by Jessica Daw
“It’s done!” I crowed.
“Did you just burn yourself?” he pressed, torn between amusement and worry.
“A little, it’ll go away in a second.” I grabbed a long spear-like utensil to take the fish out and put them all on a plate. “It’s done! Here! No, wait!” I ran to the pantry, yanking up the trap door and jumping down, and grabbed sour cream I’d made the other day, running up the rickety ladder-like staircase and almost forgetting to close the trap door behind me.
The isbjørn watched me bemusedly as I frantically grabbed a spoon and dolloped the sour cream on the fish. “There. Oh, and salt!” I ran off again, finding what I searched for, and dumped that on too, sitting on the floor and watching expectantly. “Well. Eat!”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Infuriatingly slow, he nibbled his way through a whole fish without saying a word. I rocked on my heels, my hands tucked under my knees. I was on the verge of asking when he relented. “It’s fantastic, Lena. Thank you.”
I half-stood. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“I taught you myself, of course it’s delicious.”
My mood was so good that I let that pass without comment. “I was so worried I’d forget something or do something wrong!”
“Well, you did forget something.”
I sank back down. “What? Not enough pepper? Or you don’t like rosemary?”
“After all those times of getting after me for making you eat alone while I sat and stared, you’re doing the same thing.”
“Oh!” It hadn’t even occurred to me to eat the fish. “But I made this for you.”
Again, his eyes were unreadable. Of course, he still wore an isbjørn face, but I knew all of his expressions better than my own after all the months together, I knew the meaning of every wrinkle in that bear face. Except, apparently, this one. “Eat, Lena. It really is good.” He levitated another plate towards us, and delicately used two black foreclaws to lift a fish from his plate to mine, then magicked up a dollop of sour cream. While I stared, he even levitated a fork over. “Eat.”
I obediently did so. My eyes went wide. “You’re right—this is really good.”
He laughed, loud and long, and I joined in. “No false humility here,” he said when we calmed down, returning to eating his fish—which, I noticed, he now ate at a much more typical pace, though I thought he was still making an effort to savor it. My good isbjørn.
When I finished my food, I leaned back on my hands. “So, old man, how does it feel being twenty-one?”
The fur above his eye rose—I thought of it as his eyebrows now. “You’re not much younger than me, you know.”
“I’m only seventeen!”
“Hmm. Closer to eighteen—your birthday is in September, if I recall correctly.”
“It’s only April.”
“Practically May.”
“Fine, but you’re still a full three and a half years older than me, and therefore you are an old man.”
He rolled his eyes. “With those ample years between us I’ve gained much more wisdom than you could fathom, little Lena.”
Now I rolled my eyes. “Are you done? It’s time to fly!”
His grin returned at that. We parted ways to dress in the clothes we’d prepared, lightweight but warm—rather, I dressed in the clothes I’d prepared and he took the wings outside, where I met him, wearing thin sealskin boots and men’s pants (it wouldn’t do for my skirts to fly up and interfere with the wings), with a leather jerkin and leather gloves. I’d done my hair in a tight braid and tucked it into the jerkin.
Isbjørn’s eyebrows rose when he saw me. “I think your father would flay me alive if anyone saw you in that getup.”
I felt shocking, but since it was only the isbjørn I strutted and posed. “All the fine ladies of fashion would be green with envy. Especially once I get the wings on!” I hurried over to where they were spread out on the ground. The snow had melted enough that patches of yellow grass were showing. I bent over and ran my fingers over it. “How soon will the grass be green?” I asked.
“A few more weeks at least.”
“Hmm.” I stored that information away, and reached for my wings. We’d already worn the wings on several occasions for test runs, which had been exhilarating and perfect. I drew the wings on, speaking to activate enchantments that sealed leather straps around my arms and chest. I breathed deeply, smiling at the isbjørn, who looked like something from a child’s book with his wings sprouting from his sloped back.
