Freya awoke and rolled away from the cold wall she was pressed against. Sitting up, she found Vivienne still sitting at the table, making notes and comparing Ealdstan’s and Freya’s texts.
“Did I miss anything?”
Leaning back in her chair, Vivienne took the glasses off her nose and rubbed her eyes. “Not unless I did as well. Do you want to have something to eat?” She pushed a power bar toward her.
“Thanks,” Freya said, opening it and taking a nibble.
“So. Are we going to talk about Gad now?”
“Sounds like it. What do you want to know?”
“Start with telling me what really occurred when you met him. In your own words. What happened?”
“What happened? Well, I was a little girl, and Gad was much more powerful than I was. When I first saw him, Swi?gar was with me, and he attacked him, on sight. I would have stopped him, but he just leapt forward. And Gad defended himself. Swi?gar died, but not right away, I think. But he was badly wounded. Gad started to talk to me, and I didn’t agree with everything he said, but then. . I don’t agree with a lot that most people have told me over the years. But right then, there? He made the most sense. So. .” Freya swallowed, which was difficult, around the lump in her throat. This was harder than she’d thought it would be. “So he told me a way that I would be able to get home. He told me what to tell the others, about him and about Swi?gar, and I did, and. . we escaped. Daniel and I. So say what you will about him; he got me home.”
“When you say ‘he made the most sense,’ what do you mean?”
“Well, he said things that I realised I already thought but hadn’t been able to articulate. He said that Ni?ergeard is an oppressive force on this island-they live and operate in secret, making wars in the shadows. And from what I’ve seen here, in these visions, could you disagree? What gives Ealdstan the authority to do what he’s doing?”
“Just because you do not like his methods doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”
“But if he’s right, why would he keep it a secret?”
“Getting back to Gad-what about his methods? He killed Swi?gar.”
“In self-defense. Swi?gar was going to kill him. That’s what the whole mission was about! If the four of us went on a mission to kill you, don’t you think you would be justified in defending yourself?”
“What about your methods, then? It seems to me that you have been just as secretive as Ealdstan. Why did you not tell the others the truth about Gad as soon as you rejoined them?”
“What if they’d kept me there?” Freya blurted. She realised that she’d been holding back tears, but now they were rolling down her face. Her voice was thick and full of emotion. It was all coming out. “What if they’d made me go back and try to kill him again? I never wanted to kill anyone. I never have! I only ever wanted to get out, to go home!”
Vivienne waited until Freya’s tears had mostly stopped before continuing.
“But surely, once you were here, once you saw the importance of this place. . surely you saw the vital need for it to be delivered from all threat?”
“No. No!” Freya felt the rage swell up inside her. “I never saw the point. Never! I didn’t ask to get sucked into this world-it never did anything for me. Why should I help it? For all I know, Gad was right. The only thing I know about this place is what I’ve been told, and that’s been precious little. If this place is worth saving”-she motioned around to the dark walls-“then why is the world perfectly happy to carry on without it?”
“Because it stands in the breach, Freya. It stands between the spiritual realm of this world and all others that press in on it.”
“Do you really know that? Or have you been told that?”
“Because I was told it doesn’t mean it’s false.”
“And it doesn’t mean it’s true either.”
Vivienne stared back at Freya impassively. “So what is true?” she asked.
Freya palmed away the tears on her cheeks. “I understand about the dragon. And someone or something made Stowe do what he did to me. But how do I know that Ni?ergeard isn’t responsible for that? Or in any case, more responsible than Gad?”
Vivienne nodded. “You should read these accounts. Like I say, they will provide context.”
“I don’t want context. History. I want to know what’s happening now. Vivienne, we should really go search the rest of the tower.”
“You go ahead without me,” she said, fitting the reading glasses back on her nose.
“You want me to go alone?”
“Why not? We know there’s nothing waiting to spring out at us or it would have already done so.”
Freya stood and moved toward the door. She felt in her jacket for the pocketknife they’d given her. “Vivienne, what do you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something that you’re not saying. You’d rather sit here with books and diaries instead of explore the tower? What’s going on?”
“I would think a young woman would put more stock in learning. Very well, if you wish me to come with you. .” She pushed herself away from the desk.
“No.” Freya tightened her grip on the knife in her pocket. “You stay here. I don’t want you with me anymore.”
“Freya, do you have a trust issue?”
“How could I not? Why should I trust anyone? They’ve never trusted me with the truth. Stay here. Read your books. I’ll be back later.”
