A Choir of Lies

by Alexandra Rowland

  “Call me Chant,” Orfeo said. “You didn’t say Call me Ylfing, though. You said My name is Ylfing. When you tell people to call you Chant, that’s harder? Because it’s not really you?”

  I nodded immediately. “You’re the first person to say my name aloud in nearly two years,” I said, and he squeezed my hand.

  “Ylfing,” he said. “Ylfing, Ylfing, Ylfing. Ylfing.” He was so firm and serious that I couldn’t help but laugh, and when I started, he did too, and he caught both my hands in his and kissed my name into my fingers, my palms, the insides of my wrists until I lost my laughter in the joyful ache of my heart: “Ylfing. Ylfing. Ylfing.”

  I curled my fingers tenderly along his jaw and the edges of his hair; I cupped his cheeks in my hands and pulled him forward, and I kissed him, and he met me with that sunshine-smile and kissed my name into my mouth too.

  It wasn’t a very long kiss, but it was sincere and sweet as spring flowers, and then he kissed my cheeks and my forehead, whispering my name each time.

  I was so desperately happy that when I opened my eyes, I was a little surprised to find that I wasn’t giving off light. “Orfeo,” I whispered back.

  He touched my hair. “Now I have to practice being a good person,” he whispered. “I have to tell you things.”

  “All right,” I said, giddy and drunk and kissed. “Tell me some things.”

  “You pointed out yourself that neither of us are going to be in this city very long.”

  “I said not permanently, but yes.”

  “I think you’re lovely.” Sweet Orfeo. He hasn’t entirely cast off his rakish ways yet, and he still knows how to flatter a person. “I’d like to spend a little time with you, but then I’m going to leave, or you will.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. I have a lot of experience in leaving people.

  “I just don’t want to break your heart when I go,” he said. “That sounds presumptive of me, but I really don’t want that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What?”

  I had to bite back a lot of responses that probably would have sent him running, like how the idea of feeling anything at all was desperately appealing, even if it was painful. Like how part of me wanted something to wrench my heart back into place, like resetting a dislocated shoulder. Like how I could love him for myself and he wouldn’t need to trouble himself with it at all. “Let me worry about my heart,” I said. “And you mind yours.”

  We sat in silence, finishing the wine and leaning against each other in the dark, not saying much. In the silence, we could faintly hear music coming from the inn—his family, a Pezian song. It was slow, a wistful joy, and Orfeo hummed along and sang the chorus in a whisper against the edge of my ear. My Pezian is really quite poor, and I only made out a few words—my lady and hair and face and eyes and love. “Do you want to go back in? There will be dancing soon.”

  “No,” I said. I hoped he could hear the regret and hesitation. “I’m just getting a handle on being a living person again,” I added, trying to joke. “I think dancing is too much to ask of myself today.”

  He kissed my hair, and then tipped my face up and kissed my mouth too. “Ylfing,” he said, as if for good measure, and I laughed a little and leaned my head on his shoulder. “I hope I can hear you tell another story before I leave.”

  “What sort of story would you like?” I said, returning my face to the warm crook of his neck.

  “One that doesn’t hurt you. One about you, maybe. About Ylfing, not about Chant.”

  I sat up suddenly. “Oh,” I said. “Oh, yes.” And then: “Listen.”235

  * * *

  199. Oh dear fucking gods, what did you get into?

  200. That’s a nice little way to dodge responsibility for all the shit you did when you weren’t paying attention. Nice excuse! Blame everything on your grief! You’re not responsible for anything, because you were busy being sad, right? Now bat your eyes so everyone feels sorry for you and you’ll be all set to go.

  201. “Now!” you say, and then promptly diverge from the story to tell us about your feelings again. That’s real great, Chant. You’d better be doing something here. You’d better seize control of your story, whatever it is.

  202. On one hand, fuck that guy, but on the other hand, he was right. I’ve just been skimming the last page or two and trying not to nod off. Get to the point of things, Chant.

