Mistress of the Wind

by Michelle Diener

  He was distressing her, he could see, her joy diminishing, tears spilling onto her cheeks as she watched his face.

  “You have haunted eyes.” She tucked her head under his chin, and her tears wet his skin. “What has she done to you?”

  “Shhhh.” He rocked them both, tightly bound together. “I fear you have had a harder time than me. You look . . . changed.”

  “I am.”

  The way she said it, as if she meant it literally, forced him to focus, his mind to clear. He lifted back his head.

  “How?”

  “I discovered I am the Wind Hag, after all.” She spoke in a rush, to get it over with. As if she were unsure of his reaction. And he remembered what he’d said to her many weeks ago. Remembered his fear, that, just like his father, he’d married a beauty to find she was a monster beneath.

  “So that is why the North Wind warned me.” He waited to feel the sense of outrage at having taken a lady who was far from what she seemed, but there was only happiness in his heart.

  She had managed the impossible to find him, and her eyes showed the risks she’d taken to get here. If she was the Wind Hag, he didn’t care. As long as she was still Astrid, she could be whatever else she pleased.

  “North was here?” She frowned and his interest sharpened.

  “This morning.” They were still entwined and he felt her begin to pull back, to pace, no doubt, but he refused to let her go.

  She looked startled, as if unused to anyone or anything restricting her, and he grinned down at her, his happiness spilling out and lighting the dark cell golden.

  She smiled back, rubbed her soft cheek against the base of his neck. “I thought I’d be too late. So to be just in time . . .” She gave a sigh. “I can’t believe North came to see you. What did he say?”

  Bjorn shrugged, not nearly as interested in North as in the woman in his arms. “Just not to eat the food, and to remember the favor he’d done me when I was free.”

  A laugh exploded from Astrid, quickly subdued, and she shook her head. “He is a sly one.”

  There was something more to North’s words than he’d thought, Bjorn realized, but it was nothing to him. He’d be anyone’s fool or dupe, as long as Astrid was with him.

  “You sound . . .” his words died in his throat as her expression changed, as if she had had a revelation.

  “Bjorn?” Her voice shook. “With all the vedfe and the yggren on your side, who would take Norga’s part?”

  “There are only a few, but they are powerful, and with all the trolls, they would be a formidable force. We might have a chance to triumph, if only I could be sure of the yggren.”

  “You can be sure of the yggren.” She sounded so certain, he almost believed her.

  “They’ve attacked twice.”

  Astrid was shaking her head. “They attacked, but not on Norga’s orders.”

  Bjorn thought about it. “If they have their own reasons, I can trust them even less. At least as Norga’s minions, I can predict their actions.”

  “Bjorn, only two were turned. And it will not happen again. The yggren swore loyalty to you and me the morning Norga took you. They can be counted on.”

  “How do you know it won’t happen again?” Bjorn tried not to sound disbelieving, but he couldn’t help it. Astrid was naïve. She trusted too much.

  “I know it won’t happen again,” she said, and lifted a hand to his face, “because I now command the one who turned them in the first place.”

  * * *

  “The North Wind was trying to kill me?” Bjorn leant back against the wall and looked at Astrid, sitting on the bed beside him, in astonishment. “What have I done that he would try?”

  “Took me.” Astrid smiled. “My winds are jealous of my attention.”

  It made a strange, twisted sense.

  “And the yggren are behind me?”

  She nodded.

  “Though I had my doubts, all the vedfe have proved they are loyal.”

  “So who does Norga have for her army? Besides her trolls?”

  “Those who live in dark places, and would welcome more of them.” Bjorn tapped his lips. “But—we are more than evenly matched with the yggren on our side. I never counted them into the fight, as they looked set to remain neutral. Norga was handed a boon the day they appeared to turn against me but now, with them actively against her, I would risk war.”

  “You will have the aid of the Wind Hag, as well.” There was an edge to Astrid’s voice, a hardness, he had never heard before. “My winds and I would stand beside you.”

