The Rot

by Siri Pettersen

  It always ended the same. Growing displeasure fueled by deep frustration until he brought his fists crashing down on the keys, his rage destroying what could have been. Cacophonous violence. Nor could he blame the instrument, a magnificent creation by Fazioli. The problem lay in the execution. The performer. A problem the composer had never had.

  He stopped playing and lowered his ear to the keys, listening to the sounds that had faded to nothing. Dead sounds. The greatest beauty was to be found in the incomplete. It was easier to tell himself that than to keep striving for perfection. Especially now, when so much was at stake.

  He heard Isac coming down the stairs out in the corridor. His footsteps grew hesitant as he approached, which could only mean he hadn’t quite decided how to deliver his news. Not a good sign for either of them. Graal stayed where he was, slumped over the piano.

  Isac opened the door and came in. “It’s her. No doubt about it,” he said with feigned optimism.

  Graal surveyed his claws. “Do you know what Chopin told me before he died, Isac?”

  Isac walked over to the liquor cabinet. “It’s one of those days, is it?” he muttered.

  Graal ignored him. “He told me that even with an eternity to practice, I would never be as good a musician as him. Not because of my claws, but because I don’t fear death. What do you think, Isac? Is that why my people haven’t changed in thousands of years? Do we live too long to create anything of note?”

  Isac snorted. “Clearly the opposite is true,” he replied. “There’s no limit to what’s possible when you don’t have to worry about time running out on you.”

  Graal sat up. “Well, you would say that, considering you’d be dead if I hadn’t taken you on.”

  He paused to let his words sink in before continuing. “But you’re right. Nothing humans do is about anything other than eternal life. Art as the pursuit of immortality. All that matters is what they get out of it. So what have you accomplished, my friend, that you wouldn’t have had you died? How much greater is your existence today? What more have you done?”

  Isac filled a glass with gin and topped it off with a modest splash of tonic. “I don’t know,” he replied, sitting down on the sofa and putting his feet up on the table. “But I’ve got an eternity to figure it out.” He grinned.

  Graal looked at him. He’d had Isac for thirty years. Not long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like ages. Isac wouldn’t last. Perhaps he already knew that. Perhaps that was why he was becoming increasingly brazen. An attempt to reinvent himself. To seem interesting. He’d been over fifty when Graal had taken him. A witty and intelligent man. British through and through. But recently he’d started wearing garish shirts with ridiculously long collars. They made him look like a washed-up pop star. His blond hair hung to his ears from a center part, which certainly didn’t help his cause.

  Maybe midlife crises were genetically encoded in humans. Maybe they had them regardless of whether or not death was coming.

  Graal got up. Isac promptly removed his feet from the table.

  “It’s not your fault,” Isac said, as if Graal had anything to apologize for. “It’s this place.” He gestured around the room, slopping gin on the floor in the process. “Who wouldn’t get depressed in here? What sort of a design choice is black stone? Who builds a house sticking out of a mountain, for that matter? Of all your places, this is the worst. Don’t get me wrong, it has a certain James Bond villain charm to it, but it’s not exactly homey. And that … thing.” He glared at the raven skeleton on the table. “Just because it’s hideous doesn’t mean it’s art.”

  Graal walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The glass was angled out over the edge of the cliff. The mountains sat blue and silent beneath him, stretching as far as the eye could see. He knew Isac always steered clear of the window. It gave him the willies.

  “The raven?” Graal asked.

  A moment passed before Isac realized what he was asking. “Oh, yeah, the raven. Yes, they saw it. She was carrying it in a box. They’re sure it’s her.”

  Graal turned to face him. “What’s the bad news?”

  Isac lifted his glass to his lips and drank, as if to veil his words. “They haven’t seen her in a few days. But it’s definitely her! And we know where she is.”

  Graal sighed. “They’ve been made, Isac.”

  “No chance. She’s a bloody teenager. Heads in the clouds, the lot of them. And we’ve got good people on the case. Only the best. Top class.” Isac brought the tips of his thumb and index finger together as if talking about a particularly good meal he’d had.

