Mistress of the Wind

by Michelle Diener

  * * *

  Astrid pushed her way through the crowd that had frozen around her, and took a step away from the safety of the herd toward the cage. Like an unexpected slap, the open space between the servants and the trolls brought her to her senses.

  She watched Bjorn throw open the cage door, crawl in and touch Jorgen’s invisible body. Saw him sit back and look up at the dais, every muscle tensed, his lips drawn back over his teeth as if he planned to leap straight through the iron bars and rip Norga’s throat out.

  If he did attack, she would join him.

  What did she have to lose?

  But even as she braced to run forward, Bjorn jerked slightly, as if touched by an unexpected hand. She watched the rage drain out of him, his head and shoulders drooping over his chest, his fisted hands opening and rubbing his temple.

  Norga’s dark magic at work? Bringing Bjorn to heel?

  Astrid trembled, hardly breathing, waiting for Bjorn to come back to his senses. To fight.

  Instead, he stood, stooping slightly in the cage, and walked slowly, as if carrying a heavy weight on his back. He eased himself out of the cage door to the ground, rather than jumping down as she would have expected, and seemed to wander, puzzled, away from the dais, toward the measly center court fountain that trickled its water into a moss-stained bowl of stone. He stumbled as he got to it, slumped to the ground, and shook his head.

  He put out a hand, caught a palm-full of water, and rubbed it over his face. It seemed to revive him, and he stood up, his face controlled again, his eyes hard.

  Norga and Dekla watched him, their faces giving nothing away. But Astrid thought the way they stood since Bjorn was overcome in the cage was more relaxed. Their hands no longer clenched, their necks no longer straining forward.

  They had been afraid of him.

  As he walked back, Bjorn’s step was normal, no longer slow and full of effort. He looked down at the first step up to the platform, but his feet remained firmly on the cobbles of the courtyard. “If this it to be a true marriage, I am entitled to ask my bride-to-be to prove herself. To do something for me.”

  As Norga hissed in a breath, Astrid’s mouth dropped open. This was how it should have gone, had Jorgen not arrived. This is what they’d planned.

  But she would never have chosen to do it over Jorgen’s dead body.

  * * *

  Bjorn could see Norga had not thought of the groom’s prerogative to ask a favor of his bride. Had forgotten it, perhaps, or never knew it. But his words hung silver in the air, the clear ring of truth to them.

  “What would you have me do?” Dekla stepped forward, speaking—asserting herself—for the first time.

  Bjorn looked into her eyes and saw nothing but hardness.

  “I would have you wash my shirt.” He lifted the fine cotton, gray and dull, off his chest as if its very touch offended him.

  Norga frowned, and Bjorn could see her mind working, sure there was a devious trick behind the simple request.

  “And when she does that, you will marry her?”

  “I will marry whoever is able to make this shirt completely white again. If your daughter is the one to do it, then I will marry her.”

  “You wish to humiliate me. Make me to do the work of a servant, before you are forever under my thumb.” Dekla spoke softly, and Bjorn had to strain forward to hear her. “You had better enjoy it, Mountain Prince, because it will cost you.”

  Bjorn shrugged. Stared up at her, defiant.

  “Bring me warm water in a basin and some soap,” she called into the crowd, and two women hurried off into the inner castle.

  Under the guise of watching them go, Bjorn searched for Astrid, found her standing in the first rank of servants, close as she could to him. She was tense, waiting, and he could see her cheeks and eyes were red from weeping.

  The two women stepped out of the kitchens, a large wooden tub between them. One stumbled in her nervousness as every eye turned on them, and they set it down with a thump, spilling water. It swirled over Bjorn’s worn, scuffed boots.

  Slowly, deliberately, he loosened the ties that held the top of his shirt together, and bent forward to pull it over his head. He straightened, holding the shirt like a rotting fish with the tips of his fingers, and looked up at Dekla.

  Her eyes moved from the shirt to his bared torso, and she pursed her lips, her gaze refusing to meet his.

  She walked down the steps to him and stopped just near his shoulder, at least a head taller than he.