  Bjorn thought for a moment what that would look like. The four winds gathered together, Astrid raised up amongst them. The hair on his arms rose, and he shivered.

  “But all this is just talk. Norga will kill you if you refuse to marry Dekla. You are at her mercy here. I doubt she would give you the option of war now.” Astrid drew her knees up, hugged them against her.

  It was true. But there was always a way. If Astrid could find him here, he could find a way out of the ceremony.

  “The wedding is tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I know,” Astrid whispered back, and for the first time, she sounded afraid.

  * * *

  Astrid stood facing the door as Dekla’s footsteps approached. She did not dare look at Bjorn, even though he faced the wall, too terrified she would give herself away. Give him away.

  She felt hollow-eyed with exhaustion, and energized at the same time.

  They had not slept. They had talked and planned, and when their words ran out, they sat quietly, taking strength from each other.

  Astrid let her shoulders droop in resignation, in defeat, as the door swung open, and she shuffled forward, her eyes on the floor.

  “Looks like you were out of luck.”

  Dekla kept her voice even, but though Astrid didn’t dare look up to see, she knew the troll’s eyes would be triumphant.

  She shuffled out the cell. Dekla swung the door closed with a crash, and turned the lock, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

  Enjoy your triumph for now, Astrid thought as she put her hand in her pocket for the troll princess one last time. It didn’t want to obey her, and her mouth filled with bitterness as she pulled out the golden flute.

  Dekla’s eyes widened in anticipation, the hot stone smell of her intensifying in her excitement.

  “How do you play it?” Her words were greedy, impatient.

  Astrid managed to hold the flute out, forced her fingers to relax as they tried to close in a vice-grip around the golden cylinder.

  “You blow into it.”

  “That is all?” Dekla’s tone sharpened, disbelieving, but Astrid shrugged.

  “That’s all.”

  “If you’re lying . . .” Dekla snatched the flute up, blew into it, and a melody, darker, greener, than Astrid’s high, golden tune, spiraled from the instrument. Dekla’s eyes glazed over, and she walked away, down the corridor from which Norga had once come, as if she’d forgotten Astrid was even there.

  They’d planned for Astrid to sneak back into the castle. She’d thought she’d have to climb the cliff wall again. But this was better. This was better by far.

  She simply wouldn’t leave.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Astrid kept her head down, weaving through the crowd of servants standing on the edges of the courtyard like timid brown sparrows watching vultures.

  The guests were not seated, but stood in loosely-formed groups, their manner one of curiosity rather than excitement. The way they turned their massive, mottled bodies away from the raised dais showed an uncertainty with this forced alliance.

  Dekla stood on the stage alone, her eyes furtively sliding to the doorway from which Bjorn would emerge. The parody of a nervous bride.

  Astrid bowed her head lower and stopped in the cluster of people nearest the platform. She could go no further. If she stepped out of the protection of the crowd, she’d be as exposed as a
rabbit in a field, with a hawk circling above.

  Dekla must not see her.

  She tried to stand easily, naturally, with the others. Her clothes were as dirty and tattered as theirs, her face as grimy. Her downcast face and hunched shoulders blended in. It was as if an army of people were here, disguised, for some secret purpose, just as she was.

  The thought made her glance at the nearest person, the woman she’d seen sweeping the courtyard yesterday. The woman’s attention was fixed on the spectacle of the bower and the waiting troll bride, a defeated droop to her lips.

  She turned as she felt Astrid’s gaze on her, and a spark of interest flashed in her eyes.

  She half-lifted a hand, almost beseeching, and Astrid fought down her instinctive recoil, forced herself to stare back with disinterest. She made her face blank and turned away, the depth of the woman’s need frightening her.

  She hunched her shoulders even more, made her body sag, gave the tiredness, the hunger and the cold battering her free reign, and looked at the woman again.

  Slack-mouthed, the woman returned her attention to the wedding group.

  Astrid edged away from her, but she had a feeling she needn’t bother. She’d been forgotten.

