Odin's Child

by Siri Pettersen

  Idiot.

  “What do we do when she’s back?” Slabba’s throaty voice grew less assured. He was scared of Ilume. It was infuriating.

  “I’ll tell you what we do: we enjoy the moment. She’s back! And why is she back, my friend?” Urd felt the last word stick in his throat, but he smiled for all he was worth. He leaned toward Slabba’s face, as close as he could stomach, while Slabba’s eyes darted back and forth in bewilderment. He didn’t have a good answer. But Urd did.

  “She’s back because she failed. Ilume failed! After years working on Ravnhov, she’s done nothing more than make them stronger. Has she opened any Seer’s halls there? Has she gained any political ground? On the contrary! Ravnhov is stronger and more obstinate than ever!” Urd flung his arms out, enjoying his own words. He was rarely granted the privilege of being able to say precisely what he thought, even to Slabba.

  Slabba began to wheeze with laughter, like bellows fit to burst, and Urd continued.

  “What’s more, she has succeeded in breaking down the only thing Mannfalla and Ravnhov have in common. The Rite! Because do you know what my contacts say?” Urd lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper, and Slabba’s eyes grew greedy.

  “They say several families in Ravnhov are planning to forgo the Rite this year. A clear display of animosity. A declaration of war!” Urd sneered.

  “Yes, I’ve heard that too,” Slabba said, clearly lying. But Urd wasn’t finished.

  “Ilume is weak. Her house is dying. Her grandchild is throwing his life away playing with swords. A guardsman! The boy could have her seat this very moment, and with the people’s blessing! Can you imagine how that news must have broken her? And now she’s returning to Mannfalla with her tail between her legs, having failed to bring Ravnhov into line. Slabba, I can promise you, Ilume has better things to do than put a spoke in our wheel.”

  Urd heard the sound of shoes clacking on stone. Brisk strides. A messenger rushed past them without paying them any heed. An ivory sleeve was just visible in his clenched fist. Urd didn’t let it out of his sight until the runner disappeared across the bridge and inside the red dome.

  The small tube contained Ilume’s resounding no. He was sure of it. No, she didn’t want him to take his father’s place. No, she couldn’t see that he belonged on the Council. No. No. No. But if he already had six votes, it wouldn’t make a difference.

  Urd felt himself getting dizzy. He grabbed his neck and turned away from Slabba. His throat was hurting again. He tasted blood and bent his head back to swallow it.

  Think about something else.

  Before him lay Eisvaldr in all its glory. A wealthy pocket within an even larger city—Mannfalla. White walls marked the dividing line between the home of the Seer and the rest of the city. Outside the walls was a different reality. From up here it looked clean and calm, but Urd knew that people were living miserably mediocre lives out there. They worked, sweat, ate, slept, and lay with one another. The streets stunk of horse manure, because out there, there was less concern about keeping things clean. Especially now, with the Rite approaching and everyone in the world arriving, some with children and animals in tow. The poorest areas of the city were enough to make you nauseous. The stench was one thing, the din was another. And this year it was worse than ever.

  But Urd was high above them all. If the Seer had merely a fraction of his supposed power, He would have to hear this prayer. Urd realized that he had closed his eyes. He could hear Slabba talking behind him. Talking about the heat, even though the clouds above the city were heavy with rain. Talking as though Urd’s life didn’t depend on what was soon to come.

  Heavy doors opened on the far side of the bridge. They were preposterously large compared with the figure who emerged: the Ravenbearer. Eir-madra. The woman who bore the Seer.

  Now she stood alone, with no staff and no raven. The most powerful woman on the Council. The most powerful woman in Ym. The wind whipped at her pale robe. The mark of the raven on her forehead was so dark it was like a window into her mind. It was also embroidered over her left breast. Seer in mind, Seer in body.

  “Urd Vanfarinn?” She said his name as though she didn’t already know it was him.

  “Yes.” Urd felt the pain tear at his throat, but he managed to keep his voice steady. He’d had plenty of practice. She lowered her hood in a slow movement.

