The Rot E-Book

Siri Pettersen

• Herausgeber: Arctis US
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

She has no identity. No family. No money. But the fate of the worlds rests in her hands. Hirka is stranded in a rotting world, with nothing but a raven and a notebook to connect her to the life she left behind in Ym. She came in search of her family, believing that she could protect Rime and the rest of Ym from the ancient evil of the blind. Instead, what Hirka finds in this new world are people willing to do anything for the blessing—or the curse—of eternal life. And for Rime, the threat of the blind is only growing stronger … Separated by worlds, unsure who to trust, and in danger from all sides, Hirka and Rime fight to end a thousand-year quest for power and revenge—and, maybe, to find a way back to each other. In this follow-up to the international bestseller Odin's Child, Norse-inspired mythology combines with modern-day action to create a work that is wholly original, endlessly surprising, and utterly unforgettable.

Leseprobe

Siri Pettersen

The Raven Rings

The Rot

Translated by Siân Mackie and Paul Russell Garrett

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are from the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously.

This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA, Norwegian Literature Abroad.

W1-Media, Inc.

Imprint Arctis

Stamford, CT, USA

Copyright © 2021 by W1-Media Inc. for this edition

Text copyright © 2014 by Siri Pettersen by Agreement with Grand Agency

Råta first published in Norway by Gyldendal, 2014

First English-language edition published by W1-Media Inc./Arctis, 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Author website at www.siripettersen.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021936135

English translation copyright © by Siân Mackie and Paul Russell Garrett, 2021

Cover design copyright © Siri Pettersen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

ISBN978-1-64690-601-7

www.arctis-books.com

To everyone who loved Odin’s Child and just couldn’t shut up about it.

And to you. The one who is passionate about the planet. The one fighting alone because the distance between your dream and our reality is just too great. The one who wants to leave the world in a better place than it was when you arrived. The one who has always known we’re going in the wrong direction.

This book is for you.

PROLOGUE

He sat in the tunnel between platforms, a cardboard sign propped against his knees. His face was hidden by greasy hair, but there was no doubt. It was him. And the tube doors were about to shut.

Stefan shoved a teenager aside and elbowed his way through the crowded carriage. He was glad he had earbuds in. They blocked out the chorus of complaints. An old woman’s mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, but all he heard was Trent Reznor.

He had to get off the train. Now. He’d lost the bugger twice already, and he wasn’t going to lose him a third time. Stefan flung himself toward the closing doors. His arm got caught, but he made it through. He stumbled out onto the platform before the train screeched off.

There were people everywhere. The fluorescent lighting sucked the life out of their faces, making them look like zombies. But none of them were so dead that they wouldn’t react if he did what he had to do down here. He had to find another way. Another place.

He walked into the tunnel. The beggar held out his hand without looking up. Stefan grinned.

“Hey, Roast.”

Roast raised his head. The recognition barely had time to flash in his eyes before he was on his feet. Quicker than what seemed possible. He took off, running up the tunnel. Dressed in black and disheveled, like a crow. Stefan raced after him. The sound of his shoes pounding against the floor echoed off the tiled walls. He squeezed through a ticket barrier, leaped up the stairs in three bounds, and came out on the street.

Rain pelted his face. It was dark. Roast was almost in his grasp, but then he cut out into the traffic, darting in front of cars that veered away.

Stefan didn’t hesitate. Instinct drove him onward. Brakes squealed. He braced himself against the wet hood of a car and resumed his chase. Screeching car horns intermingled with the music.

He cut across Soho Square and gained a few meters. People were watching, but nobody was going to get involved. Not when his prey was a vagrant.

Roast sent people flying as he cut through St Anne’s Court, took a left, and continued past Flat White, the coffee bar where they’d first met. Stefan’s lungs were burning, but he was willing to bet Roast was faring worse than him.

He was right. The beggar slowed down. Looked around in despair, then stole inside a nightclub.

Stefan pushed past some people and followed him inside. Roast was easy to spot: a scruffy mess among all the tight dresses and plunging necklines.

Roast ran toward an emergency exit. Opened the door and slipped out. Stefan was there before the door managed to shut. He tumbled out into an alley. A dead end. The beggar stood in a corner by the dumpsters, snarling like a caged animal.

“Game over, Roast.” Stefan walked toward him.

Roast backed up against the wall, bumping into a drainpipe. Some plaster came loose around the fasteners, sprinkling onto his shoulder. The rain washed it down his faded coat. “I didn’t do nothing! I didn’t do nothing!” he screamed hysterically.

That wasn’t true. He didn’t get the nickname Roast by chance, but Stefan couldn’t bother pointing that out. It wasn’t like there was anything human left to discuss it with.

Stefan was gleefully aware that he had the upper hand. He could keep the Glock by his hip. Save a bullet. Instead he pulled out a pair of pliers.

Roast’s eyes widened. He scanned the alley for something to defend himself with. He tore off a metal fastener from the drainpipe, sending the bolts tumbling to the ground. He started to hammer away at his own teeth, splitting his lip. The apparent absence of pain indicated that adrenaline was far from the only drug coursing through his body.

Roast spat into his hand and held out his arm. “Take ’em! Take ’em! You can’t touch me. They’ll find you if you do! The pigs will find you!” Red mist sprayed from his mouth as he screamed.

Stefan looked at the two white nuggets in Roast’s grubby hand. Rain collected around them in a bloody pool.

“Idiot,” he replied. “The pigs don’t give a shit how you die. Do you think they would waste a penny on you? You’re forgotten. Or had you forgotten?”

Stefan didn’t wait for a response. He rammed his elbow into the bridge of Roast’s nose, sending his head into the wall with a thump. He swooped up the teeth before Roast hit the ground. Then he dragged the unconscious body into the corner behind the dumpster, which looked like it was vomiting, the lid straining to contain all the garbage. The smells combined. Rotten food. Blood. And a stench that made it clear Roast no longer took his toilet visits very seriously. Understandable, perhaps, after more than a hundred years.

