The lass didn’t know what to say. “I thought that trolls were all ugly,” she said finally. “But I suppose that even troll princesses are beautiful.”
The faun only shuddered.
A thought struck the lass and she felt her stomach drop into her slippers. “Troll magic built this palace, didn’t it? It’s a troll’s enchantment that holds the
isbjørn
here.”
Another shudder. “I’ve said too much,” Erasmus said, real fear in his voice. “I must go.” He clattered away.
“No, wait! Please? Tell me more!” But as fast as the lass ran, he was faster, and he only shook his head without looking around.
When he reached the door that led down to the kitchens, he started down the steps but then stopped and half turned. The lass stopped as well, a few paces away, one hand outstretched in apology or pleading, she wasn’t sure which.
“The name of the faun maiden,” Erasmus said suddenly,
his voice strangled. “The one who defied the troll princess and died because of her wicked tongue.”
The lass had to lick her lips to make any word come out. “Yes?”
“It was ‘Narella.’ In our language, it means ‘bright one.’ “ And then he hurried down the dark stairway to the servants’ domain.
“Narella,” the girl said. It was a beautiful name. She had a natural envy of beautiful women’s names, having gone so long without one of her own. She stilled the envy by thinking of the name bequeathed by the white reindeer, which to her was the most beautiful name of all. She stilled it, too, by thinking that the faun maiden, Narella, was dead.
“The white reindeer,” she breathed. “The white reindeer,” she repeated, louder this time. She smacked the side of her head, feeling like a fool. So many years had passed, and so much had happened since then, that she had forgotten what she had first asked the reindeer for: a cure for Hans Peter. And the reindeer, upon seeing the embroidery on the white parka, had drawn back and said that Hans Peter was troll-cursed. “I should have put these things together long ago,” she muttered to herself, feeling both foolish and frightened now.
Subdued, she went back to her apartments, where Rollo lay in his usual position before the fire. His middle was noticeably thicker from the rich steaks and sweets he had been eating and he barely stirred when she entered. She sat in a
chair by the fire and put her slippered feet on his rib cage.
“Narella,” she said.
“God bless you,” he replied.
She rubbed her feet in his fur in irritation. “I’ve just been talking with Erasmus. You remember the story of the maidens who were frolicking, and then the princess discovered them and they fled? The one who didn’t run, the defiant one, was named Narella. She was a faun.” The lass took a deep breath. “And her betrothed was named Erasmus. Our Erasmus is the person being taught goodness and beauty.”
Rollo rolled out from under her feet and sat up. “Did he tell you this?”
“No. And yes. I found him looking at the pillars, and I showed him the right one, and he said that the symbol I couldn’t figure out, beneath the symbol for maiden, means faun. Then I asked him what the symbol under the one for princess meant.”
“What does it mean?” Rollo’s ears were pricked forward, and he was leaning in close to her, his chest pressed against her knees.
“Troll.” Saying it again made her shiver.
It was nothing compared to the shudder that racked Rollo, raising his hackles and curling his lips over his white teeth. “Then that rotten smell is the smell of troll,” he said.
He went into the bedchamber. The lass, following, saw
him go through the chamber and into her dressing room. He stood in the middle of the rug there, looking at her.
“What are you doing?” She stopped in the doorway, putting one hand on the frame. She felt tired, drained, and sick. Troll magic.
“Put on your old things.” The wolf’s voice was tense. “We’re leaving.”
“We can’t.”
“Nobody said anything about having to live in a troll’s lair.” Every muscle in Rollo’s body was tense.
“Rollo, I gave my word that I would stay here for one year. It’s only been two months.”
“And the bear promised that you would not be harmed.”
“But I haven’t been. We’re perfectly safe.”
“It’s not safe. How could it be safe? Trolls!
Trolls!
” He paced nervously. “Erasmus is trapped here, the
isbjørn
is trapped here, Erasmus’s female was killed—we need to get out!”
“I can’t. I’ve given my word!” She clung to the slick doorway. Rollo’s fear fueled her own and her knees turned to water. She thought she might be sick. This was a troll’s house.
