The Rot

by Siri Pettersen

  She pulled a pair of pliers from a drawer, a vulgar tool in her hands, and clamped them around one of the teeth. Graal heard a crack as the tooth split over the lid of the box. Clearly she was afraid of wasting something.

  He pushed open the door. It didn’t make a sound. She was fiddling with the tooth and still hadn’t seen him. The wind caught the curtains. They danced in front of him like veils. An unpredictable beauty. He stepped inside.

  Allegra looked up at the mirror. Saw him. Spun around with a gasp. Her hands fumbled for the counter and gripped the pliers. He remained where he was, giving her time to overcome her panic and realize that she didn’t stand a chance. It didn’t take long.

  She let go of the pliers. They fell to the floor as if in slow motion, striking a tile and chipping its corner. More incidental beauty. Mathematical perfection. Circumstantial symphony.

  She glanced at the mirror, as if to check that she could still see him there. Myths. Layer upon layer of stories that influenced people’s behavior, without them realizing how deep the roots went.

  He stepped closer. “Did you know that during the Renaissance, women would apply that directly to their skin?”

  She gave a start at the sound of his voice. The corner of her mouth was quivering. He continued as he looked around the room. “It kept them young, and pale. Until the skin flaked off, of course. A few hundred years later, they discovered that putting it in cream helped. A little.”

  Her eyes settled on the broken tooth in the lid.

  He stopped in front of her. “But you don’t use it for that, do you?” Her eyes searched for somewhere to land. He did her the favor of taking off his sunglasses. He folded them up and put them in his vest pocket. “Do I have to take out the contacts as well, or can we consider ourselves introduced?” He smiled. So that she understood. He hadn’t been sure how much she actually knew. It was difficult to be sure with humans. They could know things without knowing them. Hear without listening.

  He picked up one half of the tooth from the lid. Her hand twitched. Fear couldn’t suppress the instinct. She would protect what she owned.

  “You don’t need to be scared, Allegra. Yes, I am the origin, but I’m not one of … what is it you call them? The forgotten? A rather hurtful term, I must admit. It makes it sound as if the responsibility for their choices rests on my shoulders. But I can live with that. For a long time.” He looked at her to see whether she got the joke, but she gave no reaction.

  “This tooth belonged to a human who was once my friend,” he said, turning it in his fingers. It looked malformed due to a small abscess that had grown near the root. He couldn’t be sure who it belonged to. It could have been anyone. One acquired quite a few friends over the course of a thousand years. Luckily, few of them were still alive. Most of them succumbed as soon as they were cut off from him. To madness. Longing. Rot. Or they were taken out by hunters, as was the case with the owner of this tooth. It belonged to someone he’d once shared his blood with. Blood of the first. Dreyri.

  Blood like that couldn’t be repressed. It wreaked havoc on the human body. Kept it going when it would otherwise have given up. Kept it alive. Sorcery, people used to call it. Witchcraft. Magic. But it was so much simpler than that. And so much more compelling. It was nature.

  The blood triggered a dormant process in humans. It forced new blood forth, into the gums. Vessels forced their way into the canines and started to grow. You could tell from the tooth how much time had passed since the rebirth. This abscess was still small. No more than thirty years had passed. Had the forgotten lived longer, it would have continued growing. After fifty years the old teeth would crack and new ones would grow out. That was usually when the trouble started.

  But until then, the old tooth was full of life. Potency. Unbridled power.

  He looked at Allegra. Her eyes were shining, but she’d raised her chin in a show of strength. He put the tooth back on the lid. “Had it not been so young, it could have been a relative of yours. Someone I once knew. But neither you nor your parents were born then.”

  “Sanuto …” she whispered.

  It was the first word she’d said since he’d come in.

  “Yes. Poetic choice of name, I must say.” He leaned closer. She stood transfixed. Her face had already softened like a young girl’s. A lover’s. He got such immense joy out of this process. Of seeing the change in their eyes. Love. Humanity’s greatest strength. And weakness.

