The hillside gives way to a broad-shouldered settlement, pockets of houses and shops softly glow in the post-dawn light. A ring of sooty air hangs over ramshackle buildings spilling into the shining sea. It’s like I’ve traveled back in time or am in another world altogether. I guess I am.
I have to keep my wits about me and don’t give myself time to process all that’s happened. I have a singular mission. I need to find the king despite what the Viking said.
We duck under low trees and then scale a crumbling wall. He leans against it, surveying the stone on either side of us. “Let’s wait here for a moment,” he says, ever watchful. “Keep your head down. Try not to let anyone see your eyes,” he warns while looking deeply into them.
I tremble a little inside and I want to blame him.
We’re within the boundary of Raven’s Landing, but still high above the town. My surroundings become clearer. Lined with brick, stone, and wooden structures, the muddy veins of lanes lead toward and away from the castle. Along another stretch, buildings lean on each other, forlorn and abandoned. Sinister smoke belches from a low structure in the middle, its roof a tarry black.
I stop our progress. “What’s that?”
“Ah, that would be the Distijllery.”
My brow furrows in question.
“They make big vats of stijl. It’ll make a dowsy—”
My face furrows in question.
“A drunk.” He explains, “Drinking it stills the magic in even the strongest people and rots the teeth until they’re black. Leaves the mind little better.”
My eyes widen.
“You’ll see,” he answers vaguely, resuming his long stride.
I hurry to keep up, but when we crest another hill, I stop again. What once must have been a grand castle perches on the footings of a mountain I must’ve crossed to get here. Stone turrets stand tall over the curved edges of a central rotunda. The palette here is drab brown and black. Mud and soot. Hunger and want. Fear and loss.
“That used to be Fallraven. Now they call it Fjallhold and it’s inhabited by the silver king and his mage, Glandias. You’ll find no refuge within or outside its walls.” His voice is solid, like the stone surrounding us.
The water in the moat around the castle and flowing into the sea is a mirror, a shiny reflection of the glory of what the fortification once was. “What happened?” I whisper.
“Our ruler.”
“Your king? How?” I ask, gesturing to everything that isn’t the castle. “You’re lying. Tricking me, some poor pigeon come to the big city.”
“I’m doing no such thing.”
I grab his jacket and his eyes meet mine. Behind them, I see the tenderness and concern where anyone else would see flint. “I was told that this will soon burn. You believe me, right?” I’m not sure what to believe, but my mother wouldn’t mislead me. She said the message was real.
I hold his gaze, but also read the truth on his lips before giving my attention to the planes of his cheeks—with a scar on one, masked by the wisps of his hair—, the tight hold in his jaw, and the tension on his brow.
“Yes. I believe you,” he says, not breaking my gaze.
I fight the urge to run through the streets, warning people, waving my arms, and imploring them to take flight. But how? What do I need to find? How does one break a curse? Who are the others? Where is home?
“I don’t have time for a tour of the town. I have to do something.”
“Okay, but forget the silver king. It’s best not to speak the name. He doesn’t care if we all freeze to death, drown, and die the most horrific death imaginable.” His gaze lingers on a blanket of smoke hovering by the castle.
“Then what does he care about?” I ask. Sure, the government where I come has its problems, but from what I’ve seen so far this place is next level.
The Viking lets out a short, mocking jolt of laughter before his expression transforms into a stony mask. The sun, finally lifting itself over the horizon, bathes him in golden light. “Power.” As I release my grip on his coat, my bare hand brushes his large fingers.
The fluttering sensation lifts in my belly much like the moment when he looked into my eyes and said, “You’re different.” The moment hangs between us.
There’s a loud knell, and I startle. He puts his hand on my shoulder as the ringing continues at evenly spaced intervals.
“The tower bells,” he says, glancing back at the stonewall. “Come on, let’s move.” He shakes his head and then mutters, “I hope I don’t regret this.”
He plows down the middle of the lane ahead of me. I scurry to keep up, not because I’m slow, but because I’m considerably shorter. His confident stride suggests that he rules Raven’s Landing and not the king. However, I imagine if that were the case I’d smell brown bread baking, whatever that is, and the windowpanes would be whole and polished, reflecting the rising sun instead of plastered with soot.
The Viking seemed gentler on the hillside than when he crossed the boundary wall. Once inside the city limits, he transformed into someone else, perhaps hardened by trying to survive in this rough place. I’ve never seen anything like Raven’s Landing and am equal parts awed and repulsed, curious about how there can be so many people and buildings in desperation and dilapidation while also wishing to go home to my own city with its shady alleys and dark corners. But they were mine. I knew them. I’m not sure how to get back there. Anyone who calls this place home will soon have to say goodbye too.
He pauses on a street corner. “We’ve come
