Kristoff drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, and only when Anna laid her hand over his did he stop. “Sorry,” he whispered, “but while we’re talking, Sven is still sick!”
Anna knew that Kristoff was right. “Let’s keep looking,” she said quietly.
Kristoff crept over to the bookshelves while Anna cracked open the volume on the table. She skipped past passages about talking trees and a playful wind spirit until, finally, she found what she had been looking for: NATTMARA.
Sure enough, all that Sorenson had said was written there, including a few additional pieces of information:
The Nattmara is created when a child’s fear grows too big to be contained and the child’s fearful heart calls out to them.
And then, a little below that:
Trolls tremble at the Nattmara’s howl while the Nattmara flees from the sun like a shadow.
Nothing in the section said anything about a spell that was able to manifest a Nattmara, or banish it. But it was useful to know that the Nattmara didn’t like sunlight. And it explained why the trolls had most likely gone missing. Frowning, Anna thumbed through the pages and reread an entry about the Huldrefólk. She stopped upon a line:
Huldrefólk always find that which is lost.
That which is lost…Anna’s heart quickened. Maybe, she thought with rising excitement, that also meant the Huldrefólk could find a mythical sword that was lost to history. It was a slim hope, but a hope she clung to nevertheless. Maybe they needed to go to the mines to find the Huldrefólk—despite the warnings.
But they didn’t have much time.
They only had two more sunrises left before the spell became permanent—and the night was no longer young.
“You know,” Sorenson said to Elsa, “your mother came here once, seeking answers. In fact, she was the one who painted my ceiling.”
Anna froze. Their mother had been here? It couldn’t be. Why on earth would their mother come to visit Sorenson? Answers to what? And suddenly, she realized why the painted ceiling looked familiar. It reminded her of the painting of the northern lights and constellations that decorated the ceiling of the secret room.
Slipping the book into Kristoff’s traveler’s pack, Anna opened her mouth to ask Sorenson more, and to tell the others her idea about going to the mines. But as Anna looked up, she noticed something strange across the tower room: an army of black ants pouring in from under the door. She shut her mouth.
No. Not ants.
Black sand.
The Nattmara had found them at last.
AS THE BLACK SAND trickled into the tower room from beneath the door, thoughts, dark and sticky, clung to Anna like oil.
Thoughts like bugs crawling into ears, teeth rotting and falling out, waves black and drowning, and a door. A large white door with purple flowers repeating over and over again, each one telling her that she was not good enough, that she was not wanted, that she was shut out. And as the thoughts hit her, pounding as relentlessly as a stormy sea, Anna felt it hard to breathe. Her heart tightened as if something was pressing on her chest. The weight made it hard to speak, but she must—she had to warn her friends.
“Y-you guys,” Anna whispered, trying to get her mouth to work. But in those few precious seconds, the sand had spilled into the room, forming a dark puddle. The grains lifted and swirled into the air, as if each grain had its own pair of miniature wings, its own brain, and then they swarmed, creating the outline of a shadow. A wolf’s shadow.
Fear gave her strength. “Nattmara!” Anna yelled.
The sand solidified into the great white wolf. Now the creature was as big as the length of wall. Its head practically scraped the painted ceiling.
As if in slow motion, Anna saw the others turn. Kristoff’s mouth dropped open, while Elsa’s eyes widened in horror. But it was Sorenson—the old scientist who believed in the entanglement of science and myth, myth and science—who reacted first.
“Close your eyes!” He bolted up and grabbed for one of the many glass vials near him.
Anna shut her eyes. A second later, there was a bright flash even through her closed eyelids, followed by the yelp of the wolf. No. Not a wolf, Anna corrected herself. Nattmara.
“Upstairs!” Sorenson yelled. “Run!”
And even though she had closed her eyes to the flash, black dots still spotted her vision as she stood and ran with Kristoff toward the steps. Taking them two at a time, she was aware of screaming and a noise that sounded like sharpening knives. Glancing backward, she saw Sorenson at the bottom of the stairs, and beside him, Elsa, shooting ice javelins at the wolf again and again and again.
