Þráinn turned to the seiðskratti and tried to decipher their disposition. The seiðskratti was staring at the graffiti, almost longingly, turning their head and taking it all in with a lethargic fascination.
“It’s … wonderful,” they said in a soft whisper. “Brutal, inefficient, barely functional – but still laden with overwhelming power. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What is it?’
“I am uncertain. The sabotage has obfuscated its purpose.”
“So it’s ruined?’
That fucking blendingur. The bitch had been one step ahead of them, somehow.
Magister Gapaldur approached the graffiti, touching the wet paint with a gloved finger.
“No, not exactly. Only … obfuscated. Their sabotage was not as thorough as they would have liked.” The seiðskratti touched the forehead of their white mask, drawing a crimson symbol on themselves with the wet paint. “Whatever this was, it was a key. A key to something greater.” They touched the graffiti with a flat palm, gasping slightly at the flow of seiðmagn, audibly resonating through the room. “I will repair it. And I will unlock whatever secrets it held.”
“See that you do.”
Something cracked under Þráinn’s feet as he was about to exit the room. A seashell, it looked like. He picked up a dark string, on which a menagerie of broken conches and shells had been threaded in elaborate patterns. The design was typical of the marbendlar, although he wasn’t familiar enough with their culture to know from where exactly it came. A centrepiece was missing, a delicate woven cradle where it should sit snugly. He investigated the floorboards closely and sniffed the air. A faint scent of salt and glass.
He placed the ruined necklace in his pocket and smiled.
Tuttugu og tvö
They crossed over in a panic, using the first portal Garún could track down with the audioskull. Diljá and Hrólfur had grabbed what meagre supplies they had and carried Katrín, still unconscious, between them.
The city streets spread out before them like a hostile maze, but Garún was unquestionably relieved to see the moon and stars back above her in the sky, not that bottomless void. Seeing the red flares had filled her with a crushing feeling of dread mixed in with relief. She realised she had been waiting for this for quite some time now. They were drained after staying in the Forgotten Downtown, but there was no time to rest. Garún led them out of the city centre using the audioskull and the noisefiend as their guide. She had picked up a few roadblocks using the delýsíð network. They followed side streets along Hverfisgata, heading towards Miklatún, where the road split into Miklabraut, which ran straight towards the eastern gate. It was easy to move unseen through Hlíðar, the quiet neighbourhood home to well-off humans, respectable families working honest jobs. Or, at least, so it seemed on the surface. Only a handful of police officers came their way, walking their evening beat, and they sneaked past them with ease.
In the distance they heard sirens and a spattering of gunfire. They stopped and listened. The audioskull sounded calm.
“They’re rounding up the people who escaped from Rökkurvík,” Hrólfur said after a while.
“Do you think your people made it out?’ Diljá asked Garún.
“I don’t know. We had established escape portals. But …’
But who knew if any of them were trustworthy, she wanted to say. Who knew if any of them had sold them out, like Viður had done to her.
“But they might not have had the time,” she settled for instead.
They headed south, making sure to keep off the beaten path by going through empty residential streets. Murky lamps fuelled by fish oil lit their way, their lights faded and soft compared to the bright yellow electric lights on Hverfisgata. Garún cursed all this lighting, which made it harder for her to travel unseen, but she was secretly glad of it. The Forgotten Downtown was too empty – too dark. The memory of the pale blue lights of the hrævareldar haunted her.
They heard Fossbúagil before they saw it. They were walking along the new and dignified streets of Fossvogur. The occasional lamp lit up the paved road and whitewashed terraced houses. As they went around a corner the road faded into a flat heath, which itself quickly ended in a sheer drop. The canyon of Fossbúagil was long and wide, roughly circular, as if a titan had stepped down into the middle of the city.
The moon was out and in its light they could see over to the rocks on the other side. Residential houses lined the edge of the canyon precariously, the dark water shimmering at the bottom. Frayed ropes and broken ladders hung from the edge down to the deep lagoon, and steep paths hugged the cliff side down to the clear water. For years this had been one of the most beloved swimming spots for the people of the city, until the vættir in the waterfall began to stir and children started disappearing. No one knew why the vættir had reappeared so suddenly. The knowledge of how to pacify them with sacrificial blót was long since forgotten. The last ruling stiftamtmaður had royal seiðskrattar “exorcise’ the vættir inhabiting the waters, and for a moment everything seemed to be in order. But when an entire school class vanished on a spring field trip it was decided to strictly forbid any swimming in the canyon lagoon. That didn’t stop teenagers from sneaking in for skinny-dipping under the pale moon, and occasionally the papers would print articles about children claimed by the vættir in the waterfall.
Garún was uncomfortable out in the open, but the darkness would give them some cover. They walked along the canyon’s edge towards the waterfall. Diljá stumbled more than once in the mossy heath, but Hrólfur always helped her get up immediately. Katrín occasionally groaned to herself, almost regaining consciousness. She was shaking, and reeked of sour sweat and sickness.
The river of Fossvogsá branched out from the great and strong currents of the rivers
