The Queen and Her Brook Horse

by Amalia Dillin

  Frida glanced at her sidelong but rose at once. “Shall I peek at his wares, too, while I’m about it?”

  Signy smiled, as if this was only an indulgence for her maid’s sake and not her own. “I suppose that the princes are owed teething gifts and something for their nameday, too.”

  In Hunaland, she might have offered him the queen’s hospitality, asked him inside to show his wares, but she dared not act so boldly here. Gunnar was likely to see it as some strange usurpation of his rights. And she would not provoke him now. Not with Isolfur within the walls, so near. She must simply hope that Isolfur recognized her maid. That his peddler friend would know what to do. For she did not see how she could meet with the man or the horse without some greater plan. Gunnar and Ragnar both would find it strange if she went out of her way to speak to a peddler, unprompted, and it was not the man she wished to speak to, either way.

  She did not let herself look up when she heard Frida’s voice rising from the castle yard, only took another bracing draught of the wine and kept her eyes firmly upon the embroidery in her hands. She simply waited, forcing herself to breathe, to act as if the peddler and his horse were nothing at all and ignoring the way her skin prickled with awareness and want.

  It was torturous. Every heartbeat extending into eternity, time passing more slowly than it ever had before—even slower than the hours Isolfur had stretched into full days in his cottage. Isolfur was here, and still she could not go to him. Still she could not act. Isolfur had been right that day, so long ago, though she had told herself otherwise, wanted to believe she might find her own strength, earn her own freedom. But to be queen of Gautar was nothing but a cage.

  By the time Frida returned, Signy’s stomach was knotted too tight for wine, her embroidery hopelessly ruined. She cast it aside, disgusted with herself and Isolfur for coming so suddenly, putting himself at such risk and leaving her a mess of nerves and need.

  But Frida was smiling. “You were not wrong about this peddler, my lady. He says he was sent by your father, with gifts for his grandchildren, and you, as well. A mirror that belonged to your mother, he said, which he’s sworn to see installed himself into your private chamber. Though how the king will take that news, I cannot say.”

  Poorly, no doubt. But it was not for her to say. Not with so many ears to hear it. “My father is too generous by far,” she said instead, though she did not believe a word of it.

  Her father had already sent her his congratulations by letter, and he would never send royal heirlooms into Gautar. Not knowing Gunnar as he did. Whatever this mirror was, it came from Isolfur, and Isolfur alone. Perhaps a means by which they might see one another, speak, even if they could not meet.

  “I will go to the king,” she said, considering the words carefully. “With his permission, perhaps we can offer the weary traveler a warm meal and a place to sleep before he continues on his journey. A small enough thanks for coming so far to deliver such a thoughtful gift.”

  Frida’s lips pressed together, for they both knew that approaching Gunnar for any boon was yet another risk. There was no knowing how he might respond. But she saw no other way forward, and if nothing else, she must have the mirror that Isolfur had gone to such lengths to deliver, discover from this peddler how it was meant to be used.

  And Ancestors willing, see them both safely gone again.

  The peddler bowed deeply before her in the bower. Gunnar had refused to allow the man a seat at his table, and naturally it was unthinkable that he might meet with Signy alone, but he’d begrudgingly allowed her to receive her unlooked for guest chaperoned by Frida, and with a guard to escort him waiting just outside the door.

  “Your Majesty,” he said. “I must admit it is a pleasure to meet such a curious woman, though I care not for the risks we took in coming.”

  We. She hesitated, unsure what approach she ought to take, casting a sidelong glance at Frida. So much would have been easier if she had not required a chaperone at all times. If she could only speak frankly, she would have the truth of it all and this man on his way in mere moments. “My maid says you have gifts for us? From my father in Hunaland.”

  “Mm,” the man said, his sharp eyes narrowing.

  Signy flushed at her lapse and rose, stepping quickly to the side table. “Forgive me, of course. May I offer you some wine? Something to eat? You must understand, I receive few visitors. I fear I have fallen out of practice, but I mean no offense.”

