by Jessica Daw
Also, no one ever cared what I knew about magic theory. If they’d ever trouble to ask, they’d discover I was well-versed in theory. I knew very well that the reserves of magic energy inside every person was not infinite and could be exhausted. Though other things could be used to provide energy for spells, it was most efficient to use the inner spring, and tended to provide for more powerful, consistent magic. It was unwise for things like wards to draw their energy from the spring, however, because if something too powerful assaulted the ward, it could drain a person dry of all magic, and sometimes even their very life-force. I had latched onto stories of people who’d used up all their magic and could never work again, husks of magicians that had to do mundane things like scrub stable walls. At least, unlike them, I still had the life of my spring inside me.
“I can scrub.” Dagmar had made me clean up when one of my fits of temper had led to me throwing an inkwell against the wall, forcing me to make my best attempt to remove ink from the rose-colored walls.
Soon I was scrubbing with harsh lye soap, trying to combat what felt to be centuries of grime. Rune watched the isbjørn and I work with mild interest. The grunt work of cleaning the walls proved possible for the isbjørn in his animal body, though perhaps not as easy. With a rag and the largest piece of soap, he was able to stand on his hind paws and use one of his front paws to clean, the other bracing him up. His height when he stood on his hind paws was terrific, tall as I would have been standing on my own shoulders, and I was above average height for a woman.
We worked without speaking, with him cleaning the upper portion of the wall and me cleaning the lower. I lost track of time, focused on cleaning that stone, then that one, then the next.
The walls cleaned, I began working on the floor.
“Do you never tire?” the isbjørn asked disbelievingly.
“Mm?” I kept working.
“The sun has nearly set, Princess. Can you possibly not be hungry?”
I leaned back on my toes, squinting out the door of the stable. The sun was, in fact, going down, judging from the deepening shadows, the sun itself still not visible behind the clouds. My back began protesting as I noticed that, and I slowly lowered myself to sit flat on my rear with an “oof.” “I’m stiff.”
“You should be. You’ve been working nearly five hours without stopping.” Probably it was the stiffness in my back that made me think I heard grudging admiration in that growl of a voice.
“So have you,” I pointed out. No admiration there—if he could fully shift into an isbjørn, he had massive energy reserves and could hardly get credit for scrubbing stable walls for a few hours.
“I’m not a pampered palace princess.”
I hated it when he called me that. Like he was mocking the fact that, as of now, I wasn’t princess. “You know, you were the one who said titles don’t matter here. Quit calling me princess.”
He huffed.
“Come on. I know you resent me, but don’t you have some mysterious shifter code that prevents you from living with double standards?”
“Mysterious shifter code?”
“You know. No revealing your face to kidnapped princesses. No eating porridge if you’re an isbjørn. No claiming titles don’t count and then constantly using someone else’s title.”
He snorted a laugh, and I laughed too. “There’s no mysterious shifter code, but you make a point. Lena.”
“Ugh! Helena!”
“Not a chance. Too long.”
I scowled. “Too long? It’s three syllables.”
“Mm. Easier to say Lena. Besides, Helena is a stuffy old lady name. Whatever else you may be, you’re not a stuffy old lady. Yet.”
“Well, thank you for that stunning compliment. You’ve got the silver tongue of a prince.” The sarcasm was driven, in part, by the screeching of my bones as I tried to stand, rocking on my heels until I was in a mostly upright position, if one could be counted as upright with a back hunched like the old woman the isbjørn said I wasn’t. Yet.
He snorted. “I’ve been told that before.”
“By someone sober?” I pushed my hands into the small of my back, trying to straighten the tight muscles, and hissed.
“You’ll need to stretch out if you don’t want to wake up miserable tomorrow. Take a walk.”
“Where, Mr. Silver Tongue, would I take a walk, pray tell?” I began moving forward, hands still pressed into the small of my back. My stomach growled.
