Shattered

Chapter 8

Memories of warmth do nothing to combat the cold; they only distract me from the work that must be done to keep from freezing. Had Atticus not taught me the binding to elevate core temperature and do the same for Orlaith, we would have frozen to death by now.

The yeti are not in their cave when we arrive. Though we follow the directions Atticus provided, I have to locate the cave using magical sight, since the yeti have thrown up a veil of snow over the entrance. To the naked eye, there is nothing to the mountain but snow-covered rock, but Fae eyes reveal the whorl of magic around an entrance ten feet tall and at least as wide. It lets Orlaith and me pass through, and what greets us inside is not a natural cave; it is more of an indoor palace—not hewn, but obviously made by the Himalayan elemental in accordance with Manannan Mac Lir’s instructions. I discover this once I cast night vision and see the stone table against the left wall with three candles and matches on it. I light them all and then take one with me as I step deeper inside, all the while calling out in Old Irish, “Hello? Anyone here? I brought you some bacon,” operating on the theory that there are few sentences more friendly than that.

The entrance opens onto a long rectangular hall with stone counters lining it on either side. These have plenty of additional candles on them, and I light them as I walk along the left wall. A rectangular fire pit, recessed in the ground but rimmed with a lip of stone, lies closest to the entrance. It has a spit crossed over it and various iron grills, pokers, and tongs arranged alongside. I would bet that those pieces were made by Goibhniu but Manannan never told him where they would be used.

On the counter opposite me, across the pit, five stone plates sit with a fine dusting of snow on them. There are also a couple of large serving bowls and a platter waiting to be filled with food. I see giant three-tined forks but no knives.

Proceeding deeper into the hall, lighting it as I go, I come to a beautiful five-sided oak table, carved with bindings of health and harmony around its edges. Creidhne’s work, no doubt. The high-backed chairs, too, are oak, no arms, but proportioned for very tall and very wide people. Something akin to a polished marble chess board sits in the middle of the table, but there are forty-nine squares instead of sixty-four. It’s a fidchell game, the old Irish version of chess, and the pieces are miniature ice sculptures of remarkable beauty. Parts of them are clear ice, parts are purposefully cloudy, swirling through the forms in thin ribbons, and parts on the surface are a frosted blue, creating additional depth and texture and reflecting light in unexpected ways.

Much larger sculptures of similar artistry sit on the long table lining the opposite wall. Five representations of the Tuatha Dé Danann, at least two feet tall and finely detailed, stare at me with—ahem—cold expressions. I recognize, from left to right, Flidais, Manannan Mac Lir, Brighid, the Morrigan, and the Dagda. An interesting selection of the pantheon: hunting, the sea, fire and creativity, the Chooser of the Slain, and a god of fertility. The Dagda’s inclusion is curious for a group supposedly incapable of reproducing. I theorize that the yeti are praying for bounty elsewhere—amongst the animals they prey upon, perhaps. I wonder if the statues are unmelting and bound with water magic, like the ice knives, or if they are made of mundane ice. I smile at an idle thought: What would an unmelting ice sculpture of the Dagda, hand-carved by a yeti, bring at one of the New York auction houses? I suppose the identity of the artist would be most difficult to establish.

I wonder why their mother never taught them to worship the Æsir—or, if she did, when they converted.

A high arched passage beckons to more rooms beyond. I feel hesitant, however, to stick my head through it.

“What do you smell, Orlaith?” I ask.

“You mean like old people?”

“Huh.” The news worries me but fits with the thin coating of snow I see around the room, little lines of white powder tossed about by the odd circulation of air. It does circulate, somehow; there must be vents scattered about.

Leading with Scáthmhaide and triggering no ambush, I step carefully through the arch and discover a twisting hallway, which leads to the left and curls around clockwise. To the right is a door, barred closed with a plank of wood on a hinge, crossing the jamb and fitting into a bracket. Checking it out in the magical spectrum, I perceive no bindings that might be booby traps. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a mundane trap attached to it, though. The staff serves me well again; using the end of it, I flip up the plank from its slot and thereby free the door. It puffs out a smidge but doesn’t open, and nothing dangerous leaps out.

“Smell anything through there?” I ask Orlaith.

Her nose is on target, for it turns out to be a room full of firewood, oak and birch and juniper—hauled up from who knows where, since we are above the tree line. Cords of it, stacked and waiting, fuel for the fire pit in the other room. Where is the food? Another door, through the fuel depot, provides the answer.

The room is bigger than the dining hall we first entered, and it might be the world’s largest natural walk-in freezer. Carcasses of boar, yak, and musk deer hang from hooks—hooks made of solid ice, which droop from the ceiling like frozen scorpion tails. A butchering station, notable for its lack of anything sharp, offers evidence of past activity but shows no signs of recent use. A hole in the floor, presumably for refuse, tells me nothing except to watch my step.