  “I can make myself beautiful, you know,” she whispered. “Beyond my mother’s lands. Where my power will not clash with hers.”

  Bjorn flinched.

  She reached out and took the shirt, and for a moment, her eyes did meet his, blasting him with barely controlled emotion. Lust. Yearning. Greed.

  “As she looked for your father, I could look for you. And I have things. Beautiful, golden things.”

  Bjorn stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and said nothing. He felt a muscle jump in his jaw, and realized he was grinding his teeth together.

  Dekla watched him a moment longer, and did not find what she was looking for in his eyes.

  “Never say I didn’t give you a chance, Bearman. You could have had the illusion of beauty, but I will not try to make your life easier again.”

  “I have spent too long enchanted,” he answered her, so quietly it was her turn to lean forward. “I am giving you the benefit of my experience. It is no way to live.”

  She reared back, her black-tipped fingers gripping the shirt as if she would tear it to shreds.

  “Careful,” Norga called from the dais. “He is a tricky one. We do not want to forfeit anything because of your temper.”

  Dekla shot her mother a look of loathing, but her grip loosened and she turned to the basin at her feet.

  “I will make you wash everything in our palace every day, for this,” she said to Bjorn, her voice sweet and light as Norga’s had once been in her magical woman’s body. “And I will turn myself into a beautiful woman each day, and tease you, and tease you, until you beg me to lie with you. And just as you get into my bed, I will take my true form again.”

  Bjorn dropped his hands to his side, cocked his head, considering.

  “You and your mother keep confusing me with an animal, princess. I may have looked like one for a long time, but I never was one.” He nodded toward the basin. “If you are able to do this task, and I am forced to marry you, there is nothing in heaven or earth that would make me beg for your body. You are chaining yourself to a life of unhappiness for your mother’s greed. I feel sorry for you.”

  Dekla cried out. Whether in pain or anger, Bjorn could not tell.

  “You prepare yourself for a life of unhappiness, Bearman. You are about to lose.” And Dekla plunged the shirt into the soapy water.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Astrid held her breath. Bjorn was confident this would work, but they were in Norga’s world here, and she didn’t want to place her hopes on the magic woven into a linen shirt.

  She saw Dekla smile as she bent over the tub, the clear water now murky as she pummeled the cloth with the bar of soap.

  Triumphant, Dekla lifted the shirt out, streaming with water, and Astrid could see it was white.

  “You missed a spot,” Bjorn said, leaning forward and poking the left breast of the shirt with his finger.

  Dekla frowned, and peered closer. She dipped the shirt back in again. When she lifted it out, her frown deepened.

  “It looks like those three dark spots are spreading.” Bjorn showed no sign of glee, his face serious under the scrutiny of Norga’s suspicion, but Astrid felt a catch of triumph in her heart.

  Dekla scrubbed again, harder, more viciously, and even some of the servants gasped at the black patch that spread from the left breast across the shirt.

  “This is enchanted,” she cried, lifting up the sleeve, which was now completely black. “The black tallow is spreading e
verywhere. I cannot clean it.”

  “Your mother stripped me of my power when she took me. If it is enchanted, it isn’t enchanted by me.” Bjorn braced his legs apart, and Astrid knew he thought Dekla’s temper would not hold much longer.

  “You knew.” Norga leapt from the dais, and Astrid flinched, sure she was going to strike Bjorn. “You knew this was going to happen.”

  “All I asked was for her to complete a simple task any woman here could do. You,” he pointed to Astrid, “come here.”

  Astrid stepped into the open, and hunched her shoulders, cringing like the other servants did. Norga, Dekla and Bjorn stood around the wash basin, and as she reached it, she heard Dekla draw her breath in surprise.

  “This is a trick.” Dekla’s voice shook.

  Her mother looked sharply at her, then back to Astrid, and Astrid felt her knees weaken at the power in her gaze. “How do you know it’s a trick? Do you recognize this creature?”

  Astrid looked up into Dekla’s eyes, held her gaze for one long, cool beat, and Dekla hesitated, shook her head.