  He looked past her at his own reflection. His black hair was less untamed than usual. His eyes were turned down at the corners, and he’d heard it made him look sad. Humans thought he was beautiful. He had no opinion on the matter. He didn’t see beauty in the same way as them. But unlike them, he would never have to stand like that, looking for wrinkles. Gray hair. Signs of slow death.

  He looked at her. Ran his finger over her cheek. Traced the crow’s feet around her eyes with his claw. “But you don’t use them for wrinkles, do you? You’re not the type. You use them because they keep you bleeding.”

  She flushed red. He put a hand on her stomach. She gave a start, but then pressed herself against him. “And as long as you bleed, you can still have children.”

  She nodded, as if he’d asked for confirmation. He whispered in her ear. “And when you pay people to kill, to rip the teeth out of their lifeless jaws, it’s because you’re so overflowing with love that all you want is someone to give it to, right?”

  “Yes …” she whispered back. A blatant lie.

  He wrapped his hand around her throat. Pressed his thumb up against her chin, forcing her head back. “Love, you say? It has nothing to do with your husband? His illness, and his imminent death? I heard a rumor, you see, that his youngest stands to inherit most of his estate. And you’ve never particularly gotten along with her, have you?”

  He let go of her. She stumbled back, gasping for air.

  He took a step back and waited until she straightened up again.

  “I’m not judging you,” he said. “I’ve heard countless motives, and yours is far from the worst. I don’t mind that you buy and sell them. Or that you use them. But tell me, did you think that all you needed to do was find me and then you’d suddenly have eternal life? Did you think this was a gift I bestowed on everyone?”

  She shook her head. “I’m willing to earn it. I always have been. I just didn’t believe—”

  “That I actually existed?”

  She didn’t need to answer.

  “Well, now you know. Now that the smell of my brother fills your home. Now that you’ve seen us.” He could tell it frightened her that he knew.

  “Well, Allegra. You’re fortunate. You’re one of few who is actually in a position to earn the eternal life of a blood slave that you so desperately desire.” He lifted a towel from a gold hook. Held it to his nose and breathed in. Thousands of different scents. Natural. Artificial. Human. He let it go again.

  “Your hunter, he has something I want. And you’re going to help me find it, aren’t you?”

  Allegra nodded. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Of course you will. And it’s not difficult. All you have to do is talk.”

  “What do I have to say?”

  Graal felt his body tingling. There was so much life in such willingness. It was enough to make you cry. And she wasn’t the first. Fear of death was the greatest motivation of all.

  “Let me pose a question. Imagine I were to destroy humankind. Every single man and woman. Every single child. Your friends. Your family. Everyone. And you knew that was what I was planning to do. To destroy the world as you know it—or at least that’s how it would feel.”

  He walked around the tub as he talked. Ran his fingers over the smooth enamel. “Under such circumstances, what would it take … for you to help me?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. She was struggling to maintain control, and he realized that he’d painted far too vivid a picture. He moved back toward her.

  “It
’s purely hypothetical. Neither you nor humankind need be concerned. Use your imagination. What would it take?”

  “I suppose … if I believed there was no hope? And if I …” She turned away and looked at him in the mirror. “If I hated them. All of them.”

  He smiled. “Yes. That’s what I thought, too.”

  BLOOD AND SNOW

  The stone circle was an island in the sea of people. Every soul in Mannfalla had braved the snow and wind to trudge inside the wall separating Eisvaldr from Mannfalla. The city of the Council from the city of the people. They thronged together, around the stone circle that had been hidden in the walls of the Rite Hall for a thousand years. But the Rite Hall was no more. Only the stones remained under the open sky, the tiled floor between them decorated with faded motifs of mythical creatures and beings.

  The wooden floor protecting it had been taken up for the occasion. The layer of ice that had formed on top of it was hardly conducive to fighting.

  Rime stood alone in the middle of the circle, waiting for the man who would soon die. He could only hope it wasn’t a hapless guardsman or an innocent boy his own age. He had no desire to take a life that had barely begun for a sin committed by Darkdaggar. And everyone knew what that sin was. What he was accused of. Rime’s attempted assassination.