“Perhaps you should eat first, Prin- Lena. Your stomach sounds like it has ambitions to grow up to be just like me.”
I choked back a laugh, entering the kitchen, where a banked fire glowed rosily.
“Tomorrow we’ll need to get roughage for your poor Rune. He can’t live on traveling squares much longer without having intestinal problems.”
I was busy working my gloves off my fingers, which proved to be even stiffer than my back, and didn’t answer.
“And he’ll need to be taken for a ride, if not this evening, certainly tomorrow.”
“I know. I’ve had Rune for over seven years now.”
“Have you ever fed him yourself?”
“Well, no,” I admitted reluctantly, then quickly followed it up with, “But I know he eats hay! And I almost always exercised him.”
“Except when you had the privilege taken away for acting out,” he added dryly.
I stuck my tongue out him, pulling at my remaining glove with renewed vigor.
That growling isbjørn laugh made me clench my jaw. “You really are a child, aren’t you?”
Refusing to shout, I said in a strained calm voice, “I am. Seventeen. Years. Old. I am not a child, ha!” On the last word, I succeeded in yanking the second glove off my hands.
“And what child doesn’t insist it is not, in fact, a child?”
I threw my stupid gloves at his stupid self-satisfied face, turning to hold my hands determinedly in front of the fire.
“Proving my point, Lena. And the fire will give you a lot more heat if you renew it.”
“If I knew how, don’t you think I would have already done that?” I hunched deeper into my seat, though its wooden planks didn’t provide much security.
“I meant with magic.”
“Ah, and here I was thinking you meant with water.”
“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
“I don’t think there’s enough honey in the world to catch a fly as fat as you.”
He growled impatiently. “I am trying to find a truce with you, impossible girl! Look at me!”
Stubbornly, I kept my eyes trained on the fire.
“Your parents are saints. If you were my child, you would not have lived past age seven.” He came and hulked in front of the fire, forcing me to look at him. I did my best to stare through him, my jaw now clenched to hide the hurt he’d given with his last comment and the thought that had come, inevitable, into my mind—it would have been better for them if I hadn’t.
“Go away,” I said in a low voice, trying to keep it steady.
Those gray eyes blinked. I saw it, even though I continued staring through him. “I have not eaten either, Princess. And I would think you would wish me to stay, as I’m your means to a meal.”
“I said go away.” I felt rage building in my chest, like it had before I’d blown fire at the suitors. My magic, so recently released from its restraints, was impatient to be used, and I did not know a useful outlet for it yet. Anger and pent-up magic was a terrible combination, especially with hunger added in.
The gray eyes hardened. “No.”
I knew I was being unreasonable. I knew I should just take a breath, calm down, eat dinner with the isbjørn, regain the camaraderie I’d half-felt a few moments before. Make nice with my captor who had to stab me right where I was sorest. Besides which, he’d called me princess. Again. After he’d agreed not to. I hated that I was dependent on him for food, for anything, on top of being stuck with him.
Unreas
onable or no, I could not stand to look at those gray eyes another second. With a yell of primal rage, my eyes focused and I shoved all the rage I felt out in a gust of fire remarkably similar to that which had lost me my future. He roared, but I was already running.
My mental map served me well, as I found my way back to my room without any problem, despite the careening speed I ran at, almost falling on the rickety wooden steps, my abused body miserable.
I slammed my door behind me, and screamed again, loud and long, hoping it would take the anger out of me, as my fireball had eased my built-up magic energy.
It worked well enough. As soon as the veneer of anger was gone, bone-deep sorrow ravaged me, and I threw myself onto my bed in a fit of passionate tears.
Chapter Ten
Isbjørn
I sat perfectly still longer than necessary, my massive bear’s chest heaving. My wards, which I religiously wore and renewed, had blocked most of the fire, nothing but a hot gust by the time it actually reached me, but it irked me beyond words to be attacked like that and not retaliate.
