Chapter 24

RIVELIN

Daella was contemplative for the rest of the night, and when we returned home, she went straight to bed. I’d hoped to continue our earlier encounter, but I had to admit my mind was elsewhere, too. Viggo’s spectacle was odd. Where had he come up with something like that? It didn’t sit right in my gut.

After checking the lock on my weapons closet, I settled onto the couch, tossing and turning for a good hour before I finally abandoned sleep. There was far too much on my mind.

And so after donning a shirt and downing a pint of water to clear my head, I stole out the front door toward the square where I knew I’d find my quarry.

* * *

“Rivelin, fancy seeing you here,” Haldor said with a slight smile as I settled down beside him. The square was subdued this night, compared to the others. Those still celebrating the end of the Fildur Trial were out in the meadow, where most would remain until dawn. Not Haldor. Every night, he brought fresh flowers to lay at Freya’s stone feet. The fire demons still worshipped the Old Gods. They’d never become part of the Grundstoff Empire, though Haldor had lost everyone dear to him in a battle against Isveig. He’d been a lonely, quiet man when he’d arrived in the Isles, until he’d met Lucien. They’d married each other a year later. Still, Haldor came here every night without fail to remember those he’d lost all those years ago. Many of us here in Wyndale had similar stories.

“How are the memories?” I asked him quietly.

He sighed. “Same as they always are. Fresh as the day they were made. It’s both a blessing and a curse, a demon’s mind. I can remember everything I’ve ever seen and heard and tasted. But the horrors of my past echo with an almost-crushing vibration.”

“And yet you’re one of the happiest folks I’ve ever met.”

“Yes, well.” His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. “Love changes everything.”

“Hmm. I think I’ve heard you say that one too many times, but I’m glad it works for you, Haldor. I really am,” I said. “Want to take a walk?”

“Where to?”

“The Archives.”

He stood and motioned for me to lead the way. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

We moved out of the square and down the main thoroughfare of the village, where silent shops sat closed for the day. Only a few windows were lit up in the rooms above them, and the sound of our footsteps was loud amidst the rare moment of calm tranquility. During Midsummer, Wyndale was rarely quiet for long.

“What are you looking for?” Haldor asked after a few moments.

Shops signs creaked as we continued around the corner toward the Village Hall. “I need to know everything I can about Isveig the Conqueror and his power over ice.”

He looked at me, surprised. “I thought you’d demand to know how Viggo made his fireworks. I saw the way you were looking at him earlier.”

“Fireworks? That’s what they’re called?”

He nodded.

“And how did he make them?”

“Fire demon secret recipe.” Haldor chuckled. Ah, so that explained it. “I thought you wanted to know about Isveig’s conquering.”

“Not his conquering. I know about that. I was there, unfortunately. I need to know about his magic.”

We came to a stop outside the Village Hall. This time of night, the place was closed, and it was one of the rare instances where we used a deadbolt to lock the doors. Trust was an important component of our community, but we didn’t want a tipsy visitor to wander in and accidentally ruin our Archives. I extracted the keychain from my belt and unlocked the door.

Once inside, Haldor lit a lantern that hung on an iron hook beside the door—one I’d crafted myself. The orange glow revealed the long, narrow building with timber beams arching high overhead. A hanging candelabra dangled over four expertly crafted dining tables set out in the center of the stone floor, all facing the desolate hearth. Ancient shields decorated the walls, along with the ivy that spilled in through a crack in the far left corner. In winter, life and laughter filled this place, but most preferred the outdoors during the summer months.

Haldor’s melancholy seemingly forgotten, he sauntered across the empty dance floor and twirled. “Have you shown Daella this building yet? I bet she’d like it.”

I gave him a dark look. “Don’t you start.”

He chuckled and continued to twirl until he reached a door along the rear wall. “You forget how well I know you, Riv. You actually look happy around the orc.”

I scowled.

“Yes, that look right there. I’m seeing it less often these days.”

“Can we please just go into the Archives and focus on what’s important?”

“I’d argue this is important, but very well.” Haldor pushed open the door and waited for me to follow. We descended a curving stone stairwell that saw little use. When I’d first arrived in Wyndale I’d spent hours combing through the stacks, but many of the books were written in the language of the humans, and I didn’t have the patience to listen to one of our resident humans translate.

But I remembered there’d been a few books from Grundstoff, from before it had become an empire. I hoped there’d be answers about Isveig inside.

When we reached the bottom of the stairwell, Haldor lit a few more lanterns scattered throughout the small underground room. Seven rows of dusty shelves were packed with ancient tomes and scrolls and loose papers bound by twine. I moved to the section written in the language of the Old Gods and began to rifle through the nearest book.

Haldor folded his arms and leaned against the shelf, watching me. “What’s this about, anyway?”

