The leather-bound book creaked as I clenched it tighter. “That’s what Daella has to look forward to unless I can find a way to reverse its magic. Isveig has control over the shard somehow, that’s why it hasn’t killed her yet. But he’s threatened to unleash its power if she doesn’t return to Fafnir less than two months from when he shipped her off. I’m not sure how long she has now, but it can’t be more than a few weeks.”
“I see. I’ll admit, despite what I said earlier, I’m surprised,” Haldor said quietly.
“Surprised by what?”
“You want to save the orc.”
I pulled another book off the shelf, if only so I had something to look at other than his scrutinizing gaze. “It doesn’t seem right sending her back there, and there must be a way to get that shard out of her body.”
“I’ll help you look. I just have one question.”
I glanced up. The thoughtful, melancholy Haldor stood before me now rather than the boisterous life of the party he was most hours of the day. He tapped the edge of the book. “What are you going to do if there is no cure?”
“There has to be a cure.”
“Some folks can’t be saved, Rivelin. You can’t protect everyone.”
Ignoring him, I flipped through the book. It was a tome that told the story of the Kingdom of Grundstoff and their devotion to Ullr, the God of Ice. He’d once ruled their lands until he ascended to Valhalla with the others, though the giants had never recognized any of them as gods themselves. They worshipped the ice and everything that sustained it. To them, it was above and beyond the standard four elements. And so, everything else was inconsequential.
Everything else but fire, which they hated and feared. Isveig feared it so much he’d taken every opportunity to destroy it, and kept Daella away from it as much as he could.
“I’m a fate’s damned idiot,” I muttered.
“That’s true, dear Riv. Mind telling me what brought on such an astute observation?”
I snapped the book shut and placed it on the shelf. “Fire.”
“Water.”
I frowned.
“Earth. Air. There, we’ve named them all.”
“You are an obnoxious man sometimes, Haldor.”
“Demon, and thank you. Now why are we talking about fire? I’m quite fond of it myself.”
“Daella has an ice shard in her hip. What’s the opposite of ice?”
“Ah.” He absentmindedly scratched his left horn. “I see where you’re going with this. It’s a good idea, but don’t you think she would have tried that by now?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “She told me Isveig has tried to keep her away from fire all these years. I bet that’s why.”
“Won’t that burn her?” he asked.
I thought back to all the days she’d spent working with me in the forge. On more than one occasion, she’d touched a hot surface without gloves, and she hadn’t even flinched. So much knowledge of orcish history had been lost over the years, but there was one fact that had never been forgotten. Orcs ran hot.
“I don’t think it will burn her at all.”
* * *
Isaid goodnight to Haldor and returned home to a silent house that didn’t feel so empty anymore. Even though she was in the bedroom asleep, I could feel Daella’s presence all around me. It was in the angle of the armchair she’d shifted to face the hearth, where wood still gently smouldered. It was in the plate of scraps she’d left beside Skoll’s bundle of blankets for when he returned from his nightly patrol through the Ashborn Forest. And it was in the empty mug she’d washed and left sitting upside down to dry beside the sink.
With a slight smile, I looked back at the bedroom door. I didn’t want to wake her, but I hated to wait until morning to tell her my idea. If we could melt that shard, I knew she’d want to do it as soon as possible. She could be free of Isveig. She wouldn’t have to return to Fafnir. She could stay here and drink her tea every night beside the fire, petting Skoll whenever she wanted…and be happy.
As I debated whether to wake her or wait until the morning, another peculiarity caught my attention. Several of my desk drawers hung open, where I stored parchment, ink, and wax seals. Moving closer, I examined the disturbance. A couple sheets of parchment were missing, and the tip of my quill was wet with ink.
I frowned. To whom could Daella be sending letters?
