Then came time.
As Hirka looked on, the green leaves behind Rime turned yellow, red. They fell from the trees, withered and died. The snow came. It melted. New shoots emerged and everything turned green again. She watched the castle rise up on top of Vargtind, watched people come into the world, live and die. She watched a little boy chase girls and pull their tails. Become a father. Die. Autumn came. The castle fell. The heavens raged and wept. Ravens sailed past with rainbows in their black wings. Everything was blanketed with snow. Everything was eternal, contained within a moment. And all this she saw without looking away from Rime.
The Might surged through her to her very core. She was purged. Killed. Born. There was nowhere to hide, no matter how much she wanted to. She was seen. Scrutinized. Picked apart. She struggled in vain against the onslaught, but it just got more powerful. It plowed its way through blood vessels that were too narrow. Pain. Rime crying out. He fell. She fell.
Her heart was beating too fast. Much too fast. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She sat on the ground, gasping for breath. She fought to regain control. Earth. Earth beneath her fingers. The smell of grass. Decay. Rain. She looked at her hands, terrified she might be old. She wasn’t. Her veins pulsed, expanding and contracting as she looked on. She was alive.
Hirka looked up at the sky. The sun hadn’t moved.
A moment. An eternal moment. She’d bound the Might.
Rime was kneeling before her. He was so beautiful that her hand reached out to him as if with a will of its own. She smiled weakly before she slumped against him and everything went black.
Ghostly apparitions taunted her, and Hirka knew she was dreaming. There was no such thing as ghosts. Father was among them, and he was walking. He waved at her and disappeared. His voice was an echo from among the spectral figures.
Crones’ talk!
Faceless beings with gaping mouths hissed viciously at her, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. They came closer and closer. Hirka looked around, desperate to find a way out, but she was surrounded. She backed up against a dead tree. It was too fragile to climb. A white, shapeless hand reached out and suddenly Rime stood before her, holding a sword. He was a warrior. He looked like a shadow from another time.
His eyes narrowed to slits and he smiled coldly. His sword was narrow and colorless. She couldn’t move. She just stood and watched as the blade plunged through her clothes, her skin, her flesh, and then into the tree trunk behind her. There it sat, the cold from the steel washing through her body.
There was a hole gaping inside her. She looked up at Rime, whose smile grew even wider. She needed to make him see! There was a hole inside her! He needed to get help. She felt something trickle from the corner of her mouth and saw red spots appear in the white snow.
Where was Rime? He had to help her! She fell to her knees and started digging in the snow until she saw his face. His lips were blue. His throat caved in on itself and wasted away. The skin peeled from his cheekbones. He was rotting. The wind howled and whipped up the snow around her. She couldn’t see. She cried out, but all she could hear was the wind. She called for Rime. She had a hole inside her.
“Rime!” The snow covered what remained of his face more quickly than she could dig.
“Rime!”
A PLAN
“Rime!”
Hirka tried to get up, but someone was holding her down. She was still sitting on the ground. Rime had his hand around her shoulder.
“Just relax,” he said. “You’re exhausted.”
He was right. Her arms ached. Her muscles were sore all the way down her back, as though she had been carrying vats of herring all day. They sat there for a long time, without doing anything other than looking. Creepers had grown between the stones and made cracks in what little was left of the castle wall. The wind had worn away all the corners. Nature had taken back what powerful men had once built. Yellowed leaves blew over the moss, as though nothing had happened. Had it all been a dream?
No. It was real. She had bound the Might.
Rime was stroking her shoulder with his thumb and speaking quietly, as if to a newborn. She could feel his chin on the top of her head. His jaw moving with each word as he tried to process what they had experienced. He seemed to be explaining it to himself as much as to her. Neither of them knew exactly what had happened. Though not the most mature reaction, she enjoyed the realization that it had taken as much out of him as it had her.
