“Codswallop! Utter nonsense, from start to finish,” the giant of a man rumbled over the brim of his tankard. His voice had regained some of its strength. “You saved my life, girl! Kolkagga don’t miss. If you hadn’t shouted, that knife would have ended up through my neck.” He had to rest between almost every word. “The Council has always had it in for me, but this is the first time they’ve sent Kolkagga. That must mean they’re getting desperate!” He took another swig, chuckling into the tankard so the foam clung to his lips.
“The first time?”
Eirik tried to turn toward her. He cursed through clenched teeth and Hirka got up to help. She rescued the tankard and set it down on the floor. He gripped her hand and she was forced to crouch down by the bed. His grizzled hair clung to his face. His eyes were bright. Hirka knew he would need help if he was going to survive.
“Have they given you yellowbell?” Of course, it was a stupid question. She assumed they’d done everything they could.
Eirik scoffed. “Just let them try! Listen to me, girl—”
Hirka’s eyes widened. “You haven’t taken any medicines?!”
Eirik pulled her closer. His eyes bored into her. The smell of the ale mixed with the smell of the wound. “I know you’re strong in the Might. Ramoja’s told me all about it.”
It had to be the fever talking. This was even worse than she’d feared.
He went on. “You’ll stand up to Mannfalla, Hirka. I know you will.”
She jumped when he used her name. So he knew who he was talking to, at least. She pulled her hand back. The fog she’d been living in started to lift. Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. Confusion. Then clarity. Ramoja’s words up by the idol. What was it she’d said? They thought … they thought Hirka wanted to escape the Rite because she was a skilled binder and she wanted to hide it from the Council. They thought she could bind like she had blue blood! That she was so strong the ravens talked about it. Like in the old stories. She felt the warmth drain from her body. And Eirik thought she could somehow help him protect Ravnhov from Mannfalla.
Hirka started to laugh. The whole situation was absurd. Upside down. She’d been terrified that people would smell the rot. Realize she was unearthed. That she couldn’t bind at all! And now they thought she was a miracle among binders. A weapon in the war that would make Tein king.
Eirik gripped her arm again. “You’ll stand up to Mannfalla, right?” His voice had taken on a different tone. It wasn’t an order or a question. It was a prayer. The man before her wasn’t a chieftain who feared death. He was a father who feared for his son’s life. Who feared what would happen if he didn’t survive.
“Yes, Eirik. I’ll stand up to Mannfalla.”
The wind had picked up outside. The chieftain indulged in a sweaty smile. His eyelids drooped. “Stay with us, Hirka.”
Hirka knew what she had to do. It was clear as Vargtind early in the morning. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was sure what was needed of her. There was no other way. She’d done too much harm. Father was in Slokna because of her. Eirik was drifting between life and death. Rime had promised to help, and she’d promised to be there. That was enough. Tein had made her realize what she was missing. The Might. Rime. His white hair. His chiseled features. His arm around her shoulders and the last words she’d heard him say.
I’ll make sure I’m there for you.
She needed to go to Mannfalla. To the Rite.
“No. I can’t stay. Not now. I’ll come back, Eirik. But it’ll cost you.” She heard the words, but they didn’t belong to her. She was just playing the part.
But Eirik was a practical man. He knew most things came at a cost. “What do you need?” He had closed his eyes, perhaps afraid she would ask for something he couldn’t give. Lying like this, his face reminded her of Father’s. The slackness that came before death.
Hirka clenched her teeth. As sure as she was unearthed, Tein would not lose his father to Slokna. Not this time.
She considered her words carefully. “I’ll come back, and I’ll do everything I can for Ravnhov. But only if you do everything you can for Tein.”
Eirik opened his eyes again. He frowned, his bushy eyebrows pulling together, suspicious now. “I already do everything for Tein.”
Hirka leaned forward and whispered, “Take yellowbell.”
He stared at her in horror. It was as if she’d asked him to drown himself. “Take yellowbell and break your fever. Live for Tein. Then I’ll stop Mannfalla.”