  203. Damn fucking right.

  204. Oh, this should be good.

  205. May wonders never cease!!!

  206. Hah.

  207. Oh no. Oh, fuck me, no. It’s going to be like that, all squishy and romantic and disgusting. I don’t want this anymore. I’ve already suffered through enough of your other feelings, haven’t I? What did I do to deserve this?

  208. I’m so embarrassed for the both of you. I don’t even want to make eye contact with the page, let alone another human.

  209. That sounds right. Told you.

  210. Yes, you do.

  211. Ah, see, he’s better at this than I am.

  212. I’m failing to see the difference between this and “I could stop Chanting,” but clearly you see a difference. I have a headache. I’m tired of trying to puzzle out what you mean. Be a Chant or don’t—just make up your mind and get back to the disaster with the flowers, would you?

  213. Oh no, not again. You were doing so well. What’s it matter that you were strong enough to leave your rock in the trough if you’re still carrying this one with you secretly?

  214. Mm, yeah, that holds water. Only a rake would try so hard, for so long, to get a pretty boy to drink with him.

  215. Mm, yeah, that’s a rake move. I’m glad that all three of us can be honest about that. I really wasn’t expecting him to admit it.

  216. He absolutely is.

  217. Long-winded, aren’t you? And he just . . . sat there? For the whole thing? Smooth, Orfeo. Very smooth. A gentlemanly rake is an irresistible thing.

  218. This is a thing that people do when they are trying to seduce you.

  219. Hmph. Politic. Smooth.

  220. I just snapped my pen in half. You pathetic wretch, can you stop being quite so damp?

  221. Yeah, he’s way better at this than I am. Godspeed to him, to be honest. Better him than me.

  222. Meh. I mean, you’re not wrong, but you’re not really right either. It’s more complex than that. But, sigh, I already know you care nothing for the rites and holy mandates, so there’s no point wasting the ink over theological quibbles.

  223. Why’s it any of his business? What call does he have to question you?

  224. There’s a difference, though. There’s a lot of nuance missing from a prescriptive rule like that. You can make up stories all you want, but you probably shouldn’t make up stories with other folks’ heroes. It wouldn’t be right for you to make up a new Oyemo story, for example. That’s probably what your master meant; you just misunderstood. You can make up brand-new stories all you want. That’s how you get room and board at royal courts, you know; you make up a flattering story or a song about the actual monarch and some heroic deed they recently did.

  225. Hm, his argument is sound but this conclusion is all wrong. They’re made by people, but that doesn’t mean Chants have the right to mess about with them. Just like I said above, you’re not the right person to make a new Oyemo story. It’s meddlesome, and Oyemo doesn’t belong to you. Some things never belong to us, even if we’re carrying them around.

  226. You don’t have to understand a story because, again, not all stories belong to you. A messenger doesn’t need to read a letter to carry it to its recipient.

  227. At least he’s not the feral sort of rake.

  228. Rake.

  229. Rake.

  230. RAKE.

  231. I’ll give him points for elegance of execution, at least. And points for asking, too. He does keep asking, which is to his credit.

  232. He’s very good. Quick on his toes, and a solid facsimile
of sincerity.

  233. Meh.

  234. Yep. Cold-reading, it’s called. You could say “strong, determined, disciplined, honest” to anyone and they’d think you were right.

  235. Oh no.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  How Ylf and Tofa Slew the Great White Bear236

  A very long time ago and half the world away, there lived a hero called Ylf.237 He was the biggest and strongest of anyone in his village, with the bushiest beard and the sharpest axe, and his wife, Tofa, was the cleverest and most beautiful of anyone in the village. Ylf had been the great-jarl of all Hrefnesholt twice, but he had retired from governance to have adventures. This is the story of how he traveled to the ice fields and slew the Great White Bear.

  Ylf’s problem had always been traveling over water. His luck was spell-twisted somehow, but only in regards to boats. Even as a child, the little coracles he paddled about in the calm, sheltered inlets of the fjords would wear out, or spring leaks, and more often than not, Ylf found himself having to swim back to shore.

