“No.”
“Right,” she said tartly. “A waste of your time—I recall it. But the set of your shoulders says otherwise.”
Rey dismounted without reply, leading the horses to a weathered stable. Silla stared at the hollow segments of wood affixed to the sides of the stables, blinking when half a dozen birds poked their heads out.
“Hello?” she whispered to them.
“This is new,” Rey muttered, staring at the birds.
She followed him to the cabin, noting several altars welded to the worn timber beams, crumbs of offerings left behind.As they strode to the door, Silla examined the wind chimes flanking it. Dozens of polished bones and bits of smooth wood were threaded together into a ladder-like structure, thunking as the breeze caught them.
“For luck and protection,” Rey said, following her gaze. He looked at the door with a long exhale. Silla shifted impatiently as she waited for Rey to knock. But he only stood there, picking at a decaying piece of wood on the doorframe.
“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Silla exclaimed, pushing past him and knocking on the door.
It was several moments before it scraped open, and an older woman peered out. The first thing Silla noticed was the woman’s striking hair—tight coils spilling around her face and over her shoulders, midnight black save for twin swaths of white framing her face. The second thing she noticed were Harpa’s eyes—the amber vivid against coppery brown skin. It was impossible to guess how many winters the woman had seen—it could be forty or just as easily eighty. The only hints of aging were the fine lines bracketing her mouth and eyes.
Silla’s gaze trailed lower. Harpa wore a heavy wool overdress fastened with twin brooches, the garment cinched around her waist with a belt of stunning tablet weave.
The woman’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments then quickly narrowed.
“Harpa—” began Rey.
“No,” she snapped, shoving the door shut.
Silla swallowed her shock as Rey jammed his foot between door and frame. “Wait,” he said. “Harpa, I ask only for a minute?—”
“I’ve retired.” She kicked at his foot but was no match for Rey’s towering form.
“You know I would not come to you without good cause,” said Rey through gritted teeth. “Harpa, I implore you to listen?—”
“No, Reynir. Leave me in peace. Rykka!”
“Wait,” said Rey, but it was too late. The acrid scent of burned leather mether nostrils. With a foul curse, Rey rushed past Silla, snow hissing as he jabbed the tip of his boot into it.
Predictably, the door slammed shut. Silla watched incredulously as Rey strode back to the door and pounded so hard the wood bent beneath his fist.
“Harpa! Open the gods damned door!”
Birds squawked behind them, and Silla shook her head. “I should have guessed there was bad blood between you and this woman.”
“She is only stubborn,” he barked, continuing to pound against the door. “Harpa! I swear to you, this is important. Let us in.” Rey cursed again. “She has AshbringerandBreaker intuition!” he bellowed through the door. “Her light is cold to the touch. White as moonlight!”
After several minutes of this, Rey quieted, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall. “We have nothing but time, Harpa. You know well enough I will not relent. You can settle in for a day of loud unrest or let me speak my piece.” He scowled at the snow, voice lowering. “You owe me this much, Harpa.”
Silla watched him carefully. For the briefest of moments, Rey’s mask slipped away, and he looked despondent…a little lost. Something inside Silla woke up and growled—she despised this look; she wanted to batter it away and bring back the surly man she knew.
A murmur of voices carried from within the home. After several long moments, the door ground open, and Harpa stood with her arms crossed in the doorway.
“Five minutes,” she said, retreating inside with the door left wide.
Silla followed Rey as he stalked inside. She examined the space. Like their shield-home, it was small and basic. Above the central hearth bubbled a cauldron, and bundles of dried foliage were strung along the walls. To the left of the entry stood a heavy table, behind which shelves were littered with clay cups and glass jars filled with dried mushrooms, nuts and seeds, preserves and more.
At the back of the cabin, Silla spotted an enormous warp-weighted loom, taller than herself and at least as broad as her arms stretched wide. Threads of red and gold glinted from a partially completed weaving, stones knotted to the ends of the warp threads holding them taut.
Harpa and Rey stared at one another for an awkward moment. “In my day, we had more respect for our elders,” Harpa finally grumbled.
“Harpa, this is Silla,” said Rey, his voice surprisingly level. “She needs an anchor.”