We already stood near the ridge the castle was built on, which we’d decided would be better than the castle turrets for a jumping-off place. It was steep but not vertical for the first two hundred feet, and then turned into a gentler slope for another two hundred feet, after which a plain stretched until it turned into distant hills. The sun shone palely through sparse clouds.
Nerves shot through my veins like lightning. “Ready?” I asked, my voice as sparse as the clouds.
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m ready,” I snapped. “Are you?” Wind whipped the little hairs by my face. It had been blowing the whole time, but I felt it like a real presence, a third person added to our duo. It was deciding if I was worthy to be carried or if I would be slammed to the ground.
“Ready,” he said mildly. “I know you can do this.”
The words could have been trite. They would have been, from someone else, but the isbjørn had never given me empty praise. Empty insults, certainly, but never empty praise. I held onto the words, onto his confidence, like a physical lifeline. “Let’s go, then.”
I started to run, pulling the wind with me, thinking of what I wanted it to do, asking it to carry me. The isbjørn was a few steps behind me and I didn’t let him catch up, leaping as soon as I reached the edge.
A scream ripped from me, and I turned it into words, cursing out the wind and insisting it carry me. My heart stopped.
I fell . . .
and fell . . .
and fell . . .
and then . . .
I flew.
The moment when the wind decided to carry me was a tangible thing, my wings whupping straight as they caught the air under them. The ground that had been rushing towards me with unforgiving firmness belled away as I turned towards the sky. I let out a cry of joy as my heart soared. I could see for miles, over the hills to where water glimmered, where the snow was thin and patchy. The forest to my left stretched like a vast green carpet.
I spread the wings wider, kicking up, moving higher.
“Slow down!” the isbjørn called from behind me, and I twisted in the air, letting the wind carry me as I glided on my back. I laughed out loud at the sight of my isbjørn soaring like a misshapen, oversized bird. His wings were controlled entirely by magic, a feat I couldn’t imagine performing while also working with the wind—and, a detail I often forget, holding his whole body in a foreign shape.
I flipped back onto my front, thinking that if I were at all musically inclined I would break into song. No simple words could express what I felt.
Whispering, I urged the wind to carry me higher, faster, and for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, it obeyed. I was flying. It far surpassed my fantasies of this outing. I’d expected a burst of gliding, more of slow falling, and nothing more—that had been my experience on the trial runs, and I hadn’t thought it could be better. I’d been wrong. Gravity had no power over me, and the wind was submissive to my will. I was queen of the world.
The isbjørn caught up to me, though he still flew below me. “You’re a bird, Lena, I never knew!” he shouted.
“We’re flying!” I shouted back.
“That we are!” Even the isbjørn was too happy to pull off sarcasm.
Wonder glowed bright in my chest as I soared on, free, gliding, twisting, dancing, my wings expanding to let me float and then folding in to dive, catching me before I touched the ground, the wind lifting me when I called to it.
Then I bur
st out over the water, the distant lake suddenly immediately below me, thousands of silver coins glittering madly in the sunlight, rising in diamond sprays as I passed. I angled the wings and twirled, rapid flashes of blue and silver blurring past my eyes.
Straightening my wings, I cried out for the wind to take me higher, as high as it could. I rocketed into the air at a breathtaking speed, the wind responding beautifully to my challenge.
“Lena, careful!” Isbjørn’s roar was ripped from me, the only reason I caught it because I was so attuned to his voice.
I ignored him anyway. The air seemed to turn to sparkling nothing, my lungs struggling to use it to keep my body running. Still I rose.
Then the wind weakened, and was gone.
For a moment, I arced through the sky, neither air nor gravity holding me. The moment ended.
I was diving.
Tumbling, falling, pouring, like rain or snow or hail, racing towards the earth that would not free me from its ties so easily.
I thought I should have felt fear. All that I felt was steely determination. The earth could have me back, but on my terms.
Spreading my arms wide, I shouted for my wings to slow me, then began to scream at the wind, “YOU WILL NOT DROP ME! I FORBID YOU TO DROP ME!” No fear.
