The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1)

by Martin, Sophia

  Up ahead I saw a tall woman whose reddish-brown hair cut across her forehead in a thick, straight fringe and fell evenly to the sides of her jaw. The woman smirked in a slightly bitter way as she watched me catch up to the group. She was wearing a black fur coat. A nearby jarl leaned over and lit her clove, which perched at the end of a cigarette holder made of carved ebony. Sucking in the smoke, her dark eyes remained fixed on my face. To be the focus of yet another woman’s gaze was disturbing. What was I doing that called such attention onto me?

  “Have you met Jöfurdis Kolorma Svida, Jarldis Sölbói?” Liut asked, startling me. I had not realized he was at my side.

  “Jöfurdis…” I murmured, my brow furrowing.

  “She is Leika-Konungdis’s elder sister,” Liut whispered.

  “Ah,” I replied, and took the hand she extended, bowing my forehead to it as I had seen others do to the konungdis when they met her at the ball. I hoped it was the right gesture.

  When I looked up, her eyes were studying me.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Jöfurdis,” I said.

  She raised her chin, still eyeing me. “Jarl Sölbói’s mysterious wife,” she said, as so many others had.

  “…Yes,” I answered, “although I don’t think I’m very mysterious.”

  She smiled briefly and then sucked in some smoke. The smell of the clove cigarette was sweet.

  “Shall we, Jöfurdis?” Liut said, offering her his arm. He gave me a grin over his shoulder as she took it. I followed them into the opera house, trying to keep track of everyone in the group. It wasn’t easy—there were so many of us and everyone soon started to mingle with other patrons in the lobby. I stood waiting for the doors to open—although I didn’t know where we were seated. I had yet to see any sign of tickets, either.

  “All your friends have deserted you, Jarldis,” Dunkar said. Róta hung on his arm, her cheek resting against his shoulder. She laughed, looking at me.

  I felt my cheeks grow hot, but I pretended not to notice. “Have they?” I responded.

  “Jarldis Vaenn seems taken with Jarl Almvin,” Dunkar said, turning to look over his shoulder. I followed his gaze. Sure enough, Finnarún was smiling provocatively at a man who looked like all the others—black suit, slicked hair. “And Krigr is entertaining the jöfurdis. And I have no idea where Spraki has gone.”

  I shrugged. “I have no monopoly on their attentions. It’s my honor to have been invited, when I am so new to court and know virtually no one.”

  Róta rolled her eyes. “Are you always so gracious, Jarldis?” she drawled.

  I dug my fingers into my gloved palm. “Are you always so charming?” I responded.

  Róta blinked several times as if I’d blown in her face. Dunkar smirked and guided her away. Mercifully, the doors opened and Finnarún headed through them, her companion in tow. I followed, as did the rest of our group.

  Finnarún stopped at the edge of the balcony that overlooked the seats below. She glanced over the rail as though she was searching for someone, but then she moved to the left. Liut and the jöfurdis also lingered at the rail—and so did several more guests. What were they doing? Were they all looking for someone below?

  Finnarún led us to a line of boxes, and the group split into three again, making us four to a box. I hesitated, but everyone seemed intent on returning to the same groups they had had in the cars, so after a chaotic shuffle, I found myself once again with Finnarún, Liut, and Taf. Jarl Almvin and Jöfurdis Svida had disappeared. Liut drew the box’s curtains wide, and Finnarún joined him in leaning over the edge for a moment.

  “Myadar, come here,” Finnarún said.

  I moved to her side. She gestured out over the audience sitting below us. “They’ve seen us now,” she said.

  I didn’t know what to answer, so I only nodded.

  As the lights dimmed, she turned to Liut and grinned. He returned the grin and waited a moment. The theater became dark as night, the only light illuminating the stage. I almost couldn’t see when he touched a panel on the wall of the left side of the box. The entire wall opened like a door.

