The Rot

by Siri Pettersen

  “Deserve …” His voice was dry and feeble. “You have no idea, missy. I’ve been punished already. He’s abandoned me.”

  “That’s what I was hoping,” Hirka said. She braced herself for what she had to do next. She couldn’t think about him as an yml—as a human. As a living being. He was what he was. A blood slave.

  “It’s your fault,” he said. “He abandoned me because I couldn’t give you to him. God knows what he wants with you, or why you’re so important, but you’re important enough that he’s left me here to rot. And now here you are! Do us a favor, would you? Call him and let him know the job’s done? That you’re here waiting for him?”

  He laughed. It turned into an ugly cough. “No,” he wheezed. “Thought not. Do you know what the worst part is? Of being abandoned? The worst part is knowing you mean so little to someone that they can carry on as if you were never there.”

  Her heart wrenched at his words.

  Rime. I abandoned Rime.

  It was a mistake she’d never be able to set right, not unless by some miracle she managed to gain the upper hand over Graal.

  “He’s left me here to die,” Isac continued. “Because even if I survive the holes in my chest … the infection … even if I get up and walk out of here, my days will once again be numbered.”

  “My heart bleeds for you,” she replied coolly. “You’re just like everyone else. You can die. How unbearable for you.”

  “He was everything to me,” Isac said, looking at her as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Everything. I was as good as nothing to him.”

  She sat down on a chair by the window. The wooden armrest was cracked. “What do you expect from someone who’ll soon need a cake with three thousand candles on it?” she said. Jay had taught her that strange custom. You couldn’t eat candles, so they had no business being on cakes. But humans did a lot of strange things. Candles on cakes were the least of it.

  He smiled. “I thought you knew nothing. That you were just a random girl. But you know who he is, don’t you? The man hunting you?”

  “Yes. He’s my father.”

  His smile faded. He looked her up and down as if seeing her for the first time.

  He didn’t know. That makes it even easier.

  Isac laughed. A despondent laugh that quickly died in his throat. His eyes dulled. “That sexless devil has a child. Of course. We were supposed to bring you to him. Unharmed. Of course.” Hirka let him believe that. That Graal hadn’t intended to hurt her. She had nothing to gain from telling him the truth—that she was a blood bag.

  She leaned forward to help him reach the realization she needed him to. “A child, Isac. Blood of his blood.”

  He looked at her. The life came back into his eyes. A fire amid the pale blue. And she hated herself. Hated what she was going to do. It went against nature. Blindcraft. But what did that matter in a world that was dying? She was half-blindling. An outsider. But it was no longer a weakness. It was a strength.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he whispered. His arm twitched. He wanted to touch her but didn’t have the strength.

  “Graal was looking for a book. What was it for?”

  He looked around the room, trying to remember. It seemed the negotiations were underway. “I know! He wasn’t looking for it, he owned it. He owned a lot of things. Most of them were kept somewhere safe. In vaults, in collections, in museums, but … I don’t know what it is. But I can find out.”

  “Can it help us open the gateways?”

  “Gateways?” He frowned and Hirka felt her hope die. Isac knew nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “You don’t know? You can’t tell me where he is?”

  “Yes, missy, I can.” He propped himself up in the bed. His cheeks had regained some of their color. Almost as if he knew the blood was coming. “I can tell you exactly where he is, and how to find him. But you know the price.”

  She got up. Hesitated. What she was about to do couldn’t be undone.

  Isac reached for her. “You said something to me, back at the church. Do you remember?” Hirka shook her head. All she remembered from that day was the people who had died. And the man who had murdered them. Mickey. Nervous Mickey.

  “When I pulled you out of the car, you said something that stuck with me,” Isac continued. “You know how it is. You said one day I’d beg you to spare my life.”

  She remembered. He didn’t need to say more. That day had come.

  Hirka pulled the knife out of her boot. She’d hoped it would scare him stiff. It should have. But he didn’t have the sense to be scared. His thirst for blood was too strong.

