The Winter Riddle Page 4

  She wanted to swear revenge, but in that moment, she honestly didn’t think she was capable of claiming it.

  She surrendered to her defeat. Rising from the tub, she dried herself off, slipped into a clean, plain black robe, and got into her bed. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had slept properly, or how long she might have lain there in the mud, or if she was even tired now. But lying there, warm in the sheets, she curled up and let the tears roll from her eyes, and wept herself to sleep.

  4

  The passage of time is difficult to mark in the North Pole, given the year-long day. It’s doubly difficult figuring out how long one has slept, so most of the people who live there simply don’t bother trying.

  So it was that Volgha awoke because she no longer felt like sleeping. Her cheeks stung of salt, and her face felt puffy.

  The memory of her defeat at Ghasterly’s hands returned, albeit unbidden. She pushed it aside, vowing to think on it more once she had the strength. Though she was still unnerved by the experience, she didn’t seem to have any tears for it at the moment, and that was something.

  Getting out of bed, she looked around for her basket, which had all of her herbs and components in it. She tried to remember where she’d left it, and then it came to her—it was in the tower.

  She said a swear word, and her heart sank. She started thinking through its contents. She could replace most of what was in it, but it would take a very long time.

  Above all else, she loved that basket. It was the first thing that she’d made in her cottage that had really, entirely been her own. Her clothes had been made by the castle’s seamstresses, her boots by a cobbler in the village—the basket, though, was all her work. She’d found the long grasses in the woods around the grove, picked them, dried them, and woven them together.

  She had to admit that it wasn’t a very good basket—it was the first thing she’d tried to make, after all—but it held things, and wasn’t that the entire point of a basket? She’d have to get it back, even if only to replace it. Better to say, “I want to make a better basket,” than, “A mean old necromancer stole my basket, and I’m afraid to get it back.”

  Later. She kept a few things in her wardrobe which would do for now. After grinding a few dried herbs, she mixed them with a bit of ash from the fireplace, and wiggled her fingers over them as she mumbled an incantation.

  Removing her long cloak from the wardrobe, she fastened it around her neck and drew the hood up over her head. She mumbled another incantation, threw the powdered mixture of herbs and ash up in the air, and took a step to stand beneath the cloud as it fell. She took in a breath and whispered a “hushhhhhh” as the mixture further obscured her.

  It was an interesting feeling, being Dim. She felt as though she could hide behind the very air in the room. Sure, there was no one else in the room with her, but if there had been, they wouldn’t see her.

  That’s not to say that they couldn’t see her—she’d have to be invisible for that. Being Dim was a lot like being invisible, in that she could walk around in a room unnoticed; however, unlike invisibility, being Dim didn’t allow the light to pass through her. It was more like a mind game. So long as she didn’t make eye contact with anyone or say, “hello, I’m over here,” anyone nearby would simply find themselves disinclined to notice her.

  It was a very useful spell, and far less taxing than invisibility. She didn’t really need the cloak for it, she just found that it kept her in the right frame of mind. She crept out of her room and headed for the kitchens.

  It wasn’t difficult, but she had to tiptoe and avoid making sudden movements. It was like hide-and-seek, but she was the best player in the world, and no one else was aware that they were supposed to be playing.

  The kitchens presented a challenge. They were a constant whirlwind of activity, as the frequent, lavish meals required a lot of preparation. Volgha managed to duck her way past cooks and their assistants, tucking half a loaf of bread, a couple of sausages, a wedge of cheese, and an apple into the folds of her cloak. She even purloined a nice bottle of wine on her way out, then made her way up to the belfry.

  It was the second tallest tower in the castle, which made very little sense. It was so tall that the bell couldn’t be heard from anywhere in the castle. Her ancestors had been far more concerned with grandeur than practicality, and this sort of thing was the result.

