“Get your father to look at your hand,” Rime said.
She snorted. “I’ve been patching people up since I was seven!”
He came closer. She fought the urge to back away. He was almost a head taller than she was. Leather creaked as he leaned toward her and pressed her knife back into its scabbard.
“Jomar,” she heard Vetle whimper. She understood how he felt. He could get a new toy, but it wouldn’t even matter if it were made of pure gold. Jomar was gone.
Hirka turned and started walking. She felt as if she were walking away from something important, but she didn’t look back.
THE RED WAGON
Hirka started running as soon as she was sure Rime could no longer see her. She left the woods behind her and followed the ridge to the sea, where she would have less chance of running into people. By the time she caught the smell of seaweed on the wind, she could see the cabin. It was situated high up, pressed against the cliff as though it had been driven from the village and crawled there to lick its wounds.
The Hovel, people called it. The Council guardsmen had caught up with an outlaw there years ago and set fire to the place. But the cabin wouldn’t burn. It still stood there, staring obstinately out to sea, its eastern end charred black. One of Glimmeråsen’s tenant farmers had once ventured up to make off with the shutters, but then, scared witless, he had dropped them on his feet and broken two toes. And that had been that. No one had been there since.
That is until Hirka and Father had made it their home. Father didn’t listen to old crones’ tales. All the same, Hirka felt uneasy whenever she saw the cabin. She certainly wasn’t scared, and she felt at home there, but she always got a feeling something bad was going to happen when it came into view. Something she had to hurry to prevent.
The path crunched under her feet. It was covered with the scree that the cliffs shook off every time there was a storm.
Rime was back. Rime An-Elderin.
The name should have been light on her tongue, but it felt like a rock. Like the scales that Seik used—everyone knew his weights were too heavy, but never when the guardsmen came to inspect them. The merchant had two sets, it was said.
The same went for Rime. He had two names. He had left Elveroa with the short, light version she had called him since she was nine, and now he had returned with the long, heavy version. The one that had taken him back to the family home within the Seer’s white walls in Mannfalla, a world away from here.
Sylja of Glimmeråsen could go on about Mannfalla’s streets of gold until the cows came home, but after having lived the better part of her life in a red wagon along roadsides, Hirka was content simply to have somewhere she could call home. Somewhere she could say she came from. What more could you ask for?
She stopped in front of the door to the cabin. The basket! She’d forgotten the basket. The plants she’d spent all day gathering. She’d left them at the Alldjup. Hirka cursed to herself. She couldn’t leave them there. Tomorrow was Midsummer. The woods would be trampled by superstitious villagers going out to pick herbs that would help them dream of suitors, herbs she could have sold at market had she not been so forgetful.
Hirka turned to head back, but then she heard a sound. Sporadic scraping against the walls from somewhere inside. Then it went quiet. She froze on the doorstep.
They were here. The Council had come to take her away.
Pull yourself together! You are of no importance to the Council.
Hirka opened the door. The room was empty. Emptier than normal. There was vengethorn hanging from the roof, but all the dried herbs were gone. Two of the walls were lined with boxes, jars, and pots of all sorts and sizes, but the bottom shelves were empty. Just the faint outlines of books remained, etched in a thin layer of soot from the hearth. One of the chests, which also served as a bench, was open. It was packed haphazardly, as though Father had just swept everything off the shelves and into the chest. Tea, elderberries, redroot, salves, and tonics. Amulets and Seer trinkets—the things they sold every single day. An unease grew inside her.
Hirka picked up a familiar grooved wooden box and turned it in her hand. Aged draggan tea from Himlifall, where the Might was strong. If a cup of that didn’t make you feel better, you probably already had one foot in Slokna.
The scraping sound returned. Hirka returned the wooden box to the shelf where it belonged and went outside. She followed the sound around the corner of the house on the seaward side and was careful only to step where there was grass, so no one could hear her footsteps. She looked around the corner, and her unease turned into such heavy certainty that it sunk to her feet.
