by Karina Halle
Raila hands Lovia hair pins and she starts pinning my hair up, adding in some large black feathers. I have a sneaking suspicion that those are from the swan I killed.
“There,” Lovia says, placing her hands on my shoulders. “You’re ready to go. And just in time, too.”
I look around. There are no clocks in my room, so I’ve had no idea of the time, especially when the world outside the window seems to be permanent twilight. “What time is it?” I ask. “Is time even a thing here?”
She gives me a small, patient smile. “Time is a thing. Clocks are not. We have timekeeper stones, like quartz, but there’s really no point when it doesn’t behave in a linear fashion. Sometimes time is fast, other times it’s slow. The entire world of Tuonela adjusts itself in time with the number of the dead. It’s the only way we can manage it. So you’ll notice when it gets lighter, well, that’s morning. When it gets darker, that’s evening. When the moon and stars are out, that’s night. But the Goddesses will hold back the sun and moon depending on what needs to be done. Sometimes it’s mid-day for far longer than normal.” She pats my shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. Time as you know it is only an idea. You mortals put far too much control and thought over it.”
Everything she said just blew my mind. “That’s easy for you to say,” I tell her. “Time probably has no meaning when you’re immortal.”
“It’ll mean less for you soon,” she says, pulling me to my feet, the dress weighing a ton. “You’re immortal while you’re here. Ilmarinen, my mother’s consort, is a mortal and he hasn’t aged a day since he got here.”
“I thought you weren’t able to see your mother?” I ask.
Lovia’s face falls for a moment but she buries it with a breezy smile. “I’ve seen Ilmarinen. During my job. You see a lot when you’re ferrying the dead on the River of Shadows.”
You mustn’t be late, Goddess, Raila says to Lovia.
How can you be late if there’s no time? I’m about to ask, but I think I know the answer. It all comes down to Death and you can’t keep him waiting. Even I feel a strange thread of urgency inside me, like Death is driving my internal clock, though that could be my nerves.
We head to dinner.
Chapter 14
The Dinner
Raila opens the door for us and we step out into the hall. Even though I’d apparently been conscious when I was first brought to my room, everything looks new to me. Not in a surprising way, though. The décor of the hall matches my room: decadent and gloomy, like a palace for goths.
Raila and Lovia lead me down the hall, the candles flickering on the walls, oozing black wax that drips to the floor in sculptural mounds. Each wax sculpture seems to move the more I stare at it, the shape continuously shifting, and I don’t know if it’s a trick of the eyes or that everything in this creepy world is sentient.
The hall twists around and comes to an open area with a grand staircase that curves from level to level like a giant granite snake. I peer over the edge, counting two levels below us and two above us. A gargantuan chandelier of bones hangs just below us, lighting up the lower levels, making the shadows on the walls come alive with the flickering candlelight. I see both human and animal skulls in the macabre structure. Now that he definitely didn’t get at Ikea.
Lovia and Raila gently guide me down the steps, and with the way that my gown trails after me, I feel like a historical romance heroine. That is, until two Deadhands pass us on the way up, their empty skeleton faces glimpsed under their shadowy hoods. Creepy as fuck.
I try to suppress the shudder running through me, wanting to appear brave but Lovia gives me a sympathetic look. I guess my disgust is hard to hide.
“I’m sure you’ll get used to them,” she whispers to me as we reach the next level. “I felt the same way when I first went to the Upper World, seeing all those babies and children everywhere.”
I gasp. “My god. You saw dead babies and children in my world?”
She laughs, throwing her head back. “No, silly. If they were dead that would be no problem. I meant babies and children. In general. Your world is just full of them. They give me the creeps.” She shakes her arms out in an exaggerated manner, her bracelets jangling.
“Remind me to never ask you to babysit,” I say under my breath.
We head down another candlelit hall, voices and the clinking of cutlery floating toward us, then come to a large room with two skeleton guards posted on either side of the entrance holding swords. They let us pass but I can feel their eyes trained to me.
