The Snow Queen (40 page)

“Let me explain this. I will use the three people with whom Veikko has the strongest bonds to try to win him free. First, you, Annukka, his mother. If you fail, on the morrow, Lemminkal will take your place with the kantele—his bond being that not only of mentor and master, but of trusted friend.” She smiled as Lemminkal flushed with pleasure. She had not mistaken it, then. She would not further embarrass the old warrior with “father-figure,” but she was certain that Lemminkal also filled that role.

“Once again, Kaari, I will ask you to remain here and bend your mind on Veikko.” She paused and pursed her lips, thinking. “Now, listen to me carefully. Even if this appears not to work, I swear to you, you will be eroding some of those walls about his heart and mind. As a tree’s root slowly cracks a stone, the result might not be visible until it shatters. Do you understand me?”

Kaari nodded.

Aleksia could feel magic, Traditional and otherwise, slowly gathering about them. Even though she did not have a tale to follow, all this had the same
sure and right
feeling that came when a Traditional tale was coming to an end. The trouble was, being inside it, rather than outside it, she could not tell for sure if the ending was going to be a happy one.

“Now you, Kaari, we will save for the third day.” She nodded, as the young woman’s cheeks flushed. “The Witch will probably think us fools by then. She will underestimate you. She does not know the strength that lies in the heart of a woman that truly loves and is loved.”

Like the strength in Gerda’s heart, as she held to Kay through all his transformations, or the strength in Annukka’s, who has raised her son all alone for the sake of the man who made her his wife
. Urho’s thoughts rumbled through them all, and Annukka flushed, and her eyes grew very bright. The Bear’s words rang true for all of them, even though only Aleksia knew who Kay and Gerda were.

“So, you will be our most potent weapon, Kaari. We will use you when she underestimates us most. It is a good combination.” Again she looked around the fire and was pleased to see both men nod in agreement.

“But what will we use for a wonder?” Kaari asked.

At that, Aleksia frowned. “I am not sure yet,” she admitted. “But I will think of something. The four of us are skilled workers in many crafts, and Ilmari could probably forge an enchanting brooch from an old buckle and a bit of glass. Now, do we all know our parts?”

All of them nodded.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Sleep and rest, and strengthen yourself for tomorrow.”

She went immediately to her bedroll to set a good example, although she secretly thought there was a strong likelihood that she would stare at the inside of her eyes for a very long time. To her surprise, as Urho took up his usual position to warm all of them, she felt herself drifting off.

And drifted straight into a dream.

A dream in which the Icehart came, and stood at the barricaded gate, and wept and wept and wept.

Kaari did not try to sleep. Instead, she filled her mind with every memory of Veikko she had—how as a child he had not brought her gifts as the others did, he brought her
to
things—taught her not to fear, by showing her that the things she feared, like climbing trees and learning to swim, were challenges, not obstacles. How he had patiently waited while the other young men made their pleas to her and were rejected, and had never failed to be kind, not only to her, but to the other young men. How she had somehow known that if she
had
fallen in love with one of them, he would have accepted it although his own heart would have been broken, because it was what she wanted. How even when they quarreled, it was because they both wanted what was right, and they just hadn’t worked out what that right thing was. How his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, which was often. How he never laughed
at
someone, only
with
the other. How his hand felt, holding hers, strong and sure.

Most of all, how much more alive she and the world felt, just knowing he was in it, and how there was nothing more precious to know that she was loved by, and loved, him.

And with her mind still full to bursting with all of this, she finally fell asleep.

“Are you ready?” Aleksia asked.

Annukka nodded. The villagers had followed them, radiating mingled curiosity and hostility, as far as the short road to the gate. There, they hastily turned back and closed themselves in their houses. Aleksia sensed eyes peering at them from behind the shutters, but the villagers were not about to show themselves if there was going to be a challenge at the Witch’s gate.

Annukka was dressed in Aleksia’s fine white clothing, while Aleksia had donned Annukka’s things. It would do no harm for the Snow Witch to think—if she even knew about Godmothers and the Ice Fairy—that it was Annukka who was the Snow Queen and was the person whose name and reputation she was ruining. That might give Annukka a measure of protection she would not otherwise have, as the Witch might hesitate to attack someone that powerful.

