“Kalmar is your main source of trade!’
Kryik’traak pointed an accusatory finger at Hrólfur. Mind yourself.
“It is our only source of trade. My people have roamed the northern seas freely for centuries. Now, we cannot move unless it is with the blessing of their warships and accountants. They have developed underwater ships. Land, sky, ocean – they now move into the heart of our homeland. The deep sea. We must act.”
“And you think any of that will change by seceding?’
“It will grant us autonomy,” said Kryik’traak, a trace of annoyance seeping into his voice. “It will grant us the freedom to sail on our own terms, under our own banners.”
“You’re starting to sound like a royalist,” said Styrhildur, glaring at Hrólfur.
“He does,” said Garún, disappointedly. “But he’s just afraid. Which is somehow worse.”
“I can’t believe this,” said Hrólfur. “I can’t fucking believe this. And what’s the plan? The stiftamtmaður is your hostage – let’s just give us that fucking outrageous outcome – and then what? Declare independence? Put actions in motion that will end with Reykjavík being bombarded by Loftkastalinn, as Kalmar is forced to declare war on its own colony?’
“Loftkastalinn will—”
Hraki fell quickly silent as his sister grabbed his arm. Garún felt them reaching out to each other, communicating in an unseen whirlwind, then reaching a consensus.
“That’s not your concern any more,” he said.
“You say that Lögrétta sold us out to Perlan,” said Diljá. “What makes you think they’ll use Trampe’s kidnapping to further citizens’ rights?’
“We’ll demand that they do, publicly,” Katrín replied. “And I think people will support us. The royalists still have a significant part of the seats in Lögrétta, but even they will know it’s political suicide to stand firmly with Kalmar after what’s happened. Most of them must be doubting their overlords by now. The Citizens’ Party split into the Home Rule Party because of the events of the last few weeks. The political landscape is all set for a final push. They’ll use Trampe’s absence to push for further independence, I’m sure of it. They’d have the legal grounds to do so. And with home rule at least, we’ll better be able to make our own rules for all our peoples.”
“The Coral Spires will want to use the opportunity as well,” said Kryik’traak. “It is our hope to renew the old treaties from before the Commonwealth.”
“A unified nation,” said Katrín.
“That will happen with time.” Diljá sounded almost pleading. “Please. Even if all this happens, Kalmar will just retaliate with even more force. No more violence. Haven’t enough people died?’
The silence that followed smothered the question, still hovering in the air around them.
“I think it’s best we go.”
Hrólfur reached for Diljá’s hand. She hesitantly took it, not willing to believe that this was happening.
“The Crown will still be looking for you,” said Garún. “They won’t stop just because a temporary political ceasefire is in order.”
“I have other places to hide,” said Hrólfur sternly. “Focus on worrying about yourselves.”
With that, they left. The people remaining – Garún, Katrín, Styrhildur, Hraki and Kryik’traak – started planning out how they would do the impossible.
Commit an act of treason and possibly war.
Disable Loftkastalinn.
Ambush Trampe.
Spark the revolution.
Tuttugu og átta
The train shook along the rails and Sæmundur suppressed a moan. The wound had stopped bleeding as soon as the ritual was completed, but the pulsing pain was steady and the flesh was weak and incredibly sensitive. He was unsure of how long had passed since he’d performed the ritual. Days? Weeks? It still hurt as badly as the moments after the ceremony, before he had blacked out. He felt Bektalpher’s lips move inside his shirt, a non-stop torrent of powerful incantations, whispers dancing just beyond the limits of human hearing. Kölski was bound into shadow, which frequently was cast in the wrong direction compared to how the light fell, sometimes moving out of sync with Sæmundur himself. There was nothing to be done about that. All he could hope was that no one would notice.
The ritual had taken a lot more out of him than he had imagined. After he regained consciousness he had just lain there in the temple for the longest time, discarded in the dust and broken rubbish like another forgotten idol. He shook from the blood loss, too weak to move from hunger and thirst. But also from something else. A loss, a sacrifice he didn’t quite yet comprehend. When he found the strength to stand up he wasn’t thirsty or hungry any more. He’d possibly been lying there for three or four days, maybe a week – he wasn’t certain. And that was only the time he was conscious. The entire ordeal ran together into one, ceaseless moment. At some point he had realised that Garún had called out to him, that the charm he’d given her had been broken. It was effortless to place her in the city, hidden deep in the earth by the Elliðaár rivers. A pang of guilt stung him, all the more deep and hurtful because it was as if other emotions had become something more resembling a distant memory. She had been his last tether. Now, it seemed even that had been severed.
He sat on the train, heading towards Elliðabær and then north to the last stop at Gufunes. Nobody would sit near him. Probably he reeked of sweat and dried blood. He’d been sensible enough to try to clean the blood off his face and his clothes, but it didn’t do much good. He still felt how it had dried in the nooks and crannies of his body and clothes. He could constantly smell iron in his nostrils. It felt somehow right to him. This is who he was now.
All logic went against taking the train. There were more seiðskrattar around than usual, and they’d see Sæmundur stand out like a wolf in a sheep shed, glowing from the demonic possession that had taken root in him.
