Siri Pettersen
The Raven Rings
Odin’s Child
Translated by Siân Mackie and Paul Russell Garrett
To Mom, for life.
To Dad, for death.
To Kim, for everything in between.
And to you. The one who was always reading books no one had heard of. The weirdo at the back of the classroom. The one who grew up in a dark basement, your fate determined by a roll of the dice. The one who still dresses up. The one who never really fit in, and who often felt like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This book is for you.
PROLOGUE
Thorrald barged inside but couldn’t get the door to shut behind him. The driving snow was forcing its way in faster than he was able to kick it away. He clasped the bundle in his arms and charged at the door like a bull. In the end, he managed to draw the bolt. Home. Safe now.
He looked through the peephatch. No one could see in from outside. Especially not in weather like this. Still. He put the bundle down on the table and closed the shutter.
You can bar the doors and windows all you like. Nothing can stop Kolkagga.
Crones’ talk! What would Kolkagga want with him? He’d done nothing wrong! Though the moment the thought struck him, his entire life flashed before his eyes. The drugs he sold outside the guildhall. Opa to people who smoked themselves to death.
He shook his head. If the black shadows came for him, it wouldn’t be because he sold harmless herbs out of a cabin at the ends of the earth. If they came for him, it would be because of her.
Thorrald stared at the bundle on the table. A malformed creature. It wasn’t crying. Maybe it was already dead. That would make everything simpler. He shuddered. The bearskin around his shoulders was so thick that he almost filled the room where he stood, but it was no help against the cold from within. He fumbled with the lacing. His fingers, frozen to the bone, refused to obey. He blew on the embers in the hearth. Turned his hands over the heat. The frost melted from the fur and sputtered in the fire.
That cursed Olve had been waving his sword in a drunken stupor. What had he been looking for? Was it this abomination? What else could it be? It didn’t matter anyway. Olve hadn’t seen the child. It was safe.
Safe?! Are you out of your mind? You have your own life to live!
Not a life worth singing about, sure enough, but that didn’t mean it was fit for a child. At least not a child like this. He had to act fast.
Thorrald drew his knife and stared down at the creature. She was asleep. His fist was bigger than her face. He raised the blade. The child opened her eyes. They were green. Fearless. Thorrald howled and slammed the knife into the table next to her. “Blindcraft! That’s what you are! Deadborn!”
He grabbed his ale tankard and downed the tepid dregs. Then he unwrapped the child from the blanket as if she were a present. She lay there waving her fists.
Old crones’ tales forced their way into his mind. Cock and bull stories he knew he should ignore. All the same … He pressed his thumb against the blade of the knife until a drop of blood trickled out. He let it drip down into the child’s mouth. Nothing. He cursed his own stupidity. What had he expected? Fangs?
The blind don’t exist!
Thorrald rested his arms on the table and snarled, “What in Slokna are you, then? You’re not a ghost. And you’re not one of the blind. Are you just deformed?” He flipped her onto her stomach and ran a finger down her spine, stopping at the base where her tail should have been. Seer knows he wasn’t one to listen to crones’ talk, but the child was living proof. She was not a child of Ym.
Rot. That’s what you are.
He stared at his fists, as though they ought to have rotted already. “I can’t have you here. Nobody would want you!” He picked her up and held her out in front of him. She was only a few days old. She had soft downy hair on her head that shone the color of copper in the light of the fire.
“I should kill you. That’s what I should do. Save my own skin.” But he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He’d known that the moment he dug her out of the snow by the stone circle. “You’ll never thank me for this, girl. It’ll mean a miserable life on the road for you. And you’d find better company than me under the tables at the tavern.”
The girl smiled. A toothless grin. He put her down again. He knew what he had to do. It felt worse than killing her, but he had no choice. He couldn’t be seen with a tailless girl. He stared at the splash of ale that was left in the tankard. Then he pulled down the case of dreamwort from the shelf. Strong enough to kill such a tiny bundle. He had to be careful. Thorrald sprinkled a pinch of the powder into the tankard and swirled it until it stopped foaming.
