Hraki shrugged. “Fæðey told us, years ago. Back in Huldufjörður. She wanted us to have a safe place to hide if the worst came to the worst.” He tore a bite out of the dried fish. “I guess it’s come to that.”
* * *
Garún pushed the prisoner up against the wall. He was like a piece of meat, a sack of potatoes. He remained completely silent and detached. Removed from emotion, like a monk. For the first time she wondered if he knew any seiður.
“We’re not giving up,” she said. Katrín and Hraki stared at her, confused. “Trampe’s still managing things. Holding the fort until reinforcements arrive. We can’t let him do that. We can’t have brought all this upon people and not have anything to show for it.”
“So what are we going to do?’
“We’re going to complete our mission. No matter the cost. We’re going to capture Trampe and follow through with the plan.”
Katrín looked uncertain, so Garún reached out to Hraki. He accepted her and she felt the pain he was going through. The anger at the injustice, at his sister dying for a cause which could flicker out into nothing. The horror at the things he had seen. And she felt something else – an emotion almost resembling hope. A malformed, unrecognisable form of hope, tainted with despair and lunacy. He was certain his sister would come back to life.
She, in turn, shared her intentions with him. She saw the conflict on his face, no connection needed. Then she felt his acceptance.
“Wait,” said Katrín, looking between them uncertainly. “What’s going on?’
She’d never tried using this dark heritage – this gift she’d received at birth, which had followed her mother’s clan like an ancient curse. Garún sensed that the ability was there, just as she could reach out to other huldufólk and huldumanneskjur. She had felt it stir in the terrifying, overwhelming moment she’d experienced in the darkness of the Forgotten Downtown when the huldumaður had moved over her, had felt it resist and desire to fight, because it wanted to feed as he did, not be fodder for someone else.
She pulled the hood off the prisoner. The man refused to open his eyes. As if he knew what she was about to do. She grabbed his head and kept it still, forcing his eyelids up with her fingers. For only a moment his dark pupils met hers. That was enough.
* * *
Viscous. Warm. Soft. Like a mother’s womb. Like sex. Only better. More intimate. More obscene. More dangerous. Trapped in the intense moment just before the crash of orgasm.
His name was Hálfdán Þorsteinsson. He was forty-six years old. He had a wife named Ingigerður Barkardóttir. She was beautiful, but tired, her eyes cold and distant. Garún felt their first kiss, their wedding night, the first time they held hands, all those moments pour over her in one continuous chain where one event merged with another.
He had cared for Ingigerður, but didn’t love her. He’d loved her before, but a decade and three children later the feeling had eroded and faded into a numb sense of caring. Every time he went to Hafnía for his work he cheated on her at the same brothel. They knew him there and he always booked the same girls in advance. His two daughters, Drífa and Sæunn, were the same age as the whores working there and he found it uncomfortable. The desire, the guilty conscience, the self-loathing, all ran together into a thick ooze that drowned and clouded Garún’s mind.
The stiftamtmaður. Stern, grave, strict. He prepared documents which the stiftamtmaður stamped and signed in what he felt was a complete and thoughtless autonomy, every official stamp like a death sentence. Hálfdán feared Trampe, but still considerably less than others. He stood closest to him, almost acting as official counsel, and was often made to be the bringer of bad news because whatever official was assigned to the task felt he didn’t have the courage to do so.
He’s small. His father is whipping him. This was the only memory he had of his father. He didn’t remember his face, how he smelled, how his voice sounded. Only pain. He drowned out at sea. Hálfdán is terrified of sailing and hates the trips to and from Hrímland.
Jörundur the Ninth is sitting on his throne, the divine engine that advises him. Controls him, according to some. Hálfdán is kneeling along with the rest, but still dares to cautiously look up and gaze upon the king. His face is gaunt and his eyes dull, his hair thin and dirty, the crown too small on his large head. With jagged teeth and an open mouth, he carries all the signs of the endogamy the royal line is known for. Behind him the obsidian throne towers. Through thick, greenish windows ancient organs can be seen floating, the brains of deceased kings that still rule through their descendant. Black cables pour from the throne into the crown. Suddenly the king meets Hálfdán’s gaze and he looks down, feels himself blush from shame and foolishness. He trembles and is about to wet himself. But the gaping fool says nothing.
He is in Viðey, escorting officials. Noblemen. Tries to smile and participate in the conversation without being too forward. It does not become a Hrímlandic commoner. Trampe points out the defensive fortress, the tower, various precautions. His pride. His home. The eagle’s nest. Garún drowns in information. Pantries, rooms, servants, soldiers, cannons, powder. The layout of corridors and connections to rooms, parlours, the library and the basement. The basement that goes down to the docks. The ferry comes twice a day, mostly with supplies. The stiftamtmaður usually makes use of his private vessel, which is a modern piece of equipment powered by oil, even though the ferry is heading back to the city at the same time. This squandering and arrogance was a great source of annoyance to Hálfdán. Trampe never took a carriage, he only travelled in that obscenely expensive machine
