The Winter Riddle Read online

  Volgha spent a couple of evenings exploring the rest of the village, talking with the elves as well as the horses, none of whom voiced any serious complaints about their white-bearded boss. She only watched the building across the gully from afar, though, sensing that there was something sacrosanct about it.

  It was the only building that had guards. They worked in shifts, relieving each other regularly. They were always there, always the bigger elves, armed with simple staffs. They held them like they knew how to use them.

  Even the “guards” at the main gate didn’t have staffs. They were more like hosts, there to offer hospitality to anyone who came knocking—or dropping off detritus, as the case may be.

  Guards! Walls with gates in them! All of this was proof that Santa was hiding something, not that she needed further proof. She was starting to like him despite her best efforts, but she couldn’t trust him until she figured out his shameful secret.

  One evening, she walked by one of the great barns and saw a great wood-and-steel monstrosity. It resembled a penguin standing on the back of a bear and was damaged on one side. On the other side, it had a great metal wing that was covered in elfish script—just like the one that had lain waste to her garden.

  She wandered in for a closer look. There was a hole very near what would have been the shoulders of the bear, inside which there was a seat that was roughly elf-sized. The seat was surrounded by levers.

  “It looked better before,” said a small voice from very nearby. Volgha craned her neck to look under the remaining wing and saw an elf sitting on a little stool. He was waving a stick at a bucket of rags and a block of wax, and the rags were polishing the machine of their own accord. It would undoubtedly have taken the elf a very long time without the stick.

  “You’re a wizard,” Volgha mused aloud.

  “Not really,” said the elf. “I mean, the concept is a part of the Wizarding Way, but it’s mostly just Applied Thinkery.”

  Volgha had heard of Thinkery before. It differed from standard, run-of-the-mill thinking in that one’s mind is fairly useless for the purpose; if anything, being aware that you’re doing it is a hindrance.

  Volgha imagined that Applied Thinkery must be roughly the same, except you could make the rags do the work without your hands getting involved at all.

  “What does all the writing on the wing say?” asked Volgha.

  “This Side Up,” answered Krespo, looking over at it. “Flaps To Rear, Ice May Form, Stand Clear During Flapping, that sort of thing.”

  “Ah,” said Volgha, only slightly disappointed that there was no deeper mystery there. “The other wing landed in my garden, you know.”

  The elf froze, and his eyes went wide. The rags stopped their polishing and fell to the floor. His mouth hung open and his jaw quivered, as though he were trying to remember how to speak.

  “Yes?” Volgha was irritated. She didn’t often go in for idle chit-chat, and when she did, she wanted it to be pleasant. If she’d wanted his fear, she could have had it.

  “I-I-I’m—” The elf abruptly shut his mouth, stood up, and took off his stocking cap. He held it in his hands in front of him, looking down as he turned it in his fists.

  “I’m sorry,” he groaned, the words surfing forth on a wave of blubbering.

  “For what?”

  “For your g-g-garden!”

  “Yes,” said Volgha. “Well, Santa and I have come to terms on that score, so there’s no need to—”

  “It was all my fault!” The elf burst into tears.

  “Your fault?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was driving the flying machine. I’m so sorry!”

  “You were driving it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so! I didn’t want to be, but I was. I panicked, and the thing nearly fell off the cliff into the valley with me strapped into it!”

  “Why were you driving it, if you didn’t want to?”

  “My name was on the form. It doesn’t matter.” The elf took a deep breath, trying to stop sobbing. “I made a complete mess of the entire thing! If Santa hadn’t rescued me, the whole thing probably would have ended up in your garden, and me along with it!”

  Volgha looked at him for a moment, and then at the wing that was still attached to the flying machine. It was an enormous contraption, and though a single wing was enormous on its own, it was only a small piece of the machine.

  She considered what might have happened had Santa not intervened in the accident. It could have been a lot worse.

  Then she considered what would have happened had Santa kept his affairs entirely upon the ground, where they belonged. Honestly, did he think that the sciences had any business putting things in the sky?

  At least this blubbering coward seemed to have been bullied into his part in it. Intimidation was the key to flying, unless you happened to be a bird.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” Water was flowing freely from his face, and he was bawling with abandon. He had none of the silent stoicism of the big burly elves. Why hadn’t one of them been chosen to be the driver?

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Volgha, “I’m not allowed, per my terms with Santa.”

  The elf exhaled sharply a few times, a wheezing sort of maneuver, possibly intended to control the physical act of fear. Witches were good at working with fear, but his was so palpable that it was hardly any fun at all.

  “But you did cause me a deal of inconvenience,” said Volgha. “Tell me your name.”

  “K-Krespo,” he said.

  “Do you know who I am, Krespo?”

  “Of course ma’am. You’re the Winter Witch.”

  Volgha’s lips drew into a thin smile. She wasn’t vain per se, but it was nice that her name had gotten around.

  “That’s right. You’ve inconvenienced a witch. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “It means that I’m in a lot of trouble?”

  “Right again.”

  Krespo whimpered. “Oh, I hate being in trouble! Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? Once I’m done polishing the machine here, of course.”