  She focused her own attention ahead. More was happening now. Norga had taken the dais, standing as if to officiate in the ceremony. But suddenly she raise her head and looked across the courtyard to the massive main entrance, and Astrid saw the other trolls had, too. They stood in silence, tense and waiting, and a strange expectancy crept through the crowd, making Astrid’s arms tingle with nerves.

  At last she heard what the trolls had heard long before—the rumble of cart wheels. The servants began to shift uneasily. More and more drifted closer to the inner castle wall, ready to bolt within to safety.

  Astrid found herself suddenly abandoned, alone in no-mans-land, and she edged back to the new front line of spectators.

  A troll came through the gates, a forerunner. He seemed surprised at the gathering of people, and he started visibly at the sight of the dais.

  He came to a halt and stood as if lost, as if afraid of the news he brought with him, and Norga beckoned him with her finger.

  Astrid watched him hesitate before he climbed up onto the platform. He bent his head close to Norga’s, whispered his message.

  Norga shrieked. Lifted her hand and hit him so hard he was thrown back, landing heavily on the cobbles.

  “I told you there must be no second time.”

  The troll rubbed at the blood running from the corner of his mouth. “I lost three trolls. We never saw them again.”

  “So she’s still out there.” Norga turned, and Astrid knew she was facing the direction of the mountain. Knew her escape from the three trolls in the palace was the cause of this temper.

  Trolls and humans stood quiet and subdued, waiting for the storm to blow over. Each afraid the smallest movement would make them Norga’s next target.

  Rumbling filled the silence and Astrid risked a look at Dekla, saw her mouth purse to a thin line. She seemed impatient. Bored with the added complication of the return of Norga’s little army.

  Two trolls, pushing against a massive wooden harness like oxen, rolled a covered cart through the massive doors. They looked battle worn, with gashes across their chests and arms, some half-healed over, some inflamed.

  They had been traveling from the forest all this time, Astrid realized. It had taken them as long to get here as it had taken her to visit the four corners of the world.

  They came to a shuddering stop in the center of the courtyard, directly before the dais, but the cart continued to rattle. There was someone caged within, under the covering, shaking the bars.

  A place deep within Astrid grew still with shock.

  “You cut things fine, Hedle. You’re almost too late, but at least you got this right.” Norga jumped down to the ground and strode forward, pulled the heavy curtain down. Beneath the rough canvas was a metal cage.

  Astrid’s heart was seized in her chest and squeezed by an unrelenting hand. She bent down, putting her hands on her knees, closing her eyes. Gasping for breath.

  If she didn’t look, perhaps it couldn’t be true.

  The few servants around her murmured in amazement, and Astrid felt an icy drop of fear hit the back of her neck and speed its way down her spine.

  She forced herself to look up. Saw one strong, muscled arm—its deep brown gouged by trolls’ claws—fade in and out of focus behind the iron bars.

  She stepped closer, unable to help herself, and her movement caught the prisoner’s attention. Jorgen lifted his eyes to hers.

  He was a wounded oak. Trembling with pain, uprooted and dying. But his shock at seeing her, his blink of understanding at what her being in the crowd must mean, sent her reeling back.

  She crouched down, a forest of legs around her, hugging her knees, breathing deep. This wasn’t about her and Bjorn anymore. It was about Jorgen too. And if they managed to trick Norga, to get her to concede defeat, there was nothing to stop her killing Jorgen in the backlash of her spite and rage.

  A shudder ran down her, almost unbalancing her on her haunches.

  In all conscience, could they put their future happiness before Jorgen’s life?

  * * *

  The trolls who brought him down from the cell, two gray slabs of rock, must have thought him too weak and subdued to escape or commit violence. They let go of his arms as they stepped into the courtyard, and he was forced to walk toward his bride himself.

  The hiss and suck of the sea sounded as if it were miles away, instead of just beyond the wall, and Bjorn used the beat of its far-away rhythm as he made his way to the raised dais. Not a death march, but a march of humiliation.