  The peddler straightened, suddenly much taller and without any of the aged crookedness he’d entered with. “I take none,” he assured her, his gaze sliding over the room before settling upon Frida, standing demurely beside her chair. He drummed long fingers upon a finely carved stick and tilted his head just slightly. “Perhaps your maid would do the honor of pouring my wine? I would not see a queen humbled before the likes of me.”

  Frida moved swiftly to do so, taking the cup from Signy’s hand, and shooing her back to her seat. The peddler’s lips curved slightly and Signy retreated with a sigh. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me your name, at least?”

  The old man inclined his head, busying himself with a small pin between his fingers. “You may call me Nix, Your Majesty, though it is far from the only name I answer to.”

  “Of course,” she said, returning his half-smile with a twist of her own. Of course he was named for a southern water-sprite, traveling with Isolfur as he was.

  Frida offered him his wine, and the pin disappeared, his hands covering hers briefly upon the cup. “My thanks, good lady. I only hope you will forgive what comes next.”

  And then she fell. Crumpling slowly as Signy lurched forward, and the peddler caught her more firmly, easing her down.

  “What—how dare you—”

  “I told that accursed horse you were unlikely to care for his approach,” the peddler said, his fingers brushing across Frida’s eyes, ever so briefly, and leaving a smear of blood behind. He pushed back his hood, revealing sharply pointed ears. “But I see now why he insisted. Your king is a fool, and this bargain you struck together…”

  She stumbled back, cold and hot all at once, and her heart beating far too loud in her ears. “You—”

  “Yes,” he said, rising once again to his full height, long-limbed and lithe and graceful in a way that made her feel clumsy. “I, too, made a fool’s bargain with your lover, though I ought to have known better than to try.”

  “What did you do to her?” she demanded, drawing herself up in response to his height. Looking for every inch of strength she could find. Her hands were fists at her sides, though she did not know what she might do with such a crude defense against an elf. “If you’ve harmed my maid, I warn you, I will not hesitate to call for the guard.”

  The old elf sighed, weariness settling over him like a cloak. “I do not blame you for distrusting me, I suppose. But you needn’t worry. Your friend is fine. She merely sleeps, for Isolfur did not think it was safe or fair to let her hear what passed between us, and I promised him my aid, despite my own misgivings. Is he wrong to think you would wish her innocent?”

  She swallowed. “No.”

  “Then that, at least, is settled,” he said briskly. “And since our time is short, I fear we must move on. The king has made it clear I will not be permitted to install the mirror in your private chamber, regardless of any promise he thinks I’ve made to your father. An insult, of course, and as an old peddler of meager means, I have no choice but to let it pass. But you must not, under any circumstances, allow anyone to touch it before you have pressed your own bloodied hand to the frame. And better still if no one else’s blood touches it after, either. Keep it covered and out of the way.”

  “Bloodied hand?” she echoed, half-numb at the speed in which so much had happened. She had wanted to speak frankly but she had never imagined… “I do not—”

  “Ancestors save me,” he mumbled. “I
t is magic, Signy. That mirror. Carved with runes as old as the elves themselves. Behind it is a room, and in that room, a door that can only be opened by your blood. You will not even see it until your blood is spilled upon the stones inside and Isolfur’s name passes through your lips. Do you understand? Your blood and Isolfur’s name. That is the only way in.”

  She nodded, her balled fists easing into open hands. Hands she stared at now, stupidly. As if they were not even her own. Blood. Her blood. And magic beyond anything she knew. Her gaze shifted back to the elf. Whoever he was—she feared she ought to have been the one bowing. “But to enter the room itself?”

  “I fear it is a lesser spell, and your brook horse was far too impatient to wait for me to strengthen it. Anyone with knowledge enough to read the runes will be able to will their way in with a little blood, but the rest—the rest will respond only to you.” He grunted. “And your children, I suppose. Best keep them from it.”

  “I see,” she murmured, frowning. “Where—where does the door go?”

