The Taste of Death

Snow was covering the entire hillside and everything beyond. Across the frozen river, only a white haze was visible, an angry wind throwing up the falling flakes. No-one knew if it would charge towards them or sneak round the side, and no-one was trying to figure it out anymore. They could not put their minds to predicting weather patterns when the air inside the castle was as stale and cold as it was on that day. One could almost taste Death in the vicinity. It was sour and salty, with an aftertaste that promised to be sweet but in fact only doubled down as an acidic essence oozing down the back of your throat. You felt it hit your stomach before your lungs, as you breathed in familiar frigid air while your legs gave way from the new weight in your gut. 

Four attendants strode down the corridor, each holding the corner of a large sheet made of dark cloth and embroidered with red stitching. They were politely allowed to pass though the whispering crowd that had formed around the entrance to the bedroom. Moments later they retraced their steps back up the corridor, this time much less gracefully, clearly struggling with the weight of the body on their shoulders, wrapped in the sheet. Most of the crowd stayed in their gossiping groups, but two pairs of eyes observed the departing chaperones.

“Call for a carriage,” one of the individuals said, “one with enough space.”

“I tried, Mistress,” was the reply, “but the storm has already made getting word out impossible.”

A small nod each was exchanged without even turning to look at one another, and in the moment that the corpse had turned one corner, the flash of a cape came around the other. It was a man striding down the length of the corridor with the force of a stallion galloping. In the stillness of death, his life echoed in the space as loud as the thumping of his boots. 

He halted at the doorway and looked in the room.

“They just took him,” said the first individual, a woman of similar stature as the man, with the man’s face directly in her eyeline.

“I saw,” was the response, eyes fixated on the bed which was in a state of disorder, sheets peeled back, some even drooping onto the floor.

There was a moment of reflection, which, dangerous in numbers, was mediated by the advisor next to them asking “Should I start preparing the ceremony, Mistress?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The man in front of her shot her a stern look. “What’s the rush?”

“No rush,” she countered, “just duties.”

He scoffed. “You just want your title quicker.”

“I feel the need to remind you that you’re getting mine.”

“I don’t need your hand-me-downs. Or your protection. Go be Empress since that’s all you care about and leave me alone.” He made back up the corridor, though no-one knew where he went. The next time anyone saw him was midnight two days later at the candlelit ceremony where he was appointed Lord Protector of the Empire and his sister became Empress. 

Few people were given the privilege to attend the ceremony, but among them were certain individuals from the Adeln, the highest class of aristocracy with power over the land that sends fear running through the population like a river through the mountains. Their stern faces wordlessly disapproved of the young ruler. They rebuked her lineage and scorned her intentions. Those twelve pairs of eyes followed the crown, an ornate silver band with cascading strings of pearls, from the dark velvet cushion all the way to her head. Gottfrid and Teresa, the well-respected leaders of the Adeln, were at the forefront, their frowning faces being copied all the way down the line.

They met the new Empress outside the small stone hut, surrounding her at the entrance so that she could feel the power they held in numbers. 

“Our condolences…” said Dagmar, the youngest but already the most sour of the lot, “for your loss...” She was running her hands through the crown's pearls. Her friends saw that this made the young ruler uneasy, though she was still able to stand her ground, so a few more of them started inspecting her; they caressed her earrings, tested the soft fabric of her dress, felt the fur draped around her shoulders. Gottfrid and Teresa stood to the side, not engaging but not forbidding, their stern gazes doing all the work for them.

“I know the Empire will feel the weight of his absence,” said the Empress, keeping her head high and appearing unphased. “Especially all of you.”

“Oh, dear Matilda,” Dagmar sneered as she adjusted the crown a little, “I know we were very close with your father, but I want to reassure you, we don’t expect the same with you.”

“Expect what?” The freshly-appointed Lord Protector interjected into the conversation. The second his eyes caught the commotion around his sister the prodding hands returned behind their owners’ backs. His keen eye also saw the lopsided crown, so he corrected it and shunned who he had seen touching it last with a muttered “Don’t touch that.”

“Nothing to worry about, Master Ove,” said Dagmar with a beaming smile, “We do hope to see you tomorrow as planned, that is, with the addition of, how do you say, a celebration, perhaps, of your father’s life, yes?”

Young Ove scanned the faces around him, looking for an answer. The tension there was obvious, but his elder sister did not indicate to him that he should not go, not even with her face. He thought of his father, who would have been the only one to be straight with him and just tell him what to do. He would have surely said yes.

“Of course,” he answered, and hoped he was imagining the small look of disappointment on Matilda’s face, then threw that thought carelessly into the wind. He crossed his arms and jutted out his chin at her while still addressing the nobles. “Of course I’m coming, why wouldn’t I?”

Matilda felt the stare but couldn’t find it in her to look at him. “I hope you have a nice time,” she said meekly.

“Wonderful.” Dagmar was still stretching the corners of her mouth to the extremes. “Well, best be off. Wonderful ceremony, Master.” She ran a hand down Ove’s arm as she turned to leave with the rest of her friends. “Mistress,” she spat over her shoulder, as if merely addressing her brought a bad taste to her mouth. Gottfrid and Teresa left last, faces cold and unmoving, trailing behind the group they had so wonderfully moulded to do their dirty work. Having things your way never felt so good.