I had considered not telling Haldor about Daella’s…affliction, but if anyone in this village could help me solve this thing, it was him.

“Isveig rammed an ice shard into her hip.”

Haldor flinched, then let out a low whistle. “How is she even alive? Usually, that causes instant death.”

I snapped the book shut, and a cloud of dust rose around us. “So you do know about his power.”

“Not his power, per se, but I spent enough time around ice giants in my youth to know how they operate. They love to use their ice shards on the battlefield like deadly spears. If the shard embeds itself in someone’s skin, it chokes their lungs and freezes them to death. Horrible way to die. It’s how Isveig was so successful in his conquest. Hard to fight against that unless you’ve got some form of Galdur sand, like Fildur.”

The leather-bound book creaked as I clenched it tighter. “That’s what Daella has to look forward to unless I can find a way to reverse its magic. Isveig has control over the shard somehow, that’s why it hasn’t killed her yet. But he’s threatened to unleash its power if she doesn’t return to Fafnir less than two months from when he shipped her off. I’m not sure how long she has now, but it can’t be more than a few weeks.”

“I see. I’ll admit, despite what I said earlier, I’m surprised,” Haldor said quietly.

“Surprised by what?”

“You want to save the orc.”

I pulled another book off the shelf, if only so I had something to look at other than his scrutinizing gaze. “It doesn’t seem right sending her back there, and there must be a way to get that shard out of her body.”

“I’ll help you look. I just have one question.”

I glanced up. The thoughtful, melancholy Haldor stood before me now rather than the boisterous life of the party he was most hours of the day. He tapped the edge of the book. “What are you going to do if there is no cure?”

“There has to be a cure.”

“Some folks can’t be saved, Rivelin. You can’t protect everyone.”

Ignoring him, I flipped through the book. It was a tome that told the story of the Kingdom of Grundstoff and their devotion to Ullr, the God of Ice. He’d once ruled their lands until he ascended to Valhalla with the others, though the giants had never recognized any of them as gods themselves. They worshipped the ice and everything that sustained it. To them, it was above and beyond the standard four elements. And so, everything else was inconsequential.

Everything else but fire, which they hated and feared. Isveig feared it so much he’d taken every opportunity to destroy it, and kept Daella away from it as much as he could.

“I’m a fate’s damned idiot,” I muttered.

“That’s true, dear Riv. Mind telling me what brought on such an astute observation?”

I snapped the book shut and placed it on the shelf. “Fire.”

“Water.”

I frowned.

“Earth. Air. There, we’ve named them all.”

“You are an obnoxious man sometimes, Haldor.”

“Demon, and thank you. Now why are we talking about fire? I’m quite fond of it myself.”

“Daella has an ice shard in her hip. What’s the opposite of ice?”

“Ah.” He absentmindedly scratched his left horn. “I see where you’re going with this. It’s a good idea, but don’t you think she would have tried that by now?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “She told me Isveig has tried to keep her away from fire all these years. I bet that’s why.”

“Won’t that burn her?” he asked.

I thought back to all the days she’d spent working with me in the forge. On more than one occasion, she’d touched a hot surface without gloves, and she hadn’t even flinched. So much knowledge of orcish history had been lost over the years, but there was one fact that had never been forgotten. Orcs ran hot.

“I don’t think it will burn her at all.”

* * *

Isaid goodnight to Haldor and returned home to a silent house that didn’t feel so empty anymore. Even though she was in the bedroom asleep, I could feel Daella’s presence all around me. It was in the angle of the armchair she’d shifted to face the hearth, where wood still gently smouldered. It was in the plate of scraps she’d left beside Skoll’s bundle of blankets for when he returned from his nightly patrol through the Ashborn Forest. And it was in the empty mug she’d washed and left sitting upside down to dry beside the sink.

With a slight smile, I looked back at the bedroom door. I didn’t want to wake her, but I hated to wait until morning to tell her my idea. If we could melt that shard, I knew she’d want to do it as soon as possible. She could be free of Isveig. She wouldn’t have to return to Fafnir. She could stay here and drink her tea every night beside the fire, petting Skoll whenever she wanted…and be happy.

As I debated whether to wake her or wait until the morning, another peculiarity caught my attention. Several of my desk drawers hung open, where I stored parchment, ink, and wax seals. Moving closer, I examined the disturbance. A couple sheets of parchment were missing, and the tip of my quill was wet with ink.

I frowned. To whom could Daella be sending letters?

She’d made it clear she had no one back in Fafnir. No one but Isveig, and she hated and feared him. So why—

Footsteps reverberated down the hallway. I turned, expecting to find Daella walking toward me, unable to sleep, just like me. But something heavy and hard slammed into my skull.

My knees buckled as darkness took me.