The room made her think of Father and of the mess of boxes and chests she’d had to leave behind. One day somebody would have to clear this place out as well. Remove all traces of Silvio Sanuto. Hirka felt heavy. She sank down onto the stairs.
Stefan held up his phone and took a picture of a drawing on the wall. A fang. “This is crazy. What a mash of superstitions. Relics, stone circles, codes … what’s this?”
He pulled the picture of the golden cup off the wall and stared at it. Then he turned to Hirka and huffed out a laugh. “Do you see this? The holy grail? The wounded king. It’s him! It’s Graal! Fucking hell, she’s been searching for him longer than I have!”
Stefan seemed to have completely forgotten about being afraid. He put the picture down on the desk, mumbling as he started to follow one of the threads. “Graal … the Grail. Eternal life, yeah? Jesus.” He found the end of the thread. A picture of something Hirka knew all too well. Vengethorn. It was vengethorn!
She got up, almost tripping on the stairs in her excitement. “Where is this from? Where can I find this?”
“It’s just a drawing,” Stefan answered. “A drawing of a plant.”
Hirka stared at the drawing. There was no doubt in her mind. Sharp, bluish-black leaves on a stalk that curved into a spiral at the top. She knew she’d seen something through the open door. Something important.
“It’s vengethorn! It’s poisonous, but it can stop blood … bleed …” She was getting too excited. Forgetting her words again. “Bleeding! It stops bleeding. And cleans wounds. I need to know where it grows!”
Stefan looked at her. “It doesn’t grow anywhere. It’s a made-up plant.”
“Made-up?! This isn’t made-up, I’ve been using this plant all my life!” Stefan put a hand over her mouth. Held a finger to his lips and pointed at the other pictures overlapping the one of the vengethorn. “See that? That’s from the Voynich manuscript. A centuries-old riddle collecting dust in a museum. That plant doesn’t exist. And these don’t either.”
Hirka let her eyes wander over the other plants. She’d never seen any of them before. Only the one. Only vengethorn. She felt like grabbing Stefan and shaking him. Telling him what this meant, but he’d never understand. This was the first drawing she’d seen in this world to suggest that someone knew. That someone had seen a plant from her world.
She couldn’t begin to explain how important this was. She wasn’t alone. No matter how old this document was, others had used the raven rings. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t suffering from memory loss, like Silvio Sanuto.
Hirka was suddenly struck by how warped reality was. How warped it had been ever since she arrived in this world. She’d doubted herself. In the worst moments she’d even doubted her own story. But it was true. And this was the proof. She ran her fingers over the paper. It was lifeless. An insult to the longing that burned inside her. She pulled the drawing down from the wall.
Stefan started lifting the overlapping pictures on the wall. “These other things … these books … the images all came from the same website. They’re all in the same place.” He looked at Hirka. “You understand? In a collection.”
“With Graal?”
“No, in a museum.” He squinted at the tiny letters at the bottom of the page. “Rún Museum of Art. Never heard of it, but if they didn’t have something to do with Graal, they wouldn’t be here, right?”
He was right. Hirka stared at the pictures as if they might come to life and tell her what they were. Vengethorn. Pictures of strange things. From strange books. All kept in one place. Why? And what could they possibly have to do with Graal, unless …
The gateways.
“Naiell was right,” she whispered. “Graal’s found a way to open the gateways. Maybe he’s—”
“Written it down and left it in a museum?” Stefan laughed. “Sorry, but he’s no idiot.”
Hirka didn’t reply. The walls felt like they were closing in. Soon the room would only be big enough to hold one thought. Graal had found something. And it could be something as simple as a book. Something she could read. Learn from. Something she could use to get home. She’d been writing things down since she got here. Why wouldn’t he have done the same? The thought drew her like a moth to a flame. Like a door left ajar. A chance to run away from this world, back to the one she knew. Back to being menskr. A child of Odin. Nothing more.
“Maybe he’s looking for them, too,” Stefan suggested, though he didn’t sound convinced. He ran his fingers over his stubble. The rasping was joined by the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming!
