“She’s too old, Reynir. You know this.” Harpa’s gaze was far too hard and thorough for Silla’s liking. “Who is she?”
She, as if Silla did not stand right before her with two perfectly functioning ears. “Well met, Harpa,” said Silla as brightly as she could manage. She extended her arm to shake the old woman’s hand, but Harpa grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her forward with frightful force. Holding her forearm aloft, she drew something from her pocket.
Pain speared from her finger, and Silla tried to yank her hand back, but Harpa held it in place. A crimson bead welled from her fingertip, and Harpa smeared it between her own. There seemed a pulse in the air, a subtle shift of the room, and Harpa’s eyes turned milky white. Silla gasped.
Rey placed a large, warm hand on Silla’s shoulder. “Do not worry.”
“Difficulty,” muttered Harpa, staring vacantly at Silla. “Troubles. Snarls in the yarn. Tangles.” The deep brown of her irises bled back through Harpa’s eyes, and she scowled at Rey. “You’ve delivered danger to my doorstep, Reynir.”
Rey glowered back in equal strength.
“Who is she?” came a voice from the back of the cabin. Silla looked around but could see no other being in the home.
Harpa’s gaze narrowed. “A Volsik.”
“How?” Silla exclaimed, clutching Rey’s arm for support.
“Your aura screams it at me. A room, a little blonde girl, and Kjartan’s bodyguard?—”
“What…how…”
“I am a Weaver,” replied Harpa. “I can see the threads of your past, present and future. Yours are very tangled—very confusing.” She turned to Rey. “How have you found yourself in the company of a Volsik, Reynir?”
“Volsik?” rasped the voice from the corner. “Harpa, that name brings trouble. Cast her out.”
“Rykka,” warned Rey, gazing at something in the room’s back corner. Turning to Harpa, he answered in clipped words. “She climbed into my wagon.”
Harpa’s hand went to her chin, as she puzzled over this answer. “The weavings did not show this,” she muttered. “Threads hidden from my eye—gaps in the web. How has she hidden?” Her amber eyes settled back on Silla. “You are not Saga. So you must be Eisa.”
She flinched. “I’m Silla.”
“Danger!” rasped the voice from the corner. “Trouble is what she is!”
“What?” asked Silla, turning around. “Where is that voice coming from?” Staring at the loom, she spotted a twist of smoke rising from it. Alarm pricked her skin, but the smoke churned into the shape of a tiny, winged woman. As Silla watched, the creature’s shape grew less translucent, until she was dark as a thundercloud. And apparently as angry as one, too.
Silla gasped. “Wha-what’s that?”
“What’s that?” repeated the creature in an appalled voice. “I’m not awhat. I’m awho.”
“That’s Rykka,” said Harpa, waving a hand. “She is a smoke spirit.”
Silla clasped her hands together, her mouth falling open. “Ashes, but you are darling!”
“Not in the slightest,” grumbled Rey, looking at the burned toe of his boot.
Rykka erupted into flames that quickly burned out. “I’m no darling. I’ll burn you alive!”
Silla pressed her lips together, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Oh yes. I’m certain you would.”
“Rey,” purred Rykka. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m so very glad to see your face once more.” Her tiny charcoal lips pouted, and Silla’s heart squeezed.
Rey rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation.
“Are you friends with the ice spirits?” asked Silla.
Rykka flared, embers popping within her. “I do not associate with ice spirits! Frigid little hissers, they are.”
“I hope to see one,” continued Silla. “I thought I caught a glimpse when we first arrived.”