But the ice javelins, sharp and lethal, seemed to do as much harm as a toothpick plunged into water. Each time Elsa let loose an ice javelin, it soared through the air toward its target—but it never hit its target.
The Nattmara didn’t seem to be made of fur or bone or muscle. Or anything solid, really. Because as ice javelins were about to pin its paws down in place, the wolf’s paws dissolved at their touch, shifting and morphing its shape like—like sand, Anna realized.
It was as Sorenson had said. The Nattmara could take any form. Seep through the cracks in any door. Slip into the fragile spots of a person’s heart. It fed on fear, but how could they not be afraid of it? It was fear. A bit of black sand floated toward Anna, and her breath caught again. The sticky thoughts rushed back into her mind: She’d done this. She couldn’t do anything right. She never could. She’d failed Elsa.
“ANNA!” Kristoff, his traveler’s pack dangling from his shoulder, pulled her arm. “KEEP GOING!”
The sound of his voice—full of worry and care—snapped Anna back into herself. She ran with him, and didn’t stop racing up the dizzying, tight spiral of steps until she exploded out into the cold, open air of Sorenson’s observation deck.
Any other time, she knew she would have loved to stay up there. The mountain air was so clear that the stars above pulsed bright. The moon overhead was round and ripe, just begging to be plucked from the sky and put into her pocket as a sweet treat for later. And in the center of the circular deck, standing like a newborn colt on spindly legs, gleamed a copper telescope. It pointed to the heavens, an instrument that helped seek answers in the celestial dance. It was all strange, fascinating, and beautiful. And a dead end.
Just like in Anna’s nightmare, there was no place to run.
The wolf, still behind them on the tower stairs, had cornered her, this time on a wooden deck, hundreds of feet in the air, and the only means of escape—jumping—definitely didn’t bode well for any of them. They were trapped!
Sorenson’s shoulder collided with hers as he shot past her to the edge of the deck. Leaning over the simple wooden railing, he grasped at the night air and then pulled back. In the light of the full moon, Anna could make out the silver glint of something in his palm: a wire cable—one so thin it seemed to vanish only a foot away from the tower.
“Grab the tablecloth!” He gestured to the long wooden workbench that stood next to the telescope. It was covered in beakers, thermometers and barometers, pencils and quills, abacuses, rulers, flasks, and pages of calculations. And seemingly all of Sorenson’s life’s work sat on a little lavender tablecloth neatly embroidered with a crocus. If the tablecloth were pulled, all of that work—years and years of it—would smash onto the deck, lost forever. Anna hesitated.
“Do it!” Sorenson roared at her.
But Anna couldn’t, she just couldn’t. It was a table of answers, the work of a lifetime of gathering information. So Kristoff reached behind her and tugged the tablecloth free. With a tremendous clash, the beautiful and strange devices fell to the floor, the sound something similar to the breaking of a heart.
“Now tear the cloth!” Sorenson commanded.
The sound of the wolf’s vicious barks and the scrape of ice filled the air. Elsa had made it to the observation deck and stood at the entrance, flinging her hand out again and again and again. With each flic
k of her wrist, the doorway filled to the brim with ice—fresh ice, new ice, ice without cracks.
For a moment, anyway.
Because then the Nattmara would slam itself against it, sending cracks scattering across the surface, and a little more black sand wisped through the cracks each time.
Smooth ice.
Shattered ice.
Smooth. Shattered. Elsa was holding the Nattmara and its sandy paws at bay, but even Elsa—brave, strong, wise, magical Elsa—couldn’t keep at it forever. Already, Anna could see the weariness in the slope of her shoulders. The snap of her wrist grew looser with each deft gesture.
Riiiiiiip! Anna turned to see Kristoff obeying Sorenson’s orders and tearing the tablecloth into thick strips, but Anna didn’t offer to help. Instead, her mind had become preoccupied by something else. Each time Elsa flung out her wrist and filled the doorway with ice, Anna thought the Nattmara grew a little bigger. Smooth ice. Shattered ice. Smooth ice. Yes, Anna was sure of it now. Whenever Elsa shot a magical blast of ice at the creature of myth, its paws expanded, its teeth sharpened, and its strength doubled.