I will not retaliate. I heard her run, I heard her slam her door, I heard her scream, and I did not move. I would not let my temper best me, no matter how that brat pushed me. I would not be my father.
Chapter Eleven
Lena
I woke utterly spent the next morning. With consciousness, penitence returned. I’d done it again, lost my temper, thrown a magic fit. Though, really, I’d wanted to blow fire in the isbjørn’s face, so I didn’t feel as miserable on that count. In fact, I wanted to consider that a bit more, later, but not now. I had no interest in mending bridges with the isbjørn—as if there had been a bridge in the first place. I more regretted the abysmal amount of food I’d eaten since the morning August had showed up with his announcement regarding my future.
Also the abysmal amount of bathing I’d done. My scent had not been improved by the time I’d spent scrubbing out the filthy stables with the isbjørn.
Fine. I wouldn’t have anyone to help me. I would have to figure out how to light a fire and haul water by myself. And insulate my room. And find a bathtub. All without running into the isbjørn, as my desire to see him was at an all-time low.
I blew out a sigh. My head was itchy under the hood, and the rest of my body was in an inexpressible state. No choice.
Water, as I understood, generally came from wells. At the estate, there had been an intricately designed system of pipes that ran to various rooms and came out in little fountains, making water awfully convenient to retrieve. I had not seen any such fountains here. Besides which, the pipes would require impressive amounts of magic not to freeze over here, and magic hadn’t even been spared to block cold from streaming through the open windows.
Tiptoeing as quietly as I could, I went to the kitchen, then passed through the door to the outside world.
The vastness of the outer world was amazing. I hadn’t paid it much mind when I’d arrived on the back of the isbjørn, and what I had noticed I’d forgotten in the aftermath of our first major argument. There was nothing for miles and miles but snow-coated wilderness, a few bare trees dotting the landscape here and there. In the distance, to the north, judging direction by the barely-visible sun, were lines of frosted evergreen trees.
And by nothing for miles and miles, I mean there was nothing that looked like a well. There were, however, tracks in the snow remarkably similar to those of an isbjørn. Perfect, I thought. I have reign of the castle.
Also, I remembered the courtyard. Which was a much more likely location for the well, I thought. More convenient, protected in this old fortress of a castle.
Sure enough, in the courtyard, there was a low-built stone well, bucket attached and everything. I drew water for Rune, realizing when I went to pour it in Rune’s trough that the isbjørn had been doing so, as it was half-full and scarcely frosted over. I quashed my gratitude at that observation and fed Rune a traveling square, hoping the isbjørn was out fetching something else for my poor horse to eat, and ate a square myself. The convenience was worth the raw-potatoes-and-dirt taste, not to mention the stale bread texture, grating my tongue even more than I’d remembered. I needed to work while I could.
In an alcove of the courtyard, there was an impressive stack of firewood. I dragged a few logs up to my room and bit my cheek. How to light it?
Inspiration struck, and I ran to the kitchen, where a merry little fire burned. I found a half-burned stick, retrieved my gloves from where they’d bounced off the isbjørn’s face the night before and pulled them on, and then carefully carried the stick upstairs. I specifically did not feel ashamed that I’d thrown the gloves in the bear’s face before throwing the fire, not to mention spitting on him. Twice.
The fire caught with only some trouble. Once it was crackling as merrily as the kitchen fire, I began my search for a bathtub. The best I could find as I ran around the castle was a large washbasin, likely meant for laundry. It would do.
By the time I’d hauled half a dozen buckets of water to my room, I was exhausted beyond reason. Still, it wouldn’t do to get so close to my goal of a bath and stop there. With no better ideas, I stuffed my two lumpy pillows into the arrow crack, which meant at least the wind wasn’t blowing icy fingers through the room when I stripped my layers off, though it was darker, the room dimly lit by my little fire.