I scan the room in the magical spectrum to make sure I’m not missing something important, but fail to see anything beyond the impressive provisions. There are no other doors, so we retrace our steps back through the wood storeroom and out into the hallway. I follow its curling path, asking Orlaith to report on anything she hears or smells that would indicate we are not alone here. While I am still worried about possible traps, I no longer think the yeti are home. I hope, however, that I will find an ice knife somewhere that I can borrow.

The hallway reveals five bedrooms and a sixth room that serves as a bathroom. There’s no plumbing, of course; it’s simply a hole in the mountain. But the bedrooms reveal a bit more about the yeti. The rooms themselves are simple cubes of space where solid rock used to be, but the furnishings—a bed, table, and chair—are crafted entirely of ice. Furs are piled high on each of the beds, and more rest on the seat of each chair. But the styles of the furniture vary widely. Four of the yeti have tried to outdo one another with whorls and patterns in the ice, but one of them must value simplicity or feel incapable of competing against the others, for everything is of the clearest, most translucent ice I’ve ever seen.

Each room also contains three rectangular blocks of ice attached to the walls like paint canvases. These have been carved or etched or bound in breathtaking fashion, revealing new surprises depending on what angle you look at them from. The exception is the canvases of the Zen yeti: One ice painting is entirely pale-blue frost, another is clear with a cloudy white circle off-center to the right and a smaller blue circle nestled inside of that, and the last is a white expanse with nothing but a clear horizontal stripe running across it about a third of the way down from the top.

And in the midst of this wonderful dwelling made of rock, water, iron, and wood, the one thing that does not belong is the iPad sitting in the middle of the Zen yeti’s bedroom table. It’s an old model, but the gray plastic and silicone rectangle is an artifact of our time, our world, an anachronism in a place that shows no other sign of technology beyond the Iron Age. Somehow its presence is sinister to me, a tumor ready to metastasize and attack all life. That’s a silly notion, of course, for the only life here is my hound and me, and a single iPad is unlikely to turn into Skynet all by itself, especially without WiFi or a source of electricity.

I check the iPad and am unsurprised to discover that it’s dead, its battery drained and no method available to recharge it. What did the yeti see before the device died? Could that explain their absence somehow? More likely the yeti took it from a human mountain climber as a curiosity and its presence is of no significance.

“Whichever yeti calls this room her own,” I tell Orlaith, “she seeks peace. I hope we meet her first. If we meet them at all, that is. I’m sorry to find it empty.”

“And mystery. Where have the yeti gone and when are they coming back?”

“It’s a hierarchy of need, isn’t it?”

I smile down at my hound. The concept of a hierarchy does not translate well into emotions or images without a need to worry about one’s place in it, and the word is meaningless to her.

“Yes, I suppose we might as well have a bite since we have to wait.”

“I hope not.” I’m already worried that I’ll never find them. “Are any of the smells more recent in here?”

The problem with Orlaith’s assessment is that she, like Oberon, has tremendous difficulty with concepts of time and numbers. Old, to her, might mean anything from years to a matter of days. The point might be moot—what I really need to know is when or even if the yeti will return—but I want to have a more accurate idea regardless. I set my weapons and the package of bacon on the table, strip out of my clothes—shivering despite my raised core temperature—and bind my shape to a black jaguar.

After a sneeze, I smell something like ape and woman and honeydew, frosted flowers floating brittle over old resentments and bones of frustration, gnawed on and discarded but not forgotten. I smell the furs and the tanning oils used to make them, and, more faintly, I note wood smoke and ash from fires put out days ago and lingering scents of cooked meat and grease.

Leaving the Zen room and padding down the hallway to the main hall, I intend to take a good sniff around the fire pit and try to figure out how long ago it was last used. Orlaith follows me, tail wagging.

I answer her mentally in the jaguar form, idly wondering if I sound different to her this way.

Though I’m no expert, my best guess is that the pit was used a couple of days ago, not a very long time at all. Orlaith must think old means anything past a nap or two. But if they were here a couple of days ago, the yeti’s absence is easily explained by a hunting trip or … I don’t know, maybe they ski? Or thought they could use a vegetable side dish and went down the mountain to get some broccoli?

is coming. Real. Now.>

“Oh! I think we should go behind the table, in case they get angry at trespassers.” I suddenly feel like Goldilocks caught eating porridge when the three bears come home. Perhaps I should update the old tale to “Redhead and the Five Yeti.”