  She dug the tip of the knife into her thumb. Blood welled forth. Isac craned his neck toward her. Thirsty. Defiant of death. She brought her thumb to his lips and he started to suckle like a calf. She pulled her thumb back. He opened his mouth for more, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Hirka stared at him. Would something happen? If something did, what would it mean? Or was she more human than blindling?

  He reined himself back in and looked at her, cheeks flushed.

  “So where do I go to find him?” she asked. She was nervous now. She’d acted without considering the consequences. For all she knew, Isac might jump out of bed and throttle her. She tightened her grip on the knife.

  “Go?” he said. “My dear girl, I can give you something better than that.” He reached for the phone on his bedside table in a smooth movement she’d have thought impossible only a moment ago. He turned the screen toward her. “You can call him any time you like.”

  She stared at the symbols on the screen. Her reading was lousy, but the few letters she did recognize matched up with a name she’d heard before. Stefan had come across it while looking into the museum.

  Joshua Alexander Cain.

  She could call him. Graal was right in front of her. She could talk to him at the touch of a button.

  “Write it down for me,” she said. Her voice was unsteady.

  He found a pen in the drawer of the bedside table and started to scribble on the inside of a chocolate wrapper. He gave it to her. “Here. My number’s at the top. So what will you say to him?”

  She folded the wrapper and shoved it in her pocket. She didn’t have an answer to that. She didn’t know.

  A sound from the doorway made her drop to the floor. Someone came in. Hirka crawled under the bed and made herself as small as she could. White trousers. Clogs. A woman’s voice.

  “Good morning, Isac. My goodness—you look amazing! Has the physiotherapist been by? How are you getting on? Do you remember anything more today?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid, Ethel, but I think the fog’s starting to lift.”

  “My word, so talkative! Are you feeling better? You’re looking much better!”

  “If only you knew, Ethel.”

  Hirka could almost hear his smile. She didn’t move.

  “This is most—you know what? I’m going to fetch the doctor, Isac. Just take it easy, now. Don’t get too excited.” Ethel left the room. Hirka crawled out and jumped to her feet. There were no other doors. She would have to climb out the window. She opened it and leaned out. It was only about twelve feet down to the ground. Easy enough.

  “Be careful, missy. They won’t be far away. They’re keeping an eye on me now that I’m one of them.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Will you come back?”

  “Maybe. If I beat Graal.”

  “So no, then …”

  “Thanks for the show of faith.”

  “What can I say? He is what he is. He has enough power to make the world come apart at the seams. He’s a destroyer. Sublimely beautiful, but a destroyer all the same.”

  “Then we’ll have to hope I have the power to mend it. Because that’s what I do. I heal.”

  She climbed up onto the windowsill. “Look after your teeth, Isac,” she said, and jumped.

  THE ROT

  I have his number. I can call Gra
al.

  It felt like she’d cheated. Found something she wasn’t meant to find. A way to reach him. Say something to him. But what would she say?

  Hirka pictured him back at the museum. Surrounded by broken glass and screaming people. Everyone rushing past him, making for the exit. But he’d just stood there. A rock in a tempest. He’d watched her go, the hint of a smile on his lips. Just stood there. As if he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did.

  The birds in the hedge started up again as she ran past. She looked back. Hoped Father Brody would be all right. Make a full recovery and forget everything that had happened in the church. Forget her. She hoped everyone would forget her. Everyone apart from Rime.

  He’s already forgotten you. He’s marrying Sylja.

  Her heart wrenched. Hirka stopped and held a hand to her chest. The weight of everything Allegra had said was bearing down on her again. She stared up at the sky and blinked the tears away.

  What had she expected? That they would both grow old alone, each in their own world? There was no way back. He had his life. She had hers.

  Life? This is no life!