  “Welcome to Insringin.”

  Urd felt a strange stinging in his eyes. It took him a moment to realize that tears had formed. Eir hadn’t seen them. She’d already turned around and was on her way back into the Council Chamber. He heard Slabba’s congratulations from somewhere behind him but couldn’t distinguish one word from the next. Insignificant noise from an insignificant man in a different world entirely.

  Urd set one foot in front of the other, taking his first step as a councillor, and at last, he crossed the bridge.

  FORTUNE SEEKERS

  The meat on his plate was cold. Every time Rime tried to take a bite, he had to stop before his fork reached his mouth, either to answer a question or just to smile politely at something someone had said. And they had plenty to say. But he supposed he hadn’t really been invited to Glimmeråsen to eat.

  Kaisa was reeling off truisms she thought he wanted to hear. Such as how outrageous it was that Ravnhov was sabotaging the unification of the eleven kingdoms. How ridiculous it was that the barbarians there were allowed to maintain an archaic chiefdom, remnants of a kingdom.

  Rime had no trouble understanding Ravnhov’s opposition. If the other parts of Ym were as strong as Ravnhov, they’d have been independent as well. Greed and fear were all that bound any of them to Mannfalla. But Rime said nothing. He was used to not taking things that had little to do with him personally. People just wanted to be closer to his name. Closer to the power in Mannfalla.

  Sylja hadn’t taken her eyes off him, unless it was to lower her gaze in a show of false modesty, or to engage in a silent dialogue with her mother. Rime glanced at Vidar, but Sylja’s father was about as talkative as the paintings on the wall—a passive pawn in the evening’s game, despite the fact the farm was his. Kaisa had married into a wealth that she now managed as if she’d been born for it. When Rime tried to ask Vidar about the farm, Kaisa broke in.

  “Let’s not bore Rime, Vidar. He has more on his mind than our insignificant problems.” She smiled icily and handed her husband a linen napkin. His face was clean, but he wiped himself off nevertheless. He didn’t speak another word.

  “Tell us about Ilume-madra instead,” Kaisa continued. “We’re so sorry to hear that she has to leave Elveroa.”

  Rime was sure she was even sorrier that Ilume wasn’t here this evening. He reassured Kaisa once more that Ilume would have liked to come but that it hadn’t been possible. There was a brief pause while Kaisa clearly tried to work out what could be more important than visiting Glimmeråsen. Rime took the opportunity to have a bite of his veal. They’d spared no expense this evening.

  The room bore witness to the family’s fortune. The southern wall was covered by a long tapestry from Andrakar depicting the Seer with outspread wings. Many of the ornaments were somewhat out of place for a dining room. Rime suspected that Kaisa had filled the room with anything remotely valuable. What she hadn’t found space for in the room, she’d hung around her and her daughter’s necks.

  Sylja gave him an expectant smile. Had she asked him a question?

  “Sorry?” Rime asked, hoping it wasn’t clear how badly he wanted to go home.

  Kaisa laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh dear, you really must forgive my daughter, Rime. She can be refreshingly direct.”

  “Mother! I just want to know how good my chances are!” Sylja pushed her plate away and leaned over her arm so that her breasts were pushed up. Rime needed no explanation. This was about the Rite. He’d been expecting the question. Everyone with children who turned fifteen this year had asked him exactly the same, despite him spending his days up on Vargtind, as far away fro
m people as he could get. No matter how scarce he tried to make himself, they stopped him in the village square. Offered him gifts he politely declined. Asked him to touch them. Asked for the Seer’s blessing. And all of them wanted the same thing: to know what they could do to improve their children’s chance of being chosen to become a servant of the Council.

  Rime couldn’t blame them for asking. He was well aware that he had been born without many of the concerns that others struggled with. People in Foggard lived from hand to mouth. A life serving the Council had to seem like a life without care to them. Food, clothes, a roof over their heads. People in Eisvaldr were excused from everyday troubles so they could focus on what was important.

