Chapter 28 | Ravinica

Chapter 28

Ravinica

WHEN I STEPPED INTO the stone circle, my hand in Magnus’, I was greeted by the same vague light-tunnel that had led me here. Magnus’ warm touch faded away, and then I was alone and cold in the green and blue ribbons. Running, panicked, fearing things deep in my belly but feeling nothing.

I saw the same floating, luminescent light from before—the sign of my exit—and listened to the chattering, confusing voices of my mates in my head, mingling together as streams of words that didn’t always make sense.

Touching the light brought the world back to me, streaming in with a rush of sensations—not all of them unpleasant.

I was spit out into the cold darkness of Midgard, light snowfall glazing my pale cheeks as I stumbled out of the cottage onto my hands and knees.

Breathing heavily, head bowed, I closed my eyes to fight off a rush of nausea and bile building in the back of my throat.

“At least I wasn’t dropped from the fucking sky this time,” I murmured under my breath.

“Thank the gods for that,” said a voice to my left, also knee-deep in the snow.

I smiled over at Magnus, who got to his feet and staggered over on wobbly legs before helping me up with an outstretched hand.

The others were in and around the lodge, gathering and orienting themselves, rubbing their heads of the aches the portal travel brought on.

Arne wrapped his coat tight around his blue tunic, his teeth clattering. “I’ll miss the warmth of your homeland, Corym E’tar.”

“As will I, Arne.” Corym shook his head. “Elves were not meant for this weather.”

“Neither were skinny-ass iceshapers, no matter what my title might infer.”

Sven and Grim chuckled as they approached from the sides of the lodge.

Hersir Kelvar was the last to show, around the back of the cabin. He held a black trench coat in his hand, dusting it off. “Here,” he said, handing the garb to the shirtless bloodrender. “You’ll be needing this, boy. Probably should have asked the Skogalfar for a shirt before we left.”

“Didn’t really think that one through,” Magnus grumbled, taking the coat and putting it on. He glanced away from Kelvar. “. . . Thanks.”

My mate looked like his old self again, stoic and cold in the twilit night, with his coat brushing near his feet, the hems catching snow from the ground.

Before stepping away from the lodge, everyone’s faces grew serious. Bodies littering the wintry landscape reminded us what we were coming back to. For Magnus, he was returning to the scene of the crime.

On our way back to the portal in Alfheim, I had asked him what attacked him and the Huscarls. Magnus had been disconcerted and unsure. “They were darker than the white of the snow, all I can say. Moved like blurs.”

Arne confirmed it was essentially as Huscarl Grayon, the survivor of the attack, had reported to Gothi Sigmund in the conference room.

At that, Magnus had scoffed. “ Grayon was the only one to escape? That dead-legged bastard? I’ll be damned.”

I’d asked Magnus, “Hoping it would be someone else?”

His face had grown dark and he’d replied with a noncommittal, “Not really.”

I knew the attack hurt him, more than it did physically. Even with the Huscarls as presumed enemies, he still traveled with them for days to get here. Probably had conversations over late-night campfires with them like normal people. Possibly even befriended some of them.

And now they were dead. That quickly, and so needlessly.

I kept my hand close to my spear as we huddled together and made our way out of the elven camp. Our eyes were a-swivel, moving like turrets to the gnarled branches of whistling trees and snow-packed hills ahead of us.

No one said a word. We listened to the song of the wind, the scurrying of animals coming out from their hibernation.

I wondered if time worked differently in Alfheim—if we were returning weeks or months later, even though we’d only been gone a single day in the Ljosalfar world. That was how it often worked with extraplanar travel in the movies, anyway. Suppose we’ll find out soon as we get back to Vikingrune.

A sense of dread filled me as I thought about the academy. It was an awful feeling, thinking that way about the school that had given me so much—my found family.

It couldn’t be helped. As long as the academy trained us to hate elves, trained us to hate the Lepers Who Leapt and other non-magical folk, and trained us to fight all of them and think of them as enemies, I wouldn’t feel secure there.

It was insane, but part of me trusted the Skogalfar—feral woodland elves who hadn’t been around civilized culture in ages—more than some of the Hersirs at Vikingrune Academy.

Gothi Sigmund Calladan, Tomekeeper Dahlia Anfinn, Warden Ingvus Jorthyr, even Kelvar the Whisperer at times . . . They all have untrustworthy, devious glints in their eyes. They know elves are not inherently our enemies, yet they espouse that slogan like it’s set in stone. Inviting initiates around the world, eager to attend the prestigious school, to indoctrinate them with that hate.