Stefan tried to snap his neck. But Roast was sturdy. It took two tries before he heard the crack.

He pocketed the teeth and surveyed the scene. No windows. No cameras. No people. He was safe. The pavement glistened. The rain beat against the lid of the dumpster. Stefan ran a hand through his wet hair. He put the pliers back into his bag, straightened his jacket, then cranked up the volume.

THE HOLE

“Peace of mind is all we’re asking for,” Telja Vanfarinn said, placing her hand over her heart, making the chain looped around her neck jingle.

Rime almost burst out laughing. Anyone, even if they hadn’t grown up in Mannfalla, would have seen through that performance. Telja was wearing a black dress with sleeves that brushed the floor. She was playing the part of a widow, even though her husband stood large as life by her side. The grief was nothing more than an act. Put on to ingratiate herself with the Council, after she had shrewdly wormed her way into a meeting with them.

“It’s tearing us apart, Rime-fadri. Not knowing. Not understanding Urd’s death.”

Rime felt his lip start to curl. Urd’s name still made him feel ill, and it didn’t seem like that was going to change anytime soon. Not as long as his chair remained empty. It was a gaping wound that divided the circle of councillors settled around the table. Perilous. Festering. Impossible to talk about without causing an uproar that could wake half of Slokna.

“You have received our condolences,” Rime replied. “I personally visited the head of the Vanfarinn family. She knows what happened. You’re … the daughter of her sister?” He looked at Telja, who had approached the council table unbidden.

“Ravenbearer, our mother is old,” Telja said, skirting the question. “Her memory is not what it once was. You have honored us with your visit to her, but … some of the things she says you told her, they’re … well …” Telja adjusted her necklace.

“Incredible,” Darkdaggar finished. “So incredible that we would expect the family to want confirmation from the man who was actually there when Urd died.”

Rime had seen the attack coming, but he hadn’t expected it to be so blatant. He looked at the councillor. “Would you have me dragged before the assembly, Darkdaggar?”

“Certainly not, Ravenbearer. The Vanfarinn family simply wants to put an end to the matter.” Darkdaggar smiled, but the light cutting across his face made it appear colorless. Lifeless. Drained. A stark contrast to the golden walls behind him, which were divided into twelve panels, detailing each councillor’s family tree. They branched up the vaulted ceiling, giving Rime the sense of sitting in a cage. The back of his chair felt like a wall, pinning him to the table.

He was trapped. Chained to a chair that would never feel like his own. It belonged to Ilume. His mother’s mother. And he’d sworn never to occupy it. But here he sat. Councillor. Rime-fadri. Ravenbearer. Surrounded by enemies who spent every waking moment plotting his downfall.

“Put an end to the matter?” Sigra Kleiv folded muscular arms across her chest. “Urd was killed at Ravnhov, and as long as those barbarians are not made to answer for it, the matter will never die.”

Rime felt himself becoming more and more irritated. It was an effort to stay seated. “This is the last time I’ll say this, Sigra. The war has been called off. Accept it. Ravnhov can’t be brought before the assembly for something the blind did.”

Sigra drew her breath to reply, but Darkdaggar beat her to it.

“Possibly not, but then I don’t suppose we can drag the blind before the assembly either, can we?” He sipped some wine as laughter spread around the table.

Rime looked at Telja Vanfarinn. Her cheeks were a fervent red. She could sense the shifting mood in the room. It made her bolder. Her veil of sorrow lifted.

“We might have done, except nobody’s ever seen one.” She smiled.

Rime stood up. “Nobody?”

Telja’s smile withered. She looked at Darkdaggar pleadingly. Rime wasn’t surprised. Darkdaggar was the one who had granted her an audience, and Rime expected they’d had many conversations in advance of this meeting. How many points of attack they’d settled on remained to be seen.

“Don’t take it personally, Ravenbearer,” Darkdaggar said. “Telja is just pointing out what we all know. What’s most conspicuous about the deadborn is their complete absence. Who claims to have seen them? A handful of Kolkagga? Is it any wonder people talk of delusions? Of people being poisoned? Or maybe eating something that didn’t agree with them? Or being subjected to … sorcery?”

Laughter broke out around the table. Rime clenched his fists and moved closer to Telja. She took a couple of steps back, her dress sweeping the floor. Rime pointed at her.

“The only reason you’re standing here is because many in this room remain loyal to the Vanfarinn family. I do not. Calling me and my men liars is not going to help you.”

Telja’s gaze flickered between Rime and Darkdaggar. “I would never … I didn’t say … The mind is a fragile thing, Ravenbearer. It’s said that many strong men have seen trolls in the fog, and we—”

“Trolls in the fog?” Rime caught her gaze. Held it. The wrinkles around her eyes revealed that she was older than he had first thought. Maybe that was where her boldness came from. It was now or never for her.

“My sword has tasted blood from what you believe to be a myth. I’ve driven steel through them and seen the life leave their sightless eyes. Felt their breath. Heard them snarl. And I’ve smelled the stench of their burning corpses. A smell you’d carry with you to Slokna, Telja.”

The laughter died down. Telja swallowed and lowered her gaze.

“In the name of the Seer,” Darkdaggar chimed in. “Must we really be so dramatic? All the family asks is for the wound to be healed. They’ve lost a councillor, Ravenbearer.”

Everyone turned to look upon the empty chair. There could be no doubt as to what they believed would heal the wound.

Rime looked at Telja again. “Really? Would this chair give you the answers you require? Would you stop wondering how he died if one of your own sat at this table?”

Telja hesitated but had enough decency to shake her head.

“Of course not,” Darkdaggar said. “But at least it would offer assurance that Urd was not done away with in order to free up a seat.”

The room fell silent. The accusation was blatant, and to make it in the presence of outsiders? Rime looked at each of them in turn. Men and women three or four times his age. They remained silent. Most of them because they supported Darkdaggar. A few because they didn’t want to make matters worse.

