at me as she spoke. “You have paid the toll. You may pass.”
I stepped onto the bridge. It was constructed of clear crystal, and I could see straight through to the river. Water rushed between massive boulders. A feeling of vertigo washed over me, and I made my first mistake. I grabbed hold of the guard rails to steady myself, nearly falling anyway as searing pain blurred my vision. I’d pressed the wound on my hand directly onto the edge of sharp crystal.
Slowly, I moved forward, gripping my injured hand. Blood dripped from my palm onto the crystal bridge. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I paused. This was when I made my second mistake. I looked down.
Trapped between the stones were thousands of silver sticks. I paused, squinting. No, not sticks—swords. Thousands upon thousands of razor-sharp blades stuck out from between the rocks. A cold wind stung my cheeks.
As I looked down, the bridge started swaying precariously, like the thing wanted to throw me off just for being alive. I started forward again, trying to stay upright as I rushed toward the end of the bridge.
As I stepped onto the land, I gripped my injured hand, wincing.
Modgud’s deep voice called out to me. “Living elf, you have crossed into the land of the dead. Your fate is sealed. Understand that you cannot leave by this path.”
Marroc was already ripping off a piece of cloth from the bottom of his shirt. Now that it was ragged and torn, I could clearly see the rippling muscles of his abdomen underneath it.
“Is that true?” I asked Marroc with a growing sense of panic. “I’m trapped here now?”
He grunted, pulling me closer to him, binding the cut in my palm. While he was doing that, of course, he couldn’t answer.
As soon as he’d bandaged it up tightly, I asked again. “Marroc. What does she mean? I can’t leave here?”
He flipped open his book and scribbled something on the first blank page. You cannot leave by this path.
A bolt of anger shot through me. He knew? “Why didn’t you tell me before I crossed?”
He gave a slow shrug, like he had not a care in the world. Loki’s wand will allow us to escape.
But the wand was bullshit. Probably. “What if you’re wrong about it being here? What if we don’t find it? What if I’m not able to steal it?” Panic was rising in my chest. “My entire life depends on a legend. An unproven rumor that you believe.”
We will not fail. I will not allow it.
“Oh, really? You won’t allow it. Because you control everything.” Rage was rising in me, and my fingers twitched. “Mom always told me what your kind was like. The High Elves. That you were self-serving, never to be trusted. You look out for your own kind, don’t you? That’s why you threw us in the caves. You all blamed us for Ragnarok. And now you’re willing to risk my life for your own goals.”
Marroc had gone very still, his dark hair caught in the wind.
“Guess Mom was right,” I said.
Chapter 39
Marroc
On this side of the river, the mist thinned. An icy breeze stirred the air, revealing muddy plains on either side of the road.
Ali walked in front of me, her back stiff, eyes fixed straight ahead. Blood from her palm soaked the strip of my shirt I’d given her. I wished I’d been able to clean it.
Without the power of speech, it was hard to explain my certainty to her. I knew the wand was here, because I could feel it. It was like the thing had been calling to me. And here, in the world of the dead, it was growing stronger, its power like a gleaming beacon drawing me ever closer.
Soon, I’d have my soul back. I’d be alive again, for the first time since Ragnarok. Since floods had drowned the world, since disease had spread and the gods had slaughtered each other. The deaths of the gods had been Fate… Wyrd.
And now, Fate was telling me to get the wand.
I’d bet my life on it. But I didn’t suppose Ali would be swayed by a feeling.
Seemed I should have told her in advance the entire story, but I’d forgotten how to deal with people long ago. The thousand years in prison had robbed me of all ability to work with other elves. The lack of a soul didn’t help, either.