Chapter 1
Ruka lay in a place where Heaven would not be denied. Ancient trees,
hundreds of feet tall like sentries in the dark, aspired tirelessly to meet the hosts
in the air yet fell hopelessly short, far off of the sky’s boundary. They shone with
care, painting the frostbitten ground with foreign brilliant hues—colors he had
no name for but which stirred in him a familiar longing. The ice itself danced in
response.
Wood from the fire crackled and popped as a stream of ash and sparks shot
upward, leaving a faint trail of gray in its wake. He breathed in cedar and smoke,
warmth curling through him as he rolled over to his side and clutched the thick
fur of his hood more snugly around his neck. One more day, he thought to
himself. Willow neighed softly as if in response.
When morning had come, sunlight peeked through the naked boughs, falling
on Ruka’s closed eyes and tangled dark hair. Willow was picking at small tufts of
grass poking from the snow. Her chestnut coat was a flare of warmth in a world
that seemed to have forgotten the sun.
Still groggy, he staggered over to her. The ice crunched under his feet. He
delved into the saddlebag and took out a thick piece of dried venison that he had
bought from the next village south — it was the last of his provisions.
Willow snorted as he petted her mane. He grabbed her reins and pulled to
escort her out of the forest, through the deep piles of snow, and onto the road. A
thin crack stretched along the leather strap. Ice had crept up through the night. A
single teardrop remained frozen mid-fall.
The locals called the valley Jötindale — Giant’s Valley — though no one could
agree whether the name honored the trees or the bones said to be buried beneath
them.
A slender crystalline river flowed down from the mountain peaks, through
the city, and curved its way beyond the hills and forests until it rested in the sea
to the west.
By late morning, Ruka ambled north atop Willow along the frozen river’s
edge. If he were not so numb to the saddle’s sting, he would have felt it grinding
his bones. Willow’s hooves clicked like hammers on stone as they passed by
fishermen’s cottages and homesteads. Wrinkled men in sealskin suits wore away
at the ice with pickaxes as they waded half-submerged in the shallows yet
unmoved by the cold.
Tall walls of pale stone rose in the distance. Archers stood posted above, and a
thick iron gate barred entry. One of them hailed below when he saw Ruka come
into view. Ruka cantered across the wooden bridge and over the river before
stopping short of the threshold.
Two guards flanked the entrance. They wore light-blue gambesons, held a
spear in their hands, and sheathed a seax at their waists. “Name?” asked the
taller of the two while he took hold of Willow’s reins. A pale scar ran from his ear
to the corner of his crooked jaw.
“Ruka. Yours?”
The guard scowled. “Ulf. What’s your business?”
“It’s University business.” He rummaged through his satchel, moving aside
loose sheaves of parchment and charcoal before emerging victorious with a
canister of treated leather, inside of which was a bundle of documents. The
University’s insignia—a swooping eagle with a scroll in its claws—was stamped
in the top right corner of each page. “Inside here you’ll find my papers, which
allow my travel.”
Ulf released Willow, snatching the papers from Ruka’s grip. Ruka watched
him slowly shuffle his way through the pages. Quiet pressure built in his chest.
He noticed his breathing, as if he couldn’t trust the air.
“Seidrmadr,” the guard said under his breath, glancing up.
A soft clack sounded, a palm meeting pommel. “We didn’t know the
University hired your sort,” Ulf said.
“They hire all sorts. I’m a researcher.”
“A researcher with magic?” Ulf asked, incredulous. His companion kept his
hand on his seax. They looked at with narrowed eyes.
“It’s not magic. It’s—never mind. All seidrmadr employed by the Imperium
carry these documents. They allow us to access our funds and gain entry into
restricted spaces. Spaces like neighboring allied city-states, for example.”
Ulf’s face blushed and his brow turned sharp. “You’ll forgive our lack of
hospitality,” he said. “Nobody gets into the city now. You’ll need to prove you
are what you say you are.”
“Is the University seal not credible enough?” He did not hide the annoyance
in his voice.
“Your word is not enough. You might have forged these or stolen them. And
why would a seidrmadr travel north to visit Jötindale in winter?”
“I bet you know why,” Ruka replied. Ulf quickly opened his mouth to answer
but stopped himself from doing so. They stared at each other. Light wisps of
snow blew across their faces and noses. Ruka resigned himself. “Very well.”
