Chapter 30
Aelphicas leges advoco. Ad veniam proelium.
Ad misericordiam certamem. Ad gratiam mors.
I repeated those words over and over under my breath on my way back to my rooms: muttering them in the twilit atrium, where an elf was plucking the leaves off the icy tree; memorizing the inflections down the gilded halls; keeping them on the tip of my tongue in the frosted elevator.
Nervously twirling the ends of my hair, I threw open the door to my rooms. My heavy steps carried across the floor, the mirrored hutches shaking. “Aelphicas—”
“River!” Flames billowed in the fireplace, a flash of smoky orange and red. Eldi’s words were pitched and quick. “I don’t mean to pry but I overheard Her Highness briefing you on the avalanche. Are you okay? Did the castle get hit? What about the elves?”
My stomach sank as if wrapped in steel chains. The poor fire nymph had been an anxious crackle of embers waiting for me to return. I fed her another log, letting the fire grow bright.
“I’m okay. They’re…” I flopped onto the couch and rested my neck on the velvet arm. “Mostly okay. There were a couple casualties.”
“Megi hvíla á himnum.” It was barely a whisper among the flames.
As the cushions enveloped me, the day caught up to me, and my entire body grew heavy. Mesmerized by the elemental dance, my lids slowly started to fall. The ogress’s cave, the chaos, the dungeon, the pool, all stolen by the swift cloak of sleep.
“I just…” I yawned. “Need to take a quick nap. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
“Of course.” She billowed gently. “Get some rest.”
“Can you tell me a story?” I asked sleepily.
A pop. “I—I’m not sure I remember how.”
“Sure you do.” I nuzzled my cheek into a fringed pillow. “Start with the truth. That’s where all stories come from.”
I’m not sure if Eldi ever told me that story—the low whine of the whistling flames was the last thing I heard before the room fell to a cozy blackness, and I drifted off.
The young woman stood at the edge of the black cliffs, overlooking the bubbling lake of fire. Pop, it went. Blurp, it bubbled. Agitated, restless.
It wasn’t like Mount Etna to erupt like this. Not so frequently, not so violently.
Ever since the elves had declared their alliance with the angels, the country had become a bloody warfront. And those things. They crawled out of her crater, dripping in her fire.
Grotesque, hungry. Fiendish.
Steam rose from the crags. The woman’s bare feet were used to the searing heat, her bronzed skin dappled with moisture. To most, it would be incinerating, but for her, it was invigorating.
She turned away from her beloved volcano, a tear so hot it sizzled streaking down her face. This would be the last time. She knew it deep in her core.
Their entire world had come undone, yet the containment spell hadn’t passed the boundaries of Lokahryggur. Why? Why were her people the only ones worth saving?
The woman’s bright red hair flapped in the mountain’s wind. In this light, it rippled like a flame.
The fire folk didn’t usually act out of desperation, but that was the only emotion burning through her as she tore through the highlands.
With nothing but sheer will, she’d kissed her children goodbye that morning. Another last. Another wrong to fuel her anger.
It was that same will that drew her to ískastali, that forced her to her knees at the foot of the throne of the Ice Queen herself. It coaxed the words out of her mouth.
There was a law. An ancient one without a book or a scribe. One passed through the generations in the late, desperate hours, when the lesser, born into ash and heartbreak—not gold and privilege—screamed at the stars.
“Aelphicas leges advoco. Ad veniam proelium. Ad misericordiam certamem. Ad gratiam mors.”
It wasn’t in the common tongue, but she could feel the magic, and even if it didn’t promise freedom, at least it gave her a chance.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. You try waking her.”
Pressure dug into my shoulder. My body jiggled back and forth. Everything was shaking, the volcano was erupting, the monstrous beings were crawling out of it—
Lids flinging open, I shot up, the air like fire in my chest. The man hovering at my side gasped, sending his clipboard clattering. His circular spectacles fell down his nose as he bent to grab it—Kristjan. A tall, regal figure towered next to him, silhouette lit by flickering candles.
I blinked once, twice. The queen.
“What are you—” A textured throw pillow slipped off the velvet cushion and dropped to the rug. That was right—I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Shit, Olivia. I was supposed to meet her at the archives. “What time is it?”
I looked towards the windows. The curtains had been closed. Craning my neck, I glanced behind the queen to the grate. The fire had gone out.
Hildur stepped into my line of sight. “It’s nearing midnight,” she whispered, a trill lining her normally calm tone.
“Why are you in—” The question caught in my throat as the front door flung open and a line of elves shuffled in.