  The days of doing things behind closed doors were over.

  Three councillors were conspicuous in their absence. Miane Fell, Noldhe Saurpassarid, and Leivlugn Taid. They were distancing themselves from the matter by staying away. This was a step too far for them. What made it worse was that Rime knew they believed him. They knew very well what Darkdaggar had done. But for them it was an opportunity to blame Ravnhov. Not to attack their own.

  Rime was becoming quite practiced at attacking his own, and he saw little reason to stop now. One more kill. Blood of an innocent. Then it would be done. Darkdaggar would have to admit his guilt and face the consequences. Expulsion from the Council. Room for new blood. Someone who could keep the eleven kingdoms together while Rime did what he now knew had to be done.

  Vendors with trays strapped to their chests pushed between befurred ymlings, selling honey cakes and strips of dried fish. One of them had a little girl in tow. She’d cobbled together a black staff with something that was clearly supposed to be a raven sitting on top. Every so often she banged the staff on the ground to shake the snow off the helpless cloth bird. She smiled at him. Who brought children to watch people die?

  To the west of the circle, the guardsmen had cleared a space in the crowd for the Council. Jarladin was standing at the front. And Sigra Kleiv, of course. Had it been up to her, the Council would have solved all its conflicts like this.

  Darkdaggar stood with his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t look nearly as nervous as Rime would have liked.

  The sea of people parted to make room for two guardsmen. Between them walked his opponent. Rime’s heart started pounding in his chest. It was time. He drew his sword. His opponent did the same, stopping a couple of steps away from him. He took off his fur cloak and threw it out of the circle.

  It was Svarteld.

  All the blood drained from Rime’s face. He suddenly felt chilled to the bone. This couldn’t be happening. How could it be? It was impossible! Darkdaggar had hired a brigand to kill him in Ravnhov. Someone who’d barely touched a knife before. And the reason for that was obvious—he could never have asked Kolkagga. Kolkagga were loyal to Rime. That was one of the reasons why the Council hadn’t gotten rid of him ages ago. And even if Garm had been stupid enough to ask, none of the shadows would have betrayed him. Not one of them. Not least his own master.

  Rime stared at Svarteld, waiting for him to laugh, to reveal that it was all a sick joke. But Svarteld stayed where he was. Black-clad Kolkagga. Bright eyes in a dark face. There was nothing between them now but dancing snow.

  Rime’s body felt frozen. Weak. Had his blood turned to dust? Sacrificed for the sake of blindcraft? The man before him was his master. Svarteld had supported him when the Seer had fallen and Urd had brought the blind to Bromfjell. He’d stood by him every single day since he had taken the chair. Svarteld was his friend. But he was also more than that. He was also the one person in Ym who could win this fight.

  “So this is how we’re doing things now?” Svarteld said. “Brother against brother? Councillor against councillor?” His voice was rough.

  “Master …” Rime took a step closer. On the other side of the circle, the drummer lifted his beater, poised to strike. Soon it would be a matter of life and death.

  “You can’t do this, Svarteld.”

  Svarteld’s face was cold and resolute. The drum sounded and he swept toward Rime, sword raised. Rime only just reacted in time. He parried a blow. Then another. And another. Their blades sang against each other.

  The master circled him. Rime followed his movements. It was quiet around them, with hardly a sound to be heard from the crowd. It occurred to Rime that none of them had ever seen anything like it. Ever. A Ravenbearer against Kolkagga’s master. Never before. Never again.

  Rime bound the Might. He was going to need it. The people were shut out. The stones around him disappeared. It was just him and his master now. The man who had taught him everything he knew. Rime knew he was the weaker of the two. He couldn’t find his balance, couldn’t find calm. Shock was weighing him down.

  “Do you think this is a game?” Svarteld snarled. “You’re too stubborn to accept what is, but too weak to build what could be. Do you think Ym is your plaything? That you can take lives and spare them as you see fit?”

  Rime swallowed. “I take lives to spare lives. You taught me that.”

