The Winter Riddle Page 10

  Despite all of the cold, the fatigue, and the headache involved in making room for a druid in her own mind, Volgha’s heart leapt in elation. Osgrey was going to help her call her familiar after all! For just a moment, she was a five-year-old girl whose father had brought her new pony to a tea party.

  Could you please stop that squealing? Osgrey shouted.

  “Sorry,” said Volgha, unable to suppress a smile, but doing her best to calm the little girl down.

  Never mind. Open the Grimoire to the spells about woodland etiquette, will you? We’ll get started there.

  There were several chapters in the Grimoire that dealt with familiars. There were spells for attracting just about any sort of animal one could think of, as well as several she couldn’t. Some of them had been written by southern witches, who had seen a number of creatures that couldn’t survive the harsh winters at the North Pole.

  There was, for example, several varieties of legless creatures called “snakes,” which had poisonous teeth and were fond of biting people. An unfortunate combination. The only poisonous creatures she’d ever seen were spiders, who, unlike snakes, had more legs than they knew what to do with.

  Then there were “butterflies.” Their wings made them look a lot like faeries, but according to the Grimoire they were about as magical as tree bark, trees who were formerly druids notwithstanding.

  She’d always thought that this enormous creature called an “elephant” would make an interesting choice for a familiar, but aside from their dislike of the cold, they ate more than she could reasonably provide.

  Regardless of what sort of animal answered her call, it would be able to help her with the particularly difficult business of speaking with animals. She’d always thought how useful it would be to carry on deeper conversations than her basic wolfish fluency permitted.

  Past the glottal intricacies of speaking with walruses, there were many spells in the Grimoire that required a familiar’s assistance. Plus, she’d always have a friend around.

  Right. There was that. Always having a friend around. She supposed that she could send it away on little errands, or that she could have some luck and partner up with something like a cat. Cats are fiercely independent, and she could relate. Unfortunately, Sigmund was already bound to Osgrey, and those bonds are like noses: most people only get one.

  What if she ended up summoning a wolf? She cringed at the thought. She loved wolves, but wolves are pack animals. Pack animals like to be around their pack most, if not all of the time, and she’d be its pack.

  She’d once spent a winter in a cave with a wolf cub that had lost his pack. His name was Errol, and he never stopped yipping incoherently about things he’d smelled or naps he planned to take when he was older. By some miracle, she’d always managed to refrain from yelling, “Why not take a few of those naps now?” with a dozen or so swear words mixed in. While it would have been momentarily gratifying, it wouldn’t have been worth the eternity of crying that would have inevitably followed. When the sun rose and she reunited Errol with his pack, she was purposely vague in telling him where the cottage was, in case he felt like popping by.

  She read over the spell to conjure a familiar. It turned out that one didn’t really get a choice in the beast that answered the call. It would be something in the vicinity, and its spirit would bond with hers instantly. There were a lot of wolves near the grove, so she started thinking of other places to cast the spell.

  Familiars did, of course, become more intelligent as a result of the process. They shared in the wisdom of the witch to whom they’d bonded. They also lived a lot longer, often as long as the witch him- or herself. It’s practically a marriage, a thought that made Volgha’s nose crinkle.

  A lot of witches ended up with birds. Birds are a lot like cats, despite their natural rivalries. They hate being cooped or caged, and spend lots of time away from their flocks building nests, digging worms, or looming over carcasses, all the things that birds like to do. Volgha rather liked birds and thought that she certainly wouldn’t mind having one of those around.

  And then it came to her all of a sudden, the way that inspiration likes to do. Why not go somewhere where only birds can go?

  The belfry! The wizard’s tower would be better, though a certain necromancer who would remain nameless had put a damper on that.

  You mean Ghasterly, don’t you?

  “What part of ‘would remain nameless’ did you not understand?”

  All of it. He’s already got a name. Ghasterly.

  Volgha very nearly engaged in an explanation of idioms, but knew that she’d have more success explaining the concept to … well, to a tree. It was a silly line of inquiry, and the Witching Way did not agree with silliness.

  The belfry would be fine. It was very tall, and besides, there were no wolves near the castle. Her sister had hunters kill any wolves who wandered into her forests. Volgha had consequently spent a great deal of time setting up wards that would wave off any wolves who came near. The wards were like magic warning signs that suggested the rabbits who lived there were poisonous. It sounds ridiculous, but wolves are notoriously gullible.

  She had most of the herbs on hand already, as it was fairly common stuff: earthbloom, frostberry, gravelmoss, and a few others. The real problem was the pearls. The North Pole didn’t have oysters. They were coveted treasures in the North Pole, and those who had them usually hid them away. The only person likely to have any would be Her Majesty.

  She said a swear word. If only she’d had this idea at the outset of Loki’s stupid riddle, she could have gotten some pearls in return! It was too late now. Since they were children, she and her sister had always insisted on upfront terms with one another, and it was really the only thing that kept them from each other’s throats. Volgha couldn’t even collect favors from her sister because Her Majesty’s lawyers would insist on suing Volgha into absolving the crown of the debt. The crown didn’t like to have debts, which was horrible news for witches.

