Someone needed to. Godmothers rarely went to the bad, but it wasn’t impossible, and Aleksia had very little peer supervision up here.
The journey was not instantaneous, so she had plenty of time to review everything she had done to get to the bottom of the mystery. If, indeed, there really was a mystery. She was beginning to doubt it. It was entirely possible that the Snow Queen had gotten the reputation as some sort of man-eating myth among the Sammi, and that what Elena had heard was nothing more than The Tradition putting force behind the myth. One day it might create a false Snow Queen—after enough people believed in the creature. But right now, it might well be only distorted echoes of her true deed coming back as some sort of hobgoblin tales.
Certainly there was no sign that the three Sammi magicians had heard anything about it, and they were the most likely to do so. It was clear from what she had seen and heard that people came to them from leagues and leagues around for the brothers to handle any magical difficulty, and Lemminkal was seizing on these pleas for help to further train his apprentice, Veikko. Already, since she had been eavesdropping on them, they had gotten rid of a troll, taken down a boar the size of a horse and gotten rid of a cursed talisman. If there had been a false Snow Queen out there stealing away young men, they would have heard about it by now. And they would have gone out to do something about it. Instead, they were doing what every other Sammi was doing at this moment—preparing for Winter.
She reluctantly concluded, as the sleigh came within sight of the King’s Palace, that she was wasting her time watching and listening to them. Reluctantly, because she was enjoying being the secret member of their household. Listening to them gave her a sense of camaraderie, as if she really was there in person. She liked them all, and despite his flaws—and there were many—she very much liked Ilmari. He had a good heart, and a care to the people who depended on him and his brother for protection. She wished he was a little less boastful and a great deal less lecherous, but he really did not have any malice in him, and when he cared to be, he was witty, amusing and altogether good company.
Still, the illusion that she was part of their circle was just that, an illusion, and since they had proved of no use to her, it was time to give over her watch on them and turn her attention to other sources of information.
Just as she came to that conclusion, the sleigh arrived at the main entrance to the Palace. She descended from her sleigh, the personification of icy dignity, and was met by an honor guard of four of the King’s personal bodyguards. They looked very festive in new red-wool uniforms, with the King’s arms embroidered across their tabards.
As she passed through the crowd, people pulled away to give her room to pass, conversations chilled and people avoided her icy glare. It was as she had thought. The King was up to no good.
Now, when The Tradition forced something upon someone, it was not always full of magic and wonder, and it was not always good. Often enough it could be as vicious and sordid as an evil stepmother wanting to be rid of her husband’s children so her own could take their place in his care and affections.
Now in this case, the King had wedded…imprudently. He had lusted over the daughter of one of his lesser nobles and she was important enough—or rather her family was—that marriage was the only way to have her. She adored him. He, once his lust had cooled, was weary of her. She had presented him with only this living daughter, and that only after much striving. So now the stage was set for tragedy on a Kingdom-wide scale if he could not rein in his lusts and at least—if he must take mistresses—take only those who would not also demand marriage.
Her mirror told her that there was one of those too-ambitious harpies waiting in the wings, hidden among the ladies-in-waiting for a chance to spring her honeyed trap and catch herself a King. And if she did…well, there were not many ways by which a King could be rid of an unwelcome spouse, particularly not when that spouse still loved him. All of those ways had consequences for the entire Kingdom. One of those was civil war.
Which was why Aleksia was here.
She waited impatiently through the ceremony, waited until The Traditional moment for the giving of gifts came, and stepped forward. Ruthlessly, she drew on her magic, creating an island of warmth and light about the Queen and the child, and sending waves of chill and little eddies of snowflakes everywhere else.
“Wisdom, I give this child,” she said. “Beauty she will have in plenty from the blood of her mother and father, I need not add to that. But Wisdom I give her, and high Courage and Strength, so that she can be Queen and King to her people when the time comes. Intelligence she has in plenty, too,
but I give her Craft and Cunning, so that she will know how to use whatever weapon comes to her hand to safeguard her country. And I give to her and her mother my personal protection.” And she sent out another wave of cold.
There. Let the King hear that and dare to disinherit her….