  “Come on, then,” Finnarún said, grabbing my hand and pulling me after her.

  ~~~

  “It would have been abysmal, Myadar,” Finnarún said with a sigh.

  I chewed on my lower lip, tasting the paint Mother Tora had used to make it dark.

  “You mustn’t fret,” Finnarún insisted.

  We stood in the back room of the Perle—in the front, it was a store in the Torc’s famous bazaar, but here, in the back, it was a gambling house. The room was very large, about half the size of the palace ballroom, and I gathered there were many smaller rooms off of it for more private gatherings. The wood paneling of the room was old—it didn’t reflect the geometric designs so popular everywhere else in the capital. Instead, it was inlaid with colorful stones and glass depicting blossoming flowers and beautiful insects. The contrast of these mosaics to the geometric designs on the wall of the opera house struck me. As much as the opera house’s montage had pleasing symmetry, I preferred these fascinating and scenic panels. The chandeliers had an equally organic look: they were asymmetrical, with round bulbs and bronze leaves twisting like a real vine.

  “It’s just that Reister—my husband—he thinks we’ve gone to the opera—”

  “And no one shall disabuse him of that notion,” Finnarún said smoothly, giving my arm a stroke. “They all saw us. I made sure of it. At the last, they even saw you, Myadar, standing in our box.”

  The Perle was full of people. There were tables all around where they played a variety of games: henefatafel, with kings and pawns carved from whale bones; shatranj: similar, though with different rules, and those pieces carved from walrus ivory; at another table half a dozen people played a loud drinking game where they competed to compose and recite poetry bragging about themselves and insulting their opponents.

  “That dreadful opera will drone on until one in the morning,” Liut said with a laugh. “We’ll be back before the curtain falls, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “Just remember, it’s the story of Tyr and Fenrir, and how the Great One lost his hand to chain the wolf,” Taf added. “Surely you know the story.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But why sneak away at all? Why not just say we were coming here to begin with?”

  “Oh, Myadar, your innocence never fails to amuse me,” Finnarún said. She produced a cigarette and an ivory cigarette holder and Liut leaned over with a golden lighter. “This place is a secret. Of course, it never used to be, and I suppose the Temple knows of it and allows it to keep operating—perhaps they have some arrangement…”

  “…or the Officers have had their hands full arresting more important heretics,” Liut said.

  Finnarún shrugged one bare shoulder—the strap of her yellow dress had fallen to rest against her elbow. “Either way, the Perle is meant to only sell jewelry, crystal, and other sundries. The gambling hall was officially closed over two months ago.”

  “But why?”

  “Well, gambling is sacred to Alfódr,” said Taf.

  “According to Vigja Galmr,” Liut said dismissively.

  “Gambling? Sacred to Alfódr?” I said.

  “High Vigja Galmr had a vision of the horse race Alfódr bet on against the giant, Herungnir,” Taf said. “He said the vision was shocking in its debauchery. We’re not supposed to bet on anything anymore.” Taf crossed his arms, his usually unremarkable features sharpened with acrimony.

  “Except the games sacred to Tyr,” Liut said, shaking a finger at Taf.

  “Yes, Tyr is god of sports, after all,” Taf agreed.

  “Isn’t horse racing a sport?” I asked.

  Taf scoffed. “No longer.”

  “Taf’s just bitter because he used to race horses when he attended the University of the Sacred Well,” Finnarún purred as she draped an arm over Taf’s shoulders. “Horse racing is outlawed.”

  “And betting is sacrilege
unless it’s on Tyr’s games,” I said, to clarify.

  “Quite,” Taf said, eyeing Finnarún. I couldn’t tell if he was enjoying her nearness or not. “Anything sacred to a god other than Tyr is sacrilege.”

  “Wine, for instance,” Finnarún said, releasing Taf and grabbing a glass from a tray carried by a robot.

  “Wine? It’s sacrilegious to drink wine?” I said.

  “Oh yes,” Finnarún said with a sigh. “You can’t find wine in the palace at all anymore. Wine is Alfódr’s chosen beverage, you know.”

  They all seemed so dismissive of the new order that I wondered if I could express my own confusion and misgivings over it. But I dared not. I hadn’t forgotten what tonight was about, and it was bad enough we’d snuck off to an illegal betting hall. I wouldn’t take even the smallest chance of doing something that would get back to Reister and upset him. I would convince him I was cooperating, and soon enough I’d be rid of him.