I grab Scáthmhaide and hurry behind the table, the only available cover in the hall should the yeti throw or shoot before talking. With that in mind, I start to talk—yell, really—in Old Irish, so that they won’t be surprised by my presence.

“Welcome home! I come from Manannan Mac Lir to bring you bacon! I am Granuaile MacTiernan, a Druid of Gaia! Please come in and warm yourselves! I have a fire going!”

Orlaith reports.

I repeat my friendly greeting and hope it carries well enough to be understood. We are some distance away and catercorner from the exit now, so there is a small sort of foyer outside my vision into which the yeti can step without my seeing them. I still know when they do, however, because the ambient light from outside darkens perceptibly, indicating the presence of something huge blocking it.

A flurry of snow blows into the room, some of it hissing and melting as it drifts near the fire pit, and then a solid mass of snow above eye level moves cautiously around the corner. A half-moon peeks around the stone.

“Hello!” I say. “Well met!” And I reiterate that I’m a Druid sent by Manannan Mac Lir, father of the yeti. I hold up the paper-wrapped package of bacon, then toss it gently onto the table.

The figure that steps out of the entrance and into my view appears to be my daydream of Snowdor come to life. It is an almost shapeless goliath of white powder, humanoid in figure but lacking features—except for the significant fact that it stands close to eight feet tall. It holds still, perhaps waiting to see if I will attack, and when I do not, its head turns slightly to take in the fire nearby.

“Oh, yes, sorry about that,” I say. “We didn’t know when you would return, and we were cold and hungry. I will of course replace all the wood and game that we used.”

The head turns back to me, and then a transformation begins. The figure remains still but sheds mass, as snow flies away from it like full-body dandruff at the mercy of gale-force winds. The snow escapes out the side of the mountain, leaving in its wake the true form of the yeti. It’s not as bulky and not quite as tall, but it is still the progeny of a frost giantess—and I use the pronoun it only because I don’t know if I’m looking at a male or female. My immediate guess is that it’s a male, because of the thicket of white fur dangling from the cheeks on down. It can’t be called a beard, can it, when the hair on the face is of the same thickness and consistency as the rest of the, uh, pelt? Maybe I should call it a mane. Its … well, let’s say his mane is gathered, braided, and looped through little circles of solid frosted ice, partly in a practical fashion to keep his nose and mouth clear of hair, but partly in an aesthetic arrangement that makes his face and neck wink with blue reflected light. Above the cheeks, the skin is a pale blue around deep-set dark eyes. The brow is white-furred, as is the forehead and all else, save the lips, palms, and tips of the fingers, which are also pale blue. He doesn’t have claws, but he does hold an exquisite knife in his right hand—no doubt the ice knife I had come to find.

Shaped like the khukuris employed by the Gurkhas of Nepal, it looks heavy and larger than something that could creditably be called a mere knife. It’s a knife that deserves modifiers like damn big or even huge fucking. And unless it’s a trick of the firelight, it shines from within along the top of the blade. The blade itself is a translucent blue along the cutting edge, frosted opaquely on the flat, but along the blunt edge it’s clear and smolders with a disturbing, unnatural red. I privately note that he had hidden it completely in snow until he saw I did not intend to attack.

He doesn’t trust me, however. He doesn’t smile and say howdy or welcome or gosh I’m glad you got dinner started. Instead, in a low thrum of a voice, he says in Old Irish, “Prove you are a Druid.”

He can’t see most of my tattoos, since I’m wearing a coat, but I show him the back of my right hand so that he can see the healing circle and the triskele.

“That is only ink. It is not proof. Remain where you are, but summon a piece of this wall to your hand.” He points to the wall behind him, the one opposite me. I nod at him, acknowledging the request, but hold up a hand, palm out, asking him to wait.

“Okay, I’ll need to remove my shoe.”

I have some energy stored in the metal knots of Scáthmhaide, but I don’t want to reveal that, and the point here is to prove that I’m a Druid and bound to the earth. Despite my elevated core temperature, my toes alternately leap up and curl in their attempt to shout, IT’S COLD, DAMN YOU, as they touch the frigid stone floor. But I draw power from the Himalayan elemental, focus on a fist-sized portion of the wall opposite, and begin my unbinding. It’s odd to speak the words in front of someone who can understand them besides Atticus, but of course it’s not the Old Irish language that makes me a Druid—it’s the binding to Gaia.

A fault line in the shape of a sphere appears, and then I bind the rock to the skin of my palm to make it fly across the room into my hand. A simple test of unbinding and binding, but not something that could be performed by many magic users apart from Druids. I hold up the baseball-sized hunk of granite for the yeti to see, and his lips spread in a satisfied grin. The teeth are somewhat sharp, but I wouldn’t characterize them as serrated razors or treacherous fangs or anything. I unbind the rock from my palm and set it down on the table.

