Of course, it didn’t explain why her breath didn’t cloud the air the way the lass’s and Rollo’s did. But the lass didn’t think it polite to remark on that.
After she’d peeled and cored three apples, she helped the old woman carry the basket of peeled fruit over to a big black pot that hung over a fire behind the hut. The pot was half-full of boiling water, and they spilled in the apples. The old woman produced bags of spices from her apron and poured them into the pot, replacing the lid with a sigh.
“By tomorrow morning that will be the sweetest apple jelly you ever did taste,” the old woman said, smacking her lips. She did have all her teeth, which seemed odd in one so decrepit.
“That’s kind of you, moster,” the lass said. “But we must be going. We have a long road ahead of us.”
“And where is it you’re going?” Bright blue eyes peered at the lass from the web of wrinkles. “There’s naught but snow and trees and trolls from here till doomsday, the direction you’re headed.”
“That’s rather the point,” said the lass, twisting her fingers in the fur edging the white parka. “I’m looking for the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon, you see. Do you know where it is?”
Sucking in a breath, the crone stared at the lass. “At it again, is she? So you’re the lassie that should have had the prince she’s stolen?”
“Is he a prince?”
“Oh, yes. Always has to have the royals, she does. I heard one time that she made an exception, for a boy of especial beauty, but he got away from her.”
“I think that was my brother, Hans Peter,” the lass said, feeling her skin tighten with gooseflesh.
“Aye, that was the name the last little girl said to me,” the crone said, nodding.
“Tova? Did Tova come this way?”
“That was the other name she said, yes,” the old woman agreed.
“Then where did she go? Am I going in the right direction? Do you know where the palace is? Did Tova make it there?”
The old woman shook her head to stop the lass’s questions. “You’ll reach the castle, late or never, I suppose. If you are determined to see it. For myself, I never dared to face her. Not even when she took my Lars.” Tears fogged the old eyes. “Trolls live a long time, but human husbands do not.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, moster.” The lass put her arms around the old woman and hugged her. The crone felt as light and fleshless as a straw doll.
“No sense crying, no sense now,” said the crone, wiping her face with a ragged sleeve.
“Who’s out here blubbering, when there’s wool needs carding?” Out of the hut popped another old woman with a face like a walnut and bright blue eyes.
If the lass had thought the first moster to be the oldest woman alive, she was mistaken. The crone standing on the doorstep of the hut, smiling with remarkably white and even teeth, was even more withered of form and thin of hair than her friend. Her white hair was so fine that her pink scalp showed through, and she was bundled up in even more layers of worn clothing. In her gnarled hands she held a basket of snarled wool and a pair of carding combs.
“God dag, moster,” the lass said.
“This is the lassie that should have had the newest prince,” the first moster said in the loud, clear voice you used around the hard of hearing.
The second old woman had a laugh like a creaking gate. “No wonder her was in such a taking when she flew by t’other day,” she said. “It’s another lassie, and another husband, and another fine mess, it is.”
“Yes,” the lass agreed loudly. “Do you know the way?”
“Oh, saints be praised no, child! I only ever made it this far after my sweet Finnish prince was whisked away. Lovely dark eyes he had,” she sighed.
“He’s dead now,” the first moster announced. “Hand me the wool.”
“Yes, yes,” the second said, irritated. She handed the wool to her friend, and gave the lass the carding combs. “It’s too late now to be going on. The sun will set soon. But we’ll see what we can do for you in the morning.”
“All right,” the lass agreed.
She settled back on her stump, with Rollo sprawled at her feet, and began to card the wool. The mosters produced two more sets of combs, and together they made short work of the basket of wool, though the sky had grown quite dark by then.
“Very nice,” the first moster said when they had finished. “Supper time!” She poked Rollo with a bony finger. “We’ve enough for four but not for five. Go get your own fat rabbit.”
“Four?” The lass and Rollo exchanged puzzled looks.
“You haven’t met the Eldest yet,” the second moster told her. “Bring the basket of wool into the hut, dearie, and I’ll introduce you.”
The lass felt a surge of fear. The hut was small and dark, with no windows. What if this was some trick? How could anyone be older than these two crones, unless she was a troll or some other monster?
“I’ll get my rabbits in a moment,” Rollo said casually, eyeing the first moster. “Let me pay my respects to the Eldest first.”
“Yes, Rollo. That would be the polite thing to do,” the lass said, feeling slightly relieved.
The mosters, as though sensing her fear, cackled and went into the hut, leaving the rough wooden door open. The lass and Rollo followed slowly, and the girl held the basket of wool in front of her like a shield.
Inside it was dim and smoky, with a single fire in the center of the one round room. The only furnishings were a large wooden bed covered with reindeer hides, and a table with three chairs. Seated in one of the chairs was the third moster.
She was only identifiable as a woman because she was wearing the faded remnants of what once might have been a gown. It wasn’t like the skirts and vests that the lass was used to, though. Instead, the patched fabric formed a long, straight robe that had no definite waist or bodice. This crone had more hair than the other two, more hair than the lass herself, even. Her two long braids, yellowed white like old ivory, were as fat as the lass’s wrists and hung down to the ground. The ends were clasped with bands of tarnished gold.
