He shrugged. “Take it as my truce. I made a mistake, but I’m trying to make it right—starting with warning you about Rivelin.”
I backed up and shook my head. “I’m returning to the celebration now.”
“Just think about it,” he said as I parted the bush. “Why didn’t Rivelin hear someone destroying his things? Who wants to win this competition more than anyone else? Perhaps Rivelin sabotaged his own damn shop to set me up. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to get rid of me, especially after I tried to romance his sister. He holds a grudge.”
“I’m done listening to this.” I shoved through the shrub, ignoring the scratches along my arm. When I stumbled back into the celebration, I searched the crowd for Rivelin and found him beside the stage frowning at the glass jars. It looked like everyone had cast their vote now. As expected, Viggo was still in the lead.
With narrowed eyes, Rivelin shifted his gaze from the jars to where Viggo stood surrounded by a gaggle of pixies. He glowered at the fire demon in a way that sent a chill down my spine. I recognized that look. I’d seen it on Isveig’s face before. He was angry, and he was out for blood.
24
RIVELIN
D aella was contemplative for the rest of the night, and when we returned home, she went straight to bed. I’d hoped to continue our earlier encounter, but I had to admit my mind was elsewhere, too. Viggo’s spectacle was odd. Where had he come up with something like that? It didn’t sit right in my gut.
After checking the lock on my weapons closet, I settled onto the couch, tossing and turning for a good hour before I finally abandoned sleep. There was far too much on my mind.
And so after donning a shirt and downing a pint of water to clear my head, I stole out the front door toward the square where I knew I’d find my quarry.
“R ivelin, fancy seeing you here,” Haldor said with a slight smile as I settled down beside him. The square was subdued this night, compared to the others. Those still celebrating the end of the Fildur Trial were out in the meadow, where most would remain until dawn. Not Haldor. Every night, he brought fresh flowers to lay at Freya’s stone feet. The fire demons still worshipped the Old Gods. They’d never become part of the Grundstoff Empire, though Haldor had lost everyone dear to him in a battle against Isveig. He’d been a lonely, quiet man when he’d arrived in the Isles, until he’d met Lucien. They’d married each other a year later. Still, Haldor came here every night without fail to remember those he’d lost all those years ago. Many of us here in Wyndale had similar stories.
“How are the memories?” I asked him quietly.
He sighed. “Same as they always are. Fresh as the day they were made. It’s both a blessing and a curse, a demon’s mind. I can remember everything I’ve ever seen and heard and tasted. But the horrors of my past echo with an almost-crushing vibration.”
“And yet you’re one of the happiest folks I’ve ever met.”
“Yes, well.” His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. “Love changes everything.”
“Hmm. I think I’ve heard you say that one too many times, but I’m glad it works for you, Haldor. I really am,” I said. “Want to take a walk?”
“Where to?”
“The Archives.”
He stood and motioned for me to lead the way. “Now you’ve got me curious.”
We moved out of the square and down the main thoroughfare of the village, where silent shops sat closed for the day. Only a few windows were lit up in the rooms above them, and the sound of our footsteps was loud amidst the rare moment of calm tranquility. During Midsummer, Wyndale was rarely quiet for long.
“What are you looking for?” Haldor asked after a few moments.
Shops signs creaked as we continued around the corner toward the Village Hall. “I need to know everything I can about Isveig the Conqueror and his power over ice.”
He looked at me, surprised. “I thought you’d demand to know how Viggo made his fireworks. I saw the way you were looking at him earlier.”
“Fireworks? That’s what they’re called?”
He nodded.
“And how did he make them?”
“Fire demon secret recipe.” Haldor chuckled. Ah, so that explained it. “I thought you wanted to know about Isveig’s conquering.”
“Not his conquering. I know about that. I was there, unfortunately. I need to know about his magic.”
We came to a stop outside the Village Hall. This time of night, the place was closed, and it was one of the rare instances where we used a deadbolt to lock the doors. Trust was an important component of our community, but we didn’t want a tipsy visitor to wander in and accidentally ruin our Archives. I extracted the keychain from my belt and unlocked the door.
Once inside, Haldor lit a lantern that hung on an iron hook beside the door—one I’d crafted myself. The orange glow revealed the long, narrow building with timber beams arching high overhead. A hanging candelabra dangled over four expertly crafted dining tables set out in the center of the stone floor, all facing the desolate hearth. Ancient shields decorated the walls, along with the ivy that spilled in through a crack in the far left corner. In winter, life and laughter filled this place, but most preferred the outdoors during the summer months.
Haldor’s melancholy seemingly forgotten, he sauntered across the empty dance floor and twirled. “Have you shown Daella this building yet? I bet she’d like it.”
I gave him a dark look. “Don’t you start.”
He chuckled and continued to twirl until he reached a door along the rear wall. “You forget how well I know you, Riv. You actually look happy around the orc.”
I scowled.
“Yes, that look right there. I’m seeing it less often these days.”
“Can we please just go into the Archives and focus on what’s important?”
“I’d argue this is important, but very well.” Haldor pushed open the door and waited for me to follow. We descended a curving stone stairwell that saw little use. When I’d first arrived in Wyndale I’d spent hours combing through the stacks, but many of the books were written in the language of the humans, and I didn’t have the patience to listen to one of our resident humans translate.
But I remembered there’d been a few books from Grundstoff, from before it had become an empire. I hoped there’d be answers about Isveig inside.
When we reached the bottom of the stairwell, Haldor lit a few more lanterns scattered throughout the small underground room. Seven rows of dusty shelves were packed with ancient tomes and scrolls and loose papers bound by twine. I moved to the section written in the language of the Old Gods and began to rifle through the nearest book.
Haldor folded his arms and leaned against the shelf, watching me. “What’s this about, anyway?”
I had considered not telling Haldor about Daella’s…affliction, but if anyone in this village could help me solve this thing, it was him.
“Isveig rammed an ice shard into her hip.”
Haldor flinched, then let out a low whistle. “How is she even alive? Usually, that causes instant death.”
I snapped the book shut, and a cloud of dust rose around us. “So you do know about his power.”