In the morning, I met Dagny, Elof, and Pan in the lobby for a breakfast of hard dark bread and bitter tea. When we finished, we headed down to Öhaus to meet Patrik. He’d offered to send another carriage, but it wasn’t far, and after days cramped in flying tin cans, it was nice to get out and stretch our legs.
Or at least that’s what Dagny said, and I went along with it. The morning air wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was crisp and cool enough that my hooded sweatshirt barely kept it at bay. Isarna was a very quiet town, especially compared to Merellä. As we walked, the only sound was our feet on the ground and a few seabirds calling each other.
We made it to downtown only passing two other trolls—both of whom were distinctly Skojare, with bright blond hair and visible gills. There had been half a dozen cats, though. Lounging about or strolling casually. I’d stopped to pet a particularly large fluffy tabby that crossed our path, and it seemed friendly enough.
From the outside, Öhaus looked like a much, much smaller and older version of the Mimirin. Troll architects definitely had a style.
Pan held the big double doors open, and as we went inside, I found Öhaus was not at all what I was expecting. The hardwood floors were covered in antique Swedish rugs with geometric patterns in bold blues and stark whites. Framed art and documents hung on the walls, and there were glass display cases set up all around the room.
Instead of the usual government offices, this was a museum.
On the back wall was a massive tapestry, nearly floor-to-ceiling. It depicted five ships on a violent sea, and under the crashing waves a water serpent chased after them. Patrik stood in front of it, using a waist-high display case as a table. Papers and old books were piled up around him, and a stack of file boxes was on the floor beside him.
“It is so nice to see you all again.” Patrik stepped out from behind the case to greet us. “I presume your stay at the hotel has been pleasant so far?”
“Yes, it’s truly lovely here,” Elof agreed warmly.
Dagny had already stepped away, peering into a glass case that contained what appeared to be an emerald-encrusted animal skull. “What is all this?”
“Ah, you’ve discovered Safri. She’s a local favorite,” he said as he went over to join her. “Safri was an artic fox that used to belong to a former Marksinna Ansvariga, and she was beloved all around the island. After she died, the Marksinna chose to honor her memory this way.
“Isarna has a rich and unusual history, and we want to keep it alive by having it on display in the Öhaus showroom,” Patrik explained. “That’s why I thought this would be a perfect place for us to find what you’re looking for.”
“You seem to have prepared,” Pan commented. He’d made his way over to the materials first, taking a cursory inventory of what was laid out for us.
“Yes, we went into our storage and our archives looking for anything we have that references Áibmoráigi, the Lost Bridge, or the Älvolk,” Patrik said in his clipped, cheery tone.
“To be safe, we even included the records on the Vígríðabifröst.”
“The Battle of the Bridge?” I translated.
He nodded once, a quick, efficient gesture. “That’s the war in which the bridge became lost.”
Dagny eyed the piles, and she sounded impressed when she said, “You’re very thorough here.”
“Thank you.” The Markis’s smiled widened. “We have a saying around here. If a job cannot be done correctly, it should not be done at all.”
“Isarna really seems like your kinda place, Dag,” I teased, but she nodded readily.
“Where should we start with all of this?” Elof asked.
“I compiled a list of the known Älvolk.” He reached for a stapled set of papers, and when he held it out, I saw the letters indented the paper, like it had been written on a typewriter. “These are the ones that we know by name and see around town from time to time.”
He handed it to Elof, and I read over his shoulder, scanning until I saw a familiar name—INDU MATTISON. It wasn’t until I saw it, and a wave of nausea rolled over me, that I realized I’d been hoping he wouldn’t come up. That my trail wouldn’t keep leading me toward the weird creep hell-bent on impregnating trolls around the world.
But here we were.
I stopped reading the list and pretended to be very interested in a display of stony gray jewelry, which was made entirely from beach pebbles.
“Wait, you have records of the Älvolk?” Pan asked. “Like a list? How’d you manage that?”
“Like I said, they come and go,” Patrik reiterated. “They’re not here often, but I wouldn’t classify it as infrequent either. We suspect that they live somewhere nearby.”
“Don’t they live in Áibmoráigi?” I asked.
“That is what they claim, yes,” he replied.
Pan stepped away from the display case, moving closer to where the rest of us stood around Patrik. “Have you followed the Älvolk to see where they live?”
“We have,” Patrik said, conintuing his trend of cagey answers.
“Is it Áibmoráigi?” Dagny asked bluntly.
“I can’t say for sure, but I think perhaps it is, yes,” he allowed.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “So where is it?”
“You mistake the truth of the First City,” Patrik answered cryptically. “It is not that it cannot be found—it’s that we can’t remember when we do.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The Älvolk that guard it have honed a very specific telekinetic power,” he elaborated. “Yes, they cloak the city so it can’t be seen by hiking humans or from overhead planes, but if it is spotted, well, then they remove the memory of it. You can’t remember where it is, how to get back, or even anything about your time there. You blink, and it’s gone.”
“That is some real Men in Black–type shit,” Pan said when Patrik finished.
I looked over at him. “What?”
“Come on, you guys had to have seen that movie,” he insisted, and when we shook our heads, he rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’s just after somebody sees something they don’t want them to see, they erase their memory.”
“I didn’t know that the Älvolk were that powerful,” I said.
“It seems to be the only power they truly have,” Patrik replied, sounding more subdued.
The Trylle had the strongest telekinetic abilities, and some of them could be quite dramatic. The former Queen created precognitive paintings, a Marksinna kept flowers in bloom in winter, and there were others who could move things with their mind. Most of them had some form of mild persuasion, but I’d never heard of anything like this.
Erasing memories? Playing with our thoughts? That was terrifying.
“Do you think we’ll be able to find Áibmoráigi?” Pan asked.
“You very well may,” Patrik responded indifferently.
“But you don’t think we’ll remember it,” I said.
“That is how this usually goes, yes.”
“Then why help?” I asked in dismay. “Why even do anything at all? If you know it’s a futile pursuit.”
Patrik smiled again, but this time it was dulled. “Because I don’t know it’s futile, and the Korva of the Mimirin told me to help you.”
Elof clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to it, then.”
Patrik started by breaking down the information he’d gathered into categories—modern records, ancient records, and rumors/legends. Dagny jumped at the modern records, and I gravitated toward the legends.
We’d only been at it for a short time, maybe twenty minutes, when the doors opened and a man strode inside. He wore a long indigo jacket, like a trenchcoat caftan, with an embroidered Nordic pattern on the edges of the sleeves and collar. His coal-black hair was silver at the temples, and his face was lined like that of a man in his midforties, maybe older.
Patrik leaned over to whisper to Elof, “That’s one of the names from the list,” and I was close enough that I overheard.
The man looked over at us, and he walked right to Dagny. “Hello. This will sound strange, but I am your father.”