Telja Vanfarinn took a step toward Rime. “Ravenbearer, you must forgive us. We’re speaking out of grief. All this talk about the blind and stone ways … For us, this is unfathomable. Nobody has seen proof of—”

“Nonsense!” Jarladin interrupted. “The Rite Hall was full of people when Kolkagga burst through the gateways and the walls crumbled. If you want proof, you can buy a chunk of the red dome down by the harbor!”

Telja seized upon the opportunity lustfully, as if it were up for negotiation. “A rite hall full of people means many stories, Jarladin-fadri. Forgive us, we were not there. We heard only that the building shook. Some say that the walls had been weakened by the dome. Others say it was the earth that shook.”

Darkdaggar clasped his hands behind his head. “Such a tragedy that we’re unable to reassure you, Telja. That would have made things so much easier. But the truth is that the gateways are as dead today as they have been for the past thousand years. Isn’t that right, Ravenbearer?” He looked at Rime, his eyes glinting in triumph.

Rime clenched his teeth. This had gone on for too long. He’d opened the door a crack and now the wolves were squeezing through. Diplomacy was not going to help him anymore.

“People can talk until they rot in Slokna,” he said. “Just as they’ve always done. It changes nothing. I was there. I know what happened. Urd built his own funeral pyre. He was a rabid dog.”

Sigra let out an exaggerated gasp. A spark was lit in Telja’s eyes. It was all she could do to hold back a smile. She grabbed a black bundle from her husband’s arms. Held it up. It was a tunic, which someone had cut into. On the chest, where the mark of the Seer should have been, there was nothing but a gash. A gaping hole above the heart.

“This belonged to an augur, Ravenbearer. An augur who went out on the Ora where the ice was thin. Nobody has seen him since. They say he lost his mind. And that he was not the first. I do accept that Urd was peculiar, Rime-fadri, but he was never crazy. Maybe it was the loss of the Seer that drove him to melancholy. Maybe that was why he acted as he did. And, with that in mind, perhaps it could be said the entire matter was … well …”

Rime could hardly believe his ears. He looked at her. “My fault?”

She bit her lip. Measured him with her gaze.

He stared at the tunic, feeling nauseous. The hole threatened to draw him in. Consume him. A dark void.

He stepped closer to Telja. Her husband held out a protective arm. A pointless reflex. Rime grabbed him by the wrist and forced him back without so much as glancing at him. Telja gathered up her skirts as if preparing to run.

Rime leaned toward her. “Urd killed Ilume right in front of me. My mother’s mother. He broke open the raven rings. Let the deadborn into Ym. Driven to madness by his own blindcraft. No, I didn’t kill him. But I can promise you that if I’d had the chance, I would have done so without batting an eyelid. Take a good look at the chair, Telja, because you’ll never see it again.”

“Enough!” Sigra slammed her fist against the table. Leivlugn Taid gave a start next to her, his double chin quivering. His goblet tipped over. The old man had dozed through most of the meeting and had hardly touched his wine. It spread across the table. Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone scrambled to save their robes.

“This meeting is over,” Rime said. He opened the balcony doors and stepped out onto the bridge, drawing the cold air into his lungs. It was one of the oldest bridges in Eisvaldr, the one he used to cross to get to the Rite Hall. Now it protruded into nothingness, like a frozen tongue. Stone serpents hung out over the edge as if clinging to it. Rime realized he was doing the same, so he let go of the balustrade. The warmth of his hands left an impression in the frost.

On the ground far below was the raven ring. Pale stone pillars witnessing their first winter after a thousand years hidden in the walls. They were dead. No use to anyone. He’d spent entire nights binding the Might in front of them. Drawing upon it until the pressure in his temples was unbearable, but the stone way refused to open for him. He might as well have dreamed that it once had. Darkdaggar had spoken the truth. The gateways had disappeared the moment Hirka passed through them. Taking her away from him.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him. Jarladin came up beside him and stared at the end of the bridge. “If you just keep walking, you’ll spare them the bother,” he said, the wind toying with his white beard.

Rime chuckled. “I wouldn’t give any of them that pleasure. If they want me dead, they’ll have to see to it themselves.”

Jarladin sighed. “Their patience is wearing thin, Rime. You can’t continue being dismissive of them. Not without being brought before the assembly in chains. Darkdaggar crossed the line, but you’re not even trying to unite them. If you don’t set aside your hatred, it’s going to be the downfall of you and me both.”

Rime was about to say that he didn’t hate anyone, but that would have been a lie. He hated them for ruling under a false seer, hated how they bent reality to their will. The intrigue. The lies. The bitter truth was that everyone around that table had no goal other than to keep their chair.

Jarladin thumped Rime on the back, as if that would help matters. “Anyway, they have a point. Several augurs have left us, and that will have consequences.”

“Has no one told you that you can’t force people to stay?” Rime felt exposed by his own words. He tore his gaze away from the stone circle. Pounded his hands against the balustrade. “This is senseless! They saw it with their own eyes! They saw the walls come down and the stones appear. They know the blind were here. They know the truth as well as I do, but they cast doubt because it serves the Council’s interests.”

Jarladin looked at him. “Is that what motivates you? Being right? Nonsense. You’ve never cared about your own position. Had you done so, you would have secured your family’s future.”

Rime turned away. Jarladin was an ox of a man, and his only friend around the table, but that certainly didn’t mean he was any easier to deal with.

“I’ve said what I’m going to say on the matter. Kolkagga are bound to Kolkagga alone.”

“Since when have you cared about rules, Rime? You could plow your way through the entire library without finding a single rule you haven’t already broken. At least choose a reason I can believe.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? You and the Council want me to start a family because it would strengthen you. Not me.”

Jarladin put his hand on the back of Rime’s neck and held him firmly, like a father might. “Rime … our interests should be the same.”

Rime closed his eyes, listening to the old ox’s voice in his ear.

