Eleven

Mars paced the floor of the sitting room, grateful for the thick carpet softening his footfalls. He’d been waiting for Fura to emerge from her apartment suite for less than five minutes, but it felt like half a lifetime. Since arriving at Hàr Halda the day before, he’d been on edge, every nerve in his body primed like gunpowder ready to ignite. He couldn’t explain it. It had nothing to do with the job—he was no more worried about keeping Fura safe and finding the formula now than he had been in Valdri. No, the trouble seemed to be the high city itself.

The moment Mars had stepped through the city gates, passing beneath the shadow of a statue of Svölnir with his customary trident in one hand and the severed tentacle of a sea monster held aloft in the other, his blood had rushed through his veins as if from a sudden fright. The feeling had been brief but intense, over in a second, yet the sensation lingered, a low, steady hum vibrating through his body, until he felt like a stringed instrument being plucked over and over again. Even now, despite at least a couple of hours asleep, he felt it still. Not as intensely as yesterday, but enough to make him irritable, like having an itch that couldn’t be reached for scratching.

At the sound of the door opening at last, Mars halted midstride and did his best to look casual, arms crossed in front of him, one leg resting on a toe, but Fura’s piercing look and quick frown told him he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Are you quite all right?” She stepped into the room with Katrìn following close behind.

With a quick glance at the clock on the mantel, he gave a curt nod. “I don’t wish to be late.”

Fura made a face as she smoothed the front of her skirt. She wore Torvald colors today, a golden-colored bodice and matching outer skirt over shimmering black petticoats. “Nothing starts on time during the Assembly.”

Mars grunted his lack of surprise. “No matter. There’re a few things we need to discuss on the way.” He held out his arm, but Fura hesitated. Sighing, he shook his sleeve at her. “I promise I washed it first.”

A small smile cracked her frosty surface, and she stepped toward him, sliding her arm through his like they were any normal couple. For a second, her touch turned his thoughts away from the pressing matter at hand and back to the night of the Felling and the kiss they’d shared—or the one she’d shared with him, rather. With an effort, he pushed the memory away.

“Do you know the way to the March?” Fura asked as Mars guided her toward the door, holding it open for her and Katrìn both.

“I suspect I can find it.” In truth, he’d committed to memory every inch of the city map before he’d left the Den, including which apartments normally housed which kith. With the Torvald talon tattooed on his brow, the last thing he wanted was to wander into the wrong corridor and cause some unforgivable offense. Although the Assembly was neutral ground, all fighting forbidden by kith law, what happened here wouldn’t be forgotten when the kiths returned home. Mars preferred to get paid for any feuds he started, inadvertently or not.

After a short walk, they exited the Torvald apartments and stepped out onto the lawn of the Red Court, so named for the red-hued sandstone used to construct most of the buildings in the area. Hàr Halda was divided into three such courts, all of them connected to one another yet geographically isolated enough to keep the more volatile kiths apart. The Red Court formed the eastern half of the city, currently home to the Jens, Belens, Erlings, Krogs, and Torvalds. The remaining kiths—Hadder, Lux, Aster, and Skorri—occupied the White Court in the west. Mid Court, set between the two, housed the politicians, including every member of the Helm as well as the Fifth and his cabinet members.

“What do you wish to discuss?” Fura raised her free arm to brush back a strand of hair that had been teased loose from the multitude of braids she wore by the sudden breeze blowing across the lawn. Since their ascent of the sheer cliffs that marked the edge of the Crown, as this central area of Riven was known, the wind had become a steady companion. Mars guessed they were some several thousand feet above sea level on this part of the island.

Peering around, he resisted a shudder, that plucked feeling strong inside him for a moment. It didn’t help that he felt utterly naked without his weapons. Although there must have been hundreds of people, if not thousands, in this ancient city, the place felt tomblike in its stillness. The unwavering streets and the worn buildings lining them felt like the bones of a corpse, all the flesh and life stripped away by time and abandonment. For years after the Cataclysm, Hàr Halda had been uninhabitable, the air itself poisoned by corrupted magic.

