"Dark shalt beest this fire,
'Twill gathereth forth.
Above art Nine bright shin'rs,
The dark shalt smoth'r them all."
She was to be the guardian of the realm, the holder of the threads of existence that bound all the magic in the world, as he...
There was conflict in the south, so she had come north until the land ended and she could go no farther. When she first came, it was summer, and the land was ripe with lush vegetation and ever-blue fjords beset by imperious cliffs. She had walked from the green to the white sand coast and looked over the shimmering water, watched the waves break upon the meager island that bore the Hlyr ov Vitjandr. It was a large face carved into the mountain island by, as per Kjirden legend, the ancient seafaring Vitjandars who'd first discovered Kjirde. The head was long and misshapen, its nose hooked and aquiline, and the clouds encircling the crest brumous and airy.
At then, she'd been loved, even if she was so far from the home that had loved her before. She'd been safe, away from the incessant terror of Veritas. She'd been home, even if it was her second.
Then winter swept in like a vengeful spirit and she wrapped herself in sealskins and caribou hide to keep the cold and wet away, sewn together using needles made from walrus ivory and bones from a crane's foot, threads made from animal sinew. Then the cold was all she knew 'till her mouth went dry from exposure and her breath was tight in her chest, fingers numb in their woolen mittens. Then her new home was naught more than a land of constant twilight, where her fears came alive not only in the dark but under the blinding glare of the hard winter sun.
And on the coastline she'd stood on before, the water was tranquil and reflected the clouds above, resembling egg whites whipped to peaks. No waves rushed or broke against the Hlyr ov Vitjandr, whose vegetation was dead, leaving only the stony gray carving. Standing there, she'd heard the ice moan, the wind scream, abrading at her flushed cheeks like a whetstone on a svel.
Be still.
Be still, bade the wind, and she had. She'd stood, chest tight, enduring the salty wind as it slashed at her face.
And the wind had grown stronger, until her she'd had to squint. And the air had grown sharp, the kind of temperature that felt as if it flayed the skin from bone. But all the while, she'd been still. And after, she'd wanted to lie that way for a life or two longer. How quickly would the glacial current take her breath away? How long would it take to scale the angry cliff face? How long would it take to fall?
Be still, the wind bade, and she had walked away.
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771 B.V.
Visualize the cowberries. There were three, always three, connected on the leafy vine. He held them in his palm— see?— then dangled them between his fingers, higher than you could reach. What did they look like? Red, red as the curls of his beard. Round, as if they were perfectly molded by the hands of a god, and as wide around as a silver undäragon. What did they taste like?
She never knew. Not until she'd finally won Lädr Gomen.
It was the Lädr Gomen that had fed her tréov over the years.