“Do you realize how much this costs, girl?” He dipped a cloth into the tankard and held it to her mouth. She accepted it like a mother’s teat. Then he waited till her eyes started to droop shut. He pulled the knife out of the table. It left a pale gash in the timber.
Thorrald dug the tip of the blade into the child’s back. She let out a scream. He curled his hand over her mouth. Her sobs cut into him as surely as he was cutting into her skin. Blood ran onto the blanket, and he was relieved that she could bleed. But what had he expected? Was he being hysterical?
Thorrald didn’t stop carving until the child had a hollow at the base of her spine, with furrows that looked like they’d been left by claws. “If anyone asks, a wolf got your tail. Do you hear me? A wolf!”
Her eyes shut. She’d stopped crying sooner than he’d expected. Suddenly he was afraid he had given her too much dreamwort. He held his ear to her chest. Checked she was breathing properly. Not that he knew what properly was for such a creature.
Cursed child. You’re going to be the death of me.
Thorrald left her lying on the table. He wrapped the fur tighter around himself and went back out into the storm. Like a frightened old woman, seeing shadows between the frozen spruce trees where there were none. Nobody was there. No Kolkagga. No sudden death waiting for him around the corner. Not yet.
The only thing he could see was Ulvheim. For the very last time. He pulled the shovel out of the snow and started to clear a path to the wagon.
RIME RETURNS
The half-rotten spruce lay across the Alldjup like a bridge. Its bark had cracked into great sheets, its trunk growing increasingly bare as the years passed. It was about twenty paces over to the other side. A shortcut for brave squirrels. No place for people.
Hirka steeled herself and took another step out. The trunk groaned beneath her. She doubted it had ever had to contend with this much weight before, and the suspicious stench of decay didn’t do much to allay her fears. She found herself thinking kind thoughts about the tree, as if that would prevent it from snapping in two and sending her tumbling into the gaping wound in the landscape, from breaking her on the rocks in the Stryfe, which babbled indifferently below.
I am not afraid.
She looked up. Vetle was sitting farther along the trunk, whimpering like a dog. He was fifteen winters old, the same age as Hirka, but although his body continued to grow, his mind remained that of a child’s. Vetle trusted people too much, even though he was afraid of everything else. So how in Slokna’s name had the other boys coaxed him out here?
Miserable worms! May the blind take them all!
The boys responsible were sitting safely at the edge of the forest. Hirka could feel their eyes boring into her back, desperate to see her fall. She didn’t intend to give them that pleasure. But she did plan to have bruised knuckles once she’d gotten them both out of this mess. Kolgrim wouldn’t be able to eat anything but soup until autumn. She clenched her fists. Her hands were clammy.
Vetle had started to rock dangerously between
sobs. Hirka took a couple of determined steps toward him. A knot in the trunk splintered under her foot and she started. Her arms started to windmill as if of their own volition, helping her regain her balance before she’d even quite realized she’d lost it. Her heart was in her mouth. Her knees shook.
“Feeling a bit wobbly, tailless?”
Predictably, Kolgrim’s shout was followed by a chorus of guffaws. The echo bounced between the rock walls of the Alldjup. Tailless! Tailless! Tailless!
Hirka drew herself up to her full height. She wouldn’t let them get to her. Not now.
Vetle was terrified. He sat bawling in a clump of spindly branches that had long since shed their needles. He had buried his face in his arm, as if not seeing the danger would make it go away. He clutched a small wooden horse in his fist.
“Vetle, it’s me, Hirka. Can you look at me?”
He stopped crying and peered over his elbow. A smile spread across his ruddy face, and Hirka realized her mistake. Vetle jumped to his feet and charged toward her with his arms flung wide.
“Vetle! Wait!”
