Sun and Moon, Ice and Snow - Jessica Day George [60]
“Or south,” Rollo interjected.
“But trolls don’t like to be warm,” the lass reminded him. “So it must be north. The lands to the south are all deserts, like the one the salamanders came from.” That thought brought her up short. “The salamanders!”
“What? Where?” Rollo looked around in confusion.
“Not here,” she sighed. “What if everyone who was in the ice palace is dead now, because of me?”
Rollo gave an inarticulate whine.
“We have to stop this,” the lass said. “There will be no more deaths.” Her heart thudded. “And I don’t want her to have him.”
She began to march. A little while later the thought came to her that the servants wouldn’t be put to death just because she looked at the prince. Tova had looked, and the servants hadn’t been harmed. This cheered her, and she was able to walk in a faster rhythm.
When her legs screamed with fatigue and she was sweating beneath her parka, they stopped. Rollo went off after a rabbit whose tracks they had seen, while the lass ate some bread and cheese. She sucked handfuls of clean snow to quench her thirst. When Rollo came back, looking pleased and licking his chops, they went on.
For a day and a night and a day they walked, seeing no one. They came across a fox, and a wolf who could have been Rollo’s twin. The lass called out to them, but they sniffed at her and then ran.
“We smell of troll,” Rollo said, grim.
“It doesn’t matter,” the lass said, and walked on.
They traveled for another day, another night, and another day. The lass ate the last of the food the salamanders had given her, and was forced to stop and build a fire to cook the rabbits that Rollo caught. Every moment that she sat by her little fires, every time she lay down to sleep because her body could go no farther, her mind and heart raced, thinking of her lost companion and the horrors he might be facing. She would clamber upright as soon as she could, and march on.
After two weeks of this, as near as she could reckon, the lass expected any moment to come through a cluster of trees and find a fabulous palace. Perhaps of ice, perhaps of gold or ivory or silver, but gleaming and grand and dangerous, whatever it was built of. She felt certain that they must be nearing the top of the world, where the trolls’ palace simply had to be.
She did not expect, deep in the frozen woods, to find a weird little hut made of turf bricks with an old woman sitting in front of it, paring apples.
“Morn’a,” the old woman said cheerfully.
“Morn’a, moster,” the lass said politely.
“‘Moster? ’” The crone cackled with glee. “I like that! ‘Moster! ’ No one’s called me ‘moster’ in years!” She dropped her paring knife in her lap and slapped her thigh. “And I’m old enough to be your moster’s moster’s moster’s moster’s moster, besides!” She wiped tears from her eyes, still laughing.
“She’s insane,” Rollo said, hunching against the lass’s legs. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not insane, you young pup,” the crone said, picking up her knife and shaking it at him. “I’m just starved for fresh company!” She cackled some more. “Set down your pack and have some apples,” she invited in a calmer voice, though still cracked and thin with age.
The lass was footsore, and it had been hours since breakfast. Thinking that anyone who could speak Wolf could not be all bad, she set down the knapsacks on the cleared space in front of the hut and sat on a stump opposite the old woman. Rollo, more cautious, came and stood beside her, not taking his eyes off the crone.
“Can I help?” The lass took off her mittens and loosened the ties of her parka.
“Surely, child.” The crone took another knife out of the pocket of her apron and handed it to the lass.
Taking up an apple and beginning to peel it, the lass stole glances at the woman across from her. She was the oldest person the lass had ever laid eyes on. Her wrinkles had wrinkles. Her hair was as white as the snow, but very thin, and scraped back into a small bun that was mostly covered by a little red bonnet. She wore a bunad,