“Blood and bone, the ancient toll.”
“Enough!” I thought, I screamed, I—I didn’t know.
Everything was spinning, everything was black, and then—everything stopped.
A low screech filled the air, followed by a swish of fabric. The ground shifted. Instantly, the space felt lighter, emptier. The doors opened.
Already the queen had paced ahead smoothly. Eyes burning, I scrambled after her, each breath thunderous in the silent hall. Other than the bronze door looming at the end—no handle, thick as a vault—this place was barren. And with no windows, it was impossible to tell where I was.
Hildur stopped halfway, turning abruptly.
“I smell the burning Töfratré. It lingers.” She sniffed the air. “The ceremony has started. I cannot go any further.”
When I raised my nose, it didn’t smell any different than the incense I’d been inhaling for the past few hours getting ready. “Oh. Okay.”
“Now go.” She pushed me hard, like I was a fledgling that’d stayed too long in the nest.
The corridor stretched before me, candles flickering in sconces, shadows wavering like a mirage. I didn’t hear the queen leave. My head grew light, fuzzy, the stench growing stronger, sweeter.
Finally, I reached the end of the hall.
My hand hovered above the door, the metal indented with whirling symbols and letters in a language I did not know.
Even before I touched it, it groaned open. A cloud of white smoke wafted out.
Pulse pounding wildly in my chest, my wrist, my throat, I said a prayer to whoever would listen. Maybe to my mom. But, most importantly, I cursed the Coffin Seeker, Flóki, the jelmadag, all who ever second-guessed me, because this was it.
I was going to Jarðarbæli.
And I wondered what version of myself I’d face.
Part III
Angel of Vengeance
Chapter 31
Heavy smoke stung my nostrils with a sweet, woodsy scent. It was unclear what the source was. In here, it was nothing but stone arches and columns, vaulted ceilings and empty space. No fire, no kindling, nothing to light, yet a haziness fell over the room.
As I batted my hand in front of my face, a dais seemed to rise out of the clouds of smoke. My muscles growing soft and buttery, I stumbled towards it—a twist of silk, a flash of gold.
I kicked a beaded pillow out of the way. Why was that there?
Someone offered me a hand. My chin swerved in their direction, sluggish, slow.
I blinked once, twice, my reflection awed and warped in a pair of glassy black eyes. A bird?
No, not a bird. A mask. A leather mask in the shape of a raven’s head. Their gloved palm hung in midair. Static, waiting, as if it weren’t a limb but a puppet on a string, waiting for someone to give it life.
I took another lungful of air, meant to steady myself, but it only brought in more of those heady fumes. My knees buckled. The raven caught me before I could fall.
One hand around my shoulders to keep me steady, whoever was wearing the mask led me up the small set of stairs.
Another person—also head-to-toe in black, wearing the same medieval mask—split the haze, tendrils of it skittering around them, collecting above their head like a halo.
They set an onyx bowl atop a pedestal. Smoke billowed out of it, creeping over the sides, over the dais, up my nose. Eyes watering, I bit back a cough. My chest caved and jerked.
When I slipped out of the first bird’s grasp, the second was quick to grab my arm. Both righted me and helped me to the top of the dais—a pathetic seven steps, but I might as well have been summiting a mountain. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see. Couldn’t think.
