Katrín knew she was destined for something greater. So when she applied for Hafnía in secret, knowing her parents disapproved, she knew she would get in. What she didn’t foresee was that her father did not suffer the dramatic change of heart she had hoped for when he saw her accomplishment of being accepted into one of the finest universities in the world. Instead he lashed out at her, submitting her to a relentless tirade in front of the whole family. He said that he would not be sponsoring her studies abroad and forbade her from going. Katrín had never felt more ashamed in her life, to be lectured like a naughty child in front of everyone. Only her anger managed to overpower the shame. This was an injustice. She was the oldest daughter. They had no sons. It was by no means unheard of that Hrímlandic women attended the university. They should be proud to have a prestigious daughter with her own ambitions. But none of that mattered. This was not where they intended her aspirations to take her.
There were no expeditions for Katrín, save for heading into the uncharted social territory of weekly cocktail parties, the only mysteries to unearth there being whatever inane local gossip was circling this week. She would not swat away flies, only would-be suitors, nor parley with natives of a newly discovered humanoid species. Instead she would have to play out her role in circles of vain, callous girls, to avoid becoming a social pariah. Which, after only a few months of this nonsense, became her inevitable fate.
* * *
It started with the first article she submitted to the newspapers under a male pseudonym. Housing had been a long-standing problem in Reykjavík since the city’s population boomed after Kalmar took over. Increasing urban density was the popular solution, but it was one plagued with difficulties of affordability, urban planning, priorities. The city walls held back further outward expansion, which was considered a dangerous move due to higher amounts of seiðmagn. Regardless of that fact, this was still the favoured stance of the Citizens’ Party, who felt it was only fair that people who wanted affordable housing should find it in a more dangerous part of the city. Safe land, free of malicious seiðmagn, should not be available for everyone but sold at a premium. Housing was a popular topic of discussion among the men who visited her father every week. Her nights were too frequently occupied with social matters she found increasingly frivolous, but as her social status plummeted she had a chance to make the time to eavesdrop on their conversations by tangling yarn in the adjacent drawing room under the pretence of knitting.
In her article Katrín suggested a novel solution: build a new suburb in the village of Akranes, across the Bay of Faxaflói, and run a ferry service several times a day to Seltjarnarnes in Reykjavík. Akranes was quite low in seiðmagn compared to the outskirts of the city and an ideal place for further expansion. With a viable commute to the city centre it would prove a great relief to the housing issue, with too many young families unable to afford apartments of their own.
The responses over the next few days were staggering. Many of the people who wrote in were names and faces she recalled having visited her house, to discuss politics with her father over imported booze and cigars. She replied quickly and concisely, and when she overheard them talking about the exchange the next time they met she couldn’t help but smile for the next few days. Her heart pounded with excitement. Her mother erroneously believed she had fallen in love, so rose-tinted had her daily life become. She finally felt as if she was doing something that was important. That she was someone who mattered.
She kept writing in, engaging with powerful men on the battlefields of the newspaper columns. Her contribution made a difference, she knew that – but she still knew that she could do so much more.
The initial feeling which had taken her over started to fade. The person under whose name she wrote didn’t exist. It made her feel as if she herself did not exist. She moved like a zombie during the dances and parties, refusing to bother keeping up with whatever inane gossip the others were occupying themselves with.
It was at one of those parties where she had been offered her first pipe. She was wandering the back rooms of a large house, intentionally trying to get lost and find a quiet place to spend the evening in solitude. Her mother scolded her if she came back home too early. It was easier to just pretend.
She’d entered a study, decorated with exquisite leather sofas, tables made from dark, polished mahogany, delicate lamps made from glass so beautiful and refined it was hard to believe it had been made by hand, not through some thaumaturgic method. A man and a woman sat on one of the sofas. The man had straw-coloured hair and a neatly trimmed moustache; he was dressed in an evening jacket made from peculiar emerald fabric. He looked up, startled at her entrance, distracting her with a dazzling smile as he stood up to greet her, trying to steer her gaze and attention from the items laid out on the desk that he had been fiddling with.
