“I struck him as much for you as for us,” I said, discreetly readying my last bomb. “He leads you toward your end.”
“There is no end for us,” said another, stepping up to the first, “because Lord Garm allows it. Better to starve than perish at his teeth.”
They came closer and I threw the bomb. It fell short, but made them back off and hesitate for long enough to give me time to recite my spell. Wind stilled into waiting silence.
“Please, lift me!”
A tremendous gale swept across the plains, tossing the wolves aside as it caught me. My teeth chattered, but the cold in my bones was fear’s fault; I soared wingless around the tree and up toward the branches.
I cried out when the wind let go and left me to fall alone. It laughed at me as I screamed and plummeted toward the earth, tossed too far even to hope for a hold—until it nudged me roughly back toward the tree and I struck a bough.
The impact emptied my lungs. The wind still giggled in my ears while I clawed to climb onto the snowy branch. It let me struggle for a minute, but when my strength failed and I slipped, it gave me a last push to safety.
“Thank you,” I grumbled. Once I had gathered my wits and made it across the branch, I dared a peek down. The pack waited below me, but dashed off when it became apparent I wasn’t going to fall. “Lily!” I yelled, when I heard them howling on the other side of the tree. “Is everything okay?”
“They’re trying to jump, but I’m fine. Why did you scream?”
“The wind has a strange sense of humor.” There was a faint titter in my ears, and a gentle breeze touched my face, the flick of a wraith’s finger. “Are you cold?”
“The furs are warm.”
The wolves below yipped and howled until more joined in from afar, and their cries rose into wails. The clamor wasn’t deafening like earlier, but still made my temples throb. I found comfort in knowing I wouldn’t be able to accidentally fall asleep and drop to my death like this.
“What horrid racket,” someone whispered. The voice was soft and difficult to distinguish, but though the gales hadn’t once sounded so clear, the impish giggle gave away the speaker’s identity. “Should I quiet them?”
Before I replied, from clarity emerged a blizzard and everything around me turned white. The wind’s laughter was shrill and high, but to me, that raging turbulence was a breath on cold skin.
“There we are,” shrieked the wind. “And we may as well make our trade now!”
“Trade?” I called. It addressed me directly, and so I thought a spell was unneeded.
“You know how Brother Fire covets. Why should I not want as much?”
“Never once have you asked for a thing—”
“Then all the more shall I ask now!”
Concern tightened my throat. “What do you want?”
“Naught from you! I saved your life, did I not? How silly should I be to waste an effort. But, life for life sounds fair, does it not?”
“No!”
The cold slammed against me and turned biting, not enough to throw me off, but stinging through my coat.
“Then won’t you climb on down?” the wind shrieked. “Come save little sister from my embrace. Hurry, though—I am nothing if not impatient!”
I got on my knees, arms trembling. I could see the gate of the pilgrims from here. From so high, I couldn’t have hoped to scale the trunk in time without the wind’s help. I tried to think of a way to get down, racked my brain for a spell, anything that could—
My scream joined the wind’s when my immunity from the gales vanished and the storm gripped me.
Sunlight cut my private darkness. Slipping back into consciousness, I became aware, piece by piece, of how broken my body was. Every part of me ached, but I was alive, resting in a crater like a fallen star.
The ache reached my heart. Lily! Rose! What had become of them? Had the wind reaped one or both? It was silent now, ignoring my wrath and demands to speak to me.
I stood in place for a moment, waiting for a response—or for my body to obey and rise, whichever came first. I’d been thrown far and would’ve rather run, but such effort was beyond me now. My satchel was gone and my collection of herbs and potions with it, and so I was left with nothing to fight pain but the act of gritting my teeth when I climbed to my feet.
A howl cleaved the quiet day as I walked to the tree. In daylight the old ash’s bark looked as gray as stone, as if it had sprouted from the same seeds as the mountains. I circled it to find a black wolf below Lily’s hideout. It turned toward the crunch of my footfall and I saw the white stripe of Garm’s consort.
