by T L Greylock
How much time passed, Raef could not have said, and it did not matter, for there was only time and nothing else. The cold seeped into him and his eyelids grew heavy.
It was through this lash-strewn vision that Raef saw light. He blinked, sure it was imagined, but as he strained his eyes in the dark, the faint glow he had doubted began to grow, to spread rich fingers of golden light across the land, illuminating harsh mountain slopes and a shining river and cool forests, green forests free from the burden of winter.
When at last the light took shape, bursting over the horizon, the sight of the flaming disk brought Raef to his knees and he wept.
Thirty-Nine
The stars had come back to live in the sky.
Not as many as before, and the brightest paled when compared to the memory of their lost brothers and sisters, but the night sky was no longer a place of darkness and doubt, of fear.
A moon had been birthed, too, following the sun that was Vakre across the sky, though where it had come from Raef could not be sure. The pale face seemed familiar, friendly, even.
But it was the daylight that brought him joy. He watched every sunrise in the days that followed the severing of Midgard, waiting for Vakre’s light to break across the world once more, reveling in the warmth and brilliance. It was in those moments of first light that he felt Vakre was near, that he might have looked over his shoulder and seen the son of Loki as he once was.
He mourned, too, in those days. Siv had never been found. Raef had waited at the place of her abduction, had searched for her, but when the new spring passed into summer and still there was no trace of her, he looked to the eastern forests less and more to the western seas. He hoped Loki had been kind to her, had brought her a swift peace.
A king had been named. Bryndis had called her gathering, as she had promised, and though Raef had sent warriors and shieldmaidens of Vannheim to speak their voices as they wished, he had lingered in the west and waited for word to reach him. When a rider came bearing the name of Eirik of Kolhaugen on her lips, Raef thought of Finndar Urdson, the Far-Traveled, the last man to bring news of a king to Vannheim, and wondered where the son of Urda had met his lonely end.
The Vestrhall and the village were alive with the voices of children. The market was flourishing with fish and pelts and food. The soil was richer than it had ever been, the farmers said, and the fishermen spoke of fish in the fjords in numbers greater than ever before. Few spoke of the dark days before the new sun had come, though rumors reached Vannheim of a changed land, of mountains where none had been, of rivers altering course, of fjords snaking new arms through the wilderness and coastlines changing form. They talked of the gods still, though always with something left unsaid, as if they understood that world, the one under Odin’s watchful eye, was gone, even if they did not quite understand their new one or how it had survived. It was a time of contentment.
But not for Raef. He smiled to see his people laugh in the light after the long winter. He found joy in the forests beneath the canopy of green leaves with a bow in hand and an axe at his back. He swam in the fjord and waited for the sun to warm him every day. But he was restless.
The ship was finished on the longest day of summer. Raef had worked much of the wood himself, had designed it to be fast and strong, and now, as the ship builders drifted away from the fjord at twilight, drawn to the scent of meat roasting in the hall, their work done, Raef was left alone on the deck.
The crew was chosen, the supplies gathered, the weapons sharpened. They would set sail at first light, striking out across the sea road in search of the unknown, and Raef would hoist the sail using a set of beloved, well-used seal skin ropes that had belonged to the brothers Rufnir and Asbjork, who had dreamed of taking the sea road with Raef and were now a memory of Valhalla.
The sea dream had come back to Raef not long after he had returned to the Vestrhall, fueled by his grief, embedding into his heart with such strength that he could not ignore it. The preparations had given him a means to lose himself in work, to forget, for a moment, the wound he hid at his core, the toll extracted in Yggdrasil’s dying moments.
Raef leaped to the sheer strake at the bow, wrapping his arm around the smooth prow that leaned out over the water. Above him, the smoke-colored kin’s face, rendered in wood, stared out, ever vigilant, at the western horizon. Raef could already taste the sea spray on his face, could feel the ship riding the waves, could see the wind filling the black sail.
At Raef’s back, a summer storm lingered in the eastern sky, moving north, so distant the thunder could barely be heard though the bolts of lightning that split the sky and reflected down the length of the fjord promised savagery. The western sky promised nothing, and yet, somehow, everything, and Raef knew Vakre would follow wherever the wind took him.
The sound of boots on the deck of the ship drew Raef’s ears but not his eyes.
“Is there room for one more?”
Raef, his heart racing, dared not look, lest his eyes shatter the voice he had heard.
“Look at me.”
And then she was there, her hair of red and gold burnished in the light of the setting sun, her eyes, green and warm, searching his face, her hands reaching for him.
“Siv.”
She smelled of sunlight as Raef took her in his arms.
“How?”
“Even Loki has regrets.”
There was more to be said, more questions to answer, but that could wait.
Raef did not let go of her as she turned to face the sunset and the sea. He rested his chin on her shoulder and breathed in time with her beating heart.
“What are you looking for out there?”
Raef was quiet for a moment.
“I was looking for something to make me forget.”
“And now?”
“Now? Now I search for whatever it is I will find. I know no other way.”