  He did not try to make out Astrid in the crowd. Too much rested on Norga never discovering she was here until it was too late—

  He froze, a high-pitched buzz in his ears. Hazel eyes, cool as the deep forest, stared out at him from a cage, bracketed on either side by iron bars.

  Bjorn lifted a hand toward him, then clenched it into a fist. He looked up to the dais, locked eyes with Norga.

  She smiled. Her eyes glinting with the knowledge of how this must affect him.

  “A witness from your kingdom,” she said. “So it can never be said that this did not take place.”

  Jorgen slumped against the bars, and slid, half-faded, to the filthy floor of his cage.

  “He will die this far from the forest. It’s his lifeblood.” He was stripped of his power, but if Astrid had not been there, if this wasn’t about more than him, he would try to kill the troll queen right now.

  He shuddered in a breath. Held himself still and calm.

  “You are becoming more pragmatic as you get older.” Norga moved forward to the steps, unaware how close she was to a wild animal. “It is time to pledge yourself, Mountain Prince.”

  Beside her, Dekla shuffled, her eyes darting between Jorgen, Bjorn and her mother.

  Bjorn felt a thread of pity for her. A pawn of both sides.

  “It looks as if your witness is dying, Mother.”

  At her bored tone, the pity he’d felt evaporated, and his chest contracted with pain as he spun back to Jorgen.

  The vedfe lay, eyes closed, almost completely faded away.

  “No!” Bjorn threw himself at the cage. Thrust his hand between the bars and touched hot, fevered flesh.

  “He needs water. What good is he to you dead?”

  Norga said nothing, but the calculation in her eyes told him everything.

  “He will get water and a quick journey back to his forest once the ceremony is complete. My little way of making sure you behave today.”

  Bjorn walked to the dais but did not put his foot on the first step. The blood pounded so hard in his head, he felt lightheaded. His heart gave him such a stab of pain, he put his fist over it.

  If he and Astrid went ahead with their plan, Jorgen would die. Either because he would never be
returned to his forest, or because Norga would kill him in revenge.

  He turned to face the crowd—searching, searching. This was not his decision alone.

  He tried to swallow, and found he could not. A rock had lodged in his throat, hard and choking.

  A small movement, someone standing from a crouch, drew his eye and suddenly there was Astrid amongst the servants. The tears glistening in her winter blue eyes made his knees give way, and he stumbled forward a step. She gave a tight nod, and stepped backwards, deeper into the crowd. Disappeared among the servants.

  “We are waiting, Prince.”

  Bjorn turned to the dais, looked over his shoulder one last time, and placed his foot on the first step.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  A deathly cry, the final creaking scream of wild oak as it falls to the woodman’s ax, silenced every voice.

  Bjorn leapt from the top step back to the ground and gripped the cage’s iron bars, straining to bend them with his bare hands.

  Jorgen had faded away completely. Bjorn could see nothing of him.

  “Give me the key,” he screamed to Norga, so wild he touched the heart of the bear, that place he had never allowed himself to go in all the time he was enchanted. Too afraid it would seduce him into forgetting his responsibilities, offer him a half-life with no real purpose, but no pain, either.

  He embraced that wildness now. Was able to remember it only too well. He’d lived with his mind rubbing side by side with the beast long enough.

  He saw, through the red haze around his vision, that Dekla’s eyes were wide, and Norga had taken a step back, her face twisted with shock.

  She threw him the key, and expecting to have to fight for it, to kill, he missed the catch and it bounced off his chest, fell at his feet.

  He scrabbled for it, his fingers shaking, and he cursed as he fumbled with the lock. He ripped the door open, then moved carefully forward on his hands and knees, feeling his way.

  His hand touched a shoulder, and he knelt closer, touched Jorgen’s hot, dry face.

  The lord of the vedfe was lifeless.

  Bjorn sat back on his heels and looked across at the troll queen, murder in his eyes.