Winter Lost

The man who watched me from just inside the door was clean-shaven. A few strands of pale hair peeked out from his stretch hat, which was pulled down over his ears. The hat was black with a small label I could read from where I stood: Carhartt. His jacket was red-and-white plaid wool felt. He looked like a rancher bundled up to take care of livestock.

His features were familiar, like an artist had taken a rough-hewn statue and refined craggy features into something more finished. More human. I thought of shapeshifters and gryphons. I thought of my old friend Zee and the even older fae I saw in his eyes more often than I used to—and the perception I had that they were two separate people.

“Hello, Hrímnir,” I said. “I was hoping we could talk.”

I had thought that maybe someone who took care of horses that weren’t his responsibility might continue to take care of them. I’d expected the frost giant, though, the powerful, dangerous, but not-too-clever Hrímnir I’d met last night.

This man strolled over to the fence and put his arms on the rail second from the top, which was a convenient height for him. At least in his human guise. He even smelled like a human—though one who had been out in a winter storm.

“Have you found my lyre?” he asked, his accent pure American Pacific Northwest with a hint of drawl—a Montana rancher accent, to match his clothing.

“You said it was a harp,” I told him, turning my attention back to my task.

“Oh? I had not noticed.” There was a rustle of clothing; I thought he might have shrugged. Then tension sharpened the back of my neck as he drew in a sudden breath. “Harp. I said harp?”

“You did. When you told me my brother stole it from you.”

“What year is this?” he asked.

I told him.

“Tomorrow is the winter solstice,” he said.

It hadn’t been a question, but I answered him anyway. “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, and there might have been a hint of urgency in his voice. “Is there a wedding taking place at Looking Glass tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I moved to the next pile of manure and positioned the wheelbarrow so I could look at him. “Or maybe. If the groom can get there in time. There’s this blizzard that looks like it’s going to be messing everything up.”

He turned his back to me and, after a pause, started pacing restlessly. I decided to let him walk it out while I finished cleaning the pen.

I hauled the wheelbarrow behind me, because the twelve-year-old me had found that I could balance it better that way. He quit pacing when I headed toward the gate, and opened it to let me through. I found a pile of manure where I could dump my wheelbarrow load. The pile didn’t look like it was big enough to be more than a week’s worth. Someone had been coming in with a tractor to clean it out.

“What have you found?” he asked.

I put the wheelbarrow back where I’d found it and used the time to think about what to say.

“Do you want to put a stop to the wedding?” I asked.

“No.”

He could be lying. But I didn’t think he was. “Why not stop the storm, then?” I asked.

Instead of talking, he found a pair of brushes and handed one to me. Then he hopped over the five-foot panel with an ease that was more than human. I used the gate—it required less effort, and I wasn’t trying to show off. I didn’t think that he was, either.

He started to work on one horse; I took the other. Kept in a clean, dry pen, neither horse was more than dusty, but grooming horses was soothing. I had been horse crazy when I was twelve and thirteen. When I was fourteen, my foster parents had died, one after the other; afterward, horses had not been as important.

“You know what the wedding accomplishes,” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

“Liam, the green man at the hot springs, told me,” I said. “The wedding must take place tomorrow or the hound Garmr is released. If he is free, when he howls, Ragnarok begins.”

“Do you believe that?” he asked me. “Does Coyote’s descendant”—something happened to his voice, surprise maybe—“Coyote’s daughter believe in fate?”

I gave that a little consideration. “Let’s say that I’d rather be allowed to keep my belief that there is no such thing as fate than have my belief disproved when Garmr is released and the world is destroyed.”

He might have laughed. My horse’s back was taller than my head, so I couldn’t see him to be sure.

The horse raised his head as I hit an itchy spot. I switched out the brush for my fingers so I could dig in a bit heavier. The big horse stuck his nose in the air and peeled his lips away from his teeth in pleasure as I rubbed his belly.

“The chances of this wedding happening look pretty bleak,” I said. “Last we heard, the groom was going to try to fly into Spokane. The road between here and Spokane was bad when Adam and I drove it yesterday. I’d guess it’s impassable by now.”

He didn’t say anything, and I said, pointedly, “There’s this big winter storm.”