“Get away from her,” I snarled, choked on wheezing words, and forced my voice harder. “If you try to keep me away, I swear I will—”
“Climb on my back,” Leah said. “Hurry! She’s fading.”
A wolf’s voice is unlike any I’ve heard spoken, but grief is a universal emotion and hers was laced with it. It shook away my mistrust and anger; I hobbled to her, pressed my hand against the fur of her back and felt her muscles tensing beneath it.
When I saw the horror awaiting in the hole, I nearly fell. Lily was curled up inside the furs, small and still under a white blanket, blue lips visible beneath the fox head covering her face.
I eased her out—so stiff, so cold!—and cradled her in my arms. I might’ve sobbed, gibbered to Lily, or wept silently as I climbed down and fell to my knees, pressing her against my bosom. That moment was ethereal, as if my mind refused to confront the terrible truth: I had failed my baby sister. Hers was a death I was spared from.
“Ivy!” Leah barked. “Get up! You’re losing her!”
“She’s not breathing.” My voice broke when I pressed fingers against Lily’s frozen throat. “Her heart is still.”
Leah punted my shoulder. “Not her! Rose!”
Another pang. How quickly I’d forgotten our eldest. Where had she weathered the storm … and why was it any of Leah’s concern?
The wolf loped off, stopping to bark a wordless command as I shambled after her. She led me toward a gray mound. A distance away, half-buried in snow, lay the carcass of Garm. The snow around him was tarnished red.
The mound dispersed at Leah’s behest. Within it waited another sight I was not ready for. Rose’s chest was torn, eyes eclipsing. With my supplies, I could’ve scarcely pulled her out of the river; without them, I could only watch her sink.
She gave a faint moan as I hurried beside her. “Lily?” she croaked. “Is she …”
I found no words, and so I nodded.
She closed her eyes. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “Leah told me what we must do.”
I sought the wolf, but she and her pack were gone. “How?”
“I don’t know.” Rose paused to draw breath. Her chest barely moved. “She spoke and I heard. Maybe because her story was familiar. They kept me warm through the storm and she shared a tale to help me hang on.”
“Story?”
“One Father used to tell. When the totems stole the Swan King’s acorn.” Another pause, a grinding inhale. Her eyes opened, dimmer still. “These aren’t only fables, are they?”
I brushed her face, as cold as Lily’s. “They are fate.”
“Then do as Father taught you. Let me take my place in the story.”
“I would murder you.” Sobs distorted my words, but her response was solemn, peaceful.
“No, Ivy. Garm did. You’re freeing me from pain and saving Lily. You could offer no greater kindness.” She closed her eyes with a smile. “For once, let’s not argue. We will pull her back, you and I.”
With a shaking hand, I unsheathed my knife. Small thing, simple thing, now used for something grand and grievous. I pressed Lily’s head tighter against my chest, a reflex to keep her from seeing how deep I would wade for her. “I don’t know if I can. You’v
e bled so much.”
“Draw from the heart.” A patient lilt, as if I’d said something foolish. “I won’t feel a thing, but … do it fast. I haven’t long.”
I shuddered a nod, brought the knife to her chest. “Goodbye, Rose.”
She said nothing.
“Rose?”
A chill coursed through me as I plunged the knife down. My weakness, my cowardice may’ve cost me both her and Lily. I drew the knife across my palm, mixing her blood with mine, smeared the wound across Lily’s face, pulled back her hair and let it seep in.
“Herää, kalmo, ystäväni, ikiuneen uupunut. Veren lahja, elon lahja, virrata sai vuoksesi,” I spoke, reciting the last spell Father had taught me: Blood magic, a tragedy in two parts. Ineffably powerful for its simplicity, all the ritual required was the death of an innocent and the blood of a killer. The essence of life and death was the sole thing the king dealt in—but he would only answer me once.