“Elskan, you must be lost. Come, I will show you to the powder room …’
She ignored him grasping her upper arm, firmly but gently. The woman on the sofa was leaning back in an almost indecent manner, her eyes half-closed and fluttering, her breathing deep and heavy as if asleep. To Katrín she seemed both vulgar and enticing. Taking in the sight made her heartbeat pick up, her cheeks flushing warm with an embarrassment she didn’t quite comprehend.
“Is she all right?’
Katrín didn’t feel it was right to leave this woman alone with the man in this state.
“I’m fine,” the woman mumbled, her voice distant and heavy with lethargy.
Katrín took in the instruments laid out on the table: a long ivory pipe, a small wooden box, an oil lamp. The pipe seemed to be carved in an intricate pattern.
“What is that?’ she said and pointed to the desk. “Do you need help?’ she asked the woman again.
“Leave me be.”
She sounded annoyed at the insistent interruption, dragged out of the viscous dreamscape she found herself stuck in.
“Elka is fine,” the man said. To Katrín’s relief, he released his grip on her arm. He bowed slightly, apologetically. “She’s just a bit lost in the fog.”
“You’re smoking drugs?’
Katrín immediately bit her tongue for sounding a bit too much like a goddamn schoolgirl.
“Yes, I suppose we are. You’re free to join us, if you want.” He sat back down on the sofa and started messing around with the pipe and the wooden box on the table. “It’s quite harmless, really.”
This was the most exciting thing that had happened to Katrín in a long time. The monotonous parties, the lack of prospects, her stifled aspiration. She wanted to run away from everything. But she had nowhere to run to. She stared at the woman, Elka, on the sofa. She was smiling. Despite her dazed state, to Katrín she looked full of life and indulgence. The dreams in her mind were coming to life. She wanted that. She wanted to let go.
She sat down in a chair next to the man.
“What is it?’ she asked.
The woman’s hand reached out and found hers. Elka started stroking Katrín’s hand, gently, affectionately. She felt herself blushing and was embarrassed for how her face must be glowing red.
The man remained impassive, tactfully ignoring Katrín’s visible embarrassment. He handed her the pipe. It was made from bone, carved in a pattern of faces of demons and vættir, connected with vines and malevolent flowers in full bloom. It was a femur. It almost looked human.
“It’s sorti,” he said, and smiled. “It will show you how much beauty there is in the world. It will transform your pain into a wonderful dream.”
Katrín wasn’t an idiot. She had known what it was. She’d heard rumours about Elka and this man, so she had gone looking for them. Still, she had enjoyed acting out this little play. She put the pipe to her mouth and leaned in towards the flame.
* * *
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Katrín! Náskárar? Are you insane?’
Hrólfur jumped to his feet as soon as she’d mentioned the name and started pacing. They had resumed t
he discussion of Katrín’s situation now that she had rested properly. Garún felt an anxious knot when she thought of her short meeting with Rotsvelgur. Owing a náskári wasn’t good.
“What else was I supposed to do, Hrólfur? Go to the police? Drop in for a visit at the Nine and see if Mother and Father could help? I did what I needed to, like the rest of you. I knew he could get me safely to the portal to Rökkurvík. The náskárar would never betray me to the Crown. Unlike what Viður did to Garún.”
That last sentence visibly stung Diljá. She clearly felt guilty about that. Garún filed that away for later.
“She’s right,” said Garún. “A náskári would rather die than aid the Commonwealth. They have a very strict code of honour. Well –’ she hesitated – “unless he didn’t belong to a tribe.”
She looked at Katrín expectantly.
“I … I’m not sure. Aren’t all náskárar in a tribe?’
“No. Not all of them. A few have been excommunicated. Usually traitors or law-breakers. They’re called korpar.”
