When I saw the Officers filling the room, I did not understand. They were not supposed to be here. They were not supposed to find us. And when I saw Jarldis Vaenn, dressed in a black coat that hung below her knees, I tried to puzzle out why she was here. She wasn’t supposed to know about the machine. Reister was shouting something at her, making slicing motions with his hand, then pounding his fist into his palm, but she only shook her head at him. I could not hear what she said over the ringing in my ears.
Reister, quiet now, stood next to her as the Officers snapped manacles on Spraki’s wrists behind his back. Two of the Officers hauled me up between them, and I realized that I had heard the words “Raud Gríma” several times, but I had not been listening and did not know what they said about him.
They pulled my wrists behind my back and I felt the cuffs close round them. My legs wanted to give way, but the two Officers held me standing.
Vaenn approached, casting a triumphant look at all those around. The Officers, I noticed as I often had before, wore black with purple trim, and Eiflar walked through the crowd of them, he, wearing a similar uniform of purple trimmed in black—I puzzled over this, as if I could find some meaning in the colors. Vaenn said something to him about Raud Gríma.
Eiflar reached towards my face, and in a wave of red, pulled my mask down to my throat. When he saw who I was, his eyes widened, and then his expression turned to stone.
Losing my mask acted to bring me some of the way back to reality. I mustered my courage and straightened my spine, fixing Eiflar’s eyes with my own.
“Oh, Myadar,” Reister said, tut-tutting. “Even you must know how rude it is to stare.”
“Would that I might do more than stare,” I growled.
“You see, Majesty,” Vaenn said. “As I warned you. She is your greatest enemy.”
It crossed my mind to tell Eiflar then of my pregnancy, but the thought wilted in the heat of my hatred for everyone in the room. My grief washed the husk of it away.
“Take her to Grumflein,” Eiflar said through a tight jaw.
The Officers complied.
~~~
I sat in the corner of a dark cell in Grumflein, some three floors from the ground—no upper prison for the likes of me. I refused all offers of food or drink. I could not think of Bersi, yet his face never left my mind—even as I saw his eyes, I refused to allow my thoughts to travel over the map of his face, through the paths of memories I had.
During the daytime, light flowed in, cold, for winter still clutched Helésey in its arms. I had a window, and could see a yew tree just outside. I studied it rather than allow my mind to wander, for it was better to contemplate the tree than let the images of Bersi develop into memories.
If not for the bars, I might have climbed out onto the yew’s branches. Yew trees were sacred to both Alfódr and an older god named Ullr; Ullr was an archer god worshipped widely in ancient times. The yew probably belonged to him first, although Alfódr was the father of all Gods and therefore predated Ullr. But ash trees were also sacred to Alfódr, so I could imagine how with the waning of Ullr’s worship, his tree had passed to Alfódr. Few remembered Ullr now; I knew of him because there were caves near my childhood home in Asterlund with paintings of Ullr drawing a yew bow. Ullr had lost popularity when bows did, I supposed; and now Alfódr would wane as Ullr had, under the new order of Tyr.
Almost everything on a yew tree was poisonous: reddish bark; narrow, stiff, oval leaves that spiraled around the branches, and the seeds encased in the only part of the plant that one could eat: the fleshy red berries. This tree had no berries yet, of course. Unlike the weird lindens and comfrey plants I’d seen throughout Helésey, the yew seemed content to remain true to the season. Tiny buds could be seen on the branches among the evergreen leaves, but they were not yet even in flower.
As my body’s hunger grew, I considered robbing Eiflar and the court of their entertainment in executing me by eating some yew seeds, but I wasn’t even sure seeds had developed within the buds I could reach. Besides, the effort of standing and reaching for the branches was more than I could face; it was already almost more than I could bear to rouse myself to use the old-fashioned brass chamber pot in the corner. When I moved, I had to sing a nursery rhyme to keep the memories I held at bay from breaking through and overwhelming me. I tried to remain as still as possible. I huddled in my corner, my head pressed against the cool stone. No one came to the door of my cell except to put down a tray of food and carry off the one I’d left untouched. Still as death, I gazed out the window when the cold sun was up and studied the yew tree. When the sun set, I closed my eyes. Whether or not I slept, I cannot say.