  “Of course. I can’t think of anything I could possibly want from you right now, but you seem like an honest sort of fellow. Honest fellows are good to have around.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “We’ll just say that you owe me a favor then,” said Volgha. “I’ll call on you when the time is right. Agreed?”

  “Of course, ma’am! I’d be happy to!”

  “Very well then Krespo. You and I have come to terms. So long as you fulfill your debt when I call on you, I have no quarrel with you.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am! I’ll keep my promise, I promise!”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Volgha. “Until then, I need you to tell me something. A little token of good faith.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “That building at the end of the lane, the one with the guards. What is it?”

  “That? Oh, that’s the armory.”

  “Santa has an armory?”

  “Yes,” Krespo replied. “Well, he and the Faesolde do.”

  “Faesolde?”

  “Elfish warriors,” said Krespo. “Well, they used to be, anyway. A bunch of them live here in the village.”

  “I see,” said Volgha. “And what’s in the armory?”

  Krespo shrugged. “I’m not sure, to tell the truth. I never go in there. Some stuff from the war, I know that much.”

  “What war?”

  “The one between us and the goblins. It was a long time ago.”

  “And you’re not allowed in?”

  “Oh, I’m allowed,” said Krespo. “Everyone’s allowed, but only Santa and the Faesolde ever go in. The rest of us just sort of … don’t.”

  “I see,” said Volgha. “So I wouldn’t get in trouble if I went in?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, but I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anyone who wasn’t Santa or Faesolde try.”

  Volgha cock
ed her head to the side and considered Krespo for a moment. Unlike everyone else she’d ever met, he didn’t seem to be hiding anything. It was as though he’d been absent the day that guile was being handed out.

  Nonsense. Everyone was hiding something, even this little devil. His apparent sincerity earned him an extra measure of suspicion.

  “Thank you, Krespo. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “My pleasure!” Krespo smiled and gave a little bow.

  Later that evening, after the forge had gone cold and most of the elves had retired to their longhouse, Volgha made her way to the armory. As she crossed the bridge, she kept an eye on the two guards flanking the door, each standing under a faerie lamp. They didn’t move, just stood there, staring straight ahead. She mused that staring straight ahead must be prescribed in some sort of universal guarding manual, which all guards seemed to have read.

  She took slow, purposeful steps down the path from the bridge. She could have simply gone Dim, but that would have failed when she opened the door. She needed to find out what Santa was hiding, and there was a good chance it was in there.

  “Hello,” she said to the guards, as she approached. They didn’t react.

  “I am Volgha, the Winter Witch.” She stood up as straight as possible. “I’m a guest of Santa’s, and was given leave to wander where I please. I think I’ll go into the armory now.”

  Asking for permission might have cleared up any ambiguity, but what if they’d said no? Then she couldn’t say, “I didn’t know I couldn’t do that.” Not as good as a “yes,” but it gave her some wiggle room.

  They gave no response. Short of a crack on the skull from one of their heavy sticks, it didn’t look as though anything was going to prevent her entering.

  “Okay then,” she said. “In I go.”

  She slowly made for the door, repeatedly glancing at the guards for any indication that they were going to object. They didn’t move. She placed her hand on one of the big iron handles. Still nothing. She pulled the handle and the door flew open, surprising her at how well-balanced the enormous thing was. A hallmark of Santa’s intentional craftsmanship.

  Still nothing. She walked inside.

  She was alone in what appeared to be the single room of the armory. A simple rectangular room, just silly with armor and weapons. The long walls were lined with elf-sized suits, each with different deadly implements mounted next to it. Swords, axes, spears, daggers, and more. All of them gleamed, from constant polishing or elfish charms, she couldn’t be sure which.

  At the far end of the armory, there was a single suit of armor and a massive rack of weapons. They were all human-sized, made of dull red steel, some pieces with gold or silver trim that had tarnished with age. The weapons had dark wooden hafts, and the pointed helmet had a painted white tip. They had to be Santa’s, no question.

  Just then a burly Faesolde elf came in behind her. She turned, and their eyes met for a moment. He seemed caught off guard to find her there. But he said nothing, just walked silently over to one of the elfish suits of armor, and sat in front of it, back straight, with his arms and legs crossed. He just sat there, as still as a stone, staring at the suit.

  The armory was steeped in a forceful sort of silence that was more than just the absence of people talking. It was the sort of silence that would defend itself. Volgha’s hackles went up, certain that they sensed the stares of a dozen armed librarians, patiently longing for a reason to hush her with extreme prejudice. She tried to breathe as little as possible.

  “No more killing for me,” Santa had said. The nicks and dents in his swords and armor left her with little doubt that he’d seen enough bloodshed to last a lifetime. She didn’t know if this grim place was the thing that Santa was hiding, but he’d certainly never brought it up.

  She sat on a little bench just beside the door, the only spot in the armory where she didn’t feel as though she was intruding upon the lone Faesolde’s vigil. She stared at Santa’s armor, her mind working to incorporate all of this into what she knew about him.

  For ages he’d been the noisy neighbor she was happy to ignore. Then he’d been the inconsiderate lout who’d ruined her garden. Then he’d been a gracious host, and now he was a warrior.