Satisfied to have won, the faint hint of a smile on his face. He took in his
surroundings, then approached the dirt patch near the wall and got on his knees.
He plucked a flower. “Turn this to ice,” he said.
“That’s not how it works,” Ruka said.
His jaw clenched. “I’ve seen your kind do it.”
“And I’ve seen a spear used to cut cheese.”
Ulf spoke in an even voice, contrasted only by the white knuckles clutching
his spear. “How would you like to prove yourself?”
“Give me the flower.”
Ruka hopped down and walked over, stretching his open hand. Ulf raised an
eyebrow but handed it over without issue. He placed the flower back on top of
the newly overturned dirt and knelt on one knee before closing his eyes. Then, he
listened.
He heard the noises of the city — the clang of a ladle on a pot, a merchant
hawking salted fish in the square, and braziers roaring as they burnt upon pine
resin. He heard the river stream as it burbled nearby and the fisherman chop at it
further downstream. He heard the birds singing in the forest, and the critters
crawling on the floor beneath them.
Further and deeper he went as the sounds filled his veins like water in an
empty vessel. He became warmer and eventually felt as though he were sitting
next to an open hearth rather than kneeling in the cold. Soon after, the tremors
yielded to stillness, and when stillness yielded to what could only be understood
as death, he heard the music. It was a heartbeat, a pulse within all things. He
listened to it, submitted to it, and only when he was ready did he ask something
of it. Ruka opened his eyes and softly uttered a word. The stem of the flower
grew green again, and it stretched out while its new roots burrowed into the
earth. Its missing petals returned with an azure hue interlaced with the golden
and orange hues of a sunrise. It straightened toward the sky in the natural way of
living things. Ruka exhaled.
His hearing slowly dulled. A ringing in his ears brought him back into the
realm of the living.
“You can make things alive again?” Ulf asked.
Ruka stumbled as he rose from his knees. “It depends. How easily can you
believe that what is dead is meant to live?” He straightened his back and patted
Willow on her mane as she snorted. The ringing slowly subsided. “I can do small
plants. And that’s more than most.”
Ulf’s stance had softened. The wariness didn’t disappear; it might have even
increased, but Ruka no longer fit in the category of stranger. “Let him in!” he
called to the men above. The gate creaked as it rose, opening the city wide to
him.
The breeze whistled through the cramped alleys of Jötinborg. Raised wooden
thoroughfares crisscrossed the city, and smoke curled from the cedar fires that
burned in the scattered iron braziers. Men gathered around them, roasting fish
over the flames. The curious gazes — inflamed by the firelight — found their rest
on the escorted seidrmadr.
The crystalline river of the Fjallgarðr, the mountain pass, flowed through the
city before it snaked its way south. Men sat atop barrels with fishing lines cast
and pipes in the mouths while their lures danced in the stream.
He passed some tables where women were shaping blocks of ice. When they
looked satisfied, they placed them in barrels of water to test their balance. If they
wobbled, the women shaped more.
Ulf took Ruka through the city, guided by the river, until fatigue tugged at his
knees, still sore from the journey north. He thought of his horse while he
dragged himself onward, eyes searching for the Jarl’s longhouse. A shiver crept
up his spine.
As they went further, the alleyways grew wider and became paved with
cobblestones. The streets were more deliberate and geometric. Intricate
decorations carved the pale stonework — though the light only caught them
faintly underneath the frost.
Almost as if hearing his thoughts, Ulf spoke. “This part of the city is ancient.
Much older than its outskirts nearer to the walls.”
“Built by the Jötunn?” Ruka asked.
“That’s my guess.”
At last they stepped off the thoroughfare and walked along a wide road with
market stalls neatly placed on each side. An indecipherable rumble grew, and as
they turned a corner into a smaller square, they found a crowd gathered in a
circle. A red-haired woman trembled on the ground. She covered her face with
her hands. A man loomed over her. Her voice cracked, too soft to be heard, but
the sobs rippled through the air.
The man, tall and with short gray hair, shouted. “You could lose your mind!
You’d become a babbler—would you?” A tremor ran through the crowd and
coalesced into a soft hush. Curiosity turned to fear.
“No.” The word was fragile, already melting into the air.
Her eyes remained cast down at her feet. Strands of hair, like a flame frozen,
clung to her cheeks.
“A babbler?” Ruka asked.
“Yes.” Ulf chuckled. “It happens sometimes to people who stray too close to
the old city—outside the walls.”