  As another robot passed Liut grabbed two wine glasses and handed me one. I looked at the drink in my hand and considered whether drinking it would fall under the category of things that might upset Reister. But surely no spies of Reister would go so far as to take note of my choice of drink? And it had been so long since I’d had any—wine was a luxury. There was a reason Alfódr, konunger of the gods, claimed it as His sacred drink. We had a few bottles in our cellar at Söllund, but they were for very special occasions. The town beekeeper sold a very nice mead, which we used on holidays, and we also made our own brandies and ciders with fruit from the orchards. The last time I’d had wine was at my wedding, I realized. I sipped from the glass, the rich flavor spreading over my tongue.

  “No wonder Alfódr likes wine,” I murmured, staring at the dark red color of it.

  Finnarún laughed. “He’s not alone.” She took my hand again. “Come along, Myadar,” she said, pulling me towards a table.

  I allowed her to guide me, sipping the wine as we went, loving the way the flavor filled my mouth. Finnarún rested a hand on the shoulder of one of the gamblers at the shatranj table. There were only two players, but several people looked on, taking bets. Some increased their bets or left the table based on the moves of the players. Finnarún sipped her wine and leaned over the gambler’s shoulder. He turned and took in the sight of her, clearly impressed. I noted that his slicked hair was mussed, falling around the sides of his face. He’d undone his cravat, as well. This place certainly had a different character than the palace or the Temple.

  “You’re new,” a man said. I whirled around, nearly spilling some wine. I quickly steadied the glass, peering over the rim at the speaker. He looked completely different. It had only been a few days since I’d left Söllund, where graying beards and unruly hair were nothing out of the ordinary, and yet his appearance startled me. Perhaps it was how dark his skin was, as well. He came from one of the countries to the south, no doubt. I had never met a southerner—I had only ever seen illustrations depicting them in books. He had dark, deep set eyes, an arched nose, and high cheek bones. “I apologize,” he said, putting the tips of his fingers against my elbow, as if to steady me. “That was rude. We haven’t been introduced. I am Radir Hanif Dihauti.”

  “Radir…?” I murmured.

  “Well, I suppose I should drop that now. I am a former counselor of Nes-Konunger. But I am a counselor no more.”

  A radir—former radir of the dead konunger—what was he doing here?

  The question must have shown on my face. “It seems a strange place for one who once had the ear of the ruler, this gambling hall, I know. But these days it seems to be the only place I can relax.”

  I looked around again, taking in the organic asymmetry of the chandeliers, noticing for the first time the banners hanging against one wall depicting beautiful women whirling amongst the locks of their impossibly long hair. I had seen such banners in Frigga’s temple in Söllund.

  “Aren’t they lovely?” he asked, following my gaze. “I cannot tell you how it broke my heart to see the Officers order the destruction of Frigga’s temple. At least Liten rescued the banners—even if I don’t think it’s quite proper to display them like that, overlooking his betting tables.” He smiled at me warmly. “But pardon me again. You must think I have no manners at all. I haven’t given you the opportunity to say two words, have I? Please, tell me: what is your name?”

  “Jarldis Myadar Sölbói,” I said, allowing him to take my hand. He bowed over it, as I had seen others do over the konungdis’s hand. I felt my cheeks redden but I didn’t know what to do or say. Perhaps as a foreigner he didn’t know to make the distinction.

  “Sölbói,” he said. “You are Jarl Sölbói’s wife, then?”

  I nodded. “I suppose you’ll say I’m mysterious, although really, I’m not.” The words just popped out of their own accord. I felt silly, and my cheeks flushed hotter.

  The former radir smiled widely. His teeth looked stark white against his brown skin. “I suppose there has been some speculation these many years that Sölbói has been hiding you. The going rumor was that you were disfigured in some way, if I recall. You’ve proven that to be an error.”

  I smiled. “I don’t know why Reister never summoned me to court before. I suppose we were both very happy with the way things were. In fact, I’m rather more bewildered at his insisting that I be here now, after all.”