“Not even Rinna has yellowbell.”
“I’ll get some if you promise to take it.”
She sensed optimism. He thought for a moment. Weighed his fear of folk healers and plants against her promise to save Ravnhov. Hirka’s heart started pounding. She had to be crazy. She had come here to lay her cards on the table, and now she was making matters worse. But if it would keep Eirik alive, it was worth it. If she could rescue him from the clutches of Slokna, perhaps her lies would no longer be lies. Surely the best thing anyone could do for Ravnhov was to keep the man Mannfalla hated alive?
“Do we have a deal, Eirik Viljarsón?”
Eirik nodded. “I swear you’re all trying to kill me! But we have a deal, tailless.”
The door opened. Unngonna came in with another girl on her heels. “Is he awake? Is he any better? I heard talking.”
Hirka got up, but couldn’t answer. The lump in her throat grew. She’d done good. And she’d done bad. And she was leaving them. Eirik lay still as if playing dead. The only thing that gave him away were the creases in his forehead. Unngonna laid a wet cloth on it as Hirka smuggled the tankard back onto the table.
There was no one down by the hearth now. She followed an errand boy through the wing connecting the house to the great hall. There, she stopped and stared. The hall was packed with people. She hadn’t heard them. It was so quiet.
The calm before the storm.
There were servants and warriors. People from the town. Some spoke quietly. Some polished silverware. One of the boys was washing a round wooden shield decorated with the three crowns. Two of the fireplaces were lit. Half the town was there, just waiting. Waiting for news about Eirik. She spotted Solfrid and Tein, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak to them. If she did, her mask would slip and all the lies would come out. She walked out into the autumn evening and let the storm come.
Seer preserve me!
They thought she was like the Seer. That she would be Ravnhov’s salvation. But she was the rot.
A SKILLED BINDER
Day and night had become one. Hirka had hung around the darkest taverns in Ravnhov for days until she found what she needed. A traveler with the same inking as Father—an evenshade flower. But he hadn’t been like Father in any other way. He had been wiry with cold eyes. He’d taken what little money she had left, and acted like he was doing her a favor. He’d offered to sell her opa as well. Hirka had left without replying.
But she had gotten hold of yellowbell, and people knew better than to ask where it came from. She had given the chieftain as much as she dared, but his fever hadn’t gone down, and the wound was still inflamed and red. At least he wasn’t getting hotter.
She had slept in short bursts, nodding off at Eirik’s bedside, waking every hour to apply soldrop and greenstem to his wound. She had sent out half the household to look for ylir root to clean it. They had found a small amount among Rinna’s supplies, but the old midwife had been far from gracious when she realized the circumstances. Ravnhov’s most renowned healer had never been allowed to lay her hands on Eirik, and she made no attempt to hide what she thought of a young girl, barely old enough for the Rite, doing the job. Had it not been for Solfrid’s appeals on behalf of her husband, they would have received nothing more than curses from Rinna.
Ravnhov was anxiously waiting for news from Eirik’s room, but Hirka didn’t have anything for them. Only time would tell. She had done what she could.
The ravens
flew above the great hall like a black, shrieking blanket. Hirka woke with a start in the chair beside Eirik’s bed. It was early, but she couldn’t stay any longer. Light fell through the stained-glass window and drew three crooked crowns on the floor. One stretched across the edge of the bed and Eirik’s shoulder. She made sure his condition hadn’t worsened before she left. There was only one thing she had to do today.
She had to leave Ravnhov.
She had also worked out how. Keeping one eye on Eirik and the other on the stables over the past few days had paid off. Ramoja was still in town, but Hirka knew that the ravener couldn’t stay. Vetle also had to go through the Rite, and that meant that they would have to travel soon. Sure enough, the previous evening the servants had carried raven cages into the stable where the carts were kept. And it hadn’t been difficult to find out where Ramoja was staying while she was in Ravnhov. Every afternoon one of the blue-clad housemaids carried a pot of spiced tea to a guest cabin on the mountainside. The smell was unmistakable.
