They walked straight ahead, moving step by step deeper into the abyssal heart of the library. Sæmundur had no sense for how long they kept going in the crushing darkness. Time slipped from the mind’s grasp like sand between fingers. Eventually they reached the end of the vault. It had only a single door.
It didn’t fit into its frame, which was too angular and well made for a botched piece of work like that. Uneven boards made from driftwood had been put together, bent and pale, making a door that wouldn’t even suit a poor peasant’s cottage. There was no lock or keyhole on this door, unlike the others. The bibliognost stopped and gestured to Edda to go inside. Sæmundur hesitated but couldn’t manage to say anything. The air was too heavy here to carry words. He opened the door with a gentle creak, which echoed overwhelmingly in the silent void. Inside he faced an endless midnight. The bibliognost rummaged around in his pockets, pulled out a small candlestick and lit it. Sæmundur understood. This was the time he was allotted.
He crossed the threshold.
Tíu
They beat their drums as if the world was ending. A relentless rhythm, constantly on the verge of cascading into noise and cacophony, a frenzied beat giving their voices structure as they cried out as one for justice and freedom, demanding the basic decency of equal rights. There was excitement and a sense of joy in the air. For a moment Garún relaxed and let her guard down. Smiling. Happy. Carefree. She felt as if things would change. She truly believed it, in that moment. There were more people attending than she had expected. For a moment the sun was blotted out as Loftkastalinn floated across the sky in the distance, the noise from its engines so loud that they had to raise their voices considerably. Biplanes buzzed around the floating fortress like wasps protecting their hive.
Today was Óðday, the sixteenth of Harpa. It was fifty years since the naval fleet of the Crown had docked at Reykjavík. It was a defensive measure, they said, to protect the lives and interests of Hrímlanders against the war raging on the continent. The war ended, but the Crown stayed. And with them came development and the walls.
No more gates! Tear down the walls!
The hidden delýsíð laced on their placards bled out raw emotions that seeped into the parched crowd, saturating them with powerful feelings of solidarity, unity, outrage over the injustices of the world and the suffering the walls had brought upon them. Not that they needed the encouragement, as Garún had feared, ever the cynical, borderline pessimist, but the added sorcerous effect made them move and feel as one.
So when the police showed up in force with shields and batons charged with seiður, positioning themselves around the square and in front of City Hall, blocking it off, the crowd grew only bolder, stronger in their conviction, more determined not to be cowed into complacent silence. City Hall was a blocky, fortress-like building, lurking by the city pond. It had only been finished a few years earlier, its striking architecture a popular topic of debate among the citizens of Reykjavík, as with any other new building. Passers-by were stopping at a safe distance to watch the demonstration. Jón came up to Garún as she was shouting words of protest, a megaphone in his hand, pointing out to her a group of people, two of them carrying unwieldy wooden boxes.
“Journalists,” he said. “And they brought cameras.” He smiled. The cameramen set their boxes down and started unpacking the cameras. “We’re making history, Garún!’
He brought the megaphone to his lips and led a new chant. An old, familiar chant, not uttered for years. Decades.
“Free Hrímland! Free Hrímland!’
He handed Garún the megaphone, joining her in the rest of the chant.
“Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!’
The crowd joined in, the drumbeats growing in strength and power. The rows of police officers tightened. After a few rounds of the chant, Jón started his speech.
He spoke with conviction and fire. He spoke of a better world. One where the plentiful resources found here could be used to make a better society. An equal society. A society where there was a place for every race, every person as they were. A place where people could be free. Where walls were not a tool of imprisonment and oppression. Where seiðmagn was not harvested for military use, but for the improvement of society. The thaumaturgical power plant in Perlan was a symbol of Kalmar’s failure to the Hrímlandic people. Instead of a shining beacon of hope and healing, it was enslaved to the monstrous military fortress they had built. The seiðmagn could be used to power seiðskrattar working in hospitals, healing diseases, or greenhouses, growing new and wondrous produce for the people. The walls were an even greater failure, a structure built for protection instead used for oppression. For segregation of the Hrímlandic people and violence against the citizens the Crown allegedly swore to protect.
They cheered, beating on drums, applauding, shouting. The flash of cameras went off, once, twice, just out of sight.
No more gates! Tear down the walls!
Free Hrímland! Free Hrímland! Hrímland out of Kalmar, no more Crown!
Garún patted Jón on the back, congratulating him for a job well done. He had voiced their common thoughts, which Garún had grown so tired of hearing. But now, she felt as if she was hearing them for the first time. Now they meant something, outside the bubble of their secretive meetings. She saw movement up in the windows of City Hall – curtains being moved, shadows stirring in offices.
Styrhildur sidled up to Garún, leaning in towards Garún and nudging her playfully.
“It’s happening. Just like old times.”
“What do you mean?’
Styrhildur smiled awkwardly. “Like when we were kids, playing Fallen Stick, and you’d move in and