“Good enough?” I ask. “Because I’d like to put my shoe back on before my foot freezes.”

“Yes, good enough. Welcome to our home, Druid, and thank you for making the journey. I am Skúfr Jötunson, third eldest of the yeti.” I blink in surprise at the name, and then I realize that they have followed Old Norse instead of Irish naming conventions, which makes sense, considering their mother. But instead of using a patronymic or matronymic surname, she chose to call them giant’s son.

“I am grateful for your welcome. Though you may have heard me shout it before, I am Granuaile MacTiernan, and this is my hound, Orlaith.”

She wags her tail at the introduction and says,

Yes, he seems nice, doesn’t he? But he can’t hear you.

He has magic, but it is very different from mine.

Skúfr waves for the others to follow, then comes farther into the room. “Come on, she’s a Druid sent by Father. Say hello.”

One by one, four more yeti come into view, the snow shedding off them and revealing their features. Most of them have ice rings about their face, but each is different from Skúfr’s.

The first to enter is as tall as Skúfr and carries a musk deer over his left shoulder, confirming that they had been out hunting.

“I am Erlendr Jötunson, the eldest. Welcome.” He has far more ice rings in his mane, so many that some of them clink against one another. “Please excuse me while I store our kill.” He moves past Skúfr to visit the freezer, and I see that his ice knife has the same disturbing red glow to it.

The third yeti introduces herself as Hildr Jötunsdotter, second eldest. There is nothing in her voice to indicate that she is female, nor do I see any physiological differences. Whatever the yeti have or don’t have swinging between their legs, it’s hidden behind a curtain of white fur, and Hildr, at least, has no breasts bigger than those of her brothers. Hildr’s mane decoration falls between Erlendr’s and Skúfr’s, and I hypothesize that the number of braids and the complexity of their grooming is a marker of age as much as personal preference.

The fourth yeti, also fourth eldest, lends some weight to the idea. He has only two braids on either side of his face, and he introduces himself as Ísólfr Jötunson.

The last to enter is both the smallest and the youngest, with only a single braid on either side of her mouth, simplicity itself. I bet privately that this is the Zen yeti.

“I am Oddrún Jötunsdotter,” she says. She’s a full head shorter than her siblings but still towers over me. “Welcome. Can we offer you refreshment?”

“Yes, that would be great,” I say, suddenly aware of my thirst. I had brought a canteen, but the water inside was a solid block of ice now.

“We have mead and water,” Oddrún says.

I request mead for me and water for Orlaith. Oddrún asks Ísólfr to take care of Orlaith’s needs, while she takes long strides across to my side of the room, stopping in front of the counter where the stoneware rests. She lays her ice knife on the counter next to the plates and then squats down and pulls aside a panel of stone, revealing a hidden cupboard that I might have discovered had I looked any closer. She retrieves a small cask of mead and a mug of horn, then slides the stone panel closed. While she’s working on pouring me some mead, my eyes are drawn to Ísólfr, who has put his knife down on the far counter and extended his right hand, palm up, toward the cave entrance. As I watch, a flurry of snow flies into the space above his palm and hovers above it like an upside-down tornado. More snow keeps coming in, feeding it, and the bottom of the funnel begins to pack together and solidify, then harden into a bowl of ice, which clarifies until it is largely transparent but with swirls of decorative white flurries in it. Snow fills the bowl, then Ísólfr waves his left hand over it and it melts to clear water.

“Your hound will need to drink this before it freezes again,” he says.

We move out from behind the table, and he puts the bowl down in front of Orlaith while Oddrún offers me a mug of mead. It’s delicious to an almost unbelievable degree, and I wonder aloud where it came from.

Hildr grins and answers me. “Father buys it from Goibhniu and sends it to us.”

Orlaith laps up her fill, and the yeti invite me to sit at the table. Erlendr returns from the freezer as I seat myself, and I remember that I should be paying attention to the food.

“I will take over cooking,” the eldest yeti says, picking up the package of bacon. “Thank you for bringing this. I’ll be right back.”

He disappears again, and the four remaining yeti sit at the table with me, once they all fill their own mugs of horn with Goibhniu’s mead. Orlaith lies down next to my chair, and my head spins a bit over how strange and wonderful my life is now. I am drinking mead with the yeti in the Himalayas. And they’re very polite hosts.

But not especially talkative. They all look at me, expectant, but I am not sure what they’re waiting for.

It turns out to be Erlendr. They must not have wanted him to miss anything, for Hildr speaks as soon as he returns carrying an armful of wood. “We have never met a Druid aside from our father. Always he sends one of the Fae when he cannot come himself, and he has not visited us in person for more than a hundred years. Does your presence here mean that the secret of our existence is now known in Tír na nÓg?”