  Graal was so furious he could taste it. A metallic prickling on his tongue. His blood boiling. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, yet here he was, surrounded by humans. Humans who didn’t have the capacity to understand and never would. They simply didn’t live long enough. Humans made mistakes. It was in their nature.

  “Come here, Isac.”

  Isac cowered in his seat. The ice cubes in his glass started to clink. That was the advantage of real power. You never needed to use it. Or demonstrate it. It was always there. Part of you.

  Isac got up and walked over to the window. He stopped a few steps away from it, clearly trying to avoid looking out. His eyes were fixed on Graal as if he were a lifeline.

  “Isac, have I failed to impress upon you how important this is?”

  “No! They know how important it is. They know that to a man.” It was just like Isac to deflect.

  “But do you?”

  “Of course I do. The young lady will be here in a few days. Her and the raven. You have my word, Joshua.”

  Isac’s avoidance of Graal’s real name was a sure sign of his unease. And his need to convince himself of what he was saying.

  “How can you give me your word when you’re not even out there, Isac?”

  Beads of sweat formed on Isac’s forehead, glistening along his hairline. “I-I’ll be there! Of course I will. It’s in my hands now. Safe as houses.”

  Graal took Isac’s arm and steered him closer to the window. He didn’t need to use force. He was what he was, which meant mere suggestion was enough.

  “What would happen if we were to fall now?” he asked, nodding at the abyss below.

  Isac forced a laugh. “We’d be dashed on the rocks.”

  “That’s right. We’d be dashed on the rocks. Both of us. But do you know the difference between us?”

  Isac said nothing. There were probably too many answers to choose from. Too many differences. But he smiled. He had a nervous look in his eyes, but they also shone with love. That was true power. Being able to inspire both fear and love. To tilt the balance between them. An unlikely pair in constant battle for control.

  “We’d lie there, both you and I, Isac. Mangled. Broken. Arms and legs shattered by the rocks. You’d remain there. My bones would knit back together again. Heal. Slowly but surely. Eventually I would get up again. But you’re the lucky one.”

  Isac swallowed. “You don’t make it sound that way.”

  Graal looked at him. “Ruin is painful. But it’s nothing compared to the pain of healing. It’s always easier to break things than to fix them. Believe me, you are the lucky one.”

  Isac’s eyes grew glassy. The corner of his mouth twitched, but Graal was having no part of it.

  “Isac, you’re making the same mistake many do when they lose sight of death. They think they’ll always have another chance. But there are no more chances this time. It’s now or never. Another thousand years couldn’t help us now. That’s why no price is too high. Nothing, absolutely nothing, is more important than this. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Isac nodded and lowered his eyes.

  “Good. Now leave me in peace. I have things to do.”

  Visibly relieved, Isac headed for the door.

  “And remember,” Graal said as he went. “Discretion is key.”

  He turned his back on Isac and waited until he heard the door c
lose. Then he went over to the raven. It stood upright, frozen in a state midway between cadaver and skeleton. Flesh and feather had long since petrified. Not even he could smell it anymore. He clenched his fist. Dug a claw into his palm and let the blood drip down onto its beak. Blood on bone.

  He listened. Waited for sounds of life. Dying sounds were beautiful, but in truth, they were nothing compared to sounds yet to be born.

  The cadaver started to creak. Its neck moved and its beak opened. Moments later, he heard her voice. Soft and simmering with self-assurance.

  “Graal, you’re going to want to kiss me when you hear my news.”

  He indulged in a smile. “Good, because right now you’re the only one I can rely on, Damayanti.”

  RAVEN BLOOD

  The Seer’s tower stood alone. It had always been connected to the Rite Hall by a narrow bridge, but now that both the bridge and the hall were gone, it jutted up in the landscape like a warning from the gods. Last stop before Blindból.