Lemminkal put down the piece of stump he had been carrying for Annukka to sit on. Annukka took her seat gravely, with Lemminkal holding her hand for a long moment as she did so. Then he and the others withdrew—close enough to spring to her defense, but far enough to, hopefully, not look like a threat. Annukka took down her braids and undid them, took out the comb and touched it to her hair, and sat with her hands in her lap, waiting, the very personification of patience as the comb worked its magic. Lemminkal did not take his eyes off her, his very stillness betraying his intense anxiety.

Eventually one of the snow servants came to the Barrier. A hole formed in its head where a mouth would have been. “Who are you?” it said, in a voice like the cold echo from the back of an ice-cave. “What do you want?”

Annukka did not answer for a moment. Then, “That is for your mistress’s ears alone,” she replied, with great dignity.

The thing repeated its questions twice more, but Annukka did not answer. The comb moved through her hair, gleaming, the brightest thing in that dead landscape. Annukka remained, unmoving and unmoved. Eventually the snow-servant went away.

There was a commotion at the door of the Palace on the other side of the Barrier. Something was coming toward the gate.

It quickly resolved into a sleigh drawn by two horses—but the horses, like the servants, were crude snow statues barely recognizable as horses, and the sleigh seemed to be made of ice. The entire rig pulled up beside the gate, and from the other side of the Barrier, the Snow Witch glared at them from her seat in the sleigh.

And the driver, seemingly indifferent to everything around him, was Veikko.

Annukka let the comb continue to do its work for a moment longer, then put her hand up to it. It stopped, and fell into her hand.

She held it, and simply looked at the Snow Witch, neither showing subservience nor fear.

The Witch looked possessively at the gleaming comb in her hand. “Your comb,” she said abruptly. “I want it.”

“I can well imagine,” Annukka replied, neutrally. “There is not another like it in the world.”

The Witch’s eyes practically lit up with greed. “I will give you a diamond the size of my hand,” she said.

Annukka shook her head. “I do not want diamonds. I want an hour with that man—” and she pointed at Veikko.

The Witch barked a startled laugh. “With my
leman?
Why? It will do you no good. He is mine, heart and mind and soul, and even if he were not,
you
are old enough to be his mother!”

Aleksia held her breath.
Tell only the truth,
she silently urged Annukka. Only the truth would serve them here. Every lie would make the Witch’s power stronger.

“As it happens, I
am
his mother,” said Annukka, mildly. The Witch started, and laughed. Annukka held out the comb. “One hour, alone with him, and this is yours.”

“You may not take him by force,” the Witch said sharply. “He will come no farther than the gate. And you may not have those companions I see lurking there anywhere near him.”

“Done,” said Annukka, and the Barrier came briefly down, the gate swung open and Veikko came down stiffly from the driver’s seat of the sleigh and walked across to his mother. The Barrier went up again, in a flash of blue, looking like the Northern Lights.

“Give the comb to him,” said the Witch from her sleigh.

Annukka did so. Veikko pocketed the comb with no sign of recognition, and stood beside the gate, indifferently.

Then began what Aleksia was sure was possibly the most painful hour of Annukka’s life, except perhaps when her husband had died. As Veikko stood there with about the same amount of expression as the gateposts, she begged him to recognize her. A cruel smile fixed itself on the Witch’s face as she watched Annukka and listened to her pleading. Annukka used every ploy she could think of, telling Veikko stories out of his own childhood, reminding him of past joys and sorrows, scolding him, praising him, weeping over him. She sang him lullabies, described the cloak she was making for him. All to no avail. And when she had talked, wept, begged herself hoarse, the last moments of the hour trickled away, the Barrier dropped, Veikko turned on his heel and left her, and the gates closed and the Barrier came up again. As they all watched, Veikko took his seat as the driver of the sleigh again, handed the Witch her comb, took up the reins and turned the horses. With a final triumphant smile, the Witch was driven back to her mockery of a Palace.

