to tell. And what I couldn’t understand was how, if it kept the dead in, we were going to be able to breach it.
Curious, I reached out to touch the wall, but Marroc pulled my hand away.
Probably for the best. I had no idea what sort of magic was at play in this place.
I stared up at it as we walked, dread rising in my chest. Was Mom in there? And Dad? My mouth went dry, and I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to think of them dead. I didn’t like thinking of Mom sick, wasting away in her bed. I wanted to remember her like she was when she was healthy, braiding my hair and telling me how Ragnarok had unfolded all those years ago—it had started with a flood all over the world, and the disease set in. Then the battles between the gods and the giants that had left nearly all of them dead. Mom called it Twilight of the Gods.
She’d told me stories of the world of Midgard even before that, before humans thought it could end, when everything was light. When they’d danced to music in nightclubs. The way Mom spun a tale always lit my mind on fire. She was a fleck of light in a world of darkness.
And if I could see her again…
Marroc turned to face me. Pale smoke drifted off his skin, though it was hard to tell where the smoke ended and the mist began. He was writing in the romance book, which, quite frankly, I wanted to read later.
He showed me his note. I think the best thing will be for me to climb over and then for you to join me.
I pointed at the wall. “I can climb, too. There are divots between the sheets of iron where I could fit my fingers.” Even with my injured hand, climbing it would be a breeze.
He nodded. Going up will be easy. The going down will be more difficult. We don’t know what’s on the other side, and it’s easy to slip when climbing down. If I fall, I won’t die.
I arched an eyebrow. I’d spent years scaling slick black rockface in the underground Shadow Caverns, but whatever. I was too tired to argue.
We kept moving until we reached a long seam between two sheets of iron. It looked like it ran all the way to the top.
I’ll need your crystal, wrote Marroc.
It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to my vergr crystal.
The crystal.
For a few terrifying seconds, I thought I might have lost it in the river, but then I found it deep in one of my pockets. “Why do you need it?”
Marroc wrote, I’ll climb the wall. When I reach the other side, I’ll bang on it three times with all my strength. Then you travel to the crystal, and we continue.
It wasn’t the worst idea.
I handed him the crystal. “Don’t break it. And don’t keep it in your pants or something when you call me, because I’ll come bursting out of them. It would be awkward for us both.”
With a ghost of a smile, he slid the crystal into his pocket. Then he started to climb, latching his fingers into the crack between the sheets of iron.
I watched him climb until he was a tiny black speck high up on the wall.
Most magical creatures were repelled by iron, but elves were like humans. We had iron in our blood. Still, that was probably why it was built of iron. Maybe it repelled the spirits. Helped keep them in.
Marroc had disappeared into the mist high above. I glanced across the field toward the road leading up to the gate, where the dead kept shuffling, an endless procession.
Mist roiled over the mud, and I shivered. My stomach rumbled, and I closed my eyes, envisioning the roast chicken I’d refused to eat before. What the Helheim had I been thinking?
Surely Marroc would be at the bottom by now? I listened for any sounds of knocking, but when I moved closer to the wall, all I could hear was the faint gurgle of water trickling down the side of the wall. Strangely relaxing. I plopped down on the ground and rested my face in my hands.
In the distance, through my fingers, the dead moved slowly, inching forward like ants through molasses. The mist shifted, but I still heard no knocks from Marroc.
I didn’t know if it was the hypnotic effect of the mist or simply extreme exhaustion