Babbler. The word was silent in the flurry of snowfall.
The girl remained crying. Inside the man’s eyes was gentleness buried
beneath the fury. The crowd dispersed as it lost interest. Ulf walked onward, but
Ruka didn’t follow. His gaze, immobilized, remained fixed on the woman.
“Yrsa,” she spoke again. “I need to find Yrsa.”
He knelt down and took her hands into his. “Yrsa is gone.”
“Mimir will know. Mimir will tell me where Yrsa is.”
Tense silence hung. They’d had this conversation before. “The cold will kill
you. Or the wolves. Or something else. And even if nothing else does, and Mimir
is real and you find him, you’ll be gone. A husk.”
“But will I see my daughter again?”
The question clung like ice to stone. Snowflakes drifted like petals in the
wind.
She met his eyes, and he could not answer. He tried to speak, but his voice
rebelled. So instead he left her there, still frozen in the snow.
Something was trying to rise in Ruka’s mind but couldn’t.
“Yrsa?” Ruka asked Ulf, hurrying to catch up with him.
“A young girl. She went missing about a month ago. I suppose she’s her
daughter.” Ulf gestured to Ruka to come forward. “Come on. Time to meet the
Jarl.”
The Jarl’s longhouse loomed at the heart of the city. Its shadow was pale
against the slow-moving river; the pop of pine resin occasionally broke the
silence.
Two guards with unreadable eyes flanked the doorway. They held their spears
in hand, mirroring the postures of the guards stationed at the gate.
Ulf received a glance. Ruka received none. He swallowed and felt the heat of
the brazier’s flame prick his skin.
The carved eaves below the roofline bore faded reds and blues, smudged
where icicles clung to their surface, poised like teeth.
The stream murmured.
“Come,” Ulf said as he stepped into the building through its threshold.
Ruka followed him through the bare antechamber and into the main chamber.
A fire pit stretched through its length, flanked by rough-shod bare tables. Their
emptiness felt audible. The coals burned low but smelled of cedar, an eerie
warmth in the hush.
The Jarl, stout with a blonde braid that stretched the length of his back,
occupied an elevated table at the back of the chamber. A group of eager
counselors, competitive for his ear, surrounded him on both sides. They were
discussing something, but Ruka couldn’t hear what.
Behind the Jarl was a place Ruka couldn’t quite see. It was as though the light
bent around it and left an eerie darkness. The sensation was familiar, like looking
through a hole in the world’s fabric.
The emptiness moved, and Ruka noticed its shadowy figure possessed the
vague shape of a man. He whispered in the Jarl’s ear. His counselors quieted.
One flinched.
The Jarl stood with a wooden goblet in his hand. He twirled it in his fingers,
watching the wine spin, and then looked up. He caught Ruka’s gray eyes and
took a long sip before speaking.
“Welcome, seidrmadr.”
Ulf was already kneeling. Ruka hadn’t noticed. He remained there standing,
his eyes still drawn to the shadow.
Ruka was jolted from his trance when Ulf caught his eye with a distinct plea,
making him kneel in response.
The Jarl shook his goblet again before speaking. “You’ve come at a strange
time. Why?”
“I’ve heard rumors that attracted my attention. I now believe they were
regarding your babblers.”
The Jarl raised an eyebrow as the shadowed man whispered more words into
his ear. “What is dead should stay dead,” the Jarl responded.
The goblet shook faintly in his hand, but his jaw hardened into a scowl.
“What is dead should stay dead,” Ruka agreed evenly, almost daring the
words back. “But I would not call them dead just yet.”
Ruka rifled through his satchel, a flash of anxiety growing as his fingers failed
to find the familiar parchment before they brushed against the broken wax seal.
“As you can see here,” he gestured, “my research is approved by the University.
The Imperium guarantees I won’t meddle in city matters. To turn me away
would be to insult your southern neighbor, and your great ally.”
The Jarl considered this for a long breath. He summoned Ulf forward. Ulf rose
with care before taking the papers from Ruka’s outstretched hand and bringing
them to the back of the room.
The seer was trying to peer into Ulf’s eyes, his gaze like needles. Ulf kept
them cast on the ground.
“What has the Empire heard?” The Jarl asked.
“Only of rumors. Shadows.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I will investigate and learn what I can. Then I will have a better idea.”
A cracked and gnarled voice, dry and weightless like the ghost of a feather,
drifted like ash through the air. “You must not trust this foreigner, my lord.