  Maybe she had believed him. Believed that he would come. But Rime was the most powerful man in Ym. Soon to be married to Sylja. Soon to be a father, even. Happy. And completely unaware that Hirka needed him. Would he realize when the blind returned? When deadborn stormed Mannfalla and helped themselves to all that lived and breathed? Would he make the connection when nábyrn feasted on him? Feasted on his family?

  You’re one of them. You’re deadborn.

  Now there was a thought. She was Graal’s daughter. That ought to come with some advantages. Maybe they would spare Rime and only feast on Sylja. They could have her. And Lindri’s killers. And the Council. And …

  Enough. That’s enough. You have Graal’s number.

  She rounded the corner. The sun painted a bright triangle on one wall, which didn’t quite stretch all the way down into the alleyway. Naiell sat crouched on one of the dumpsters, staring at Stefan.

  “Cigarette. Ci-ga-rette! What do you call them? Don’t you have smokes where you’re from?” Stefan lit the cigarette. Burned himself and swore. Naiell laughed. It sounded like a magpie. And these two were the only ones she could rely on. A grown man lacking all morals, and a deadborn with a god complex.

  Stefan spotted her and dropped the cigarette in a puddle. “So what did the priest say?”

  “He was asleep.”

  “Asleep? Then what took so fucking long? Were you looking for a fix?”

  Hirka gave a shrug and opened the car door. The smell of garbage got stronger. More rotten. Naiell cocked his head, nostrils quivering. That was when she realized. Far too late.

  An arm pulled her back. Held her in an iron grip. She screamed. The arm pressed down on her throat, cutting it short. Her feet searched for the ground. Naiell jumped down from the dumpster. Stefan reached for his gun. Hirka was dragged backward. A woman and two men came running from the other end of the alleyway.

  For a moment she thought they’d come to help, but her hope was short-lived. Naiell launched himself at the woman as she drew a weapon. But it wasn’t a gun. Or a knife.

  Hirka screamed again, but no sound came out. She tore at the arm around her neck. Naiell slumped to the ground. Stefan fired. The other two moved toward him. No! This couldn’t be happening.

  Svarteld! Remember what Svarteld taught you.

  Hirka drove her elbow back. She made contact. Heard a groan. Air. She could breathe. She dropped down onto the ground and the man behind her lost his grip on her. She crawled away. He was young. Blond and handsome. She’d expected a monster. He reached out for her. A newfound determination surged through her. She drew her leg back and kicked him in the knee. He howled. She crawled a little farther away and got to her feet.

  Stefan!

  He was backed against the wall. One of the men had his gun. They had Naiell, too, and were dragging him away. His head was slumped to one side. Was he dead? Hirka crouched down and sprang up onto the car. Ran across the roof. Enough. She’d had enough. She launched a kick. Caught one man under the chin. His head slammed into the wall. His eyes dimmed. He dropped Stefan’s gun as he slumped to the ground.

  Hirka dove for the gun. That sent the other two running. Naiell was bleeding from a cut across his shoulder. His cheek was all scraped. He wasn’t moving. She shouted to Stefan, but he ignored her. He was too busy chasing the others. Hirka dropped to one knee next to Naiell and shook him.

  He opened his eyes and growled. He was alive.

  She leaned down to wipe the blood from his cut. He pushed her away and sat up. He sat there looking at his arm, opening and closing his fist. As if he was surprised it still worked. What had they done to him?

  She stared at the cut on his shoulder. Something was wrong. Something white oozed from the wound. Then it closed. A gaping wound, and it closed. Slowly. As she looked on. She rubbed her eyes. What had she just seen?

  She put her hands on his shoulder and probed with her fingers. All she could see was a red welt. A line. Then even that faded.

  In the name of the Seer …

  Then she remembered that he was the Seer. She gasped. The red stains on his shirt were all that told her she hadn’t been dreaming. His blood. A trail of red leading to a small pool on the ground a short distance away. She swallowed. Her hands were shaking. She dropped the gun on the ground.

