by Sam Hooker
There was a lot of commotion around a big inn near the center of town, which—according to its sign—was called The Leaping Stag. It was stuffed with revelers, no doubt due to the skill of the minstrel playing the lute inside. As tired as she was, she’d loved to have stepped in and listened to the sublime music for a while. Unfortunately, the throngs of onlookers outside were packed too tightly for her to even get close to the door.
No one actually likes being in crowds, it’s merely a condition to be tolerated when everyone wants to be in the same place at the same time. Between Osgrey and Redcrow, Volgha already had all the crowd she could handle. She opted to give this one a miss.
Wandering through the town, she stayed close to the base of the mighty Yggdrasil. It would have taken her all night to walk all the way around it, but luckily there was another inn not too far away. The sign out front bore a cozy looking fireplace with a pair of hounds sleeping in front of it. Just the sort of ambiance she was seeking. She pushed against the door, and it opened.
There was no one inside, only a couple of candles burning on top of the bar.
“Hello?” called Volgha, surprising herself at how hoarse her voice had gone. The lack of sleep might give her a shot at that new career as the husky-voiced lounge singer she’d never wanted to be.
“Yes?” came a voice from the back. “Hello! Have a seat, I’ll be there in a moment!”
Tell him to be quick about it, cawed Redcrow. We Wardens wait for no man!
“Hush,” pleaded Volgha. “Can you please just be quiet for a moment?”
I don’t know if this place is fit for a Warden, cawed Redcrow, but it’s certainly a step up from our old hovel.
“These lodgings are temporary,” said Volgha. “And the cottage is not a hovel.”
I should say it isn’t! Osgrey bristled. I built that cottage with my own two hands, and started the stew myself!
Well, it’s certainly gone hovel in the meantime. The same can be said for your stew, by the smell of it.
Volgha took a seat at the bar while they bickered, and fought to stay awake. After a couple of minutes, an old man who looked nothing at all like a Viking emerged from the door behind the bar. He was short, had wispy white hair, and no beard at all.
“Welcome to the Old Stone Hearth,” he said with a smile. “Sorry there’s no supper on, you’re the first visitor I’ve had in … well, more evenings than you could count on both hands, I reckon!”
“That’s okay, I’m not hungry. Everyone’s at the huge inn down that way, I take it?”
“The Leaping Stag.” The old man grimaced. “It’s that minstrel. He’s magnificent, I’ll give him that, but he’s drawn away all of my business! I don’t know why he hasn’t moved on, that’s what his sort like to do.”
“He is superb,” said Volgha. “I heard him when I passed by in the street, but there’s no room to so much as stand in there. Not the sort of place that’s conducive to a good evening rest.”
“Well said. You’ll be wanting a room, then?”
“Please.”
“It’s five pennies an evening.”
Volgha said a swear word. She didn’t have much money, and what she had was still in the cottage. Witches deal in favors, not cash.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any money,” said Volgha.
The old man looked her up and down. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she answered cautiously.
“Then let’s not worry about the money,” he said with a smile. “I’ve got a couple of things that could use a witch’s attention, and I’d be happy to give you a room in exchange for services.”
That was lucky, cawed Redcrow. I’ve heard villagers like to burn witches.
“And where would you have heard that?” inquired Volgha, turning brusquely to stare at Redcrow.
In your thoughts, crazy lady who yells at birds.
She looked back to the barkeep, who had a sort of surprised expression. Their eyes met, and he suddenly found something in the rafters above the bar that demanded his rapt attention.
“What sort of services?” Volgha was tired, but not so tired that she was going to give the old man a blank chit. She’d negotiate terms before she agreed to any favors.
“Nothing that would be too difficult for you, I imagine. Grinding some herbs, examining a few of my animals out back, and maybe a potion to relieve my gout? Is that something that witchery can do?”
“Yes,” replied Volgha, “all of that sounds reasonable.”
Druidry could manage it as well, said Osgrey. If only I were corporeal at the moment, I could—
“Well you’re not corporeal, are you?” Volgha was looking up at the ceiling since Osgrey had no face in which her finger could wag. “So since you can’t help, why not quietly let me handle it?”
“Er, all right.” The old man reached under the bar and produced a little iron key. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. If you need anything, my name is Hans.”
“Thank you, Hans. I am Volgha, the Winter Witch.”
“Oh,” his eyes widened, “I didn’t know that there was a witch representing the entire season.”
“There are witches for all kinds of things,” said Volgha. “Winter is mine.”
“Impressive,” said Hans. “Sleep well, Volgha, the Winter Witch.”
“Good evening.”
She had barely shut the door behind her and collapsed into bed before sleep overpowered her, like the smell of milk left out long enough to go fuzzy and start having opinions.
There was a moment when she awoke that was perfectly still. She took in a deep breath and let it out. The curtains over the window were parted very slightly, and there was a long ray of crimson sunset painted across the ceiling. She stared at it for a moment, just appreciating the stillness before her mind was flooded with thoughts of everything she needed to address: the horrid portal that her sister had Ghasterly open in her cottage, all the business with Loki, the Warden business—
Do you mind?