The great room has dark parquet floors and plum-colored rugs that complement the smoky purple walls, and narrow stained glass windows in various shades of gray that stretch to the ceiling as if we’re in some forsaken church. Candles flicker from the wall sconces, and at one end is a huge roaring fireplace, at least ten feet long, with a tower of skulls framing it instead of stone. The fire gives off enough light for the whole room and the heat is delicious. I hadn’t realized how cold I had been until now and I briefly wonder if I’m getting used to this climate already.
In the middle of the room is a long iron table and chairs with backs made of blackened bones. Two men sit on opposite sides of the middle of the table and I recognize them from the other day, both of them in robes.
One is a terrifying skeleton whose eye sockets seem to stare into my soul, even from under the shadows of his hood. The other looked like a skeleton when I saw him the other day, but now up close he appears to be more alive than I thought. He’s just incredibly gaunt with pale skin, hooded black eyes, a thinning white beard and wispy white hair that comes over his forehead. He’s watching me too, but it doesn’t feel unkind.
And at the head of the table is Death. He’s wearing a different skull for dinner—perhaps this is his formal attire. It’s polished black and of the canine variety, so if he’s going for a wolfish appearance, he absolutely nailed it. His clothes look the same, dark with some leather, except he’s not wearing a robe for once so I can get a better look at his body, his broad shoulders, the width of his arms, the way his torso tapers down. He’s sitting back in his chair, looking relaxed, gloved hands folded over his knee.
Watching me. Always watching me.
Smiling too. A cunning smile—I can feel it even if I can’t see it.
“The guest of honor has arrived,” Death says, straightening up and getting to his feet, towering over the table. “The fairy girl, the little bird, the mortal daughter of Shaman Torben. Hanna Heikkinen.”
When neither of his companions rise, he clears his throat impatiently and they both get to their feet.
“Welcome, Hanna,” the old man says to me as Lovia leads me to the table. “I don’t believe we’ve had a chance to properly introduce ourselves. I’m Kalma, God of Graves.”
Kalma extends his hand as I pass and I quickly shake it. His skin is ice cold and when I look down I notice his fingers are silver. His ears are silver too and when he gives me a kind smile, his teeth are the same.
“And that’s Surma,” Death says, gesturing to the creepy skeleton on the other side of the table. “Don’t bother with him. He’s not very nice.”
I smile nervously as Lovia sits me down right next to Death, between him and Kalma. Surma makes a low hissing sound in response and then sits down.
“Surma is also a God of Death,” Death explains. “He’s just not the God.”
“He’s a relic,” Lovia whispers to me before she goes to the opposite end of the table.
“Relic,” Surma sneers in a raspy voice and to my horror his teeth clack together as he talks. “Your disdain for relics never fails to amuse me, Loviatar. Didn’t your father tell you to respect your elders?”
“I taught her to respect me,” Death corrects him. “And you are a relic. You’re so old, you should be in the ground.”
“When you say relic, do you mean an Old God?” I ask. Everyone looks at me.
“Don’t tell me this wench is that clueless?” Surma says, teeth cl
anking, making my nerves shrivel.
“She’s not a wench,” Death snipes. “And while she certainly is clueless, give her some time. It’s not easy being thrown into a new world, especially one so cruel.”
I stare at Death, trying not to show any softness on my face. Did he actually stick up for me? In his own way, of course. He still managed to call me clueless.
“I don’t think it’s in good taste to insult the guest of honor,” Kalma says, and I shoot him a grateful smile.
“And speaking of taste,” Lovia says. “I’m starving. Bring out the food and drinks.” She claps her hands together and suddenly Deadhands appear at the doorway, filing toward us carrying jugs and iron platters of various dishes.
“Surma is a relic,” Death explains to me as the food is placed on the table. “A leftover from the times of the Old Gods. Like the Liekkiö, I cannot be rid of him. But he is no God. As you can see, he’s very much dead.”