“Listen to me. You cannot let her control everything you do. You’re Kolkagga. You’re Rime An-Elderin. You’re the Ravenbearer, for Seer’s sake! You can’t let yourself be ruled by a tailless embling that no one is ever going to see again. Use your head, lad! If you want to give people hope and mend this council, then take a wife. Have a feast. Show them that the families are strong. And if you absolutely have to defy them, then choose someone outside the twelve. Take the opportunity to unite north and south. That’s what you want. Find a girl from the north. I’m sure Sylja Glimmeråsen wouldn’t complain.”

Jarladin didn’t wait for an answer. He let go of Rime and walked back toward the Council Chamber. “The stones are dead,” he shouted. “But we’re still alive!” He entered the Council Chamber and shut the door behind him.

Rime remained there, weighed down by reluctance. The cold seeped in through his fingers. He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the raven beak that Hlosnian had found at Bromfjell. Before the fire devoured the stones. It was all that was left of Urd. A beak. Not even the stone whisperer knew its purpose.

There was something sinister about it. Something strange. The color of the bone grew darker toward the tip. Blood was congealed in the scratches.

Rime tested its weight in his hand. Heavier than its size might suggest. It made his skin crawl. But at the same time, it tempted him. The beak was the only thing that felt real. That reassured him that everything had actually happened. And that this was only the beginning.

VIKINGS

“Norway?”

“No.”

“Finland?”

“You guessed that already.”

“Iceland! It has to be Iceland! You’re really good with the thhh sound … you know, like the Vikings.” Jay touched her tongue to her front teeth and blew. “Thhh.”

“I don’t know the Vikings,” Hirka said, pressing down on a knot in Jay’s shoulder that made her whole body sag.

“Ow, ow, ow! No, don’t stop! Vikings? You’ve never heard of Vikings?”

Hirka continued massaging Jay’s shoulders and didn’t reply.

“Norsemen who lived a thousand years ago? Longboats? Pillaging? Berserkers?”

Berserker had a familiar ring to it, but Hirka said nothing. Words often sounded familiar for no reason at all. She’d stopped looking for similarities. She almost always ended up at a dead end, which just left her feeling depressed.

She’d also learned never to be honest. Never to say that she’d come through the stones. And never to try selling tea from another world to people in a café. It turned out that if you did that, the owner called the police and the only escape route was through the toilet window.

“Can you take these out?” Hirka prodded one of Jay’s earbuds. She always had them in. Everywhere she went, she looked like she had milk trickling out of her ears. Jay took them out, letting them hang from a clip on her chest.

“You need to stop … what’s the word? Hanging? Hanging your back,” Hirka said.

“I know. Slouching. I get it from Mum. She says you soon get used to keeping your head down where we’re from. You have to, if you want to survive.”

“Survive?”

“Survive. Exist. Get by. You know, not die?”

Hirka nodded. She’d heard the word before but had forgotten it.

Jay stretched like a cat. Then she pulled her phone out of a pouch hanging from a glittery cord around her neck. “What are we looking for?”

“Some other time,” Hirka said, glancing at the pile of dirty dishes. “We need to tidy up and close.”

“No, no, a deal’s a deal. You help me, I help you. What am I searching for?”

“See if you can find one with yellow bells. And not many leaves,” Hirka said. She rinsed cake crumbs off a plate and put it in the dishwasher.

“Okay. Yellow bells. Coming right up.” Jay tapped her phone. Her dark hair fell down into her face. It always did at the end of the day, when her hair clips were losing their grip. Particularly when the café had been busy. Like today.

There were cheers outside. Hirka looked out the window. The couple was standing on the church steps, eyes shining and cheeks aglow. Surrounded by friends and family taking pictures. Pictures that would stay on their phones. Moments, frozen in time.

What Hirka wouldn’t give to have pictures from Ym.

Sorrow gripped her heart. She turned to finish loading the dishwasher. There was no point thinking about things or people she was never going to see again.

There was just enough room for the last plate. She closed the door and pressed the button a couple of times. Seeing the little light switch on and off usually cheered her up.

“Here,” Jay said, showing Hirka her phone. “Plants with yellow bells. Any of these the one you’re looking for?”

Hirka looked at the small pictures. A couple of them were similar, but none of them were yellowbell. She was surprised to feel a stab of disappointment. She thought she’d given up hope.

“It has to be one of them,” Jay said. “I’ve googled all plants with yellow bells, and I’m quite good at searching for things. You should learn, Hirka. You’re the only person I know who’s never used a phone.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever need one,” Hirka replied, painfully aware she had no one to call.

“Blimey, you done already?” Jay got up and brushed off her apron. “All that’s left to do is lock up then. You’re well efficient.”

Hirka smiled. That tended to be the safest option when she didn’t quite follow. “We need to wait until they’ve left, Jay. We’re not with them.”

She looked at the crowd outside. Men and women with watery eyes and shiny shoes. They filled the square between the café and the church.

The café was a strange annex to the church itself, built in a completely different style. A new wing with space for those who needed it most. Like her. It was somewhere the homeless could get a decent night’s sleep. Where the poor could get a bite to eat. It also had a room where they helped the sick, though Hirka had been in there several times and there wasn’t a plant in sight.

“We can sort through these while we wait,” Hirka said, emptying a bag of clothes on a table. They smelled of dust and sweat, but they looked all right. At first she’d been overwhelmed by what people were willing to give away, but Jay had said it was rubbish that no one wanted. She found that hard to believe.

Hirka put a jumper in a pile of things in need of mending.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Jay laughed. “You’re good, but not even you could fix that.”

“The one you’re wearing has more holes.”

Jay looked down at her own jumper. “Eh, hello, this is different! It’s supposed to have holes in it. It’s cool.”

“So let’s cut some more holes in this one and it’ll be cool, too.”

Jay looked at her with one eyebrow raised. Her eyes were rimmed with black make-up. She shook her head. “I swear it’s like you’re from another world. Urgh, what is this?”