With a face so withered and wrinkled that it was impossible to see her expression, she raised her head to the lass. In her clawlike hands she held a worn wooden drop spindle. She dropped it with a practiced gesture. It spun in a little dent in the hard-packed earth floor, smoothed by the years, and she pulled a fine white thread from it without any effort.
“Who’s this then?” Her voice was like twigs rubbing together in the wind.
Feeling only comfort and kindness emanating from the three mosters, the lass set her basket of wool on the table. “I’m the one who should have had the prince who lived in the palace of ice,” she explained. “I’m looking for the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon. Do you know how to get there?”
“My Eirik was her prince,” the old woman said as she continued to spin. “More years ago than I can count. I nearly died of the curiosity, lying there night after night, and had to look.”
“Yes, moster, as did I,” the lass said.
“As did we all,” the first moster remarked loudly to the second.
“Moster?” The Eldest tilted her head and sniffed the air, and for the first time the lass realized that she was blind. “Yes, I suppose that is what I am now. Once I was a princess, and my father’s ships sailed the world over. My brothers fought the skrælings in the lands to the west, the dragons to the east, the trolls to the north, and the dark men to the south. But never did they reach the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon. Nor did I, for I was not strong enough to stir beyond this place.”
“I—I’m sorry . . . Your Highness,” the lass stammered.
“‘Moster,’ child, for that is all I am now. An old blind woman, spinning away the years.” She shook her head and the gold band on her left braid struck the leg of her chair with a gentle chiming sound. “The last young girl to pass through here called me ‘moster’ as well.?
?? The old woman sighed. “Now if you’ll help me spin the new-carded wool while the others prepare supper, we’ll see if we can’t help you on your way tomorrow.”
The lass sent Rollo to catch his own meal, and took up the spindle offered her.
Chapter 24
None of us have ever ventured farther than this little clearing,” the first moster told the lass the next morning.
They all three stood before their hut, the Eldest leaning on a tall walking stick carved with flowers. In the gray dawn light they looked even older and less human, but the lass knew them to be kind and good.
“But our horses were gifts from our neighbor, and know well the way to his house,” the second moster said. She walked to the edge of the clearing and whistled a long, sharp note.
“His house?” The lass was surprised. “I thought I would go on and on through a long trail of women who got lost searching for the troll palace.”
The Eldest shook her head. “Many have passed through, over the years, but where they ended up we’ve no notion. We help those who are polite, and bar our door to those who are not.”
“Oh.” The lass felt very grateful that her parents had taught her good manners. The two hot meals she had eaten at their hearth and the warm soft bed had done wonders for her.
“Here is your pack,” the first moster said, holding it out. “We’ve stuffed it full of apples and bread, and a little cheese.”
“Oh, thank you!” The lass felt guilty: they were so old, and she had Rollo to hunt for her. “Are you sure you can spare it?”
“Of course, child,” the Eldest said. “And more besides.” She pointed imperiously at the pack. “Show her,” she ordered the first moster.
“A jar of my apple jelly,” the first moster said, flipping open the knapsack and showing the lass where it nestled inside. The jar was shaped like an apple, and the jelly inside made it shine like pure gold. “The jar is carved from crystal,” the crone said with pride. Then she held up a set of carding combs, and these really did appear to be made of gold, finely worked and set with small jewels. “Carding combs, and a ball of new wool, from that one.” She nodded at the second moster, still standing a few feet away and just now emitting a second whistle.
“And this from me,” the Eldest said. She felt inside the pack and pulled out a spindle of gold, as elegant as the carding combs. “A blind woman has no need for such trinkets. But if you wish to enchant the troll princess . . .”
The lass thought of the ice palace, with its rooms full of anvils and knitting needles, and smiled. “Wonderful,” she said. “Tova was polite, wasn’t she? Did you help her?” She wanted very much to know about Hans Peter’s beloved. Not just if she had survived, but what sort of person she was.
“Tova was a good girl,” the first moster said brightly, repacking the lass’s bundle. “We gave her useful gifts as well.”
The Eldest smiled at the lass, her ancient face transformed by the expression. “We send you as well armed as we sent the last lost maiden, if you can find a way to use these weapons,” she said.
Doubt fluttered in the lass’s breast, however. “Do you really think that I will get to the palace?” she asked.
The old woman paused. Her gnarled, ancient fingers reached out and touched the lass’s cheek. As softly as snowflakes, she stroked the girl’s face. “Yes,” she said, her hands still resting lightly on the lass’s cheeks. “You will find the palace east of the sun and west of the moon.” She shook her head, the motion rippling down her long braids. “Poor thing.”
“But will I be able to free my prince?”
“That I cannot say.”
The lass sighed deeply.
“Come now,” the Eldest said, taking her stiff old hands from the girl’s face. “You are too young for such despairing sighs. We will loan you our horses, and they shall carry you to the home of the east wind.”
“The east wind?” The lass gaped at the Eldest moster.
“Indeed,” she said. “Who else would live so far from human habitation?”
