“If he is awake, why does he not respond?’
“Because he cannot find the strength to.”
“What do you mean?’
The demon ignored his question.
“You cannot converse with him,” Kölski said after a while. “Even if you could, it would accomplish nothing. You will only comprehend his power by wielding it yourself. This much, you already know.”
He knew where Kölski was heading. But he did not want to believe it.
“You must take over his burden.”
Sæmundur looked down at himself. Looked into himself. Every bone in his body was cerulean blue. Saturated with raw galdur. Demons. It was still nothing when compared to the forces bound within the stone giant.
“Impossible. I’ve already absorbed all the power I can wield – there is no room for more. You might as well ask me to drink the oceans away, or pull the moon down to the earth.”
“All those things are possible, and even more. You are still thinking like a man.” Kölski grimaced. “Rigid. Limited. Bound in flesh and clay.” Sæmundur did not respond. The demon snorted. “No space is as infinite as the gulf between the mind of a living being and the reality outside it. Infinity is the most common size in the universe, and eternity is the only temporal unit.”
An arm fell off one of the seiðskrattar. They were floating in the air behind him and Kölski. Their bodies were decomposing. The wind suddenly picked up. There was no shelter from the wind on Suðurnes. He found himself staring at a straw, bending in the wind. Its roots were shallow, barely gripping the volcanic earth. But still it held fast. Still it did not break.
“What do I have to do?’
“You only need to ask.”
* * *
Biðja.
A word that could mean to pray or to ask for something. Two meanings in the same word, both acts humble in their nature.
Sæmundur had never been freely handed anything when it came to galdur. In Svartiskóli secrets were hoarded, like a dragon hoarded gold, guarded with envy and greed. Every grain of truth he had acquired was something he’d had to fight for – something he’d had to take, with cunning, trickery, or brute force.
The possibility had not even come to his mind.
In the distance a buzzing sound grew in volume. Dark dots moved in the sky. Biplanes. He could not afford any further distractions. The two seiðskrattar floated up to meet them, crackling with seiðmagn. Two birds with one stone.
Sæmundur cleared his mind. Shut off the noise, the vibration in everything. Focused on the being inside the stone.
A calm fell over his consciousness. A stillness of the like he had never experienced before.
He reached out his hand. Without words, without galdur or anything at all. Just him, alone out in the lava fields.
Gravel crumbled down the pillar. The earth trembled. With a colossal effort the Stone Giant tore its foot from the ground, breaking it away. First one, then the other. It turned towards Sæmundur. The giant was like an ancient statue, a vague human form without hands. Two legs, an unshapely body, a roughly shaped head. The land made flesh.
The giant bent down until its head was right in front of Sæmundur. He saw the creature glowing inside the rock. It twitched like a child in the womb.
A crack erupted down from the top of the head, opening the stone. There, in the middle of the wound, like a flower found on the highland heath, was an ivory hand. It seemed human, but in an artificial manner. Shaped, like a marble statue. It listlessly reached out its fingers.
Sæmundur reached out towards it.
Their fingertips met.
And he became inflamed with might.
* * *
The stone wall was completely smooth. The stones were so closely fitted that only faint lines remained where they interlocked. It was as if the wall had been slightly melted. Garún felt around the wall, trying to find the right spot. Hálfdán’s memories were vague when it came to the exact location. He had only tried the pathway once.
“What is it?’ Katrín asked in a low voice.
“Nothing, hold on.”
Her fingertips threaded delicate lines, diagonal and vertical, crooked and straight, feeling for the symbol of release. They didn’t have much time – too many errors or too much time spent trying to open it and the defensive seiður of the portal would be unleashed.
Something clicked and a hexagonal shape sank into the wall. On it was carved an esoteric symbol. Garún leaned up against it.
“Rögnezkjar máttreilíf rekmírum.”
The hexagon twisted and disappeared into the wall. The stones slid back and to the sides, silently forming a pathway wide enough for two people. Inside was a steep spiral stairway leading up into the darkness.
Katrín lit a small oil lamp. They moved as quickly and quietly as they could. Inside the spiral tower the pitch blackness was absolute, oppressing the tiny light. Garún counted the floors in her mind.
Armoury. Soldiers’ barracks. Servants’ quarters. Pantry and kitchen. The main hall. The large banquet hall. Drawing room. Bedrooms.
Here.
They were out of breath once they reached the right place, but there was no time to rest. With every minute that passed it was more likely that some soldier would look down and notice the boat. Garún headed right towards the wall and mumbled the chant, drew on it three runes of power: the secret emblems of the king, the state and the royal family.
The wall opened with a low click. Katrín hurriedly turned off the lamp.
Ever so slightly, Garún pushed the false wall and took a look inside. A dark living room, richly decorated. So neat and tidy that it seemed completely untouched, as if no one had ever been in there. In the air was a faint fragrance of summer flowers mixed with cigars. In stark contrast, Garún found herself to stink. Like a vagrant.
The heart was pounding in her chest. Beating up against the bone, which pushed back with an unworldly chill. The audioskull was set low, so she could barely hear it. She held one