Rime had bound the Might and then grabbed hold of her. The result had been completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced. They tried again, but quickly realized that Hirka still couldn’t bind. Not on her own. It only took a tiny bit of the edge off the enjoyment Hirka felt in finally knowing what everyone was talking about. Finally being able to understand what the Might was. Even though it wasn’t her own.
But Rime didn’t think that she did understand. She still didn’t know what most people felt when they bound the Might. What had just happened was stronger. He compared it to explaining the storm from the previous night to an inlander from Midtyms. It was wilder, more merciless, and difficult to control. He was cautious with his words. Pleaded with her to be careful, not to speak of it. Not to anyone. It had to stay between them.
Hirka glimpsed something new in Rime’s eyes.
Curiosity. A chink in the An-Elderin family armor.
He couldn’t explain what had happened and was like a little boy on an adventure—an adventure fraught with danger.
But they weren’t able to stop themselves from experimenting. Hirka felt inebriated, as though Orm’s wine were still coursing through her bloodstream. It made everything else seem unimportant. And best of all, what had previously been a weakness was now a source of amazement to Rime. She was no longer completely insignificant.
She listened as he explained. Most of what he said she barely understood, but she drank in his words like tea. They nourished her. Even Kuro seemed to enjoy them. He sat on a broken stone pillar nearby, with beady eyes and his head half-tucked under his feathers to avoid the wind.
Hirka couldn’t bind, but when Rime did, she could experience the Might through him. The only requirement was that he had to be touching her. It didn’t seem to matter to what extent. Whether he held both hands, or just one finger, the life flowed through her as though it had always been there.
She gradually got used to the feeling, and soon it was only mildly discomforting. The longer they continued, the longer she managed to hold onto that feeling, even when Rime took a few steps away from her. But never for more than a brief moment. As soon as Rime let go, the Might started to trickle out of her. Nothing she did could hold onto it. She was as leaky as a sieve, as Rime put it.
He was excited to discover that Hirka could actually feel when he bound the Might, even when he wasn’t touching her. She couldn’t remember having felt other people binding before. Nor could Rime. But she felt him now. It was as though he had shown her the Might for the first time, and now she could feel it firsthand. It certainly wasn’t normal. He said the older members of the Council could feel it that way, those with the bluest blood in the land, but not ordinary people.
Hirka felt a stab of guilt. She wasn’t ordinary people. She was something much, much worse. And she couldn’t tell him that.
Before they climbed down from Vargtind, Rime promised to help her during the Rite. He had a plan. An insane plan. Hirka was fond of plans, but she felt her mouth go dry when she thought about it. She didn’t even know if it was possible, but right now she felt larger than life, like there was nothing she couldn’t do.
They stopped at the foot of Vargtind, where they had to part. Hirka still felt dizzy. She was going to go through the Rite, and Rime was going to help her. There was hope where before there had been none.
“What if the Ravenbearer is standing there for so long that …”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Hirka, there are thousands who are going to go through the Rite.”
�
��But what if—”
“Hirka.” He interrupted her, but his voice was gentle. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
She hadn’t thought about it. Just answered. And she knew it was true. A few hours ago he had been her betrayer. Now he was the Seer Himself.
“Good.” He started to walk away but turned around.
“As long as you do what we agreed.”
Hirka nodded.
“Stick to the plan.”
He smiled. Looked at her for a moment, head cocked. Then he left.
BLOODWEED
Hirka felt full of life, full of sounds and smells. It was as if she’d never truly lived until now. She ran all the way home. She needed to tell Father she could bind. That everything was going to be just fine.
Of course, she couldn’t tell him the truth: that she could only bind with Rime’s help. That wouldn’t be good enough for Father. He was too scared after Ramoja’s visit. But she’d convince him. She could describe the feeling in detail. No one who heard what she had to say would be in any doubt as to whether she could bind.
Hirka grew short of breath as she climbed the final slope. Lack of sleep was catching up with her. Kuro was sitting on the cabin roof looking out across Elveroa as if he owned it. She knew the feeling. She leaped up the steps to the door in one bound and went in.