“No, you are still very much a secret,” I say, “but I have been let in on it. I confess I have come with hopes that you could help me.”

The yeti exchange glances, and then it is Oddrún who speaks next. “We could use some help as well. Perhaps we could exchange aid. What is it that you require?”

“I need an ice knife.”

Skúfr snorts. “That is all?” His hand shoots toward the cave entrance, much as Ísólfr’s had when making a bowl for Orlaith, and in a few seconds he summons snow and shapes it into a serrated knife, similar to the kind you’d find in a steakhouse. He lays it on the table with the handle facing me. “Done.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I need a knife like yours. One that won’t ever melt.”

They all lean back, and Erlendr, who was inspecting the musk deer on the spit, whips his head around to stare at me. I fear I might have crossed a line.

Seconds tick away and I remain silent, afraid that I will make it worse if I add anything else. Finally Oddrún says, “She doesn’t know what she’s asking.”

“Clearly not,” Erlendr says, and holds up his blade. “She thought this was an ice knife.” They all kind of snort in derisive unison, and this succeeds in making me feel stupid.

“I do beg your pardon. What is the proper term for the weapons you carry?”

“They each have a name,” Hildr replies, hefting her own aloft, “but in general this is a whirling blade, not a mere ice knife.”

“A whirling blade. Very well.” I cannot fathom why this is a better name for a knife made of ice than ice knife, but I’m not going to criticize them for it.

Ísólfr says, “Brothers and sisters, perhaps it is not too much to ask when you consider what we will ask in return.”

Erlendr stalks over from the fire pit and looms over us. “It is too soon to think of that, brother. First we must ask why she thinks she needs a whirling blade.”

“Yes,” Hildr agrees. “We do not make them for others.”

I take a long swallow of mead for courage and explain that my father is possessed by a spirit of the air and I need a weapon crafted of water magic to free him. “My earth magic is insufficient. My archdruid suggested that I speak to you, and Manannan Mac Lir agreed, and it was he who sent me with your shipment of bacon to speak of it.” Dropping their father’s name couldn’t hurt. Or at least I hoped it couldn’t. After I said the words, it occurred to me that they might be upset with him if he had not paid them a visit in a hundred years.

“Father knows of her problem and he knows of ours,” Oddrún says, looking up at Erlendr, “and he sent her here. I think we are answered.”

Erlendr and the other three yeti grunt their agreement as a chorus. I notice that they are not creatures given to lengthy debate.

“Propose the exchange, then,” Erlendr says, and they all turn to watch me as Oddrún speaks.

“We will craft a whirling blade for you, tailored to your size and named according to your wishes, as a service of water magic in exchange for a service of earth magic. We can move what lies on top of the mountain but not move the mountain itself.”

“What are you asking? You want me to move the Himalayas? I can’t do that.”

“No, I speak of the sort of movement you have already demonstrated. Our cave is not a natural one; it was created by our father. He spoke to the earth and said he needed a room that looked so, and it was made as he said. We wish you to do the same.”

“Oh, you need another bedroom? I am sure I can arrange that.” I would speak to the elemental and it would be finished within the hour. This was good.

“No, not a bedroom. Something significantly larger. What we need may sound strange or unnecessary, but I assure you it will prevent us from going insane. We are so very bored, you see.” The other four yeti nod to confirm that they are all bored.

“I can imagine.”

“Good. We have expressed this sentiment repeatedly to faeries sent by our father. Through them, we asked him to visit us or, failing that, provide us with something new to do in the snow and ice, since we cannot mingle with humans. And the faery returned with something he called an iPad. Are you familiar with iPads?”

“Ah. Yes,” I say, encouraging her to continue. “This iPad had images inside it. Images that moved and made sound.”

“Videos of some kind,” I venture.

“Yes. Recorded images of a game called hockey. Humans play it in cold climates. Two teams skate and slap a puck around in an attempt to score goals.”

“I’m familiar with the game. It’s somewhat violent.”

“Yes!” Skúfr bellows, hammering both fists against the table and startling me. “A violent game played upon the ice! We were born to play it!”

“But we need a place to play,” Hildr says.

My jaw drops open as it dawns on me what they want. “I’m sorry. You want me to build you a hockey rink?”

“Inside this mountain, yes,” Ísólfr says. “Underneath where we sit. The faeries cannot do this. Only a Druid can. And you are a Druid.”

“Okay, wait, let me clarify something. I can’t do it either. Only the Himalayan elemental can.”

