Trenyth seemed to sense my mood. He leaned toward me. “Lady Iris, Ar’jant d’tel—the Queen knows only that you are planning a ‘vacation’ to the Northlands. I did not tell her the reason and, unless it threatens security, I will not tell her. I give you my word.”
Relieved, I forced a smile to my lips. “You’re all right, Trenyth. I owe you one.”
“Just do what you need to do, and reclaim what is rightfully yours.” He lifted my fingers to his lips, gently kissing the top of my hand. A shiver ran through me and I gazed up at him, wondering just how much he knew.
Ar’jant d’tel. In the language of my childhood—the language of the Talon-haltija—it meant Chosen of the Gods, bound for great hope and responsibility. But the title had been stripped away with my honor and every hope I’d ever had. I opened my lips to protest, but one glance at his eyes—at his caring gaze—stopped my tongue. Trenyth believed in me. Could I do any less?
I let out a long sigh and nodded. “Thank you. And we gratefully accept your help. I’m afraid . . . but I have to do this.”
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
MY NAME IS Iris Kuusi, and I’m one of the Talon-haltija, a Finnish house sprite. I was born for greater things. Chosen by the Temple of Undutar when I was very young, I was carried away, much like the young Dalai Lama, and raised to be a priestess. My destiny was to become High Priestess—to rule over ice and mist and fog as the handmaiden of a goddess.
My consort was chosen in much the same way. We were raised together, never questioning our destinies, accepting that we would rule over the Order until we were old, if our goddess willed it.
But shortly before we ascended to our posts—before the elderly Priestess let go and fell into her final, mist-shrouded sleep—something happened, and I left the temple under a cloud of suspicion, never to return.
For six hundred years, when winter sweeps into the land, I feel the chill of the snow in my heart, and in every shadow I see Vikkommin’s accusing face. And I wonder—did I commit the crime of which they accused me? The Elders never ascertained whether I was actually guilty. And in my heart, I do not know the truth. I don’t know if I’m a murderer, or whether I was framed . . .
“WHAT ARE YOU thinking about?” Roz tapped me on the shoulder. I gave him a slow smile, thinking that he, too, had seen a life of pain and torture. The gods were cruel in their play and fate unmerciful in her choices.
“I’m wondering what I’ll find. Whether I’ll be able to find the answers.”
Trenyth glanced over at me from his seat opposite mine. “I have every faith in you, Iris. I trust you are innocent. But you need to prove it, once and for all, to lift the curse and to move on with your life.”
I nodded. There was no going back, no turning around and ignoring it. I wanted to marry Bruce O’Shea, my leprechaun lover, and have children—a whole passel of them. I was still young, young enough to have the large family for which I longed. But until I could answer the questions as to what happened that night, the temple Elders had cursed me to forever be barren.
But what if I’m guilty? How will I live with that?
With these thoughts running through my head, I stared out the window as we passed through the city streets. The houses in Elqaneve all had a mossy, leafy feel, even though they were made of stone and wood just like back Earthside. But their yards and lawns—they were brilliant works of art, living gardens that sparkled and popped with energy. Even in the winter, under a thick blanket of snow, they were filled with ice sculptures and the crystalline look of snow on conifers.
Camille leaned her head against Smoky’s chest, and he wrapped his arm around her. She was five seven, and next to his six four, she was positively diminutive. “Where are we headed?”
I let out a low sigh. “We meet Howl at the Wounded Warrior. It’s an inn.”
“How will we know him? I assume you know what he looks like?”
I nodded, quietly. I knew what Howl looked like all too well. “We’ve talked several times over the years. The last, near the fall equinox when I came to Otherworld with Camille. Howl and I met then, and I asked for his help.” And then I told them what I’d asked.
SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE, near the autumn equinox, I’d journeyed back to Otherworld with Camille and Morio—her second husband. While Camille reunited with her alpha lover Trillian, Morio and I’d prowled the streets of Dahnsburg. I’d left Morio outside in the streets telling him I’d be out later. Howl had instructed me to come alone and I didn’t want him to think I was cheating on our deal, so I entered the tavern by myself. The Crystal Bridge, a sister bar to the Wounded Warrior in Elqaneve, primarily serviced veterans of the Y’Elestrial civil war. Elfin vets, that is. Too many had been killed or captured by Lethesanar, the Opium Eater drugcrazed queen who had been taken down by her sister. A number had retreated to Dahnsburg, on the shores of the Wyvern Ocean, hoping for rejuvenation.
The bar was dark, gloomy, and filled with smoke from a dozen different herbal smoking mixtures. I coughed, glancing around. Amid the shadows that flickered in the dim lights, I saw a variety of elves mingling with Fae and even a few Svartans. But these elves didn’t have the easy look of most of their kin. They were weathered, some missing limbs or limping, and had a look in their eyes that reminded me of myself six hundred years ago. They’d been through hell, and returned.
One wandered up to me and leaned down, his fingers reaching for my hair. “Beauty. You are such a little beauty—”
“I can cut your privates off with a whisper to the wind,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Do you really want to chance it?”
Most people thought I was a pushover, an easy mark, since I was so short and petite. Some assumed I was mild and delicate; others thought I was a cozy maid. But I’d seen too much to ever be mild or cozy or an easy mark. I hid my memories well, but they were always there to fuel the need to fight.
He looked at me, looked deep in my eyes, and backed off. “No, I don’t think I do. Mistress, be safe on your way.” As he turned to leave, a small gleam of clarity peeked out through his fog-shrouded gaze.
I continued through the bar unaccosted, the cacophony of noise crowding my thoughts. The smells of ale and wine were thick, and I motioned to the bartender. “Brandy, please.” Tossing a coin on the counter, I took the proffered glass and turned to let my gaze flicker through the crowd.
There . . . in the corner . . . a man who was staring directly at me. He was tall, at least to me, probably about five nine and rough looking. Five-o’clock razor stubble shadowed his chin. I knew those features.
Howl.
He was wearing leather buckskin pants, and his chest was bare, with a cape of wolf pelts draped around his shoulder and a headdress of teeth and bones and cedar rising from his head. His eyes were dark, so dark you could fall in and lose yourself for days. He looked to be in his early forties, and I noticed everyone had given him wide berth.
When he caught me staring at him, he raised his glass silently to me and I headed over in his direction.
“Howl. It’s good to see you again.”
“As it is you, Lady Iris.” He motioned to the opposite seat. “Please, sit.”
I slid into the booth and carefully placed my brandy on the table in front of me. “Thank you for meeting me. I did bring a companion but left him outside.” I wanted to be straight up in case he somehow knew I’d come with backup.
“Not a problem,” he said, attending to his own drink. He paused, sipping the golden liquor in his glass. “So, tell me, how can I help you?”
“I’m seeking information and help and it has to do with something in the Northlands. You are one of the Elemental Lords, ruling over the plane of ice and snow. I thought perhaps you might be willing or able to help me.”