Stefan’s eyes widened. Hirka stuffed the drawing in her pocket and spun around. A man stood in the doorway. Silvio. Silvio Sanuto. Wearing striped pajamas and holding a glass of milk.
Stefan’s hand moved instinctively to his belt. To his gun. Hirka grabbed his arm. “Wait!”
The old man’s gaze shifted between them and the glass of milk. Like he was trying to find a connection. Hirka tightened her grip on Stefan’s arm. She could feel his pulse thumping against her palm. “He doesn’t remember,” she whispered. Astonishment mixed with horror. “He doesn’t know we’re not supposed to be here.”
She smiled at Silvio. He nodded back. Turned and left, his bare feet shuffling across the wooden floor.
She stood there for a long time before she dared take a breath. Stefan slipped over to the door. Closed and locked it. Hirka felt relief wash through her, but then she was gripped by a strange sensation. A change in the air. Something was headed their way. Something dangerous. Something familiar.
Naiell …
The window exploded.
Glass flew everywhere. Stefan shouted. A man skidded across the floor, as if he’d been thrown inside. A stack of books collapsed on top of him. He groaned and tried to move, but quickly gave up. Someone jumped down from the windowsill. Naiell. He crouched down, teeth bared and claws out. A pool of blood spread from under the man on the floor. He was badly injured. Hirka ran to him and tried to turn him over, but he lashed out at her. Pain spread through her stomach. She fell back.
A knife! He has a knife!
Someone pulled her to her feet. She tore herself free. The man on the floor tried to get up. She stomped on his elbow, but he wouldn’t let go of the knife. Panic. The taste of blood. Hirka reached for her own knife.
The man tried to grab her. She stuck him with her knife and he screamed. She was pretty sure she did, too. She let go of the knife and stepped back. It was lodged in his chest. Stefan stared at her. Naiell picked the man up off the floor like he weighed nothing and flung him at the staircase. He slid down a few steps and ended up sitting with his head slumped to one side like a puppet. A dying puppet, broken on the ornate wrought-iron staircase. He tried to pull the knife out of his chest but gave up, leaving one hand resting on the hilt. Giving the sickening impression that he’d stabbed himself.
Hirka felt a damp warmth on her stomach. She was bleeding. She’d only wanted to help. What had he done? What had she done?
Dreyri. I am Dreyri.
The thought was free of doubt. Fortified by blood.
Then came the smell. Sweet and rotten. A nauseating smell no human would recognize. She knew that now. The man on the floor was one of them. The ones Stefan called Vardar. He belonged to Graal.
A dog was barking somewhere. An alarm blaring. Hirka crawled toward the rot-infected wretch. Stefan got there first. He lifted the man’s chin. His eyes rolled back. He didn’t have much time left.
“Where is my brother? Ask him!” Naiell shouted.
Why? So you can run away from him?
Hirka wouldn’t let herself be fooled any longer. Naiell’s fear of his brother was so intense that she could smell it. But still she nodded. “Stefan, we need to know where he is.”
The man was fading fast. “Too late. It’s too late. He knows. He’ll always know.” His body spasmed and his head thumped back against one of the stairs. He whispered Graal’s name. Then his body went limp and
slumped forward.
Stefan pressed his hand to the man’s forehead to hold him in place. Then he pulled something out of his jacket pocket. Something that looked suspiciously like pliers. He held the man’s jaw with one hand, forced his mouth open, and yanked out his canines.
The dead man’s head bounced as Stefan tugged. Bone splintered. A sickening sound. Blood ran from his mouth and onto his shoulder.
Hirka stared at both of them. She had no words. Couldn’t make a sound.
Stefan wiped the bloody teeth on the dead man’s jacket. Then he pulled out the chain he kept hidden under his jumper. There was a small glass bottle hanging from it. He dropped the teeth inside and slipped the chain back under his jumper.
The tooth fairy. He sells them. He sells the teeth of the forgotten.