  Fortunately, he was an excellent swimmer, one of the best in his village. But the boat problem made things difficult. He had only been able to become great-jarl when the Jarlsmoot was hosted in his own village, and he counted himself lucky that Tofa was clever enough to win the title of chief skald and therefore bring the Jarlsmoot to him when it next came about.

  But the boat problem frustrated Ylf, so one day he went up the mountain to the witch who lived in the woods. The witch lived all alone in a house with a triangular yellow door, and she kept all manner of animals around as pets and messengers and spies. When Ylf went to knock on the door, it swung open before his knuckles could touch it, and he saw the witch sitting by the fireplace with two cups of raspberry-leaf tea already waiting. “Good day, Ylf,” she said. “Sit down.” So he did. “What’s troubling you?”

  “My luck with boats is spell-twisted,” he said. “It must be. I cannot even go fishing without getting my boots wet. I’ve endured it for far too long, and I was hoping you could help me or give me some advice.”

  The witch stroked her chin and looked into the fire. “The easiest path would be to avoid boats,” she said with a firm nod.

  “I’m not looking for an easy path.”

  “Hm,” she said. “Well, if you’re sure. I can work a spell to untwist your luck, but it’s complex and time-consuming, and requires components which are difficult to find.”

  Ylf left her house with a quest—to travel to the northern ice fields and slay a white snow bear and to bring back its heart, kidneys, and pelt. The witch advised him to call up the sea-women from the deeps and attempt to negotiate a deal, to carry his boat to the ice fields and back and ensure that it would not sink on the way.

  Ylf called the sea-women as he had been instructed, for he had no other way of reaching the ice fields, and besides that, he knew that it was never wise to disregard the advice of a witch. The sea-women live in the dark cold depths of the ocean, but occasionally they venture into the fjords—they are just like seals, but with the heads and torsos of women. They have the tails of seals, the big round luminous eyes of seals, the teeth of seals, the mottled gray-charcoal-brown skin of seals, the sleekness to let them dart through the icy water, and thick blubber to keep them warm.

  After extensive negotiations, they agreed to carry Ylf’s boat, but they charged him an extortionate sum: a hundred perfect pearls, and the promise that he would give them the teeth of the white bear should his quest be successful.

  Then Ylf went to Tofa and told her everything the witch had said, and the price that the sea-women had asked for, and Tofa nodded. She was not at all worried, for she knew her husband was the strongest and bravest in all the land, but also she knew that he was prudent and was only too aware that even his great strength had limits. “Would you like me to come with you?” she asked.

  “Very much, yes,” Ylf said. “Otherwise I may run into some tedious matter involving riddles or sorcerers, and you know I’m no good at those.”

  “Mm,” Tofa said, nodding. “I know it. You’d rather just hit your problems until they stop. You really are better off bringing me with you.”

  “Just so,” said Ylf. “I agree.” And so they paid for their passage with a hundred perfect pearls and climbed into Ylf’s boat, and the sea-women carried the boat on their shoulders, so even when Ylf’s bad luck struck again and again, the craft did not sink. Tofa was clever and patient, and together she and Ylf patched up every leak the hull spontaneously sprung, every tear in the sail, every snapped line, while the sea-women occasionally peeked over the gunwale and made unhelpful comments like “Did you know your boat is leaking?” and “Did you know your sail tore?” and “We think your rudder might have cracked.”

  On the third day, the sea became strange, and the sea-women peeked over the gunwale to say so, and Ylf and Tofa said, “Thank you, yes, thanks, we noticed, yes.” Tofa lay down in the prow of the boat and reached down to trail her hand in the water, and she rubbed the water between her fingers and frowned.

  “What is it?” said Ylf.

  “Foul magics, I think,” said Tofa. “I’ve never seen magics like this before.” But Tofa, being clever, knew some runes of power.

  (Here I paused briefly to explain the Hrefni rune magic to Orfeo: that nearly anyone could learn the runes, but that they were wickedly complex and required a great deal of precision and a very steady hand, of which Tofa had both.)