Siv ran a hand down the dragon-kin’s wooden neck. “What is she called?”
The name came to Raef unbidden, for he had not yet let himself speak it aloud, and grief constricted his chest. “She is Sun-Sister.” He could feel Siv smile, could feel his heart smile with her.
“I have never sailed on the sea,” she said.
Raef, his arms wrapped around her still, entwined his fingers with hers. “Then take my hand.”
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Acknowledgements
It’s been just about four years since The Blood-Tainted Winter came into being. My life has changed in a lot of ways since then.
There is one change that didn’t happen overnight, that took time to coalesce and stamp itself into the fabric of my life. But that slow build has made the impact all the more powerful and important.
Those four years saw me find a second family.
And so this omnibus is dedicated to the T10, friends I never thought to make. I thank each and every one of you for being part of the community I trust above all others. You are such an inspiration.
While I love you all, there are three individuals I have to name:
Phil: Thank you for leading the way with humor, modesty, and a genuine desire to see others succeed.
Bryce: Thank you for the very unexpected gift of your friendship.
And finally, Laura: I am so very, very glad we found each other.
About the Author
T L Greylock is the author of The Song of the Ash Tree trilogy, consisting of The Blood-Tainted Winter, The Hills of Home, and Already Comes Darkness, and the forthcoming Shadows of Ivory and Gold, first book in The Firenzia Company Chronicles.
She can only wink her left eye, jumped out of an airplane at 13,000 feet while strapped to a Navy SEAL, had a dog named Agamemnon and a cat named Odysseus, and has been swimming with stingrays in the Caribbean.
P.S. One of the above statements is false. Can you guess which?
; Coming Soon…
Shadows of Ivory and Gold
Book One of The Firenzia Company Chronicles
Chapter 1 – “You know how women are when it comes to pretty things.”
“Technically, I didn’t steal it.”
It was not lost on Eska that these were likely not the best choice of words when faced with a pair of inspectors, the hot-breathed hounds panting at their heels, and the half dozen grunts wielding various instruments of violence just outside the alley. Not to mention when being stared down by the Iron Baron himself. Oh, yes, moreover while she was in fact holding in plain view the very object she was accused of stealing, an object quite dear to the belligerent baron.
“Nor was I going to keep it.”
The inspectors glanced at each other, but it was the Baron’s gaze that got under her skin, those condescending eyes, those furiously-angled eyebrows, that large chin which was offensive simply for being attached to his face.
“It’s not worth what you think it is, you know.”
Eska never had learned when to keep her mouth shut, despite the numerous attempts made by more than one governess.
His face reddening with anger, the Baron plucked the carved ivory and gold box from her hands and dropped it into the waiting arms of his valet, who was staring at the ground as though it were the most fascinating thing under the sun.
“You’re fortunate you carry the name of Caraval, girl,” the Iron Baron growled, forcing the words out through clenched teeth in a manner that reminded Eska of bones mistakenly placed in a meat grinder. The image pleased her.
“What would you do to me, Baron, if I didn’t wear ancinni silk and have priceless jewels on my fingers? Cut off my hand? Sell me to the highest bidder? I hear you do quite the trade in such things.”
The Baron went from red to white in a heartbeat, his cheeks fairly blooming with iciness. If the valet could have melted into the cobblestones, surely he would have. “It’s dark, girl, and no one knows where you are.” The Baron leaned close. Eska could smell the wine on his breath. Sweet and sour. “I could make you disappear.”
Eska fought the urge to step back but she was certain her heart was a moment from breaking out of the prison of her ribcage. “You forget yourself, Baron,” she said, hoping she sounded unruffled. The small dagger—hardly more deadly than a letter opener—strapped to her ankle would be of no use here, though the bone handle seemed to burn against her skin. She nodded over the Baron’s shoulder at the inspectors. “These fine gentlemen know exactly where I am. In fact, I’m quite sure they’d be prepared to tell my father, the Vice-Chancelier, exactly how you laid hands on me, how you injured me, how you dragged me off to dispose of me.”
The inspectors kept their faces still, well schooled in such things, and Eska wondered how much the Baron had paid them. Then the taller one broke the silence, his words bringing Eska more relief than she cared to admit.
“I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding, Baron.” The inspector smiled thinly at Eska. “You know how women are when it comes to pretty things.” He gestured to the ivory, glistening in the moonlight as it disappeared into the valet’s satchel. “You have your property back. I think it’s time we all go home.”
The notion that Eska was like a crow when confronted with a shiny object irked her as much as the Baron’s chin, but for once she held her tongue. Madam Mantua might have died of shock to see it.
The inspectors broke their shoulder to shoulder blockade, opening up a path for Eska to exit the alley. Eska leaned over and patted the young valet on the shoulder. “The Caraval household is always in search of good people.” Without a glance at the Baron, Eska swept past the inspectors, trying not to shy away from the hounds who sniffed her with more interest than she’d like. “We don’t bite,” she called over her shoulder, “and I’m quite certain my father would never send you on such a ridiculous errand in the middle of the night. And as you can see, I run my own midnight errands.”
