With a twinge of anxiety, he crouched down and placed a hand on her back. She was breathing steadily. Furrows in the moss suggested that she had tripped and fallen. Her face was dirty and her woollen tunic tattered, but it had been that way for as long as he could remember. She appeared to be unscathed—apart from her hand, but he knew she’d injured that earlier in the day. Rime ran his thumb over the cut on her palm. The girl was impetuous. But with the heart of a wolf.
She had most likely saved Vetle’s life. But why was she here now? Maybe the whole experience had shaken her more than she let on? And she’d come back here to confront her fear? That didn’t add up. Rime looked around and spotted an overturned basket lying nearby.
She’d been running. From something or someone.
Did she know? Had she seen him?
No. Of course not. He was careful. He trained in the grassy hollow atop Vargtind, where the Might was strongest. Few could manage the trip, and in the unlikely event someone did come, he’d hear them long before they reached him. And they wouldn’t understand what they were seeing anyway. A protector practicing combat techniques. A warrior. Swordsman. Nothing unusual. Obviously, the safest thing to do would be to keep a low profile while he was here, but he had commitments. He had to devote his time to getting stronger. To …
To avoiding Ilume.
Ilume had returned that evening, from what Rime expected was the last reasonably amiable handshake between Ravnhov and Mannfalla. Between north and south. He’d seen the carriages arrive, but he continued his training. He put off going home until the moon came up, until he was sure that his grandmother had turned in for the night. He knew this was weak. Shameful. The irony was laughable.
The night warbler wailed again. Rime had to get Hirka home. The night was getting cold. She was lying on her side, so it was easy to roll her over into his arms. He reached for her tail before he remembered that she had lost it as a child. That just made it easier. Her basket weighed next to nothing, and it hung lightly from his fingers. Hirka let out a kind of growl and her head slumped against his chest, but she didn’t wake up.
Anyone else would have been surprised to find her out here, but not Rime. Hirka was three years younger than him, and he knew that she rarely needed an excuse to do her own thing, whether that was swimming up the Stryfe or jumping from roof to roof down by the quay. Rime smiled involuntarily. Hirka fascinated him. She had spent barely a winter in Elveroa when Rime arrived there with Ilume. He had just turned twelve, while Hirka was nine, and he had never met anyone like her. He had grown up in Mannfalla, the home of the Seer, under His wings. Rime had met other children, naturally. But they always came with their parents. So stiffly dressed they could hardly walk. Silent and wide-eyed they had stared at him—a boy no older than they were, sitting to attention between the Council guards, ready to lay his hand on anyone in need. As if anyone had ever benefited in any way from such a thing. Not even at the age of twelve had he bought into his own myth, but as long as others did, his fate was sealed, his duties inextricably linked to people’s need to have blessings bestowed on them.
Coming to Elveroa had been the escape he had never thought possible. Somewhere small, far from the corridors of Eisvaldr. In Elveroa, the children got dirty. They played rough and they got into all kinds of scrapes. And nobody more than Hirka. Rime remembered the first time he had seen her. Kolgrim had been trying to put the new girl in her place, and she had responded by giving him a thorough hiding—a first for Kolgrim. She didn’t even come up to his shoulders, but was she ever scrappy.
Shocked by their behavior, Rime had jumped in to separate them. Hirka’s fist split his lower lip, and he experienced the taste of his own blood. Certainly not for the first time. His Council lineage meant that he knew the ways of the sword and was trained from the day he took his first step. But it was the first time any living creature outside the walls of Eisvaldr had laid a hand on him. He wiped off the blood and stared in turns at the red on his hand and the equally red hair of the girl who had hit him. She sent him a crooked smile and shrugged, as though he only had himself to blame.
Rime remembered looking around for fear of there being witnesses. If word of the incident reached Ilume, at best it would cost Hirka her hand, at worst her life. In any case, he would never be allowed to see her again. That couldn’t happen. So they made a pact, solemn and half-hostile—in a way only children can—and it stayed between the two of them.