She didn’t even have her hand on the door before she regretted her decision. And pushing past the ruined iron door, she felt the first drops from the massive reservoir of panic spill over the walls she had built to keep it out. Senseless fear threatened to overwhelm her completely. She stood in the corridor, drawing a deep breath, drawing herself up. She could live her life in fear, which was no life at all, or she could dig deep, draw up the anger inside of her, and take control of her life.
So there she stood, just outside of Ealdstan’s study, fighting indecision. She knew she needed to explore the rest of the tower, and she would, but should she first try to find out where Daniel was? Frithfroth also; where had he slipped off to? And then there was Gad. Should she try to make contact with him? And how would she do that exactly? Just stroll out of the tower and demand an audience? That thought seemed to physically twist at her gut. To align herself practically with Gad was different, she realised, than philosophically. Was she really on Gad’s side, or was she just against Ni?ergeard?
There were risks on every side. The danger of her situation circled over her like a large, black bird of prey, its shadow of fear occasionally eclipsing the light of any hope, its icy fingers reaching out to snuff even the heat of rage that was pent up inside of her.
But niggling at the back of her head was her secret temptation, which she guarded for herself like a precious thing, kept in a drawer and only taken out to fondle when absolutely no one else was around: she could just leave. She could walk up the stairs, wait for the portal to open-if it would open-and then just leave.
It was a nice, comfortable thought, but she knew it was grown from her fear; the last eight years had taught her that. She actually had escaped Ni?ergeard, against the odds, and yet fear still ruled her life. She was tired of being afraid. Weary. Fatigued. Fatigued-she remembered that word as it applied scientifically, to metal. Most metals were malleable. You could exert pressure upon them and they would bend-like a spoon curved back on itself. You could apply pressure the other way and it would bend back. And you could keep bending and unbending the spoon and it wouldn’t appear the worse for the wear, but then after bending it too many times, it would break-simply snapping in two. That’s what she felt like now-bending so much from all these different pressures, at some point she’d completely break apart.
She wouldn’t let that happen. She refused to bend any longer.
She reached deep inside and grabbed Fear and threw it into the flames of Rage, letting it be consumed, relishing its heat. And then the fear was gone-sublimated into fuel for her fury.
This was the new deal: she would stay angry and she would stay unafraid.
The first thing she would do is search the rest of the tower.
She had taken a lantern from the study, so as to conserve the battery power of her flashlight, and counted the stairs as she went upward, the temperature dropping as she did so. Her fingers felt like icicles and she could see her breath clouding before her in the light of the lantern. The stairs seemed to go on forever, but finally she came to a landing that snaked away into darkness. At the end of the short hallway she found two identical doors, thin like the small, medieval doorways that were in church bell towers. She reached out and pushed gently on the right-hand one. It shifted at her touch.
She slid into the doorway and squeezed past the door and into a very narrow and unlit corridor. It curved around, as all passages did in the Langtorr, but tighter than usual, and Freya wondered how high, exactly, she was in the spire-like tower, and how thick the wall was between her and the cold emptiness outside.
Her lights picked up something sparkling around the curvature of the walls. It was a bobbing twinkle, as if something was coming toward her. She froze. The bobbing light also froze, and she realised that the light was only a reflection of her own. She drew closer and found herself confronted with an incredibly ornate silver doorway, the likes of which she’d never seen before. It was patterned with circular swirls and knot-work that ran all along the edges, framing a burnished surface that showed her as only a shadowy shape in the dark.
After admiring the door for a moment, she placed her hand against its centre-she saw a ghostly reflection of her own hand rise to meet hers-and pushed, watching her mirrored self fall away.
The room was lit, which was a surprise, and empty. It was a curved, kidney-shaped space with no windows, but with three large mirrors hanging at opposite ends of the room.
Each mirror was of an ornate, flowing design, with a bulbous, vaguely hourglass shape. There were four odd metal racks in the centre of the room, sort of like coatracks. A golden chandelier in the ceiling fixed with silver lights threw an uncharacteristically warm light on the room. She walked closer to the mirror across from her and stopped in the middle of the room. Something caught her eye and she turned her gaze to the right-hand side mirror.
She leapt aside, and her mirror image also leapt aside.
But it wasn’t her image, not exactly. Freya moved back so her “image” was centred again. It was clearly her, but she was older, maybe thirty, and dressed in fine robes of deep red and burgundy, with bright trim and gold lacing.
She looked confident, self-possessed, a little sad, perhaps, but that seemed to add to her air of wisdom. But it was the crown atop her head that she found most stunning-and disconcerting.
She was wearing the hero’s crown that sat on the throne downstairs-the dragonhelm.