When someone loses a loved one, some people take time for themselves, let time pass slowly, and allow the pain to find its place within them. Hrafn, of course, was not among them.
Indifferent to his suffering, the routine at the docks went on exactly as before, or perhaps even worse.
Hauling salt was thankless work. Even through the coarse weave of the sacks, the fine grains found their way into everything. They flaked and dried the skin, opened tiny fissures in it, and then bit at them like embers.
As if that were not enough, the rain also seemed to have taken permanent residence in the city, turning work on the vessels into a constant exercise in balance. The slick planks, the rocking boats knocking against the quay, every step demanded twice as much care.
Hrafn had already lost count of how many bruises he had collected in that span.
Now and then he bought some cheap salve in the commercial district. It was not exactly good treatment, but it worked well enough to let him keep working the next day. A small kindness for the flesh when the pain threatened to become too inconvenient.
"Come on! Move that salt, you lazy bastards!" the dock employer shouted. "I want everything in order before the Star hides beyond the Veil!"
That piece of shit.
"Yes, sir," Hrafn answered.
He did not like the man, but the man paid wages.
And pride was a luxury reserved for those who held power.
Hrafn worked fast and ended the day's misery before making his way to the commercial district.
He went to the familiar apothecary, which was nearly empty.
"How are you today, Hrafn?" the fat shopkeeper asked when he saw him step inside. The man flashed too broad a smile to be trusted, baring silver teeth.
Is that wealth or just stupidity, spending so much to have metal teeth?
"The usual," Hrafn replied, dropping a few coins onto the counter while the apothecary reached for a small jar of salve.
"Taciturn as always, hm?" he muttered, setting the jar down.
Hrafn nudged the coins a little closer to him. The man snatched them with the speed of an experienced merchant, then pulled the salve back before his customer could get his hand on it.
"Have you heard the good news?"
Hrafn let out a tired sigh, and the man clicked his tongue in amusement.
"The Hird of Salt has moved the selection forward. The voroirs will arrive in a month."
Then he bit one of the coins and, apparently satisfied with the result, pushed the little jar forward again.
This man...
Even so, he thought the news was interesting, for once.
And inconvenient.
This would be his mandatory year. He would have to attend the Hird's selection ceremony. That meant missing work-and missing work meant less money at the end of the month.
He picked up the jar, gave a brief nod of thanks, and left the shop.
* * *
At the turn of the month, winter stopped seeming like a promise and began to work with its own hands.
The cold bit at his face and slipped through the seams of his clothes as Hrafn walked the streets toward Salstein. The city breathed fog and smoke. People hurried past, shoulders raised, hands hidden in their sleeves, each of them too occupied to look much at anyone else.
Hrafn preferred it that way.
The cathedral doors stood open just enough to let warmth and incense spill out.
As he crossed them, the cold retreated.
The hall was already full. Small groups scattered across the place in reverent whispers, as though no one there wished to discover the sound of his own voice beneath that ceiling.
Salstein did that to people.
Hrafn lifted his eyes.
The hall seemed carved from a single will. Salt hardened into steel and white as snow. Along the walls, murals told glories he knew more by repetition than by faith: miracles, campaigns, martyrs, beasts laid low.
Farther ahead, in the back, a monumental window took up the entire wall and let in the Star's light in long bands, bathing those present in it.
The ceremony looked exactly like the last one and like all the ones before it, like the one Nanna had taken him to when he had still been too young to take part, but old enough to understand that something important happened in that place.
Not that he frequented Salstein.
Not when he could avoid it.
He had never seen much point in coming on ordinary days, though he lied whenever anyone asked. Appearances were a cheap form of self-preservation, and Hrafn had never scorned cheap things.
Even so, that morning he had come. Partly because it was required, partly because Nanna had made it clear, early on, that the voroirs always knew these things.
To attend or not to attend was a judgment too.
"The Star sees," a voice murmured.
Hrafn felt hands on his shoulders before he saw their owner.
He turned and found a skjald too close.
"The... Veil guards us," he replied, a little late, a little awkwardly.
"The Salt opens the way," the cleric completed.
One of the hands remained on his shoulder. The other's arm indicated that he should walk.
He knows.
Of course the man knew. There was not a shadow of doubt in his bearing. Hrafn had been warned he would be guided, watched, weighed by eyes that carried miracles. But knowing that in theory felt nothing like being exposed to it.
He was led to the area set aside for the youths who would face judgment that day.
They placed him near the front, among the first.
He turned his head and looked at the others.
Men and women his age. Some with straight shoulders, others trying to hide the tremor. There were many things in their eyes.
Hope, ambition, dreams of glory.
Idiots.
He turned forward again.
The steps of the ceremonial platform were too broad to be comfortable, as though they had been made to diminish whoever climbed them.
Above, the vaulted ceiling rose to an absurd height. The columns came down thick as oaks, covered in reliefs that ran along the pale stone until they died near the altar, where everything seemed to draw the eye to a single point.
The Satasteinn.
Between two obelisks of dark stone, the stele rose ancient and unmoving. It was larger than he remembered. Older too. The inscriptions spread across its surface meant nothing to his eyes, and yet still gave the unpleasant impression of meaning far too much.
Close by it, several voroirs waited. Still, patient.
Their helms bore reliefs of beasts. Curved beaks, horns, fangs carved into the dull metal. As if to remind all present that the Hird did not dress only men; it dressed functions, vows, and violences.
The skjald who had guided Hrafn approached one of the warriors and whispered something to him.
The officer stepped forward.
The sound of metal boots striking stone killed every murmur at once.
A vondorodr, perhaps.
Perhaps a hersir; Hrafn could not tell.
The voroir looked first to the spectators. Then to the youths before him. When his gaze passed over Hrafn, he felt a brief pressure at the base of his neck, as if a cold blade had been laid there for a moment.
"Rejoice," the warrior proclaimed.
His voice came out deep, broad, made to occupy space.
"For the Satasteinn is just. It does not incline. It does not bend. It knows neither lie nor trick. Only truth."
Well now.
How theatrical.
Hrafn had to admit it: the man knew how to work his own presence. He himself could not have sounded like that even with a whole script and a week to rehearse.
Hm?
Something changed.
The voroir seemed to turn his eyes directly toward him, as if he had caught the thought in the air-and he did not seem to like it.
"Let us begin." The order fell short and hard.
Hrafn advanced because he had to. The first step came out worse than he would have liked, the second less so, the third already had some firmness in it. He went on, climbing the steps until he reached the platform.
On the way, he took a better look at the officer.
The armor looked immaculate at first glance, but it was not. There was a short scratch on one side plate. A small dent near the hip. A darker stain near the heel of the boot, as though blood had been cleaned from there competently, but not perfectly.
"Hand," said the same skjald as before.
Hrafn held out his palm.
The dagger entered quick and precise, but only the tremor in his shoulders betrayed the pain.
Working hard, hm? I know the feeling.
The cleric turned his hand over and squeezed.
The blood fell onto the floor of the platform, and only then did Hrafn notice the lines written in a circle around the stele. He expected to see the red gather in the grooves. That was not what happened.
The Satasteinn drank it.
The stone drew the blood into itself with greed, and then the salt crackled.
The letters came alive.
At first it was only a pale glow. Then it spread through the grooves of the stele like running ink, filling inscription after inscription.
The air around it changed.
A clean, mineral smell rose from the stone.
Murmurs crossed the nave; someone congratulated him. Maybe more than one.
Hrafn barely heard.
Fuck.