Oddrún shrugs away this annoying detail and says, “Accomplish it however you wish. We know you can make it happen. We propose a whirling blade for a hockey rink in the heart of the mountain.”

“Gods below, I don’t even know how big a hockey rink is.”

“We do,” they chorus, and Oddrún adds, “Father’s faery told us all the rules and regulations.”

“But what about nets and pads and sticks and everything?”

Erlendr smiles at me and backs up so that he is opposite the door. “We have already thought of this. Our style of hockey will be ice hockey in its purest form.” He holds his arms out from his sides, and in moments he is obscured by a small snowstorm pulled from outdoors through the auspices of his magic. When it clears away, he is padded in snow and has a helmet, a stick in his hand, and a pair of skates made entirely of ice. It’s a neat solution, because I doubt they’d be able to find any equipment their size otherwise.

“Well, if I can get the elemental to agree, then I’ll do it. Hockey rink for whirling blade.”

Toothy smiles all around and toasts to health and hockey. Erlendr announces that the musk deer is at least partially edible and uses his whirling blade to slice off a few juicy hunks. There are only five plates and now seven of us including the hound, but with the yeti’s permission I unbind a new plate for Orlaith and one for myself from the wall. They grill me about the NHL and which teams are the best. I feel woefully inadequate, since I know so little about the sport and can remember only some of the team names.

They are unimpressed with the Toronto Maple Leafs. “Who fears a leaf?” Skúfr asks, and I assure him that no one does. At least no one I know. Atticus makes a habit of mocking Toronto whenever he can, but I think that he has reason for it due to some unpleasant episode he had in the 1950s, when he lived there under the name of Nigel. He’s never explained to me what precisely happened, and I make a mental note to ask him.

“You would probably like the Colorado Avalanche,” I tell the yeti.

They grunt and nod. “A fine name! Worthy of the sport.”

After we have eaten our fill, Oddrún says she will begin to craft my blade while I’m working on the rink. While still seated at the table, she summons snow above her right hand, condenses and shapes it into a crude ice knife, then asks me questions as it floats there. Did I want my blade to be shaped like theirs or of a different design? How large? Serrated blade or no? I opt for a blade in the style of a military fighting knife, no serrated edges or sawing teeth. She balances it and makes the handle thin and grooved so that I can wrap leather around it. Along the top of the blade on the blunt side, a transparent tube of ice waits like a thermometer lacking mercury. She lets me hold it to see if it feels comfortable, albeit without the leather wrapping. It seems a tad light to my hand, and I say so.

“That is perfect. It will be heavier soon. You can go start your work now. I have what I need.” Oddrún takes the knife back and floats it above her right hand again, but this time the tip is pointed directly at her. She passes her left hand over the top of it, left to right, and the knife twirls clockwise. Another pass and it speeds up, and after a final pass it is moving so quickly that it blurs.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

Erlendr answers. “The whirling begins. We will each take a turn before it is finished. Come with us.” He and the other yeti move toward the door, their turned backs indicating that the subject of the blade is closed. I’m not sure what he means by the whirling—I think there is some significance there that I am missing—but I don’t wish to be rude and persist in my questioning when the yeti are so clearly ready to move on. “We will show you where to build,” Erlendr says. “We want it separate from our home.”

With an uncertain glance back at Oddrún, I leave the table, and Orlaith takes her place at my side. I grab Scáthmhaide on the way out, and the yeti lead me downhill “the slow way,” once they discover that I cannot ski. What they consider the “slow way” is in fact quite convenient. Walking single file, with Erlendr and Hildr in front and Ísólfr and Skúfr in back, they use their skill with snow to create a firm, level series of steps for us and then disperse it back onto the mountainside after we pass, leaving no trail behind us.

Seeing their complete mastery of their element, I ask them, “How did humans ever manage to spot you?”

Hildr snorts in amusement and says, “Sometimes we would leave a footprint or let them see one of us on purpose. We were bored. But we stopped doing that once they came hunting us and we were forced to eat them. We felt badly that they would die for our sport.”

“Plus they didn’t taste very good,” Skúfr adds, “and they were scaring away all the animals we do like to eat.”

I try not to shiver at that but then go ahead and do it, because it’s cold, after all, and somehow it grows colder as I realize I’m all alone with four large creatures who have eaten humans in the past. The yeti hunters were hunted by the yeti and were probably hung on hooks in the freezer and then roasted slowly over the same fire pit we just used and, oh, gods, let’s think about hockey instead.

We descend about five hundred yards from the yeti cave and some additional distance to the west. Once we burrow inside I imagine the rink will indeed be below their living area above. I don’t know why they chose this particular spot for the entrance, but, like their cave entrance, it is in an open area, completely covered in snow and therefore unattractive to mountain climbers, who prefer bare rock in which to lodge their pitons.

