Fragments of your Soul (The Mirror Worlds Book 1) (39 page)

Mardun explained to her that a marriage was closed over two days. It was connected to a precisely prescribed ceremony in which the living rune spell was cast, the so-called band of life. It was forged by the Njorkma and his female counterpart called Njema, but Mardun confessed that he himself had never been present in the Hall of Runes.

“Too bad I’m not going to be there,” Desrei sighed sadly. “Normally, I’m not into celebrations, but this one…”

“It’s something very special,” Mardun agreed. “A human goddess as part of Isvirndjellen’s royal family—something like this has never happened before.”

“Why can’t you be there?” said Arvid. “I would be delighted if you were there. Don’t I have something to say in that? It’s also my wedding.”

“We can’t, my lady,” said Desrei, looking slightly embarrassed. “We are only servants and… There is so much work to do for us.”

After the servant had worked in the three hair beads, Arvid looked at the finished work in the mirror. The sight was odd and probably needed some getting used to. The three strands of hair had become matted skeins, which actually resembled the hair of the giants, but were not as compact. It looked kind of shaggy, but Mardun assured her that the hair would become more dense over time.

Mardun was right about the reactions in the fortress. When Arvid was picked up by Loke the next day and they made their way to the Hall of Runes, everyone’s eyes followed them, be they giants, servants or visitors. Loke himself now wore three green beads in his hair, so their engagement was clearly noticeable even to those who had dismissed the news as rumors.

The Hall of Runes was huge, the ceiling probably around eight to ten meters high, and the first thing that caught Arvid’s eye was a large black stone block in the middle of the room. It must have been a good three meters high and of the same length and width. There was a base at its foot, to which a number of low steps led up. From there further small steps led diagonally upward on each side. Directly above the altar, high up on the ceiling, there was a huge, snow-white star lamp that radiated an unusually bright light.

“The Njorkma will join us as soon as he has time,” Loke said now. He remained near the altar and turned to Arvid. “We’re a little early.”

Arvid nodded and looked around further, but there wasn’t much to see. The room was bare, the floor smooth and unadorned. On the side opposite the door through which they had entered, the ground was slightly raised and formed a kind of pedestal with another, much smaller door.

“Why is it called Hall of Runes?” Arvid asked eventually. “I don’t see any runes here.”

“That’s not it,” Loke said. “In this place the living runes are forged.”

Arvid nodded thoughtfully. “What is the difference from a normal rune spell?”

“Living runes connect to a soul,” said Loke. “Their full effect only unfolds if the wearer has witnessed their creation entirely. ‘From the first grain to the last drop’, so they say.”

“And how exactly are these runes made? I don’t suppose that they are written in ink.”

“No,” said Loke, “though the dust of colorless soul gems is used, too. It’s not processed to ink though, but placed under the skin of the wearer.”

Arvid paused. “Under the skin?” she asked with a sudden touch of terror. “Do you mean… under the skin in the sense of… I mean, under… under the skin of the body?”

Loke’s eyes glinted in amusement. “What other skin could I mean?”

Arvid swallowed. “And how is that done?”

“With a knife. Normally on the left arm.”

Arvid stared at him in shock and involuntarily felt for her arm. “You… you’re just pulling my leg, right?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” Loke said with a grin. “Do you already regret having said yes?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. But before she could say anything, the door on the podium was opened noisily and the old Njorkma stepped out.

In the following hours Arvid was showered with an abundance of information, although the Njorkma claimed to mention only the most important things. He explained the process of the ceremony, who would be there and who had to be standing where and when. She should learn a song and several texts that she would have to say at certain points of the ceremony. Arvid had no idea how she would remember all these things.

“You need not worry,” said the Njorkma soothingly when he noticed Arvid’s insecure face. “During the ceremony you’ll always be told what to do. The only thing you have to pay close attention to is the beginning of the forging of the band. It’s very important that the first line is quoted simultaneously and correctly by both partners.”

“I’ll remember that,” whispered Arvid.

The Njorkma smiled encouragingly. “The actual forging of the band won’t take very long. Remember to be careful when you step down afterwards. You might experience dizziness.”

“What kind of clothes do you suggest?” said Loke to the old giant. “For Arvid the traditional wedding garments are not warm enough. She could catch a cold.”

The Njorkma nodded thoughtfully. “You are right. Well, I’ll have to consult my books to find out what elements of the clothing may not be modified to comply with the traditions.”

“Do it immediately,” demanded Loke. “The tailor will need a few days.”

“Naturally.” The Njorkma bowed his head. “I’ll get back to you today. Then there’s only your wedding wishes left.”

