by Sam Hooker
Volgha tried to stand up and promptly fell over. She’d never been so tired. She was parched and starving, though she’d eaten only minutes before she’d started the spell. She felt the long miles that she’d flown across Niflheim.
“Amplifiers,” said Volgha. “They’re some sort of magical amplifiers. Where is Redcrow?”
“Here!” shouted Krespo. He was lying in the snow, several feet away from Volgha. “I can’t tell if he’s breathing!”
“He’s alive,” said Volgha, “I can feel him. He just needs to rest. Bring him inside, will you?”
Krespo nodded, and gently picked up the bird. Santa helped Volgha to her feet, but she was unable to walk. Lifting her, he carried her to the shelter. He set her gently down on a bed of furs, then offered her a cup of water.
“Drink this.” Santa had to help her sip it.
“I’ll be all right,” she said. “Just let me rest for a moment.”
“What happened? What did you see?”
“I saw Niflheim,” she told him. “Santa, the frost giants are coming. We’re running out of time.”
17
Krespo said a swear word. Santa gave him a funny look.
“The frost giants,” said Krespo. “What does this mean? Is it the Ragnarok?”
“It’s not the Ragnarok,” said Santa.
How can he be sure? asked Osgrey.
“What’s the Ragnarok?” asked Volgha.
“It’s the end of the world, according to the Vikings,” said Santa. “But this isn’t the Ragnarok. Stop saying Ragnarok!”
“You’ve said it more than both of us,” countered Krespo. Santa glared at him. Krespo looked at the ground.
“Well it’s true,” he mumbled.
“Whether it’s the … end of the world or not,” said Volgha, “it’s the sort of thing that consequences are made of. We might be able to stop it, but we have to act quickly.”
“But where do we even begin?” Santa was pacing back and forth in the tent. He was only able to take but two or three steps in either direction before he had to turn around, which made it large for a tent but ill-suited to pacing nonetheless. “Maybe if we knew what was causing the heat, we could do something about it.”
“Well,” said Volgha, “about that …”
Santa stopped. “What do you know?”
“Most of it.” Volgha sighed. “It’s even partially my fault, in a manner of speaking.”
“That can’t be true,” said Krespo. “You’re on our side! You’re being too hard on yourself. Right, Santa?”
Santa’s head tilted to one side, and he considered Volgha through a bit of a squint. “What do you know?”
“How well do you know the gods of Asgard?”
“We’re not on a first name basis,” replied Santa, “but I know who they are.”
“Well, my sister is very good friends with Loki.”
Sighing, Santa sat down, his face in his hands.
“I don’t like where this is going.” His words were muffled, but he clearly knew that anything having to do with Loki had the potential to end in tragedy.
“Loki wanted to challenge the most cunning foe he could find to solve the most baffling puzzle he could conceive. Naturally, he would be the most cunning foe.”
“Naturally.”
“So they called on me to split his mind in half. I brewed a potion. Some of my best work, actually. The first sip pulled half of his mind away so the half that remained could devise the puzzle.”
You didn’t! Osgrey was shocked. Volgha, why would you get mixed up in that sort of skullduggery?
“I didn’t think it would be this bad,” said Volgha. “The second sip switched them, so the other half could solve it. The third sip will make him whole again, but there’s a problem.”
“Of course there is,” Santa muttered, face still buried in his hands.
“My sister thinks the game is just the most delightful thing ever, and she’d never hear of giving Loki the last sip until he’s ready, but Loki’s entirely forgotten who he is. I don’t think he can solve the puzzle without his memory.”
“And what was this ‘riddle’ of his? To make the world hotter?”
“That I don’t know,” said Volgha. “I just know the warming started right before he had the second sip. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Rising, Santa took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. His jaws clenched so forcefully they must have had their own biceps.
“What are we going to do, Santa?” Krespo was scared. His eyes were wide, his voice cracking just above a whisper.
“We’re going to get dragged into another bloody war,” said Santa with a snarl, “that’s what we’re going to do!”
“I’m sorry,” said Volgha, “if I’d had any idea—”
“You’d probably have done it anyway! You nearly got me killed for the sake of one spell,” he pointed at Redcrow, “and you may have started a war with another! Do you ever consider the consequences of toying with powers beyond your control?”
“Beyond my control? I’d say I controlled them fairly well!”
“In what way do you think that this is under control? You took half the mind away from the most unstable god ever to walk the earth, and now the frost giants are returning. That’s your idea of control?”
He’s right, said Osgrey, and this is exactly the sort of thing that the Warden is supposed to prevent!
“My sister and Loki would have done this without me,” said Volgha, “and it could have been far worse if her vile court wizard had done it with necromancy. You don’t know him, and you don’t know what my sister is capable of.”
“I know all I need to know about the woman who hunted me! She’s the reason I can’t go home, and the end result of her lunacy is going to be war! The cost for this will be paid in lives, witch. Probably mine, from the sound of it. So don’t give me excuses, just tell me how you’re going to fix it!”
