The stone hand waves in a macabre arc as Oski holds it out in front of them. It settles on a direction, and Oski leads us away from the geyser fields, past crags of lava flow and into a fertile valley. A small stream, verdant bushes, and a sense of eerie calm are all that exist here. That and a massive ash tree rising in the center of everything.

We descend into the valley, and I note that there are no other trees here. The tall tree ahead has a strange allure. I’ve never seen one like it before. Ash trees are not supposed to grow as thick as this one is, and it has the quality of something that’s been woven in fabric—a picture of a tree rather than the tree itself. But I can see as we near it that its upper branches are swaying, so it must be a real tree.

“Is this the root we’re looking for?” asks Oski, pointing at the tree. “Wyrd’s hand is pulling stronger. And there’s something about this tree…something off.”

“Yes,” I say. “I feel it too.”

“It doesn’t seem like much to me,” says Einar. “I thought a root of Yggdrasil would be more magnificent.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Perhaps not. It wouldn’t be very well disguised then.”

He looks around at the valley. “Too…nice…here,” he says, echoing my thoughts.

“Yes,” I say. “It feels odd. Perfect. Maybe dangerous.”

“A spell?” Einar asks. “Do you think this place is enchanted, Runa?”

Oski scans the landscape. “And eyes in the fields?” they ask, pointing to the tall grasses to the east of the tree.

“I don’t know. I don’t see anything,” I say. And yet I know we are being watched.

“I feel the presence of Katla,” Oski says.

“Me too,” says Einar. He is shaking. I place a hand on his arm to steady him. He lets out a breath.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” I say.

“How do we enter?” Oski says as we approach the tree. “There is no door. All I see is this mark.”

It’s a phrase in runes. I read it out loud. “It says, ‘Make the sound to enter.’ ”

“What sound?” Einar asks.

“I don’t know. What sound do you make to open a tree? A knock?”

Oski knocks. Nothing.

I knock. Nothing.

Einar shrugs. He knocks. Nothing. “What now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. But then I get an idea. I turn to Oski. “May I have Wyrd’s hand?”

Oski passes it to me, and I use the stone appendage to knock. After a moment the wood groans, and a door appears and opens inward.

I can see that it’s very dark inside the tree. I have no desire to enter without knowing what’s there, but Wyrd’s hand pulls me forward with a jolt.

“Runa!” Einar shouts. I hear them lumbering in behind me.

The door shuts, and we find ourselves in a small chamber. It’s too dark to see, so I glow my runes.

“There,” Einar whispers, pointing. The room narrows to a small stairwell that has a faint light coming from it.

We go down the small staircase, which opens up into a great hall. It’s wider and taller than any hall I’ve seen—bigger even than the huge gathering places my people use for celebrations. Everything is covered in a twinkling dust. The floor and the walls all shine, and I think this place must be enchanted, but I don’t feel any of the uneasiness I did in the exposed valley outside. No, this place is warm despite its loftiness, and it smells like my amma’s hut.

I realize why when I see that there are scrolls and books and parchments all over the room. They line the walls, rest on ladders and are scattered all over the tables. They’re spilling open, large and small, a jumble of ancient knowledge. Some of the books are shelved so close to the ceiling that I wonder how anyone could reach them. As far as I can tell, the hall goes up to the heavens and continues down into the depths of the earth.

“The great library,” I whisper. I feel a terrible pang of sadness. “Amma will never get to see this. She would have loved it.”

Einar places a hand on my shoulder.

“I have seen only one book in my lifetime,” says Oski. “And I didn’t read it.”

Einar chuckles. “I’ve read lots.”

“You have?” I ask. I’ve seen some old spellbooks that Sýr has, and Amma used to let me peek at her scrolls from time to time, but not much more than that.

“Yes,” says Einar. “I was training to be a potion mage, remember? A lot of it is reading the old wisdom. And my mother loved to read.” He runs a finger across the worn spine of a thick green book. Then he picks up a large brown one and gently turns its pages. As he does so, the gold lettering flakes off a bit and falls glittering to the floor. This must be where all the twinkling dust is from. I realize now that the books and scrolls in this library are a special kind.

“Magic books,” I say.

We hear a sound, a frantic scurrying across the floor, from somewhere in the room. We look around but don’t see anything. The sound echoes in the great hall.

“Oski, did Wyrd say anything about a keeper?” I ask.

“No,” says Oski. “Nothing.”

“We’re not alone,” says Einar, pulling a dagger from his belt.

“That is obvious,” Oski says. They unsheath their sword.

I ready my spear. What is it?

“You won’t be needing those,” says a croaking voice. “Words are all that exist here.”