  Stefan raced back, gasping for air. “I lost them,” he huffed. Hirka shook her head. “No …”

  Behind him, the woman was approaching. Stefan turned. Spotted her. Reached for the gun, but Hirka put her hand over it. Stefan stayed where he was, crouched down, his hand over hers.

  Naiell shut his eyes. His head slumped forward. The woman approached them slowly. No one said anything. She got down on all fours. Crawled closer.

  The woman was middle-aged. Well-dressed with long, brown hair. A hint of white lace was visible under her blouse, which had opened at the throat. She inched her way closer. Like a nervous cat. Then she bent down over Naiell’s blood and licked the ground. She didn’t take her eyes off them as she dragged her tongue across the bloody asphalt. Again and again. Hirka felt sick.

  Someone wake me up. Now.

  The woman started backing away again. Slowly at first. Then faster. Once she was at a safe distance, she got up and ran out onto the street, disappearing into the crowd. Gone.

  Stefan grabbed the gun with one hand and pulled Hirka to her feet with the other.

  One point to you if you pull me up.

  He pulled her close. She could feel the handle of the gun against the back of her head. His heart was pounding.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

  SYMPHONY OF RAGE

  Graal’s phone rang the moment he climbed out of the helicopter. It was Matthew. He was a journalist, and a solid connection in England. The call could be important. He answered it.

  “Yes?”

  Graal let himself in while Matthew described some irrelevant incident. A manhunt in Southern England. A madman with a sword. As if there weren’t enough maniacs in the world. He draped his coat over the back of the sofa and sat down next to the raven cadaver.

  But Matthew seemed to think it was important. Graal wasn’t having a good day, and so far, he hadn’t heard anything he was willing to concede might be interesting.

  “Matthew, send me a picture and I’ll have a look.” He hung up and dragged his hands over his face. A moment later, his phone pinged. He looked at the picture.

  A young man in a tunic and leather armor that looked convincingly authentic. His hair was white, and he wore two swords on his back. Graal instantly felt uneasy. The man in the picture matched every description he’d heard of Rime An-Elderin.

  Graal stared at the phone. It wasn’t possible, not by any stretch of the imagination. The Ravenbearer was in his thrall, and he knew it. Coming here would be suicide. Not to mention impossible. Unless Damayanti …

&
nbsp; Instinct took over, his gut taking charge. His three-thousand-year-old heart started pumping as if he were only twenty. Incredulity and fury warred within him.

  It wasn’t possible. She’d never … she couldn’t. She had no reason to. Why would two grown ymlings defy him, knowing what it might cost?

  And Damayanti? She had followed him her entire life.

  His phone pinged again. Another message from Matthew. A link to an article. Graal read it. Unidentified man. Unknown language.

  Blind fury gripped him. Consumed him. He let the phone fall onto the sofa. She’d betrayed him. Damayanti had betrayed him. His most important ally in all of Ym. The temptress. She’d sent Rime An-Elderin through the stones, against Graal’s will. Against his clear instructions.

  Graal howled. The sound ripped through his body. An unstoppable, primordial force. He grabbed the piano and hurled it at the glass wall, which shattered into a million pieces. The piano sailed through the air, black against gray. Flying. Falling.

  It hit the rocks below, reduced to kindling in a chaos of sound. A discordant savagery. A symphony of rage. Keys bounced between the rocks, rolling down the mountainside.

  The wind blasted through the broken window, displacing the air and sucking sheet music from shelves, scattering it across the landscape.

  Graal gasped for breath. The Might. Had he had it now, no one would have lived to see another day. Not one single human. He hated them. And he hated her. Everything he’d fought for was now balanced on the edge of a knife, because of her.

  He pricked his finger with one of his claws, walked over to the raven, and let the blood drip down onto its head. He had to wait a long time for the beak to open. Then he felt her presence, even though she hadn’t said a word. Her silence told him everything he needed to know.

  He collapsed onto the sofa, not sure where to begin. She didn’t say anything either, but he knew she was there. He could smell her fear, her deep despair. Her betrayal.