That was the day the battle for points had begun. And since then it had nearly put an end to both of them on numerous occasions. They’d swum until they were on the verge of drowning, climbed until their fingers broke, jumped until they felt like their legs might shatter. Neither wanted to fall short of the other. So much passion, and so much pain. All for points. Worthless tallies to keep score in a never-ending duel. Through all that, Rime had never seen Hirka cry. But now dirt clung to her cheeks.
Rime carried Hirka’s sleeping body in his arms noiselessly through the woods. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to wake her up, but he liked seeing her asleep. Her face was so open. Unmasked. He wanted this to last. Besides, he knew that she would be furious if she woke up and discovered that she had been carried like a child.
Rime smiled. He left the trees behind him and emerged on the crest of the hill above Elveroa. Soon he would leave this sleepy settlement for good. Fog inched through the berry bushes on the way down to the village. The only thing he could hear was the distant roar of the Stryfe. Had it always been so beautiful?
My path is chosen.
In her sleep, Hirka pulled herself closer to him. Rime spotted a shadow moving farther up the ridge and instinctively crouched down.
What was he thinking? He was in Elveroa, he had no enemies here, there was no danger. He straightened up again. The shadow became a broad-shouldered figure, on … wheels?
It was Thorrald, Hirka’s father, in that strange contraption built from metal and cart wheels. A stroke of genius on the part of the blacksmith. A chair he could move around in, unaided. Indoors, at least. Outdoors was another story. He had made it a little way from the small cottage, but he was clearly having issues wheeling himself through the grass. Rime could see panic in his every movement.
Thorrald looked relieved when he spotted them. It only lasted a moment, then his eyes darkened. “Give her to me!” he growled, his powerful arms outstretched.
Rime was used to reading fear and desire in the eyes of others, but this was a different kind of fear. One he didn’t recognize.
“She’s asleep,” he whispered. “I found her near the Alldjup.”
He hadn’t meant it as a question, but he realized it had sounded like one. Thorrald’s gaze fell to Hirka and his shoulders sagged. He dragged his hand wearily over his face.
“She’s … had a rough time of it.”
Rime continued toward Thorrald’s cabin without replying. He heard the creaking of the wheeled chair behind him. The night was cool. Neither of them said anything else. The notched outline of the cabin came into view on the mountain ledge. The Hovel. It had stood untouched for more than twenty years, ever since the Council guardsmen set fire to it and dragged off its lawless owner. The wind had saved the place, but since then nobody had braved living in it or tearing it down. Not when they all knew that the Seer had wanted it to be burned down. It was ridiculous. The Seer had plenty of things to concern Himself with, but building or tearing down houses was hardly one of them. Thorrald and Hirka had clearly understood that.
He bent down to step through the low door. Hirka’s weight left a pleasant ache in his arms. The hearth was still aglow. Is nobody sleeping tonight?
The room was small, and almost too hot. The walls were covered with shelves bearing jars, boxes, and bottles of all shapes and sizes. Tea everywhere he looked. Dried herbs had been strung from the ceiling, and there was a smell of mint and exotic spices. A little too exotic, if the rumors were true. Rime had heard that Thorrald dealt in blacklisted plants, but
he had never mentioned it to Ilume. That was probably just one more thing the Council wanted to control, though he doubted it would be important enough to matter to the Seer.
Thorrald directed Rime into an even smaller room with a beautiful wooden bed. Carved into the headboard was a flowery meadow, with the wings of a bird stretching from the middle out toward the sides. Thorrald was known for more than curative teas and good luck charms. He was also a talented woodcarver. It had cost him the use of his legs in the accident at Glimmeråsen.
Rime noticed that the corners of the bed were joined without nails so that it could be taken apart and put back together again. Maybe they needed to make space for other things sometimes? Rime envied them. Everything they owned within reach, in two small rooms. Loved ones never more than a few steps away. It was a world away from the An-Elderin family home in Mannfalla, where Rime was convinced there were rooms he still hadn’t seen. He could scream at one end without being heard at the other. Not that he ever needed to scream—there was always someone at hand to ensure he had everything he needed.
