25
Aina
“Are you sure?” Loviatar repeats.
I search the death goddess’s face, heart racing. “On the life of your daughter, swear to me that you’ll keep me safe from Tuonetar.”
Loviatar places a hand over my heart, her rune-marked fingers splayed. “I swear,” she intones.
My heart beats a little easier, and I lift the folds of my cowl to cover my head. “Take me to him.”
“I cannot go with you.”
I still. “But you just said—”
“For me to hold to my oath, you must take these next steps alone.” She lowers her voice, inching closer. “As you go to him, I must go to the others. We are hunting a dangerous fox, Aina. If even one of us is out of position, she’ll slip our net, and then we’re all at risk.”
“Tell me what to do.”
She moves past me, stepping over the broken pieces of the looms littering the floor. I follow, thinking we’re headed for the door, but she stops before one of the only undamaged looms in the room. “We must move it,” she says.
“Move it?”
Loviatar nods, already reaching for the loom. I ask no questions, helping her shove the empty frame across the wood floor. It screeches and groans, the noise loud enough to wake the dead.
I look down and gasp. “There’s a door.”
“And there’s a tunnel underneath,” she explains. “It leads to the base of a wooded hill. The river lies just beyond. No one else knows of this. Not the Witch Queen. Not even him. This is mine alone.”
I glance up. Taking in the deep lines of sadness on her face, I know the truth. “Yours and your daughter’s,” I whisper, reaching forward to squeeze her hand. “You sent her down this tunnel once too... didn’t you?”
She drops to her knees and pulls open the trap door with a loud creak, exposing a set of narrow stairs. “There’s another door at the tunnel’s end. My father is bound in the woods. You will find him. The raven will show you the way.”
“How will I free him?”
She conjures a silver knife and hands it out to me by the hilt. “Use this.”
“But what do I—”
“You will know what to do.”
I take the knife from her, tucking it into my belt. Bracing my hands on either side of the floor, I prepare to lower myself down onto the steps. “Loviatar, wait—” I search her clouded eyes. “What if—suppose he will not have me...”
She smiles, cupping my cheek. “He’s waited a lifetime for you, Aina. Besides, if you were not worthy of him, I would have killed you myself... if only to spare myself the misery of your slow knitting.”
I lean away, glaring at her. “You’re all monsters.”
“We are as the All-Mother made us,” she replies. “Now, Aina, go.”
I drop through the trap door and land on the top stair. From this angle, I find myself peering under the hem of Loviatar’s long dress. She wears stout reindeer-fur slippers... and a pair of my knitted socks. I smile, lowering myself down another step. I nearly slip, catching myself before I reach the bottom. “Wait—Loviatar, I have no light!”
“Mice see just fine in the dark,” she calls down. With that, she shuts the trap door.
“No, wait—”
Above me, Loviatar moves the loom back overtop the trap door. I feel dust slipping down through the cracks, landing on my hood, tickling my nose. I step out from under the door, trying to force my eyes to see through this darkness, but it’s impossible.
“Ilmatar, guide my steps,” I whisper, moving on soft feet.
The smell of damp earth surrounds me, settling in my nose. I can’t see, but I can feel the closeness of the tunnel’s sides. I reach out with both hands, brushing them with my fingers. Each step is cautious as I test the ground. After several long minutes, I stifle a shriek when my toes hit something hard. I reach out, fumbling forward until I touch a second set of wooden steps. I crawl up them, feeling for the outline of the trap door. Putting an ear to it, I wait and listen for sound.
There is nothing. No birdsong, no wind in the trees.
Using my shoulder, I push against the door. It takes a couple attempts before the hinges creak and the wood gives way. A dusting of dirt and snow fall in on me, making me gasp. I push the door all the way open and crawl out on hands and knees. I scramble to my feet and dust off my dress, peering around. The snow seems to glow the softest white, as if it’s reflecting light from an unseen moon and stars. It’s a beautiful kind of magic, and it’s more than enough to guide my steps.
If only I knew where I was going...
The trees are thick here—birch and aspen, dotted with spruce and pine. I hate the way the knots of the birch trees always watch me with unblinking eyes. I do another slow spin, clutching my hood, pulling it tighter against the chill. Peering through the dark, I can see the outline of a wooden hill. Loviatar promises that beyond the hill lies the river of death. In all my time in Tuonela, I have yet to see it.