Hirka grabbed Jay’s hand. “Stop!”

She took the shirt from Jay. It had a bloody tear in the sleeve. She folded it and put it in the reject pile. “It might not be safe,” she told Jay. “You shouldn’t touch blood.”

“Christ, you have no idea how much I hate this job!”

Hirka smiled. “You’re here almost every day.”

“Only because Mum forces me! And it gives her an excuse to be here. So she can make eyes at Father Brody. It’s so embarrassing. I mean, a priest? He’s not even allowed to get married, and if he ignores her for so much as two minutes, she freaks out. Why do you think she’s so cold with you? Because you’re here all the time, that’s why.” Jay leaned closer to Hirka. “She says you shouldn’t be living here. That he should report you to child services or something.”

Hirka shrugged. It wasn’t really any wonder that Jay’s mother was fond of Father Brody. Dilipa had lived in the church herself, many years ago. In a room in the basement, just after Jay had been born. Back when they’d been terrified of being sent home. Hirka didn’t know where home was, or what they’d run from, but what she did know was that everything was okay now. Jay was the same age as Hirka and had a five-year-old sister.

Where would they send me if they worked out who I was? Where is home?

“It won’t last,” Jay said with a grimace, watching the couple on the steps.

“You don’t think so?”

“Nah. Look at him. He’s at least twenty years older than her. She probably just wanted the dress. And the money. As soon as he hits fifty, she’ll wake up and realize he’s an old man.” Jay chucked her apron on a chair. “They’re leaving. That’s me, then. See you tomorrow, Hirka.”

She headed for the door, putting her earbuds back in and nodding along to music that Hirka knew only she could hear. Stored sounds. Just like the pictures.

Hirka wiped the tables and hung both their aprons on a hook. She locked the door and took the back entrance into the church. It wasn’t unlike a Seer’s hall. A stone building, built to impress.

Father Brody had already left. Hirka walked down the aisle, surrounded by high windows with colorful motifs. Images from stories she didn’t know. Gods and humans. No ymlings in any of them. No tails. And no deadborn.

One hundred and fifty-four days. Since Ym. Since Mannfalla.

Since Rime.

She walked around the altar and opened the door to the bell tower, climbing the stairs until she reached the top. She’d been allowed to stay there even though it wasn’t a place people usually lived. The priest had said it was like a building site, with no heating or lights. Not that Hirka missed either. He’d wanted to give her a room in the basement. The one Jay and her mother had stayed in. But basements reminded her of the pits in Eisvaldr. She needed to be higher up. As high up as possible. To climb until no one could reach her. So she’d come up here every night until Father Brody had given in. She’d gotten rid of the worst of the dust. And the bat droppings. It was fine now. She just had to make sure she wasn’t there when the bells rang.

Hirka looked around at her home in this new world. Most of the space was taken up by the stairs. She could see the bells on the next level when she looked up. It was the same level, really, but someone had put in an extra wooden floor. It was probably supposed to have been temporary, or something to stand on during restoration work, but it had been left in place.

She had a mattress wedged between the stairs and the wall, and a pillow with a deformed swan on it, embroidered by someone she doubted had ever seen a real swan. A narrow dresser with three drawers. The bottom one wouldn’t close, so that was where Kuro roosted. A cup that was actually only a half cup, with “You did say half a cup” on the side. Once someone had explained the joke to her, it had made her laugh. She also had a heater that Father Brody had carried up. The heat came through small holes in the wall below and through a long cable all the way up into the tower. Hirka had switched it on and off so many times that it didn’t work anymore. But that didn’t matter. It wasn’t that cold. And besides, she had plenty of candles.

Jay had also given her a book to help with her English. Hirka could just about manage the title. Books were common property here. The sheer volume of things was unbelievable. Yet still there were people without homes. And even worse, people like her. People without numbers. Everyone was supposed to have one. Without a number, you didn’t exist. Hirka might as well have been a ghost.

She sat on the windowsill and leaned against the frame. Ghost or not, at least she had her own window, with real glass. It curved into a point at the top and had a vent that she almost always left open.

Hirka ran her hands over the cool glass. Glass was good. Stone was good. They were materials she understood. Unlike so many other things here.

She looked out across York, as the city was called. The church was named St Thomas and located close to the city center. The houses were closely packed, like in Mannfalla. The only open space she could see was right outside, in the awful garden where the stones stuck up out of the snow like crooked teeth. There was a body under every stone. They didn’t burn people here. They just buried them in the earth and left them to rot. It wasn’t right. Only murderers did that sort of thing. But it didn’t seem to bother anyone here.

She’d asked whether they ever fed anyone to the ravens, but that was one of many things she wouldn’t be asking about again.

Imagine what she could have done with that space if it hadn’t been used for their perverse rituals. She could have grown root vegetables, and maybe yellowbell, soldrop, and …

Things they don’t have here. Things no one’s heard of.

People didn’t grow things here. Not even the food they ate.

Hirka poked at one of the plants on the windowsill. Father Brody had driven her to the greenhouse near the school and bought three seedlings for her. They grew slowly, each in their own cardboard cup. She had no idea what kind of plants they were, or what properties they had. She had to learn everything from scratch. Absolutely everything.

She let her eyes wander in search of something comforting to settle on.

There was a man on a bench far below. He’d swept the snow off the part he was sitting on, but not the rest. He looked up, but then straight back down again. Pretending he hadn’t seen her. He was wearing a gray hoodie and a leather jacket. She’d seen him before. He’d walked past yesterday. She was sure of it. And she’d noticed him near the shop. What did he want? Why was he here? Was he from the police? Someone who had come to take her away because she was numberless?

The fear came creeping. A chill in her belly.

He got up suddenly. Crossed the churchyard and went out through the wrought iron gate. She watched him until he was out of sight and all she could see were the cars zipping past.

There was no stillness in this world. No matter where you went, you were surrounded by noise. The constant hum of machinery. So much strangeness. So many things to know. So much she could do wrong.