Volgha could sense Redcrow’s annoyance.
“Do I mind what?” she asked.
You were doing all right there for a moment. That part where you were just staring at the ceiling barely woke me up at all.
“And then my thoughts were too loud, I take it.”
He’s right you know, said Osgrey. The Warden must have a quiet mind to attend to her duties.
“That’s just the sort of thing that you should tell the new Warden, whenever you find someone who’s interested.”
She’s interested, said Redcrow. Would you at least think about it? Don’t ruin my big shot for me!
“It’s my decision, not yours.”
It’s not your decision, said Osgrey, it’s your destiny.
“I don’t believe in destiny!”
Please stop shouting!
“I’m trying, but you two won’t give me a moment’s peace! I just woke up! Can’t I just have a moment to collect my thoughts?”
You share your thinking grounds now, cawed Redcrow. If you want quiet, you have to be quiet for me as well. And for Osgrey, too, I suppose.
Volgha sighed. He was right. She knew she’d adjust, just as she’d adjusted to the cottage after growing up in the castle. She just didn’t know how to think any more quietly.
You’re much louder when you’re worried, cawed Redcrow, and louder still when you’re angry. Maybe try to avoid those.
“Easier said than done,” Volgha muttered. “Let’s work on it later. For now, we need to find Loki. I’ll worry less about that once it’s done.”
Obviously.
She’d have to help Hans at some point, if for no other reason than to keep people avowing that witches keep their word. But first, she needed to find Loki. Midgard was a big place, and her only friend here so far was an old man who kept an inn with no patrons. Asking around would take far too much effort, so it would have to be magic.
She looked at Redcrow and almost instinctiv
ely thought about him circling around the area in a tone that said “please.”
Yeah, all right, cawed Redcrow. Not bad. You’re still yelling a bit, though.
She went to the window and opened it. Redcrow leapt through and took wing.
She could still feel him, though the clarity of the sensation seemed to wane very slightly as he moved farther away.
Going into her satchel, she found salt and rockwort. She ground them together, made a circle on the rough timbers of the floor, and sat in the middle of it.
She’d cast the Seeking spell before, but now that she had Redcrow, it was far more complicated. Then again, it would also be far more powerful. She started whispering her incantations while her hands moved through the motions that accompanied the words. She felt the tug of Redcrow’s mind, and the two fell into sync.
Seeking someone out in the Witching Way is very different from scanning a crowd for a familiar face, or looking through a tome for a particular spell. The field in which the Seeker seeks isn’t a physical space, it’s more like the personality of that space. The Seeker isn’t looking around so much as delving into what it means for the space to be what it is, and finding their target is like determining the influence that they have on the space.
So Seeking for Loki in Midgard was like getting to know Midgard, then finding the source of why it was so Loki-like.
When she’d cast the Seeking spell before, it had been like combing through a field of flowers, taking each one in hand and having a sniff. Now that she had Redcrow, the two of them were like a hive of bees, splitting the work not just between the two of them, but among thousands of smaller shadows of their collective self. It was a far more efficient way to search, but the effort of coordinating all of the moving parts was exhausting.
Midgard teemed with life. People were everywhere, and with Yggdrasil so close and Asgard in its branches, the thrumming of power seemed to radiate from everywhere all at once. It was difficult to distinguish between one thing and another.
High above the rooftops, Redcrow widened his circle. The Seeking lost a bit of acuity, but the emanations from Yggdrasil’s roots were less overpowering. He dove, rose, circled, and banked until he found a vantage that was far enough from the World Tree to reduce its influence, but close enough to see what they needed to see.
The Vikings were very close to their gods. Any of them would have said so if asked, but the evidence in the Seeking was overwhelming proof. Their gods had made them in their image, and had done such a good job that they were virtually indistinguishable. After a good deal of trial and error, Volgha figured out that the trick to finding gods was to look for Vikings, and to find the ones that simply seemed to be extra Vikingy.
She found a couple of the gods, but easily determined that they weren’t Loki. The one in the Jarl’s longhouse was definitely Thor. He bristled with electricity and reeked of burnt ozone. That must have been Baldur down by the docks, blessing the newest ships in their fleet.
None of the big ones seemed to be Loki. She’d started to think that maybe he wasn’t in Midgard at all, or possibly outside the city in one of the farms on the outskirts, when she remembered that she was only looking for half of him. Of course! He wouldn’t be as big as the other gods, but he’d still be bigger than the Vikings. So she delved deeper into the hordes of Vikings, examining each one in turn until she finally found him. Bigger than any Viking, dimmer, soaked in wine, and he had an air that made her feel equal parts impatience and loathing. It had to be him. He was at the Leaping Stag with just about everyone else.
She crossed back over, opened her eyes, stood up, and promptly fell back to the floor. Even though she’d just slept for several hours, she felt as though she’d flown the length and breadth of Midgard twice over without the benefit of a broom.
One of us did, cawed Redcrow. Credit where credit is due.
She was starting to lose track of where she ended and Redcrow began.
All a part of the process, said Osgrey. You’ll get the hang of Redcrow assisting in your spells, not to worry.