“He’s also pretty useless at a dinner party,” Lovia says as a Deadhand pours what looks like wine into her iron chalice. “Considering he can’t eat or drink anything.”
“But I can watch,” Surma says. Clack, clack, clack goes his jawbone. “And I can listen. Pardon me if I don’t particularly trust the mortal daughter of the shaman that your father just let go, for no reason at all, I might add.”
He twists his head toward Death now, the movements jarring. “You should have kept him, Tuoni. Or I could have killed him for you, like I used to. It was my job. Now he’s back in the Upper World, and who knows what kind of magic he’s taken with him there. You know more than anyone that shamans can’t be trusted.”
“I know that our guest needs to eat before the food gets cold,” Death says just as the main course is placed in the middle of the table.
I gasp.
“It’s the swan,” Death says proudly. “One of them anyway. Thank Lovia for having the fortitude to pack it in the snow and bring it here.”
I stare at the massive roasted swan in front of me that nearly takes up the whole table. It’s done up like a turkey, surrounded by various fruits and vegetables, some strange, some familiar—like tiny apples and red cabbage. It’s glazed and crispy brown and cooked to perfection and my mouth automatically waters, despite the fact that this is the holy swan I killed.
“It’s the one you decapitated,” Lovia says to me brightly. “I was going to have Pyry cook the head too but decided that might be a bit much for you.”
“I appreciate that,” I tell her. A Deadhand leans over the table and starts to slice up the swan, while a Deadmaiden starts putting various dishes on my plate. She’s not Raila—I’m not sure where she went—but she’s dressed in bright red robes, including her veil. It’s a little unnerving that, like Raila, I can’t see her face, but it doesn’t kill my appetite in the slightest.
The food looks amazing. I know all I’ve had so far is the honeycake and coffee, but I still wasn’t certain what the rest of the food in Shadow’s End would be like. I’d been picturing the worst, like lots of gross raw meat and blood pudding and fish roe and that sort of thing.
This is nothing like that.
“That’s the stuffing for the swan, made of grilled chestnuts, rosemary, cabbage, and smoked mushrooms,” Kalma says, pointing out the things on my plate. “That’s our cook’s specialty, a bread made from mountain rye and birch nectar, covered in hydrangea syrup from the Hiisi Forest. Oh, and that’s a mash of cliff turnips and reindeer butter, with some snowbeans that have been sautéed in duck fat, sprinkled with moonstone salt and poppy flakes.”
“Don’t worry, the poppy adds heat and spice,” Lovia mentions. “You won’t get high.”
I nod my thanks to Lovia and give Kalma an impressed look. “You know your food.”
“And you’re in the house of a God,” he says. “No one eats better than they do.”
“Or drink,” Death speaks up as the red Deadmaiden comes over and fills my chalice with burgundy liquid. “That’s our famous sweetvine wine.”
I give the Deadmaiden an appreciative smile that I’m not sure she sees, then bring the glass to my nose. It smells like red wine, maybe a bit sweeter.
I take a sip and it’s like my mouth has come alive with pleasure, my taste buds buzzing.
“That is delightful,” I exclaim, and Death lets out one of his boisterous laughs again.
“At least you can appreciate the finer things,” Death says. “Makes me want to do this every night. We still have the other swan.”
“Only on the nights I’m here,” Lovia tells us. “I don’t want to feel like I’m missing anything when I’m working.”
“Wouldn’t your brother get mad?” I ask, cutting off a piece of swan.
“Father, would Tuonen get mad?” Lovia asks him.
“He’d appreciate the food, but not the company,” Death says with a hint of disappointment. I’m guessing that the father-son relationship isn’t as strong as the father-daughter one.
“He’d eat it all and leave without saying a word,” Lovia jokes. “You can’t even get him to stay for movie night.”
“I’m sorry, movie night?” I ask. “You guys have movies here?”
Lovia nods. “My father loves movies. Old ones though. I mean, figuratively speaking. He likes what you would call the classics. I think because he hates color and loves black and white.”