Hirka followed the path up to Ramoja’s cabin. Kuro sat on her shoulder. He was an important player in the performance she was about to put on. As she approached, she heard Vetle singing inside. A children’s song that made her smile, about all the men who went to Bromfjell to kill the dragon. The song started with twenty men, then there were only nineteen, then eighteen, and in the end only one. Whether the last man succeeded or not nobody knew, because there was nobody left to sing about it.
Hirka stopped outside. She had a difficult task ahead of her. If Ramoja was the source of Eirik’s delusions, then she wouldn’t take Hirka to Mannfalla willingly. Hirka would have to exploit the misunderstanding. That was all she had. And she would have to conceal her own doubt. Show no signs of fear. Only then would she have the authority she needed. It was just a matter of believing her own words. Having Kuro with her would help. Ramoja respected ravens more than people.
The morning was bright and clear. Hirka looked out over Ravnhov, at the chieftain’s household on the plateau between the mountaintops. The crooked houses huddled together in defiance of the weather. The surrounding wall, the forest beyond, and Gardfjella in the distant west.
She was going to miss this place. The way you miss something you’ve only just been given, that you never thought you would have. She would miss its hardy people. The women with strong arms, which they deployed when the menfolk got home late from the taverns and inns. She was going to miss the continuous murmuring of the ravens in the ravine, how they disappeared in a commotion of feathers every morning and returned every evening. She was going to miss the rain, the way it collected in puddles on the road, and in barrels at the corners of buildings.
She would even miss their disdain for Mannfalla. The feeling of having a common enemy. Someone to blame. Now she was going to be on her own again. And she wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone anymore. Still, she had to leave. The Council had already swung its knife while she’d been there. Maybe to strike her. To strike those who protected her. She wasn’t going to let that happen again.
She shivered. What if the knife was never intended to kill anyone? Kolkagga never fail—she’d heard that far too many times. Maybe they’d just wanted to smoke her out? To make sure she crossed Ravnhov’s well-protected borders and set off on her own? It wasn’t outside the realms of possibility.
The low door opened and Ramoja came out. She was carrying two large cloth sacks, one under each arm. The light clothes she always wore had been exchanged for a long leather jacket lined with fur, the fur poking out from the hood like a halo around her dark face.
Hirka straightened up and looked at her.
Steady now. Remember you’re the one she thinks is a skilled binder.
Ramoja dropped one of the sacks on the ground. She bent down and picked it up slowly, presumably to avoid looking at Hirka. A moment passed before Ramoja straightened up again. She closed her eyes for a few seconds.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Hirka said.
“No, no. That …” She searched for words for a moment. Turned and pointed at the raven ravine. “We—I … had to come here to …”
“You’re a ravener, Ramoja. Nobody knows more about ravens than the people here in Ravnhov, so I expect you come here a lot. I don’t see anything unusual about it, and I have no interest in telling anyone that you’ve been here either.”
Ramoja gave her a look that was difficult to interpret. Hirka responded with what she hoped was a calm and confident smile. She continued before Ramoja had time to reconsider.
“I’m coming with you to Mannfalla.”
“Hirka, there’s nothing to be gained from—”
“I’m coming with you to Mannfalla. I’ve promised Eirik I’ll help. I can’t do it from here.”
Ramoja had dark rings under her eyes. In the cabin behind her, the dragon had taken all but the last man in Vetle’s tone-deaf song. Hirka, on the other hand, did her best to strike the right chord. She held her arms out a little to the side, her back straight and chin down. She had to look strong, and she had to make herself clear. As if on command, Kuro adjusted his grip on her shoulder and shook his wings.
“I don’t know how you found out, Ramoja. But you know what I am. You know what I can do. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen, but it has to happen from Mannfalla. Trust me.”
Relief washed over Ramoja’s face. She dropped the sacks on the ground. Her eyes glistened and she embraced Hirka. Kuro felt redundant and flew over the roof.