  He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. “The court has become quite bewildering for many people, Jarldis,” he said. He opened his eyes again and looked around. “Frigga also rules over Kemet—my mother country—did you know that? We have a different name for her, of course.”

  I watched him and made no answer.

  “How the vigjadises must weep in Grumflein. And not just for themselves,” he said.

  My eyes widened. “Grumflein?”

  “Well, those still in Helésey… those that have survived,” he muttered. He seemed not to really notice me anymore, but instead he stared at the banners. “I suppose there aren’t many of them. And how long will Galmr suffer them to live, in any case? As they no doubt defy him. I wonder if any have converted now? I suppose it’s inevitable that some will. He needs that, you know—he needs to show off converts, and converted vigjas and vigjadises are the most valuable of all. Not that it would truly restore them—only save their wretched lives… but I cannot judge them. Who knows what horrors he visits on them even as we speak?”

  I stared at him in shock. Could I have misunderstood? How could it be true?

  “You can’t mean he tortures them? The vigjadises of Frigga?”

  “Oh, they aren’t the only ones. The vigjas of Alfódr, Baldr… all but the faithful of Tyr… Galmr cannot abide faith in any god but Tyr, Jarldis, and vigjas are the most faithful of all.”

  I looked around, my eyes wide, as if I might spot something to tell me I was dreaming. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what he had told me. Vigjas and vigjadises, imprisoned, tortured, executed? It couldn’t be true.

  “Oh, Myadar, have you made a new friend?” Finnarún asked, appearing at my side and draping her arm over my shoulder. “Radir… Dihauti, isn’t it?”

  “Radir no more, Jarldis Vaenn,” he answered. His back stiffened as he spoke, and he gave her a little nod.

  Her mouth turned up at the corner in a half-grin. “Of course. Eiflar-Konunger has no use for his father’s old toys. Pity. I always thought you were easy on the eyes.”

  Dihauti gave her another nod. “Thank you, Jarldis.” He turned slightly, focusing on me. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Jarldis Sölbói. I hope I didn’t bore you too terribly. Perhaps we shall meet again?”

  The easy weight of Finnarún’s arm made me feel off balance. “I—I suppose so,” I said, but I wished I could have told him he hadn’t bored me at all. I wished I could have told him I wanted to continue speaking with him, that he was the first person to tell me anything coherent about what was going on in the capital. I wanted to ask him about the konunger’s plan, the soldiers
we’d seen. He could tell me if the threat extended to Asterlund. He could tell me why this was all happening, and maybe even when it would stop.

  Instead he turned and left, and I watched his back retreat until Finnarún pulled me with her towards one of the doors to a side room. I allowed her to do so, feeling woozy, perhaps from the wine—although it was more likely due to the revelations Dihauti had shared. The thought of the priestesses of Frigga praying in dank cells—enduring tortures I tried not to envision—

  Finnarún shut the door to the private room with a slight bang, jolting me out of my thoughts. I glanced around. The walls were covered in midnight blue velvet, and the floors had at least three overlapping silk rugs of intricate, colorful designs. In the center of the room was a round ebony table with four matching ebony chairs. On one wall stood shelves with games and bottles of wine, cider, and brandies. Above us hung a chandelier much like those in the main room, although it was smaller and only had three orbs of warm, yellow light.

  Finnarún still held her arm around my shoulders and she turned so her face was an inch from mine. I knew we were not going to use the room for gambling, and for a moment, my head swam. With her free hand she pushed me against the wall. I felt the soft texture of the velvet against the bare skin of my arms, and I dug my fingers into it. Her hand moved lower, pressing my belly firmly, running over my hip and bunching up my skirt. I felt hot and an ache spread from between my legs through my abdomen. For a moment, I closed my eyes as she pressed her mouth to my throat and ran her hand towards my inner thigh.

  With a gasp I jerked to the side, freeing myself, pushing away from her. My breathing ragged, I stared at her. She watched me, smiling her cat smile, her face lowered but her eyes on me like a predator.

  “Stop,” I managed. “You can’t do this.”

  She laughed, low and soft. “Oh Myadar, can’t I? I do this all the time.”

  She stepped towards me, and I moved back, my hand on the wall to steady me. The velvet tickled the tips of my fingers. I felt dizzy and flushed.