A third whistle from the moster at the edge of the clearing, and three horses came trotting out of the forest. One was black as ebony, the second gray as a stormcloud, and the third white as snow with a bloodred mane and tail.
“This is Hjartán,” the first moster said, stroking the black horse’s nose.
The horse’s name took the lass aback. At first it sounded like an endearment, but then the crone crooned to the horse in the older tongue of the North for a moment, and the lass realized what the name meant. In the old tongue, it meant “heartless.”
The moster saw the lass’s expression and cackled. “I was a wee bit bitter over my fate when he was given to me,” she said. “Ride him as far as he can go, then flick his left ear and send him home.”
“Then ride my Falskur,” the second moster said, slapping the gray horse on the shoulder.
“Falskur?” Another strange name.
“Aye.” The old woman grinned. “The horse is not faithless, but it was faithlessness that brought me here.
“Ride him until he tires, for he is stronger and faster than his brother Hjartán. When he begins to slow, flick his right ear and send him home.”
“And then you will mount my dear Vongóður,” the Eldest said.
“Hopeful?” The name was startling, considering what the other crones had named their horses.
“We must always have hope, child,” the ancient princess said. “Even when it seems that there is none in sight.”
Fighting back another despairing sigh for which she was too young, the lass stepped up on a stump and then mounted Hjartán. She had never ridden a horse before, but Hjartán stood very still despite her scrambling. He was not as broad as her isbjørn, and his coat was smooth, but his mane was thick and she thought she would be able to hold to that well enough. She settled her pack on her back as best she could, made sure that Rollo was on his feet and ready to follow, and then smiled at the three old women.
“Thank you, dear mosters,” she said.
They smiled back, and for a moment, a ghost of beauties lost passed over their faces.
“May the old gods protect you, child,” the Eldest said. “When you have reached our neighbor, tickle Vongóður under the chin and he’ll find his way back.”
The first moster patted the lass’s knee and then brought her hand down with a crack on the horse’s rump. “Go!”
Squealing, Hjartán shot out of the clearing, heading north and east. Rollo and the other two horses followed hard behind. The lass clung to Hjartán’s mane and prayed that a branch wouldn’t whip her in the face. She might be blinded—with a thrill of terror, she wondered if that was how the ancient princess had lost her sight. She crouched low on the horse’s neck, hiding her face in her white hood again. Her muscles soon cramped and locked into place. After some hours, she tried to stop Hjartán so that they might all rest, but he would not be halted. She thought of leaping off, but the snow looked hard and icy, so she resigned herself to hanging on.
To pass the time, she thought of her bear, who was also a prince, and their time together discussing plays and poetry and stories about the lass’s childhood. She remembered telling him about finding the white reindeer, which only Hans Peter knew about, and how the isbjørn had not been all that surprised at the tale.
Thinking of the white reindeer made her think of her name.
The lass, who possessed in her heart the most beautiful name ever heard, firmed her resolve. She would find the castle east of the sun and west of the moon. She would atone for her faithlessness and make things right with the prince. She would find Tova, and bring her to Hans Peter so that they could be happy. Surely someone gifted by the white reindeer, who had befriended fauns and isbjørner and who had traveled so far, would succeed.
Surely she would.
She whispered her name into the wind. Hjartán surged through the trees, his brothers just behind. With a yip, Rollo sped up to match the stallion’s pac
e. The lass hung on, and the miles flew by.
Chapter 25
Wind does not need translation. It speaks the language of men, of animals and birds, of rocks and trees and earth and sky and water. It does not eat or sleep, or take shelter from the weather. It is the weather.
And it lives.
The east wind lives in a forest dark with trees. The trees do not grow straight or tall, for the wind is too forceful to allow that. But they grow strong, with deep roots and trunks like stone. The branches have been twisted and twined about each other, thrust out at impossible angles from trunks that curl like smoke.
The aged princess’s horse slowed as they reached this strange forest. The lass was able to sit up straight and look around at the bizarre living sculptures that surrounded them. Rollo, panting hard, dragged along behind them, twigs and leaves caught in his fur and little balls of snow tangled in the long feathery hairs on the backs of his legs and tail.
There was no snow on the ground here, though some was pushed up against the trees in hard drifts. The ground looked polished: there were no twigs or fir needles littering it. They came to a great rock that had been smoothed into a shape like a throne twice the height of a man. Vongóður stopped, and the lass slithered off his broad, pale back.
They stood there for a while, all three of them. The horse plainly thought that its duty was fulfilled, and refused to go farther. The lass was hesitant to send the stallion on his way, however, and Rollo was just glad that they had stopped. He flopped down on the hard ground and fell instantly asleep.
“Hello?” the lass dared to call out at last. “East wind? The three old . . . mosters . . . who are your neighbors sent me.”
In truth the lass was not expecting to see anything more extraordinary than a man. A strong man, perhaps, a strange man, most likely. But just a man all the same. The mosters had said that their neighbor was the east wind, but the lass had not taken that literally. Jarl used to regale his children with tales of great heroes and ancient gods riding into battle on the backs of the winds, but the lass had always suspected that the heroes, if they did exist, had simply ridden horses like everyone else.