Odin's Child

by Siri Pettersen

Urd leaned over the table. “Am I to understand that our … approaches … have not been successful?” He brought the question to the table with all the caution he could muster. He avoided mentioning Ilume’s name but left it up to the Council to remember who it was that had failed.

  He sat back again. He couldn’t understand what was so difficult about it. Everyone could see that they had everything to gain from crushing Ravnhov. Still they did nothing. And people like this were the ones with all the power? It was heart-wrenching. He had lit the torch. Now all he could do was sit there like an idiot and wait. Wait until they were ripe. Until they had decided on their own that it was in Mannfalla’s interest to march on Ravnhov.

  He felt a stinging in his throat. He couldn’t waste any more time. He got up and started to walk around the table. “Ravnhov has every reason to want to topple this Council. The chieftain who single-handedly carried the last of the debt to Mannfalla never returned. This Council was the last to see him alive. Do you think Ravnhov has forgotten that? Do you think Eirik has forgotten the dying day of Viljar, father of his father’s father? Would he be called Eirik Viljarsón if they had forgiven us?”

  “Sit down, Urd Vanfarinn! In this room, nobody stands above anyone else!” Eir’s voice cut through murmurs of agreement. Urd wound his way back to his chair and met the gaze of Freid Vangard. She had bags under her eyes. A seventy-year-old woman from a mediocre family who had never had a leading role in the Council. Urd smiled.

  “Nobody above anyone else? Even though not everyone here has borne the Raven?”

  “Why don’t we try again?” An unexpected response from Miane Fell. The woman who had loved his father.

  “Try what?” Freid Vangard asked, suddenly joining the debate. That could only mean one thing. Urd had succeeded in stirring something in her.

  “To put an end to the chiefdom! Eirik is too strong. People follow him through thick and thin. And if Urd is right that he is in contact with the blind—”

  “Bleakest Blindból, woman! Of course Ravnhov isn’t in contact with the blind!” Tyrme Jekense remonstrated with a plump arm. Urd clenched his teeth. He’d been certain that he had Tyrme. He had forgiven his brother’s debt and won his vote for this chair. Apparently, his loyalty went no further than that.

  “You don’t know that!” Sigra got straight to the point. Her eyes bored into Tyrme like a killer bear’s. “For all you know, they could have unlocked the stone doors again. Why else would they hold their children back from the Rite?”

  “If anyone had unlocked the raven rings, we would know about it.” Eir was starting to sound tired. “You forget that Ilume had the stone whisperer with her. Had anyone used the stone way, Hlosnian would have known long ago.”

  Urd pricked up his ears. This was news to him. Stone whisperers? Those foolish, absentminded artists who did nothing other than make sculptures and Seer icons? He longed to ask but couldn’t show his ignorance. He would have to return to the library—tonight.

  “Elveroa is a long way from Ravnhov,” Sigra replied. “There are limits to what an old man can feel. But that’s neither here nor there. Whether the blind have returned or not, Ravnhov must be brought to heel again!”

  “Ravnhov has never been at heel,” Leivlugn Taid muttered.

  “Nor have they been any real threat,” Noldhe responded. “And even if they were, we certainly wouldn’t be within our rights to start a bloodbath. We must not forget who we are.”

  Urd knew that she was appealing to hearts around the table. Perfect. The time had come for him to strike. The stinging in his throat intensified. Not now!

  He cleared his throat before he started. “No. We must not forget who we are,” he repeated. “You know, I look around this room. I see our names in gold. I see a table abounding with fruit, nuts, cheese from every corner of the world and wine from the best vintages. I see oil lamps made of gold, and velvet on the chairs.” He took a brief pause to allow people to look around.

  “Perhaps this room tells us who we are. Affluent, comfortable, satiated. Perhaps we have forgotten what we used to be.” He stood up again and dropped the drawing so that it fluttered down toward the table. It drifted back and forth before landing between the bowls of fruit. The others leaned forward to look. Eir too. He took the opportunity to walk around the table again while they were occupied.

