Vivienne nodded. “You should read these accounts. Like I say, they will provide context.”
“I don’t want context. History. I want to know what’s happening now. Vivienne, we should really go search the rest of the tower.”
“You go ahead without me,” she said, fitting the reading glasses back on her nose.
“You want me to go alone?”
“Why not? We know there’s nothing waiting to spring out at us or it would have already done so.”
Freya stood and moved toward the door. She felt in her jacket for the pocketknife they’d given her. “Vivienne, what do you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something that you’re not saying. You’d rather sit here with books and diaries instead of explore the tower? What’s going on?”
“I would think a young woman would put more stock in learning. Very well, if you wish me to come with you. .” She pushed herself away from the desk.
“No.” Freya tightened her grip on the knife in her pocket. “You stay here. I don’t want you with me anymore.”
“Freya, do you have a trust issue?”
“How could I not? Why should I trust anyone? They’ve never trusted me with the truth. Stay here. Read your books. I’ll be back later.”
She didn’t even have her hand on the door before she regretted her decision. And pushing past the ruined iron door, she felt the first drops from the massive reservoir of panic spill over the walls she had built to keep it out. Senseless fear threatened to overwhelm her completely. She stood in the corridor, drawing a deep breath, drawing herself up. She could live her life in fear, which was no life at all, or she could dig deep, draw up the anger inside of her, and take control of her life.
So there she stood, just outside of Ealdstan’s study, fighting indecision. She knew she needed to explore the rest of the tower, and she would, but should she first try to find out where Daniel was? Frithfroth also; where had he slipped off to? And then there was Gad. Should she try to make contact with him? And how would she do that exactly? Just stroll out of the tower and demand an audience? That thought seemed to physically twist at her gut. To align herself practically with Gad was different, she realised, than philosophically. Was she really on Gad’s side, or was she just against Ni?ergeard?
There were risks on every side. The danger of her situation circled over her like a large, black bird of prey, its shadow of fear occasionally eclipsing the light of any hope, its icy fingers reaching out to snuff even the heat of rage that was pent up inside of her.
But niggling at the back of her head was her secret temptation, which she guarded for herself like a precious thing, kept in a drawer and only taken out to fondle when absolutely no one else was around: she could just leave. She could walk up the stairs, wait for the portal to open-if it would open-and then just leave.
It was a nice, comfortable thought, but she knew it was grown from her fear; the last eight years had taught her that. She actually had escaped Ni?ergeard, against the odds, and yet fear still ruled her life. She was tired of being afraid. Weary. Fatigued. Fatigued-she remembered that word as it applied scientifically, to metal. Most metals were malleable. You could exert pressure upon them and they would bend-like a spoon curved back on itself. You could apply pressure the other way and it would bend back. And you could keep bending and unbending the spoon and it wouldn’t appear the worse for the wear, but then after bending it too many times, it would break-simply snapping in two. That’s what she felt like now-bending so much from all these different pressures, at some point she’d completely break apart.
She wouldn’t let that happen. She refused to bend any longer.
She reached deep inside and grabbed Fear and threw it into the flames of Rage, letting it be consumed, relishing its heat. And then the fear was gone-sublimated into fuel for her fury.
This was the new deaclass="underline" she would stay angry and she would stay unafraid.
The first thing she would do is search the rest of the tower.
She had taken a lantern from the study, so as to conserve the battery power of her flashlight, and counted the stairs as she went upward, the temperature dropping as she did so. Her fingers felt like icicles and she could see her breath clouding before her in the light of the lantern. The stairs seemed to go on forever, but finally she came to a landing that snaked away into darkness. At the end of the short hallway she found two identical doors, thin like the small, medieval doorways that were in church bell towers. She reached out and pushed gently on the right-hand one. It shifted at her touch.
She slid into the doorway and squeezed past the door and into a very narrow and unlit corridor. It curved around, as all passages did in the Langtorr, but tighter than usual, and Freya wondered how high, exactly, she was in the spire-like tower, and how thick the wall was between her and the cold emptiness outside.
Her lights picked up something sparkling around the curvature of the walls. It was a bobbing twinkle, as if something was coming toward her. She froze. The bobbing light also froze, and she realised that the light was only a reflection of her own. She drew closer and found herself confronted with an incredibly ornate silver doorway, the likes of which she’d never seen before. It was patterned with circular swirls and knot-work that ran all along the edges, framing a burnished surface that showed her as only a shadowy shape in the dark.
After admiring the door for a moment, she placed her hand against its centre-she saw a ghostly reflection of her own hand rise to meet hers-and pushed, watching her mirrored self fall away.
The room was lit, which was a surprise, and empty. It was a curved, kidney-shaped space with no windows, but with three large mirrors hanging at opposite ends of the room.
Each mirror was of an ornate, flowing design, with a bulbous, vaguely hourglass shape. There were four odd metal racks in the centre of the room, sort of like coatracks. A golden chandelier in the ceiling fixed with silver lights threw an uncharacteristically warm light on the room. She walked closer to the mirror across from her and stopped in the middle of the room. Something caught her eye and she turned her gaze to the right-hand side mirror.
She leapt aside, and her mirror image also leapt aside.
But it wasn’t her image, not exactly. Freya moved back so her “image” was centred again. It was clearly her, but she was older, maybe thirty, and dressed in fine robes of deep red and burgundy, with bright trim and gold lacing.
She looked confident, self-possessed, a little sad, perhaps, but that seemed to add to her air of wisdom. But it was the crown atop her head that she found most stunning-and disconcerting.
She was wearing the hero’s crown that sat on the throne downstairs-the dragonhelm.
V
Daniel sat down next to Certain Doubt, who tensed instinctively. “Awake so soon? It has been a very short time.”
Daniel nodded and scanned the darkness. He could see almost nothing, just abstract angles where the rock ceiling sloped to meet the floor on various levels.
“You are fully rested? We may depart?”
“No, not yet. Let’s let the others-what’s that over there?”
“Where?” Certain Doubt’s head shifted slightly, giving Daniel the opportunity to shove his sword into the yfelgop’s throat.
The movement was swift, fluid, and vicious. Daniel knew he’d only get one chance, and he had to be exact or the yfelgop would raise the alarm and he would be sunk.
Certain Doubt’s eyes bulged and his tongue worked soundlessly, trying either to breathe or shout, Daniel didn’t know, but his efforts were fruitless, and he died quickly. In that moment, Daniel felt his heart calm and beat steadily. He experienced an awareness of his senses that quite took him by surprise. As the leafleas writhed on the end of his blade, Daniel felt more relaxed and in control than he had felt in days, and it comforted him. He was doing the right thing.