The Lost City

by Amanda Hocking

  “I hope everything is all right,” Pan said. He got to his feet to greet her, so I did the same.

  “Sit, sit!” she commanded with a wave of her hands. “Yes, everything is fine. Like I said, it was small, and it’s nothing you should concern yourselves with.”

  “Thank you so much for seeing us, especially on such short notice,” Pan said, once she’d settled into the couch across from us.

  “I’m not really seeing the both of you, am I?” She turned her sharp gaze to me. “It’s only you who had the questions.”

  I cleared my throat. “I only had one question, really.”

  “You’re with the Inhemsk Project?” Amalie asked.

  “I’m interning in the archives, but I’ve been working with the Inhemsk Project to find my parents,” I explained.

  Her eyes bounced over to Pan. “You’re Panuk, yes? One of the researchers down there?”

  He nodded. “That’s correct.”

  “And you’re here for spectating, or did you have anything you needed yourself?”

  “I only came to help Ulla,” he said.

  “Mmm.” She folded one leg over the other and rested her arm on her knee, then turned to me. “And you’re here about the blacked-out records?”

  “Yes. I know I might not be able to find out what was blacked out, but I was hoping I could at least understand the why.”

  “The Mimirin—despite all our trappings and assertions that we are an institution of influence—makes much fewer decisions about the law of the land than one might imagine.” Her lips twisted into a weary smile. “Even in Merellä, where our pull is arguably the strongest, we are often forced to work within the constraints and limitations of the five tribes.

  “What that means is that most of the records that are blacked out or altered in some capacity came to us that way,” Amalie went on. “The Omte, in particular, have a tendency to be secretive and withhold information for seemingly arbitrary reasons. They are reluctant to share anything at all with us, and we are honestly grateful for what we do ultimately receive.”

  “You’re saying that you have no idea what it said, and you don’t have any way of knowing?” I asked.

  “That’s partially correct,” she allowed. “With the particular record you were interested in—a taxation form with the name of one Orra Fågel—I couldn’t be sure, so I did some research myself. I put a call in to the Omte liaison, and I believe they may have been able to answer the question of why.”

  I sucked air in through my teeth, and my stomach dropped.

  “Orra Fågel is related to the current monarch of the Omte, the Queen Regent Bodil Elak,” Amalie explained. “Cousins, I believe. As private as they are about most things, the Omte protect their royalty even more fervently. In fact, for anything beyond the direct lineage of the throne, they guard all information about the royal family as if it’s a trade secret.”

  “Because Orra Fågel is related to the Omte Queen, I won’t be able to find out anything about her?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Unfortunately, that seems to be the case,” she replied. “Of course, you are free to continue looking here as much as you are able, but I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up that you’ll find anything substantial or even interesting.”

  “She might be my mother,” I persisted. “Doesn’t that matter at all?”

  Amalie shook her head sadly. “I’m very doubtful that the Omte will be forthcoming with you without evidence that you are a direct heir of Orra Fågel’s.”

  “But without access to their records, I won’t be able to gather any evidence that I’m related to her,” I argued.

  “If you’re not sure that Fågel is who you’re looking for, then perhaps you should move on to other options,” she suggested. “Do you have other names on your list of potential mothers?”

  “I have some,” I admitted grudgingly.

  “Perfect.” Amalie clapped her hands as if she had solved the whole thing. “If they won’t give you evidence, then the only thing you’ll have to show the Omte is the absence of evidence.”

  “How will that work?”

  “Look into the other names on your list,” she said. “I assume many of the others are Omte, but as long as they aren’t related to the Queen, you should have an easier time gathering information. It’s likely that one of them will turn out to be your mother, but if not, ruling them all out may help convince the Omte of your relation to Fågel, and they may be willing to allow you to unseal her records.”

  “That is an awful lot of ifs and mays,” I pointed out.

  “When you work in the field we do, you learn quickly that it doesn’t do well to promise certainties,” Amalie said with her weary smile. “Nothing in life is certain, not even the past.”

  26

  Chess

  After the meeting with Amalie, Pan took me down to a lounge so I could have a moment to clear my head before I had to go to work. The lounge itself had been the subject of an unfortunate renovation at some point, with my guess being the seventies, if the balding avocado-green carpet was any indication.

  There was a kitchenette at one end with badly stained mustard-yellow countertops and a few partially stocked vending machines. Several games were scattered around, between mismatched couches and cracked tables and chairs. The foosball table was in rough shape, but the chess table looked fairly new.

  “I know it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but she’s not entirely wrong,” Pan said as he poured me a glass of water from the tap.

  “I know.” I took the water from him, drinking it down greedily, and shook my head. “I’m more frustrated that I wasted her time and yours and mine.”

  “It wasn’t a waste of time. You learned some things.”

  I looked over at him. “Did I? I already knew that Orra was related to the Omte Queen, and I don’t know why Sylvi or Calder wouldn’t have just told us that the Omte are super secretive.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know.”