“We were tricked! A promise given to a liar is no promise,” Rollo argued.
“But he didn’t lie. He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t; he’s trapped too! We have to help him!”
“Why? What is he to you?”
“Nothing . . . no! He’s my friend, and yours,” she said. “I won’t leave the
isbjørn
here to suffer under this enchantment. And if I can help him, I can help Hans Peter.” She felt a strange stirring in her breast, though, and suddenly knew that even if it weren’t for Hans Peter, she would not leave the
isbjørn.
Rollo whined and pawed at the door of the wardrobe where his mistress kept her old clothes. “I don’t like this. I think we should go.”
The lass’s attention went to the wardrobe. Everything else faded away. The wardrobe. Her old clothes. The white reindeer’s words. Hans Peter’s coat.
“The troll language,” she blurted out.
Rollo stopped midwhine. “What?”
“The embroidery on Hans Peter’s coat is in the troll language,” she said, racing over to the wardrobe and ripping open the doors.
Pulling out the white parka, she sank to the floor with it. The bands of embroidery glared at her, the whorls and spikes at last taking on meaning before her eyes. The symbols here were more jagged, and more menacing, than those she had seen carved, and embroidery was harder to decipher than carving. She looked over her shoulder, certain that she was being watched, but there was only Rollo, whining and pacing.
The blue ribbons, embroidered with white, told a
story about love, and loss, and a strange place “beyond the moon.” The red ribbons, also embroidered with white, told a similar story of love and loss, but this one was full of betrayal and anger. For the first time she noticed that the blue ribbons overlapped the red, obscuring some of the symbols, and that they seemed to have been embroidered by two very different hands. The blue bands were marked with small and skillful stitches; the red were larger, coarser, and yet more forceful in their execution.
“What does it say?” Rollo crowded in close, nudging the parka with his nose.
“It says that the wearer lived here, in the palace of ice,” the lass choked out. “No, he . . . must . . . live here. One year, and one day, with a maiden as a . . . bride . . . who never sees his face.”
“Like the
isbjørn,
” Rollo butted in, “except you are the wrong species to be his bride.”
“Also I’ve seen his face,” she pointed out absently, still reading. “That’s what the red parts say. They say that he will be betrayed, and then he must go to the princess and . . . love her always,” she finished in a rush.
“The troll princess?”
“Yes,” the lass said. “That awful troll princess again. I agree with you: she is
not
a good person.”
“She’s not a person at all, she’s a troll,” the wolf said, as if that settled the matter.
For the lass it did. This poor, misunderstood princess
who was only looking for love, according to the stories, was really a hideous creature trapping innocents with her magic. She had enslaved Hans Peter, but he had somehow escaped. Or had he?
“There is still some trollish curse on Hans Peter,” the lass said. “That is why he is still so unhappy. And why his hair is turning white when he is still so young.”
“You won’t let us leave until you break this enchantment, will you?” He groaned. “We’ll never get home!”
“What makes you think that I can’t?”
“Because it’s a
troll
.
You
can’t fight a troll.
I
can’t fight a troll. No one can, and live.” He shuddered and shook himself. “Look at the carvings all around this palace. It’s nothing but stories of creatures who have been killed or enslaved by this troll.”
“Well, perhaps they didn’t know what they were facing. But we do,” the lass said, feeling rather insulted. If Rollo didn’t believe in her, who did?
“Gaaah,” Rollo said. Then he changed the subject. “What does the blue part say?” He nosed the parka.
“Oh, yes.” The lass frowned down on it. “It’s not as articulate as the red. It says ‘love you always, miss you always’ and then something about running, night and day, leaving the place of sun and moon, of ice and snow. ‘Never look back, never forget.’ “
The lass was so caught up in trying to read the story from the parka that she didn’t notice the time passing. Just like when she had deciphered the pillars in the great hall, she worked through luncheon and tea, poring over the markings. When she grew frustrated with the way the blue bands crossed over the red, she took out her little sewing scissors and delicately snipped the threads that held the blue ribbons in place. Carefully lifting up the loosened blue ribbons, the dire message of the red grew all the more clear.