“I don’t know!” Volgha shouted. The silence that followed made them realize how loud they’d become. She and Santa glared at each other with twisted expressions, locked in a kind of death stare. Krespo took a page from the coward’s manual and tried to make himself look as small as possible.
Volgha broke from their staring contest first. Santa was right—she’d been more concerned with how she could split the mind of a god than whether she should. She sat down and leaned forward, staring at the ground.
“I’ve made a mess of things,” said Volgha. “I don’t know how I’m going to undo it, but I have to try.”
That’s the spirit, said Osgrey.
There’s a reason that no one ever says “oh look, the truth, how convenient!” She’d wheedled a favor from Santa on the pretense that his carelessness had inconvenienced her. Meanwhile, her lack of foresight in fiddling with Loki’s mind was threatening to drop a war into Santa’s lap.
Yes, cawed Redcrow, that qualifies as irony.
“Fine time for you to wake up.”
Oh sure, blame the devastatingly handsome crow. Shall I point out that we weren’t discussing an impending war when I was last awake?
“Where is Loki now?” asked Santa. “How do we fix him?”
Volgha looked up at Santa. His fists were clenched, his brow furrowed. He’d have been justified in yelling his lungs inside out, but he didn’t. He was putting the task at hand before his own feelings, a feat which no Aurorian monarch had ever attempted in the history of the dynasty.
“He’s in Midgard,” Volgha answered. “We have to get him to the wine cellar in Castle Borealis, then give him the last sip of the potion.”
Santa said a swear word. “I can’t go back there. She may still be hunting me.”
“I doubt it,” said Volgha, “but I don’t fault your concern. I can cast a spell to keep her from seeing you.”
“It’s a start,” said Santa. “Wait, couldn’t we just bring the potion to Loki?”
“The other half of his mind is in a whiskey barrel,” explai
ned Volgha. “We’d never get it out of the wine cellar and past the guards. Besides, my sister adores Loki. She won’t harm us if he’s with us.”
“Perfect,” grumbled Santa. “Loki, my protector.”
“I can’t change what I’ve done, but I can fix it with your help. We have to work quickly. Are you with me?”
Santa sighed and nodded.
“I’m with you, too!”
“Thank you, Krespo,” said Volgha. “Now, how do we get Loki to the castle?”
18
There have been several occasions upon which witches have looked into their bonfires and seen the future; however, since the future is always in motion, most don’t bother. The further ahead one looks, the foggier it gets. Even if one were to see something in the distant future clearly, there’s little chance that it would be useful. Probably just something like a couple reciting one of the ritual charms of bonding to each other, the most well-known being “I don’t know, what do you want to eat?”
The general futility of the enterprise had always kept Volgha among those who didn’t bother, but this time would have been a good idea. She’d probably not have opted to join Santa’s sleigh ride along with Krespo and Loki. She could have made the trip by broom in a few hours, but they needed to arrive together. Even in Santa’s lightest sleigh with his four strongest horses pulling it, the trip had been a spine-compacting romp spanning several evenings. Volgha was sure she’d be permanently shorter by the end of it.
They eventually arrived at the northern boundary of Innisdown, barely a mile from the castle. Volgha and Redcrow got out of the sleigh with Loki.
“Everyone knows their parts, then?” asked Volgha.
Santa nodded. “We’ll leave the sleigh where we buried the old Tickler, and meet you inside by the portrait of Saint Perplexia.”
“And you’re sure you can remember the way through the passages?” Volgha was looking at Krespo. She’d found them very confusing before, and Santa had not been in the best frame of mind then. Being hunted tends to have that effect on people.
“I remember,” said Krespo. “I’m good with directions.”
He’s good with directions! cawed Redcrow. Direct him to the kitchens, I’m sure they have anchovies.
“Anchovies later,” said Volgha. “All right, that’s Santa and Krespo. How about you?”
“I’ve done it,” said Loki, forcing a toothy grin. “I’ve solved my own riddle by finding the thing I’d miss the least in the last place I’d think to look.”
“And how did you solve it?”
“By looking there first.”
“And what did you find?”
“You, silly witch!”
“And where did you find me?”
“In that awful dress!” Loki’s forced smile fell, and he shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make any sense!”
“For the last time,” said Volgha, “it doesn’t have to. It’s insulting to me, which will give my sister a good laugh. You laugh like crazy with her for about ten minutes—”
“That sounds like an awfully long time.” Loki’s short-term memory had apparently gone along with the rest of it. They’d been over this several times.
“Just trust me,” pleaded Volgha. “After a few minutes, you say …”
“Oh, right. Enough dallying, frumpy little sister! Fetch me the last of the potion, so I can put my whole mind to forgetting how boring you are!”
“Good. That sounds like you.”
“If that’s true, I’m not sure I want the last sip. I’m a real—”
“Caw!”
“Just remember that, after you drink the last sip,” said Volgha. “And whatever else happens, you need to undo your riddle as soon as you remember.”
Loki nodded.
“Then I’ll see you inside.” Santa snapped the reins, and the sleigh sped away.