Rime consoled himself with the knowledge that he had turned his back on that life, once and for all. Everything was different now. He hadn’t slept in silk for three years and would never do so again. He was going to serve the Seer in his own way. He was finished with the Council. For good.
He put the basket on the floor and set Hirka down on the bed. He left it to her father to take off her shoes and tuck her in for the night. It was good to be able to move his arms again, but he wasn’t tired. In recent years, he had carried far more and for far longer.
Rime felt like he was intruding on what seemed to have been a difficult night for Thorrald and Hirka, so he headed toward the door.
“Are you back again, Són-Rime?” Thorrald asked from behind him.
The title settled like a weight on Rime’s chest. Són. Blood of the Council. A small word that formed a chasm between him and everyone else.
He turned to face Thorrald again. “I remember you giving me eight stitches on my forearm when I was twelve. And you never said a word to Ilume. I was just Rime then, and I’m just Rime now. I’m not here to stay. I’m going back to Mannfalla with Ilume.”
“Yes, of course, she’s leaving us.” Thorrald ran his hand over his stubbly head a couple of times.
“Most people at least try to sound disappointed,” Rime said with a smile.
Thorrald grinned back and rested his arms on the table. They were strong enough to lift an ox. His forearm was inked with a small flower, no bigger than a knuckle. Time had faded the color, blurring the blue lines.
“Would you like a bite to eat? We’ve got halibut soup. It’s simple, but fresh.” Thorrald turned toward the hearth and scraped the bottom of the pot with the ladle. “It’ll be hot in a moment.” His voice betrayed the fact that he didn’t actually want company.
“That’s kind of you, Thorrald, but I have to get back,” Rime replied, but he sat down all the same. Thorrald stared at him. Rime could see the same wariness in his eyes as in Hirka’s. A new distance. They didn’t know him anymore. He wasn’t one of them.
“So what should we do then, Rime? We mere mortals? Prepare for war?” Thorrald leaned over the table. Rime scratched his nose to conceal a smile. Thorrald’s cheeky question had lessened the distance between them, and he enjoyed the feeling.
“Ravnhov and Mannfalla are just banging their shields. They’re always doing that,” Rime said, knowing he sounded more sure of himself than he actually was.
“Banging their shields?”
“Nobody’s going to die because of it, Thorrald.”
“None of you, maybe.” Thorrald leaned back in his chair. The divide between them had returned. Rime got up. He’d have given anything to stay for good. Talk about this and that. Get up the next morning and maybe go out to repair the charred roof, alongside this man. But this world didn’t belong to Rime either.
Thorrald smiled uneasily. “Thanks for being there, Rime. For Hirka.”
“She’s always been there for me,” Rime replied.
Thorrald’s eyes widened to reveal both surprise and suspicion. He’d always kept to himself, and tried to keep Hirka to himself, like a treasure. He’d never known how much time his daughter used to spend with Rime, and perhaps it should have been left unsaid. But it didn’t matter anymore. Those days were long gone.
Rime went out and shut the door behind him. His feet carried him toward the edge of the grassy ledge, where he stood in the dark, looking out over Elveroa. The past three years had taught him that nothing ever stayed the same. It was the Seer’s first teaching. Nothing is perfect. Nothing lasts forever. All the same, Rime was sad about what he was putting behind him. He was abandoning more than the Council. More than the families in Mannfalla, and more than Ilume.
A raven croaked from the roof of the cabin. It sounded like the hoarse laugh of a sage. “What-did-I-say! What-did-I-say!” An old proverb from Blossa came to him: No one knows what the raven says. This was the second raven he’d seen tonight. Rime made the sign of the Seer once more. Even after a lifetime under His wings, Rime still couldn’t interpret the ravens’ words. Had he been able to, they might have given him some advice. For tomorrow he would stand face-to-face with Ilume An-Elderin, his mother’s mother, one of the most powerful women in the world.