Shaking off the feeling, Mars focused his attention on Fura, although when he spoke he made sure to be loud enough for Katrìn to hear as she walked behind them. “Now that we’re no longer at your estate, there are several rules I must insist you follow to ensure your safety. The first being that you go nowhere in the city without me.”

As expected, Fura bristled at this, her arm tensing around his. “That will be quite impossible. There are many social activities for females only during the Assembly.”

“Like what? Knitting class? Somehow I don’t see that appealing to you.”

Katrìn let out a snort from behind them while Fura glared. “Maybe so, but I think you’re overestimating your importance. I am not foolish enough to wander around alone, and I am fully capable of defending myself, armed or not.”

Mars shook his head. “No offense, but your ability to fight matters little. A mercenary isn’t just going to attack you like some overeager soldier in his first battle.”

Fura’s nostrils flared. “If you’re trying to frighten me into compliance, it won’t work.”

“I would never try. But surely you must realize there are some things I know that you don’t, given my profession. Such as how easy it is to slip poison into an untended glass, or to run a razor blade over an exposed artery so fast you don’t even know it’s happened until you’re dead.”

“Really, Halfur,” Katrìn said with a gasp. “There’s no reason to be so vulgar.”

Mars glanced over his shoulder at her. “The truth is rarely pretty.” He turned back to Fura, aware of the horror beneath her gaze, the certainty she must be feeling that to be able to speak of those acts with such authority, the man holding her arm right now had surely committed them. I despise what you are to the very core of my being, he heard her saying once more.

“Very well.” Fura rolled her eyes. “I will bring you along wherever I go. It’s certain to be delightful.”

Katrìn laughed out loud at this. “He’ll be the life of the party.”

Mars’s frayed nerves snapped at the mocking, and he came to an abrupt halt, letting go of Fura’s arm. She continued a step, then turned to face him, wearing a falsely guileless expression that bordered on saccharine.

“Something the matter?”

“The danger is nothing to laugh at.” He raked Fura with a glare, then turned it on Katrìn for good measure. “Even those two amateurs from the Wake managed to harm you that day. But here you will face professionals.”

Fura and Katrìn exchanged a look, some secret communication passing between them, and too late Mars realized his mistake in mentioning the Wake. Damn. He needed to get a grip before he blew it.

“I’m sorry, Halfur,” Katrìn said, sounding sincere. “You’re right. We shouldn’t take it lightly.”

He drew a deep breath, reining in his temper. “Thank you.”

Fura cleared her throat, her stilted manner leaving little guess that she was merely placating him now. “What are the rest of your rules?”

Guessing that anything he said would go unheeded, it took all his will to continue. “The most important, aside from not going off alone, is to avoid routine. Vary the paths you take to the dining hall or library or stables, whatever it may be. Habit is the assassin’s friend. Also be suspicious of unexpected packages or letters, anything you have to open when you can’t be sure what’s inside.” He paused, again having to force himself to go on. “And lastly, trust no one.”

“Even you?” A hint of a mocking smile hid behind Fura’s lips as she asked the question. Sunlight breaking over the nearest building caught her eyes, the green in them flashing. All at once, he found himself thinking of the kiss again.

Steeling himself, Mars forced his gaze to remain on hers. “I’m being paid to keep you alive. In that you can trust without doubt.”

He held out his arm, and after a moment, Fura took it again. They walked on, this time in silence.

Mars distracted himself from his tumultuous mood by focusing on his surroundings. Hàr Halda resembled no city he had ever seen. With its various towers and crenellated battlements atop the fortress-like outer walls, it looked more like a castle in a child’s fairy story, the picturesque home of the hero prince, perhaps, or the sinister abode of the wicked queen.

Or maybe just a den of liars and thieves, Mars thought as they arrived at the base of the March, the northern portion of the city wall, where a crowd had gathered. All the Helm was present, along with the heads of the kiths, their heirs, and their advisors. Mars searched the faces, making note of Elìn with Askalon standing at her right. The Torvald dòttra was deep in conversation with Stefàn Jarlsvane, one of the helmsmen of the South Farthing. Even from a distance, Mars could guess the topic of their conversation—bill fifty-one. The question of what to do about the expanding Ice was all anyone was talking about, it seemed.