Sleeping things must sleep. Lest they be awake. And things… woken…” he
trailed off in a high-pitched voice. The emptiness surrounding the voice grew.
He looked long at the fire, sighed, and shook his head with the vigor of
conviction. “You may remain, seidrmadr. Explore the city at your leisure.
Investigate these babblers.”
The stars were brighter in the north; they painted the pale stonework and the
clinging frost beneath their watch from Heaven.
He wandered for some time, past many closed doors and soft glimmers of
hearth-light shining through window panels. The cold seeped into his body. He
had been in the north for weeks now. Outdoors after the train took him as far
north as it could go. Yet, it was the first time he really felt the chill. His
anticipation, uncertainty, worry, and tension — all the things he dragged up the
valley with him — dissolved. His goal was finally clear and the misty vapors of
the future cleared under the moonlight.
He closed his eyes for a moment to listen, still, until he heard the faint but
familiar thrumming—the ever-present music which coursed through the biting
air.
His only destination was a place to sleep, so following nothing, he stepped off
the thoroughfare and turned left into an alley and then into a familiar market
square. The watchful silence was a stark contrast to the scene from earlier. Names
whispered from the flurries. Yrsa. Mimir.
The muffled patter of conversation and laughter broke the hush. His knees
responded with their weariness, and he turned his face to find light streaming
out from a nearby building.
He walked to it, and once he opened the heavy door, cheer spilled outward
into the street. Warmth hit him. Two barmaids weaved between tables while the
bartender polished glasses behind a gleaming walnut counter. A narrow staircase
was in the room’s left corner. It creaked under a man’s footsteps as he ascended
them shakily.
Four of the six tables were occupied. Three men nursed their drinks at the bar,
minds elsewhere. Four others played darts on a board that was in poor condition,
fastened to a wall of rough planks that looked like bear claws had torn them
from a trunk.
Ruka removed his hood, letting his dark hair fall to his shoulders. For the first
time, nobody seemed to mind him. He supposed it helped not to have an armed
escort if one wished to avoid attention.
He walked to the counter and pulled out one of the empty stools. The
bartender shot him an expectant glance.
“A beer and a room, please.” Ruka pulled his leather wallet from his satchel
and placed two coppers on the marbled wood.
The man nodded and filled a tall mug from the keg in the corner, then pulled
a thick key from below. He placed them both in front of Ruka. “Up the stairs.
Third room on the left.” His voice was gruff and matter-of-fact, his attention
never leaving the glasses he was cleaning.
“Thanks.”
One of the barmaids passed behind the counter, loading used dishes into the
washbasin at the back of the room. She cast him a curious glance, but when their
eyes met, she looked away quickly, a flush rising to her cheeks.
Ruka sipped from his mug, allowing the warmth to spill into his chest.
She scrubbed the wooden plates with a sea sponge; the scent of the water was
sharp with lime. Her blonde hair, soft as the sunrise before its zenith, caught his
eye. Pale skin dusted with faint freckles made her seem younger up close.
He shifted in his seat and pretended interest in the game of darts across the
room. The players weren’t skilled — they were actually quite bad. But they gave
him an excuse not to keep staring.
She turned to him quickly again before looking away. Her hands fidgeted
with the sponge in her hand, and the water splashed loudly. “Have you played
before?” Her eyes did not leave the washbasin.
Ruka shook his head, conscious to hide his own blush. “No—well, yes. Not
for some time. I used to play as a student.”
“A student?”
He shifted towards her. “In Mora. At the University.”
“University? Huh.” Her scrubbing slowed; and her gaze caught in unfocused
thought. The silence stretched, pressing down on him.
Then, with a lightness in her voice, she asked, “So you’re from the Empire,
then? What brings you north?”
“Research,” he said, careful not to divulge too much. He didn’t know how the
typical townspeople would react to his presence. “I specialize in cultural studies.
Folklore.”
“Oh! Snølykt, then?”
Snølykt? The word meant nothing to him.
She saw his puzzled face. “It’s our solstice celebration. We carve lanterns out
of ice and set them floating in the river. It’s coming up in just a few days.” Her
voice elevated cheerily as she spoke of it, clearly eager.
Ruka imagined the sight, and he remembered the women he’d seen earlier as
they carved the ice blocks and tested their balance in the barrel.
“But you’re not here for Snølykt, then. So what are you here for?”