He took a deep breath, stepped over a felled birch tree, and headed down into the valley.
THE FIGHT
Hirka was awakened by the cries of seagulls from the shore. She went over to the window and opened the shutters. It was early. The boats had returned to the quay far below. The fishermen cleaned the catch as the hungry birds circled above them. The fish thrashed around in barrels, getting nowhere. Whitecaps rode distant waves, and only a couple silver-edged clouds revealed where the sun was hiding.
The wind nipped at the skin of her arms. At Glimmeråsen, they had windows made of stained glass. Hirka just had a hole in the wall, which was much better. From there, she could smell what the day would be like. And see things as they really were. Glass distorted everything. Like in a dream. She had dreamed during the night. About flying through the forest. About ravens. About … Rime?
Reality hit her in the face like the smell of rotten fish, turning her stomach. Father was her father, yet he wasn’t. He’d found her when she was a baby, taken her home with him, like an unusual stone or a crow feather. She had been abandoned. Cast out. And she wasn’t a child of Ym.
Hirka backed away from the window, clinging to the bedpost as if to the liberating nothingness she’d basked in before she was fully awake. But it was gone.
The last thing she remembered from the night before was falling asleep in the woods. Father must have asked Iron Jarke to help carry her home. Like a helpless child. Hirka looked down.
Her hand was wrapped in a white bandage, and her undershirt had twisted around her body while she slept. She looked like a wrung-out washrag. She needed to get outside, to feel the wind on her face.
She opened the door to the hearth room. It creaked, and Father jerked awake in his chair. He grabbed a mortar and started grinding chamomile as if he’d just nodded off. Hirka could tell he hadn’t been to bed. The fire hadn’t been put out. The embers were still glowing. The table was a mess of plants, boxes, jars, and salves. He’d been working all night.
“Was that everything you got?” he asked hoarsely, nodding in the direction of her basket, which was sitting on the table. It seemed he’d decided this was a normal day, just like any other. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Certainly more than this. She could feel the weight of the things she wanted to say, but she couldn’t remember any of them. She lifted her clothes down from the rafters, where they’d been hung to dry.
“I went almost all the way up to Gardakulp,” she said, pulling her trousers on. The hole in the knee had gotten bigger but patching it would have to wait. “And I ran into Rime.” She glanced at Father, giving him the chance to acknowledge that
everything was different now, but he didn’t even react.
“I found soldrop,” she said when the silence became too oppressive.
“Good. Half the village will want it for the bonfire this evening. I’ll give you some to take with you. Don’t—”
“Hang around with people, and talk as little as possible,” Hirka supplied. Their eyes met.
“Don’t give anyone anything for a promise. Coin or nothing.”
Hirka cut the corner off a piece of goat’s cheese as Father went through her route. She knew who needed what, but she let him speak. If the weight of the basket was anything to go by, she would be visiting a lot of people. Chest salve for Ulla, enough for several months. Mint tea for Kvitstein. He had a huge oven and sold bread to the entire village from a sourdough thought to have been around since his great-grandfather’s time. But the flour made it difficult for him to breathe. The mint helped a bit, and Hirka had enough in her basket to last him until the snow came.
Did Father think she was stupid? That she didn’t know what was going on? These would be her final rounds in Elveroa, and he wasn’t going to say anything about it. They were leaving again. How they’d manage that with Father in his wheeled chair was beyond her, but if he thought she was going to ask, he could think again. She shoved a boiled egg in her pocket, picked up the basket, and went out.
She took a detour around Glimmeråsen so she wouldn’t have to talk to Sylja. She didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone, but that would be impossible. The raven had come. People would be congregating around the Seer’s hall.
The Stryfe meandered along the bottom of the valley as if it had all the time in the world. Hirka’s feet carried her to its banks. She kneeled down and peered over the edge. Her own face peered back apprehensively. She couldn’t see anything different. Her hair was just as red. Short in some places and long in others, with the same knotted braids. Was it obvious she wasn’t like everyone else?
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