  Tofa spent all afternoon scratching a single rune on the inside wall of the boat, and she saw that it was perfect. She pressed her hand against it, but only a curling flicker of power ran through it. “Another problem, dear husband,” she said.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I’ve heard of this from travelers—the runes stop working once you leave the fjords.” But Tofa sat and thought hard for a little while, and then got one of their waterskins and dribbled a little of the water from home on the rune, and took off her shoe so she could scrape a little of the earth from home from her sole, and rubbed that on the rune too, and when she pressed her hand to it again, the power flared up, just enough to work with. She rolled it between her hands into long strands and braided it into a rope, and then she set it about the ship. The sea-women peeked over the gunwales, but they were polite enough to know they shouldn’t interrupt a woman doing a complicated task, and dipped below the surface again.

  As soon as Tofa had tacked the last end of the magic rope in place, a great fog came up out of the sea and surrounded them. Ylf cursed and shook his fist, but Tofa tapped her fingers on her golden rope and the power flared up again, bright as sunlight, and burned a clear path through the fog.

  And in that clear path, they saw something flying, something as big as a person, with enormous ragged wings. And when it came closer they saw that it was a person, and that her wings were made of the wood of wrecked ships and her clothing made of sea-rotted sails. She circled their boat three times and landed on the mast. Her skin was as gray as a corpse, and her eyes were rimed with frost, and her lips were blue. “Turn back,” she said.

  “Do you warn us or threaten us?” Tofa said. Ylf stayed perfectly silent while Tofa spoke, and he hunkered down next to the rudder in the stern and tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

  “I warn and threaten, both,” said the figure. “Turn back.”

  “Why do you warn, and why do you threaten? Who are you?”

  “I—witch of the north! You—too close to my territory. I warn: if you do not turn back, you die. I threaten: If you do not turn back, I kill you.”

  “A witch,” Tofa said. “How unexpected. If we had known you lived here before we left, I’m sure our witch at home would have sent us presents to bring you.”

  This gave the witch pause. “Presents?”

  “Great presents,” Tofa said regretfully. “If only we had known. I don’t blame you for threatening us, to be honest—I too would be upset if a guest arri
ved to my home without a token of some kind.”

  “Presents,” the witch rasped again, slowly and thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps we could find something nice for you,” Tofa said brightly. “And then we’ll be on our way. And next time we’ll be sure to ask our witch if she’d like us to bring you anything—I’m sure whatever she sends will be very nice.”

  “Very nice?” the witch said. “Very nice. Present now.”

  “Hmmm,” Tofa said, looking around the boat. “Well, here’s something good. How would you like that as a gift?” And she pointed to Ylf, scrunched up in the stern of the boat.

  “What that?” said the witch.

  “That’s a husband,” Tofa said. “A very fine husband. Will you be pleased with that for your gift?”

  “Pleased,” said the witch slowly. “Pleased, yes.” And then she swooped off the mast and caught Ylf up in her talons, long wicked iron things that were tied on to her legs with rope, and she flew off due north into the mist. Ylf was scared to bits to be skimming above the water like this, unable to see in any direction, and so he concentrated very hard on holding onto the talons in case she decided to drop him. He couldn’t be angry at Tofa, of course—there really wasn’t anything else in the boat that would have done as a present, and Tofa was cunning. She would not have given Ylf away unless she had a plan to get him back and a certainty that he could look after himself until then.

  At length, a shadow loomed up out of the mist, and Ylf saw that it was the face of an ice cliff. The witch flew up to the top of the cliff and dumped him in front of a large barrow made of snow, into which was bored a little tunnel. “In!” said the witch, and Ylf obediently crawled into the tunnel. It wove back and forth, the better for keeping out the cutting winds that blew across the ice fields, and then opened into a large inner chamber surrounded by several smaller chambers. The floor was covered with fish bones, and against one wall there was a wooden rack from which hung an assortment of huge seal steaks, stiff with frost.

  The witch hopped and squirmed her way in after Ylf, and pointed to a cleared section of the floor. “Fire,” she said.