~~~
My door opened again, though not much time had passed since the last delivery of unwanted food, so I knew that someone must be coming to see me. My heart lurched in my chest at the thought—they might make me move. They might let the memories break through. But even that response was dangerous, so I inhaled deeply and willed my heart to slow again.
A tall figure stood in the lighted doorway. Despite the way the light behind him cast his face in shadow, I would know Reister anywhere. My eyes fell from the sight of him and roved over the stone floor and up the wall to find the window again. It was dusk, and the yew’s leaves shed lengthening shadows over its branches. I would not shift my eyes from them; unless Reister physically forced me to move, I could avoid the damage to my defenses.
“Myadar,” Reister said. It was a command, but I ignored it.
Reister grunted and took two steps into the room.
“Myadar, cease this wretched sulking,” he said, as I watched a breeze shifted the branches just a little. It was fine for the branches to move, I told myself. It didn’t mean that I did. What would happen when they came for me on Tyrablót I could not imagine—it would be my death day, no matter what, but the executioner would have trouble hanging someone already devoured by memories, would he not? For surely when they forced me up, when they pushed me to walk to the gallows, I would shatter under the onslaught. They would hang a tattered corpse, not a living revolutionary.
“They tell me you refuse to eat!” Reister was saying. He had begun to pace. “What rot! What can you hope to prove by refusing to eat? You will weaken and then they will kill you. What good will any of that do?”
His words flew at me like birds protecting their young, and I wanted to raise my arms to shield myself from their beaks, but I could not, for fear of the memories.
Reister leaned in close and I tried to shut the words out, but it only worked for a little while. I had so much to shut out already. “…They’re training him to ride, you know, and he’s to pull the cart from under you and the others, so you’ll have a perfect opportunity right there.”
My breathing became uneven and I could not make it right again. Birds, mother birds, diving at me, protecting their little ones. So full of violence.
“…as though you’re dead already! Disgusting. Do you think the real Raud Gríma would have given himself to despair, dear wife?”
Reister stood and walked away from me. He said nothing more, and gratitude flooded me as he hammered on the door with his fist. After a pause the door opened and he left. I was alone again. No words pecking me. I could breathe and close my eyes and concentrate on keeping the image of Bersi’s eyes from moving.
~~~
I must have slept because when I opened my eyes, it was light again, and my head had rolled forward, so I noticed the dagger in my hands for the first time.
They had taken everything from me but the black velvet britches and black silk shirt; even my feet were bare. They had not left me even my poisoner’s ring. The first person I thought of who might have given me the dagger as a gift was Kolorma; her name had not come to me before now in this place, and I paused to wonder where she was. I glanced at the blue sky through the window, and hoped she was in it, flying far away. Lowering my eyes, I marveled at the reflection of the sunbeam on the blade—it made the light look
golden and warm. Kolorma could not have left it with me. I knew that Reister must have given it to me when he visited the day before.
Grimacing, I tried to think without letting the memories through. Reister had betrayed me, and now he gave me a weapon? Why? Out of remorse, perhaps. He might wish to allow me to end my days without having to endure the torture of being forced to move—forced to weather the memories as they pushed and dragged me to the gallows. But it wasn’t like Reister to be so considerate.
What had he said when he was here? My mind touched the pieces of his statements like broken crystal shards, capable of slicing the fingers that would attempt to reconstruct them. Something about a horse, or was it a cart? And how it would be an opportunity.
I could not put the pieces together without cutting myself. What could Reister want from me, when he had already destroyed me?
The same thing he had always wanted, some part of me replied. He wanted me to use this dagger to kill the konunger on the day of my execution.