  In any case, since she didn’t get it in writing up front, the whole Loki business was just a nice thing she’d done for her sister. It was a disgusting state of affairs, but there it was.

  No matter. The White Queen was always asking Volgha for something. If she simply waited long enough, the opportunity would present itself again.

  That would be it, then. She’d work on acquiring the rest of the things she needed, and her sister would probably ask for something in the meantime. She’d seen a clump of gravelmoss near the edge of the grove about a month ago and was fairly certain it would still be there. She’d go and get it after a good evening sleep.

  She was so tired that it was a perfect time to start darning a pair of wool socks. She could barely keep her eyes open so she wouldn’t have to work on it for long, and she could tell herself that she’d tried. As a rule, witches don’t lie to themselves, but darning socks was so boring! She would need to get it done eventually, as fully intact socks at the North Pole was essential to survival. Well, survival of a full complement of toes, anyway.

  The sun was well on its way to setting for the winter, and the winter at the North Pole was very, very cold. It was the sort of cold that didn’t want to leave until the sun started to rise at Imbolc, the first observance of spring in the Witching Way. Something as careless as a hole in the toe of an otherwise perfectly cozy sock was basically an invitation for frostbite, and this would not be the winter that she lost a toe.

  Volgha usually hibernated her way through the brutal cold of the North Pole winter. The time between sleep and wakefulness blended together, and she was often unsure which was which. It was a time of year that witches lived for, aside from the relentless cold. The veil that separates this world from that of the spirits is remarkably easy to traverse when you’re half asleep and half starved.

  Or you’re just having fever dreams, said Osgrey.

  “Quiet, you.”

  The trick was to keep track of the passage of time so that she could determine t
he precise moment of the winter solstice, marked in the Witching Way by the festival of Yule. It was the exact middle of the long winter’s night, and the point at which one could practically reach a hand through the veil with no preparation at all, and give a dear departed relative a good smack for something they’d gotten away with by expiring before justice had been served—if she were interested in that sort of thing.

  She got a few stitches in, and as predicted, started nodding off. Satisfied with the progress she’d made, she set the sock aside and got into bed.

  9

  She spent several evenings at home, which was a nice change of pace. Despite circumstances entirely within her control, she had to spend most of her waking hours not darning socks. It would have taken her no time at all if she’d simply sat down and done the work, but then she’d have been entirely lacking sources of angst and existential struggle.

  A witch needed angst, especially in the North Pole. Otherwise, all she had to focus on were the very real problems of freezing to death, starvation, cottage fever, or in light of recent events, the fate of everyone who lived in the North Pole, according to the druid living in Volgha’s head.

  Angst was easier. It’s the socks, she allowed herself to think. Everything else would be easy if it weren’t for the socks.

  You know that isn’t true, said Osgrey.

  “Don’t tell me what I know,” she quipped back at him.

  But I know what you know, said Osgrey. We’re sharing thoughts, remember? I know as well as you do that it’s not just the socks.

  They’d had this conversation more than a few times. She’d sit down, stare at a sock for a minute, mumble about it under her breath, and eventually pick up the needle and thread. A couple of stitches in, she’d remember a bunch of herbs that really needed bundling or a holly bush whose trimming was far too essential to put off for another minute. She’d feign annoyance in setting the sock aside and rushing off to manage the distraction.

  She’d also spent quite a bit of time going through the Grimoire, reading tea leaves, counting the clouds hanging near the moon, and even scrying into some very deep corners of the spirit world via her bonfire. That had provided some very helpful insight as to how one might host an Airing of Grievances with one’s ancestors, which was sure to come in handy someday, given her family tree.

  Oh well, nothing to be done about the socks then. She thought of calling in her favor from Krespo. Would a lifetime of sock-darning be that tall an order for someone skilled in Applied Thinkery?

  She had almost everything she needed to summon her familiar, with the singular exception of the blasted pearls. She considered asking for Santa’s help with that, and wished that she could dismiss the idea out of hand. She was about as fond of cashing in favors as grannies were of paying full retail, but she was out of options. She couldn’t go south and buy pearls because she didn’t deal in money. She had neither the time nor the patience for the sort of work that yielded coin.

  Osgrey didn’t see the problem with cashing in Santa’s favor, but then why would he? What do druids know about favors?

  I’m doing you a favor right now!

  “Oh no, you’re not!” Volgha waggled a finger at the ceiling of the cottage with remarkable veracity. No one, not even a witch’s mentor, decided what did and did not constitute a favor on her behalf.

  I’m training you up to be the Warden. It’s an important job!

  “I still haven’t decided that I want to be the Warden,” said Volgha, “and calling it a job doesn’t help. I presume that this ‘job’ doesn’t pay anything, does it?”

  Only the satisfaction of knowing—

  “So no, then.”

  Only if you find no value in assuring—

  “I don’t.”

  The feeling of someone else’s irritability from within her own head was unsettling, but not as unsettling as her own.