I myself would require bare rock if anything was to happen. I couldn’t talk to Himalaya through all the snow. Once I explain this, Erlendr clears a space for me and I remove my right shoe, exposing my foot to the cold again. Himalaya is willing to help but would like my aid in preserving musk deer, tigers, and the Himalayan black bear, all of which are endangered and frequently poached. Feeling guilty about our recent meal, I pass this on to the yeti, who agree to stop hunting musk deer altogether and do what they can to protect the tigers and black bears from poachers.

They give me dimensions and describe what they want, and I relay these ideas to Himalaya in images through our bond. I’m a little uncertain, so it goes slower than when Atticus asked Colorado to build him a road or had Sonora create a cache for him to store his rare-book collection. Still, the earth begins to shift and move, and a tunnel forms in front of us, like a navel of rock growing deeper. We follow along, and soon it becomes clear we’ll need some light. Hildr and Skúfr run back to the cave “the fast way” to fetch candles and matches, and once they return, they set them up at intervals so we won’t be tripping in the dark. I come up with the idea of creating little niches in which to place the candles, and they congratulate me for being so sensible.

I realize much later, in the midst of an epic yawn, that it must be far past my bedtime, but I can’t imagine taking time out to sleep when who knows what could be happening back in Thanjavur.

We create more than a simple rink. There’s a track around it, penalty boxes, players’ benches, and stands for spectators, because the yeti insist that they will have an audience someday. We design a lighting and ventilation system for the top of the stands and circling the rink. The yeti will continue to use candles but will back them with mirrors to reflect more of the light to the middle of the rink. Inefficient but effective. Ventilation shafts to the outside provide airflow and a source of snow and ice for the yeti. At some point, Orlaith chooses a spot in the stands and curls up for a nap.

When the yeti pronounce themselves satisfied, they spend about ten minutes summoning in snow and transforming it into a floor of solid ice. They alter the crystal structure of the ice to achieve that frosted blue look, and thus they give the ice its face-off circles and blue lines. Forgoing the goals and sticks and everything else, Skúfr runs back to the cave to get Oddrún. She looks exhausted when she arrives, but she brightens up when she sees the rink. They all waddle awkwardly out to the middle of the ice, whooping with joy. As soon as they encase their feet in custom ice skates created on the spot, they promptly fall on their asses, laughing and giddy.

“Oh, this is powder!” Hildr says, and for a moment I am unsure what she means.

“The best powder ever!” Ísólfr agrees, and then I get it. They’re talking about snow and equating powder with something excellent. Achievement unlocked: I have learned yeti slang.

“You know what our mother, Freydís, would say right now?” Oddrún asks the others, beaming up at the rock ceiling.

“She’d say, ‘Graah!’ ” Skúfr says, and they all laugh again.

Though I hate to interrupt, I do have an emergency to attend to. “If you’re satisfied,” I call from the players’ bench, “then perhaps I can take the whirling blade and bid you farewell?”

Five incredulous yeti heads raise up from the ice to regard me.

“The whirling blade isn’t finished yet,” Erlendr says, and though he doesn’t add, “you idiot,” it’s implied in his tone. “Oddrún has just finished her piece of it, and I must do mine next.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Clearly. Let us return to the cave.”

Leaving the others behind, Erlendr dissolves his skates and shuffles off the ice, then leads Orlaith and me back to Castle Yeti. It’s dark outside, but I cast night vision and can see well enough. Inside, there’s a freshly laid fire and a much larger animal roasting. It looks nearly finished. How long had we been gone?

The whirling blade sits on the oak table. It appears perfectly serviceable to me, and I say so. “All I need to do is wrap leather around the handle.”

“It will melt as soon as you leave the mountain. It’s not ready.”

“When will it be ready?”

“After each of us works on it. Four more days.”

“Four more days?”

“I do not understand why you are upset. We told you it was a thing of great value. Such things are not made quickly.”

“Explain what you’re doing.”

Erlendr sets his whirling blade on the table next to mine. “Aside from the size and shape, what’s the difference between these right now?” he asks.

“That red glow. Mine doesn’t have one.”

“Indeed. Do you know what that is?” When I shake my head, he continues. “It is the energy needed to keep the ice from melting in warmer climates and to keep the blade sharp and shatterproof. That energy is slowly drained and must be replenished.”

“Replenished how?”

“With the blood of your kills, of course.”

“What?”

“When you stab something with a whirling blade, you are not merely damaging organs and tissue. The tip drains some of the target’s energy through the medium of blood, the water of life. It creates a magical vortex within the body and siphons it.”

“Are you saying it steals their spirit?”