  The old elf snorted. “Can you truly not guess as much?”

  “The cottage,” she breathed, her chest too tight. “Beneath the lake.”

  “Have you any idea the power he’s given you?” the elf asked. “The risk he takes and the magic it cost him? Brook horses guard their homes fiercely. They must to live so long. You could be his death, Signy. Murder him in his bed. Or worse, if the cottage is destroyed, he would be trapped for the rest of his days as a horse, driven into madness, his true self lost.”

  She shook her head, sinking down again onto her cushioned seat. “It is too much. Too much of a risk. Too large of a gift. I cannot—I cannot accept it.”

  “You cannot refuse,” he said grimly. “Only strive to be worthy of it.”

  He heard her before he saw her. That quick light step and rustle of skirts, impossible to mistake. Isolfur lifted his head, ears pricked forward, straining for his first glimpse—there.

  Fossegrim came first, followed by the guardsman Ragnar had assigned, twin to the one who stood beside the run down peddler’s cart at his back, and then Signy, dressed in fine embroidered silks beneath a light woolen cloak. Her eyes found his almost at once, her face drawn and white. He stamped a hoof, snapping his teeth at Fossegrim’s approach. Whatever had caused her such strain, he was certain it was the elf’s fault.

  “She had a right to know,” Fossegrim said coolly, ignoring the threat. “Or would you prefer to wake one morning to the king’s sword at your throat?”

  Isolfur stretched out his neck, blowing out a breath and thrusting his nose against her shoulder. She stroked his cheek, pushing him gently away. “He’s a friendly thing.”

  “Only to beautiful women,” Fossegrim grumbled. “This way.”

  Signy stepped out of his reach, and he turned his head to follow her around the side of the cart, easily blocking the guard’s view with a well placed step and stretch of his neck, while Signy withdrew her belt knife and pricked her thumb.

  Fossegrim uncovered a corner of the mirror, wrapped in felted wool, the polished wood frame gleaming like silk in the sunlight. “Here.”

  Signy hesitated, glancing back at Isolfur. “Are you certain?”

  He tossed his head, whickering softly. Of all the plans he had made with Fossegrim, this was by far the best. The least amount of risk for her—and the elf as well, though Isolfur cared much less for his safety. Once she touched the mirror with her blood, it would be safe enough for him, too, for he had no doubt that Signy would remain faithful. His trust in her was far from misplaced.

  She let out a soft breath, and smeared the blood from her pricked thumb over the corner of the frame. Isolfur felt the touch upon his own back and shuddered, even as Signy drew back her hand with a gasp.

  “My queen?” the guard asked, pushing past Isolfur’s head.

  She waved him back. “It is only a splinter. It took me by surprise, that’s all. You’ll help me carry this inside? And return for the gifts for the boys, after. Careful that you keep it covered so it doesn’t get scratched while you’re about it. And I don’t want your dirty hands leaving marks on the frame, either.”

  The guard drew himself up, affronted by the very thought that he might do some damage to her belongings. “Of course not, my lady.”

  She nodded once, and returned to Isolfur’s side as Fossegrim tucked the felted wool tightly back against the frame, pinning it with a whisper of Persuasion. Isolfur flicked an ear, and nuzzled her carefully, lipping at her bloodied thumb. As a horse, he could not heal her, but soon enough. He need only leave Fossegrim and abandon the cart—somewhere far from here, where Gunnar’s men would not find it and wonder—and return to his cottage. With the mirror in place, they need never be parted for more than a matter of hours at a time. She could sleep in his bed at night, if she wished, assuming her door had a sturdy lock, and they need not stretch the time they shared unless she desired it.

  Together, they watched as Fossegrim and the guard wrestled the mirror free of the cart, and then Signy sighed and stepped back. “You have my thanks and my father’s. May you have a safe journey home, my lord Nix.”