“Korpar? How can I tell if Hræeygður was one of them?’
“If he’s a korpur he won’t be decorated with significant colours or adornments. Weapons, sure, but nothing much besides that. Did Hræeygður carry something on himself – dyed feathers, cloth or bone?’
Katrín thought for a while.
“He had all kinds of bones and junk on himself. Hooks or fish-hooks? Femurs and all kinds of bones dangling everywhere. Does that mean anything?’
“A náskári never carries decorations without meaning. I’m not sure what the hooks mean and the bones are too generic. Do you remember any clear details about his decorations?’
“He had some kind of straps on, where all of this was hanging from. I remember he had a skull.”
“They call it hertygi. What kind of skull was it? Was it any specific colour?’
“I think it was a ram’s skull. It had horns at least, but maybe it was a goat. I don’t remember, I never really thought much about it. But it was all covered in red splotches. Like blood.”
Garún nodded. She had seen that before, during the meeting in Skeifan.
“He belongs to a tribe, so that’s good. But I’m not sure if it’s good company.”
“What do you mean?’ asked Hrólfur.
“A ram’s skull is the symbol of Those-who-pluck-the-eyes-of-the-ram,” said Garún. “The Ram Eaters. They are one of the largest and most powerful tribes in Reykjavík. They roost in Hræfuglaey and consider most of the city to be their territory.”
“Were they the ones who showed up at the protest?’ asked Diljá, hopefully.
Garún shrugged. “I think so. Maybe they’ve decided to ally themselves with us?’
“No, he …’
Katrín had to gather herself for a while. Spilling out all her secrets in such a short time must be taking its toll on her. Things she’d kept secret for years. Begrudgingly, Garún found herself respecting her more for it. It was as if she was burning away the weaknesses that had been burdening her for so long. It was ruthless. It was kind of beautiful.
“I had to pay him,” Katrín finally managed to say. “He wouldn’t help me for free.”
“How much did you pay him for the trip into the Forgotten Downtown?’ Hrólfur interjected.
Katrín didn’t reply and looked away in shame.
“You didn’t pay him, did you?’ he said wearily. “You owe him even more.”
“How much do you owe him?’ asked Diljá.
“Fifteen,” answered Katrín, so faintly it was barely audible.
“Hundred?’
Katrín shook her head. “Thousand.”
They took a collective breath. That was a small fortune.
“What else was I supposed to do?’ said Katrín, growing more agitated. “And so what if I owe him? I’ve owed him before!’
“Yes, but then you had the money to pay, didn’t you?’ said Garún. “You went to dear Father and begged or stole a few krónur from him.” Katrín looked both angry and hurt. Garún felt a pang of conscience, but she couldn’t help herself. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. But how are you going to pay him now? Nobody owes a náskári for long.”
“We don’t need this on top of everything else,” said Hrólfur. “We need more allies. Not enemies.”
“I know someone who can parley with them,” Garún said.
She didn’t know where she was going with this. Why was she so certain that Sæmundur could clear the debt? But it was the only chance she could think of.
“We can’t have the Commonwealth and the náskárar up against us at once. This person has dealt with the Ram Eaters many times before. I’ll figure this out, don’t worry.”
“All right, then.”
“Thank you,” said Katrín in a soft voice. “And I’m sorry. For everything. For this whole mess.”
Garún nodded. “It will be fine. You don’t have to worry.”
But she was worried. Not that Sæmundur might find himself in harm’s way, but because he could mess everything up and make things worse. She felt around in her backpack for what he had handed her after they crossed together into Rökkurvík. When he had done whatever he did to those police officers.
It was a black, bulbous square, with two thin tendrils going out from each corner. The egg case of a skate. They were believed to cause luck, and if you found an unruptured one on the beach you were supposed to hold it between your hands and whisper your wish to it. She remembered going out by herself on early summer mornings, looking for the egg cases among the seaweed-covered rocks. Hoping to wish herself to a new and better life. When the others weren’t looking, she took the egg case in her hands and crushed it. Dissonant whispers escaped from it, fading rapidly away.
