The heavens were not in view, and Ruka did not try and listen to their song. Instead, he kept his ears focused on Barda. Steady streams of fog blew from her parted lips, and the snow crunched softly beneath their feet. Wisps of snow floated gently in the breeze as it swept it from the white-capped roofs.
She had a thick woolen shawl pulled snugly over her head. The fire-light did not reach her eyes. The wind clawed across the stones like talons from the braziers’ flickering shadows.
“The city is quiet.”
They kept walking. West, he guessed, closer and closer to the walls. The buildings grew more disjointed, and they slowly turned from stonework into woodwork with pitch.
“What have you heard about them? You called them ‘babblers.’” She looked at him from beneath her shawl. Her expression was fierce. Protective.
“Just a passing comment. A man shouting at his sister—said she’d ‘lose her sense.’”
Her voice was low, but something trembled beneath it. “You asked because of a single mention?”
Clouds parted in the sky revealing the lights above. They shone down, and the snow before them glittered like a field in the golden light of day.
“No,” he answered. “I asked because there is a silence in this city. Not a mere quietude, or meekness, but a muffled silence like a woman with a rag stuffed in her mouth.
“Silence isn’t natural. The world sings. It’s singing all the time. It groans when it’s hurt, it cries for vengeance, and it rejoices in gladness. But silence… Only the dead are silent.”
Her gaze drifted to the sky, to the ones watching in song. And she kept walking.
The wall was now looming overhead. Barda 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 up, the icy plains were clear before him, leading 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 seemed to bend around him, unwilling to touch his face. His skin was not pale nor was it dark.
The color simply… wasn’t.
Ruka became aware of the breaths he was taking, afraid he’d stop breathing unless he kept his attention on them.
“See him?” She asked.
Ruka nodded as they watched the man stumble through the snow.
“His name was Heimskr. We call him ‘Dumbr’ now.”
Ruka kept watching the man, at a loss for words. “What happened?”
“He wanted to prove himself to a lady—said he’d go to the Old City, where the Jötunn used to live. Where they still live, some say. And he came back like this. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look you in the eye, barely seems to eat. Yet, he’s been half-naked there, wandering around in the ice for months, and he still looks the same as the day he returned.”
“The Old City? Ulf mentioned that. It’s where they all come from?”
“‘All’ isn’t very many. Only a few; most simply wander mindlessly into the river to drift away and never be seen again. But yes. That’s where they come from.”
“What keeps leading people there?”
“Riches. Glory.”
“Mimir.”
Barda looked at him. “I have heard of that name, thinking of it. From an old brazier-side tale. Yes, I suppose so.”
The ice cracked under Dumbr as he fell face down.
He was still, and then rose mechanically with the snow clinging to his eyes, but he did not wipe it away. He did not even blink.
“What do you intend to do, Seidrmadr.”
His hands tightened and his fingernails dug into his palms. The coldness clenched his wrists. So it’s known, huh.
Barda laughed, the sweetness of it breaking the tension growing in the air. “The whole city knows about you. When you introduced yourself as a southerner from the University, well, I imagined there were only one of those in Jötinborg.”
“That’s why you’ve taken me here, because of what I am?”
“I’ve heard about what you did with the flower. I’ve met magic-men before, but never met one who could do that.”
“‘Magic’ is a misleading term. Regardless, most who call themselves ‘seidrmadr’ are fakes. I’m probably the first one you’ve ever truly met.”
Torchlight lit her face and reflected from her green eyes. Her shoulders were drawn in, and her jaw was stiffened. The hint of pity touched her eyes. “You’ve brought a flower back to life. Can you help him?”
“Maybe,” he paused. “I don’t know.”
“Can you try?”
“Yeah. I can try.”