  But the Rite was what it was. The Seer chose, they said, even though Rime knew that wasn’t the whole truth. The Seer transcended everyday life. He didn’t concern himself with practical things such as the Rite. Or other trivial matters. And that was the source of all Rime’s ire, the reason for his choice. The Seer’s elevated position was for inspiration, but it was also the reason corruption was able to permeate His halls. Friends gave positions to friends. Young hopefuls entered Eisvaldr’s schools in exchange for coin. Rime neither could nor would help anyone into such a viper’s nest.

  He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “It’s getting dark. I hope you’ll excuse me. Thank you for your hospitality this evening.”

  Kaisa was instantly on her feet and moving toward him. She put a hand on his back and tried to usher him into an adjoining room. “My dear, you simply must stay for a slice of cake!” She had strong arms for someone so slight.

  But Rime stood his ground. “I appreciate the offer, but my place forbids me.”

  Sylja got up. “Mother, he’s a guardsman! They don’t eat cake.” She looked at him and he nodded in agreement.

  Kaisa raised an eyebrow. “No cake?”

  Rime smiled. “Regrettably not.”

  He nodded to Vidar, who opened his mouth to say something but ended up wiping his face with his napkin again. Rime headed for the door, painfully aware of the frantic whispering behind him. Then Sylja was suddenly at his side. She lifted her skirts slightly and slipped her shoes on.

  “It’s a lovely evening, Rime. I’ll accompany you part of the way.”

  Outside, the air was cool and liberating. The valley dozed as the sun sank down behind the mountains. Sylja talked about Mannfalla and about how nice it must be to live where everything happened. She asked whether he was looking forward to getting back but didn’t stop talking long enough to let him answer.

  Glimmeråsen disappeared behind them. Sylja stumbled slightly and gripped his arm. She gave him an apologetic smile. “A rock.” She didn’t let go again. Her nails were painted red, as was the fashion in Mannfalla.

  Daudtarn lay still and black, its surface like an eye in the forest. The cliffs rose up on the eastern bank, and Rime could hear the Stryfe babbling somewhere in the distance.

  “The children say it’s bottomless.” Sylja stopped.

  “Everywhere has a lake people say is bottomless,” he replied.

  “Imagine if I fell in!” She gripped his arm tighter, but she sounded more eager than afraid. “Imagine if I fell in before I’d truly lived.”

  Rime could feel his irritation growing. He’d had enough of this charade and very much felt it was time for him to take his leave.

  “At least you’re better off than most people,” he said, trying to walk on.

  Sylja snaked her way around him so that her face was inches from his own.

  “Not like you, Rime.” There was a hunger in her voice. “If I were able to live like you, I could make a difference.”

  Rime took a step back from her warm body.

  “You can make a difference wherever you are, Sylja.” He took a couple steps back, but she grabbed him.

  “I just want to serve the Seer!” Her eyes darted around as if she were looking for a way into him.

  He was running out of patience. It had been a long evening. “If He needs you, Sylja, He’ll choose you during the Rite. You have nothing to fear.” He started walking again.

  “But I’m scared, Rime!”

  He stopped. She smiled and came toward him again. “I’m scared I’ll do something wrong. The Seer chose you, Rime. I know you can help me.” He could feel her breath against his throat with every word she spoke. “If you help me, Rime …” She lifted his hand and pressed it to her chest. “I’d be so grateful, endlessly grateful. Always …”

  She started moving his hand down toward her breast. Rime felt his body react and tore his hand away. He backed away and stared at the creature before him. “You’re fifteen summers old! You haven’t even been through the Rite, girl.”

  She laughed indulgently, like her mother had been doing all evening. “If you’re scared of breaking me, you’ve nothing to fear, Rime An-Elderin. I may only be fifteen, but I’m not naive.”

  Rime felt dirty and used. All she wanted was to be chosen during the Rite. Was there no one who looked on him as a man? Just a man. Not a door to another world. Was there nothing pure and good, apart from the Seer?

  “I know what you want, Rime. And I can give it to you. If you give me what I want …” She twisted a lock of hair around her finger.

