Ruka wandered throughout the streets of Jötinborg, enveloped in a cold hush at the departure of the day. He closed his eyes for a moment to listen, hearing the faint but familiar thrumming—the ever-present music coursing through the air, even as it bit. Firelight appeared brighter, casting colorful, foreign hues onto the drab stonework.
He didn’t have any destination in mind except a place to sleep. Following nothing, he stepped off the thoroughfare and turned left into an alley. At the corner stood a well, a few mushrooms scattered in the snow. The watchful silence was a stark contrast to the scene from earlier. Astrid, he remembered. The same place he’d seen her and her brother, Thenn.
One of the buildings in the square glowed with light streaming from its frosted windows. The gentle patter of conversation broke the hush, followed by laughter, muffled by thick walls. Ruka felt his shoulders ease for the first time since he’d ridden into the city.
As he opened the door, cheer spilled onto the street. The warmth hit him, and he found a bustling tavern. Two barmaids weaved between tables while the bartender polished glasses behind a gleaming walnut counter. A narrow staircase climbed from the room’s left corner. He watched it creak under a man’s footsteps as he ascended groggily, presumably to his rented chambers.
Inside were six tables, four of which were occupied. Three men nursed their drinks at the bar, minds elsewhere. Four others played darts on a board that had seen better days, fastened to a wall of rough planks, as though torn straight from the forest during the stags’ rut.
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. I’ll still need to find Ulf in the morning, he thought.
He walked to the counter and pulled out one of the empty seats. The bartender shot him an expectant glance.
“A pint. And a room.” Ruka pulled his leather wallet from his satchel and placed two coppers on the marbled wood.
The man nodded and filled a 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 already back on his work.
“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 smiled. “Hi.”
She scrubbed the wooden plates with a sea sponge, the water sharp with the scent of 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—in fact, they were quite bad. But they gave him an excuse not to keep staring.
Then, in a flicker of curiosity, he caught her glance before she turned away. Eventually, she spoke.
“Have you played before?” she asked, her attention still fixed on the washbasin.
Ruka shook his head. “No—well, yes. Not in some time. I used to play as a student.”
“A student?”
“Mm.” He shifted. “In Mora. I’m a graduate of the University. I specialize in regional folklore.”
“Folklore? Huh.” Her scrubbing slowed, her gaze caught in unfocused thought. The silence stretched, pressing down on him. I blew it, he thought.
Then, with a lightness in her voice, she asked, “So you’re from the Empire, then? What brings you north?”
“Folklore,” Ruka answered.
“Snølykt, then?”
Snølykt? The word meant nothing to him.
“It’s our solstice celebration. We carve lanterns out of ice and set them afloat in the river. It’s really something!”
“Sounds like it,” Ruka said, imagining the sight. He remembered the women he’d seen earlier, carving the ice and testing its balance in a barrel of water.
“But you’re not here for Snølykt. So what are you here for?”
He set his eyes on her, watching her scrub. The word rose slowly from his lips. “Mimir.”
For a brief moment, her hand stilled on the sponge. Then she chuckled. “Mimir? I haven’t heard that name before. Are you sure you came to the right place?”
“Maybe I haven’t,” he responded, laughing with her. “What’s your name?”
“Barda.” She met his eyes, her smile soft and unguarded, her blonde hair cascading in smooth waves down her back as the light caught in her curls.
He smiled. “That translates to ‘poet’. It’s a lovely name.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I’m Ruka.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, rising into a curtsy. Only now did he notice how tall she was—not as tall as him, but taller than most women from Mora.
“If you don’t know of Mimir, maybe you’ve heard of something else. Do you know what a ‘babbler’ is?”
A sudden draft swept through as someone slipped into the cold mist outside. The candles beside Ruka guttered, then snuffed out, thin trails of smoke curling 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.
“I know what a babbler is.”
She glanced down, a shadow falling over her eyes. “My shift finishes as soon as I finish scrubbing. Come on a walk with me then?”
He wondered at her—the brief flicker of fear in her eyes hadn’t gone unnoticed. “I’d be glad to.” He wasn’t sure who that smile was for—her, or himself.