“Father!”
He wasn’t there, but one of the wheels of his chair was sticking out from behind the curtain by his bed. Was he sleeping? In the middle of the day? When she had such important news?
Hirka tore the curtain aside and immediately realized something was wrong. Father wasn’t moving. Panic gripped her. Her heart felt as if it were trying to escape through her mouth. She dropped to her knees by the bed.
“Father!” Hirka shook him and he opened his eyes, agonizingly slowly. She hardly dared breathe. “Father …”
Father tried to smile, but all he managed was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. No. This couldn’t be happening—everything was supposed to be fine!
“Father, I can bind!” Hirka heard her voice crack, but she continued all the same. She gripped Father’s hand. It was cold. “I can bind!”
Father focused on her. Hirka could see how difficult it was for him to speak.
“Go. Now.”
“I’m not lying, Father! I can bind!”
“That’s good … Hirka,” Father said, the words coming in short gasps.
The room grew hazy, and Father’s face became like the ghosts she had dreamed about on Vargtind.
“I can bind.”
Father’s hand was limp.
“I can bind …”
But there was no one there to hear her. She squeezed Father’s hand, but where there had once been life, there was now only death.
The room grew colder. Summer was over. The fire needed to be tended to, but Father couldn’t do it. Not this time. Or next time. Father would never fetch them more firewood, never again. But that didn’t mean he had to be cold.
Hirka rose unsteadily to her feet. She walked past the curtain and out into the small hearth room, which seemed darker than she could ever remember it being. She thought back to the previous morning, when she’d first awoken, before she’d remembered what she was. How blissfully unaware she had been for a brief moment—until reality had caught up with her. That was just how it would be from now on. If she ever managed to sleep again, she would always wake up to a new nightmare. Every time.
Hirka picked up a couple logs for the fire. Carefully, as if trying not to wake Father. She could hear drawn-out calls from the night warbler outside. It was late. Maybe if she could keep Father warm overnight, he’d get up in the morning, maneuver himself into his wheeled chair, and go about his day. He’d get flour all over the hearth room and push the sweat back from his brow, like always.
Hirka gazed at the place where he always sat. Black letters had been scratched onto the table in charcoal. Only one word. Ravnhov. Father’s clumsy handwriting. He didn’t write very often. About as often as he read. It made her want to smile despite herself. Father had known something was wrong. That he was going to die.
Hirka rubbed out the letters with her sleeve. She put the logs on the fire and blew on the embers. It crackled to life. She knew she ought to eat something, but she couldn’t bring herself to try. She went back to Father, still lying motionless in bed. His gray woollen blanket was too thin. Hirka pulled a wolfskin rug out from under the bed. It was a bit dusty. She considered giving it a shake, but then she just pulled it up to Father’s chin and lifted his hands so they were lying on top of it. They were cold. Big and cold.
Hirka kneeled down by the bed and tried to massage some warmth into them, then stopped. Of course. She was so stupid. Father was dead. Her lips formed a rueful smile.
She buried her face in the wolfskin in an attempt to escape the truth. But it wouldn’t leave her alone. Would it stay with her forever, an unbearable companion until her dying day? Or until Kolkagga catch up with me. The black shadows.
The smell of wolf enveloped her. Nothing could kill a wolf, not completely. A hunter’s arrow could stop it, his hands could skin it, and a merchant could take it to the end of the world to sell it as a rug. But it would always live on in the smell. For a brief moment, it was like when she had bound the Might with Rime. Father wasn’t dead. The wolf wasn’t dead. They were just something else. Hirka breathed in through her nose, as if trying to cling to meaning in a meaningless world. Wolf. And … metal?
Hirka lifted her face from the rug and stared at Father’s hand, which she’d had tucked close to her. Surely not?
Smell his hands, then!
