Winter Lost

“I made a vow,” he said. “Upon my power, I swore that everyone at the lodge would remain trapped where they were until my harp is back in my hands.” He paused. “Or until all of the people at the hot springs are dead. I cannot release the storm until one or the other of the conditions is met.”

“That might take a while,” I said. “The lodge has food stores and water.”

“If the wedding does not happen,” the frost giant said, “and the Great Spell is broken, the backlash will kill everyone at Looking Glass—excepting only the spirit of the lake. One way or another, this storm does not have long to live.”

“That is added incentive,” I said.

I supposed that if the end of the world was coming, it didn’t matter that we were all going to die if Adam and I couldn’t find the harp in time. It felt like it mattered, though.

“I, too, will be gone,” he said, not sounding particularly upset about it. “I do not know if there is among the remaining Jötnar one who can claim my name and live. If not, then my magic will die with me.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because I created the Great Spell that binds the fate of the world,” he said. “I know what a world ruled by my kind looks like. I did not—do not want it to happen here.”

We worked awhile.

“I made it out,” I said. “Out of Looking Glass Hot Springs, I mean.” I wasn’t sure that it was bright of me to point that out.

“I let you come here today,” he said. “I could allow you, because you were not there when I made my vow.”

“You knew I’d be here,” I said.

“I hoped for it, yes.” His voice deepened a little. “I felt that we two should talk.” I heard the scruff, scruff of his brush. Then he said, “I thought if you came to take care of the horses, we might have a few things to say to each other.”

“What does it matter that you called it a harp when it looks like a lyre?” I asked, moving from my horse’s belly to his rump. He huffed a disappointed sigh but went back to eating. “And what does that have to do with the winter solstice—or the wedding?”

“The instrument is the key to the Great Spell,” he said. “When the renewal is close, those bindings loosen. Then Garmr can choose the shape of the leash that holds him. A hundred and forty-four years ago, he chose a lyre. That I am now calling it a harp means that is the shape it is to become. A shadow of the future.” I heard him pat his horse.

I stopped brushing. “Garmr chose the shape?”

“He had no say when I bound his voice,” the frost giant said. “It is right that some part of the magic responds to his will.”

I rubbed my forehead, and the gelding I’d been grooming gave me a look. It made a certain sort of sense that a being who cared for the needs of horses he’d put in jeopardy—by dealing with their caretaker—would concern himself with the needs of another kind of beast.

“You didn’t realize that this is the year the spell needs to be renewed until just now. Or else you wouldn’t have unleashed this storm.”

“No,” he said. He let out a heavy breath.

“Someone stole the artifact to stop the wedding and begin the end of the world,” I said.

“It does seem likely,” he said.

“Did they goad you into creating this storm?” I asked.

“Possibly,” he allowed.

“How did they manage that?”

“I have spent the last few decades alone in the mountains here.” He sounded a little apologetic. “The winters are long and the wilderness appeals to my power. Those of us who work with the weather are more changeable than other Jötnar. It is why this shape I wear now is as much mine as the gryphon or the Jötunn you have already met. Your mate is a werewolf; you know about two-natured things. When he wears his wolf, he also wears the nature of the predator.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s more violent and less wise.”

“Yes. That is it. When I am in my other form, as a Jötunn, I am more likely to react and less likely to think.” He paused. “It is easier to be that one. He does not feel the years go by.” He gave a huff of self-directed unhappy amusement. “He doesn’t feel the guilt of what I have done to my good dog, who has never done anything but what I asked of him.”

“Garmr,” I said.

He grunted a yes. “But there is danger in staying in that self. I do not see plots.” His voice became a growl. “I did not, for instance, notice that your brother became my friend in order to steal from me.”

“Someone is using you to prevent the Heddars’ marriage,” I said slowly. “I don’t think that’s my brother. If he has skin in that game, it’s from the other side. He’s probably not going to survive Ragnarok, either.” I sucked in a breath. “Someone used him, too.” I didn’t need to guess at who that might be.

Dear Father. What made him stick his paw into this mess? Curiosity? Love of disaster?

He grunted. Based on living with Adam, I recognized it as a masculine reluctant-agreement grunt.