On the other side of the crowd stood Ulrik Skorri, vane of the Skorri Kith, a tall man with steel-gray hairs threaded through the black of his braid. His son and heir, Gregor Skorri, sulked next to him, a bored look on his face, one eyebrow slightly cocked, scorpion tail tattoo prominent on his brow. Mars had met the Skorris yesterday, upon their arrival in the high city, and their hatred for the Torvalds had been a palpable thing, enough that Mars vowed to track every scorpion tail that came within ten feet of Fura.

They joined the crowd, Fura selecting a space near to Elìn but far enough away that she would not have to converse with her mother and the truss. Mars plastered a pleasant look onto his face as he took his place beside her, cursing that strange restless feeling. He needed to ingratiate himself to these people if he wished to maintain the ruse that he was Fura’s beau. Besides, some of them might prove useful in helping him discover the importance of the Primer formula and why possessing it was worth threatening Fura’s life.

One of the nearby dandies called out a greeting to Fura and she returned it, making the introductions. Mars made note of name and face.

From somewhere atop the wall, trumpets sounded, putting an end to all the mindless chatter below.

“That’s our cue,” Fura said when the noise ended, and they moved together along with the rest of the crowd toward the waiting lift.

“Is this to be your first Bounding, Mr. Karlsvane?” some young lady asked him as the crowd bottlenecked before the lift entrance. He nodded, but could think of nothing interesting to add.

“If we’re lucky,” the girl went on with a coquettish giggle, “we’ll spot a riftworm in the mists. My brother says one appeared last year, but I was too young to attend.”

Fura flashed a patient smile at the girl. “I’m afraid there’s no chance today.” She turned her head toward the sky, blocking the sun with an upraised hand. “It’s far too fair a morning.” There was a note of dismissal in her tone, and the girl was wise enough to take the hint, disappearing into the crush pressing toward the lift.

“Where’s Katrìn?” Mars asked, realizing she was no longer with them as they stepped into the cagelike contraption.

“Servants take the stairs.”

Mars started to reply but broke off as the lift began to move with a creak of metal gears. “How old is this contraption?” He noted the rusty single chain, as thick around as a man’s waist, that connected the platform to a massive crane affixed to an overhang on the guard tower above.

“As old as Hàr Halda itself, I would wager,” said Fura.

Mars frowned. He hadn’t realized such technology had existed so long ago, but then his gaze caught on the faint metallic blue twining the metal like veins.

Glancing up, he asked Fura, “The lift is an artifact?”

Fura shrugged. “It might’ve been once, before the Cataclysm, but it runs on Ice now.” She joined him in glancing at the ceiling. “No one can say how it worked before, though. Hàr Halda is full of such relics.”

The notion unsettled him. To his knowledge, once the sacrifice was made, an artifact never lost its power from the Rift, yet these had. He wondered if that had something to do with the Cataclysm itself—Hàr Halda was not far from ground zero, as it were. He made a note to keep an eye out for more of these artifacts, if only to satisfy his curiosity. It was strange to think he was in a city built by adepts—by their own free will.

As the crowd exited the lift onto the top of the March, the trumpets sounded again, this time joined with other instruments common to a procession, various drums and woodwinds. Soldiers in padded white uniforms—members of the Fifth’s guard and the official police force of the Assembly—helped organize the group into the correct order. Fura and Mars joined Elìn and Askalon. Each kith would perform a portion of the Bounding at set intervals along the wall. Mars had glossed over most of the details of this particular ritual in his preparations, but now that he was up here, he regretted the decision. Not that anything in any book could’ve prepared him for the sight that waited on the other side of the March.

The Mistgrave.

Mars moved to the edge of the wall, drawn by a terrible mix of awe and dread at this visceral marker of the Cataclysm. The mist rose nearly as high as the March, covering all the land beyond in a colorless gray as far as the eye could see. It was so thick, it seemed more like a veil, one that could be cut and divided by even the dullest knife. The only thing visible beyond the March was a single table-topped mountain, far in the distance, with a ruinous white tower perched atop it. Skarfell, the long-ago home of the Consortium, where the adepts of old had wrought their terrible destruction.