  “And now I’ll teach you about duty!” Svarteld threw himself forward. His reach truly was alarming. Rime felt the Might rend asunder, and only just avoided being cut down before the fight had truly begun.

  Duty? What did duty mean when no one understood what you were doing? What did duty matter when those closest to you were against you? Despair sullied the Might. Svarteld would never understand. No one would understand. Rime looked around. A sea of gaping faces surrounded the stone circle. Darkdaggar stood amid the other councillors. He gave Rime a crooked smile from under his white hood.

  Rime bared his teeth, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. Then came the fury. Finally. This was what he knew. This was what he was good at. To Slokna with them all!

  He danced around Svarteld. The master knew him well, parrying all his blows before they landed. Rime would have to lower his defenses to get closer. Risk injury. He let his sword fall, exposing his chest.

  He felt the sting in his jaw before he saw the blade. The warmth of blood on his cold skin. Nothing serious. Enough to get close. Rime struck. The tip of his sword dragged across Svarteld’s thigh. Red dripped down onto the frozen floor. But Svarteld didn’t let it stop him. Rime wouldn’t stop either. Not until one of them was dead.

  “The war isn’t being fought here,” Rime panted, feeling fatigued far too soon. He remembered the last time he’d tried to reason with men who were out for blood. Kolkagga. His own. In Blindból. They hadn’t wanted to know. The master wouldn’t want to either. But what else could he do but try?

  “Svarteld, what we do here is pointless. The war against the deadborn is happening where she is. Not here.”

  “But we’re here, Rime. We are here! Nowhere else!”

  The master came at him, unleashing a volley of violent blows. Rime parried, their blades clanging against each other. He could feel a pain deep within, as if every bone in his body were splintering. He parried the final blow too late and felt a stinging in his shoulder. More serious this time. His shirt had a bloodied tear in it. His hair clung to the blood. He gasped for breath.

  Training. This is training. We’ve done this countless times before.

  Rime drew on the Might to suppress the pain. He’d have been able to do more had Hirka been there. Had he been able to channel it through her. What he could d
o on his own seemed woefully inadequate. He swapped sword arm. The other one wasn’t cooperating anymore. Willpower was all he had. All that was keeping him going.

  He used the momentum of the sword and spun around. Maneuvers he’d practiced thousands of times. He knew himself. He knew his master.

  Raudregn.

  Svarteld leaped away. He was sweating now, too. Rime knew what was coming. He would lure Rime into coming in low so he could jump over him and attack from behind. He’d fallen for it before.

  Svarteld took a couple of steps to the side, lifting his sword with both hands so that it intersected his face. This was it.

  Rime lowered his own sword just enough for Svarteld to think he’d succeeded. Then he readied himself and jumped. Ground turned to sky as he rotated. This maneuver often got the better of him, but not this time. There was too much at stake. And now he knew what he was. He was Kolkagga. This was his master’s final test.

  Blindring. Perfect.

  Rime thrust with his sword. It plunged into Svarteld’s back and erupted out of his chest. He managed to pull it out again before the master hit the floor with a groan. Grief pulled Rime to his knees. He rolled Svarteld onto his back. The master looked at him. Without hate. Without regret. He opened his mouth.

  “Have you …” Svarteld gasped for breath. “Have you learned your lesson now? Don’t start … what you can’t finish.” The master was dying, but Rime couldn’t remember ever seeing him more alive.

  Blood welled forth. Bubbled out of his mouth. Ran down his neck and spread along the cracks in the floor as if through veins. A red tree nourished by death.

  But Rime was alive. He should have been dead, but he was alive. What was it his master had said?

  The day I lose to you, it’ll be out of love.

  Rime watched the life leave Svarteld’s eyes as Slokna claimed him. Snow settled on his Kolkagga blacks. Rime somehow managed to stand. He could see people celebrating, waving their hands in the air, clapping, jostling each other as if they’d made illicit wagers. But Rime heard nothing. The Might surged through him, shutting everything else out. He was standing in a pocket of silence. Alone. Among thousands.