  Former warrior, anyway. He had bothered neither to glamour his armor nor to polish it. It stood there, scarred, scuffed, and battered, with all of its patches and repairs. It was a memory of a different time, one that he hadn’t talked about, but obviously one that he didn’t want to forget.

  Pasts are often complicated that way, she thought.

  The faerie lamps in the corners cast a serene glow around the sparse room. It was a calm-before-the-storm sort of feeling. Volgha felt very much at peace, though the hairs on the back of her neck simply would not stand down.

  Her reverie was broken by the sound of howling. She made her way out of the armory, the sound growing as she opened the door. She hurried through the door and closed it as quickly as she could, not wanting to disturb the room’s other occupant any more than she’d done already.

  As she crossed the bridge, she could see that the wolves had left the forge. They were milling around on the road, howling, sniffing each other, doing all of the standard wolfish things that they might be doing at any given moment, but in a more agitated way.

  Santa was walking toward them as well, his big boots crunching over the fresh snow. He wore a stocking cap and had furs layered over what appeared to be a dressing gown. He’d obviously been sleeping.

  “What’s happening?” Santa approached a group of elves who were watching the commotion and talking excitedly with one another.

  “We’re not sure, Santa,” answered one of the elves. He was wearing a stocking cap as well, and bundled in his cloak. “They just started howling.”

  Santa turned to look at Volgha as she approached. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Volgha said. “They seem agitated.”

  “That much is clear.” Santa stroked his beard, as if thinking. “Nothing else is amiss?”

  “Nothing as far as we can tell,” said the elf.

  Leave it to a bunch of wolves to wait until everyone is asleep to start howling for no apparent reason. Who else was going to do it? Volgha supposed they were merely fulfilling some whim of a bored and capricious universe. Volgha was all too familiar with the whims of the bored and capricious.

  The moon was behind the clouds, so that wasn’t it. Volgha knew that the wolves had a special kinship with the moon, and would howl at her when she was full. She’d never heard an explanation for this, and that was fine. Explaining things robs them of their mystery, and witches appreciate mystery.

  “They’re not letting up,” Santa said after a while. He shifted from foot to foot, breathing great puffs of steam into the cold air.

  “Do you have any dried rockwort?” Volgha asked.

  “Probably,” Santa nodded, “in the apothecary.”

  “Bring me some,” said Volgha. “And a brass bowl, and a flint and steel. I’ll ask them.”

  “Go,” Santa instructed one of the elves who’d been close enough to hear the list. “I don’t suppose that counts as your favor?”

  “And I don’t suppose it earns me another one.”

  “Right.”

  The elf returned with the items Volgha had requested. She took them and walked closer to the wolves, who didn’t appear to notice. They were very busy doing wolf things, namely howling and sniffing each other’s nethers.

  Kneeling on the snow, Volgha got to work. She used a handful of snow to cleanse the bowl and then crumbled the rockwort into it.

  She whispered a few words of magic. Had anyone been close enough to hear, they’d have sounded like a sackful of consonants crashing through a thicket. She struck the flint three times over it, and a small flame rose up.

  She drew in a breath and made a high-pitched whining noise from the back of her throat like one might hear from a dog showing remorse over a bes
mirched region of carpet. One of the wolves trotted over and sat very close to her, their noses nearly touching.

  Volgha made a gesture over the bowl that looked like it required a couple of broken fingers to achieve, and the little flame turned from yellow-orange to a deep shade of red. She whispered another bunch of consonants to the wolf, who gave a few syllables of bark-and-whine in response.

  The red flame disappeared in a puff of smoke. Smiling at the wolf, Volgha scratched the top of her head. She smiled and panted, then got back to wolf business.

  Volgha stood, crossed her arms, and frowned at the wolves.

  “What is it?” Santa asked.

  “An answer,” replied Volgha.

  “An answer? To what?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “What did the wolf say?”

  “She said ‘an answer.’ Or something very similar to that. Wolfish isn’t exactly a language like the one we use. It translates poorly.”

  “An answer,” said Santa again, hoping perhaps that repeating it would add clarity.

  The two of them stood there, watching the wolves and clutching their cloaks about themselves against the chill. Neither of them said anything for several minutes, during which time the wolves continued delivering whatever answer they’d started before.

  Santa’s face lifted abruptly, his eyes bright with realization. He looked at Volgha, appeared to decide that whatever he was thinking would take too long to explain, and turned toward the wolves again. Spreading his feet wide, he took in a huge breath, and shouted a great “HAOOOOOO!” in a deep and scratchy baritone.

  For just a brief moment, all of the wolves stopped howling and turned to look at Santa with a sort of scowl. Unbeknownst to Santa, he’d just yelled a swear word in wolfish that would have him relegated to the back of the pack if an alpha had heard him.

  The sound of Santa’s howl echoed off into the distance, and a brief silence followed it. Then, faintly, they heard a response from somewhere beyond the walls. It sounded like another pack of wolves. The wolves heard it as well and resumed their howling.

  “What was that you said to them?” Volgha had never heard that particular swear word howled before.