Stefan looked at her. “What?! Mind your own business, girl! It’s no worse than what you’ve got hanging around your neck!” He pointed at her pendant. The wolf tooth. A sharp pain shot through her stomach. Bile rose in her throat, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. Disgust. Fear.
He knows. Graal knows. He’s on his way.
Sirens. A door slammed somewhere in the house. Stefan pulled her knife out of the dead man with a squelch. He crouched down and held it out to her.
I don’t want it!
But she took it anyway.
“Tell Naiell to get rid of the body,” Stefan said. “We have to get out of here.” His voice was steady. Mechanical. But she could see that he was just as scared as she was.
COUNCIL FEVER
Rime was still wearing his Kolkagga blacks. They were like a shield, protecting him from everything he’d done. His swords felt heavy on his back. As long as he was Kolkagga, he was free to use them. No questions asked. No need for remorse. Without his Kolkagga garb, the world was more difficult.
The sky blazed red behind the mountains. The others had gone back to camp to rest. Rime could find no rest. No peace. Nor would he ever. He was standing in the center of the stone circle where Hirka had left him. Trapped. Torn between Mannfalla and some unknown place he couldn’t get to.
The stones cast long shadows across the planks that had been put down to protect the old floor from the elements. The Might was in him. Around him. But it offered no warmth. And he knew that no matter how much he tried, he’d never be strong enough to open the gateways. Not without her.
But what if he could? What if he had what Hlosnian called traveler’s blood? Would he just leave? Would he cast himself into the unknown, in the hope that he could put the known behind him? Everything he’d done, and everything he hadn’t done?
Jarladin was right. Jarladin was always right. Rime knew he was driven by anger. By his fury at the way things had been. The actions of the Council. The power of Mannfalla. Now he was one of them. What choice did he have but to rage against himself?
He felt for the bear he’d put down in Reikavik, and that unsettled him. A wild animal that had attacked people. Driven mad by pain, desperate for food. For relief. So wild that people had thought it was a blindling. The times were so uncertain that fear was driving people to kill children.
Such a waste. He’d been shown no mercy. Rime couldn’t get the image out of his head. The red hair. The chin resting on a pale chest. The small fingers …
Rime had been ready. He’d had his sword raised, only one strike away from killing everything he hated. Until his thoughts had turned to Hirka. Until he’d caught a glimpse of himself. Ravenbearer. Judge. Monster. So he’d hesitated, and Svarteld had stepped in.
Don’t start something you can’t finish.
He heard someone coming. Someone light on their feet. A woman. He knew who it was before she said a word.
“I heard what happened.”
Sylja Glimmeråsen. The girl they wanted him to marry. The girl who could give the people something else to think about, unite north and south. And they were right. He was wasting time and energy on things he could never change. Someone he could never get back.
“I doubt that,” he replied. He didn’t know what she’d heard, but the likelihood of it being the whole truth was practically non-existent. After all, this was Mannfalla.
She stepped up beside him. She was wearing a deep blue winter dress. A white fur cloak over her shoulders. Garments fit for a councillor. She laid a hand on his arm and looked up at him. “It’s good it wasn’t them, though, right?”
“Yes. It’s good it wasn’t them.”
If she’d heard about the execution, she hid it well. Or maybe she wasn’t even thinking about that. What would Hirka have said? That violence only leads to more violence? No. Hirka wouldn’t have said anything. She’d just have shot daggers at him, making her disappointment perfectly clear before turning her back on him and leaving.
Sylja came closer. “It’s so awful, what happened to that boy.”
He looked at her. She was a beautiful girl. Fair hair and blue eyes. Would it be so unbearable? He didn’t doubt she’d make his days easier. And she’d be preferable to all the other suggestions that had been made. Someone he’d known for years and who had a sense of him. She would be a barrier between him and the Council. His young and eager representative at all the parties he’d rather avoid. People would love her. She was, in every way, the right choice.
He put an arm around her, and she leaned her head against his chest. He was too tired to consider whether she was really sad about it or whether it was another way of getting close to him. It didn’t matter, because what she had said was true. Awful was the only word for it. People were awful. Himself included, but Sylja didn’t judge him. She saw a son of the Council. An An-Elderin with god-given power. She saw no wrong, and she never would. Sylja would make it easier for him to lead. Easier to live with himself.