Father was sitting in his wheeled chair, scraping red paint off the old wagon using a rusty spade she’d never seen before. He must have borrowed it. The only shiny bit was the freshly sharpened edge. It screeched angrily against the wood as Father pushed it upward. The wagon shed sun-bleached flakes, which settled around his feet like autumn leaves.
The back of Father’s shirt was dark with sweat, and the veins in his arms were bulging. Father was strong, and because he always cut the sleeves off his shirts, his muscles were there for everyone to see. Hirka could remember a time when he wore his sleeves like everyone else, but that was many years ago.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, realizing she’d folded her arms across her chest in an effort to look tougher.
Father stopped and flashed her a guilty look. But he quickly recovered. He was a man of Ulvheim, after all. He thrust the spade at the ground. It fell over in the low grass. Not even Father could make a spade stand on rocky ground. He rubbed his close-shaven head with his hand, making a rasping sound.
“The raven has come,” he said.
Hirka knew it. She’d known it the moment she saw Rime. The raven had come. Eisvaldr had set the days for the Rite.
How much time do I have?
Father bent over and picked up the spade. He continued scraping off the paint.
“So, have you made any progress?” he asked.
Hirka clenched her jaw. Of course she hadn’t. And that was the reason they had to leave. “Are you going somewhere?” she asked again.
Father grabbed the wheels and swung the chair around so that he was facing her. He lifted himself up until he was practically hanging over the chair, with his arms supporting his entire weight.
Hirka took a step back. It wasn’t fair. She knew what he wanted from her, it just wasn’t in her power to give it to him. And why should she? There were a lot of other things she could do! Should she be judged on the one thing she couldn’t do?
“So I can’t bind. So what? It must have happened before. Surely I’m not the only one?”
Her question was left hanging in the air unanswered. He knew she couldn’t bind. He’d always known that. Why should it matter today?
The Rite. Everything was about the damned Rite.
The cold numbness returned. Her heart beat quicker.
“It must have happened before!” she repeated. “I can’t possibly be the only one in the entire world? In all eleven kingdoms?”
Father looked at her. His deep-set eyes were as shattered as his legs. So that was it, was it? She was broken. Unable to bind the Might. Cheated out of something that everyone else had. Mightless. And tailless.
Kolgrim’s shout echoed in her head.
Tailless …
Hirka turned and stormed away from the cabin, ignoring Father’s shouts. At the end of the mountain ledge, she climbed up the tallest of the three birches, as high as she could before the branches grew too weak. She sat facing the trunk and wrapped her arms around it. Her hand stung. It was bleeding again. She’d forgotten about that.
Rime is back.
Suddenly Hirka was embarrassed. She was a hopeless child. Climbing a tree wouldn’t solve anything. That wasn’t the sort of thing grown-ups did. Normal people. She was the reason that they weren’t normal, that they had lived on the road, that they never mixed with people, other than to help them whe
n they got sick. It was her fault, because she wasn’t what she was supposed to be.
Hirka hugged the tree even tighter.
She had saved Vetle. Surely that had to count for something?
No, Vetle had managed on his own. Unlike her. She’d needed Rime’s help. But she’d dared to try! She dared to do many things. She’d swum in the Stryfe early in Helfmana, before all the ice had melted. She’d dived off the rocks at Svartskaret while everyone else stood gaping. Hirka wasn’t afraid of anything. So why was she afraid of the Rite?
Because Father is.
Father was afraid. So afraid that he wanted to leave Elveroa. Get out the old wagon and live on the road. Sell miracle cures to anyone they happened upon. Make soup from the same bones, day in, day out. A life that was impossible now that he could no longer walk, but he wanted to do it all the same. Run away. Why? What was the worst the Council could do to a girl who couldn’t bind?
She didn’t want to think about it. She started to count the leaves on the birch tree. When she reached six hundred and fifty-two leaves, she thought she heard Father shouting. She didn’t reply. He didn’t shout again.