She crawled back into bed, panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. The frigid breeze felt good, but she knew she’d need to close the window if she didn’t want to freeze to death.
She sought for Redcrow. He was exhausted as well, and had taken roost in the branches of a snow-laden tree.
She closed the window. Together but apart, they both drifted off to sleep.
She awoke again some time later to the sound of flapping wings and rustling branches. Redcrow had left the tree where he’d napped, and woken her with his thoughts of breakfast. So that was what that was like. She hoped that they’d learn how to tune each other out a bit as time went on.
Volgha was ravenous. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep this time, but in any case, it had been a long while since she’d eaten anything.
She straightened herself up a bit, donned her pointy hat, and walked down into the bar to find it exactly as it had been when she’d first arrived: empty with a pair of candles flickering on the bar.
“Hans?” She sat down at the bar. After a moment, the old man’s head poked through the door behind the bar, smiling.
“Hello, Volgha,” he said. “How’s the room, to your taste?”
“It’s lovely,” replied Volgha. “Could I trouble you for something to eat?”
“Of course!” he said, then disappeared back through the door.
In the dim light, Volgha could see that the bar was ancient. By the way that the wooden top of the bar had been worn smooth, she guessed that it was older even than Hans. The shelves behind the bar were lined with bottles filled with brown and amber spirits like you’d find in any bar. There didn’t seem to be a speck of dust in the place, even on the bottles on the top shelf. It was apparent that Hans cared deeply about the Old Stone Hearth.
It wasn’t long before she caught the scent of meat cooking, and not long after that, Hans came back into the room with a wooden plate bearing some sort of meat pie smothered in gravy. He set it down in front of Volgha, poured water from a pitcher into a wooden cup, and offered that to her as well.
“Thank you.” The pie smelled a bit bland, but when one is accustomed to proper stew, everything else pales in comparison. She shoveled it in, not sparing time for such frivolities as tasting and enjoying. In no time at all, her fork clattered on the empty plate.
Slow down, said Osgrey. You’ll sprain something, wolfing your food down like that! We took our time with our food in my day, when we were lucky enough to have it.
“You’re a generous host,” said Volgha. “I have time to see to part of your payment, is there one thing in particular you’d like done?”
“Er, the gout, if you don’t mind.” He grinned sheepishly. “The cold goes right into my joints these days, and it’s been hard to get much work done.”
“Very well,” she said. “I have most of what I need upstairs, but I’m afraid I’m all out of cragflower. Do you have any?”
“Is dried okay? I have some dried.”
“It will do.”
He disappeared into the back again and returned with a wooden jar. Volgha looked into it, stood up, and nodded.
“This won’t take long.” She went upstairs and closed the door.
Redcrow wasn’t far away now, so she opened the window and set herself about the task of measuring out her herbs.
She’d just finished grinding them when Redcrow returned. She poured the powdered mixture back into Hans’ wooden jar, picked up her broom, and went back downstairs with Redcrow on her shoulder. Hans was standing behind the bar.
“Make a pot of tea from two spoonfuls,” she said. “Drink a pot every evening until you run out, and it should keep you as fresh as the falling snow until the sun rises again.”
“Oh, thank you,” Hans smiled. “I’ll make a pot right now!”
“Good,” said Volgha. “I’m off to handle some business.”
“Farewell!” Hans smiled and waved.
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The air was brisk. She wasn’t sure she’d remember the way back to the Leaping Stag until she tried to recall where it was, and then she realized that she remembered the whole of the town as though she’d flown over it herself.
You’re welcome, cawed Redcrow.
It was just as full as it had been when she’d first seen it, if not fuller. It was practically infested with Vikings who were hell-bent on weaponizing their collective body odor. Her hackles mounted stilts at the thought of having to wade through the sea of people. Still, the music coming from inside sounded too delightful to pass up. She could at least have a listen while she tried to find Loki.
Oh, that’s just lovely! Osgrey started to hum completely out of tune with the music, which set Volgha’s teeth on edge. She didn’t care, though. She simply strained to tune him out.
“Redcrow, could you clear us a path?”
Look alive, peasants! Redcrow cawed aloud. Wardens coming through, Wardens of the North Pole!
“Caw!” was all that anyone but Volgha heard, as Redcrow flapped low over the crowd. The Vikings in the doorway stepped aside reflexively, giving Volgha a look. She stepped past them before they had a chance to say anything about it and started weaving through the crowd.
No need to kneel before the Wardens this time, just get out of the way!
No one seemed to notice them, aside from those close enough to the flurry of red feathers to be startled aside. It was slow-going, slithering amid the enraptured throng of unwashed beasts. Volgha tried not to breathe.
She eventually made her way up to the little stage, and there he was: Loki, in significantly less grandeur than his full complement of wits would have tolerated. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, and was being fueled by wine alone—so at least that much hadn’t changed. His eyes were dark and forlorn, but his fingers danced over the strings of his lute with impeccable grace and expertise.
The little stage was surrounded by Vikings, raptly staring while he played. Truly, the music was beautiful. Haunting. Volgha felt herself being drawn in.