Suspended high above the floor, hanging from a rope, is a strange creature. As it lowers itself, the rope squeaking and groaning, I see that it is a man who looks more like a tortoise than a mortal. He is short, with a curved, shell-like back and greenish skin.

“Hello,” I say, my voice wavering.

“What is that?” Einar hisses.

“Should I kill it?” Oski asks.

“No!” I plead. “Don’t!”

The man laughs. His feet now on the floor, he limps toward us, and I can see that he is very, very old. Groaning, he pushes some books aside and leans a weary arm across the table.

“Messy in here. My apologies. I am always trying to get the books in order, but they never seem to stay put!” He peers at me.

I note that his eyes are like slits in his head, and when they open and close they bulge out at me. It’s unsettling.

“What are you then?” he asks me.

“What is she?” Oski scoffs. “What are you?”

“I’m the Keeper of the Books,” he says. “Name’s Orð. Who are you?”

I clear my throat. “I’m Runa. This is Einar and Oski. We were directed here by, well, by our friend.” I hold out Wyrd’s hand, and Orð gasps.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “We didn’t do this to her. It was a gift.”

“Funny gift,” says Orð.

“Our friend Wyrd,” Einar says, stepping forward. “She said we could find the knowledge we seek here.”

Orð appraises Einar. “Haven’t had too many elven folk here. So what kind of knowledge is it that you seek? Potions? Cures?”

Einar nods. “Yes.”

“Of what sort?” Orð asks. He regards us with suspicion.

“The kind needed to kill a bad witch,” says Einar.

“A bad one, eh?” asks Orð.

“The worst,” says Einar. “And you have so many wonderful things…” Einar trails off, enchanted again by the books and scrolls and endless reams of parchment. He can’t help touching them.

“Well,” says Orð after a long pause, “they are wonderful. Do have a look around. See what you can find.”

Einar starts combing through the stacks. Somehow he seems to know what he’s looking for and approximately where to find it. Oski plonks down on a pile of books, looking bored.

“I could use some help,” I say.

“Go on,” says Orð. “If we don’t have it, no one does.”

“I need a book on rune magic. A spellbook of old. I must take my training to the next step.”

“Ah, a runecaster you are. I thought so. With those eyes.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling defensive. I hate it when people notice how strange my eyes are.

Orð doesn’t answer. He scuttles across the floor, weaving with grace through the piles of books. He clambers up a rickety ladder and retrieves one for me from a high shelf. He tosses it into the air, and I catch it. The cover has a strange bindrune on it that I’ve never seen.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Don’t know, can’t read it,” says Orð. “I’ve tried many times, and I cannot.”

I turn it over in my hands and notice that the strange bindrune disappears and then reappears. I open the cover and see that the first page is blank. And the next. And the next.

“No wonder you can’t read it,” I say. “There’s nothing here.”

“No?” Orð asks. “Touch it and see.”

I run a finger across the page. A series of silver-colored illustrations of runes appears. They are old, but I can decipher most of them. They appear to be instructions for various spells and rituals, including a method for making runestones for casting.

“I guess only a runecaster can read that book,” says Orð. “Take it. It seems you were meant for each other.”

“Thank you,” I say, opening my pack to place it inside.

“Oh say, what have you got in there?” Orð scoots over and pulls open my bag.

“Hey!” I protest.

“What? You want the book, yes?” he asks.

“Yes, and you said I could take it,” I answer.

“But we must trade for it,” Orð says, rummaging in my pack.

He finds the tiny vial I took from the hidden compartment in Sýr’s wooden trunk.

“Oh…reflecting powder,” says Orð, examining the little container with awe.

“Is that what it is? You know what it does?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” he says. “Whatever you sprinkle it on will see itself. But be careful. It’s very powerful. Not always wise to see yourself.”

I nod.

Orð continues rummaging through my bag. He finds my father’s old dirty cloak. “Oh,” he says. “Warm.” He looks at me.

“You want that?” I ask.

“Please,” he says.

“Go ahead,” I say.

Orð grunts in delight as he pulls out the cloak and wraps it around his curved frame.

I look around for Einar, who is now emerging from the stacks with a small book. It’s deep blue and thin, and it bears an elven mark.

“How much for this?” Einar asks.

“Bah!” says Orð. “Not much use for it myself. Elf potions. If you want it, maybe you trade for a drink of mead?”

Einar shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any.”

Orð grumbles. “My back. Oh, it is so sore from climbing and hoisting. Books, books, books. A drink of mead would be the thing.”

“Wait,” Einar says. He opens his pack and pulls out a small jar. “Put this in your tea tonight, and it will help with your sore back.”

Orð takes it and sniffs. “Blech! Smells like troll!”