The lake was approaching very quickly, rushing to crush me in its watery embrace.
I was close enough to see the individual drops of water when they finally leapt as the wind returned, roaring in my ears as loud as the isbjørn ever had. It did not pick me up or stop me, only slowing me. I thought that fair and dove head-first into the frigid water.
Chapter Fifteen
Isbjørn
I was not fast enough to save her. All my magic, all my strength, whatever it was I had, was not sufficient. The wind stopped bending to my will as soon as it stopped bending to hers, holding me back as I watched her fall, screaming. Of course, being Lena, she was not screaming in terror, but screaming orders at the wind, no fear in her voice.
I could not tell if her fall had slowed. I could not tell if she was alive or dead. I ripped my wings off and dove into the lake, swimming as fast as I could, which was quite fast. Not fast enough.
Thoughts and feelings ripped through me, punishing and vicious. I had no time to dwell on them, other than recognize that if she did not survive the fall, I was not sure I could survive the pain.
Chapter Sixteen
Lena
My whole body stung, as if ten thousand bees had buried their stingers in my flesh. I had no strength, watching the shadowy bubbles of my breath rise to the surface.
No. I would not die this way.
Moving on willpower alone, I twisted so my wings spread out, hopefully slowing me as I sunk towards the bottom. The wings. How could I get the wings off when I couldn’t speak? They were sealed around my arms, tighter than if they’d been sewn on.
So I prayed, and put my trust in the gods, because Dagmar always said they’d help me, and in the isbjørn, because he was my best mortal example of always helping me, and then watched the sun disappear into shadows, lungs clawing my chest for air I wasn’t sure they’d get. My eyes flickered closed.
I sank.
And sank.
Suddenly, my arms were released from the wings, and I was rising. Even in my half-dead state, I clamped my fingers around my isbjørn’s fur. He’d found me.
We burst free from my liquid grave, and both gasped and coughed. Chest heaving, my lungs relished the clear, fresh air.
Sooner than I would’ve thought was possible, the isbjørn had carried me to a rocky beach, gently lifting me off his back with magic I couldn’t fathom how he had the energy for.
“That was fantastic,” I sputtered out.
My isbjørn made a disgusted noise. “You nearly killed yourself, little idiot.”
“That’s why I have you, to fly in and save me.” My voice was irritatingly weak and a touch croaky. “Happy birthday—you got to be a hero.”
He barked an involuntary laugh. “Even nearly dying won’t sidetrack you, will it?”
“The day’s only half over!” I protested, then coughed a few times, which gave me a moment to study the sun. “Well, three quarters over. I have more—” I paused to cough, then finished, “—plans.”
“Seeing as it’s my birthday, I declare a change of plans. I’m taking you home, whereupon you will take a hot bath, dress in warm clothes, and hold still until I see fit to release you.”
“Ugh, see if I ever let you plan my birthday festivities, Lord Boring.” My eyes started slipping shut, most definitely without my permission.
“Up you go,” he said softly, magicking me onto his back. I had the presence of mind to hold onto the fur around his neck, and the hairs twined around my fingers and wrist.
He went much slower than usual, and in one of my more alert moments I figured it was because he was, in fact, actually tired, something rather novel. His energy usually seemed limitless.
When we reached the castle, yellow fingers of sunset spilled from the west behind us. My faithful isbjørn trudged up to my room and deposited me in my bed, lying on the floor beside me. “As soon as I catch my breath, I’ll bring you food,” he said, the words more of a sigh than anything. I was too exhausted to reply.
By the time I woke, it was dark, nothing but the barest flicker of firelight illuminating the room. I wasn’t fully alert, or I would have been much more shocked by the masculine shape that lay where my isbjørn had been. All I could make out in the darkness were shoulders that my sleepy mind interpreted as absurdly broad, dark fabric, and boots that melded with the shadows.