  “I have never seen her before.” Her eyes cut down and away.

  Norga bent forward and examined Astrid, grabbing her hair, looping it around her massive fingers and pulling Astrid’s head back for a better look. Astrid balanced, her neck exposed, vulnerable. One jerk of Norga’s hands and her neck would snap. There was no need for artifice here, her whole body quivered with fear, her heart hammering loud enough for Norga to hear it without leaning any closer.

  Norga shoved her forward, her face sneering. “You think this pitiful, grubby thing can do what my daughter cannot?”

  Bjorn gave a smile, icy as the plains North called home. “Let us see, shall we?”

  What if she couldn’t do it? Astrid held the wet shirt in her hands and stared down at the now-filthy water.

  She dared a glance at Bjorn, and saw a brief gleam of delight and certainty in his eyes.

  It gave her the strength to kneel before the basin and drop the shirt into it. She picked up the bar of soap, slippery and soft, and plunged her hands into the water.

  It was hard to see. The water was so dirty, she at first had no idea whether she’d succeeded or not. But when she lifted up a sleeve, and it was white as pure snow, she knew she had.

  “Has she got it completely clean?” Dekla asked, and her voice was hushed.

  Norga grabbed the shirt, lifted it up against the sky, and her action had a touch of the marriage sheet ceremony about it, with her trolls and the servants as witness. This time, though, a lack of stain was the triumph, not the bloody mark of virginity lost.

  “How did you do it?” Norga turned, her face darkening. She grabbed for Astrid, but Bjorn was there first, standing in front of her. He tugged the shirt from her hands and pulled it, wet and dripping, over his head.

  “What do you care about her?” Norga looked over his shoulder at Astrid, her eyes narrowed, her long fingers flicking in irritation.

  “She is my future wife, after all.”

  Norga’s gaze left her and moved sharply back to Bjorn, and standing behind his broad back, Astrid realized Norga thought he was needling her. Her expression was annoyed, but not enraged.

  “Let my daughter try again.”

  “There is nothing left to clean, and she was given plenty of chances.” Bjorn widened his stance.

  “They know each other.”

  Dekla’s words cut through the air sharper than North through a thin coat. Norga turned to her slowly, and Astrid could see the rage building in her. She made short, jerky movements.

  “What do you mean?”

  Dekla’s skin went a paler shade of green. “I think she is his lover. The one from the mountain.”

  “How do you know?” Norga took a threatening step toward her daughter, and Dekla cringed back.

  “It doesn’t matter. I just do.”

  Norga struck out, the sound of her slap like the crack of a whip. Dekla stumbled back, holding her cheek, and Astrid saw tears on her cheeks.

  Norga spun back, and Astrid fought to stop herself cringing, even with Bjorn between them. She had never seen pure hatred before.

  “Is she?” She spoke to Bjorn, but her eyes never left Astrid’s face.

  Bjorn said nothing, but Astrid saw him tense, the muscles on his back and arms bunching.

  “You could not have tricked me so.” She shook her head. “The original agreement still stands. You marry my daughter, and there is no war to keep the balance.”

  “I have found a new ally, and rediscovered my old ones.” Bjorn crossed his arms over his chest. “There will be no ceremony. If we must to war, we must.”

  Norga stilled. “What new ally?”

  “The Wind Hag, and her four winds.”

  There was a murmur from the trolls, and the one Norga had struck from the dais earlier stepped forward.

  Astrid felt a grudging respect for his courage.

  “The wind was our enemy, from the moment we entered the forest. It harried us all the while there and all the way back until we reached the Far Hills.” He pointed to the peaks encircling Norga’s peninsula.

  “But it came no further?” Norga’s voice was controlled.

  The troll shook his head.

  “You are lying, then.” She turned to Bjorn and her eyes were narrow. “You have had no chance to make a new alliance. And the winds cannot reach here.”

  “I am not lying.” Bjorn opened his arms and spoke without force.

  The trolls murmured again, and Astrid saw they believed him.