“What kind of wedding wishes would that be?” asked Arvid.

“You may wish something from me,” Loke replied, “and I cannot refuse. But you also have to grant me a wish. It’s an ancient tradition.”

“No matter what?” said Arvid.

“More or less.”

Arvid was silent.

“If you need time to think, I will return tomorrow morning,” suggested the Njorkma.

“No,” Arvid parried hastily. “I already know my wish.”

Loke looked at her expectantly.

“I want you to invite all human servants who are expendable to our wedding,” she said firmly.

Loke frowned, but to Arvid’s surprise, he neither got angry nor tried to dissuade her. He just exchanged a quick look with the Njorkma and then asked, “Are you sure that you want this to be your wish?”

Arvid nodded. “Yes,” she said firmly.

“Very well then,” sighed Loke. It wasn’t hard to see what he thought of her wish. Arvid suddenly wondered how Loke’s mother would react when she found out about it. She would be furious, but absurdly enough, the thought filled Arvid with a sense of satisfaction. Her mouth twisted into a smile.

“Well then,” she said, “what’s your wish, Your Highness?”

For a moment Loke looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, but then a big grin began to spread on his face. “I only wish you to keep our trade.”

The next few days passed quickly, more quickly than Arvid would have liked, although there wasn’t much for her to do. On one occasion a dwarven tailor showed up to take her measurements; otherwise she spent the time reading and exploring the fortress. She took long walks through the gardens, and later also farther to the fields, which Loke only allowed her to do accompanied by two guards. Wherever she went, she was curiously watched. The giants tended to keep a distance, while the dwarves openly approached her and turned out to be very pleasant company.

Every day Arvid learned something new about the dwarven realm. The fact that it was divided into so many small countries was highly favored and welcomed by the dwarves. Often countries and kindreds specialized in the trade of certain products. Prosperity, crafts and trade seemed to be extremely important.

“If you wish to buy goods of the finest quality, you should buy them from a dwarf,” one of her interlocutors, whom she met on a tour in the gardens, once told her. “No dwarf would dare to sell you something he knows nothing about.”

But when Arvid was alone, she was plagued by fears and doubts. She often lay awake for hours and could not sleep. There were so many things that gave her no rest. Yes, she would marry Loke, but would this actually prevent Asgard from trying to imprison or even kill her? The gods knew where she was. Byleist and Loke counted on Borkh and Utstern’s support in the event of war and were even hoping for help from some of the dwarven houses. But what would happen if these parties had no interest in interfering in Isvirndjellen’s conflicts? What if a war broke out because of her? The thought was horrible.

And then there was the wedding itself. Arvid had learned all the texts by heart. Desrei had taught her the song she should know, and she knew all the important parts of the ceremony. However, when she thought about the forging of the living runes, she felt almost sick. Dust from colorless soul gems would be worked under the skin of her arm with a blade. She didn’t know if something was used which made this process less painful, but she felt that this wasn’t the case. The thought scared her so much she had not yet dared to ask anyone about it.

Before Arvid knew it, the day of the wedding was there. The night before she had hardly slept due to her nervousness. When she went to the Hall of Runes around noon, together with Desrei, she was so excited that her hands felt cold and sweaty.

In a small side room Arvid was dressed by Desrei and another servant. The garments which the tailor had created were beautiful, made of lightly falling fabric in beige and turquoise. They had no buttons, but long ribbons of smooth, shiny fabric that were wrapped around the body and tied into bows. Arvid also got a full-length coat, which was lined with white fur. She was only allowed to wear it before and after the ceremony, though, so she wouldn’t catch a cold.

Desrei wove a braid along each of Arvid’s temples; otherwise her hair remained unbraided. For the giants the braiding of the hair was no fashionable need like in Jördendheim, said the servant. Every hairstyle was accepted; the only status symbols were the interwoven beads, gems and trinkets.

When Arvid was finally finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. The two servants were smitten and showered her with compliments. Even Arvid had to admit that she had rarely looked so pretty. However, she was so nervous that she could hardly enjoy it.

Loke and the Njorkma were waiting on her in a room right behind the Hall of Runes. Although Arvid was already excited, her heart began to beat even faster when she saw Loke. He was breathtakingly beautiful. His dark gray hair was tied in an elaborate structure of braids and decorated with a variety of shiny rings and beads. He wore black boots and pants and a knee-length robe in the same turquoise color as the stripes on Arvid’s dress. The fabric was thin, smooth and shiny and only covered parts of his chest.