“It’s because movies these days don’t know how to tell a real story,” Death says, pointing at her with his fork. “The movies you watch have no heart, no intelligence. All violence and action, not character.”
My brows raise, surprised to hear him say that. “And how do you watch these movies? Don’t tell me you rip the dead actors out of the City of Death.”
He chuckles. “No. But that’s not a bad idea. Why stop at Deadhands and Deadmaidens? I could have my own actor’s studio, filled with all the deceased legends.”
“Don’t give him ideas,” Lovia hisses at me. “He’ll do it, you know.”
“Death often brings things back from your world,” Kalma explains to me patiently. “Oftentimes he’ll bring back computer devices where you can watch the movies. The battery doesn’t last long here, but it’s enough for a night or two of entertainment.”
Surma suddenly makes a growling sound. “I don’t think any of you know how to truly treat a prisoner,” Surma snivels, teeth clacking. “You don’t give them grand rooms and pretty dresses, and you certainly don’t wine and dine them. Tuoni, you really should leave the matter of Hanna Heikkinen to me.”
There’s a weighty pause in the room as everyone looks at Death for his remark. A blast of wind hits, rattles the thin, tall windows, swoops down the chimney over the fire, fanning the flames.
“Hanna is my matter and mine alone,” Death says tightly. “I treat her as I see fit. She is a prisoner here in every sense of the word, she is bound between the walls and wards of the castle, she does not have an ounce of freedom to her name. She can’t leave this place, nor this world, she can’t be reunited with her family, nor her past life. She has truly lost all that she has gained in her meager twenty-four years, and she must comply with my orders or face the consequences of my bare hand.”
His skull tilts down as he reaches for his chalice. “With all that being said, I don’t know why I should make her suffer further while she’s stuck in my grasp, at least not for my own pleasure. You may have once been the one who delivered suffering, but that’s never been my role. I rule. I lord over. I am a God. I am the one in control, and control her life from here on out.”
Well, fuck. When he puts it that way.
I lower my fork, the swan meat never quite making it to my mouth. Now I’ve lost my appetite.
Quiet grips the room once again, the flames dying down. The windows stop rattling.
“Father,” Lovia chides him, breaking the silence. She gestures to me with her head. “You don’t have to be so harsh.”
I put the fork down and put my hands in my lap, staring dow
n at the food. I know I should eat as much as I can, because I don’t know when my next meal will be. After all that, I’m certain that these dinners will be out of the question, especially with Surma’s constant objections to my existence.
“Don’t mistake harshness for cruelty,” Death tells his daughter. “The truth often hurts, but it is still the truth.”
More silence follows as everyone goes back to eating, the clink of cutlery on iron plates filling the space.
Kalma leans in close. “Have some more wine,” he says softly. He smells like mothballs. “It will help you.”
I nod and reach for my glass, downing the rest in one gulp. Then I raise the chalice, looking around for the Deadmaiden in red. She glides on over to me in a ghostly way and fills my cup. Well, if I’m going to keep being reminded of how shitty my life is going to be for eternity, I guess I can always stay drunk for eternity.
While I drink, Lovia talks to Death about something, but I’m not really listening, and I don’t think he is either. I can feel him watching me, his eyes never leaving my face. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and I don’t care to, he’s already an extremely confusing person. Being. God. Whatever.
Eventually, I have a few bites of food, after I’m already feeling pretty drunk, and while the roast swan and the dishes taste incredible, I make sure not to say anything complimentary.
I motion for the Deadmaiden to bring me more wine and this time when she does, her voice slices into my head.
He likes to think he’s not cruel, an old woman’s voice says, but the real truth is that he is. Death is cruel, no matter how you view it—or him.
I glance up at her but can’t see anything beyond the red veil.
Her head twists slightly to me. My name is Harma. I’m the head of the Deadmaidens. And I am your ally, mortal one.
Then she quickly leaves and I’m looking around subtly, trying to figure out if anyone else heard that or just me.