“Elsa!” Anna cried. “Elsa, stop! Your magic! It’s making it stronger!” But between the snarling of the Nattmara, the tearing of the cloth, and the sound of ice cracking again and again and again, Elsa couldn’t hear her. Their only way of surviving in this moment would be if they escaped.
“Hurry!” Sorenson cried. “Take some!”
Anna took a bit of tablecloth from Kristoff and stumbled toward the scientist. Grabbing the strip, Sorenson looped the cloth over the thin wire, making a U with the fabric.
“Hands,” he grunted.
Anna obliged, holding out her wrists as he tied the dangling ends of the cloth strip under Anna’s armpits to create a makeshift harness.
Sorenson patted the rickety wooden railing. “Climb up.”
Anna did as she was told. Only when she was balanced on the topmost rail, facing the mountain slope far beneath her, did Sorenson’s plan truly sink in. “Wait a second,” Anna said, twisting to face him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Hang on tight!” Sorenson pushed her—hard.
With a squeal, Anna slipped off the observation deck in a rush of wind and stars. She screamed. Careening down the mountain nearly felt like flying, but definitely felt like falling. The cable jounced and jiggled as she sped down the mountainside.
Wrapping her wrists in the tablecloth, she held on for dear life as her legs swung beneath her. From somewhere above, she could hear Elsa and Kristoff and Sorenson shouting as they zipped down behind her. Thank goodness they were safe!
Anna almost laughed—but the ground was rushing toward her, and coming up way too fast. Straining her eyes against the dark night, Anna followed the path of the rippling cable; it disappeared into the branches of a tree at the foot of the mountain, near the entrance to the mines. That much was good.
But what wasn’t good was how fast she was approaching the very solid trunk. If she hit the tree at this pace, she would definitely break a few ribs, and that was if she was lucky. She needed to slow down.
“SNOW!” she yelled back at Elsa. “SNOW! SNOW SNOW SNOW!” She thought she heard Elsa shout back, but Anna couldn’t tell. The wind stole whatever words left her sister’s lips. She just had to hope and trust that her sister would know what to do, the way she always did.
Ten feet away from the tree. Now five. Now two. Anna released the tablecloth and set herself free. She tumbled through the dark air for what felt like a year but was likely only a moment, and then—
WOMP!
A cold tingle enveloped Anna, as refreshing and comforting as one of the bubbly drinks Oaken sold at his lodge. Soft, pillowy snowflakes had cushioned her fall. Elsa had done it again. But there was no time to catch her breath. Instead, Anna rolled out of the way as Elsa, Kristoff, and Sorenson plopped into the snow pile like ripe apples falling from a tree.
Anna shot up. “Everyone okay? Where is it?”
Everyone nodded, then Kristoff pointed.
Anna turned. It was hard to see in the dark, but she could just make out a patch of shadow barreling down the mountain like an avalanche of black snow: the Nattmara. Still on the hunt.
“The mines!” Anna said. “Hurry!”
“They’re not safe!” Sorenson said. “Cave-ins and toxic air—”
“And Huldrefólk!” Anna said. “Elsa, remember the myth!”
Elsa gasped. “‘Huldrefólk always find that which is lost.’ Aren’s sword!”
“It may be our only chance!” Anna said. “We have to find them and ask where the Revolute Blade is!”
“But—” Sorenson’s protest was cut off by a long howl, a howl that rose in pitch until the very air of the kingdom became a scream, and Anna staggered under its weight.
Clasping her hands over her ears, Anna ran past the warning posts, ripped back the wooden boards that had been nailed up over the entrance, and dove into the gaping mouth of the mines. Her friends followed her. The howl reached them even there, and Kristoff struggled with his traveler’s pack to light his lantern, but at last they could see.
All around, there were passages: thin ones, wide ones, narrow ones, up and down and around. But which led to a dead end? And which led to chambers of poisonous gases or pits with sharp sticks or sleeping bears? Most importantly, which would take them to the Huldrefólk?
“Which one, Sorenson?” Anna asked.