Einar smiles. “That’s because it’s made from crushed troll bone.” He glances at me. “I didn’t kill one! I just found the bones. They’re very valuable. Trolls are strong, and their bones, hair, and even toenails are wonderful cures.”

“That’s disgusting,” Oski says.

I look at Orð. “Will you accept the trade?”

“Yes,” he says. He leans in to speak to Einar in a low tone. “Say, will this make me younger?”

Einar grins. “No, but you will feel like it does.”

“Oh!” Orð whoops.

Oski sighs. “Are we done here?”

“I am,” says Einar.

I have another question. “Orð?”

“Hmm?” He is busy admiring his troll potion and snuggling into his new cloak. He doesn’t seem to care that it’s so long it billows around his feet.

“You’ve read everything in here, yes?”

“Most,” he says with false modesty.

“This book says that if I want to be a real runecaster, I have to forge my own runes. And I definitely need to do that. Because I will have to fight a powerful witch at moonwater.”

Orð stares at me. “Then you will need very powerful runes indeed,” he says, nodding.

“Yes, but I don’t have the right kind of materials. Where can I find something powerful enough?”

“Well,” he says, pausing for a moment to think. “You could kill the elf and use his bones.” Orð looks at Einar, very seriously. He laughs, an infectious, chortling sound that makes Oski look up from their perch and smile.

Einar frowns.

“No,” I say, fighting to suppress my own laughter. “We need him.”

“The Valkyrie?” the turtle man whispers.

“Mm-mm.” I shake my head.

Oski hisses at him and waves Wyrd’s hand.

I hold up my own hand. “Stop.”

Orð rubs his fleshy chin. “Hmm. There is something that could work,” he says. “But it is very powerful. Too much power for most runecasters. But a special one like you, with eyes like yours…perhaps you can benefit.”

“What is it?” I ask. “Please tell me.”

“Oh…” says Orð. “Time stones.”

Einar lets out a funny sound. I’m not sure if it means he’s excited or worried. Knowing Einar, he’s probably worried.

“You might as well say we need pieces of the moon,” says Oski with a dismissive wave of Wyrd’s hand. “There are no time stones, lunatic. No one has seen them for generations, if they ever existed at all.”

“They exist!” Orð shouts. “I have seen them myself. Granted, it was a long time ago, when I lived a different life outside the great tree’s root. But I saw them. Before I was chosen to keep the knowledge.”

“Where did you see them? Please, I have to know,” I say.

Orð leans toward me and grasps my shoulders. His voice is quiet but intense. “I saw them at the bottom of the ocean.”

I groan. He is a lunatic. “That won’t help us,” I say. I feel despair wash over me, sapping my strength. I’m so tired. How can I possibly find something at the bottom of the ocean?

“Ah, but there is a place to get help,” he says. “A keeper I know.”

“One like you?” Einar asks.

“No, not like me at all,” says Orð. “He is very mistrustful of mortals. Doesn’t like to trade. It could be suicide.”

“Great,” mutters Einar.

“Exciting,” Oski says.

“But, runecaster,” says Orð. “If you can get the time stones and forge the runes, you will be unstoppable. Especially with those eyes.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” I ask.

“Oh…” says Orð. “Your eyes are very unusual. Special. Didn’t you know?”

“I-I…” I trail off, speechless. “No. My eyes have always been my weak point.”

Orð laughs at this.

I look at Oski, who smiles at me.

“The crazy little man is right about one thing,” they say. “Time stones will change everything.”

I look at Einar. “What do you think? Did you find the poison recipe you need?”

Einar nods. “But it’s not going to be enough. If I can get to Katla, and if I can deliver the poison, it could weaken her,” he says. “But you’re the one who will have to defeat her. I think we need to try to get the stones.”

I sigh. “This keeper you speak of,” I say to Orð. “Where can I find him?”

“Oh, it’s not far,” says Orð. “Go to where the ice breaks apart into the sea. You will have to go into the water to access his cave. Very cold. It will be dangerous.”

“Of course it will,” says Einar.

“How will I know where his cave is?” I ask.

“Oh, the spear you carry will help,” Orð says, pointing to it.

“What? Why?” I ask.

“Because it belongs to him,” he says.

I stare at my spear, illuminated in the glow of my rune pouch and the candlelight of the great library.

“See the runes along its length?” Orð says.

I realize with a shock that the elaborate swirling designs along the spear are not decorations at all. They are indeed runic staves devoted to the sea goddess Rán.

“Speak the runes, and the spear will take you to the cave you seek,” says Orð.

“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t know how to repay you for your kindness.”

Orð grasps my hands in his, and when he speaks his tone is grave. “You can thank me in the next life.”