THE RAVENER
Rime kept an eye on Vetle as they walked the path to the ravenry. The boy was dramatizing random fragments of what had happened at the Alldjup without stopping to come up for air. Now and then he became so excited that he choked on his words and had to start again. Every time he tripped over a tree root, Rime had to grab hold of him and steer him back onto the path.
The heath was deep green and bathed in sunlight. The bountiful summer had made the birds drowsy and subdued. This wasn’t a day for impossible conversations. But that was precisely what awaited him. Rime found himself starting to walk slower.
It was liberating to walk like this, together with someone who never pretended to be anyone but himself. Vetle was Vetle, regardless of who he was talking to. He didn’t have any hidden agenda. Greed would never have any place in his eyes. He made Rime forget who he was, which was a rare pleasure.
People in Elveroa more or less treated Vetle as if he were a farm cat. He could come and go as he pleased. Charmed housewives gave him honey bread and ruffled his golden curls. But no one expected him to sit still like all the others while the augur delivered the message at the Seer’s hall. The boy was beautiful, a blessing from the Seer that often spared him from people’s fears and superstitions, the doubt that came with everything out of the ordinary. Time wasn’t the same for Vetle as it was for others. He was only ever concerned by what was happening in the moment. In the here and now. Understandably enough, Hirka was today’s focus.
The girl hadn’t lost any of her mettle in the last three years, Rime had to give her that. She still acted before thinking. Vetle extolled her as a goddess from Brinnlanda. Rime reflexively pressed his hands together in the sign of the Seer. In Mannfalla, the old gods and goddesses had long since departed this life.
Rime and Vetle crossed a mossy field in the shadow of huge oak trees. Vetle took off toward the house, which blended in with the forest on the other side of the plain. It looked like a small tower of vertical logs propped up against the huge trees. But these trees also served another purpose. They were supporting pillars in a latticework of branches extending halfway around the plain.
At first glance, there was nothing unusual about them, particularly now in late summer, when the foliage was dense and green. But then you heard the chattering of the ravens and realized you were looking at a large, circular enclosure.
The ravenry.
There were several ravenries back in Eisvaldr, and the Council never sent letters by other means. Ramoja alone was responsible for the most important correspondence to and from Elveroa. Normal letters were sent by cart here, like in Mannfalla, but when they needed to be sent overnight, and in secret, nothing could beat the ravens. They were dark messengers. The Council’s wings. Sacred bearers of news and of orders concerning matters of life and death. Much of Mannfalla’s unrivaled power was the result of its network of ravens that never rested.
Rime could hear the ravens whispering about a stranger approaching. He was being watched. He was being weighed up. When he was recognized as a son of the Seer, the ravens settled down.
Rime stopped. The silence smacked of anticipation. Of hunger. Of a beggar’s greed. Dark shadows shifted impatiently between the branches. He started walking again and the cawing resumed, now more aggrieved.
A throaty voice joined the fray.
“They said a friend was coming, but I’m still not sure I believe my eyes.”
Ramoja emerged from the ravenry. Her hips swayed from side to side as only hips from Bokesj could. Jet-black hair had been gathered into a thick ponytail from which tight braids sprouted like a crow’s tail. He could tell she had lost weight despite her billowing trousers. They were secured around her ankles by strings of gleaming beads that rattled as she walked. Just like the ones the dancers in Mannfalla wore. After years in Elveroa, Ramoja still clung to her status as an outsider.
Vetle ran toward her. “Mama! We fell into the Alldjup!” he told her proudly.
Ramoja calmly set down a blood-splattered iron bucket on the moss and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. She held him at arm’s length as she looked him over to check he was still intact. She turned to Rime again. He searched for signs of worry in her eyes, but there were none.