Despite the words of the inspector, the men outside the entrance to the alley did little to allow Eska easy passage. She managed to traverse the obstacle course comprised of their large booted feet, broad shoulders, and stout clubs without incident, but it wasn’t until she had crossed the expanse of the Decadronum, the clacking of the heels on her boots horribly loud on the white stone as she followed the line of sentinel columns across the ten-sided plaza, that Eska, sinking into the familiar shadows of the Lordican’s portico, allowed herself to relax and breathe deeply.
The eerie water chimes at the far end of the Decadronum sounded the second song of the morning as Eska took a moment to wait for her heartbeat to return to normal. As the song faded, sending a shiver down her spine, she pressed the hidden release that unlocked one of the library’s tall wooden doors and slipped into the dim interior. Cursing her shoes once more, she crossed the marble entryway, the unfortunate clackety clack ringing after her, and entered one of the grand reading rooms, the empty desks lined up like a flock of sleeping swans. Eska threaded her way to the rear of the reading room and pressed another hidden lever, this one disguised as the big toe on a statue of a man clothed in nothing but a sweeping cape and gesturing dramatically—muscles bulging—toward an unseen horizon.
Nothing happened.
The bronze studded door in front of her, which ought to have opened to reveal a passageway restricted to staff at the Lordican—and therefore not exactly a door Eska should know how to open—remained steadfastly shut.
“Really?” Eska cast a withering gaze up at the blank eyes of the statue. “Now is hardly the time, Lyndronicus.”
The statue made no reply and Eska bent over to fiddle with the long-dead conqueror’s toe. It was known to stick, a faulty mechanism Eska had been told. But she was not so sure that the door’s creator had not made the latch tricky and susceptible to damp on purpose. If half the stories about the library’s first and greatest patron, who also happened to be its designer and architect, were true, Eska would expect the statue’s toe to crumble to dust at some predetermined future date—rendering the passageway useless. It was the kind of joke she was sure Giovanespi de Varetteau would enjoy.
“Perhaps,” Eska muttered as she wiggled the toe this way and that way, ears straining for the faint click that would signal the alignment had been corrected, “a different appendage would be more appropriate. At least if I yanked it, I ought to get a response.”
“That’s rather vulgar.”
Eska whirled around, nearly convinced the statue of Lyndronicus had finally answered her after years of one-way conversations. But the voice belonged to a slender man who had crossed the reading room far too stealthily, a stack of books pressing up against his chin as he cradled the tomes in his arms.
Eska sighed and pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “You are far too—“
“Quiet for my own good, yes, you’ve made me aware of that,” the young man said. “Unfortunately, I have yet to discover my stampeding abilities.”
Eska rolled her eyes. “I should fit you with an obnoxious alarm. Whenever you enter a room, it would warn the occupants that an insufferable know-it-all is in their midst.”
“Good thing this know-it-all also happens to know that you need to be gentler with the toe. You’ll never find the right spot if you bash it around like that.”
The young man brushed past Eska, placed his books on a desk, and, with a well-practiced flick of a finger, set the lever in place. The door swung open.
“Don’t smirk, Albus.”
“I never smirk.” The young man performed the tiniest of bows before scooping the stack of books up once more. “After you, my lady de Caraval.”
***
“That was the best you could manage? ‘Technically, I didn’t steal it?’ I’ve come to expect so much more from you, Eska.”
The library employee never looked up from the pages he was bent over, his gaze intent on the intricate, ancient script he insisted he could read.
“This is where y
ou choose to interject? Not when I related my fear at being confronted by the Iron Baron and a host of who knows what kind of lowlifes? A gentleman would inquire after my safety and ascertain that I was unharmed.” Eska had stopped pacing the length of the work table at which Albus was seated. Her fierce frown, however, was lost on the librarian, who still had eyes only for his book.
“You’ve gotten into plenty of scrapes and narrow escapes,” Albus said mildly. “You should take my lack of concern as a compliment on your abilities.”
“Yes, well, that may be, but you might reconsider this assumption of my safety if you knew what was in my possession.” Eska planted her hands on her hips, certain her dramatic air would at last draw Albus away from his text. The librarian seemed not to have heard.
“Albus.”
“Mmm?”
“Don’t you want to know what I have?”
“I daresay you’re going to tell me regardless of what I might desire.”
“By all the dead librarians, Albus, you really are horrible. Now get your eyes out of that book and look at me.”
Smiling faintly, the librarian lifted his gaze at last, but the humor vanished the moment he saw what lay in Eska’s palm. Albus lurched to his feet, the book forgotten, his hands hovering over the pages.
“Is that?”
“It is. Reconsidering your nonchalance yet?”
“Then you did steal it.” The librarian seemed torn between rushing to examine the object Eska held and maintaining his composure.
“I still maintain that technically I did not. The box containing it was handed to me. By a source I shall keep nameless.”