He heard all right. And he understood. Stammering, he thanked her, terror in his eyes. Clearly, he must know that she knew what he was about. He was not stupid, this man, only ruled too much by his nether regions. The Queen thanked her with tears in her eyes and unfeigned gratitude. She must have scented something in the offing.
Aleksia accepted her embrace, but looked over her shoulder at the muster of her ladies, looking for one face among them.
There.
An exotic beauty, this one, by the standards of this Court. Here among the blond was a night-crow indeed, slim where they were sturdy, dark where they were light. And she paled when she saw Aleksia’s eye on her, paled still further when she read Aleksia’s message in her gaze.
Go. Go as far as you can. And do not come back.
The compulsion was set upon her, and Aleksia left, knowing that, before the day was out, the King’s supposed love would be gone. Where, was of no concern to her.
And that was that. She sensed the powerful energies of The Tradition turning away, having now no more interest in this place.
She left as she had come, the epitome of chill perfection. Back to the Palace of Ever-Winter, a spoiled brat she needed to tame, and the knowledge that she was going to have to give up her pleasant evenings “with” the Sammi Mages. The King himself escorted her to her sleigh, and the look of terror in his eyes did not make up for the fact that she was not going to hear any more of Lemminkal’s kantele playing, nor Ilmari’s tales and jokes.
Duty. Bah.
5
“THEY SAY SHE IS CALLED THE SNOW QUEEN, AND SHE IS AS cold as the snow itself.” Ulla regarded them all solemnly. The young women had the hearth of the cottage to themselves; Rikka’s parents had gone to bed, leaving them in sole possession of the main room of the cottage. Kaari and Suvi-Marja were carefully manipulating the wooden cards for their ornamental bands; since they were both weaving patterns in red and the natural dark brown and white of sheep’s wool, weaving by firelight was not a problem. Rikka’s needle continued to make the intricate knots of her mittens, but Ulla’s spindle was idle.
“It is the Snow Queen,” Ulla began, after looking nervously over her shoulder.
“But she is only a legend!” Rikka protested. “No one has ever seen her. Not that I ever heard of anyway. And anyway, how could she possibly be real? She must be over a thousand years old by now.”
Kaari kept her hands moving steadily, but she felt a kind of chill on the back of her neck, and suddenly the fire did not seem to be warming her.
“Father’s cousin knows someone who saw her,” Ulla said firmly. “From a distance, a great distance, but he saw her, flying through the sky in her white sleigh. But that is not the point. The point is that where once she merely remained in her Palace of Snow, content to keep it always Winter only where she dwelled, now that is changing.” Ulla shuddered. “Now she is taking young men who attract her, taking them in the night, and they are never seen again. And now—now she is killing. Whole villages, it is said, stricken with a deadly cold that strikes the villagers without warning, freezing them where they stand.”
Kaari concentrated very hard on the patterns she was weaving. She did not in the least like what she was hearing. Normally on such nights, she was able to listen as avidly as the others were, to take it in with a delicious shiver, to feel the danger, and yet know, in her heart of hearts, that it would never affect her.
Not tonight. She could not think why, but it felt as if there was some terrible thing out there in the darkness—looming over her, looking at her, and chuckling, coldly, as it slowly tightened its invisible grip about her.
She didn’t want to hear any more. And yet she did not, could not, stop Ulla from continuing her stories. In the end, it was Rikka, not her, who asked for an end to it, who managed to turn the conversation into more cheerful topics, and who managed to make them all laugh.
Eventually, it grew late enough that Suvi-Marja’s parents began coughing pointedly. Taking the hint, the three visitors rolled up their work, stowed it in the baskets they had brought with them, and affectionately took their leave of their friend.
All but Kaari, who felt a reluctance to venture out in the dark, chill night—a night so powerful, it verged on revulsion. Impulsively, she turned to Suvi-Marja, seeking an excuse.
But she didn’t have to make up one. It was her friend that put one hand on her arm and looked at her entreatingly. “Can you stay the night?” she begged. “Oh, Kaari…I so want to ask your advice, and mayhap your help, and I did not want to do so around the others—” She bowed her head and flushed “—You all have had so many sweethearts, and I have only had the one—”
Relief made her feel giddy. She often stayed the night with her friends, particularly when they did not have such enormous families as hers. Her mother would not take it amiss that she had done so tonight. “Suvi! Of course I will! But do not hold out too much hope of my being terribly wise, for wisdom you should ask your mother—”
Even in the dying firelight, Kaari could see her friend blushing. “Oh, I could never ask my mother these things. She thinks that Essa is nice enough, but that I could do much better…I cannot make her understand.”
