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.

"Granuaile sad? No need. I love you."

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.

Chapter 9

This Hal Hauk lad is more than he seems. I mean beyond the werewolf business. Or maybe that’s precisely it. In the first few seconds I can tell that he is an older, tougher dog than either Sam Obrist or Ty Pollard, and he hides it extremely well. He is all manners and easiness on the surface, but there’s a punch in the teeth waiting to strike under that suit and handshake. I get the feeling he would rather avoid fights if he can, but once he’s in one, he’ll pound and tear you until you’re bloody paste, and that’s the kind of lad I admire.

Siodhachan introduces the two of us and then he putters away in that horrible car he rented, off to visit a country where women dress in colorful robes and turn into foxes with five tails. Are they women first and foxes second, or is it the other way around? He called her a kitsune, so I guess that’s not human. I’m not too clear on what exactly I witnessed there. I must investigate that country when I can.