Ice Shards - By Yasmine Galenorn Page 0,11
depths of the snow-covered wood, with the others behind me. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of wolves howling filled my ears. They were singing of danger, and I knew they were singing to me.
THREE
THE TREE BOUGHS WOVE A SNOW-COVERED lattice above our heads as we entered the White Forest. The path inclined, a steep grade. There would be no respite from now on as we climbed toward the Skirts of Hel.
During the summer, the birches shimmered, their brilliant green leaves shining against white trunks. But during winter, they were barren, lodged between cedar and fir, a reminder of the season long gone.
Creatures lived in the White Forest, twisted and ancient—Elder Fae like the White Woman and Jack-A-Johnny, Blue Manan and Swirling Devon. There were also plenty of Cryptos who made this wood their home: trolls and ogres and others even more terrifying.
We moved silently along the path. I noticed Camille was having a harder time of it—she might be half-Fae with plenty of endurance, but the going was tricky, and the path was already taking a toll on her. She used her yew walking stave for good purpose, keeping herself balanced as she skirted the worst patches of ice on our upward climb.
As we entered the heart of the forest, with the snowfield behind us and the Skirts of Hel still far ahead, I began to notice the silence of the wood. Few birds were about during the season. Here and there a rustle in the wood warned of an animal. Twice, Howl stopped to let out a loud wolf-cry. His howls echoed through the forest, reverberating into the core of my heart.
“What are you telling them?”
“That their Master is here. That all who walk abroad with me are under my protection and not to be eaten.” Howl smiled down at me. “The wolves will listen even though their hunger is keen, and they seek fresh meat. But the others—perhaps not. Do not count on my presence to offer protection against every creature who makes this woodland its home.”
I blinked. “But you definitely help. As my granny used to say, ‘When the wolves are at the door, best have their king sitting inside by the fire.’ ”
“Your grandmother was a wise woman.” He seemed more comfortable now that we were in the forest, striding tall and strong, his pelts barely shielding his bare chest. The cold did not seem to bother him, the snow did not faze him. His feet were encased in thick fur boots, and his trousers were sewn of tanned leather. “So, Mistress Iris, tell me, will it be worth this journey, should you break the curse that lies so heavily on your shoulders?”
I shrugged. “In my culture, being a mother is the highest calling a woman can have. We are the ones who keep the race alive, we are the wellspring of history. Barren women are not ostracized, but those who have been struck barren by curse are pitied, and I am an outcast. When I went home after the temple excommunicated me, none in my family would speak to me. They gave me food and shelter, but they remained silent. They would not acknowledge me, so I left. I found a farm family who needed help, who didn’t care about my past.”
“The Kuusis?” Camille was walking close enough to overhear me.
I nodded. “The Kuusis. They were FBHs—full-blooded humans—and they did not care if my hair was cut short, they never asked about my past or my lack of a family. They took me in and gave me shelter and friendship.”
“How did you happen to go to work for them?” She was using her stave to dig into the snow and propel herself along.
“I left home after an awkward stay and struck out on my own. When I got tired of walking, the first few weeks I slept in the open, and luckily nothing happened. But then I came to a farm. I snuck into their barn that night, and early morning Kustaa—the father—found me.” I sighed softly, remembering that morning.
“What did he do?” Howl asked. “By the way, you do know that I am known by the name Aatu in Finland?”
It was my turn to smile at him. “Yes, I know, great and noble wolf. You are not just Aatu, but the Aatu. Anyway, when Kustaa found me, he asked who I was. I picked out a name, Iris—that was my favorite flower—and gave him that.”
Camille stopped in her tracks. “Your name wasn’t Iris