I had intended to offer my own life in exchange for the world tree. I’d never find out if it could’ve worked, nor did I care.
“Please,” I said, reddening Lily’s lips, “give her back. One sister for another.”
Lily didn’t stir.
I shook her.
Lily didn’t stir.
I had been too slow. Rose’s death didn’t rest on my soul. I was useless.
For all her cleverness, the fox couldn’t save the wolf. Why not the dove? Had I said the words wrong? Did Father give the wrong words?
My head snapped toward where Garm lay. I hadn’t killed Rose. He had. I needed—
I scrambled up before finishing the thought. I slashed through Rose’s coat, through her gut, knife glistening and dripping rich deep red as I ran to the wolf. Rose had nearly severed his head, but the cold must’ve kept him from bleeding dry.
Garm died first, but he was no innocent. I carved into his chest, drew a stream of gelid blood and scooped it off the blade. Reciting the spell again, I painted Lily’s eyes, lips, opened her mouth and coated her tongue.
“Please …” I pressed fingers on her throat. “Wake up.”
Nothing happened. Garm had been dead for too long, and his blood had no life left in it. I couldn’t understand why—it still flowed, and the veins of a beast so enormous ought to’ve held enough warmth for one little sister.
I stained my coat hugging Lily when her heartbeat stopped my own.
Mine beat again. So did hers. They fell out of rhythm, Lily’s slower than mine, but even a slow thump lent enough strength for her to open her eyes.
“Ivy?” she groaned. “Why are you crying?”
The mask flowed off her face, streamed from her hair onto my hands, lap, onto snow. She was pale—though no longer deathly so—and her locks turned from wheat to white as color bled out.
For that moment, I gave her no answer. All I could do was hold her and howl.
Hours after sunset, we sat in the warmth of the burning world tree. I had given the fire explicit terms. It could burn as long as it wanted, but wouldn’t touch us even if we fell asleep.
Lily lay with her head on my lap. We had spoken little these past hours. She had found an acorn inside the hole and still clutched it when she awakened. Hearing that Rose wouldn’t see it had crushed her.
My grief was alleviated to an extent by her discovery. Cutting Rose had been the most awful thing I’d had to do. If we’d had to rely on blood magic, Lily would’ve had to do the same to me.
“Ivy,” Lily said. “I’m tired.”
I replied with a hum, brushed her hair.
“Would you tell me a story?”
“What would you like to hear?”
She gave a hesitant sound. “About the totems. If that’s okay.”
“I have one more story.”
“What is it about?”
I sought the lilt of a storyteller as best I could. “How the fox, the wolf, and the dove stole the first world tree from the Swan King.”
Long ago, when the world was young, there was nothing but snow. Only one place in the whole world was lush and green, where treetops touched the sky and stars: The meadows through which coursed the black river of the Swan King. The king was proud of his realm and would let no other animal see it. All day and all night, he sat before the cave leading to the river and snapped his great bill at anyone who dared come close.
Other animals languished. The gods had given the earth to all of them, not just the Swan King; why should only he get to enjoy warmth and nature’s bounties? But the king listened to no one.
Out of the night was born the brave She-Wolf. She wasn’t afraid of the cold and dark, and grew strong when others grew weak. The animals came to her with a bargain: Because she was the only one who dared to confront the king, they would give some of their offspring to her children if she agreed to help them. If she wouldn’t, she could eat the rabbit and the deer, but after that there would be nothing for her and she, too, would starve.
The wolf agreed, but the king was too strong even for her to face alone. She needed an ally, and so she turned to her cousin, who still dwelled with the gods among the stars and ran across the dark as a great fire.
Wanting to test her wits against the king, the fox ran down from the sky. Her coat of fire turned into bright red fur, but her tail kept burning long and wild.