I had never expected Vikingrune Academy to make me more attuned and radicalized to the world going on around me. Joining the school had always seemed like the next logical step to my success—hone my fighting skills and make myself a weapon, so no one could ever hurt me again.

Still, I was grateful the classrooms outside the classrooms had taught me so much. The mess halls and living quarters, the friends like Dagny and Randi, who I missed dearly.

And there were others I had hope for, such as the Hersirs Axel Osfen, Gudleif Selken, and Thorvi Kardeen. They were the ones actually teaching us skills we could use—battle strategy, runeshaping, history. The true professors who wanted nothing more than to show their crafts and leave academy politics at the door.

I admittedly didn’t know them very well, but that’s how I thought of those three. Maybe I can talk to them. Tutors I can contact about my harebrained idea to “unite” the elves and humans. No doubt they’ll try to dissuade me from my mission, my life goal, but if I can get through to even one of them . . . it will have been worth it.

Reaching the end of the snowbank at the edge of the camp, we made it to the trees of Delaveer Forest, pointed southeast toward the academy. I took one step into the green, my boots crunching on melting snow—

And lurched forward.

An assault of my senses struck me with suddenness that had me staggering and gasping. Tightness formed in my chest, my belly going sour, and I let out a small sound as I clutched my breast and stumbled onto one knee.

Sweat immediately dappled my skin.

“Rav!” Grim growled, stopping our procession to run back to me once he noticed I’d faltered. “What’s wrong?” The bear went onto his knees in front of me, tipping my chin. The look on his face made me feel even worse.

It was like all the blood had been drained from my face and veins, and someone had gut-punched me out of nowhere. An invisible force that left me panting and shaking my head.

“I-I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

“Elf?” Sven muttered from the front of the group.

Kelvar, Arne, and Magnus parted to let me see Corym at the front of the group. One second, he was frozen where he stood, and the next, he stumbled back toward me.

When he turned, he shared the same wild-eyed look in his golden eyes. Coughing, he pounded his chest with a fist, as if fighting off an infection.

Grim helped me to my feet. I made it three steps before another stab of pain hit my psyche, twisting my insides.

Corym dashed to me, his cold face glistening with sweat.

“What is this, Corym?” I asked. You feel it t-too?”

The two of us seemed to be the only ones affected by this psychic attack, whatever it was.

Corym chewed the inside of his cheek, gripping my arm tightly and nodding. He turned left and right, eyes darting around anxiously.

What could be in the air that’s only hurting us ? And why us?

I was flabbergasted and confused, trying to think.

Then I thought of Sven’s call-out. “Elf?”

Realization dawned in Corym’s eyes the same time as mine. “Something about our elven blood?”

Everyone except Kelvar looked concerned around us.

I felt an intense pull coming from the west. It wrenched my eyes that direction—like some power calling to me. I was sure Corym felt it too. What’s over there that’s important to us?

Corym gasped and gritted his teeth. “Spirit-tethering.”

I opened my mouth, confused by the phrase. Lady Elayina? Inhaling sharply, I nodded, even though I didn’t understand him. “Elayina’s sanctuary.”

“What’s going on, you two?” Magnus asked, flustered. “It’s like you’re talking to each other in your minds.”

Is that what’s happening? Did Alfheim awaken something inside us? It was a crazy thought. I didn’t harp on it for long, because that pull from the west—the direction of the Niflbog where the ancient seer Elayina resided—was growing stronger and more insistent.

I looked at Magnus, Grim, Arne, Sven. “We have to take a detour, guys.”

“As long as you tell us what’s going on, little sneak,” Grim said.

“On the way. I get the sense we don’t have much time—whatever’s happening.”

I looked to Kelvar last, his arms crossed under his cloak in his customary stance that made him look like a plague doctor. “You can return to the academy if you’d like, Hersir. We’ve retrieved Magnus. We’ll be back soon, I promise.”

The Whisperer scoffed, shaking his head. “And let you hellions out of my sight? No. I’ll see this through, cadet.”

My eyes narrowed. “To report everything you’ve seen to the Gothi, no doubt.”

His cold eyes flared, a twitch of anger rippling his chin. “I am a Hersir of Vikingrune Academy, and that is my duty. But make no mistake, Ravinica Lindeen. My allegiance is to no man. It is to the academy itself.”

I blinked at him, shocked. Lindeen. He called me by my true surname. I didn’t know what to make of it.

“Come on then,” Corym said. “There’s no time.”

He was right. Something was wrong out west. We were as close to Lady Elayina’s cave-tree as we were going to get, being near the elf encampment. It made sense to check on her while we were nearby.

Besides . . . what was the worst that could happen?