After laying out warm, dry clothes, I went and washed as quickly as I could, shivering violently in the frigid water as it ran in torturous rivulets over my skin. My bathwater had always been drawn for me, carried by servants in gleaming copper pots. One of them would perform a simple heating spell, using a stick and stirring it in the water until it was consumed, leaving the water hot. Of all the spells I’d ever wished to know, I couldn’t think of one I’d wished harder to know than I wished for that one in that moment.
Once I’d scrubbed myself clean as best I could with some of the lye soap we’d used to clean the stables yesterday (I’d scraped the grime off it first), I jumped from the washbasin. No cloud-soft towel waited me. I dried off as well as I could with a spare skirt, then dressed and crouched by the fire until I stopped shivering quite so violently.
I was hungry, and being clean and warm made that all the more apparent. Time to learn to cook.
The silence was beginning to feel heavy. My door made an unnaturally loud crack when I closed it behind me, resounding in the empty hallway. In the hallway, with its pillow-free arrow slits of windows, I could feel my wet hair begin to freeze. I stood still for a moment, torn. I did not want to wear that filthy parka any longer (I certainly wasn’t wearing my hated armor), but unlike the isbjørn, I was not covered in fur. Usually I did not desire to be covered in fur. At least fur, I thought, would be easier to clean than the parka.
I touched my hair gingerly. Definitely freezing. Rolling my eyes at the whole universe, I reentered my room and donned the pain of a parka.
Properly dressed, I made my way downstairs, the only sound my footsteps over the stones, the creaking of the stairs, the distant sighing of the wind.
Once in the kitchen, I started exploring the buckets and barrels and sacks. The quantity was greater than I’d realized in my first estimation of the room, especially when I discovered a separate pantry through a door on the north wall. I found some things I recognized, oats, wheat, rice, sugar, flour. There were also dried fish and other kinds of meat I couldn’t identify. I ate a dried fish with some hesitation, but it turned out to be a fantastic idea on my part, as it reigned in my hunger and left me capable to try something else before the isbjørn returned from his mysterious errand.
Rune. He hadn’t been out since we’d arrived.
Crossing the courtyard, I felt a twinge of excitement. I saddled Rune and climbed on and then climbed back off to walk him through the castle since I didn’t know where a gate or something was and then climbed back on and then felt free.
My marvelous horse needed little encouragement to fly at top speed through the s
now. I pulled my hood off, not caring if my head turned into one giant icicle, longing to feel the wind against my face. It was delicious, the rush, as we raced over the endless snow towards the arctic forest.
It started out as a dull buzz, but soon the Binding on my right arm was burning. I yanked Rune into a sharp turn, which alleviated the pain but the buzz remained. I could almost feel the words themselves imprinted on my flesh. Apparently I had gone far enough that I did not count as “remaining with the shifter.”
When the castle came into view, a black mar against the darkening gray sky, I slowed Rune to almost a crawl. I loved breathing the fresh, open air.
The isbjørn stood near the castle, scanning the horizon, his white fur blending with the snow. Our eyes met.
Before I could think too much about it, I spurred Rune towards the isbjørn, dismounting when I was about ten feet away. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t move closer, letting those ten feet stand between us.
“For what, exactly?” His voice was more suited to the outdoors, part of nature. I wished the same could be said about me, my words small against the vast arctic sky.
I swallowed, but plowed forward. Now was not the time to become an indecisive ninny. “For throwing fire in your face. And throwing gloves in your face. And spitting on you.”
“Twice,” he reminded me.
“Twice,” I repeated.
“Why?”
I ran my tongue over my lips, which suddenly seemed unbearably dry. Probably because I’d left my hood down the whole time I’d ridden Rune and my face was completely numb. “I’m here because I can’t be diplomatic, and I just keep proving the Council right. Besides which, we’re Bound to live together for a year. It’ll be a very long year if I spend all my energy getting angry at you.”
“My question was unclear. I meant to ask why you got so angry, specifically last night. I . . . I find you a troublesome brat, but yesterday I thought we’d made some progress towards at least being agreeable with each other.”