They were a remarkable sight, the ravener and her son—him almost fully grown, as fair as she was dark. The boy started to explain, and Rime interjected to ward off the horror story he’d heard several times on the way over. He told Ramoja what had happened. She took the news in stride. She didn’t scold the boy. Vetle had always been allowed to go where he wanted, despite the obvious dangers.
“No one fell. That’s the main thing,” Rime said, even though Ramoja didn’t look like she needed reassuring.
“All of us fall sooner or later,” she replied.
She picked up the bucket again and came toward him with her free hand raised, as if to pat him on the cheek. But she didn’t. Her hand dropped to her side again. Ramoja had been like a mother to him for as long as he could remember. Now she saw something in him she didn’t want to touch. The same thing that had made Hirka turn and leave. It was as if they knew. As if everything he’d seen and done in the last three years was written on his face. In his eyes.
Ramoja adjusted her grip on the bucket, the handle creaking. There was a smell of raw meat. “I haven’t seen you since …”
“Since the Rite.” Rime fought down a pang of regret.
She looked at him. Dark eyes in a dark face. They flickered between warm and cold, brimming with things she wanted to say, but all that came out was a low confirmation. “Since the Rite.”
Ramoja shook off old memories and ushered both Rime and Vetle into the house. She set the bucket down on the floor and hung a pot of water over the smoldering hearth. Rime looked around. It was just as cramped as he remembered. A curtain fashioned from fishnet created another small space at the back of the room, where sunlight streamed in through a hatch that allowed the ravens to come and go. There was a ladder up to the second floor, where Rime knew vast quantities of paper were stacked in small pigeonholes, sorted by size and weight. Down on the first floor, the closest corner was full of shelves dedicated to an abundance of small sleeves made of various materials: leather, wood, and ivory. Some of them were strewn across a narrow desk made of green glass. A raven was in the process of sorting them with its beak—one by one—onto the correct shelf. Its talons clacked against the glass as it shuffled to and fro.
The bird turned to Rime as he sat down at the table by the window. It had sensed him before seeing him. It flapped its wings, hopping over to Rime’s table and coming toward him. It stopped by his arm, which was resting on the table, and cocked its head. It was a large raven with a narrow face. Its feathers shone purple and blue in the light. Soft, downy black feathers surrounded the base of its beak. Rime could see small scratches
in it from a lifetime of use. It blinked.
Rime wanted to give the raven what it was after, but he couldn’t use the Might here. As if realizing it was out of luck, it started tugging at Rime’s sleeve with its beak.
“Arnaka!”
Ramoja scooped up the creature in both hands as if it were a common chicken and threw it up toward the hatch in the ceiling. It flew away with only a few indignant caws.
“She’s not usually any trouble.” Ramoja handed him a bowl of tea and sat across from him. Then she went on. “It hardly came as a surprise.”
It took Rime a moment to realize she was still talking about the Rite. About the confirmation that the Might was strong in him. As it had been in his mother. As it still was in Ilume. As it was in all twelve Council families who had been interpreting the word of the Seer for generations.
Ramoja kept her eyes fixed on him. She reminded him a lot of his grandmother in that respect. But these eyes were the polar opposite of Ilume’s. These listened. These were a mother’s eyes.
Ramoja had left a prestigious position as ravener in Mannfalla to accompany Rime’s grandmother to Elveroa in service of the Council. And Rime knew why. It was difficult to look at Ramoja without thinking about it, even though he wasn’t supposed to know about it. But even before he was ten winters old, the pile of things he wasn’t supposed to know had been taller than the bell tower in Mannfalla.
Rime drank. The heat washed through his mouth.
“There’s more of her in your lines every time I see you,” Ramoja said.
“We’re all getting older,” he replied, unable to think of anything else to say. He didn’t know what his mother looked like, having no point of reference other than the woven image of her hanging in the winter garden at home in Eisvaldr. A woman with narrow hands reaching up toward the pine cones in a knotty old tree that still stood in the garden that bore her name. Rime hadn’t been more than six when his parents had lost their lives to the snow.
Odin's Child Page 2