But it was too late. He threw himself at her and she lost her footing. She twisted around as she fell and threw her arms around the trunk. Vetle landed heavily on her back, knocking the air out of her lungs.
The wooden horse dug into her cheek. The tree gave a series of ominous cracks.
Crows alighted from the treetops, shrieking as they disappeared into the forest. Scattered shouts revealed that Kolgrim and his cronies were making a run for it. Everything and everyone fled the scene as if Slokna already had them in its grasp.
“You’re a coward, Kolgrim!” Hirka shouted as she clung to the tree. “A dead coward!” she added, hoping for the opportunity to make good on her threat.
The trunk started to sag and Hirka’s stomach dropped. The top had broken away and the branches were scraping down the rock wall on the far side. The angle was becoming increasingly precarious.
So, what’s it gonna be? Live or die?
“Run, Vetle! Now!”
As if by some miracle, Vetle recognized the urgency in her voice and scrambled forward. His knee sank mercilessly between her shoulder blades, but he managed to clamber over her and bound up the trunk.
Hirka clung on. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the inevitable plunge. She heard roots being torn from the earth, snapping like bowstrings. Moss and stones rained down on her.
Then, quite suddenly, everything was still.
She opened her eyes. Only one at first, to check whether there was any point opening the other. The roots had held. She was hanging against the rock face. She heard Vetle cry out from above.
“Jomar!”
The wooden horse sailed past her into the gorge. It ended its days with a hollow splash in the Stryfe. But Vetle was safe. He had made it up over the edge. Thank the Seer, Hirka thought in a rare moment of faith.
Carefully, she looked up. The roots hung like a gaping troll’s mouth not far above her. They were impassable. Blood oozed from the palm of her hand down her forearm. She needed to act quickly—before the pain caught up with her.
She pulled out her pocketknife, plunged it into the tree, and pulled herself up until she reached the roots. Dry earth trickled over her face. She shook her head and tried to blink it away. She huffed out a laugh.
At least things can’t get any worse.
She wrapped her thighs around the trunk and sheathed her knife. Then she reached up and fumbled at the roots. She needed to find a handhold. Something she could use to pull herself up and over.
Then a strong hand gripped hers.
“One point to me if I pull you up?”
Hirka almost let go. Was she dreaming? That voice … she knew that voice! Or had she hit her head?
One point to me? It couldn’t be anyone else.
Rime’s back!
True, she hadn’t heard his voice for three summers, and it was deeper than she remembered, but it was definitely him. No doubt about it. Hirka hesitated before answering. Maybe she was imagining things. It would be just like her, if what people said were true. But people said a lot of things about her.
What in Slokna was he doing here?
Rime’s hand was warm and firm around hers. To her disgust, she realized that she’d already transferred a lot of her weight to him.
“Well?” a cool voice prompted from the edge.
“I don’t need help!” she said.
“So you still think you can fly? Or do you have some other strategy for getting past these?”
She heard him kick the roots just before more earth dropped down into her face. She turned away and spat. He thought he’d won, the spoiled rat. Here she was, risking her life to save Vetle, only for him to come swaggering in to win points in a desperate situation. It was inconceivably childish. What a nerve! But he remembered …
Hirka bit her lower lip to conceal a smile, even though no one could see her face. Her shoulders were screaming. She hated to admit it, but there was no way she was getting up without help.
“I’d have been fine if you hadn’t distracted me. You can have half a point.”
He laughed. A deep, husky laugh that triggered an avalanche of memories from a time when everything was simpler. A lump formed unbidden in her throat.
“You always try to change the rules. One whole point or nothing,” Rime said.
“Fine.” She had to force the words out. “One point to you if you pull me up.”
The sentence was barely out of her mouth before she was torn away from the tree trunk. For a moment, she dangled helplessly over the edge of the gorge, and then she was lifted to safety. Rime let go of her and she took a few shaky steps to make sure her legs still worked. It went better than expected.