  “I found this drawing in the library. I wanted to become more familiar with our roots. I wanted to know how my father and my father’s father had lived. I wanted to understand more about the position I have now been asked to fill. I am to be one of twelve, who together uphold a pact. An idea. An idea our forefathers have fought for. A free world. A safe world. And our forefathers devoted their lives to this idea.”

  Urd looked down at the drawing holding everyone’s attention. It depicted the room they all found themselves in. The Council Chamber. Twelve warriors seated around a table, with the Raven behind them. The Seer. Apart from that, the room was bare. The faces were faded, so it was nearly impossible to make out their features. But it didn’t matter. Everyone around the table had been brought up on stories about them, the twelve warriors who formed the Council after the world had been freed of the blind. Twelve warriors. Twelve families.

  Their descendants still sat here today. But now they wore robes. Not swords.

  “I see those warriors in this room today too,” Urd continued. He had them now. He knew it. Felt it in every fiber of his being. “I see warriors. But they have lost their swords and are drowning in velvet and gold. They are sated and satisfied, in a room that was once bare. A room that was once about an idea, not about prosperity. While we wallow in luxury and idleness, Ravnhov can tear down what is left of that idea. I want to weep when I see this drawing. Weep! Because I will have to tell my future children that I occupied a seat at this table when we fell.”

  Urd sat down again. He bowed his head and rested his forehead on his hand. He glanced up surreptitiously to see what was happening around the table. Eir sat with her eyes shut and a face racked with doubt. But he doubted that it was because he had moved her. It was because she knew that he had won.

  Jarladin An-Sarin was staring into space. He had a worried crease in his forehead. Urd’s words had affected him. Sigra Kleiv’s eyes were glistening, but strangely enough, that made her look more masculine. He knew that she had been with him the whole way. Noldhe Saurpassarid had put her hand over her mouth. She was touched, but still unwilling to attack. Garm Darkdaggar was the only one looking at Urd. He gave him a crooked smile, as though he was congratulating him. Urd nodded in return. Garm was a resource. He couldn’t forget that. Garm was also the first to resume talking, since he was transcribing the meeting. He went straight to the vote.

  “Raise your right hand, all those in—”

  “Wait!” Eir held both hands above her head with her palms facing outward, as though she was trying to hold back a wall. “We cannot vote on whether or not to declare war without Ilume present.”

  Urd closed his eyes. This was what he had been afraid of. Only one option remained to him. If he didn’t seize it, everything would crumble when Ilume returned. A divided Council could give the Ravenbearer two votes. That would topple him.

  “Ilume’s recent experience shows what comes of conversations with Ravnhov. I am certain that she would support the Council’s decision, regardless of what it may be. But if the Council is uncertain, we have another option.” Urd sighed. He had chanced everything. If this plan didn’t work, he had also lost everything. But he didn’t have to finish. Sigra Kleiv took the floor.

  “The rumors of the blind are more than good reason to send warriors to the north. We do not need to declare war against Ravnhov. We declare war against the blind!”

  Garm Darkdaggar interjected. “And we have a weapon that is stronger than a hundred thousand men. We have Kolkagga. Let them kill Eirik of Ravnhov while the world sleeps, and this war can be over before it begins.”

  Urd nodded and gestured to Garm with his o
pen palm in acknowledgment of how wise these words were. But he had to act quickly to get a decision. “Shall we raise our hands for Sigra and Garm’s proposal, or does this Council have no authority without Ilume?”

  Eir set her steely eyes on him. He held her gaze. It no longer mattered, because he had won. Once Kolkagga had taken care of Eirik, the path would be clear. And even if they didn’t succeed, Ravnhov would interpret any movement toward the north as a declaration of war. Especially in the wake of an attempted assassination.

  Garm asked everyone to raise their hands for the proposal. Urd counted five hands. Six including his own. It was difficult not to smile. He had won. Ilume was going to be furious.

  His father used to call him weak. If only he could see him now. See the power he had. Urd Vanfarinn. Councillor. Urd had accomplished more in a single meeting than his father had managed in a lifetime.