Cautiously, Hirka brought her nose to his hand. It was cold and smelled like him. Hirka’s shoulders slumped in relief, but then she caught another whiff. A sweet, metallic tang she knew she recognized.
Hirka snatched back her hands, tucking them close to her body. Waves of disbelief rippled through her. She looked around to check the rows of jars lining the walls. But they weren’t there. Of course. Everything had been packed up.
In a daze, she got up and pulled the curtain aside. There. In the red chest, between countless other jars and boxes, was a squat, black clay pot. Hirka picked it up. The pot had once been glazed and shiny, but not anymore. The lid was held in place by two wooden pins on either side. Hirka pulled them out and lifted it off.
The pot was empty. Only the nauseating metallic smell remained. Father had taken bloodweed.
The pot fell from her hands. It smashed against the floor. Thousands of brown and black ceramic pieces flew across the wooden floorboards. She needed to deal with this—and quickly. Hirka grabbed the brush and swept everything into the dustpan.
She opened the door as quietly as she could. It was dark outside. She climbed up to the clifftops without dropping a single shard. She knew she wasn’t safe until she could hear the sea far below. And when she finally did, she scattered the pieces to the wind.
She carried the dustpan back down to the cabin but couldn’t bring herself to go back in. Reality was in there. Out here it was night. Out here nothing had happened yet. Hirka walked out onto the ledge and looked down into the fog blanketing a sleeping Elveroa. No one knew Father was dead. No one knew what he’d done for her. He’d taken bloodweed, to make it easier for her to escape. Something Hirka had been about to tell him wasn’t necessary.
Hirka fell to her knees in the scrub.
TO THE RAVENS
Time stood still. Hirka couldn’t get back into her normal routine. She’d put everything back on the shelves, emptied the chests and the sacks until the cabin looked the way it normally did. But no tea was sold, no amulets. No herbs were gathered. The flowerbeds weren’t weeded. No salves or oils were delivered anywhere. Had the gulls not still been screeching, Hirka might have thought she was dead too.
A handful of acquaintances, some more familiar than others, came to pay their respects. Hirka welcomed them and said goodbye when they left
. She heated soup, set out ale, and thanked them when they brought her more soup and ale.
Most of the people who visited had only dared make the trip because they were scared. The Hovel was still the Hovel, but without Thorrald’s help, they knew they would have to travel a long way now to get salves for wounds, or tea that could ease the pains in joints and lungs. They smiled hopefully at Hirka. Surely her father had taught her what he knew? Hirka avoided answering. He’d been preparing her for this day all her life. But what could she promise them now?
In the evening, Ramoja and Vetle arrived. They brought Nora with them, the smithy’s girl. They lit candles around Father’s bed and washed and oiled him. Ramoja dried Father’s hands, not knowing that Hirka had already done that—to remove all traces of bloodweed. Hirka pulled her feet up and rested her head on her knees.
The candles colored Father’s body with warm light, as though he was just asleep. But against Nora’s hands, he was obviously pale. Ramoja oiled Father’s thin legs with gentle movements. She looked at Hirka several times and opened her mouth as though to say something, but then she didn’t. In the end, Hirka said that she was going to speak with Sylja about living at Glimmeråsen after Father was cremated. It wasn’t true, but at least it would spare Ramoja the guilt.
Ilume didn’t come to the wake. Why would she? Councillors didn’t make a fuss over ordinary people. Hirka had thought she would send Rime, but he didn’t come either. Hirka found herself hoping that he had left. Both him and Ilume. What did they know about death? They got to live forever.
When people in Council families died, they weren’t cremated like ordinary people. They were given to the ravens. Council families carried the life force in their very veins, and that had to live on. At some point in the future, Ilume would be cut up into bits and devoured by ravens. Become one with the sky, and the Seer.
Father, on the other hand, was anything but sacred. Father was just Father. But he had saved lives for as long as he lived. If anyone deserved to fly with the ravens for eternity, then it was him.
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