17

By the Sea

Over breakfast, Bryn told me her plan, which she’d apparently been working on throughout the night instead of sleeping. She’d gotten time off from work, arranged for fake passports from the Kanin rectory, and bought plane tickets for the two of us.

I protested about the expense, because it was a lot more than a train, and I couldn’t afford to pay her back right now. She just shook her head and told me she did it for herself.

“We can get the train in two days and waste the next four to five days traveling, or we can fly out of Churchill in a few hours, and with a couple stops, we can be in Merellä by the morning,” she explained.

After we finished eating, I got dressed and packed up my stuff. Ridley had been around during breakfast, sipping tea and not saying much, but things didn’t seem tense exactly. When I came out of the office, they were kissing and talking softly to each other.

He helped carry our bags down to the vehicle, and drove us to the airport. He and Bryn held hands. Watching the two of them together like that made me miss Pan, and a rush of excitement washed over me.

It didn’t really hit me until just then. Within twenty-four hours, I’d be back in Merellä, back within arm’s reach of Pan. I still had no idea what the future might hold for us, or where my feet were going to land. But I knew that I really liked Pan, and I couldn’t wait to see him again.

The realization did not help with the travel. Hours sitting on a tiny plane didn’t ease my anticipation. Being around so many humans always made me anxious. They always wore too much cologne—I don’t know why they were so hung up on dumping alcohol and oils over themselves, but it always made me sneeze.

That was annoying, but it wasn’t the source of my anxiety. Humans could be so quick to turn on each other, but I’d read enough history to know that they had a tendency to use violence when they encountered something new and strange. On top of that, airports had become sort of battlegrounds for humans, with security everywhere, looking for anything that didn’t belong.

And I didn’t belong.

Bryn had been a tracker before she joined the guard, so she was far more used to moving seamlessly among the humans. It also helped that she was more ordinary-looking than me. She was prettier, really, but I meant that her eyes matched each other.

As we made our way through the airport in Winnipeg to catch the next flight, I wondered how I’d gotten on the plane in Sweden, after Indu had held me hostage. How had I gotten through? Who had taken me to the airport and bought the ticket?

Indu had to know his way around, with all his traveling between human cities. Isarna on the island in the Swedish Bay of Bothnia, Doldastam in the Canadian subarctic, and Fulaträsk in the southern swamps of the United States. All of that was costly, and it required an understanding of human customs and laws across multiple countries.

That was the kind of thing that a tracker like Bryn would know. They had to be well versed in all parts of the human world to go among them and gather up the changelings—and their trust funds. Most changelings were left with families in relative proximity to their kingdom, but we couldn’t exactly stop the hosts from moving whenever they wanted. Bryn had gone to Chicago, Seattle, Montreal, Atlanta, and she knew of others that went to London, Tokyo, and Dubai.

But that kind of travel, with the right documents, and the appropriate training for a sheltered teenage troll to blend into the cosmopolitan human world, was costly and time-consuming. The kingdoms sent young trolls to school to learn human etiquette, defense, and persuasion techniques.

How could an isolated tribe like the Älvolk have the money and know-how to do that, when they had no changelings or trackers?

It was late when we finally landed in Oregon. Bryn had to rent a car so we could drive to where Merellä is hidden along the coast. I could not wait to get there and take something for my throbbing headache, since I didn’t know how human medications would work on a troll.

At some point, when we’d been in the air, the song had come back again. The baritone a capella singing of enn morgana fjeurn on ennsommora orn—the morning flower and the summer bird.

It began quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the passenger snoring beside me. But as we traveled, it had gotten louder and louder. Even in the car, when Bryn had the radio on, it was still there, looping through my head.

grotta insa ihkku / anda cieri insa saddjavvi

she wept all through the night / until her tears became a lake

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, resting my head against the window, but it was like a thunderous drum echoing through my brain.

lindanna fjeura blommid anyo / enndast efdar deen orn varrid torrid

linden flowers bloomed anew / only after the bird bled dry

Then finally, mercifully, the music started to subside, and I opened my eyes.

We drove along the coast, the moon illuminating the ocean crashing against the cliffs to our right, and a dense forest to our left. In front of us was nothing but a long, empty stretch of road. But then the air shimmered, and the mirage shifted into the night until the silhouette of the citadel slowly took shape.

The Mimirin was in the center of town, and even from this far away, it towered over everything. It looked like something from a gothic fairy tale, especially as we drew closer.

Bryn drove along the wall until we got to the large gate of wood and iron. Guard towers were on either side, and a guard came to meet us before opening the gates. Bryn flashed her credentials—her real ones, since a King’s personal guard garnered immediate respect, even one from another tribe.

He waved us in, and we made our way down the dirt roads. The song fell silent in my head as small houses closed in around us. The Mimirin institution loomed over the city, and I leaned forward, looking up at the thirteen atriums that lined the top of the building.

The full moon shined brightly through them, making the Ögonen’s semi-transparent ochre skin glow in the darkness. They were much too far away to see their eyes from here, but I had no doubt that they saw us, that they were watching us with their trollian eyes.

I told Bryn where to go, and the carriage house finally came into view. The apartment I shared with Dagny was on the second floor. Bryn parked in the narrow gravel spot underneath the stairs, and we grabbed our bags and went up the steps to our rustic little place. I’d called ahead to make sure it was okay with Dagny that we stayed here.

“It’s still your place,” she’d said simply. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

Since it was so late, I used my key instead of knocking, but Dagny was waiting up for us. Or at least she’d tried to. She was sitting on the couch, her head sagging to the side, a dog-eared copy of Recovering Memories in the Troll Brain on her lap.

Her long black hair was pulled back in a braid, and when she looked up at us, blinking groggily, I noticed the eyebrow above her left eye—one half was burned off, leaving a jagged ruddy pink mark in its stead.

“You’re back with another houseguest,” she said with a yawn.

I dropped my bag on the floor and stopped short. “When we talked on the phone, I told you about Bryn.”

“I know, Ulla.” She smiled as she stood up. “I’m only joshing you.”

I hugged her. “It’s good to see you, Dag.”