  Volgha liked the belfry. Lack of overt mysticism aside, she actually liked it more than the wizard’s tower. No one ever went up the belfry stairs, even though the view of the surrounding kingdom was nothing short of majestic. It was a treasure hidden in plain sight, not unlike herself in her Dimness, according to a moment of self-indulgent vanity (for which she duly chided herself).

  Aside from the view, the belfry was her secret way in and out of the castle. Her broom was there, leaning against the frost-covered wall, where she’d left it when she’d arrived. Her sister’s capriciousness had once prevented her from leaving through the front gates for most of the spring, which Volgha found intolerable. Plus, appearing inexplicably added to a witch’s sense of mystery.

  As she ate her pilfered feast, she thought about home. Her little cottage in the grove on the valley floor was an ideal place for brooding. Volgha was good at brooding, and she had quite a bit to mumble angrily under her breath about.

  It was hard to brood in a castle. One could easily manage waxing philosophical, to be sure, but brooding? Hardly. Brooding was a stern and stoic undertaking, very difficult to manage when one had a pastry chef available at all hours.

  The cottage was an ideal spot for a good brood, not to mention sulks, ruminations, or even the occasional languish. It was almost as though Osgrey had designed it specifically for the purpose.

  Osgrey. If there could ever be a proper time for her mentor to turn himself into a tree, Volgha couldn’t imagine when that might be; however, she was certain that he’d done it too soon. Couldn’t he at least have waited until he’d seen her through summoning her familiar? It was perhaps the most important spell a witch would cast in her life, and now she’d have to figure it out on her own.

  She missed the old man. If anyone could have spared an encouraging word to brighten her spirits, it would have been him. She usually didn’t go in for that sort of thing, preferring solitude. There’s quite a bit of hermitry in witchery, and there probably was in druidry as well.

  Volgha shook her head. She’d hit her limit of feeling sorry for herself. Once she’d seen Loki’s madness to its end, she’d have her revenge on Ghasterly, and then she’d manage the familiar business on her own.

  Revenge. Nothing quite like it for keeping you warm.

  Rising, Volgha took one last look around. It seemed warmer than it usually was, despite the frost that still clung to the cold stone. The sun was setting slowly, casting gold and crimson hues across the landscape, and long shadows as well.

  Defeated, she thought, but only for now. The food and the sleep had done her good, and the security of the Dimness emboldened her. She headed down the stairwell, resolving to have a quiet lurk around the castle, in lieu of a proper brood.

  * * *

  Loki was back, and Volgha was still Dim. The two nitwits giggled in their tubs, both trying to speak but apparently failing for the uncontrollable laughter over some joke that Volgha had arrived too late to hear. It probably wouldn’t have amused her anyway. It may have even been at her expense.

  “Have you got any ducks?” Loki managed to ask, with a straight face, several minutes after Volgha had seated herself on a little stool in the corner. She felt compelled to observe them for a while, not wanting to waste the opportunity to witness uninhibited madness.

  “Not a one,” replied the queen. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because we’re being watched by a silly, silly goose!” Loki looked at Volgha and laughed at his own cleverness. Dimness was no use against the gods, then. Good to know.

  “There’s no goose in here!” The queen
started laughing anyway.

  “He’s talking about me,” said Volgha.

  The queen yelped and sank herself quickly amongst her bubbles, sloshing a great deal of water out onto the stone floor. Loki tittered. Resurfacing, the queen wiped the soap from her face, and pointed an accusing finger toward her sister.

  “How long have you been there?” Her eyes were full of that delighted rage that she was so prone to spew. Beheadings often followed.

  “Just for a moment,” said Volgha, with an utter dearth of the cowering and quaking that her sister undoubtedly would have preferred. “Long enough to witness a really spectacular display of lunacy. Honestly, do you two ever stop giggling long enough to feed yourselves?”

  “Jealous?” the queen asked, wearing nothing but a grin that was all teeth.

  “Not a bit.”

  “Well, you should be,” said Loki. “We’re a riot, and you’re boring.”

  “Then I guess I’ll take my potion and go home.”