  The yellow glass had been removed from the windows to be used in the new Council Chamber. Only a black skeleton remained—a broken lantern atop a cliff.

  Rime knew that if he went up there, he’d find fragments of the tree, probably exactly where they’d been since the night he had shattered it. Everything was the same. And nothing was the same.

  The gardens to the rear of Eisvaldr were covered in snow. White flowers that had been blindsided by winter poked out on either side of the path. The birdbath before him had frozen over. Icicles gleamed along its edge like wolf teeth.

  Rime came to a stop. Hlosnian appeared behind him. This was one of the best places to talk. Even in the larger chambers, words carried a long way, borne by the Might, and this was no conversation for Council ears.

  He pulled the ampoule out of his pocket and handed it to Hlosnian. “I should have asked you ages ago, but they’ve been keeping me busy.”

  Hlosnian took the ampoule, uncorked it, and took a sniff. “So your plan is to poison them?”

  Rime couldn’t help but laugh. “It may come to that sooner or later. But that isn’t poison, as far as I know. That’s the ink they use during the Rite. They mark the children’s foreheads with it once they’re done. It fades after a couple of days.”

  Hlosnian re-corked the ampoule and returned it to Rime. “Yes, I have seen a few Rites in my time, young man.”

  “Well, old man, I’m willing to bet you didn’t know that’s how they’ve been suppressing the Might in people.”

  Hlosnian raised a bushy eyebrow. “The ink? How … ah … Raven blood.”

  Rime nodded. Now all he had to do was keep Hlosnian on-topic. Talking to Hlosnian often felt like having three conversations at once, especially when it concerned something important.

  “They say it’s a mixture of herbs, ink, and raven blood. I expect you knew that?”

  The stone whisperer didn’t reply at first. The wind took hold of his red robe, making it dance around his feet.

  “Blood, Rime. Isn’t that what it always comes down to? We live by it. Die by it. It determines who we are. When we are. They say the Might is born of it. The blood of the earth. And that in turn passes into our blood. And thus the circle is complete.”

  “You sound like an augur.”

  The stone whisperer snorted. “Augurs. What do they know of the Might? The Might loves blood. You saw it yourself on Bromfjell. Urd forced the stones. Blood from a raven. Fire from stone. Blood changes people. It changed you.”

  “Everyone changes, Hlosnian.”

  “Hm … Some more than others.” Hlosnian swept the snow off the birdbath and pointed at the frozen water. “Look down. Tell me you see the same thing now as you did before her.”

  Rime looked away. It shouldn’t have been difficult to humor the stone whisperer. But still, his legs refused to carry him closer.

  “Blood is blindcraft, Rime. I’ve done as you asked. The guild has talked more about the raven rings in the last few days than it has in ten winters, but you’ll not get a definitive answer. There are as many opinions as there are stone whisperers, but if you ask me, that was how the Seer shut the gateways. He drew upon the Might from every man and woman. Dead and alive.”

  Rime gave a crooked smile. “The Seer? Still a believer, are you, Hlosnian?”

  “Question is, are you still a doubter, lad? You saw the tree. You shattered it. You ought to know better.”

  Rime had lost the thread. He couldn’t let Hlosnian go off on a tangent. “What does the tree have to do with any of this?”

  “Anything not involving trees isn’t really worth talking about.”

  “Hlosnian—”

  “Pay attention when I’m talking! I’m telling it like it is. The tree didn’t come out of nothing. It was created by someone. Created by the Might. They say the force it required cleaved the mountains of Blindból asunder. Made the fissure running from Ravnhov all the way to the Alldjup. Do you think something like that comes from nothing?” Hlosnian bashed his fists together to ward off the cold, dislodging snow from his fingerless gloves.

  Rime sighed. “You haven’t got a clue, have you?”

  Hlosnian puffed his chest out like a bellows. “Of course not, but nor does anyone else!”