My heart sinks. Now I have nothing but time, for I’m about to make a bargain with death that will trap me here forever. My life for their lives—Siiri and Helmi, Riina, Satu, all the girls who may ever face Kalma’s wrath. But I think that’s the difference between the Witch Queen and me. Tuonetar thinks all death must be chaos. In her mind, death is merely a means for her to claim more power.
I disagree. Death can be meaningful. Death can be a choice. We can choose to die as we live. There is power in that choice, power in death that Tuonetar in her cruelty can never understand, for she has never truly lived. I am choosing to thwart her, knowing I may die. But I will die knowing there are things worth dying for, and she cannot take that power from me.
The trees stand quiet, unmoved by wind. Snow clings to their bare branches. I take a few steps forward, letting fate guide me. “Tuoni?” I whisper his name, feeling a sort of power pass over my lips. “Tuoni... my lord... I come of my own free will.”
Behind me, a shadow swoops out of the darkness, and I duck. Something large flies over me, stirring the air with its wings. Swallowing my scream, I cover my head with my hands just as a loud caw breaks the silence. I look up to see my raven perched on the low bough of a pine tree. “Jaako,” I say, breathless with relief. “Oh, thank the gods. Show me the way.”
He ruffles his feathers and swoops away through the trees. Holding up the bottom of my woolen dress, I run after him. I trip over roots and rocks hidden by the snow, doing my best to keep up. He caws softly, encouraging me to follow.
“How much farther, Jaako,” I pant. “How much—”
There, not fifteen feet from me, stands a lonely alder tree, its base lit by the soft, undisturbed snow. I narrow my eyes, inching closer as I take in the strangeness of its trunk. A man stands in the shadow of it. No, he’s not in front of the tree. He’s part of it. Over time, the tree has grown around him, rooting him in place.
“Ilmatar, give me strength,” I whisper to the dark.
I know well the stories of the alder tree. Some people call it the “death tree.” It has deep ties to Tuonela. My father often carves sielulintu from a piece of alder that we bury with the village dead. The birds carved from alder branches make good guides as souls pass through the realms.
As I stand before the tree, I know with all certainty that I’m standing before the god of death. This tree is his prison.
Behind me, Jaako emits another caw. Swooping past me, he flies towards the tree. Just before he reaches it, he disappears, falling in a flurry of black feathers to the snow.
“Jaako, no—” I rush forward. Dropping to my knees, I pick up a feather. “No, please. I need you.” I peer all around, searching for the raven in the trees. “Jaako—”
Before me, the alder tree groans. I scramble back to my feet and step closer, taking in the ghastly sight of the god trapped in the tree. The alder’s bark has all but swallowed him. His arms look like they’ve been chained above his head. The rest of the tree grows around his head and shoulders, locking his jaw shut. “Gods...” I inch closer. “How long have you been trapped here, my lord?”
He cannot move. He can’t speak. But he can see. The god of death gazes down at me. My free hand trembles as I brush my fingers across his furrowed brow. One eye is dark as night, the other clouded and pearly white. A thick, pronged scar crosses the white eye from cheek to brow, leaving it sightless. He has a proud nose, a bearded face, hair black as a raven’s wing. The tree is claiming that too. His skin is dusted with lichen. Our eyes lock, and bone-deep knowledge shivers through me.
“Jaako?” I whisper, awed by the truth. My raven isn’t a messenger for the god of death. Somehow, he is the god of death. “Tuoni.” I say the god’s name, watching as his eyes shut tight. He’s suffering, his face pained. I brush my fingers over his brow again. “Look at me, my lord.”
The intensity of his dark eye is fathomless, like Tuonela’s sky, while the cloudy one is as radiant as a full moon.
“I’m going to free you,” I say, heart racing. “But the only way I know how to do that is if I marry you.”
His jaw clenches tight as he grunts, fighting his cage. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want me.
“We neither of us have a choice,” I say, my shame rising. “You know as well as I that the only way Tuonetar can be stopped is if we break her curse.”
The tree creaks as he struggles.
“I won’t pretend to know all of what has happened here,” I go on. “But I know enough to know I trust Loviatar... and she trusts you.” This stills him. “Let me help free you, so you can free us. Are we agreed?”
His gaze softens, and I have the feeling he’s trying to nod his assent.