She looked up at him. Her lips parted and she pressed them to his throat. They were warm. Full of purpose. Of forgiveness. He didn’t move. She pulled back and smiled. “Don’t let them see you this way, Ravenbearer. Get changed and come with me to The Snake Mirror. They have a nice big fireplace, mulled wine, and Jarladin’s grandson plays the flute like a god. Until he gets too drunk, that is.”
Rime couldn’t help but be impressed. Once upon a time in Elveroa she’d begged him to take her with him, to help her through the Rite and into the schools here. Sylja loved Mannfalla. Even the things he hated. And now she was rubbing elbows with sons of the Council.
“Have you been home to Elveroa at all since the Rite?” he asked.
She laughed and led him out of the stone circle. “Turns out not even the blind can scare Mother back to staring at herring barrels on the quayside.”
She used her mother as a shield. Kaisa was domineering, but Sylja had never seemed to mind. Rime smiled. “They call it Council fever.”
She tightened her grip on his elbow. “Really? It has a name? How funny!” She laughed again. “But I know what you mean. There are people living in squalor along the river who think their lives are better for just being here. Once you’ve seen something powerful, you can’t let go. It’s probably just the way we ymlings are made.”
Rime stopped.
She was right. Those who had tasted power wanted to cling to it, no matter the cost. Just as those who had seen knowledge would never accept ignorance.
The books. The library.
The knowledge he’d searched for in vain. For the shepherds, books were power. Life itself. They had been for generation upon generation. Hadn’t he himself seen the shepherds cling to the books as if they were a last meal? They loved them. Lived for them.
So how could they burn them? No matter who ordered it, how could anyone who devoted their life to preserving knowledge, destroy it?
The answer was simple.
They wouldn’t.
STITCHES
Hirka leaned on Stefan as she climbed aboard the boat. She was unable to suppress a gasp of pain as it rocked in the waves. He helped her down a ladder to a room below deck. Naiell followed. Nils stayed on deck, shoutin
g. “A doctor, Stefan! You have to get her to a doctor!”
Stefan ignored him and threw her bag onto a cream leather sofa. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered, looking around like a lost puppy.
Supporting herself on the back of the sofa, Hirka made her way over to a low berth with a bed and nothing more. She eased herself onto it. Nils bounded down the ladder. He was so tall, he had to stoop. “Stefan! Stefan! A doctor! Are you listening to me? We can’t leave the harbor with her on board. She’s going to bleed to death! And for Christ’s sake, put something down on the bed!”
Hirka pulled off her raincoat and tried to tuck it under her so she wouldn’t get blood on anything. Stefan collapsed onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. Nils tore it from his mouth and crumpled it in his fist. He cursed as it burned his fingers.
“What the hell are you playing at?! You can’t run away from this. You hear me? It’s over. The girl needs a doctor.”
Stefan tried to interject but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Finally, he grabbed his friend’s arm. “Nils! Listen to me. We can’t. It’s impossible, do you understand? I’ll pay you more than this fucking boat cost, no matter how fucking much, but we can’t stay here.”
Nils clenched his jaw. He was younger and skinnier than Stefan, but in that moment, he was the stronger of the two. “That’s the problem with you, Stefan. You think everything’s about money.” He glanced at Naiell, who was sitting with his eyes closed on a bench by the stairs.
Hirka wished they would both shut their traps, but she couldn’t find the strength to open her own. She pressed her hand against her side and let out a groan. Nils started rummaging in a green box. He tore open a bag and handed her a wet napkin with a smell that stung her nostrils.
“Here. Hold this to the wound. I have to get us out of the harbor before the police show up. You’ve gotten yourself mixed up with the wrong people, girl. I hope one of you knows how to sew.”
Sew! Hirka started to laugh but was stopped by a wave of pain. None of them were in any position to be sewing. Least of all a wound.
The Rot Page 18
