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strange brand of magic had not.
    The troll shrugged, not disbelieving her, she thought, but resigned to whatever consequences it would suffer.
    Then it leapt.
    “Blow the drapes,” Astrid cried out, and the waiting air did her bidding, flicking the velvet into the troll’s face. It came on, shouting as it ripped the fabric away. A few steps and it would reach her.
    Astrid threw herself down and grabbed the hidden ax under her bed, then scrambled to her feet, swinging in an arc as she rose.
    The troll shrieked as the wide blade buried itself deep in its chest, over its heart. It took a surprised step back.
    “My heart,” it keened, and fell over. Stone dead.
    Her breath shuddered out her body, and Astrid sank down on the bed, legs wobbly as a fawn.
    “Astrid!”
    Full of rage and pain, Bjorn’s shout echoed through the passageways, and she turned her head as he burst through the door, the streaks of blood from his wounds shocking against his white fur.
    He reeled back at the sight of the troll, lying face up on her floor. The wind was still flapping the velvet drapes, obscuring her view of him.
    “Astrid?” There was so much in the question. Relief, disbelief, and still a trace of rage.
    Astrid bent her head into her hands and wept.

 
    Chapter Thirteen
     
    H e came into the room cautiously, skirting the troll, his eyes on the ax, buried to the hilt in its heart. Stopping a troll’s heart was the only way to kill it, and his innocent Astrid had felled this one with a single blow.
    The strange wind swirling around the chamber had died, and the only sound was Astrid crying.
    He took in the ladder up to the skylight. It was a far more mundane way to escape than he’d thought she’d found. Clever, but hardly mysterious. He hadn’t known what to think since the troll gave chase to her.
    He sat down on the floor, his body still clenching with pain where the troll’s blows had landed.
    “You are hurt,” she said softly, swallowing her sobs as she lifted her head from her hands and stood. She took a step toward him.
    “No thanks to you,” he snarled back, suddenly furious with her, with what her disobedience could have cost him. She could have been killed.
    “This is not my fault, it is yours,” she cried—looking just as furious as he felt. “I told you already, if you won’t tell me the truth, I will discover it for myself.”
    “What are you?” If the woman who could save him was not the sweet woodcutter’s daughter he’d at first thought, he’d like to know who she was.
    She looked at him in disbelief. “What am I ? What are you ?” She clenched her fists and lifted her head high. “Who is Norga? Why was a troll trying to kill me?”
    He refused to answer, thinking of the small whirlwind of debris around the troll as he’d chased her up the hill. Thought of the constant bombardment the wind had given him since he’d taken her from her parents. Thought of an ax wielded with deadly accuracy. “Are you the Wind Hag?”
    He saw her mouth fall open, her eyes widen. “The Wind Hag?” she whispered. “Who is the Wind Hag?”
    “The mistress of the wind,” he answered, even more unsure of her than ever. If she was not the Wind Hag—
    “Mistress of the wind.” She said it with satisfaction, a smile curving her lips. “I like that. I like Wind Hag, too. It sounds . . . powerful.”
    “If you don’t know who the Wind Hag is, then you aren’t her,” Bjorn said harshly. “Why is the wind helping you?”
    “Because I ask it to very nicely.”
    Her sarcasm made him want to smile for the first time since he’d seen her standing by the trees, watching him fight.
    She studied the troll again, and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why did the magic in the room stop? If I hadn’t saved the ax from the other night, I’d be dead.”
    “I have safeguards in my palace. When the troll entered, his powers were stripped from him, but so was the magic of the room. He couldn’t enchant you, or