I might have laughed, but that was too dangerous. Reister—ever would he try to use me as a weapon. Hadn’t he realized by now that my edge had been blunted? My poison was weak. Not like the yew tree’s.
I looked out of the window and frowned.
My eyes saw a twisted bush of white berries nestled in the branches of the yew.
Mistletoe.
How many days had I been in this cell? How many meals had I ignored? Had I slept so long that mistletoe had sprouted, grown to maturity, and produced berries? It wasn’t possible—in the time such a thing would take, I would have been hanged. Had I been hanged? It wasn’t possible. They had not come for me—I would remember their hands on me, forcing me to move. The memories of Bersi would have devoured me; I would remember the torture. Unless my mind was already broken—perhaps the memories had come and gone and left me mad.
In that case, it was safe to move again.
I found that my legs were very weak, and I had to lean on the wall to rise and walk—I had crawled to the chamber pot before, without attempting to stand. The room spun. I shuffled along the wall to the window, my hands pressing on cold stone.
The mistletoe grew from the yew branch, sure as my fingers grew from my hand. Then I noticed something else: the yew berries. They grew in clusters, large, ripe, and red.
“What day is this?” I breathed, although somehow I knew. Tyrablót.
My death day.
Gazing at the mistletoe, Reister’s words painted an image in my mind that replaced Bersi’s face: Eiflar, on horseback, pulling the cart from under my feet as I and some others—Alflétta, if he had survived the Officers’ pursuit (but that was too close to a pit of sorrow I dared not graze the edge of)—we all dropped, ropes at our necks.
Eiflar-konunger, by my side at the last moment of my life.
Not just my life.
Not just the lives of the others.
The life within me.
He would kill my unborn child.
Suddenly, without warning, the dam burst. Memories poured through me—Bersi, just born, blue from the cord wound round his neck. I wailed to see him so blue, but the midwife pulled the cord free and warmed his tiny body at the fire and he cried. Oh! The sound of his cry, how it wrenched my heart open. I had never known such love was possible. Bersi, gurgling, a bigger baby now, grabbing my hair. Bersi, holding the edge of the chest I kept in his nursery, learning to walk around it, and I thought, “Oh my, I shall never keep up with him now.” Bersi, running, laughing, playing, crying—oh, my love. My son. I failed him.
I don’t know how long I wept. I would stop, and start again immediately. When the sobs ended, my body ached with physical pain, and I felt empty.
But I knew I was not empty. I had one last chance to protect my child.
I was curled in a heap at the base of the window. The light had changed. It would be noon before long, and they would come for me. I scraped the wall, dragging myself up, and looked out at the yew tree. The mistletoe was still there, as were the red berries.
I snaked out my arm, my hand in a claw, and pulled a half a dozen yew berries free into my palm. They were plump and firm. With a breath I stuffed them all in my mouth.
My stomach growled. I had but to swallow them whole and I would die. The guards who came to fetch me for my execution would find my corpse instead. It was one way to have my last rebellion.
A berry in my mouth burst, the sweet jelly coating my tongue. My stomach clenched with hunger, cramping painfully. My body wanted to live. The baby inside me wanted to live—I was certain of that.
Carefully, using my tongue to block my throat, I mashed the berries in my mouth, spitting out each seed before my teeth could crush it. I swished the pulp around with my tongue, searching for any last seed or fragment of one, the gelatinous flesh of the berries oozing and syrupy. At last, I swallowed. If I had missed a seed let that be the will of the Gods.
The dark brown pips lay in my palm, shining wet. I gazed out at the mistletoe, an idea forming in my mind. Setting the seeds down on a paver I picked up the dagger and went to work on the mistletoe and the tree.
~~~
When they came for me it was perhaps two hours past noon. I couldn’t be as sure as I had once been of the sun’s angle, when I lived in Söllund, for it had been so long since I’d seen sunshine during the day—except for when I spent the week at Liten’s, and I hadn’t paid any attention then.