Both well knew they couldn’t force the Swan King to let others pass, even together, and so they devised a plan to steal some of his green instead. When they came to him, the quick and strong wolf dashed past the king’s bill and lifted his wing so the fox could run beneath it. The nimble fox dodged the king’s snaps with ease and ran past the wolf all the way to the river.
But, once there, the fox found she had no way to cross to the green beyond. The river answered the Swan King’s anger and turned from a gentle stream into a roiling tide. His anger caught onto the wind, so that the trees at its bank shook until a single acorn fell into the river and—mysteriously—floated in place despite the water’s fury. The fox tried to fish it out with her long tail, but it sizzled in the water until only a tuft of white fur remained where the blaze had begun.
The wolf cried for help. Since the fox could do nothing about the acorn, she ran back, nipped the Swan King’s leg so his wing wouldn’t crush the wolf, and both of them got away.
The fox told the animals about what she’d seen, about their plan, and about the acorn in the river. None of the animals dared try to swim for it, not even the beaver or the otter, for hunger had left them weak.
Everyone then turned to the dove. She was too wee to fly over the Swan King’s mountain, but if she followed the pair, the fox would show her where the acorn floated and she could pick it up. The dove was scared, but knew they would all perish if she didn’t try to be as brave as the wolf.
The three of them came to the cave and faced the Swan King. Now the river roiled even more than earlier. The Swan King snapped at the wolf, who dodged and danced while holding up the wing, but all the dodging and dancing made her paws shake under the wing’s weight. The fox found the acorn and the dove flew out to catch it—but when she did, a wave pulled her beneath the tide.
Too scared to swim after the dove, the fox ran into the cave, crying for help. She nipped the Swan King’s leg and the wolf bounded past her. Without hesitation, the wolf leaped into the river, found the dove, and carried her out between her teeth. The dove still held the seed, but she had drowned.
The king refused to let them out. Because they’d wanted to see the river so badly, he would never let them leave.
The fox, however, argued thus: The king knew she and the wolf could get out whenever they pleased—they would just lift the wing and nip his leg as before. Was this not true? The king, reluctantly, agreed that it was.
The wolf was displeased that the dove had perished, after someone so small had shown such great cour
age. Because the Swan King held sway over life and death, the wolf proposed that if the dove was given life, she would stay at the river with the king.
Though the king was angry with them, the wolf’s selflessness touched him. He accepted, with an unusual punishment. The wolf would forever stay under his wing, where she was a prisoner—but one that would want for nothing, who would always be safe and warm. And, because he had to keep his wing folded and because snapping all the time would grow tiresome, he supposed he couldn’t prevent other animals from passing to the river when they grew old and wanted to see it for themselves. If they found it so beautiful they didn’t want to return to their kin … well, they had best say their goodbyes before coming here.
The black water slid off the dove’s feathers. She sprung to life, and her acorn grew into a world tree that brought spring and melted the snows, turned earth vibrant and alive. Yet even with all the green, said the fox, nothing in the world compared to the beauty of the Swan King’s river, and so, when they grew old, the animals said goodbye to their young and went to see it for themselves.
Lily yawned. Every time I thought she’d dozed off, she had shaken herself to stay awake. “What about the wolf? Did the fox leave her under the wing?”
“The fox came back for her,” I said, a waver creeping into my voice, “but for all her cleverness, the fox couldn’t save the wolf.”
“Why?”
“Because the wolf didn’t want to be saved.”
“Why?”
With a hum, I said, “That’s a question for a different day.”
After a moment, she muttered, “She’s such a goddamn martyr.”
“You shouldn’t swear, Lily.” I sighed. “But yes, yes she is.”
The crackle of fire lulled Lily off. I felt her relax, heartache’s tension melting with sleep.
I turned toward the glacier. Rose rested where she’d fallen, embalmed by the night. I trusted the wolves not to touch her, but conviction didn’t lessen the hurt of leaving her unburied. We could do nothing for her—not until there was a patch of soil soft enough to dig, and not until I could bear to see her again.