“There’s something strange here,” she told Rollo. “I don’t quite understand it. Something about trapping him without chains, making him beautiful and terrible where before he was only beautiful. I can’t figure it out.”
There was a growl from the doorway. Startled, the lass dropped the parka and scrambled to her feet. Rollo snarled and raised his hackles, then relaxed when he saw who it was.
“Are you all right?” The
isbjørn
stood on all fours in the doorway.
“Yes. You just, er, startled me,” the lass squeaked.
“I knocked,” he said, sounding apologetic. “But you did not answer, and I got worried.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry, I was . . . busy.” She got to her feet and hastily stuffed the parka back in the wardrobe. The white bear was always uncomfortable around any talk of the enchantment, so she didn’t see the point in telling him about her recent discoveries.
“I have something for you,” the
isbjørn
said, his great, rumbling voice shy.
“What is it?”
“I had to leave it back in the sitting room,” he told her, turning around. “Please come and see.”
She followed him back through the bedroom and into the sitting room, with Rollo at her heels. The
isbjørn
went over to a small table by the fire and sat on his haunches. With a long black claw he pointed to a slim book that lay on the table.
The lass went over and picked up the book. She could see faint dents in the leather cover where the
isbjørn
’s teeth had marked it as he carried it in his mouth. Otherwise it was very plain, bound in brown leather with nothing printed on the cover. She opened it, and it was blank inside as well. There were only ten pages or so.
“A diary?” She thought it sweet of him, but rather odd.
He laughed. “Not quite. You should not write . . . secrets . . . in it. Your family has its mate. What you write, they will see. What they write, you will see.”
The lass stared at the book, and then at the
isbjørn
. “How wonderful!” She put the book down and threw her arms around his thick neck. “Thank you! But will they know how to use it? How did you get it to them? Did you see them? Are they well?”
The
isbjørn
laughed again at her flurry of questions. “No, I did not see them myself. I had a messenger deliver it, with instructions. They would have received it just this morning.” He stopped, his brow furrowed. “I warned them in the note not to tell anyone about it, and you must not tell any of the servants here. This is not a thing that you should have, but I . . . I didn’t want you to be too homesick.”
“I understand.” Then she hugged him again. “Thank you, thank you a thousand times!” She took the little book over to the writing desk and got out a pen and ink. “I’m going to write to Hans Peter right away!”
“I thought you would,” the
isbjørn
said. His voice was wistful. “Will I see you at dinner?”
“Of course,” she said, her mind already on the book. “Just as usual.” She didn’t hear him leave.
Dear family,
she wrote in the little book,
It’s me, the pika. I hope that you are all well.
Then she didn’t know what else to write. I live in a palace of ice? Every night a strange young man sleeps in my bed? I’m waited on by servants who aren’t human? The palace was made by a troll? These phrases all seemed both alarming and inadequate.
Not knowing what else to do, she closed the book and set her right hand flat upon it. She counted to ten, and then opened it. The words she had written were gone. She riffled through the rest of the pages, but nothing else appeared.
“Well,” she said to Rollo. “Now what?”
“I don’t like this” was his remark. “It’s likely more troll magic.”
“Of course it’s troll magic,” she snapped, “but if it lets me talk to Hans Peter, then I don’t—Oh!”
The open page of the book in front of her now contained a word.
Lass?
Hans Peter?
she hurried to write.
Are you wel1?
he asked.
Yes! And you? And Father? The others?
The words appeared on the page as quickly as he could write them.
Very well! Askel brought down an
isbjørn,
and sold it to the royal furrier in Christiania. The king will have no other hunter now. Askel brings him meat for the royal table and furs for his clothing. Askel and Mother live in a fine house in Christiania. Einar is with them.
The lass gave a grim laugh. It was what her mother had always wanted.
But you?
she wrote,
and Father?
Father and I remain at the cottage. You would not recognize it, though. The roof is new, a gift from Askel. But we’ve added another room and new furnishings courtesy of Father’s own good luck.