  “But how could they not know?” I argued. “First of all, it’s not much of a secret. Like, what would be the point of hiding it? Beyond that, it’s something that both Sylvi and Calder should’ve gleaned from their day-to-day work. Hell, it’s already common knowledge that the Omte are cagey and like to keep to themselves, which isn’t that much different from how any of the other tribes behave.”

  Pan leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that’s definitely true.”

  “So, what was the point of all that? Why did she even agree to see me?”

  “I mean, you did sort of demand that Sylvi get you in to see the Mästare,” he reasoned.

  “But why wouldn’t Sylvi have told us what the Mästare said? I wouldn’t have kept pressing. And why would the Mästare even entertain us for something as simple and basic as that?”

  I set down my water glass so I could gesture with my hands as I grew emphatic. “Picture how that call must’ve gone down. Sylvi gets her on the phone and says, ‘Hey, I got a well-connected intern down here, and she’s got some questions about why an Omte record would be blacked out.’

  “And instead of Amalie replying, ‘Oh, that’s because the Omte black everything out related to the Queen, and she’s related to the Queen’—instead of answering that way and having Sylvi fill us in, Amalie instead decided to say, ‘Ah, I believe I know the reason, but that is much, much too sensitive to pass along to you, the head of one of our departments. No, it is much easier and safer for me to go around you and have a meeting with a TOMB who has only the vaguest and thinnest connections to royalty.’

  “Which one of those situations makes more sense to you?” I asked him directly.

  “I get what you’re saying, that both scenarios you described sound a tad ridiculous, but what is the alternative?” he asked carefully. “What other possible motive could Amalie and Sylvi have?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not saying that anything nefarious is going on, but the whole situation doesn’t q
uite mesh for me, and I want to know why.”

  “Fair enough. Where do you wanna start?”

  “What do you know about the Mästare? Like, the position in general, not Amalie specifically.”

  “Do you play chess?” he asked abruptly.

  “Um, I have played a few times,” I answered uncertainly, but he was already walking over to the chess table. “But it’s not something I would say I’m really any good at.”

  Once he sat down at the table, he gestured to the empty chair across from him, so I joined him.

  “You know the basics? The king, the queen, the bishops, the knights, the rooks, and the pawns.” Pan lined up the pieces by rank—the tallest ones were the king and queen, a pair of ravens carved into ivory, the king broader and the queen with a dainty tilt of her beak; the bishop was a wolf baring his teeth; the knight was a thick Tralla horse rearing up like it was ready for a fight; the rook was a tall, twisting serpent. “This one right here”—he put his finger on top of a pawn, a delicately carved small deer with slender horns—“that’s me. An expendable pawn.”

  “If you’re a pawn, what does that make me?” I asked.

  He smirked. “Honestly? You’re not even on the board.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Hey, nobody ever said that caste systems were kind.” He pushed up the sleeves of his flannel shirt and returned his attention back to the pieces. “Above me is the knight, and their equivalent would be all the educators, whether that be teachers, docents, or what have you. There are rankings among them, which vary with position and expertise, but generally speaking the teaching staff are all regarded about the same.”

  “Only slightly better than you.”

  “Like I said, nobody ever said it was kind. Anyway, directly above them is the bishop, which are the department managers, like Sylvi or Calder. These are the ones that make sure everything is running smoothly and everyone is getting paid.

  “This right here is a Mästare.” He touched the top of a rook. “There are two positions above them, but that’s not exactly true either. Directly above the Mästare isn’t an individual but a group. The queen represents the Information Styrelse.”

  “Isn’t the Styrelse made up of several of the Mästare? Wouldn’t that make them their own boss?”

  “So the rumors go, but unless you’re on the Styrelse yourself, it’s impossible to know for sure. The Mimirin charter states that a board of information will be made up of anonymous members of the faculty and elite members of the kingdom. It could be all Mästares. It could be just royalty. It could even be made entirely of janitors. Who can say? But the good news is that there is still one more position above them, to keep them in line.”

  “The Korva?”

  He nodded. “Yep. The Korva is the one that rules them all. The current Korva is Ragnall Jerrick and has been for the past six years.”

  “How does the Korva get the job? Are they voted in?”

  “They are appointed by the Styrelse.”

  “Uh-huh.” My eyes bobbed between the king, queen, and rooks. “The only two positions above the Mästare are chosen by the Mästares? Doesn’t that sound a bit like the hens running the henhouse?”

  “A little bit, maybe, but aren’t the hens the ones most qualified to know how a henhouse should be run?”

  “I take it you haven’t spent a lot of time in a chicken coop,” I said. “Chickens are mostly sweet and docile, but they can be capable of barbaric acts of violence. I once saw the older hens nearly peck a younger red hen to death because she had a solitary white feather on her head. They just kept pecking at it and pecking at it.”

  “What happened to the chicken?” Pan asked.

  “We took her out of the coop and nursed her back to health, and she’s essentially a house pet now. The kids named her Dottie, and she sleeps in Emma’s room back in Förening.”

  “At least that story had a happy ending.”