For a second, Mars felt a powerful urge to reach out and touch the mist, see if he could capture it with his hands, push it back. He resisted. If even half of the legends about the Mistgrave were true, then it was more dangerous than the worst of the Ice mines.

“This way, Halfur,” Fura said, squeezing his arm.

Blinking to clear his vision from the glimmer of the sun, Mars fell into step next to her as the procession started, Elìn and Askalon ahead of them. It should’ve been Henrik attending the dòttra instead of the truss, Mars realized, but he pushed the uncomfortable thought away before it could find purchase in his mind.

They walked toward the left side of the March, away from the edge by the Mistgrave. Ahead, Mars saw a figure, a servant wearing the colors of the Erling Kith, standing at the right, apart from the procession. The elderly man stood at attention next to an elaborately carved staff set in a cradle upon the edge of the wall and jutting out from it at a sharp angle. The procession halted as it drew alongside the servant, the music ceased as the Erling heir stepped out from the line. At his appearance, the servant pulled the staff free of the cradle, then faced the heir, bowing his head as he held up the staff like an offering, balanced atop his palms. The young heir accepted it, turning it upright.

Stepping past the servant, the heir moved farther down the wall where the first of the boundary markers waited, the slate-gray stone painted with the Erling sigil of the rampant bear. A faint glow of Ice emanated around the edge of the marker. These were no relics, but new additions added for the Assembly. Wielding the staff like a hammer now, the heir struck the marker. A loud gong, unnatural in its intensity, rang out, making the ground tremble. From somewhere out in the Mistgrave, something seemed to move in response, a dark shape shifting in the formless gray.

The band started playing again and the procession moved on, but the Erling heir stayed on the right side, beating the staff against more markers set at intervals. Each time that awful, skull-shaking gong rang out, the Mistgrave seemed to roil in response.

“Did you really see a riftworm last year?” Mars asked, leaning close to Fura to avoid shouting.

She shrugged, speaking in and around the gongs. “Some claimed so, but I did not.” She turned her gaze toward the mist. “It’s easy for the imagination to conjure shapes out of that.”

He could see her point. “You don’t believe they’re real, then?”

Elìn turned back to look at him, her lips pinched. “Oh yes, they’re real, Mr. Karlsvane. If you listen carefully, you can hear their answer even now.”

Mars frowned as Elìn looked away again. He concentrated on the sounds, trying to distinguish anything amid the racket made by the Bounding. After a while, he heard a faint rumbling noise like the earth itself growling. A shriek followed it, only to be drowned out as the music started once more. Vaguely, Mars recalled the purpose behind the Bounding—to remind the creatures that inhabited the Mistgrave that the boundary to their world lay here, at the March. Stories claimed that those creatures had been ordinary humans and beasts once, but were corrupted in the Cataclysm, transformed by its magic into deadly monsters. Mars had dismissed the Bounding ritual as some silly display of unity against a troubling past, but after hearing those sounds in the mists, he realized it was downright foolishness instead. Riftworms, the largest of the Mistgrave’s inhabitants, were said to be blind but keen of hearing. No doubt the music and Ice-fueled drumming did little more than draw them near to the wall and stir them into a frenzy.

The procession carried on. After he’d struck the last boundary marker belonging to his kith, the Erling heir tossed the staff over the side of the March into the Mistgrave. For a second, Mars heard a scraping sound below, and it coaxed a shiver down his spine.

The Aster Kith continued the ritual next, followed by Lux, then Hadder, as the procession made its way along the March, passing out of the Red Court into the Mid. At last, it was Fura’s turn. Katrìn waited at the ready next to a new staff and the first of the Torvald markers. Fura stepped out of the procession, and Katrìn, just like the four servants before her, grasped the staff with both hands and pulled it free from the cradle.

Mars heard a distinctive snapping sound, the noise registering in his brain too slowly for him to react. Not that he could’ve done anything to stop what happened next. No one could move that fast.

There was half a second of silence, of stillness—and then the staff exploded in a flash of green fire.