Should he be forthright? She was talkative, at least. Maybe he could learn
something, he decided. “Mimir,” surprise struck him for what came out.
Her hand stilled on the sponge, and the room seemed to quiet. Her scrubbing
sped up. “Mimir? I haven’t heard that name before. Are you sure you came to the
right place?”
“Maybe I haven’t,” he responded with a laugh. “What’s your name?”
“Barda,” she said. Her shoulders tilted forward, towards him.
His shoulders eased with relief she wasn’t put off. “That translates to ‘poet,’”
he said. Then, quieter, “I’m Ruka.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, with a subtle bow of the head.
Might as well try again, he thought. “If you don’t know Mimir, maybe you’ve
heard of something else. Babblers?”
A sudden draft swept through as someone slipped through the door outside.
The candles beside Ruka guttered, then snuffed out; thin trails of smoke curled
upward. Cold air brushed the nape of his neck.
The bartender, who had otherwise ignored their conversation, glanced up—
his raised eyebrow a subtle warning.
She glanced down, and a shadow fell over her eyes. “Come on a walk with
me when I’m done?”
He wondered at her—the brief flicker of fear in her eyes hadn’t gone
unnoticed. “I’d be glad to,” he said. His grip tightened around his mug and he
took another sip.
Steady streams of fog blew from Barda’s parted lips. The snow crunched
beneath her feet while wisps of snow floated as the breeze swept it from white-
capped roofs.
She had a thick woolen shawl pulled around her head. Wind clawed across
the stones like talons from the braziers’ flickering shadows.
“The city is quiet,” he said.
They kept walking. West, he guessed by the moon in the sky. The buildings
grew disjointed, and they turned from stonework into woodwork with pitch.
“What have you heard about them?” she asked. Her expression was fierce and
protective. “You called them ‘babblers.’”
“Just a passing comment. There was an argument in the square earlier—the
same as the tavern. A man shouted at a woman that she’d lose her sense.”
She was silent beside him. A few minutes had gone by before Ruka spoke
again. “There is a silence in this place. Not merely quietude or meekness, but a
silence. Silence isn’t natural. The world sings. It groans, it cries, and it rejoices.
But silence? Only the dead are silent.”
Barda’s gaze drifted to the sky. She kept walking.
The city’s wall was now looming overhead. She led him to an alcove cut in the stone, ducked under it, and climbed a wooden ladder to the walkway above.
Ruka ascended behind her, and when they both rose, the icy plains were clear
before them. They led all the way to the forest’s edge with the mountains
beyond. He was once again amazed at the height and width of the trees, and the
way they beckoned upward, challenging the sheer cliff-face itself.
A lone figure stood dark in the white landscape. Light bent around him. It
was the second time he had seen such a thing that day. The man’s skin was not
pale nor dark.
The color… wasn’t.
“See him?” She asked.
Ruka nodded as the man stumbled through the snow.
“I call him ‘Dumbr.’ Nobody remembers his name.”
Ruka kept watching the man, at a loss for words. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Ruka looked at her and saw her body shake. She bit
her bottom lip, and a lone tear slowly slipped from her eye. “I don’t know who
he is, or what he did. The only thing I know is that I should. I know the hole
within myself. That’s it.” Her even voice broke. “He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look
you in the eye, doesn’t even eat. But he’s been there wandering around in the ice
for months, and he still looks the same as the day he returned.”
Ruka watched the shell of a man before him. So that’s what it was like to
become a babbler.
The ice cracked under Dumbr as he fell face down.
He was still, then rose with the snow clinging to his eyes, but he did not wipe
it away. He did not even blink.
“Can you help him, Seidrmadr?”
His hands tightened into fists, and his fingernails dug into his palms. Why did
I let myself relax? He wondered to himself. The place was broken, and he let the
excitement of a mystery drive the anxiety from his bones.
“You know I’m a seidrmadr?” he asked.
Barda laughed, the sweetness breaking the tension growing in the air. “Of
course I do. The entire city knows about you. When you introduced yourself as a
southerner from the University, well, I imagined there was only one of those in Jötinborg. And… I heard about what you did with the flower. I’ve met magic-
men before, but never met one who could do that.”
“You’ve never met one like me,” he said grimly.
Torchlight lit her face and reflected in her green eyes, but it was her fear
which colored her expression. “Ruka, can you help him?”
“Maybe,” he paused. “I don’t know.”
“Can you try?”
“Yeah. I can try.”