Mother pokes her head out of her office. “Amund, where are you going?”
“I’m meeting Edith.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mother asks, frowning. “You just woke up.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, rolling out my arm and stretching to show her I have full mobility again. “I’m practically fully healed now, thanks to that medicine Nils made and a few days of rest. I’m only going to the library, that’s all.”
She looks less convinced. “You shouldn’t push yourself.”
This has been the longest I’ve spent under her care in years, and she seems to not want to let me go. I’m not sure I want to leave her, either. I could get used to this. Being with her and Nils. The thought is as sudden—and dangerous—as a snap trap.
“I can’t just sit around while there’s a killer on the loose,” I say, meeting her gaze.
“I know.” She reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I think I always knew that about you, even before you were born. That’s why I named you what I did. In Old Norse, Agmundr means respectful protector.”
Shame burns through me. Her words only remind me of how many people I’ve failed to protect. Nils. Emilía. Idris. Even Edith.
Mother rubs soft circles on my hand. “Just be careful, okay?”
The only way I can protect Mother now is to leave.
“Of course,” I tell her.
It feels good to bemovingagain, free from the clinic.
The library isn’t far. I peer up at the towering building with its slanted iron roof and tall, arched windows. I can’t remember the last time I was here. As I climb the concrete stairs, I realize how sore my muscles still are. I reach for the iron railing for support. Maybe Mother was right. Maybe I do need more rest.
But I can’t just sit there any longer, so I head inside the library.
The walls are lined with thousands of books. Long tables stretch across the lower floor with wooden chairs pulled up like a great feast hall. A librarian with thick red glasses sits behind the central desk. Margrét is good friends with my mother. When I was young, Mother used to bring Nils and me here to borrow from their collection of children’s books, although we often ended up chasing each other throughthe aisles instead. Margrét was always kind to us. Though I’m not here to see her, but the computer by her side.
As I approach the desk, Margrét offers a warm smile. “Amund, what brings you here?”
I nod in her direction. “Just looking for a book.”
Margrét turns to her computer. “Title?”
“Actually, I was hoping to look it up myself.”
She laughs, not unkindly. “Helping people locate books is what Skallagrim pays me to do.”
So much for that. I can’t tell her I’m looking for books about seers. I doubt there are any left anyway. Anything related to seers was purged from Skallagrim after the Tragedy. Now it’s almost impossible to find anything about either.
I clear my throat. “Well, I don’t know the title, but I’d like to learn more about Egill Skallagrímsson.”
Margrét starts slowly punching the keys. “Taking an interest in your ancestors?”
“That’s right.”
The real reason is because Egill is the only seer still spoken of here. I’m hoping a book about him will provide insight into his ability or have more information about the original berserkir.
“Let’s see.” Margrét adjusts her glasses, the computer screen reflected in them. “We haveEgill’s Saga, of course. Then there’s a book that focuses on his feud with Harald Fairhair in Norway. Gripping, really. Did you know that Harald murdered Egill’s brother? Oh, and here’s a collection of Egill’s poems. What else do we have… there areplentyof scholarly works.Egill’s Saga and Empathy: Emotions and Moral Issues in a Dysfunctional Saga Familyby Ármann Jakobsson.Social Memory and the Sagas: The Case of Egill’s Sagaby Jesse L. Byock.The Enigma of Egill—”
“I think I’ll start with his saga,” I say, a bit overwhelmed.
Margrét grins. “An excellent choice.”
She jots down where I can find it on a scrap of paper.