Hirka pressed her palms against her ears until all she could hear was the sound of her own blood being pumped around her body. Faster and faster.

She couldn’t get any air into her lungs. She felt like she was suffocating. A sense of unreality washed over her. Her hands started to shake. She tore off her clothes, fumbling with the zip in her trousers. She couldn’t get them off fast enough. She emptied her bag, her things spilling across the stone floor. Old things. Familiar things. Her things. Her herbs—or what was left of them. Her green woollen tunic, still just as worn at the seams. She put it on. Her trousers, too. Found her pocketknife. No one carried knives here. It was against the law.

She sank down onto the mattress and hugged her knees. She brought her hand to her chest and felt the pendants. A shell and a wolf’s tooth, both with small scratches in them. Each scratch represented something real. Something that had happened. Victories in the endless competition between her and Rime.

Rime …

She’d gotten used to the sudden bouts of anxiety. Gotten used to being overwhelmed. But she would never get used to the longing. The hole in her chest that had been gnawing away at her for the last hundred and fifty-four days.

Ym was safe. That was her only consolation. Safe from the blind, now that she was gone. Now that the rot wasn’t there anymore.

But she still had her memories, and the gifts she’d received.

Her heart stopped racing. It got easier to breathe. She was Hirka. She was real. Her things were real. They just didn’t belong here.

So where do we belong?

She shoved her hand in her pocket. Pulled out three blood stones. A gift from Jarladin. The councillor had hidden them in her cloak before she left. In Mannfalla, the stones could have set her up for life, but here there was no way to know. She hadn’t seen anywhere that bought and sold stones. No shops wanted them, either.

Then there was the book from Hlosnian. A gift that must have cost the stone whisperer dearly. Rime had given it to her the night she left.

Hirka heard the flutter of wings. Kuro landed on the window ledge and squeezed in through the vent. He swooped down and got settled in his drawer. He hadn’t been himself recently. He didn’t hop around much anymore. Just walked. She’d even seen him tip over once. It was like he was depressed. Maybe the raven was struggling as much as she was. Struggling to find nourishment in this dead, mightless world.

At least they had each other. She probably wouldn’t have coped these past few months without him.

Hirka laid Hlosnian’s book in her lap. It was thick, with a brown leather cover and straps to secure it. She’d attached a round object that she’d found in the churchyard to the front. Father Brody said it was an old compass. The needle always pointed north, and it helped to stare at it when the world was making her head spin.

Hirka opened the book. She’d never been good at reading and writing. Only a little better than Father. Still, she’d managed to fill pages and pages with her clumsy words and sketches. Maps of the neighborhood. Drawings of plants. As well as pictures she’d found in the street. And a dead leaf. Foil wrappers. Scraps of cloth.

At first, she’d kept everything. Everything was new and heart-wrenchingly beautiful. She’d also written down things she wanted to tell Rime about, but that had quickly become too painful. Worse and worse with every day that passed. So she’d stopped.

But she still made note of new words. She’d gradually worked out a system. Certain pages for things she was familiar with from before. Chair. Window. Bread. Rain. And pages for things she’d never have believed existed. Telephone. Chocolate. Asphalt. Sunglasses. Washing machine. Petrol.

She found her pencil and wrote down the new word she’d learned from Jay. Viking: Someone who lived in a boat a thousand years ago.

She looked at Kuro. He’d fallen asleep in the drawer. The feathers on his head quivered as he breathed in and out. She lifted the pencil and started writing again.

Survive: Exist. Get by. Not die.

THE STRANGER

You can get away with just about anything so long as you make yourself useful.

People weren’t really supposed to live in churches, Hirka had discovered. At least not people like her. They said it was God’s house, but in all the time she’d been there, she’d never seen him. She doubted he used it that much. Father Brody could have kicked her out a long time ago. Or called the police. Or—what was it Jay’s mum had said?—called child services?

But he hadn’t. Not with Hirka doing the laundry, looking after the kids, shoveling the snow, and picking up the groceries. He’d never asked her to do any of those things, she’d just got down to it like she’d done at Lindri’s teahouse, and after a few days people had stopped asking where she came from or what she was doing there.

Still, the feeling she’d been longing for failed to materialize. The feeling of being at home. Having a family. It wasn’t like that here. There were just too many people, and none of them knew anything about her family. She was a stranger in a strange world.

Whenever things threatened to overwhelm her, she tried to focus on something familiar. The shopping list in her hands, which felt so much like the paper back home. Bare trees in the winter, dotted here and there around the bustling city. Or she thought about things that were new and wonderful. Like the sound of boots on wet snow. Boots were amazing. They never came unstitched and never let any water in. She was wearing a yellow pair that Father Brody had given her.

Yellow boots. What a world.

She took a deep breath and entered the shop. The lights hurt her eyes. Humans had so much light. Along the roads. In windows. Fireless light everywhere you looked.

Hirka went over to the counter and put on her biggest smile for the lady who’d helped her the last time. It was important to appear cheerful. And not to need anything too much. Nothing closed doors quicker than desperation.

The lady smiled back at her. She was plump, wearing a tight belt that made her look like an hourglass. Hirka had the shopping list memorized, but she’d brought it with her just to be on the safe side. The lady helped her find coffee, biscuits, toilet paper, and a few other things they needed at the church. Tea, if you could call it that. Hirka had tried some, and she wouldn’t have served it to her worst enemy. Was that what happened to everything in a world devoid of the Might?

The lady stapled the receipt into a book and Hirka picked up the bag of groceries. It was darker now, and the wind had picked up. Snow collected atop the lamp posts. She pulled up the hood on her raincoat. It was almost like a cloak. Not very warm, but it weighed next to nothing and it always kept her dry. And it rolled up so small that it could fit in her mouth. She’d tried, just to see. Nobody back home would have believed it.