  “We shall see. To war it is, then, but it’s a war that will be fought without you.” Norga’s face twisted, and she leapt forward, her arms coming out in attack, and Bjorn leapt to meet her.

  Astrid swallowed a cry.

  They grappled, locked against each other, the strain on both their faces.

  Astrid saw Dekla watching the fight, the strangest expression on her face. Her hand was still to her cheek, as she watched Bjorn take her mother on. Astrid could see it excited her. The open hunger in her eyes made Astrid feel sick to her stomach.

  Norga may want to vent her rage personally on Bjorn, but if she lost to him, there were fifty or more trolls to do her bidding. To kill him or capture him.

  Astrid edged backward. They needed reinforcements. The odds were too stacked against them. And there was only one who could come to their aid.

  She turned and dived into the crowd.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Astrid ran up the open stairs of the inner wall to the parapet, lifting her dress so she did not trip on the uneven stonework.

  Halfway up, she heard another set of footsteps pounding behind her, and turned.

  Dekla.

  For a single moment, they looked into each other’s eyes, and Astrid saw hatred burn bright in the troll princess. Dekla was chasing after her to kill her, not stop her.

  She spun, carried on. Faster. Faster. Faster.

  She used the words as a rhythm to climb to. She burst out on top of the wall, her lungs heaving, and raced across to the place she’d come up from the cliffs that first day here.

  “North.” Her scream echoed down the rock, with no wind to snatch it away. She looked down, but nothing stirred. “North!” She thought his name over and over in her head. Concentrated on calling him.

  “You have a companion?” Dekla leaned against the wall of the parapet, drawing in gulping breaths. “How can they help you?”

  Astrid looked uneasily behind her, at the parapet guard house with its closed door. It was a dead end.

  “North!” The shrieks of the swimming gulls and the swish and rattle of the waves on the pebbles were her only answer from below.

  “You tricked me.” Dekla’s voice quivered with rage. “He was supposed to be mine.”

  Astrid blinked at the fury, the darkness, in her face.

  “He is not. And never will be. Even if you win.” Astrid stood taller.

  Dekla threw her arm fo
rward in a chopping motion. A child having a tantrum. “You think he should be yours because you are both beautiful?”

  “No, he should not be mine because of that.” Astrid risked another glance over the wall. Could North really not have heard her? “He is mine because he has chosen to be mine. And I have chosen to be his.”

  Dekla always unsettled her. She was forever torn between pity and revulsion for the troll. She caught a fleeting impression of pain on Dekla’s face. “If you have also chosen to be his, then I am sorry.”

  Dekla’s eyes flickered, a lightning fast change of mood to sly and calculating, and then she bent her head into her hands, and sobbed.

  Astrid watched her, knowing Dekla was about to strike. Where was North?

  “But you didn’t chose him, did you?” she said suddenly. “Your mother did. And you want him only because your mother had one like him. You don’t want him for himself.”

  She’d hoped her words would provoke a response from Dekla, give North a little more time to drag himself off his rock, but instead, Dekla dropped her hands from her face and pounced. She grabbed Astrid up as if she weighed nothing, pinning her arms to her sides, her grip cruel. Biting.

  She turned to the inner courtyard and held Astrid up like a trophy. Looking at her feet dangling out over the edge, Astrid was gripped with the certainty Dekla would simply let go. Drop her two floors into the crowd below.

  “Bearman,” Dekla called down, and Astrid saw Bjorn and Norga freeze mid-wrestle. They were on the ground, grunting as they fought against each other’s hold.

  Bjorn let go of Norga, pushed himself off her and stood, his face a mask of horror.

  “Dekla . . .” His voice was pleading, and he held out a hand, a begging motion.

  “I told you I’d make your life a living hell,” Dekla called down. “Say goodbye.”

  “No!” Bjorn’s shout echoed through the courtyard.

  “You won’t even have her body.” Dekla turned to the cliff side, lifted Astrid over her head, and the world tilted topsy-turvy. “Farewell, golden girl.”

  Fear closed Astrid’s throat, and she could not respond. Dekla swung her back and then forward, hurling her over the parapet like a javelin.