  “What? What is it you want?!” He took a step toward her. “To serve the Seer? Is that all you want?” He jabbed his finger at her, and she took a step back.

  “You want to be a custodian? A stone whisperer? Do you want to be one of those people who spends their entire lives listening to stone? Listening for screams from Slokna? Cries from the blind?” He hardly recognized his own voice. An unfamiliar snarl.

  “I’ve seen people with scars all over their bodies! I’ve seen grown men peel off their own skin to stave off the dreams. Is that what you want, girl? Or perhaps you want to be a warrior? Do you want to sit there, endlessly honing your sword while you wait for an order to attack friends and brothers in Ravnhov? Do you want to stab a man in the gut and feel the heat of his blood on your hands?”

  Her bottom lip quivered. It was infuriating. After three years of training, was this all he was good for? Losing his self-control in front of a girl who didn’t know better? Rime covered his face with his hand. He stood there for a moment listening to the river in the distance. When he looked up again, Sylja was standing there sniffling. He couldn’t see any tears, so he started to walk away.

  She shouted after him. “You can’t just leave me here!”

  He knew she meant more than just there next to Daudtarn. But it didn’t matter. He would leave them all.

  A SETBACK

  The sun never came up. The clouds descended in the sky above Elveroa, and the air promised rain. Hirka tried to shake off the remnants of last night’s quarrel with Father as she walked down the ridge toward the Stryfe.

  After paying her visit to Hlosnian, she’d tried to make Father understand how the people of Elveroa depended on them. What would they do if the two of them moved? But Father had no sympathy for people who treated them like dogs right up to the moment they needed help with a rash on their knob or wanted to smoke themselves into oblivion on opa.

  He’d said the same things in the past, but without sounding like he had given up. He’d laughed at how people avoided him until they had no other choice than to beg for his help. It hadn’t mattered then. Maybe because they could always leave again? Maybe deep down he’d always hoped the next place would be better? Then they’d find somewhere that felt right for them?

  Everything changed after the accident. Father was bound to his chair. But now he was planning to leave anyway. Because of what she was. A monster who had to be kept away from people.

  Hirka had tried to find all the reasons to stay in Elveroa, without mentioning his wheeled chair. She’d claimed she could learn to bind, and Father had said that a stool had a better memory than her. He’d tried to teach her before, had she forgotten?

  Hirka hadn’t forgotten. She w
anted to try again. For a moment Father had almost looked hopeful while she sat on the grass attempting to visualize the earth’s life force, exactly the way he had told her to. Imagining the Might as its lifeblood, trying to draw it toward her.

  But the earth wouldn’t share its blood with her. Because she didn’t belong here.

  Still she had tried. Until her jaws practically locked, until she forgot to breathe. But to no avail. Father had begged her to be careful, as if she were an egg that might crack. She’d asked what it was supposed to feel like when you bound. And he’d replied: “Like you’re no longer alone.”

  But she was alone. In every way. All she had was Father.

  That was when she’d realized what she needed to do.

  Father was not a strong binder. He was an ordinary man. There had never been blue blood in his veins. Hirka needed someone who was good at binding. Someone familiar with the Might. But most importantly, she needed someone who wasn’t afraid to let her learn, even if it meant a few scrapes along the way. Someone who wouldn’t treat her like she might break.

  She needed Rime.

  Hirka wasn’t sure how best to explain it to him, so she settled on a white lie. She would tell Rime that she could bind—of course she could—just not very well. And that she was scared that it wouldn’t be good enough for the Rite. It wouldn’t be easy lying to him, but what else could she do?

  She came to a stop. Spread out before her was the row of trees leading to Ilume’s house. Hirka wasn’t sure anyone in Elveroa had been inside the magnificent building. Even the servants had been brought from Eisvaldr.

  What if his grandmother answered the door? Would Ilume realize that something was wrong? Will she know what I am when she sees me?

  Hirka got annoyed with herself. She’d met Ilume lots of times. Why would she suddenly see something other than the same tailless girl?

  I’m the only one who knows I’m different.