She came to a sudden stop. In the café directly in front of her, she spotted a familiar figure. She drew back against the wall and peeked through the window. He hadn’t seen her. It was the man from the bench, the one in the leather jacket and gray hoodie. He was sitting with his back to her.

Hirka slipped around the corner and looked through a different window. She could see him better now. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. He was maybe twice her age, with short hair and stubble. He was sitting on a tall stool, his foot bobbing up and down.

Hirka put down the bag and leaned closer. Her breath fogged up the glass.

He turned and looked straight at her. She jumped back from the window. Blood rushed to her cheeks. For a moment she wasn’t sure whether to wave or to run. She decided to run.

Her boots sploshed in time with her heartbeat. Was he the only one? Hadn’t she seen others? People giving her furtive looks in the street? People hanging around outside the church? Did she really stand out so much that people had reason to stare?

It wasn’t until she spotted the church tower that she remembered the bag of groceries. She’d left it back at the café. She stopped. There was something all too familiar about this.

The memory came back to her. Father in his wheeled chair. The cabin. Hirka had made it all the way home before realizing she’d left the basket of herbs by the Alldjup. By the toppled spruce tree. Where Rime had rescued her.

One point to me if I pull you up.

The images were so vivid that she got a lump in her throat. She swallowed. That was another life. Another time. A world she’d never see again.

She turned to walk back to the café. She was careful to avoid looking at anyone, staring at her yellow boots in case she ran into him. The man in the hoodie.

The bag of groceries was right by the window where she’d left it. A thin layer of snow had settled on top. Hirka looked inside the café. Luckily he wasn’t there anymore. Relieved, she picked up the bag and headed back toward the church.

Then someone grabbed her. Yanked her back into an alleyway. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by a hand over her mouth. She was thrust up against a wall by a dumpster. The hand tasted of tobacco. Hirka felt paralyzed. Frozen to the spot. Her heart pounded in her throat. She struggled for air. The bag slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground. Biscuits and apples rolled out into the slush. The man from the café stared at her with wild eyes. He said something, but she couldn’t make any sense of it. Hirka aimed a kick at him. He moved his hand down to her neck, tightening his grip. She stopped struggling, and strangely, it helped. She could breathe again.

Hirka glanced at the street. They were hidden in some kind of alcove, and people were walking past. They didn’t turn to look, didn’t know she needed help. Hirka leaned forward and screamed. The man tightened his grip again. A woman in a fur coat gave them a quick glance before scurrying off like she hadn’t seen anything. She had. Hirka knew she had. But she’d left all the same. Hope quickly turned to despair.

The man pulled something from his belt and pressed it against her forehead. Something cold. But at least it wasn’t a knife. That much was a relief. He barked something at her again. It sounded like a question, but he spoke far too quickly for her to understand.

Hirka swallowed, feeling the muscles in her throat tense against his grip. “I don’t understand … I speak badly.”

He hesitated for a moment and she noticed a small scar that pulled his lip up at one side. He let go of her neck and brought his thumb to her mouth.

“No!” Hirka wrenched her head to one side, but he forced it back. He was strong. He pulled back her upper lip with his thumb. Stared at her teeth. He seemed more confused now than anything. It was all so strange that for a moment Hirka forgot her terror. She felt like a horse at market.

She put her hand in her pocket and squeezed the bloodstones. She couldn’t lose them. She’d have nothing left if she did. Nothing that could be traded for money. Nothing valuable.

The movement attracted his attention, and he tore Hirka’s hand out of her pocket. Grabbed the stones before she had a chance to tighten her grip. He didn’t waste any time looking at them, just stuck them in his pocket and glanced around like he was in the wrong place.

Finally he let go of her and stepped back. Gave a start when he accidentally stepped on a pack of biscuits and it crunched under his foot.

“It’s all right!” Hirka hurried to say. “We’ve got more.”

He looked at her, brow furrowed. He backed out of the alleyway, then turned and disappeared onto the street at the opposite end.

Hirka remained pressed against the wall, trying to catch her breath. A cold terror had seized her and refused to release its grip. She remembered. The pits in Eisvaldr. The man who had tried to take her by force. That time, there had been no doubting his intentions. Now, she didn’t have the faintest clue about what just happened, which was somehow worse. She knew nothing. And in a completely different world, anything was possible. Anything at all.

She slumped against the wall and slid down onto the wet pavement. The pack of biscuits in front of her was flattened at one end. A smell of sour milk drifted toward her from the dumpster. All she wanted was to go home. Home to Ym. To Elveroa. To Father.

Father’s dead. The cabin’s burned to the ground. It’s over.

Why had she come here? She didn’t belong here. She hated this place. Hated it. The light. The smells. The commotion. So much noise. And yet still so dead.

A place without the Might. A cold world full of terrifying life.

TEMPTATION

They’d been open. The gateways.

Rime had seen the landscape shimmering between the stones. Seen the grass ripple in the pull from someplace unknown. Then he’d been swallowed by the empty space as the world ceased to exist. And re-emerged in the Rite Hall.

In one place, out another. They’d woken the gateways once; it had to be possible to do it again. Just for one brief, harmless moment. For the sake of knowledge. For proof.

For her.

Rime entered the library, intent on finding answers. It seemed that if you wanted to keep the Council’s secrets, all you had to do was leave them here. In plain sight. It would take lifetimes to find them.

Conversations here were few and held in hushed tones. The sound of pen on paper drifted from behind a door left ajar. He wondered what was being written, and whether it was the truth.

Rime headed toward the gallery that surrounded the shaft of daylight filtering down from the ceiling. Gray-clad shepherds climbed between floors on ladders that sailed along rails all the way around the library. He hoped one of them could direct him to books about the Might.

Rime was about to ask when he noticed a woman on the lowest level. Her fire-colored skirt drew his eye. She looked around intently, her movements fluid. Graceful. Her eyes met his. There was something familiar about her. Rime realized he was staring, and he turned toward a desk by the balustrade.