“Not the whole thing, but a fraction of it, yes. A spirit in solution. And what we are doing right now is creating that vortex and providing a temporary energy source. That is why Oddrún was so tired when she joined us at the rink. We each contribute a fraction of our magic to the whirling blade, and once you make your first kill, that will be returned to us. We will remain drained until you do so.”

“Oh, gods below. I didn’t realize … I don’t know if I want a weapon like that.”

Erlendr huffs, impatient with me. “Do you wish to have a magical blade capable of freeing your father or not?”

“Yes, but … won’t this kill him? Steal his spirit?”

“Earlier, when you spoke of your need for this whirling blade, you described cutting the skin and drowning chakra points with water magic. That is clever, and we think it will work. Just don’t stab him with it.”

“What if I accidentally nick my finger with the tip?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Holy shit.”

“Were you not a Druid, we would not consider giving you one. We know you will use it responsibly.”

“What happens if it runs out of energy?”

The eldest of the yeti shrugs. “Then it is no different from an icicle. It will melt as soon as it’s exposed to temperatures above freezing. If you wish, you may use it to save your father, kill a very small animal with it, and leave it in the sun. The kill will release our energy back to us, and then it will not be long until the animal’s spirit is used up and the blade is destroyed.”

“Gah. So until I kill something with it, I’m draining your energy?”

“Not in any permanent sense. We imbue it with the elemental frost magic we inherited from our mother. It won’t drain or expire, because the potential for frost exists wherever there is water in the air, and it is maintained by our will. Our power is diminished, however, until the first kill frees it from the blade.”

“Could I simply return it to you and let you get your energy back without killing anything?”

“No. This magic has a price.”

Of course it does. All magic has a price. The question is never whether you can afford it; it’s whether you truly wish to pay it. When I draw energy from the earth, the elemental passing it on to me is drawing it from the life of its ecosystem. My speed or strength or healing is paid for in the diminished health of all its plants and animals. What makes it bearable is that the drain is distributed and shared so that nothing is destroyed, and they will renew themselves in the ordinary course of the world turning. My responsibility in this contract of mutual protection is to defend the earth from predatory magics, but it’s difficult for me to see these whirling blades as anything but predatory.

It’s not that ending a life is anathema to me, but damaging a spirit, great or small, and then consuming it for my own ends—that’s an unwholesome tea to swallow. Making choices like that must stain you on the inside somehow. It’s why I chose the path of a Druid rather than pursuing the path of dark witchcraft that Laksha once offered me—which she so desperately wishes to escape now. And, as I stand there with Erlendr staring at me, waiting for a response, I am struck with the idea that perhaps the yeti feel stained without realizing it. Their pursuit of art through ice might be their attempt to balance the ugliness of these blades with beauty. Or perhaps they do not feel anything of the sort and I am merely projecting my sympathies.

“I’ve changed my mind, Erlendr. I don’t want a whirling blade. Let’s forget it.”

The ice rings in his mane clink together as he shakes his head. “We cannot stop now. It must be finished and used or Oddrún will be forever diminished. You see that the vessel is somewhat blue. That is her.”

I look closer at the transparent glass in the knife and see that some of the clear interior is indeed filled, a slightly darker blue against the frosted blue of the blade. I had missed that earlier.

“Fine. Finish it and use it yourself. I want no part of it.”

A great weight of weariness settles about my neck and shoulders. This entire trip has been a waste of time, and I won’t be able to save my father after all. It’s odd how a profound sense of one’s own foolishness tastes like bile. Erlendr doesn’t move or say a word, and the only sound is the hiss and pop of the fire. A single tear escapes down my left cheek, and Orlaith thrusts her head under my hand, making me realize that I must be communicating some of my distress to her.

I kneel and lay Scáthmhaide on the floor, wrapping my arms around Orlaith’s neck and giving her a hug.

I love you too, sweet hound.

Erlendr shifts his weight uncomfortably, and his mane rings tinkle like wind chimes. “You must be tired,” he says. “Why don’t you rest, and we will speak more later. You can use my room. The furs are warm and you won’t be disturbed.”

It’s true I am very tired. In fact, I might actually qualify for the phrase bone-weary. I don’t even know what day it is; I’ve been awake continuously since I jogged into Ouray and got that phone call from Laksha. I want to get back to Thanjavur, but after a nap I’ll be better able to deal with whatever horror awaits me there.

“Okay,” I say, unable to muster anything more eloquent. “Lead the way.”

He shows me into the first of the bedrooms, wishes me restful slumber, and closes the heavy stone door behind me. I crawl onto the furs, burrow underneath them with Orlaith, and, with an arm draped around my hound, worry about my father until sleep takes my cares away.