I had begun to sing the nursery rhyme again as I waited. It told the story of when Alfódr hanged himself from the World Tree for nine days and nights, to acquire the wisdom of the nine worlds. It had nine verses, so not only did it seem fitting (Alfódr was patron of the hanged, and I would soon be among that number), but it was long, and took a great deal of concentration to remember. It kept despair at bay, just as it had kept the memories of Bersi at bay, before, but those it no longer prevented from coming. Memories of Bersi flowed through my mind even as I recited the rhyming song, and in my mind he went from an infant, to a chubby baby, to a waddling little boy, growing taller and stronger. I knew one memory had not yet come to dwell in my heart, but it was on its way. I was saving it for when the cart pulled out from under my feet.
Before that happened, I meant to see that my death was not in vain.
Two Officers of Tyr came through my door and each took one of my elbows. They were both young, as most of the Officers I had seen in recent weeks were. All the older, experienced veterans had gone to war, leaving the city in the hands of new recruits. So much the better. I allowed them to drag me to my feet, and I stumbled, not attempting to match their pace, but forcing them to support my weight between them. Let them think me weak from starvation and desolation. They marched me through the stone corridors I had prowled dressed as Raud Gríma on the night I freed Lini Madr. Had they caught him? I hoped not, but I suspected that they had.
My suspicion was confirmed when we reached the street. A cage fixed to a truck’s flatbed waited, holding Alflétta, Madr, Spraki and Liten. The Officers opened the door just wide enough to shove me inside, locking it shut once I was in.
“Myadar!” Alflétta gasped, clutching Madr’s arm. Spraki sat in a corner, peering up at me despondently, and Liten stood holding the cage bars. As the truck lurched into motion I clutched at the bars to keep from falling. Madr steadied Alflétta. They all looked beaten, thinner, exhausted.
“Myadar, have they injured you? You look so pale,” Alflétta said as the truck rocked us, rattling as we rolled through the city streets.
I shook my head. “I’ve been treated very well, considering they plan to murder me in a few moments,” I said, my voice hoarse from lack of use.
Madr shuddered and Alflétta wrapped his arm around him.
“How did they find you, Madr?” I asked. “You weren’t in the machine when they came for me. And I didn’t see you with Alflétta when they chased him in the palace.” Saying this brushed the edge of the memory I had yet to view. I swallowed and focused on Madr�
�s face as he responded.
“I was in the tunnels,” Madr said. “I’d gone for supplies—there’s a little market near a Torc portico where the jarls never go. I’d just picked up a few things, and I was returning. They sent a small army into the Undergrunnsby, you know.”
Flashes came to me in shades of gray like on the screens: passing through the shantytown in the back of a truck, this one enclosed, not a cage, but I saw through the windows in the loading doors the fire spreading through the hovels. Officers beat women and children, striking their heads. Men knelt with their wrists in manacles behind them. I had not thought of those unfortunates until now. My mind felt hard and unyielding, as if it calcified in the hours I’d spent in my cell.
“How could you have seen me in the palace, Myadar?” Alflétta asked after a moment.
I blinked at him. “On the screens,” I said after I forced myself to comprehend his question. “In the Undergrunnsby, in the machine. I watched them chase you.”
Again, the memory I held away from me threatened to come nearer, to fill my mind.
Alflétta frowned and shook his head. My answer did not seem to satisfy him, but it was the only one I had. I gripped the bars and turned my back to all of them, staring out at the buildings we passed. We made our way downhill, the reverse of the route I had taken with Mother Tora when we first arrived, but when we traveled through the poor districts, no fires burned in the abandoned metal bins. No figures huddled in doorways. No children approached from the edges of the street to beg from us. The districts were all deserted. Yet the closer we came to the sea, the louder a distant roar became.
When we came to the docks I saw why.
The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1) Page 40