Vetle was slumped like a sack of potatoes on the ground, plucking absently at a tear in his sleeve. Rime stood before her as if he’d never left.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked.
He was the same as ever. Always seeking out the weak spots. Like a predator asserting its superior strength, its ability to endure what others couldn’t.
“I’m fine,” she said, hiding her hand behind her back. It probably looked like carrion.
Rime helped Vetle to his feet. The boy sniffed, his tail hanging limply. Hirka watched from the corner of her eye as Rime’s hands explored Vetle’s neck and joints, checking for injuries.
His hair was longer than she remembered, but no less blindingly white. It came down to his shoulder blades and was tied with strips of leather. Shorter hairs had come loose to frame his face, which was narrower than before. Markedly so. But there was something else … something she couldn’t put her finger on. Something about the way he moved now.
And he was armed.
Her eyes fell to two swords in black scabbards. They were narrow and attached to a wide belt around his waist. He was dressed like a warrior, in a light shirt with slits on both sides and a high collar. Wide leather straps crossed his chest. He glowed like a snow cat against the dark backdrop of the forest.
Hirka looked away. Rime was an idiot. Why come here dressed like that? The money those clothes cost probably could have fed half of Elveroa for a whole winter.
When he turned to look at her, she noticed the embroidery on the left-hand side of his chest. The Raven. Its famous wings spread wide. The mark of the Council. The mark of the Seer.
Panic gripped her, cutting deep like claws.
The Seer … the Rite!
Her blood turned cold as she realized why he’d returned.
No! It’s too early! It’s still summer!
His pale gray eyes met hers. She lifted her chin and held his gaze. She refused to let him see her panic. He cocked his head and appraised her with amused curiosity, as if she were an animal he hadn’t seen before.
“Didn’t you used to have red hair?” he asked.
Hirka raised a hand to her hair, dislodging a fair amount of sand. She tried to brush it away, but her fingers ju
st got caught in the tangle of red. Rime’s eyes sparkled like ice. She remembered that teasing look of his all too well. It was out of place with the uniform he wore, but it only lasted a moment before he looked away. He had remembered who he was.
Rime meant danger. She could feel it in every nerve in her body. She’d thought she recognized him, but this wasn’t the boy she remembered. Not her childhood rival. Not her friend. He was the son of a powerful family. He was Rime An-Elderin. He was bound to the Council by blood.
It just hadn’t mattered before.
“I won’t be here long. I’m going to Mannfalla with Ilume,” he said, as if reminding her of the distance between them.
Hirka crossed her arms. “Normal people call their grandmothers Grandmother. I would, if I had one.” It wasn’t the best gibe, but she couldn’t think of anything else. Her brain had turned to mush.
“Not if she were Ilume.”
Hirka looked down.
Rime took two steps closer. His clothes smelled of sage oil. Behind him, Vetle craned his neck to peer down into the abyss that had swallowed his wooden horse.
“They’ve still got a lot to do before the Rite. It’s your year too, isn’t it?” Rime asked.
Hirka nodded lamely. Time had caught up with her. She felt a stab of nausea. The others in Elveroa who were turning fifteen this year had been counting the days. Making clothes for the occasion. Commissioning tail rings made of gold and silver. Planning the journey everyone had to make at least once in their life. Hirka was no exception. The difference was that she’d have given everything she owned to avoid it.
Rime reached for her hip. She jumped back, fumbling for her knife, but it wasn’t there anymore. It flashed in Rime’s hand. Hirka swallowed and backed away from it. For a moment she thought he’d seen through her and planned to kill her then and there, just to save the Council the trouble. Instead, he walked over to the tree roots.
“I’ll take Vetle home,” he said, cutting the few roots that were still holding on. The tree crashed down into the Alldjup. All that remained was the scar in the earth and a cloud of dust that glittered in the spray from the Stryfe. The Alldjup seemed much wider now that the two rock faces were exposed on both sides.
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