  “Unlike this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The system you described, there’s no way for us to know who’s in charge,” I said. “As a Mästare, Amalie might actually answer to no one. She could be a member of the Styrelse. She could be best friends with the Korva and got him appointed.”

  “Or she could be an average employee with no pull or real connection with the board or the Korva,” Pan countered. “Sylvi may have oversold your connection to the Trylle Queen, and Amalie was just trying to keep the peace.”

  I sighed. “That could also be true.”

  “This isn’t a dead end, though, Ulla. You still have a dozen or so names.”

  “I’m up to eleven now, ten without Orra Fågel.”

  “So, ten. That’s still a lot of Orras to go through, and any one of them could be your mom or know something about her. You could use this time worrying about what Amalie’s ulterior motives may be—if she even has any—or you could do what you came here to do, and go back to looking for your mother.”

  “I know you’re right, but . . .” I chewed my lip. “I just . . . I felt something when I found that paper, and . . . I always thought I would know when I found my mother. That it would be this intrinsic feeling I had inside me, where I knew it was her. And I thought I felt that when I saw the name Orra Fågel. But now I don’t know if I did. I don’t know if I ever will.”

  Pan leaned forward, resting his arms on the chessboard. “When I was a kid, my grandpa used to make the most delicious country food. It wasn’t one of those big Sunday meal things, but he’d have me and my mom over about once a month, and he’d cook for us. All of it was amazing, but my favorite thing was the akutaq—which is sort of like an ice cream made with berries and whipped fat.

  “And then after he died, my mom tried replicating his meals, but they weren’t the same,” he went on. “I looked up recipes and got a country food cookbook written by a local Inuit tribe, and I tried my hand at it. I even went to a food fest in Montreal and tried akutaq made by experts and professional chefs.

  “Then it hit me: I had tried every conceivable variation of Grandpa’s akutaq, including one made by his daughter, who had learned to cook it from him. I had to have eaten one that was right. But I didn’t recognize it because I had inflated the flavor in my brain, making it this mythical perfect ambrosia.

  “I was remembering something that had never existed, something that I had never had, and I would never know when I tasted the flavor my grandfather made,” Pan said with a sad wistfulness. “All it is and all it will ever be now is a distorted memory.”

  “That’s dark.”

  He shook his head adamantly. “No, it’s not. I don’t want you to get caught in the same trap that I was. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Sometimes things happen without intense feelings or magical certainties.”

  “Thanks. I think I needed the reminder.”

  “I know. The more you get to know me, the more you’ll get used to me being right.”

  “I think I can manage it.” I smiled at him. “But I should probably get back down to the archives. I’ve ditched out on Calder enough this week.”

  “I’ll walk you down.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know. But I want to.” He stood up with me. “And it gives me a reason to avoid Sylvi for a little bit longer.”

  27

  Arrow

  This was my paper-cuts-and-ink-stains montage. This was nine and a half hours of cold floors and books that smelled like dust and mold. This was translating old Norse so long that the words blurred into one foggy mass of umlauts and overrings. This was the silence that came after the radio broke, when it was only the papery scrape of turning pages and Calder’s occasional phlegmy cough.

  This was my Friday night. I had been working all day, and I was working well into the evening.

  Calder excused himself to go to the storage closet, since we were in need of more pens. It was about ten minutes after he’d left me alone that the doors to the archives groaned open and Dagny walked in. Her bl
ack hair had been pulled into a long braid that hung down her back and swayed slightly as she strode over to me.

  I sat up straighter and offered a cautious smile. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  “Hanna told me you were working late, and I thought I ought to bring you some of the ridiculously tasty dökkt rúgbraud she and Eliana cooked up today.” Dagny set a paper bag down on the desk, and I could already smell the fresh rye bread.

  “That’s awfully kind of you.”

  “I did it for myself, really,” Dagny admitted and leaned against the desk. “I don’t need to eat an entire loaf of that, and if I didn’t get that out of the house, I was going to eat an entire loaf of it.”

  “Well, I appreciate it either way,” I said. “How are things going at the apartment? Hanna told me it was going great when I called, but it’s hard to know how truthful she’s being.”

  “They haven’t broken anything, and they were both home watching some cartoon burgers on Hanna’s laptop. It’s nice when they watch shows, because Eliana is focused and quiet.”

  “Do you have any new ideas about what’s going on with Eliana?” I asked.

  Dagny let out an irritated sigh. “Not really. I ask her as many questions as I can, but she doesn’t have the patience for it. It’s like she can’t hold a single thought in her head for very long, and then she has to flit on to the next thing.”

  “You think she has some kind of brain trauma or something like that?”

  “Since I’m not a medical professional, it would be irresponsible of me to speculate,” Dagny answered in her usual cool and collected way. “I also haven’t been able to gather enough data to even make a wild guess.”

  She fell silent for a moment, her jaw tensing subtly and her eyes narrowing as she thought. “The only thing I will say is that Eliana seems fully capable of caring for herself and performing complex tasks. I can’t in good conscience make a case for her being a danger to herself or others, so there really isn’t any more I can do except attempt to persuade her to allow Elof to evaluate her.”