“For luck,” she said.
Garún could only nod her thanks. She felt overwhelmed. Like she wanted to cry out in joy, or cry in earnest from how deeply this had touched her, but she didn’t know how. She didn’t know what to say. And with their connection still open, the two of them still reaching out to each other, she didn’t really need to. Diljá hugged her briefly before returning back to her table.
Some noise-band started to play. Screams and rhythmic distortion washed over Garún and she found herself enjoying it. The singer was tattooed from head to toe. She got herself a beer. Then another one. The songs were all incredibly short, really only a few riffs stitched together that allowed the audience to lose themselves in a chaotic pit out on the dance floor. They smashed into each other, pushed and hit and banged their heads, but as soon as someone dropped to the floor they were picked up immediately by the others. In between songs the singer ranted about Kalmar, the police, the military and warmongering, their brothers and sisters killed and imprisoned after the protest.
Garún stood and watched. A part of her wanted to jump in and join the unruly crowd as another song blasted off. Would they help her get back up if she was pushed down to the floor? Would she be able to stop hitting once she started? She didn’t want to know the answers to these questions. She absent-mindedly touched the bracelet on her wrist. It made her feel warm.
The crowd throbbed and someone bumped into her, pushing her so she spilled half her beer. She turned around, ready to sound off, her defences already up and ready to fight whatever shit this bastard would try to shovel over her for doing nothing but being in his way.
“I’m sorry,” he said, before she could get a word in. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, Garún, I’ll get you another one.”
Sæmundur looked even worse than the last time she’d seen him. His eyes were sunken. His skin was sagging slightly. He was just as big and tall as before, but Garún got the impression that there wasn’t much keeping this tattered coat of his hanging upright. Something was missing.
This entire scene of bumping into her reminded her of how they had first met. It had happened almost exactly like this. The memory came flooding over her and she felt ill.
“Hi,” she finally said. “Don’t worry about it. So you got the band to play?’
“Yeah. We’re next up.”
They went quiet. Looked uncomfortably at each other. They didn’t know how to bridge the rift that had appeared between them. It had felt stupid to ask him to play the concert. But she had been too afraid to ask him for anything else. She had no idea of what he was capable of. He’d said he wanted to help, that they could cancel some previously arranged gig and play here instead.
“Everything worked out?’ he asked. “The planning and so on.”
“Yes.”
“Good. Listen, you said some náskárar had shown up at the last protest?’
“Yeah. Rotsvelgur’s tribe. Or … Well, I assume it was his people.”
“I think so too. I’ll have to check on Rotsvelgur soon. We have some business to attend to. I can talk to him, if you want. Get their full support.”
“I should go with you.”
She had meant it as a means to show support, but it was clear by the look on his face that Sæmundur had gleaned her real intention. She didn’t trust that he wouldn’t botch the task.
“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. You stay safe.”
“I will.”
She didn’t know what to say. It felt like no matter what question she asked, she wouldn’t get any real answers.
“How’s Mæja?’
Something moved over his face. Something dark and unclear.
“She … She’s fine. She goes out a lot. Still purrs as loudly as ever.”
“Good.” She forced herself to smile. “I miss her, you know.”
“I know.”
The band finished up to rowdy applause. Diljá and Hrólfur got up on stage and took the microphone. They were about to give the speech about the people who had fallen in the fight against the Commonwealth, the oppression they were facing, the dangers of harnessing the dormant power in Öskjuhlíð for war and destruction.
“Sæmundur …’ Garún started, but he stopped her.
“I have to get backstage and set up. Don’t leave, watch us play. It’s going to be … It’s going to be different.”
She nodded.
* * *
He was about to break. All his willpower went into holding Kölski back. He kept mumbling incantations and words of power, low enough that others couldn’t hear what he was saying. They were sitting together on a stack of pallets in the fisherman’s hut, talking quietly together. Sæmundur stood by the window and looked out. He had to support himself on the windowsill so he could stand. Kölski was not resisting, wasn’t trying to break out, but Sæmundur couldn’t contain him much longer.
Every hour that passed was harder than the last. It had come to the point where Sæmundur had to constantly recite the incantation to prevent Kölski from breaking out of his shadow-bound form. He hadn’t slept. His lessons with Kölski had been intense, and partly unleashing control of the demon bound in shadow had placed a great strain upon him. It sickened him how willing Kölski was to serve him. How easily he had dispatched those soldiers. Pliant and humble, a misleading smile that waited for the next instruction. He’d thought of bailing on the concert, which seemed so insignificant in the greater context of things, but after having Garún witness that he couldn’t just abandon her.
Everything had changed. So much of what he knew