Their quick steps whispered across the room, gazes fixed on the floor.
Commandeering what was supposed to be my dining area, they draped dozens of black garment bags over the table, filling the remaining space with cosmetics, perfumes, and tubs of glittery paint.
Just beyond the set of double doors, furniture legs ground against the hardwood, making room for a plastic sheet. The kind used for butchering.
The muted whoosh of water came from deeper inside the room. They were drawing a bath.
Eyes wide and unsure, I met the queen’s violet stare. It was bright, glowing, sparkling with magic. Things never, ever ended well for me when she looked like that.
“You’re going someplace very special tonight.”
Jarearbaeli. My heart skipped. It was time.
Twisting my legs off the couch, I scrambled to my feet. “I’m ready, just”—wiping at a thick strand of hair stuck to my cheek, I continued—“tell me what you need.”
Corner of her lip quirking up, she gestured to the bedroom.
I spun around and immediately rammed my knee into the coffee table—that was going to leave a mark—and then followed her silent order.
“Tonight, you’ll be entering the Heimer Tofra, a spirit realm between dimensions,” she said, trailing behind me.
The Heimer Tofra. So that’s where Gaia’s lair was located. Passing the open armoire—the satin and silk, the sparkling and bejeweled dresses hanging in a tight row—I tucked that bit of information away for later.
“To be granted safe passage, we must provide an offering, even if only temporary.”
Her voice was calm—too calm.
“What kind of offering?”
“Your soul.”
I froze halfway across the marble tile of the bathroom. “Pardon?”
I must have heard wrong. The water was running, and I hadn’t shaken off the grogginess of sleep, because there’s no way she actually said—
“Your soul,” she repeated calmly. The faucet was off now.
When I whirled on the queen, she remained still, statuesque. The room fell quiet, nothing but the steady bustle of hands breaking the silence.
My face twisted in confusion. “How does that work?”
Hildur clasped her lean fingers, resting them against her mustard-colored robes. “We will conduct an ancient ceremony, where your spirit guides will burn the blooms from our Tofratré.”
Their ice tree in the atrium—it was no surprise to me that it held magical properties.
Was this what the Coffin Seeker was referring to then, when he said that most couldn’t handle Jarearbaeli because it meant facing themselves?
Our souls… They were just another version of us. Kind of like a doppelg?nger. My gut twisted. Kind of.
I so badly wanted to ask her about all this, but I really didn’t need her knowing I went snooping around her dungeons. Not yet, at least. What if she took this opportunity away?
“Once you inhale the fumes, you will be transported to the Heimer Tofra: the World of Enchantment. There’s a network of caves in the highlands.”
A steady line of woodsy, leathery smoke wafted in the air, tickling my nostrils. “And that’s where Gaia’s is?”
Placing her palm on my shoulder, she ushered me on with a gentle spin. “The Andavoreur will help you.”
Maybe she took my comment as a statement instead of a question. I went to ask again.
“So, Gaia’s—” An elf lowered a burning stick onto a set of lava rocks—so that’s what that smell was. They bent into a bow before gesturing to the tub. “I just got back from the healing pools. I think I’m good.”
They stared at me expectantly. Tendrils of steam rose from the water, white flowers floating amidst the bubbles.
“Oh. Uh. Okay, sure,” I said. “I’ll get in.”
Clearly, there wasn’t any other option anyway. Hands fidgeting at my sides, I swallowed the prickles of fear.
“So, these caves,” I tossed behind me, but Hildur had already breezed out of the room. The door clicked shut.
The Andavoreur, two of them, didn’t say much—probably barred from small talk—but they seemed kind enough, looking away when I undressed, pouring floral-scented pitchers of water over my head, softly scrubbing my back.
Pressing cool washcloths against my brow after an intense plucking, applying lotion after a scream-worthy waxing, gently correcting my posture when I couldn’t sit still during the hour it took to paint my body in intricate silver swirls.
Their silken headdresses fluttered as they helped me into the flowing skirts of my ombre-blue dress and set my hair into loose curls, pinning the upper half.
Now dragging a trail of shimmering fabric, I entered the sitting area.
Hildur rose from the settee in a slow sweep. Kristjan quickly followed, clipboard to chest, swiping the porcelain cup of tea from her hand.
The remaining few Andavoreur scattered.
“How”—my throat bobbed, unsure—“how do I look?”
A lethal smile split the queen’s cheeks. “Like a most perfect offering.”
“Um. Thanks?”
She crossed over the rug, meeting me at the threshold in bold, graceful steps.