“I can try, but I won’t be able to match the pronunciations.” I cleared my throat and concentrated, then gave it my best shot. “‘Ennlindanna fjeur seern densolla / den orn av gullat svoavva ennung.’”
Elof’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounds very familiar.”
“Yeah.” Dagny had stopped what she was doing to look up at me. “We’ve heard that before, haven’t we?”
19
Earworm
I walked down the hallways of the Mimirin, mostly empty because it was Saturday, and the stones felt cold and smooth under my bare feet. Bryn was still back with Dagny, getting her blood drawn while Elof questioned her about her biology. Though my light-headedness had passed, I’d left under the guise of needing fresh air.
But the truth was that while I had been sipping on my water, listening to Dagny and Elof discuss the strange familiarity of the song—though neither of them could quite place it—Dag had let slip that Pan was down working at the Inhemsk Project, making up for missed time.
I hadn’t had a chance to see him yet, and I’d been hoping to do that this afternoon. But now, knowing he was a couple floors down, it was too close, too tempting to wait any longer. Since we’d already been playing phone tag, I hadn’t told him that I’d be coming back, hoping I could surprise him.
The door of the Inhemsk Project had frosted stained glass in it, and instead of the name it was marked with a yellow flower dipped in blood. I opened it without knocking, and the large office space appeared deserted. There were half a dozen desks, partitioned off by bookshelves and file cabinets overflowing with papers, files, and binders—one of the side effects of trolls’ distaste for technology. There were old, clunky laptops on most of the desks, but Pan said they mostly used them for typing reports and playing solitaire.
It was dark in the office, except for the light from a solitary desk lamp. Pan was hunched over his papers, his hand buried in his thick, wavy hair. He was so focused on his work, he didn’t hear me until I was nearly at his desk.
He looked up, his dark eyes widening. “Ulla?” He blinked at me. “Is this a lysa?”
I laughed. “No, I’m really here. I got in at around two this morning.”
“You’re here?” He smiled as he got up and came around the desk. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Pan pulled me into a hug, wrapping his arms around me. And that’s all it was for a minute, neither of us saying anything, just content to hold one another. I couldn’t remember a single time in my life that someone had just held me like this, not pulling away or asking for anything more.
“I missed you,” I said quietly.
“I missed you too.” He kissed my forehead and finally we separated. “Not that I’m complaining, but why are you here?”
I filled him in on my brief visit to Doldastam and how Bryn wanted to confirm the truth through our blood. Then I finished it up by telling him about the song that had been stuck in my head since the lysa.
“‘Ennlindanna fjeur seern densolla / den orn av gullat svoavva ennung,’” Pan said, doing a poor imitation of the extreme vocalization style of the song.
“Wait. You’ve been hearing it too?” I asked. “Like now? In Merellä?”
“Yeah. I mean, not right now. Only in my dreams,” he clarified, and stepped back toward his desk. “As soon as I woke this morning, I wrote it down.” He grabbed a wrinkled notebook page and handed it to me. “And when I came in this morning, I started looking up anything I could, and I actually found something.”
Pan’s sloppy handwriting was a little hard to read, but it looked like the same lyrics I’d had running through my head.
“I thought I’d have to wait until Monday, when Calder’s working, because the archives are locked up over the weekend,” Pan explained. “But the office is full of books from all over—even some snuck up from the archives, don’t tell Calder. And then, as I’m coming in, walking in past a desk, my hip bumps this book hanging over and lo and behold—”
He picked up the book, mindful to keep his finger between the pages to hold his place, and he flipped over the cover so I could read it. Folktales of the Arctic Peoples by Belle Davies.
“Is this a human book?” I asked.
“Yeah, it is,” he said. “Published in 1911 in London. It didn’t have anything in the original language, but they have an abridged English version.” He opened it to the right page, then handed it to me. “That’s it, right?”
A flower of green and a bird of gold
fell in love under the summer sun.
Together they sang a song of old,
Until, in the meadow, they would be one.
Then the long night came and the flower did cry.
She shriveled and ne’r again did rise.
Without her, the bird knew he’d surely die.
He wept until blood sprung from his eyes.
The summer bird and morning flower did fall in love
and they both drowned in sorrow.
With one in the meadow and the other above
where they went, no one could follow.
“So, after each of the folk songs, the author explains what they think the folk song is about,” Pan said when I finished reading it. “This one is about the long, dark winters and short, bright summers. Which sure, obvious take.
“But then the author goes on, saying that this particular song was found with artifacts relating to a skirmish between a Sami tribe and a Viking clan,” he continued. “They fought over a patch of land where a flower grew. Both groups believed the yellow snowball flower varrarassi had medicinal properties. The Sami won the first battle, but the brutal Viking clan attacked them during the night. Almost all the Sami were killed, and those that were left were chased off the land. The author doesn’t know what became of the Viking clan or the flower.”
“Wait,” I said. “You’re thinking the varrarassi is the sorgblomma that the Vittra gave the Älvolk in exchange for us? The morning flower is the mourning flower.”
He nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking, yeah.”
