Sæmundur had never properly thanked him. He never returned north, where the priest lay buried. It was futile. He had no home.
Tuttugu
Garún woke with a start, the dregs of the nightmare still looming over her. It had been a few days since the concert. She slept with the delýsíð sheet under her. It radiated anger, leaking into her dreams. She told herself it was to keep her on edge, but she knew that wasn’t the entire reason for it. Someone was pounding at the door. She reached for the pale blue jawbone underneath her pillow.
“Who’s there?’ she asked.
“Hrólfur,” was the response.
“And Diljá. Let us in, please.
Diljá sounded as if she was on the verge of tears. It could be a trap. But why would the Crown waste time playing games when they could easily charge in and overpower her? Garún held the jawbone behind her back, readied like a dagger, and sneaked towards the door. She opened it a small crack. Through it she saw Diljá and Hrólfur, standing alone in the dark hallway. They looked terrible. Their clothes were roughed up, their eyes wild like those of a cornered animal.
“Wait,” Garún said.
She shut the door again and tore the sheet infused with seiðmagn off the bed. It reeked of feverish sweat. She stuffed it in a hole in the floor in one of the corners of the room. Immediately it was more bearable to stay inside the room, but you could still feel faint hints of its effects. She was about to open the door, but hesitated. She had no idea why they were really here, or if they could really be trusted. Garún hid the jawbone in her belt and opened the door hesitantly.
Hrólfur and Diljá slunk inside as soon as she opened. They were like mice, sneaking along the walls. Hrólfur headed towards the boarded window and tried to peek outside.
“What happened? Where’s Katrín?’ Garún asked.
Diljá suddenly started to cry. Hrólfur turned from the window, his face mortified.
“They came tonight.” A long time passed before he continued. “They’ve connected us to Black Wings. I’m not sure what happened to Katrín.” He looked towards Diljá, as if expecting her to continue, but she only sobbed. “We’d just finished distributing the new magazine. We ran out of ink so we went home early. They blockaded the entire Melar-neighbourhood. Soldiers and police outside my apartment, interrogating the neighbours. I saw two seiðskrattar enter. They didn’t see me, so I ran. Met Diljá heading back towards Höfði. They’d also been at her place. We’d both hoped they didn’t know where the printing press was located. But the entire workshop was in flames.”
“But you?’ asked Garún. “Did they see you?’
Diljá had gathered herself. She sat motionless, frozen. A statue of grief.
“No,” she replied. “I was at Starholt, walking home, when Urður stopped me. She used to babysit me when I was a kid. She said that there was a raid in my street and I knew they’d taken all of them.”
Early on they had agreed to keep their private lives separate. The less they knew, the less harm they could do to one another if one of them was captured. But still details had seeped through. Garún knew that Hrólfur lived by himself and was a low-ranking scribe or accountant in some department of the city. She was unsure if he had something to lose or not. Diljá had a large family and lived with them in Starholt, like many of the huldufólk did. She had a lot of younger siblings. But Garún didn’t feel any sorrow or compassion. Just hatred for the Crown.
“What about Katrín? Why isn’t she here with you?’
Garún’s tone was a bit harsher than she’d intended. Katrín’s absence was unsettling, to say the least.
“There’s no reason to think they’re on to her as well,” Hrólfur said, annoyed. “She never goes to the press, not even to send in an article. She considers funding most of the costs her entire contribution to the printing work.”
“She still might have headed the same way you did. She lives downtown, right?’
“Yes. On Tjarnargata by the pond.”
“I hope she’s okay,” Diljá said. “At least her family is going to be okay. They wouldn’t dare take them.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Hrólfur said. “She might be a Melsteð, but that doesn’t matter to them. If they find out Katrín is a part of this, then they will pay. Treason is treason.”
Garún didn’t like this. She’d never fully trusted Katrín.
“Just now there are only two options – either Katrín is a traitor or she’s a prisoner of the Crown.”
“You can’t know that!’ Diljá said, shocked. “She might have escaped.”
“Then why isn’t she here?’ Garún started pacing the room. She hated this feeling of losing control. “You all had the hidden emergency portals into Rökkurvík. Everyone knew the plan in case of the worst. Regroup in the Forgotten Downtown.”
Garún always thought Katrín was naïve, a view reinforced when she couldn’t believe that the Crown would move against the journalists at Ísafold. Still, deep down, she admired her determination to fight against her own privilege.
“All right, let’s assume she might have escaped – but how long can she remain in hiding in Reykjavík? I seriously doubt she knows someone that can get her into the Forgotten Downtown. If they haven’t captured her already, it’s only a matter of time. We need to know what the situation is.”
“What do you suggest?’ Hrólfur asked.
“We can’t stay here.