  FIRE

  Morning came. The seagulls shrieked down by the quay. Morning went. Hirka sat next to the birch stump and stared down at the road that snaked its way through the valley up toward Gardfjella. It was obscured by trees and hills in many places, especially up toward the Alldjup, but she had found a place where she could see most of it. Yet still it remained woefully empty.

  Her stomach was empty too, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat anything. She’d tried to choke down some dried apple and ham, but only Kuro had enjoyed it. And he’d taken off again. She was alone. Alone in a completely different way than before. More alone than she’d ever been. Father had traveled to Arfabu without her once. He’d been gone almost half a month, but she hadn’t felt alone. She’d known he would come back. She’d been sure of it. He always came back.

  Hirka hugged her knees tighter. It felt like rain. Summer had given up. Had she as well? Hirka didn’t know. She didn’t have anyone anymore. Sylja had betrayed her. She no longer had a home here. It had never been a home, really. Just a place they’d stayed for a long time. But even here, people had steered clear of them. Well, until they got ill. Or pregnant. Or had reason to be superstitious and wanted Seer charms and binding aids. And she and Father helped them all. Other people always talked about Father and her, but they never talked about other people.

  What did Elveroa know about her? Nothing. Unless Rime had figured it out and told them. But he hadn’t betrayed her before, so why would he now?

  I’ll never see him again.

  Rime thought they’d see each other in Mannfalla. That he’d be helping her bind. But she wouldn’t be there. She’d be on the run. Even through her grief, she was relieved that she wouldn’t have to go through the Rite. But it came at a price. A price that might prove too high.

  Kolkagga.

  The black shadows with the power to make a man as full of life as Father choose death. Other people died. Other people got sick. Others gave up. Father lived. But he was no cowardly raven starver—he never backed down from a fight. That was just how he was. How he’d taught her to be. And if there were things in this world that could drive him straight into Slokna’s embrace—

  There!

  Hirka’s thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a line of carts on the road. She got up for a better look. Eight carts and more people on horseback around the carts. It couldn’t be anyone else. Rime and Ilume were leaving Elveroa.

  Ilume would leave behind little more than the Seer’s hall. Before she’d arrived, the people here had never attended messages. Sure, they’d prayed to the Seer and forged idols in His likeness, but Elveroa was so close to Ravnhov that no one had ever taken it that seriously. Hirka didn’t even think the augur had been that zealous before Ilume came along. What would it be like now? She’d never find out.

  The procession disappeared into the forest and Hirka went back into the cabin. She started packing. She took her time. Father’s teas and herbs were relocated from pots and boxes to smaller hide or linen bags. She rolled some of them in paper. A few things had to be kept in sealed containers, but she tried to find boxes that were as small as possible. There was no way she could take everything. Dried tea and herbs they’d spent years collecting would have to be left behind.

  She filled her travel bag. At the top, she made room for crisp bread, goat’s cheese, and a jar of peas. She hung a cured elk sausage from the flap. All the money they had came to eight silver and five copper pieces. But she’d manage. She had things she could sell.

  Then she waited.

  Darkness fell and Elveroa settled in for the night. She waited a bit longer. She waited until she was sure everyone was asleep and that no one would see the flames. Then she poured oil around the room. Hesitantly at first. It felt unnatural. You didn’t just slosh oil all over your home. But that’s what she was doing. It spread across the floor, dripping down between the boards. The smell filled her nostrils, gluing them shut.

  Her instinct took her to the chest bench, where she found Father’s sword. She gripped the hilt and lifted it out. An unfamiliar heft. It was a simple sword from Ulvheim. People were tough in Ulvheim. If she held onto it, she might manage to do what she knew had to be done.

  She plunged the sword into the hearth and swept the embers out onto the floor. The room was alight in an instant. For a moment her feet felt heavy, as if they wanted to stay where they were. She lifted the sword, but it was powerless against fire. Fire consumed everything. Even the rot.

  She thrust the sword down between the floorboards before running out with her bag on her back. She wasn’t dead like Father. She was alive, and Father had given everything to make sure she stayed that way.