“But how did the flower end up in the hands of the Vittra?” I asked. “And what are the ‘medicinal’ uses?”
“I don’t know the answer to either of those questions,” he admitted glumly.
“The book doesn’t say anything about what the flower can supposedly do?” I asked. I flipped to the next page, which showed a big green dragon under the title “The Dragon Who Ate the Sun.”
A watercolor painting of a long, serpentine dragon—a wyrm, I knew from Liam’s book Dragons of Every Size—weaved between the lines of the short poem. Twenty stanzas told the short tale of a wyrm that ate fire, believing it was the sun, after the giants used a flaming elk heart as bait. Then the wyrm fell ill and died.
“No, the next one is just some weird retelling of the old Norse myths about Jörmungandr,” Pan said with a disappointed sigh. “I’ve been reading through the rest of the book, but only these two were found with the artifacts from the varrarassi flower skirmish, and I haven’t found any that mention a flower in a meaningful way, or hint at what the sorgblomma might be used for besides the vague term ‘medicinal purposes.’”
“So…” I set the book back down on his desk and ran my hand through my hair. “We have a song stuck in our heads, in a language neither of us really knows, about a bird and a magic medical morning flower that may or may not have something to do with our missing month.”
He smirked. “Aside from all the alliteration, I’d say you summarized the situation well.”
“But why?” I asked. “Where did it come from?”
Pan looked at me intently, his eyes narrowed slightly. “The daughters of the Älvolk sang it to us when we were with them. It’s one of the only things I remember from our time there.”
And then I was suddenly there again—a memory of a large underground room, dimly lit by candles, as a choir sang on in their haunting way. Pan’s warm, dark eyes cut through that, and it was only me a
nd him in a dark corridor, but we were separated by iron bars. The singing stopped abruptly, and Pan’s eyes went wide with panic. He screamed my name and reached through the bars for me, but something was pulling me, dragging me away.
“Stop all that squawking,” Noomi growled as she hauled me off, her voice low in my ear.
“Ulla?” Pan was saying in the here and now, and his hand was warm on my shoulder. I blinked, and then I saw him, worried, right in front of me. “Are you okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Where’d you go?” He put his hand on my face, his thumb on my cheek.
“I’ve been getting these flashes of the last month. None of them make a lot of sense.” I chewed my bottom lip. “You were there and…” I trailed off. “I’m glad you’re here now, and you’re okay.”
A soft smile played on his lips as he murmured, “Me too.” He leaned in toward me and—
—and the overhead lights flicked on, flooding the room with bright light, and I stepped back from him.
“Oh, good,” Sylvi Hagen said as she stepped into the office with her usual expression of aloof condescension, and her copper thermos in her hand. “I came down here in hopes that Panuk knew where to find you, but you’re already here, Ulla, so that saves me the trouble.”
“What do you need me for?” I asked, squinting nervously at her. “Am I not allowed to be here?”
“On the contrary.” Sylvi strode languidly over to us and eyed me from under hooded lashes. “The Korva heard that you were here, and he wants an audience with you. As soon as I find you, I’m to send you up to Ragnall Jerrick’s office.”
20
Korva
The Korva was the head of the Mimirin, and as such, had the nicest office in the institution. It was on the fourth floor, in the far southwest corner, with big grand windows overlooking the cliffside and the ocean crashing into it. The room was a long rectangle and sparsely furnished, giving it the same ominous feel as an empty swimming pool.
A large desk—a thick slab of obsidian with raw edges on an ebony hardwood base—sat at the far end of the room, with slipper chairs covered in soft Tralla leather on either side.
Sylvi had brought me up and left me with the guard at the Korva’s door. He wore a crimson uniform and put a finger to his temple as he eyed me before letting me into the office.
When I went in, my bare feet padding quietly across the cold marble floor, Ragnall Jerrick was sitting at the desk. A leather-bound planner lay open in front of him, the pages blank, and a copper quill pen perched in an inkwell. His hand rested on his chin, and his dark eyes gazed out the grand windows.
With his glossy good looks—his head shaved smooth, his tailored mulberry silk suit, the rubies in the rings on his fingers—he looked posed for a magazine feature on successful businessmen. And my steps faltered because it hit me—this all felt very staged. Everything was posed so deliberately, so clearly aimed to impress, intimidate, brag. It was swagger as a design aesthetic.
He finally looked up at me and smiled wide—all toothy and shiny. “Miss Tulin! I’m so pleased to see you looking so well.” He rose to greet me, then motioned for me to sit.
“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for doing all you did to get me back home.”
“No need to thank me.” He waved me off with exaggerated modesty. “It was a joint effort among the kingdoms, and we were only doing what is right by our citizens.”
“I appreciate it anyway,” I said, and then I cleared my throat. “What was it that you wanted to see me about?”
“You’ve gone through such an ordeal, and I wanted to check in with you,” Ragnall said.
I thought he would say more, but he just smiled at me, and when the silence became awkward, I said uncertainly, “That’s … kind of you.”
He tilted his head, and his mouth turned to a bemused frown. “Why the hesitation? Is something troubling you?”