“I knew it,” she whispered over and over again into Hirka’s hair.
SVARTELD’S MERCY
Rime held his sword arm straight as he circled master Svarteld. Wrist locked. Firm grip on the hilt. Svarteld’s eyes gleamed in his dark face, deceptively calm.
Rime tracked him with his blade. He tried to hold it steady so it was centered on his master at all times. The task required his full attention, which was a challenge after the conversation he’d had with Ilume earlier in the day.
The master, on the other hand, could allow himself to be distracted. He kept looking past Rime, out at the blanket of fog drifting between the mountains. But Rime had been training with him for three years and wouldn’t let himself be fooled. If he turned to look, his master would have an opening to attack. And Rime couldn’t afford to make mistakes. First he had to perform, then he could ask for the help he needed.
Rime was tense. Training with master Svarteld was an awakening. The Might hung watchfully in the air, a palpable presence that heightened all his senses until it was almost unbearable. He could feel the wind cooling the sweat on his brow. Hear the sound of insects in the grass outside. Rime glimpsed the old pine trees outside for only a fraction of a moment, yet he could see every single needle on every single twig. Muted sea green. Swaying.
He was barefoot and could have read stories from the wooden floor the way a blind man reads with his fingers. Kolkagga had been leaving marks on this floor for hundreds of years. It was all chronicled here, in nicks and scratches. Victories and losses, progress and humiliation. Etched forever into oiled oak that wouldn’t be bested, that refused to fade or crack. Like Ilume.
Let Ilume be Ilume and do your job!
Rime snapped back to reality and saw what he had to do. Svarteld had a tendency to jump over his opponents and attack from behind. Rime didn’t intend to give him that opportunity. He lifted his shoulders and launched himself into brotnahogg, a maneuver he usually performed faultlessly. He held his sword at throat height, having learned from past mistakes. To his surprise, Svarteld came toward him instead of pulling back. Then he was gone. Rime felt a sword chop at his neck. Pain radiated down his spine and out into his tail.
Dead. If they’d been using proper swords, he’d have been dead. Again. But even the blunt training swords could do a lot of damage. Due to his miscalculation, his white collar was now stained red. He had attacked too high, expecting Svarteld to jump. The master had made the most of the opening, dropping to the floor a
nd spinning around until he had Rime precisely where he wanted him. Defenseless, with his back to him.
Rime leaned on his sword as if it were a cane and caught his breath. Blood dripped from his neck down onto the wooden floor. He could have been a carpenter. Wouldn’t that have been easier? A crow laughed at him from the pine tree outside. Rime cut off that train of thought. He groaned.
“Várkunn, master.”
“What are you apologizing for? You still have your sword, don’t you?”
Svarteld wasn’t even out of breath, but he was visibly irritated. He wasn’t one for apologies. The opportunity to ask for help was moving out of reach.
Rime straightened up and turned toward him. The master had lived through half a century, but you would never have guessed. He had a young man’s body, strong and lean, and not so much as a hair on his dark brown head. He studied Rime with a critical eye, from top to toe, as he’d done the first time they met.
Svarteld had been hard on him from the get-go. An heir to the Council as Kolkagga? A spoiled Són who fancied himself a warrior? Svarteld had done his best to get rid of him. But Rime hadn’t given up. And he’d hardly put a foot wrong. He was one of the best. Just not today.
“If you’re going to apologize for something, apologize for not being here,” Svarteld said.
“Sorry?”
“Be here when you’re here or go somewhere else.”
Rime knew what he meant but didn’t want to admit it. “I’m h—”
The master’s sword was suddenly resting against Rime’s throat. The steel was cold against his skin, but all the same Rime flushed with humiliation. The master was right. He wasn’t present. His mind was on other things.
Ilume. Hirka. And the Rite.
Earlier today Ilume’s voice had been sharper than Svarteld’s sword, and just as merciless. He’d sought her out in Eisvaldr to arrange to be on guard duty on Elveroa’s Rite day. He had to keep his promise to Hirka. He had to be there for her.
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