Even tired as I was, I felt the momentousness of what I saw. I had a choice to make.
It didn’t take me a second to realize that I couldn’t break his trust. Not after he’d saved me, and spent all his energy carrying me back to collapse on my floor. My eyes fell shut, and I went back to sleep.
The next time I woke, I was alone, and the fire was merrily consuming several fresh logs, competing with the faint morning rays coming through my window.
Disappointment tasted in my mouth, a faint bitter tang. I’d almost forgotten, in the last five months, that my isbjørn was, in fact, a shifter. A human. A man. And in a stupid moment of nobility, I’d given up what was likely the only chance I’d have to see his face.
I rolled onto my back and groaned at my sore body. I needed to become stronger. Which meant working more magic. I thought as I took a bath in water the isbjørn had left for me—again making me grudgingly grateful that I hadn’t betrayed him and peeked at his face—and remembered the grass. A smile spread across my face, and I dressed in a hurry, then ran to find my isbjørn.
He was in the kitchen, with breakfast. My stomach made itself known, and I quickly thanked the isbjørn and ate as fast as I could. “Thank you for saving me,” I said impatiently.
“You’re welcome. Now what did you actually come down here to talk about?”
He knew me too well. “The castle is ugly.”
“So you’ve said.”
“But we should do something about it.”
“What would you suggest?”
“Do we have paint?”
“No.”
“Tiles?”
“No.”
“Fabric?”
“Lena, you know exactly what we have.”
“Hmph. That’s no use.”
“You won’t be here for much longer anyway.”
“Does that mean I have to live in such unsightliness? I think not,” I said disdainfully.
“Then what, little Lena, do you suggest?”
This was going perfectly. He would draw the same conclusion I had. Outside the slit windows, the snow was almost entirely gone, with patches of grass showing. “Grass,” I whispered, a smile starting on my face despite my best efforts to keep it in.
“What?”
I turned and shouted, “Grass!” then immediately ran out of the room, too excited to see the faç
ade all the way through. I could be excited enough for the both of us.
He caught up quickly. “Grass?”
I didn’t pause, heading straight for outside. “Grass!” I repeated excitedly.
“You forgot your shawl, ninny,” he told me as I ran out the door.
“I’m not a ninny, you are!” I threw over my shoulder, stopping, hands on hips, grinning madly.
Finally catching on, he said scornfully, “You want to put grass in the castle?”
“I do! And you’re going to help me, you charming isbjørn.”
“What on earth makes you think that?”
“Or I’ll light you on fire.”
“You always threaten to light me on fire. If you’d followed through every time, I’d be nothing but a blackened shrivel of myself—assuming I couldn’t deflect it, which I can, which makes the threat even less menacing.”
“Then I’ll purposely burn your food.” I gave him a self-satisfied, victorious smile.
He growled at the back of his throat. “Fine. I’ll help you. Ninny. What is it you want me to do?”
I pursed my lips, thinking. “We’ll need dirt,” I said after a moment.
“You want to use dirt to decorate?”
“No, I want to use dirt to grow grass to decorate.”
“You know that grass requires water and sunlight to grow.”
“We have a well.”
“Do you have a spare sun lying around too?”
“I hate it when you’re sarcastic. We can work magic, remember?”
“Magic can’t do everything, remember?” he said, matching my condescending tone.
“We grew my carrot plant,” I reminded him, referring to the project he’d let me work on a few months earlier, tired of old vegetables. “Why can’t we do this?”
“Because this is much larger.”
I thought some more. “We already charmed the windows to keep cold out—we could even put glass in. And—and we could run veins of warm water through the dirt, like a hothouse.”
“And where would we get the wood for the fire you’d need to do that?”
I gestured at the world. “There. Besides, it will be warm for a while, and it won’t need to be that big a fire.” Then I turned pleading eyes at him, which I’d lately discovered were often more effective than glaring eyes. “I just want to try, and I really want to learn more magic, and this seems like something that’ll push my limits, please, please, please.”