  “No!” the nitwits shouted in unison, leaping from their tubs and rushing toward her. Caught completely unaware, Volgha’s instincts took over, and suddenly she was running through the castle, being chased by a pair of soapy, naked ninnies. Past servants and guards they ran, careening into trays of food, laundry carts, and a host of other hapless obstacles that could have been avoided, if only the servants would stop freezing in their tracks and shutting their eyes when they saw Her Majesty in her state of undress.

  Volgha started breathing heavily from the exertion of a flat-out run, and that returned her to her senses. People ran from witches, not the other way around!

  She thought a simple glamour should bring the chase to a close. She whispered a mouthful of consonants, stopped, and turned around.

  “Enough!” Flames erupted from her eyes and mouth. Shadowy tendrils licked out from underneath her dress, writhing threateningly around her. Her voice was a booming echo, a chorus of terrible monsters bellowing from out of a nightmare, from which all who heard sincerely wished to wake.

  Alexia and the servants within earshot fell into various cowering poses. Only Loki was grinning like an idiot, clapping his hands to applaud Volgha’s effort, but suffering from no tormented visions.

  She allowed the glamour to fade. The servants scrambled away in every direction, and it was just the three of them in the hallway.

  Her Majesty said a bunch of swear words and then yelled for Chamberlain. Lord Chamberlain was standing by with a pair of bathrobes, one of which he flung toward Loki, freeing his hands to hold the other one open for the queen. He managed not to peek as he got Her Majesty appropriately trussed, which was an impressive feat, given that she was less than cooperative. It was unclear whether she was struggling solely because she was drunk; she may have felt that Chamberlain needed a challenge.

  “Is this what passes for witchery now?” asked Loki. “Spooky parlor tricks and sneaking into the baths of incredibly attractive people?”

  “No,” said Volgha, “what passes for witchery is nothing short of splitting the mind of a god in half. Do keep in mind that you need my witchery to reunite the halves of your cleft globe before you presume to jibe with your betters, fool.”

  That was satisfying. Volgha really enjoyed watching the smugness drain from his face as she spoke, leaving behind a sulking frown.

  “That’s no way to speak to my friend,” said the queen. “Apologize at once, or you’ll not be welcome here!”

  Volgha shrugged. “Fine,” she said, then turned and sauntered away. It wasn’t often that her sister needed something from her, and the power was delicious. She wondered how far she’d get before one of them realized that—

  “Wait!” The queen had run to stand in front of her, blocking her exit. “Just this once, I will forgive your impudence out of hand. But only on the condition that you fulfill your part of the bargain. What say you?”

  “That’s too generous Your Majesty,” Volgha replied with a smile. “I couldn’t possibly accept such an extravagance.” She stepped around her sister and continued along the hallway.

  The queen ran around to block her path again. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth and a frown. She took a breath and straightened her posture, so that she looked very regal. “I’m … sorr …” The first word was well-projected and firm. The second was barely audible.

  “What was that?” Volgha’s fists rested on her hips.

  “I said I’m sor-rur.”

  “Sor-rur?”

  “Chamberlain!” Her Majesty stomped off to stand beside Loki. Lord Chamberlain stepped in front of Volgha, bowed, and cleared his throat.

  “Her Majesty bids you kind regards and wishes to obviate any misunderstanding on your part that might have been misconstrued as having intended offense. Her Majesty bids you remain in the care and comfort of Castle Borealis, and invites you to proceed with the riddle conceived by Mister Loki forthwith.”

  “Fine.” Volgha’s eyes rolled hard enough to curl her eyelashes. She gave Chamberlain a begrudged curtsy because that’s what you did for a proper gentleman of the court. He returned the gesture with an equivalent bow.

  “There, was that so hard?” Her Majesty’s unfailing air of dignity was entirely unaware that her mop of wet hair was committing some sort of interpretive dance across her face, or else it didn’t care.

