13. Golden Wings #2
The High Priestess jolted forward in her seat, pushing one of the massive, leather-bound books across the table as understanding sparked in her eyes.
She flipped it open to a page marked by a tattered, gold ribbon.
“Take a look at this,” she said, pointing a neatly manicured finger at the image on the page.
I pulled the book in front of me, eyes roving over the page.
It was written in an ancient dialect and the edges of the parchment were browned with age.
Whoever scribbled the runes had clearly done so in a hurry.
The markings were wobbly and short, slanting to the left and trailing to the brink of the paper.
The image drawn in the middle of the page was amateur at best, though still identifiable as a vague human form.
A yellow line cut horizontally through the head of the silhouette, signifying the mindthread of a Stitcher from Clan Riis.
Their power allowed them to conjure illusions and cast glamours to fog the mind.
Another line, this one red, streaked across the left side of the chest: the heartsthread of a Seamer of Clan Ylfring. This powerthread gave its user blood magic, to heal or destroy. I wondered which route I might’ve taken if mine had worked.
A green line ran vertically down the right leg of the drawing, showing where the groundthread of Clan ?asgrin was located. Weavers, like Lukas and his mother.
They were masters of the elements, each Weaver gravitating towards one over the others. Flametenders with sparks in their fingertips; earthdrivers who shook the very ground; watershapers that could turn the ocean’s tides; airwalkers that flew like birds.
In the left forearm was a blue line, signifying the soulthread of a Flosser from Clan Kjaer.
Besides the darkthread, this one was the most mysterious of the powerthreads.
It granted its user the power of divination, but not always in the same way.
Some Flossers got only vague impressions of the future, where others only received visions of the past. But the strongest of them, like Freya Anja, could actually see the threads of life and time connected to an individual.
The final line was pitch black, running down the center of the chest between the lungs. In my mind, the Shadow stirred.
The darkthread.
“What’s so special about it?” I asked skeptically. “I’ve seen images like this one in every book about the powerthreads we have in the library at the Citadel.”
“And every book in the library at the Citadel says the same thing about the darkthread,” Lady Estrid said, tapping at the lower edge of the page.
“It is not one of the original four gifted by Fenya, and no one knows where it really came from. That only House Erling, scion of Clan Ylfring, has ever been known to possess the darkthread and the powers that come with it?—”
“Dominion over spirits and the power to temporarily return life to the dead,” I muttered quietly, following her finger to the text she’d indicated.
“Correct. But your mother found this bit of text to be particularly compelling. I understand why now.”
I scanned over the text, written in a steadier script than the one above it.
‘ The tales of the Eydda Fen have long since circulated the north, telling of ghouls and monsters that roam the wastes. But my research has led me to believe there is more to these tales than we know. I happened upon an old crone in the market square at Weymar, peddling herbs to the passersby. She wore a curious amulet which drew my eye, claiming it was a family heirloom. I will draw its shape as best I can.’
Next to the paragraph of text was a hastily drawn scribble, showing a circle encompassing a gnarled tree, its branches twisting into the same rune repeatedly. The ancient rune which stood for death. A shiver snaked its way down my spine as I continued to read.
‘When asked, the crone said her family hailed from further north of Weymar, bordering the outskirts of the Fen.
The things she reported to have seen defied explanation.
But there was one tale which drew my interest. That of the Gremfylk and his deadly servants that hunted lost souls in the night.
The amulet, she claimed, protected against the Gremfylk and his beasts, but there were those foolish enough to seek him out for the power he possessed.
‘The old woman said her amma used to tell a story from her own childhood, of the dark-haired woman who went into the Fen seeking Gremfylk and returned with hair like freshly fallen snow. If my calculations do not err, it is likely the old woman’s grandmother would have been a young girl near the end of the Drakon War.
I think these tales are worth further investigation.
Perhaps there is some connection to the task Queen Fjora has set before me. ’
The text ended abruptly in a solid line. If the writer found what they were looking for, they never finished the documentation. My eyes lingered on the name of the queen they’d mentioned.
“Fjora…” Which one was that? There were so many queens, and I hadn’t studied them in depth since my childhood.
“Queen Fjora the First, I believe,” Lady Estrid supplied, “if the dates in the front of the book are correct. It seems she was searching for answers nearly nine-hundred years ago, like your mother.”
I did my own calculations in my head. “Then the white-haired woman mentioned in the old woman’s tale… Bridja?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty.”
“So, Mother thought this tale might explain the origins of our power... I’ve never heard of this Gremfylk ,” I said, skimming the text again for anything I might have missed.
I flipped to a few of the other pages in the book, but the rest of it seemed to be a traditional account of Volmere’s history, compiled by various authors.
How had such a tome come to be hidden away here?