Lemminkal sprinted for the gate, gathered Annukka in his arms and led her away to the rest. When the pair reached Ilmari, Aleksia and Urho, they could all see that she was sobbing silently. Once among friends, Lemminkal folded his arms around her and let her sob into his chest, silently stroking her hair.

There was silence for a long time, as Annukka cried herself out.

Lemminkal cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“Well,” he said, carefully. “Tomorrow, we will have to work even harder.”

Lemminkal sat at the gates of the Witch’s Palace, on the stump they had put there yesterday. He was not dressed in finery; instead, he was wearing his shabbiest and most ill-used clothing. They had the Witch’s attention, after all, and now she knew how the game was to be played. So Lemminkal was playing the feeble, absentminded old man, and providing a contrast, given his dilapidated condition, to the kantele on his lap. The last thing they wanted the Witch to know was that he was a Warrior-Mage.

Ilmari and Aleksia had debated over the presentation for some time last night. The truth was, the men didn’t have anything that was the equal of Aleksia’s outfit, and they didn’t have time nor the energy to spare to conjure one up—not even if they used one of his two existing sets of clothing to build from. Granted, they could put an illusion over Lemminkal, but the Witch could probably see through illusion, and she would laugh at them.

So Ilmari’s reasoning had gone, and eventually Aleksia had agreed with him.

Lemminkal carefully unwrapped the kantele from the hide it had been stored in, and put it into position on his knees. He plucked three of the strings, then took his hands away, and the kantele began to play by itself.

This time, there was no snow-servant to ask what it was that they wanted. The Witch drove down from the Palace with Veikko, and sat in her sleigh, staring with lust at the kantele.

“I have not heard music in a very long time,” she said, in hushed tones. “And even then—it was never music like this! Will it play for anyone, as the comb works for anyone?”

“Yes,” Lemminkal said, simply.

“And what do you want for it?” the Witch asked breathlessly, her eyes fixed on the strings. “I will give you all the gold you can carry away.”

“There is not another like it in the world,” Lemminkal replied. “And we want the same as yesterday. One hour, with him.”

The Witch barked a startled laugh. “I could make you as rich as a king!” she scoffed. “I could give you near-immortality! I could give you an army of snow creatures so that you could go out and seize power wherever you choose! What kind of fool are you?”

Lemminkal just smiled. “Give me an hour and find out.”

With a shrug, the Witch brought down the Barrier, and once again, Veikko crossed, to stand indifferently in the face of everything that Lemminkal could think of to bring to bear on him.

At the end of the hour, the result was the same. Veikko crossed back to the carriage. The Witch watched him, with an odd glance cast at Lemminkal, and again, they returned to her Palace.

When Lemminkal, Annukka, Aleksia and Ilmari returned to camp, they found Kaari in what could only be described as a state. She was not hysterical, not yet, but it was very clear that with a small push, she could be.

“I tried and tried!” she said frantically, her fists balled up in Urho’s fur. The Bear winced, but said nothing and did not try to pull away. “There wasn’t even a glimmer! There was nothing! And we have no more treasures to offer! What are we to do?”

“Stop.” Aleksia held up a hand. She had just felt a now-familiar chill on the back of her neck, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of something pale….

She grasped Kaari by the shoulders and turned her to face in that direction.

Slowly, the Icehart stepped forward, toward them. As the firelight touched its face, they could see it was weeping. It bowed its head to Aleksia—or was it to Kaari?—and uttered a low moan.

Then it faded out and was gone. And Aleksia knew, in that moment, what Kaari was to offer the Witch.

“I do not think it is an accident that the Icehart followed us here,” Aleksia said, in a low voice. “I do not think that it is an accident that it left that crystal with us. It wants us to put that stone in her hands. And when that happens—I think the Icehart holds the key to defeating her. Now. This is what you will do tomorrow. You will go to the gate and you will sit, without any treasure in your hands. The Witch will not think that she has anything to fear from a pretty, helpless-looking girl like you.” Aleksia’s chin firmed. “But she will be wrong.”