“He’s dead,” said Garún. “So your little plan, to use the protests to manipulate him, fucking exploded in your hands. No matter what the reason for it was. He’s dead and the people will rise up against you.”
“Why should one dead nobleman ensure a nation’s independence? Even if he was assassinated. Even if Loftkastalinn, their little science experiment, has disappeared. People still know their place, as always. The Crown still controls the army, their warships and biplanes. And now they have those fucking alien things that suck the life out of people – as you’ve seen first-hand.”
She did not know what he meant by that.
“So, Trampe is dead. Maybe not exactly what we were planning for, but we knew the possibility was there. A political failure removing Trampe from office would have been preferable – but beggars can’t be choosers. So, Hrímland needs a new stiftamtmaður. It just so happens that the most suitable candidate is the king’s close nephew, Loretz Engel Gyldenlöve. Respected in the court, an educated person of great pedigree, but at heart a simple man who likes to drink and thinks more about fucking than politics. He is a man who will do as he’s told and like it, unlike Trampe. A man who sees that it’s to everyone’s benefit to, for example, properly privatise Perlan and put some real industry on the map here. Put all this fucking unnature around us to some use and let the cogs of the economy work freely, so cash can flow in the right place. Everyone benefits, and we won’t have to destabilise the country just to get the stiftamtmaður to do as he’s told.”
He leaned in towards her. “The only thing we needed was a credible reason behind the dissent. A buffer between us and the protests. Along came the spirit of the revolution: you.”
“You’re lying! I’m in the Nine, a prisoner of the Crown! That officer, Þráinn, works for them! They would have realised this long ago!’
“Hegningarhúsið at Skólavörðustígur 9 is not run by the Crown, although many people think it is. It’s run by the Ministry of Justice – specifically, the Directorate of Immigration. The Hrímlandic government. Lögrétta. This house was built by Innréttingar, one of their first ventures, along with the parliament building. And that officer, Meinholt, he’s just like me, and his boss, the commissioner. On the party’s payroll.”
Hrólfur stood up. “The revolution isn’t coming. I just wanted to you know that. I always found your pretentious arrogance to be completely insufferable.”
He walked behind her and knocked on the door. Her heart was beating so fast that she thought she might die. She wished she could die. There were so many things she wanted to say, she wanted to do. She wished she had said, or done.
“They will execute you in a few days,” he went on in the same, casual tone. “I convinced them to leave some memories behind.” She could hear the guard opening the door for him. “You won’t simply die. You know that, right? You haven’t earned death in some blissful ignorance. The seiðskrattar will ensure you get a traitor’s death. You’ll be tortured for an eternity.”
She leaned back in the chair, stretching to see him. She could not hold back the tears that now flooded unhindered from her eyes.
“What about Katrín and Diljá? Hraki? Is Styrhildur alive?’
“Styrhildur and Hraki will find themselves here soon enough. Katrín will be executed along with you, but in a more humane way. Her father managed to get that through, although he could not convince Skúli to completely spare her. Diljá is none of your concern.”
The door slammed shut.
* * *
A sorrowful scream woke Sæmundur from his torpor, the overwhelming ennui which had overtaken him. He brought his tiny fragment of the world back into focus. The sound came from Reykjavík.
He turned towards the city. His limbs were so heavy that he barely managed to find the strength to move them. Turning his torso was like weathering down a mountain with nothing but the wind. An impossibly long and exhausting effort.
He listened closely. It was a terrible wail, which never needed to draw breath. It cut him to his deepest core. He knew that voice.
Garún.
She was in a bottomless pit, imprisoned deep within the ground, bound with sorrow and regret. Tortured. Memories ripped out, bloody, and devoured raw. Blasphemy.
Her suffering and despair came pouring over him in full force. Touched something deep within him, a sensitive core which had still not hardened and become numb to emotion.
He had abandoned her so many times before. He’d lied to himself that he wasn’t ashamed of bringing her to the party at Svartiskóli. But it wasn’t true. He’d sacrificed a creature Garún loved dearly, just to further his own selfish desires. He had betrayed her over and over again.
In those moments he had only cared about himself. Himself and his perceived destiny. It was all about his journey, about what he had still to learn, still to discover. He had to show the stuck-up academics at Svartiskóli what was what. Everything revolved around him and his own ego. Nothing else mattered.
The scream came to him again, like the sound of instruments carried with the wind.
Garún.
She called out to him, like frenzied church bells in the distance. Woke him up from the dead.
Garún.
I am coming.
* * *
The land shook with his every step. Sharp volcanic stones were torn from the ground and attached themselves to his feet, layer after layer. The seiðmagn in the land erupted and boiled from his coming. The rock piled up on his back, hands and feet, enveloped him entirely. He was about to give up after each step he took. He was completely exhausted. Nothing was as tempting as to give up and let the comforting apathy overwhelm him again. Lose himself in the cacophony, in the sounds of the abyss.
But from the city came a terrifying scream which cut at the very roots of his soul. Struck at one of the
