Echo North(61)

“But you know where to look.” It’s a guess, a hope, a prayer.

He nods, slowly. “Your wolf said ‘ever north,’ and that’s a start. There have been only a few expeditions north of this village, and of the few that have gone, even fewer have returned. It could be that in the wild north lies a place where the mountain meets the sky and the trees are hung with stars—the Wolf Queen’s domain. Or it could be what most people say.”

“And what’s that?”

The storyteller blinks at me. “A wasteland.”

I stare thoughtfully into the dregs of my tea, long since gone cold. Ice rattles against the window. “Why is she called the Wolf Queen?”

“The oldest stories say she was there at the beginning of the world, a wolf imbued with intelligence and human thought, that she saw the creation of mankind and wished to be like them. So she sold her soul to the Devil in exchange for human form.”

“Wolves don’t have souls,” I say, then think of Hal and flush.

He shrugs a little, reaching for a slice of ham. “Other stories say she was the first woman, but she loved the Devil more than God, and so was cursed to a half-life. A bargain with the Devil earned her the power to do as she wished, but she was never counted amongst the line of man. Still others say that the Devil created her, the first in a line of powerful creatures formed to plague the children of men.

“But no matter how it happened, she once had a wolf’s form, and she commands the beasts, and so is the Wolf Queen.”

“She turned Hal into a wolf.”

“So it seems.”

I consider my next words carefully, tracing the scratches in the table with one finger. “It’s my fault she has him in her power again. If I hadn’t lit the lamp—” I swallow down the sudden taste of bile “—if my life is the only thing that might save him, I don’t hesitate to give it. Only …”

“Only?” says the storyteller.

Once more I meet his eyes, and see in their depths that he already knows what I’m going to ask him.

“Only I need a guide to take me into the wild north. To follow the stories and find the Wolf Queen. To try and save him, if I can.”

“And you would ask that of me, a storyteller?”

“You are not a mere storyteller. Your face is weathered, your hands rough with work—you have traveled far, I think.”

He smiles a little sadly. “You see deeply, Echo Alkaev. I have traveled all my life, farther than you know. I collect stories but I’m a trader, too. Stories alone don’t fill the bellies of my wife and my daughter.”

I bow my head, understanding his meaning and feeling a twist of guilt for keeping him here so long. But he’s my best chance—my only chance—at finding Hal, and I’m not ready to give up. “I can pay you with this, for now.” I tug off my mother’s emerald ring. “I will compensate you further upon our return. But I can offer you something even more rare than gold.”

He studies the ring but doesn’t take it. “What is more rare than gold?”

I take another chance: “A story. My story. About a girl with a scarred face, and a white wolf who becomes a man at night, and an evil queen in an enchanted wood. The story is yours, to do with it what you will. But it will have more meaning if you come with me and find out the ending.”

“I do not want your mother’s ring. It is too precious to give.”

“And the story?” I prod him.

His brows draw close together. “Come and see my wife. Tell her your tale, and we will see what she thinks—if I should come with you, or if I should not. Is that agreeable?”

It’s more than I hoped for. “Yes.”

I pay the old woman who runs the café the remainder of my few precious coins, and as I turn to go, she grasps my wrist, pulls me back to her.

Her grip is shockingly tight. Fire flickers in her eyes, and her face creases in rage. “It will go poorly for you.” Her voice is not her own; it’s guttural, harsh. “If you go with him, it will go poorly for you, and worse for your white wolf. Turn back, while you still can.”

I wrench away from her, heart pounding. Her nails leave long, painful scratches on my arm. “You can’t stop me. You don’t scare me.”

She sneers. “Fool.” And then her eyes grow clear again. She gives me a strange look, as if wondering why I’m still standing there, seeing as I’ve already paid.

If the storyteller noticed our exchange, he gives no sign. Shaking, I pull my coat close, and he leads me out into the snow.



WE WALK PARTWAY DOWN THE mountain, the world whirling and white all around us. Despite the encounter in the café, hope gnaws like a lion at my heart. I focus on the form of the storyteller, tall and strong in front of me, breaking a path through the snow so it will be easier for me to follow. The powder squeaks under my boots, and my nose starts to run. The cold is sharp, and the wind has teeth. Laughter whispers past my ears and I wonder if the storyteller can hear it, too, or if somehow the Wolf Queen is toying with me.

Before half an hour has passed, the storyteller slogs his way toward what looks like a snow-covered hill. As we draw nearer, I realize it’s a reindeer-skin tent, smoke swirling up from the hole in the center and disappearing into the sky.

The storyteller lifts the flap and ducks a little to step in. I follow, shaking the snow from my hair.