  She ran toward the Alldjup and didn’t stop until she reached the top of the ridge. Then she looked back. The cabin was burning. The Hovel, the cabin everyone had feared, was finally gone. But she and Father weren’t superstitious. Perhaps they should have been?

  Hirka watched as the flames, spiraling yellow into the darkness of night, consumed the closest thing she’d ever had to a home. She was far away, but it was like the flames were inside her. Like she had set herself alight.

  Rime would think she was dead. Would he grieve? For a day? An hour?

  Hirka squeezed her pendant in her fist. The worn wolf tooth with small lines scratched into it on both sides. Proof that for a time, at least, she’d been a normal girl.

  She crossed the bridge over the Alldjup and ran into the forest, toward Ravnhov.

  EISVALDR

  Night had fallen, but the city was still full of life. The streets of Mannfalla had changed in the short time Rime had been gone. Normally it was peaceful after dark, with the exception of the occasional drunk. Or travelers arriving at inopportune times, like himself.

  Now, though, it seemed the inns never closed. Minstrels could be heard through open windows. Their songs were bawdier at night, and the verses about willing milkmaids were encouraged with laughter and hollering. Destitute travelers slept in the parks and in the streets. Half the world had come. Rime wished it was just due to the Rite, but he knew that this time it was more than that.

  He stayed his horse and looked over his shoulder. The carriages moved slowly across the cobblestones. Ilume sat behind the coachman with her eyes shut and her hands tucked into the sleeves of her tunic. But Rime didn’t believe for one minute that she was asleep, so he decided against riding ahead. Several days on the open road had made him restless. It would have been liberating to slip away before they made it to Eisvaldr, but Ilume wouldn’t let him off that easily. He accepted it, with the knowledge that it would be the last time.

  They continued along the embankment, past the poorest parts of the city, where the stone houses were closest together. A blessing from the Seer amid the squalor, as they were so derelict that they needed each other for support. The air outside some of the more run-down inns was unmistakably saturated with the smell of opa.

  A figure staggered toward them, then tumbled to the ground. Rime had to bring his horse to a sudden stop. The horse whinnied and pulled at the reins. Rime hopped down to help, but the man
got back to his feet on his own. His age was obscured by a wild beard. One of his eyes was dead and white. His other eye appeared destined to suffer the same fate. He was bleeding from a scrape on his forehead. He looked at Rime and muttered an apology. Rime could tell straightaway that he wasn’t drunk. Men had chased him, the man explained. Thrown rocks. “It’s my eyes, master,” he said. “They frighten folk. They think …” He didn’t need to finish.

  “They think you look like the blind.” Rime shut his eyes and tried to swallow the weight of people’s folly. So much meaningless suffering. Born of myths and legends. Born of fear.

  He led the hapless man away from the road and pressed two silver pieces into his hand before he climbed back onto his horse.

  “Don’t make ’em like you anymore, young master!” the man shouted after him, before he continued on his way, ignorant of whom he had just met. Rime glanced back at the carriages again. They had caught up with him now, and Ilume’s displeasure gleamed in her catlike eyes. Rime wasn’t sure she ever slept.

  They turned right and headed up the Catgut. Rising up before Rime was the journey’s end: Eisvaldr. The city at the end of the city. Home to thousands of distinguished ymlings and their servants. The home of the Seer had grown until nobody, not even the privileged twelve of the inner circle, could say with certainty how big it was.

  Rime’s impatience wore thinner the closer they got. Soon. Soon he would be home. His real home. Just a quick stop at the family home with Ilume, then it was just a matter of how quickly she would let him leave.

  They reached the wall that separated Eisvaldr from the rest of Mannfalla. Today it was only a wall in name. Archways had been built in generations ago, and now it was nothing more than a symbol. Two sleepy guardsmen straightened up when the carriages arrived. They bowed as deeply as their leather armor and chest plates permitted.

  “Són-Rime.”

  Rime felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. That was how he was doomed to be identified. Son of the Council. First son, and then—if time allowed—Rime. The guardsmen spotted Ilume and looked at each other nervously. They should really have greeted her first, but she had been obscured by shadow.