My brother does not bother himself with you mortals,whispered Myrkur. But as a cloud drifted from the largest of the moons and the moonlight intensified, Myrkur hissed and burrowed deeper.
“Is it true, Sunnvald?” Silla murmured, gripping the window linens.
“What?” asked Rey from across the room.
Silla spun away from the window, shaking her head. “It’s noth…”
But her words trailed off. A moonbeam now flowed through the glass windows, like a beacon lighting a path for her to follow. Breathless, Silla trailed it across the floorboards to where it landed on a stack of books—one of many that Runný and Atli had been combing through. Heart pounding, Silla approached the stack and examined the book at the top. It was a collection of old mythologies gathered from the northern reaches—Karthia, Íseldur, Norvaland, and the like—and as Silla flipped it open, it fell to a particular page.
“What is it?” asked Rey, appearing by her side.
“Perhaps the gods have not abandoned me,” Silla said, glancing back at the window. The moonlight indeed led a path to this very book. “Perhaps I’ve forgotten to watch for their signs.”
Silla probed inwardly for Myrkur, and was surprised to find Him buried away, somewhere deep. Had the moonlight repelled Him? She could not say.
Silla settled on the floor in the moonbeam’s path, and began to read. The Karthian fable told of a man named Tuiren, who engaged in a betting game with a mysterious stranger. The drunken Tuiren made an increasingly astonishing series of wagers, not the least of which included his wife. Given the man’s apparent lack of wits, it was no surprise to Silla when Tuiren lost, nor when the stranger revealed himself to be a god.
Tuiren, apparently realizing the error of his ways, begged the god not to take his wife. And when the god declined, Tuiren challenged him to combat to reclaim his wife. And so he fought the god, which, Silla would admit was romantic. But being impaled on a nature god’s antlers was rather less so.
She stared up at Rey, trying to understand. “Tuiren lost a wager with a god. Is a wager not rather like a bargain?”
“Wait,” said Rey, lifting a hand. “Perhaps we should wait—”
“He’s not listening.” Silla probed again for Myrkur, then grinned. “The moonlight—I think it has warded Him off.” As she realized she had her mind to herself, excitement thrummed to life inside Silla.
“King Hrolf was simply too old to attempt. That’s what Fallgerd said.” She tapped her finger on the image in the book. “He was too old to battle the god.”
“I do not like where this is going,” said Rey warily.
“I understand it now.” Silla walked to the window, never stepping from the moonlight’s path. She turned and faced Rey. In this moment, with her mind her own, Silla felt more like herself than she had in weeks. “This is how I will banish the dark god from my body.”
“How?”
She shook her head, incredulous. “I must challenge Him to battle.”
Chapter 47
The Western Woods
Hekla pulled cobwebs from her grimy hair and grimaced. She needed a bath. Needed a horn of ale. Needed the comfort of a warm, feathered bed. Instead there was only more grayish trees, more brittle needles crunching underfoot, more red-eyed ravens, trailing them through the dreary forest, and more tension in her stomach as Hekla worried about their timing.
Their timeline to reach the Forest Maiden’s other half had been tight to start with. But then they’d encountered an impassible ravine, and had wasted a day skirting around it. Kritka claimed they were now back on track, but it did little to loosen the knots in Hekla’s stomach. She’d ordered their crew to walk through the night. Had allowed them only a few scant hours of rest. They had a quarter moon left before the battle, and had not yet reached the other fragment of the Forest Maiden.
Hekla had nearly wept tears of relief when the Maiden predicted they would reach her second grove today. They walked at a punishing pace through the dead woods, a stream burbling peacefully nearby. Perched on Hekla’s shoulder, Kritka nibbled on a pilfered strip of smoked elk, ever dedicated to bulking up for the winter.
So slow you two-leggeds are,the squirrel said inside her mind.
“You’re awfully whiny for someone who’s been lounging on my shoulder,” Hekla grumbled aloud. The exertion of the past days hadmade her phantom limb ache worse than ever, and it put her increasingly on edge.
It is not much farther,chittered Kritka, eyeing a fresh cobweb strung from a skeletal tree.We must keep moving. I sense strangeness about these parts.
Hekla cringed at the cobweb, then whirled at a disturbance to her right. A pair of Turned ravens regarded her from a dead tree, a third one landing a few branches above them. Hekla craned upward, gazing at the overcast skies through the clawing branches. A dozen or more Turned ravens flew above, sending shivers down her spine.
Yet on they walked at this relentless pace. It was another two hours before Kritka drew them to a halt. He leaped from Hekla’s shoulder and bounded down the trail.
Here!the squirrel chittered.The grove is just through there!
A Turned raven swooped down at Kritka, jagged talons barely missing the squirrel as it darted back to Hekla. As the squirrel climbed her like a tree—a sensation she’d never get used to—another raven swooped down, and then another. Suddenly dozens of Turned ravens descended from above, settling on dead trees surrounding the path.