On it lay the Book of the Seer, splayed open, baring its lies as if nothing had happened. He felt a stab of disappointment, knowing that people continued to read it. But of course they did.

He ran his fingers over the binding, which was on the verge of falling apart. This book had been here since long before his time. Since long before Ilume. Her only wish had been to see him take her seat on the Council, for him to link the past to the future. But not like this. She had never been keen on change. She’d sooner have disinherited him than see the Seer fall. Than shatter the illusion of divinity that had carried an entire world for a thousand years.

How many false gods had come before the raven? How many more would come after?

The book called to him, as if it might reveal something different than before. Rime remembered every word of it from his childhood.

Such was the goodness of He who looked upon them that they were all saved by His grace. Such was His sorrow for the fallen that His tears washed away their transgressions. Innocent, they looked upon their Seer, and He said unto them: “All power from the earth has been given unto me.”

Innocent? What a joke. And there could be no doubt as to who held the power after the war. Rime flipped ahead.

And the tree grew straight up into the heavens, blackened and vigorous from the blood of all those who had sacrificed their lives. He wrought it according to His will, according to His desires, to serve the kin of Ym, and He said: “This shall be my throne.”

Rime looked around, feeling scrutinized. An unexpected sense of guilt washed over him. He’d shattered that tree. The Seer’s throne. The memory was excruciatingly vivid. Black glass raining down on them. Ilume sinking to the floor. The sound of his heart beating. Urd. And Hirka …

He slammed the book closed. He’d had his fill of lies. Now he needed the truth.

Rime found a shepherd, a gray-haired woman with ink-stained fingers, and asked where he might find books about the Might.

“Two floors up,” she said, pointing. “Southwest sector, twelfth set of shelves. I’d be happy to find the books you’re looking for.”

“Thanks, but I prefer to find them myself,” he replied. She smiled warmly, indicating she felt exactly the same way.

Rime went up the stairs. He found the twelfth set of shelves and started to look through the books. They seemed to be mostly poetry. About the Might, about nature, about love. But there were other things, too.

He pulled out a book with a green cover. The Origin. His body tingled with anticipation. Hope. The pages were so thin, he worried they might crumble between his fingers. Impatient, he started to read, skipping over words, sections, entire pages.

The Might, the cradle of life … Preceding all else … Arrived with the first. With the forces of creation … The balance.

None of this was new to him. Until …

… Nábyrn’s thirst for the Might claimed so many lives that it originated the expression “a body for every raven.” But it is my firm belief that the devastation they wrought gave us the strength we needed to fight them. Dead fought dead. The Seer himself is one of the blind and shapes the Might in ways none of Ym’s kin are able to. Despite this, blindcraft is feared and despised in every corner of Ym. The Might—as the blind employed it—is regarded with scorn. It is too strongly linked to them, to decay and destruction. Even to the loss of our souls, if we are to believe those living under the ice in the north.

Rime closed the book.

Blindcraft. The Might as the blind used it.

He’d seen it with his own eyes. How fast they could move. And the waterfall that had turned to sand, spilling over the cliff like an hourglass. What else could it have been, if not blindcraft? Nábyrn trickery. Was blindcraft all that could rouse the stones again? Urd had managed it …

A sudden crash made Rime jump. He turned. It was her—the woman who’d caught his eye. She’d dropped a book. What kind of Kolkagga didn’t notice someone approaching?

He picked the book up and handed it to her. She smiled, looking up at him from under heavy eyelids. He knew that look. Self-assured. Inviting. But in her case it didn’t seem feigned. It was just who she was. Her lips were uncommonly full, as if demanding to be touched. It was difficult not to stare at them.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said.

She took the book, put it on top of the others she was carrying, and squeezed past. Her arm brushed against his. A floral scent followed in her wake as she headed for the gallery. Her tail swayed with every step, making her jewelry clink. Her hair fell to her waist. Thick and lustrous. Black as coal.

She looked back over her shoulder.

“I’ve danced for you, Ravenbearer,” she said so softly that it could have been the start of a poem.

He followed her, knowing that was exactly what she wanted. She put the books down on a desk. Two were about dancing. He couldn’t see the title of the third.

“Nobody’s danced for me since I was a boy,” he said.

“Have you forgotten your own inauguration, Ravenbearer?” She blinked at him.

Of course. The day he’d become Ravenbearer. The celebrations. The dancers on the steps.

“Rime. Just Rime.”

“Indeed, we have no raven to bear anymore.”

Her words were refreshingly direct. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and she swept it back again with a narrow hand. That small movement was a dance in itself. Everything she did seemed to tell a story. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that men would pay a lot to see her perform.

Her smock was open at the throat, and the material draped over her breasts in a way that was impossible not to notice. She restacked the books to reveal the title he hadn’t seen. The Art of Pleasure. The cover depicted a man and a woman in an impossible position.

Rime suddenly felt unsure of himself. Like during a fight, in the moment the advantage was lost. He cleared his throat and turned to leave. She stopped him, her hand resting on his arm.

“I’m Damayanti,” she said. “But you already knew that.”

He looked at her again. “No. Forgive me if I ought to.”

She dragged a finger across her lips like she was going to bite it. “Really? That says a lot about you.”

Her gaze fell on the book in his hand. “But I’ve heard about you, Ravenbearer. What you’re looking for can’t be found in any book. And those with the knowledge you seek don’t dare so much as whisper about it.”

She picked up her books. Hugged them to her chest and turned away from him. “Though there are always exceptions. Come and see me dance sometime, Rime.”

He watched her go. She’d heard about him. Everyone had, but he rarely gave any thought to exactly what they’d heard. Now he felt grudgingly curious. The Council wanted him to start a family, to get married. What would they say if he chose a woman like Damayanti? A dancer?

They’d hate it. They’d be furious. Hurl threats at him. Tear out what little hair they had left.

Rime couldn’t help but smile.

VERMIN

The apple was crisp and green. Not so much as a wrinkle. No mold. No rot. And after how many weeks?