  It was still warm above the clouds, Volgha mused as she headed for Santa’s Village. Osgrey noticed it, too. Could he perceive temperature if he only had access to her mind? She resolved not to think about it too deeply. She couldn’t imagine any useful answers resulting from further inquiry.

  Since she had a truce with Santa—favors notwithstanding—she flew over the gates and landed inside the village. One of those big wooden circles with the needle on it was mounted above the entrance to the forge. It indicated that it was near the end of the skedgille. Santa was probably just sitting down for supper. A fortunate time to have arrived.

  Once a witch has donned the pointy hat, there are two distinct smiles that she quickly becomes accustomed to seeing: the panicked ‘please don’t turn me into something without bones’ sort that’s equal parts fear and politeness, and the oafish ‘nice hat’ sort, that’s entirely devoid of self-preservational fear.

  The elves that she passed were still giving her more of the former, which was good. Truces with witches should be brokered individually, not as a class action.

  She reached the door to Santa’s house, and nearly opened it out of a habit she must have formed while she was his guest. Consider the ramifications! There was a very real possibility that he might find occasion to call upon her home someday. If she barged in on him now, would turnabout be fair play?

  Her blood went cold at the thought. What if he didn’t call ahead at all? What if he showed up unannounced, and she said something completely stupid when he knocked, like, “Who is it?” before a more rational, logical part of her thought to say something like, “Sorry, you’ve just missed her,” … or better still, nothing at all?

  She panicked. She spun around, fully intent on flying back over the gate and knocking on the little portal in the front gate and doing the whole thing properly. Unfortunately, Santa was standing right there.

  “Volgha,” he said with a smile that was at least half genuinely glad to see her, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  Pleasure? The nerve! When did people stop dreading visits from witches? She needed to get this under control.

  “Nothing!” she blurted. “What? Don’t get any ideas!”

  “Sorry,” said Santa, his eyes wide and focused intently upon the ground.

  The tension between them sought frantically for a knife with which to cut itself. Even Osgrey seemed fidgety.

  “I was just about to have supper,” said Santa, breaking the silence. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Only if I’m invited,” she replied, feeling certain that she’d spend half the evening picking that response apart instead of sleeping.

  “Please.” Santa opened the door and ushered her in.

  Sergio took her cloak, and she even relinquished her broom this time. She didn’t really need it if things got ugly, and she thought perhaps Santa could do with a false sense of security.

  Santa offered Volgha a glass of honey wine in the study while the table was being set, which she accepted.

  Don’t drink too much, warned Osgrey.

  “Mind your own business,” Volgha snapped.

  “What?” asked Santa.

  “I’ve never had wine cold before,” she told him, enjoying the crisp sweetness of it.

  “I hadn’t either, until we got the insulation right.” Santa gestured toward the walls. “We rigged up a system that runs hot water through copper pipes. It helps the jumping holly keep the permafrost from collecting, and it stays nice and toasty in here. No need to keep your wine warm when you don’t even need to wear fur.”

  It was a humble boast, but Volgha let it drift past without comment. He’d done some amazing work with the house. She was impressed.

  That’s how it starts, said Osgrey. First, you’re admiring the walls, and then you’re an indoor person with clothing for different occasions.

  “Keep it down in there,” Volgha hissed.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What have you been doing lately?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Working in the forge, mostly. Some of the fittings for the flying machine
’s wings sheared a little bit too easily, so I’m remaking them from steel instead of brass.”

  “Interesting,” she said, letting the word trail off into a gloom of mistrust and suspicion.

  Santa leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ll fly it somewhere else.”

  “That would be wise.”

  “Oh,” Santa suddenly stood up, “and then there’s the hill.” He walked over to a small desk in the corner of the room, opened one of the drawers, and brought out a roll of paper. He unrolled it and Volgha saw a charcoal sketch of a hilltop, bearing what appeared to be a series of giant eggs sitting on pedestals. The eggs looked like they’d been pinched in the middle until there was a hole going through them.

  “These were the ‘wolves’ that our friends were answering,” Santa explained. “The wind howls when it passes through them. They were probably covered in frost for ages, but they’re not anymore. It’s pretty high up, and it’s warm up there.”

  “I’ve noticed,” said Volgha. “Warmer the higher you go. But what are they?”

  I’ve seen those before, said Osgrey, but I can’t remember where.

  “No idea,” said Santa. “They’re old, that’s for sure. Really old. We put some wooden boxes over them for now, to prevent the howling. It was getting hard to sleep around here.”

  “Fascinating,” Volgha mused. “I’d love to see them sometime. Maybe I can do a bit of scrying to determine what they are, and who built them.”

  “Wolf decoys, maybe?” Santa suggested. “Perhaps people who lived in the hills a long time ago figured out that they could get the wolves to leave them alone if they thought there was already a pack up there.”

  “That’s possible.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, sipping cold honey wine and staring at the crackling logs in the hearth.

  Now’s as good a time as any, said Osgrey.

  “Let me handle this,” whispered Volgha.

  Santa looked at her expectantly.