Lady Estrid stood, walking to a shelf on the wall behind her. “The name was strange to me as well, but your mother wanted to investigate the matter. As you know, she never got the chance.” When she turned around, she held a large scroll in her arms.
“Gremfylk’s beasts,” Lenn rumbled as the High Priestess returned to the table, setting the scroll down and unfurling it. “Is it possible they are one and the same with the myrkva ?”
“Queen Petra thought it very likely,” she answered. “As do I, Your Majesty. I believe your mother meant to journey to the Eydda Fen to find the truth of it for herself. That’s why we journeyed to Fjollum, searching for more histories that might shed light on this.”
The darkthread thrummed in my chest. Humming softly, the Shadow uncoiled herself.
Lady Estrid smoothed the scroll on the table, running her finger over the upper left quadrant. “Here,” she said, tapping on a particular point.
I stood from my chair, walking around to stand beside her.
The map was crumbling around the edges, the ink had faded in places, and holes pockmarked the parchment.
Above her fingertip, the small symbol of a house indicated a village northwest of the vast, barren field of the Eydda Fen.
Its name was scribbled in a small, tight script.
“Endabrott?” In all my years of study, I couldn’t recall ever seeing the town on a map or hearing of it from anyone. “Is it even still there?” I asked.
It was not uncommon in the old days for small villages to grow larger and adopt new names.
Sometimes, they were abandoned as its inhabitants sought work and livelihoods elsewhere.
Endabrott wasn’t far from where Fjollum, a northern fishing town, now stood.
My eyes traveled southward, noting that the depiction of Weymar was much smaller than on more recent ones.
“I cannot say, Your Majesty,” she said, sadness suddenly coloring her tone.
“We did not make it that far. The villagers at Nyrva would not speak of it, nor in Fjollum. The terrain between Fjollum and Endabrott’s presumed location is treacherous.
We had to return to the Temple when Skarild fell ill. ”
Nyrva, I was familiar with. It was another fishing village of a middling size, situated near the end of Rowwin Fjord.
Many of the fish and other seafood that came through Weymar’s trade route originated there.
Though Nyrva did not appear on the ancient map, Rowwin Fjord was depicted to the south of Endabrott.
“Then I suppose we shall have to make for the north,” I said, clenching my fist and looking at Lenn for his agreement. He nodded solemnly. “If my power… If the Shadow is somehow connected to the myrkva , I must discover the truth of it myself.” The Shadow rumbled deeply, rattling my nerves.
Asvoria, do you think that wise? After what happened to Petra ? —
If the huathe is still a threat to us, we don’t have a choice, I said, keeping my thoughts calm.
She rolled, undulating softly. Even still, we must be careful.
Of course, I reassured her. I turned my attention back to Lenn and the High Priestess. “We should return to the Temple,” I said, taking a few steps away from the table. “I’m sure you’re exhausted from your day, Lady Estrid.”
“Before we leave the Grove,” she said hastily, rolling the map back up, “I would advise you to be discreet about your inquiry, Your Majesty. While the huathe remains free, you are in danger. And it’s unlikely an assassin from the heavenly realm is working alone in the human world.”
Her words rang like the toll of a bell. It made sense—too much sense for comfort.
My mind raced over the possibilities, trying not to jump to conclusions as I’d already done so much in the last week.
I knew Corbyn spoke the truth about his role that night, and Grantis was dead at the assassin’s hand.
If anything, my wariness settled on Lightwing and the Council.
“I will remain discreet, Lady Estrid, I assure you,” I said, fists trembling where I clenched them at my sides. “As will Thane Reijason.”
Lenn straightened up, a scowl on his face. “Aye, now that we’ve a place to start, I know who I’ll be keeping a closer eye on.” He gave me a knowing look, one that sent an icy cold spreading through my chest.
“Good,” the High Priestess said, sounding relieved. She moved past me toward the door. “Let us return then.”
As we stepped back into the picturesque forest, Lenn drew close beside me. “Vor,” he began softly, eyes trained ahead, “we must tread carefully where Reynar is concerned.”
“Trust me, Lenn, I know.” Memories of the conclave flashed in my mind. “He may be your brother, but he’s a snake.”
“Half-brother,” Lenn grumbled sourly. “And trust me, Vor, he’s worse than a snake. At least you can see the viper’s fangs. Reynar is the wolfdog that’s made you think it’s broken.”
A cold chill slithered down my spine and the Shadow fluttered. Rensif and the Council might’ve been up to something, but what could I do when the people I was supposed to trust were possibly conspiring against me?
“How quickly can we prepare to leave?” I asked him.
He grumbled quietly. “The Jól feast is in a few weeks. We should wait until after, when things have settled.”
Always something to be done. The knife of my grief dug a little deeper, but it couldn’t be helped. After Jól, we would begin the hunt for information on the Gremfylk .