Plenty of things were bothering me, but I wasn’t about to tell him that, so I said, “What happened … what I went through was an ordeal. But I know I’m not the only one in the citadel that went through something stressful recently. I can’t imagine you’re calling them all in to see how they’re coping.”
He laughed and leaned back in the chair. “No. I don’t suppose I would have time for that. But you did experience something a bit more extraordinary.”
“So you’ve met with the others then?” I pressed gently, since neither Pan nor Dagny had mentioned seeing him.
“I met with Dómari,” he replied coolly. “Mästare Amalie talked to Kasten and Soriano. She apprised me of their conversation.” He leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “You weren’t here then, but you are now. I thought it’d be prudent to meet with you while you were around.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m doing well now. I’m happy to be back with my friends in Merellä.”
“If I understand correctly, you are here for more than a social visit,” Ragnall said. “You were in the troglecology department, working in the lab.”
“Yes, I—I came back to continue getting help in searching for my birth parents.” I shifted in my seat, barely suppressing my urge to squirm away from his unblinking gaze. “That’s what I came here for initially. To work with the Inhemsk Project.”
“You met your father, didn’t you?” he asked. “When you were in Sverige?”
“Uh, yeah,” I stammered, thrown by his use of the Swedish name for Sweden.
It was common to hear it called Sverige in Scandinavia, like in the troll island city of Isarna, but here in North America, we kept to our neighbors’ tongue. For most kingdoms that meant English and Spanish in the States, or English with some French and Inuit in Canada.
“You know who your father is, then?” he asked.
I nodded hesitantly. “I believe so, yes.”
“Did he tell you about your mother?”
“Some. We didn’t … I don’t remember talking with him much.”
“Because the memory was erased,” Ragnall supplied.
“Yes.”
“It’s good you still retained the memory of meeting him,” he said, smiling too brightly for the conversation. “You’ve finally gotten the answer to your question. You found your birth parents.”
“I know their names, but I wouldn’t say that I know them,” I argued carefully. “That’s why I came back to work with the Inhemsk Project. I want to know the whole truth about my family.”
A bird flew by the window—a large condor, soaring precariously close to the glass. The wingspan left a long shadow splashing across the office. Ragnall watched it, staring pensively at the ocean and the circling bird.
“The pursuit of the truth is a noble thing, albeit an endless one,” he said. “You never truly know when you’ve discovered it all or only parts of it.”
“I think I’ll know when I’ve found enough,” I said.
“Getting your memory back would be a top priority for you, I would assume,” he said, and looked back at me. “On your quest for the truth.”
“I have been trying,” I admitted.
“Any luck?”
I met his gaze evenly and shook my head. “None yet.”
“Did you find Eliana?” he asked, startling me.
An image suddenly flashed in my mind—an angry girl with Eliana’s face standing by a waterfall—but it was gone as soon as it was there.
“No, I never saw her,” I said, and I wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not.
And then, like a worm boring its way back into my brain, the song returned. It buzzed in the back of my skull.
“You don’t remember anything from your time with the Älvolk?” Ragnall asked.
—Noomi dragging me down the hall, the tube in my arm draining my blood, the choir singing, a room full of vials and old books, a crumbling city built into the mountainside, Indu’s face as he crouched before me, saying, “You’re making this so much harder than it needs to be,” as crippling pain cu
t me down—
“Nope,” I said firmly.
Ragnall narrowed his eyes, and I fought to keep my expression even. “Hmm.” Abruptly, his megawatt smile returned. “You’ll be sure to let me or Amalie know if you remember anything. We’re very interested in finding out all that we can about the First City and the Älvolk.”
“Of course,” I lied. “I know that the Mimirin is a bastion for knowledge.”
“Precisely,” he said. “I’m glad we could have this chat.”
“Me too,” I said, and then I got out of there as quickly as possible.
I didn’t know what was going on, but the whole interaction had left me unnerved. Everything Ragnall said sounded right, but somehow it all felt wrong.
21
Eclipsed
“So … you think Ragnall can read minds?” I asked, and my stomach dropped even further.
“No, that’s not what I said,” Dagny corrected me with an irritated sigh. “He has psychokinetic abilities, but plenty of trolls do and almost none of them can read minds.”
The four of us—Dagny, Bryn, Pan, and myself—were in the apartment. After my sudden meeting with the Korva, I’d gone down to the troglecology lab, and Pan was there, waiting with the others. By then, it was well after lunchtime, and Dagny’s stomach was growling, so we decided to get something to eat, while Elof decided to stay behind and continue working in the lab.
We grabbed flatbread sandwiches on the walk back to my and Dagny’s apartment, and I filled them in on how my conversation with Ragnall had gone. Bryn and Pan were sitting at the bistro table, while Dagny sat on the lumpy couch with her plate of food balancing on the arm of the couch and the Mimirin directory open on her lap, reading the brief biography of Ragnall at the back.
“Well, let’s assume the worst,” Bryn said between bites of her sandwich. “The head guy can read your mind. Would it be so bad if he did?”
“I mean, I lied to him,” I said.
The Ever After Page 9