“All right then,” said Volgha. “Let’s be off.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked to the castle. It must have been when she was a little girl, before she’d learned enough about the Witching Way to travel by broom. Seeing the castle looming in the distance took her back. She almost expected to see her parents delivering proclamations from the battlements as she got closer, and reflexively prepared herself to jump aside, in case the catapult sent anything her way.
“Halt,” shouted a voice from the drawbridge tower, “who goes there?”
“Volgha, the Winter Witch.”
“Never heard of you,” said the guard. “State your business.”
“I’m the queen’s sister, let me in.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d know if the queen had a sister.”
“Obviously you don’t!”
Tell him I’m with you, said Osgrey. I came through this gate all the time.
“But you’re not here, are you?”
“That’s unlikely,” said the guard. “I always work the front gate, and if the queen had a sister, she’d have come through here before now.”
“I usually fly,” said Volgha through clenched teeth. “I’m losing my patience with you.”
“Better you your patience than me my job,” said the guard. “Why didn’t you fly this time?”
“She’s come with me,” said Loki. “I’m—”
“Is that Loki? Hello, sir, why didn’t you speak up? Dark out there, I didn’t recognize you. Hold on, I’ll lower the drawbridge.”
Ha! Redcrow gave a caw that sounded a lot like chuckling. Not very popular, are you?
Volgha fumed as the bridge cranked its way down. The guard had been too far away for her to be able to recognize him. She made a mental note to work out who he was after all of this was over so she could be sure that he wouldn’t be running around vexing witches on a whim, one having given him the idea that there were no repercussions to follow.
“You can fly?” asked Loki.
“I’m a witch.” One of the primary rules of the Witching Way stated that she should answer any questions regarding her abilities with just enough information to let people’s imaginations run away with them. They tended to do so out loud, often in pubs. Half-truths and innuendos were much more satisfying when she didn’t have to advertise them herself.
The drawbridge finished its descent with a thud. They walked across it, through the courtyard, and up the stairs to the big wooden doors.
Inside, the halls were unusually quiet. Not so much as the pitter-patter of servants’ feet running for their very lives. Volgha held up a hand to Loki, bidding him pause so she could listen. If her sister were awake, it would be easy to hear her cackling when the rest of the castle was silent.
“Hello, Volgha,” came Chamberlain’s voice from around a corner. “We weren’t expecting you, and with Master Loki, no less! And such an unusual bird!”
Who are you calling unusual?
“What brings you here this evening?” asked Chamberlain. He was flanked by a pair of guards. He usually walked alone—the easier to sneak up on people, Volgha assumed.
“Loki has solved his riddle,” Volgha replied. “If my sister is busy, we can just give Loki the potion now and tell her the tale later.”
Chamberlain frowned. “It will have to wait, I’m afraid. Guards!”
Then there was a blur, during which the surprisingly quick guards had knocked both Volgha and Loki over the head and shackled them. Loki was a good sport and fell unconscious. One of them had made a grab for Redcrow, but he’d dodged handily and flown off down the hallway.
“What is this?” Volgha swayed and stumbled, but kept her feet.
“A coup d’etat, I’m afraid.” Even when seizing power, Chamberlain was unfailingly polite, violence at the hands of his thugs notwithstanding.
“How dare you!” Volgha started slipping into a fire-and-brimstone glamour, hoping that it would scare the guard into releasing her long enough to do something a bit more effective.
“Ah, ah, ah,” said Chamberlain in a chiding tone, as he draped a heav
y chain around her neck. It had a big rock attached to it, and she could feel the power from her glamour being sucked into it.
“A lodestone? How did you know?”
“It’s my job to know,” said Chamberlain. “I really do feel dreadful about this, but there’s no way I can trust you to play along. To the dungeon with them, please.”
“You’ll pay for this!” shouted Volgha, as they were taken away.
“I’ve been paying for it for years,” he shouted back. “It’s finally time to collect!”
19
Another chain was wrapped under Volgha’s arms and locked behind her back to make sure she couldn’t remove the lodestone. The guards led her and dragged Loki down a set of spiral stairs, along a torch-lit corridor, and through a slightly rusty iron gate. Their shackles were removed—but not the lodestone—when they were shoved into a large cell.
“Wonderful,” said a man in a filthy, long-tailed coat and powdered wig, “new players!”
There were half a dozen other prisoners in all, men and women whose rags and tatters had once been the height of fashion.
“Introductions, introductions!” shouted a squat woman whose begrimed purple hair was taller than she was. She rose from the card game she’d been playing with the men.
“Lady Inesta Sneezeworthy,” she said, “at your service. And this is His Excellency, Stanley Whomsoever, Viceroy of Middle Blinkington.”
“At your service,” said the viceroy with a bow. His long white beard and brownish smile gave Volgha the feeling that he’d been there the longest.
I know him, said Osgrey. Not a bad fellow, as nobles go.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” said a tall, young man who was mostly chin. “Sir Henry Stockridge Smythe, come to rescue the Viceroy and return him to Middle Blinkington.”
“Oh,” said Volgha. “And how is that working out?”
“There’ve been a few setbacks,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll strike when it’s least expected, you can count on it!”
“Right,” said Volgha. “Good luck.”
