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His hand touched mine when I gave him the brush. I think I expected to feel something—that his skin would be hot like the werewolves, or cold because he was a frost giant. I expected to feel the power of the storm. But it felt exactly like any other hand I’d ever touched.
“You still have no idea where the harp is?” he asked.
He sounded…odd. But not angry.
“No,” I said. “But if we are all going to die tomorrow if Adam and I don’t find it, I’d better get back.”
I walked to the horse pen’s gate, conscious that he wasn’t following me. I unhooked the chain.
“What happened to rip open your mind?”
The question was said in virtually the same tone as his previous query had been; it took me a moment to process what he’d said. Open gate in my hand, I turned to look back at him.
Before I could figure out what to say, he narrowed his eyes. “Not your mind. Your magic and your soul.”
That was more than I’d known about the damage. “I encountered an artifact called the Soul Taker,” I told him. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could fix this.” I tapped my head.
“I am not a healer.” He tipped his head. “The Soul Taker. Time was that the priests who held the Soul Taker could see inside the souls of men.”
I couldn’t help but grimace. “And women.”
“I met one once,” he said. “He gouged his own eyes out.”
Yep. I needed to get this fixed even if I had to ask Coyote. “Did that help?”
“I don’t remember,” Hrímnir said. “Where is the artifact?”
“Siebold Adelbertsmiter destroyed it,” I told him.
He drew in a breath. “It’s good that you destroyed it—or had Wayland Smith destroy it. As you said, stray artifacts do nothing but cause trouble.”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
“Go back to the hot springs and find that harp, Mercy Hauptman,” said Hrímnir, who was apparently done with the topic of me and my damage. “I cannot trespass there to help you, but I will give you such—” He stopped speaking for a moment as if searching for a word. I caught a flash of expression that I couldn’t interpret. “—aid as I might. There isn’t much time. You need to find out where the harp is and bring it to me. Then I can let the storm dissipate.” He paused, then said softly, “I will do anything in my power to help you find it.”
I nodded and left the pen. I shut the gate and stood for a minute. “If my brother took the artifact, it’s because he thought he was doing the right thing.”
Again, I couldn’t read the expression on Hrímnir’s face. Old creatures are good at hiding their emotions. “Possibly,” he said. “Doing the right thing doesn’t mean no one gets hurt.”
“Did he know about the wedding?” I asked. “I mean, it would be stupid of him to leave the harp there if he wanted to stop the wedding.”
“I didn’t tell him,” Hrímnir said. “I didn’t remember. It’s one of the ways I protected the Great Spell—no one remembers it until they need to. Only the couples who are the heart of the spell.”
“You don’t remember it?”
“I choose not to,” he said. “Most of the time. It’s another reason I do not use this self”—he waved his hands to indicate his own form—“much.”
“What about Ymir?” I asked. “Why does he know about it? Why does he remember it?”
“Someone told him,” Hrímnir said. “The spell that keeps it secret weakens as it nears its time for renewal. Ymir is powerful, and that power is ancient and deep. Now that he knows, he will remember until after the marriage. If there is another marriage.”
“Who else could remember once they found out?” I asked.
He smiled grimly. “That may be the right question. A Power, maybe. Someone like your Wayland Smith. One of the old gods. Odin or Thor.” He pronounced them like an American would have, not like Zee did.
I didn’t ask him about that. There was someone else who might not forget. Liam had officiated at the last wedding—and when we’d first met, he’d told me I reminded him of someone.
“I rather think that you will remember,” Hrímnir told me. “Mercy Coyotesdaughter.”