  Fossegrim snorted at the title, but inclined his head, and then Signy picked up her skirts and strode back inside the castle without so much as a glance. But Isolfur did not miss the way her shoulders curved inward when she passed through the door, or the tightening of her hands in the silk and wool. He rolled his eyes, the scent of her fear filling his nose, and bared his teeth at the elf.

  “I am not certain what else I might have done. Woke the woman, I suppose, to accompany her, but even then.” Fossegrim opened his hand, palm up. As empty as his assurances. “You knew from the start it was a risk, and from the welcome I received, we’re fortunate the king allowed her to accept the mirror at all, never mind to speak with me. If she suffers for it—well, it was her choice to come down this way, rather than send a servant to fetch it up. Surely she believed it was worth whatever punishment might result.”

  Isolfur blew out an impatient breath in answer—the sooner they were gone, the sooner he might return home, and wait for Signy to find him.

  “Not yet,” Fossegrim said. “There are the children’s gifts to deliver still. If we leave before we see it through, it will only give the king that much more cause to track us when we go, and I have no wish to outrace armed guards in that rickety cart. But it won’t be long, now. And Ancestors save you both from what comes.”

  He paced the small cottage, wishing for the satisfaction of clomping hooves and a twitching tail but settling for the scuff of boots against stone and the drum of his fingers against his thigh instead. It was easier to be impatient as a horse. Easier to work off his anxiety with ears and tail and pawing at the soft earth. But if he left the cottage to run off his frustration, he would not be here when Signy came, and he had no desire to leave her waiting, in return.

  And then he heard his name, just beyond the door. A hopeful, disbelieving whisper, just before the latch slipped up and the door swung in, and Signy stood framed against darkness, not water, on the other side.

  “You’re here,” he breathed. “You’ve come.”

  She hesitated another moment, her head cocked and turned back toward the room beyond. “I waited until the king had come and gone, and barred the door after him but if he should discover I’m missing from my bed…”

  “Hush,” he said, taking her hand, drawing her inside. She was cold, trembling with gooseflesh up her bare arms. Dressed only in a shift, thin as gossamer and clinging to her skin. “He has no reason at all to suspect, and once you’re with child again, he’ll leave you to your rest. We can spend every night together. Half our days, if you wish.”

  She laughed at his eagerness, and lifted her face to his. “It is a pretty picture you paint, I’ll admit. But not so easy, I think, as you’d wish. I will need to be seen still, by the women if not
him. And leave the castle for fresh air and freedom.”

  “You’ll never need to risk begging to leave your guard behind. And once your are pregnant, you can claim a mother’s sickness, the child’s moods. It will be easier than you think, I promise you, for you will always have my voice—”

  “No,” she said, pressing her fingers to his lips. “No, Isolfur. I will not have you left defenseless, not now that there is this door, this means to reach you that you cannot control. You are right that I will need fewer favors of my king, that on the surface of it, he will think me more biddable because of it, and Ragnar too will have fewer complaints if I keep to my room. That will be enough. Even if it means I do not see you quite every day. Truly if I had known—Isolfur, what you’ve done, what you’ve given me…”

  “It is only what I promised you and nothing more,” he told her gently. “This way, you can always be safe. You need only reach your room, come through the mirror, and your king will never find you. If you are hurt, it will be nothing for you to make your way to me here. And the children. You could bring them, too, if you wished, and no one the wiser.”

  She shook her head at the last. “Not that. I will not put them in danger that way, nor you. Better they know nothing of this, that they might never spill a word to alert Ragnar or the king. And Gunnar does not wish me to fuss over them so closely, besides. He would take exception if he learned I spent hours with them locked in this room. Perhaps more than if he discovered I’d taken them into the woods unguarded.”

  “Then we will find other ways to occupy ourselves than fussing over toddling babes,” he said, brushing his nose against hers. He pressed his palm against her flattened stomach. “And I’ve another child to give you, now we have time to see it done properly. I think Gunnar is less likely to trouble himself over the raising of a daughter.”

  Signy sighed, relaxing against him at last, letting herself be soothed by his hands and his lips, moving softly over her skin. “You are not wrong about that.”