But the old scientist looked perplexed. His long silver beard tufted in all directions, as if it, too, were confused.
Standing beside Anna, Kristoff swung his lantern, sending arcs of light rippling across the walls and floor.
Something glinted in the rock, and Anna looked down. She was standing on something long and metal: the tracks for mine carts!
“This way!” Anna said, taking off in a sprint as she followed the tracks.
A second later, they arrived in a large chamber where, at the far end, sitting comfortably as if it had been waiting for them all along, was a wooden mine cart.
Kristoff gestured to it theatrically. “Ta-da! Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir!” Anna clambered in, with Elsa and Sorenson climbing in behind her.
Kristoff pushed the cart, trying to get the rusty wheels to move forward. They rolled a bit then stopped, and Anna saw why. A rope had been tied around one end of the cart, anchoring it to a jutting boulder.
“May I?” she asked him, reaching for his lantern.
He handed it to her. “You may.”
Anna held the lantern’s flame to the rope.
The Nattmara’s howl was even louder now, impossibly so, and the tunnel shook.
It had arrived.
Each step of its giant paws sent a tremor through the earth.
And Anna could see that her guess had been right—each time Elsa used her magic, the Nattmara seemed to have grown more fearsome and more horrible. It stood in the mouth of the cave, eclipsing the light of the moon, black sand sweeping around it as its eyes shone yellow.
In Anna’s hands, the rope charred—blackening, thinning. Finally, it snapped. But the cart stayed put.
“Why aren’t we moving?” Elsa cried out.
“We’re too heavy for it,” Anna said, desperation whirling through her. “Maybe if we rock a bit—”
“No need,” Sorenson interrupted.
“What do you mean?” Anna demanded.
But the scientist only smiled—and then launched himself out of the cart. He sprinted toward the mouth of the mines…toward the Nattmara.
“Noooooo!” Anna yelled, though she couldn’t hear herself in the ocean of the Nattmara’s howl.
But Sorenson had done the trick. With his weight gone, the cart rose and the wheels rolled forward, slow at first, then faster and faster—and then the cart plunged, forcing Anna to drop Kristoff’s lantern. It crashed to the floor of the cart, but the light didn’t snuff out. Rough wood cut into her hands as she clu
ng to the sides of the cart for dear life.
It barreled down the tracks, screeching through jolting turns and sharp twists, threatening to buck them out at every turn.
“We’re going too fast!” Elsa shouted. “Slow down!”
“The brakes aren’t working!” Kristoff yelled back as he retrieved his lantern and held it out in front of them. “And the steering stick is stuck!”
Anna felt her mouth open in horror as she frantically tried to think of a solution.
“Lean right!” Kristoff bellowed.
Anna and Elsa flung their weight to the right, and the cart shifted on the track, following the curve of the rail. Kristoff continued to yell instructions. In this way—with Kristoff calling out and Anna and Elsa leaning this way and that—they were able to direct the cart, zigzagging down into the mountain’s core instead of dropping vertically. They would roll to a stop at some point. Wouldn’t they?
And then, suddenly, there was light up ahead. An exit!
“What is that?” Elsa shouted. “We’re nowhere near morning!” She was right, and as Anna’s eyes drank in the light, she realized it held a strange aqua glow. Before she could wonder too much where it came from, Kristoff yelled, “LAKE!”
SPLASH!
In an explosion of lukewarm water, they careened into an underground lake. The cart rolled forward in the rippling water, then stopped, the surprisingly shallow body of water bringing their wild ride to an end. Kristoff’s lantern went out, smoke snaking off into the air.
Anna allowed herself to be still. To feel the air in her lungs and hear the quiet of the subterranean world. But it wasn’t utter silence. Far from it.
All around them was a soft splish-splash as stalactites dripped water into the reflective lake that was illuminated by the strange light. Anna looked down at the water and then up in wonder. She finally knew the source of the light. Dangling from the cave ceiling were a million tiny glowworms, each one giving off a gentle light the color of the bluest ice. They reflected onto the surface of the lake so that it looked they were in a bathtub under a galaxy of stars. It was a secret world of sound and water and light, both comforting and glorious.
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