Loke raised his eyebrows when he saw Arvid. “You look pale,” he said. “Are you cold?“

Arvid shook her head and forced a smile. “I’m just nervous,” she said. “I… I’ve never done anything like this.”

Loke laughed. “Most marry only once in their life.”

“Not you,” Arvid said softly.

“I’m a shapeshifter. On my body not even living runes last forever.”

The wait seemed endless. With every minute that passed, the queasy feeling in Arvid’s stomach grew. Uneasily she kneaded her trembling fingers until the Njorkma eventually rose from his chair and gestured at them that it was time.

What happened next Arvid only perceived as if in a trance. The Njorkma opened the door to the Hall of Runes and led the way. Loke and Arvid followed him to the podium, where they stood side by side. In a wide circle around the black stone block countless giants, dwarfs and a few humans were standing and looking at them. Arvid thought she could feel their gaze almost physically. The Njorkma welcomed the guests, but Arvid got hardly anything from what he said.

Flute music began to play, then everyone began to sing the song Arvid had to learn beforehand. She tried to sing along, but her voice was trembling with nervousness. She watched as the Njorkma used an oval stone tool to grate small, clear stones to dust on a smooth boulder. Every now and then he poured the resulting powder in a shiny silver bowl.

So this was the rock flour used for forging the runes, which Arvid soon would wear under her skin. She tried not to think about the upcoming procedure, but the thought seemed to be indelibly stuck in her mind.

At some point she could no longer stand it.

“Loke,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear it.

Loke nodded almost imperceptibly, but kept watching the Njorkma. “What is it?”

Arvid took a deep breath. “Did you also do this with your first wife?”

“Yes.”

“Does it… hurt a lot?”

This time he did not answer immediately. He briefly glanced down at her, then looked forward again. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t look when they do it.”

Arvid closed her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t sure what kind of answer she had expected. She had unconsciously hoped that Loke would calm her, that he’d perhaps say that it wasn’t as bad as she thought, or that it would be over quickly. But then, she should know him well enough to know that this wasn’t the kind of answer he would give.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, so quietly that she wasn’t sure if Loke could even understand her words. Apparently he could, however, because a moment later something unexpected happened. He raised his hand and gently stroked her hair. It was only a brief contact, but it was immensely comforting.

It couldn’t take away her fear, though. The wait seemed like an eternity. They just stood there, listening to the drums, flutes and singing and watched how the silver bowl was more and more filled with sparkling white dust. It seemed to Arvid as if she was watching the preparations for her own execution. No sooner she had finished this thought, the music stopped.

Arvid’s heart missed a beat.

“Come,” Loke whispered to her. Arvid numbly started to move. Her legs threatened to give way as she slowly crossed the room and walked to the stone block in the center. There was absolute silence around them as Arvid ascended the steep stone steps to the altar. She had to climb to the very top, while Loke stopped in the middle, to be at an eye level with her. Arvid saw that the surface of the stone block had two elongated depressions. Beside them lay bare knives with short, slightly curved blades.

The Njorkma now stepped to the front of the stone block and put the bowl with the gem powder down in the middle. At the same moment a similarly dressed giantess emerged from the crowd and came toward them. This had to be the Njema.

“And so it is time to create a new band of life,” the Njorkma said aloud. “Forged in blood, it’s the link between those who shared and endured the pain of its formation, and have sworn each other counsel and unconditional loyalty.”

The Njorkma now turned to Loke and said, “Loke, son of Farbaute, descendant of Isvirndjellen, it is for you to make the vow of the band.”

Loke turned to Arvid and held out his hands. Arvid tried to hide her shaking as she put her hands in his, but she did not succeed. Her fingers were wet with sweat and almost as cold as his.

“I swear to protect and respect the band of life, today and every day,” Loke said, eyes fixed on Arvid. “As long as this band exists, we are to be one, both in life and in death. I swear fidelity and loyalty until your dying breath, for when your life ends, so shall mine.”

Loke gently rubbed his thumb over Arvid’s hands. Now the Njorkma looked at Arvid and said, “Arvid of the house of Bergen, daughter of Carl, it’s on you to make the vow of the band.”

Arvid forced herself to breathe deeply, yet she could not prevent her voice from trembling as she looked at Loke and spoke. “I swear to protect and respect the band of life, today and every day. As long as this band exists, we are to be connected, both in life and in death. I swear fidelity and loyalty until your dying breath, for when your life ends… so shall mine.”

The Njema stepped close up to the stone. Arvid saw that she was holding cloths and a bowl with a brown, watery liquid and knew that the part of the ceremony followed which she had been afraid of for days. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, but there was no turning back. She needed and wanted to perform this ritual. She would endure the pain, no matter how bad it was.