Whatever Suvi-Marja’s mother did or did not understand, in that moment, Kaari understood her very well and what she was trying to say. Poor Suvi! She was not ugly, but she was not as pretty as most of her friends. All her life, she had been in the shadow of the others and had become resigned to that position. And now, there was a young man…and now, she was afraid and a little confused and very conflicted.
So she spent no small amount of time reassuring her. It was true that Essa was not a fabulous catch as a husband, if all you looked at was how prosperous he would be. But he was kind—in his own fashion, he was thoughtful—and he did care for Suvi. And if it was not wild, obsessive, passionate love, the sort of thing that they made songs about—the sort of things that they made songs about was not at all comfortable, nor safe, and Suvi liked comfort and safety.
So they talked for a very long time together by the light of the fire, with Kaari reassuring her friend. And by the time they slept, Suvi was smiling again and Kaari was only a little uneasy about the strange stories out of the North.
Perhaps I was a little overenthusiastic, Annukka thought, looking a bit ruefully, and yet with pardonable pride, at a smokehouse so full of pig and venison sausage that it could not have held another link. She closed the door on it all, sealing the door tightly with wax from her hives. She would not open it again for another three days, by which time the sausages would be cured and ready to hang in the rafters, where they would get a bit more smoke, which would do them no harm.
Now, every year, she sat up all night on the first full moon of Autumn, the first harvest moon, and sang for a full, rich harvest. But this year, something—she was not sure what, a feeling of unease perhaps, or just the small indications that the Winter would be hard, cold and long—had prompted her to put a little more emphasis in her song than usual. She absolutely would not interfere with the weather—be it sent by gods or the winds, it was not hers to meddle with. But there was no harm in singing for enough, even abundance, to carry the village through a bad Winter, if one was to come. If the weather was to be that bad, things would die in the cold anyway, and if a few more birds and fish and animals died now, beneath the hunters’ hands, it was a quicker, easier death than starving to death or freezing in the night. It was a good balance. It was also a good balance to ask the crops to be abundant—if the Winter was a hard one, then an abundant crop now meant that there would be seed to plant when Spring came.
So she sat up and sang, for everyone with a Mage rune knew that the most powerful spells
were sung, not spoken. There was something about music, and the way it was easy to get lost in it, the way it was easy to call up mental images of what you wanted, that made sung magic, for the Sammi at least, that much more powerful.
Now it seemed that her spells had been very effective indeed. The cellars were full of beets, onions, turnips and cabbage, dried blueberries, lingonberries and cloudberries, dried mushrooms, sacks of rye and barley flour, sacks of whole barley, stacks of dried cheese, waxed wheels of aging cheese, casks of dried and salted fish, potted birds and meat. Hams and sausage hung from every ceiling. Cupboards were full of preserved pots of butter, lard, jam and honey. The entire village had been feasting for days on the traditional foods of Autumn, butchery-time—blood pancakes, blood dumplings, blood soup, fried cracklings, stews and soups rich with meat scraps, and dishes made with various organs that could not be preserved—for nothing, nothing went to waste, not even, or especially, in times of abundance. Fish had almost been leaping into the nets, and game flung itself in the way of the hunters. There were peddlers and traveling entertainers coming through at this time of year, and they generally tried to spend as much time as they could in the villages that had a reputation for generous hospitality. The Sammi did not have harvest fairs of the sort that Annukka had heard of; Autumn was too busy a time for that. But anyone that came through was more than welcome to partake of the ongoing feast of things that could not be stored for the Winter.
One such peddler, very, very fond of Annukka’s sausages, had just been through. He had left with some of the first batch of the season stowed in his cart, and she was now the owner of a curious and very beautiful mother-of-pearl comb. That might have seemed a very uneven trade for a couple of strings of sausages, but he had confided in her that no one wanted it once they heard he had traded for it with one of the seal-people.
The Snow Queen Page 8