Taking a few steps back, I circle the tree, considering my options. Then I search his face. Jaako is so readable—his expressions, his mood. Is Tuoni the same? It’s so hard to see the man for the tree. “I will marry you, my lord. I will bind myself to you, soul to soul. And in so doing, I will free you... but I have conditions you must agree to first. Blink once if you consent to hear my terms.”
Slowly, he blinks.
Taking a deep breath, I stand at my full height, daring to bargain with the god of death. “First, you must let the others go,” I declare, my voice sounding much stronger than I feel. “Riina, Satu, and Helmi—you must return them to the realm of the living. And you will vow never to take another girl in this way again.” I level a finger at his face.
He blinks once, agreeing to my first condition.
“So, then, my second condition...” I pace away in the snow, trying to think of the words to use to extract his oath. “I told you many things as the raven... about my family, my friends. You must swear never to raise a hand to them. You will never harm them or send another to act in your stead. As you are the god of blessed death, you will bless their deaths. Siiri, my mother, my father, and brothers—you will protect them from Tuonetar’s wrath. Swear it, or I take my chances and try to swim to freedom here and now.”
This is an expression I can read—the tilt of his dark brows, the set of his jaw. He’s affronted. I imagine he’s not used to being given a list of demands from a mortal girl. Narrowing his eyes, he blinks.
“My third condition...” Here I pause, fighting a blush that has nothing to do with the cold. I adjust the cowl over my hair. “If I am to be a wife to you... I would ask that you be kind. I don’t—” Gods, this feels too unnatural to speak aloud before any man, let alone a god. Steeling myself, I say the words sitting like a block of ice in my heart. “I would ask that you not hurt me, my lord... or take what I do not want to give. I know the duties of a wife, and I will fulfill them. I only ask... please be kind.”
I fall into awkward silence, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. But his eyes are the only way he can respond. Swallowing my nerves, I glance up. The god is surveying me with that black eye. He looks so much like my raven. He holds my gaze and blinks.
I sigh with relief, giving him a little nod. “Thank you, my lord. I think I only have one more condition.” I curl my hands into fists at my side, feeling the bite of my nails against my palms as I step closer to him. “You must swear to me that you will do all in your power to protect me from Tuonetar. And if you cannot protect me...” I pause as a tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it quickly away. “If you cannot protect me, my lord, I beg that you be the one to kill me.”
He grunts, his face a mask of rage as he fights the tree harder than ever.
“Give me a clean death, my lord. Kill me quickly and lay me to rest. Swear it to me.” I frame his face with both hands, all but sharing breath with the death god. I need to see his face, his eyes. I need to know he’ll hold himself to this last oath. “I’m not afraid of death,” I whisper. “I’m afraid of how she’ll make me die. Swear you’ll be merciful, my lord. Swear it, or I make for the river and leave you to your fate.”
Tears well in his good eye as he looks down at me in agony. Slowly, he blinks.
A breath of relief leaves me, my shoulders sagging. Suddenly, I feel the cold again. I sense eyes on us, and I doubt they are the knotted eyes of the trees. Someone watches me. Some thing . I’m terrified to turn around. I must hurry. The trouble is that I’m unsure of what to do next. Loviatar was certain I would know how to free him.
With trembling hands, I pull out the silver knife she gave me. It’s a lovely thing with a sharp blade and a polished reindeer- horn handle. Runes I can’t read are etched down the thin blade. I turn the knife over in my hands, gazing upon the bark of the alder tree. “If I was meant to cut you out, I imagine Loviatar would have given me an axe,” I muse.
Tuoni watches me, unable to assist. This is my puzzle to solve.
“I cannot possibly carve you away from the tree,” I go on. “Can your magic free you?”
He blinks.
“Then I must marry you here and now to free you to use your magic and—” I gasp, looking down at the knife in my hands. I know why Loviatar gave it to me. I’ve heard of wisewomen using blood magic in their binding rituals. But blood rituals are said to be a deep magic, an old and dangerous magic—powerful when performed correctly, disastrous when done wrong.
“Once, all marriages were sealed in blood,” I say, holding up the knife. “Palm to palm, the two lovers pledged their lives to one another under the boughs of the oak tree.” I glance around the dark clearing and feel a flutter of sadness. “I always imagined my wedding day a little differently from this. My intended would ask for my hand. Is that not how all the ballads go? He recites poetry or a song of love that makes me feel more beautiful than the moon goddess.” I frown, gazing up at Tuoni, studying his lichen-dusted face. “But now I stand before my bridegroom who is as silent as the grave... for he is death.”