* * *
The pain shot through her arm, the sheer intensity of it shocking her even though she had now been expecting it. She jerked her hand away from the key rune, the delýsíð symbol barely dry on the smooth cavern wall. The pain lingered, a long needle threaded through the bones of her upper arm. She inspected the symbol again, scrutinising its form and trying to intuit the seiðmagn flowing from it. What was wrong? It looked right, felt right – it should have given her free access to the hidden network they had tagged across the city. She steeled herself and sprayed her palm quickly with blue delýsíð paint, placing it on the heart of the symbol.
A barrage of visions. Rapid fire, too quick to process, a ceaseless cacophony of sound and sight that was over before it truly began. Her vision cleared and vertigo set in. She was looking down a city street filled with carriages laden with goods. Traffic was at a standstill due to a barricade set up on one end of the street. A squad of police officers, armed with heavy skorrifles, went through each carriage thoroughly, opening crates and barrels filled with goods with absolute disregard of the tradesman or farmer standing by, yelling at them. She recognised the street – Hverfisgata, the traffic heading out of the city. A lot of people were shouting. Police raised their rifles to a group of older men, who were screaming in outrage and only became further incensed by looking down the barrels.
A crack, and she was pulled elsewhere. An empty alley. Two cats faced each other, swooping their tails back and forth in annoyance. Static, and she was inside a room, a mattress on the floor where a tangle of two bodies lay interwoven between sheets.
What the fuck? Who tagged this?
Then, an outlook of Austurvöllur, high up from the surrounding buildings. It was empty and desolate, the grave building of Lögrétta visible just to the right of her field of vision. It looked miserable, all grey stone laden with gravity. Funnily enough, the leftover materials from Lögrétta’s construction had gone into making Hegningarhúsið – better known as the Nine.
Only too fitting, she thought.
She tried to push her vision back towards the city street, which looked as if it was about to erupt into a full-on riot, but she felt as if her efforts didn’t accomplish anything. She was wrest
ling against some stronger, unseen current, which hadn’t been there before. Then her vision cut to a street-level symbol, looking through a wired net out into the street, where a different checkpoint was set up. Two officers were calmly talking to a man and a woman, their two children standing behind them. The woman was arguing loudly. Something was wrong with the paperwork.
“They’re my children,” the woman said. “They’ve been with us to the city dozens of times.”
A snap, and she saw the street again. A crowd had gathered at the barricade, pushing against the police. Behind the front lines were officers with skorrifles readied. They still hadn’t fired – these were ordinary folk, after all. Honest, working human men and women. Then, an unnatural crack in the air, screaming – her vision snapped elsewhere.
A mossy field, stretching out into the distant rocky terrain, undulating hills of jagged black lava. A line of carriages went out into the fields and Garún realised she was looking outside the city walls, near one of the gates. The line was at a standstill and people were agitated.
Then, the great rivers of Elliðaár entering the city, the flat barges of the marbendlar, pulled by the nykrar below the surface, lined up at the customs gate. They needed to get to the docks to trade with the outgoing ships.
Then, a room lit by a crimson light shining through tattered drapes, a room she was intimately familiar with but had only seen illuminated by flickering lights of oil lamps or tallow candles. Before her stood a creature clad in robes of dark sanguine, their black leather gloved hands poised in an odd gesture, frozen, the long-beaked ivory mask now familiar to her. The mask and beak were decorated with red sigils drawn by hand in what looked like blood, but she recognised it as the red paint she’d used to ruin the first key rune. This close she could see the faint traces of galdrastafir inlaid in the leather of the mask, and through the red lenses she saw the vague hints of human-looking eyes.
Shadows of the Short Days Page 28