Loke released Arvid’s hands. A single flute began to play deep, calm tones that formed a uniform, almost monotonous melody. The Njema gave Arvid a barely perceptible smile as she held out her left arm as if in a trance. She pulled back the sleeve of Arvid’s robe and tied a cloth tightly around her upper arm while the Njorkma did the same with Loke’s arm.

With gentle pressure the giantess forced Arvid’s arm into the depression of the stone, then she dipped one of the towels in the brown liquid and rubbed the top of Arvid’s forearm. A cold, tingling sensation spread across her skin. Finally the Njema and the Njorkma put the towels aside and reached for the knives in front of them.

“So the band is to be forged,” cried the Njorkma, “and it begins with the mutual will of this man and this woman.” He took Arvid’s free hand and put it into Loke’s, which he had placed in the middle. As Arvid met Loke’s eyes her heart almost skipped a beat. Just in time she remembered the words she was expected to say now.

“My blood is yours, and your blood is mine,” they said simultaneously. “Your path is my path and your pain is also mine.” Then Loke suddenly switched to her native language and said softly, “Don’t look. Just look at me and squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”

A moment later the pain came, and it was so violent that Arvid only with greatest difficulty suppressed a cry. She pressed her lips and eyes together and clung to Loke’s hand with a vengeance. Her whole body tensed, while the blade continued to cut deep into her flesh.

After a short time she was unable to prevent a moan escaping her lips. A numbing blackness began to cover her senses. With each line, with each rune, the pain seemed to rage more violently.

Suddenly she felt Loke’s grip tightening around her hand. “Breathe,” he muttered with a strained voice. “Keep breathing!”

Arvid forced herself to expel the air and took another breath. Ever so slowly her senses cleared again. The burning on her arm was unbearable, yet she managed to open her eyes and look at Loke now. His face was contorted in pain, but his sight was reassuring. Arvid knew she would make it. She would hold out.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the Njema and the Njorkma laid the knives aside. Arvid focused entirely on breathing in short gasps, as the wound was cleaned with a cloth and the two went over to rub the white soul gem powder into the cuts. The procedure was almost more painful than the one before. Arvid convulsively clutched Loke’s fingers while trying with all her might to hold still. She wished nothing more than for this pain to finally come to an end, and with every passing second her composure crumbled a little more. Her moans grew louder, but she didn’t care that they could be heard.

Then it was finally over. Although the pain still lingered, Arvid felt boundless relief. Once again the skin around the runes was cleaned, then the Njema slowly and carefully put a tight-fitting bandage around Arvid’s arm. The wound throbbed horribly; still, Arvid emitted a deep, liberated sigh.

“With this, the band of life is forged,” cried the Njorkma and stepped back from the stone altar. “In accordance with tradition, this event is to be sealed with a kiss.”

Arvid’s legs felt weak and shaky, yet she took a few uncertain steps down the narrow stairs. Loke responded much faster. He rounded the altar and put his good arm around her shoulders. Although Arvid was still standing on the stairs, she felt terribly small next to him, but a look in his eyes was enough to make her forget this fact. Loke was the most beautiful of all giants, and she wouldn’t let anything or anyone ruin their first and perhaps only kiss.

Loke gently ran his hand over her cheek, and only now Arvid noticed that her face was wet with tears. Loke wiped them away, then he pulled her closer and kissed her. Despite her aching arm and all the excitement, it was overwhelming to feel his soft, cool lips on hers. She pressed herself close to him and returned his kiss passionately.

Suddenly the audience started clapping. First it was only a few, but then a roaring applause rose. Here and there, congratulations were called. Arvid heard the Njorkma say something to the crowd, but didn’t listen. She only had eyes for Loke, who had detached from her and gently grabbed her arm.

A large, white cloth was rubbed in with the leftover soul gem powder. Shortly afterwards everyone left the hall, led by the Njorkma and the Njema, who bore the cloth between them. Arvid was holding on to Loke’s hand like a little child, her knees still soft as butter.

The rooms they entered were swarming with giants and a few dwarves, who were sitting at large tables. As Arvid and Loke stepped into the room, an even louder noise arose, as all the guests stood up and applauded. Overwhelmed, Arvid looked around. The walls were covered with long, colored fabric, the tables filled with dishes and jugs. On the ceiling irregularly shaped star lights tightly clung to each other and illuminated the entire room. She saw that Loke had actually fulfilled her wish: along the walls smaller tables had been set up, where humans in brown coats sat. Of all the guests they clapped the loudest.