Tuoni waits with a somber look in his eye.
“There is no oak tree lit with candles. No drumming in the woods as you seek me out, the bridegroom on his last hunt. No wisewoman is here to witness the binding oath. And my family, my—” I bite back the words, closing my eyes against the pain of not having Siiri and my mother here. A bride is supposed to have her loved ones close as she makes this step, leaving the comfort of her house to begin a new life. A bride is supposed to be in love with her new husband too. So much about this moment is not what I would have wished, but I must take my fate in my own hands. I gaze up at the god of death. “My lord, do you consent to be my husband? Will you take me for a wife, forsaking all others?”
Slowly, Tuoni blinks. He has no choice. This is a marriage of desperation for us both. He doesn’t love me. If he could choose another, I’m sure he would.
I step closer, raising the blade. “I’m sorry for this, but I know no other way.” I slice open his cheek, watching as red blood drips down the knife. Lifting my hand, I wince, dragging the blade across my palm to spill my blood too. Tucking the knife in at my belt, I place my bleeding hand against his cheek. He closes his eyes at my touch.
“I’m not a wisewoman to know the right words,” I whisper. “But by my blood, I bind myself to you as your wife. No other may claim me. By your blood, you must offer me your protection... and I think the wisewomen usually say something about hearths, but I can’t remember. Your hearth fire burns, or I make a place for you at mine. Whatever the right words are, let’s agree they’ve been spoken.” I gaze up at Tuoni’s weathered face and wait for something to change. Am I supposed to feel different?
“I don’t know if it worked,” I admit, my hope dwindling. “Maybe it can’t work unless you make the vow too. I— ahh —” I cry out in pain as a heat like fire courses through my hand where I’m touching the death god’s face. I try to pull away, but I can’t. The alder tree is burning from the inside out. No—wait—the tree isn’t on fire. The god is on fire. I whimper, tears stinging my eyes as his skin turns molten. Flames dance in his dark eye as the tree around him begins to melt away.
Oh gods, it’s working. He’s breaking free.
I stumble back as a flaming hand wraps itself around my wrist, steadying me. The flames warm me, but they don’t burn. A thick metal chain dangles from the death god’s wrist, proof of his long captivity. I turn my wrist in his grasp, marveling as I take hold of his hand. It’s strong as iron, unyielding.
Holding tight to my husband, I pull him from the tree. The god of death steps forward, towering head and shoulders over me. He sheds his cloak of fire, leaving it burning in the trunk of the ruined alder. I cough from the smoke as the tree crackles and snaps.
“Aina,” he says with a deep, rasping voice.
I’m rooted to the spot. The raven couldn’t speak to me, but the god can.
Fire gives way to smoke and shadow as he changes before my eyes, burning away all remnants of his alder cage. I blink, taking in the face of a hunter. He’s not quite handsome... or is he? There’s an ageless quality to his features. He looks at once wise and ancient, virile and strong. His black hair is long, falling past his shoulders. It’s unkempt, dusted with soot that falls from the burning tree like snow. He’s clad in dark breeches and boots, a thick, black wool jerkin, a woven leather belt. He carries an axe at his hip, etched to match the knife at my hip. A wolf pelt rests on his shoulders over a long black cloak, making him appear even larger as he stands before me.
He looks... mortal. All except for those eyes. They contain such depth—ice and darkness, spirit and shadow. These are no mortal eyes. But this could all be a trick. Tuonetar likes to change appearance to lure her victims in. I suppose I expected Tuoni to match her in hideousness, or perhaps paint himself with blood and wear horns like Kalma.
In the angle of his cheeks and the arch of his nose, I see only the raven. I see my friend. “Tuoni...” Lifting my bleeding hand, I trace the cut on his cheek that has already healed. The only proof of our marriage is a faint white scar.
Taking my hand in both of his, he turns it over, exposing my cut. “My Aina,” he says, stroking a finger over the wound.
A chill colder than ice seeps through my skin, making me shiver. When I look down, the cut is healed. I, too, bear only a thin, white scar as proof of my marriage to the god of death.
“Now we are one,” he intones, his voice weaving through the very fabric of my soul, burrowing itself into the core of me. He raises my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “I wanted it to be you.” He meets my gaze, the intensity of those mismatched eyes holding me captive. “From this moment, there is only you.”