Ah, the voice in her mind said. There you are. Our little deviant from the protest.
A pain started blooming in her, a freezing kind of pain, shocking her body from the chest out, spreading into her limbs, a current of ceaseless phantom suffering rising to a crescendo.
Your network is quite ingenious, despite how hacked together and rudimentary it is. An improvement of your crude signs controlling your comrades. You might perhaps have made a decent seiðskratti in a different life.
The pain arose in her, but she could not scream, could not move her arm, could only suffer.
Perhaps. The network will be a great asset to us. To think we haven’t considered the potential of delýsíð before.
They leaned in, filling Garún’s entire field of vision. The edges of existence were becoming dark.
Where are you hiding, you little rat? A tunnel? A cave? We will find you. We will find you and—
Garún snapped back to herself and fell backwards on the rough cavern floor. Diljá stood shocked, perplexed, having just forcibly pushed her away from the symbol. She was now leaning over her, repeating over and over, what happened, what’s wrong, reaching out to her in hopes of establishing an unspoken connection, but Garún could not answer, only scream from the relentless pain.
* * *
They ruined the sign with delýsíð paint as thoroughly as they could and abandoned the cave pocket Garún had used to set up the key rune in. It was for the best that she’d had the good sense to paint it elsewhere than their regular base. After a while the pain had faded, and as her body felt fine they gathered it had been a psychological attack.
“It was careless of you to make a new symbol,” Diljá said, gesturing towards the stack of newspapers Kryik’traak had brought them. “It’s already clear that Reykjavík is at boiling point. Why would you risk that?’
“I had to see,” was the only thing Garún could say for herself. “I had to know that it was true.”
“Right.”
Diljá sounded unconvinced. Garún reached out to her, wanting to communicate herself better, but Diljá didn’t open herself to it. Garún felt slightly troubled.
I guess my standoffishness has finally worn her down, she thought to herself. Figures.
“Listen, every single newspaper out there is printing what practically constitutes anti-Kalmar propaganda,” Hrólfur said. “Trampe has gone too far. They’ve fully armed the police, ground the traffic in and out of the city to a standstill, they’re harassing regular people for documentation and detaining them if anything is off. They’ve arrested several families because their kids aren’t properly documented.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why the hell they’re so excessive, but it’s working to our benefit. People are outraged – regular people. This is our chance.” He started pacing. “Did you see that the Citizens’ Party has split up? They’ve formed a new party, the Home Rule Party. They’re pushing for more autonomy within the Commonwealth. This is huge news, although not entirely unforeseeable. It’s the first step towards independence.”
Katrín sat up on her bed. She looked slightly better, being able to hold food down now.
“What? Where was this?’
Hrólfur shuffled the stack of newspapers and fetched one for her.
“I’m afraid they don’t mention your father in there. Maybe he stayed with the old party,” he offered. “Or, well …’
Or he’s in the Nine with the rest of your family, was what none of them wanted to say. Katrín started poring over the newspaper.
“This is our chance,” Hrólfur continued. “Call for a mass protest. Annexation Day is coming up. People normally gather for festivities in the city. It’s the perfect opportunity.”
“How?’ Diljá asked.
“Kryik’traak will spread the word. We can send couriers to certain people at the newspapers, get them to print bulletins, post ads. Reykjavík isn’t that big. Everybody knows everybody.”
“I still haven’t reached my contact with the náskárar,” said Garún. “So Katrín should stay here and hide. She also could use the rest, maybe.”
Katrín nodded her agreement, still devouring every word of the newspaper. She looked better, healthier now. She looked concerned as she read. She didn’t look that happy about the party split, which surprised Garún. Wasn’t this what she had been hoping for?
“They might even show up,” said Hrólfur. “Like at the last protest.”
Diljá looked hesitant. “But why is Trampe cracking down so hard on the city gates? What is Kalmar looking for?’
“Us?’ Hrólfur suggested. “They raided Rökkurvík, after all.”
Diljá didn’t look convinced.
Garún knew who they were looking for. A rogue galdramaður. One considered to be allied with their cause. But she kept quiet. Who cared why the Crown was showing its true nature now? All that mattered was that they strike while the iron was hot.
“Let’s do it,” Garún said. “We need to put the word out. Get the people to rise up, together. It’s time to reclaim what is rightfully ours.”
Tuttugu og fjögur
The Stone Giant. Towering over all of creation. Wielding incomprehensible power and limitless wisdom. It was boundless, eternal, a ruling god over this timeless, unending landscape. When Sæmundur had conjured up the vision he’d shared with the crowd at the concert, he hadn’t really known what was going to happen. All he knew was that he wanted to impart something of what Kölski had shown him, and that he couldn’t do it with simple words. He had to show them, and so tried to emulate Kölski. He had failed, or at least only partially succeeded. But what he hadn’t expected was in that trying to teach others, he had chanced upon a completely new understanding himself.
The memory of meeting Garún on the night of the concert stabbed him