  “To the wine cellar then.” Volgha strode off with a walk that was as fast as possible while still conveying indignation. As she fully expected, the two nitwits followed her, giggling and whispering to one another all the way. Honestly, it was like Loki was the vapid little sister that Her Majesty had always wanted.

  There it was. The whiskey barrel with half a Loki in it, glowing faintly in the gloom of the cellar. Chamberlain lit a torch on the wall.

  “Here we are then.” Volgha produced the potion from within the folds of her cloak. A good witch’s cloak was full of pockets. Strikingly useful, pockets, and the occasional opportunity to produce something from them with a flourish was a real treat. Nothing says “I’m not to be underestimated” like casually flourishing potions and the like.

  “Another sip,” she said, handing the potion to Loki. “Not all of it, leave enough for the last one.”

  Loki winked and nodded. He raised the glass bottle in salute to everyone, then briefly lowered it and scowled at Chamberlain. He uncorked it, took the second sip, recorked it, and fell to the floor. Chamberlain caught the bottle as he’d done the last time. Two lights, one from Loki and the other from the cask of whiskey, shot from their hosts and traded places. A faint smell of burnt hair lingered in the air for just a moment, and everything was still.

  The queen knelt by Loki’s head and brought her hands up to her cheeks, framing her broad and manic smile. She was a child at her own birthday party, waiting with a slender thread of patience for her toy to open itself.

  “How long should it take?” she asked, not taking her eyes off Loki, or sparing the effort to blink.

  “Not long,” said Volgha.

  She wasn’t wrong. After a moment, Loki began to stir. He sort of flopped around on the floor a bit, like a fish in an old man’s boat. Then he vomited and flopped around in that for a moment. Then he sat up, belched, and stared at each of them in turn. It was clear that he didn’t recognize any of them, based on the confused faces he was making. What was unclear was whether he could actually focus on any of their faces. He was very bleary, as though he’d skipped sleeping several times in order to continue drinking.

  “Is that normal?” The queen’s manic smile had sunk into an uneasy sneer.

  “Nothing about Loki is normal,” answered Volgha. “Plus, I told him to go with the wine.”

  “Uff,” said the queen. “Know-it-all.” She grabbed Loki’s face between her palms and tried to get him to focus on her face.

  “That’s done then,” said Volgha. “I’ll be leaving presently. Give him the last sip whenever he wants it.”

  “Oh, but you must stay!” The queen’s
insistence was somewhere between hospitality and a prison sentence. “We can’t have you leaving, not with such an important game afoot!”

  “Very well,” Volgha replied, thinking of her broom in the belfry. Slipping away later would be easier than arguing now.

  “I’ll have the maids turn down your bed,” said Chamberlain with a bow.

  “Do something with Loki first,” instructed the queen. Chamberlain hadn’t even straightened from his bow yet. The impregnable expression on his face showed the slightest hint of chagrin, leading Volgha to wonder if Chamberlain’s patience for her sister had limits after all.

  “Very well, Your Majesty,” he said. “And what would you have me do?”

  “Just send him on his way. He’s no fun like this. Maybe after he sobers up and solves his stupid riddle, he’ll be fun again.”

  “Very well.” Chamberlain called for a guard and pointed at the arguably conscious Loki. “Keep an eye on him for a moment.” He turned and walked toward the door.

  Once Chamberlain had gotten her cleaned up, Her Majesty had only enough energy remaining to eat eight of her nine supper courses before she fell asleep with a bottle of brandy in her royal fist. As Chamberlain was gathering her up to take her to her bedroom, Volgha thanked him for his accommodations and went off to her room.

  She napped for an hour or so, then Dimmed herself again and slinked off to the belfry. The air at high altitude was still warm, which was odd. As she made for home in a smooth stream of air, she tried to calculate how much time remained until the winter darkness was upon them.

  5

  The flight home was always much easier than the flight to the castle. It felt that way, at least. She always managed to find a nice tailwind, as if the castle itself was the source of the wind. And why not? It has to come from somewhere.