  Rime fought back a smile. The stone whisperer swept the snow off some tall stalks nearby. “Look at these, boy, and imagine that the water they survive on is the Might. What would happen if you drew out every single drop in one fell swoop? They would wither and die. Or what about the opposite, if you forced in more water than they could drink? Just as dead, right? And that’s what I’m saying: the gateways died because all of the Might went into the creation of the tree. The flow dried up. The stones fell dormant.”

  Rime tried to stitch together fragments of memories. He knew what it meant to have too much of a good thing when it came to the Might. Through Hirka, he had been able to draw upon more of the Might than anyone else. What would have happened if the flow had doubled while he was suspended in front of the Council, surrounded by the ravens? Could he have endured it? Or would his body have been torn apart?

  Was that what Urd had done to Vetle? Forced more of the Might through his own son than he could bear? Whatever he’d done, it had ruined the boy. Forever confined him to the mind of a child.

  Rime shuddered as if Slokna had him in its sights. A raven-black darkness that wouldn’t let go.

  He looked at Hlosnian. “So if they can draw the Might out of people during the Rite and then mark them with raven blood …”

  Hlosnian tapped his finger against his temple. “Then it follows that they can force the Might in the opposite direction. I think you overestimate the effect, but the flow can dry up. Or it can become a deluge. Too much and too little are equally bad.”

  “And that’s what Urd did at Bromfjell? Drew upon the Might using raven blood?”

  “Shush! Let me finish,” Hlosnian huffed. “It’s like tearing down the doors as you open them. It destroys you. Destroys others. Blindcraft, Rime. It’s just not done.”

  “Well, nobody told the Council that,” Rime said and looked away. He didn’t want the stone whisperer to see his disappointment. Or realize how much opening the raven rings meant to him.

  “You say that like they knew what they were doing.” Hlosnian smiled.

  “Everyone knows what they’re doing. The question is whether they can live with it.”

  Rime put the ampoule back in his pocket. He knew Hlosnian was right. Not even Jarladin could say whether the marks on the forehead had any effect. They’d followed the same formula for centuries, under the pretext of making people less enticing to the blind. And, unbeknownst to anyone, less powerful in the Might.

  But it didn’t matter whether it worked. It would never happen again. Rime had made sure of that.

  Hlosnian stared down at his reflection in the ice. He clearly had something to get off his chest.

  “I’ve taken it myself, Rime.”

  “Taken what?”


  “Raven blood.”

  Rime stepped closer. The stone whisperer hunched his shoulders like a dog. “I took it, once. And I’m not the only one. They sell it outside the guildhalls. I know it. You know it. There is power in blood. Stone whisperers take it to hear the voices more clearly, but it always ends in misery. Always.”

  “So what happened? Did you find the source of the Might? The meaning of life?” Rime smiled to temper any judgement in his voice. What some people would do for a brief respite from reality came as no surprise to him.

  The stone whisperer looked up at him. “I was never the same again. It’s not meant for us.”

  “Neither is opa, but people still use it,” Rime replied.

  Hlosnian flapped his arms in an attempt to keep warm, then looked back in the direction he’d come from, like he regretted walking so far. “You’re seeing me in a different light now, aren’t you?”

  Rime was caught off guard. Hlosnian wasn’t one to worry about what others thought of him. It was practically a defining trait of the strange old stone whisperer.

  “No,” Rime replied with a grin. “It’s always been obvious that you’re a bit crazy.”

  “Pshaw! Everyone is crazy in their own way, boy.” Hlosnian put his hand on Rime’s shoulder. “Raven blood opens pathways. In yourself, but not in the stones. It’s not traveler’s blood,” he said. “None of us have that. I don’t have it. You don’t have it. I doubt any living creature does. So we’re not going anywhere. But she had it. Older than sin and more potent than raven blood.”

  “But that can’t be right, Hlosnian. We passed through the gateways, just the same as her. It’s not a question of blood.”

  “It’s always a question of blood. We traveled from this world to this world. Not far at all, really. We were able to do that because this is where we belong. But she … she makes me wonder about a lot of things.”