Dawn glittered over the surface of the lake and frosty dew cracked under careful footsteps. The trickster spirits had done a fantastic job, and Matilda was taking it in gratefully.

Her fur shawl tickled her cheeks and chin and her dress dampened when she knelt at the edge of the water amongst the frozen reeds, the layer of ice over them giving the appearance of crystallisation. 

She dipped her fingers into the water through a crack in the ice, shuddering at but enduring through its chill. The water flowed from one hand to the other, then back again, cascading like a small waterfall fully contained by her palms.

Light fog encircled her, forming a vague boundary somewhere halfway down the lake; a grey spell cast to encase her in solitude. A grey thought, likely soft to the touch. A grey wall, impenetrable, save for a darker figure shifting uneasily forward over the ice.

She felt her name being called and it warmed her heart more than she even knew she needed. Aching to cry out with her soul, she felt that she couldn’t, that she was too weak and needed too much this time, and had to use her voice, shouting ‘Tyr!’ into the cloud. It staggered closer, closer still, seemed to recede and she shouted again, this time louder, more desperate, an anguished ‘Tyr, please!’ leaving her purple-tinted lips, and with a motion that felt less like wind and more like a ripple in the very fabric of the universe he was close, so close that if they both wished and weren’t afraid they could reach out as far as their arms would be able to and touch, just once, for they would recoil in fear of what they had just done. Each time she saw his face anew, remorse took over her at how she had run in fear the first time. Though she had only been a few years of age, she should have still known to listen to the inaudible call of her name, or had her mother not taught her better?

“Please-” 

No. His response was felt right in the back of her throat where all other attempts to communicate verbally dissipated.

I’m stuck, she expelled instead.

No. It was possible that he smelt more like burning today. Yes, the air around him was decidedly more burnt.

How-

Shh… Closer. Closer. Closer. He was less than an arm’s length away. He raised his blackened hand towards her face, its bumps and crevices that likened him to the moon now clearer than ever, the hollows of his eye sockets seemingly deeper than then measure of his skull, the cracks all across his scorched skin continuing behind his muddy rags, his wild white hair infested with leaves and small twigs. Fingertips hovered by her cheek. Nails urged to scratch. Breath seeped into the singed surface. She closed her eyes, afraid of disturbing the balance, for she felt her answer close, it building up within.

Another pulse vibrated through the ground and through her bones. Her eyelids flitted up. The lake was a frozen wasteland, clear and glittering all across the horizon and up to the mountains, not a wisp of a cloud concealing the sight. 

“She’s wild.”

“And wicked.”

“Disagreeable.”

“Unruly and incompetent.”

“We can’t let her meddle in the ways of old.”

“She will get out of control.”

Ove sat at the gleaming chair by the great oak table. The last person who had graced it before him was his father, who often met in the Adelns company, and now he was listening to their strings of complaints and opinions, nodding along.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“She must be removed.” Ulrika banged her fist on the table.

“Removed?” Ove shifted in his chair. The gravity of the situation, which should have hit him early on, crept up on him slowly. “Removed?”

“Of course, master,” Dagmar assured him, leaning in close from her position at his side. Every eye in the room stared directly across the round table and at their beloved son of the Empire. Their glorious Lord Protector. Their saviour in the scourge.

“It is not hard to know what will happen,” Freja said with a straight face and dull eyes.

“She is her mother's daughter,” Arvid hissed, balling up a fist while the others murmured angry agreements. All except the Lord.

“She was my mother too.” He searched around the table for clarity. 

Dagmar touched his shoulder gently. “Not in the same way, master.”

“An outsider should never have been able to touch an heir,” Harald decided with a fist hitting the table and an uproar filling the hall.

“The emperor was to raise the child, him and the experienced!” Marta exclaimed.

“Are we not the most experienced of all?” beamed Ragnar. The other Adeln roared affirmatively ‘aye!’. Each then took their turn instilling a stinging spirit in their brethren. 

“Do we not know more about the correct way for an heir to walk life than an outsider?” “Aye!”

“Than a rotten peasant? Simple-minded field girl?” “Aye!”

“Than a thief? Child of mountain goat with wicked horns and evil heart?” Their ‘aye’ mixed with vicious laughter.

Ove abruptly stood, freezing the shouts and screams in their place.

“I am not of the blood of mountain goat. I am of spirits…” he dug in his mind for his father's words. “I am of the spirits of long past. Of the great leaders and soundest minds. All things tangible are-”

“Yes, of course, master,” Dagmar placated him and urged him to sit. Though unconvinced, he obeyed. “You are the great one. You hold all the power to lead, master, for your upbringing was beauty. It is that witch.” 

“That witch dares take the throne.” 

“That witch born of witch before her.”

“Raised by a witch from the ends of the earth.”

“The great emperor, rest his spirit for the ages, was unguided in choosing who to bear the next generation.”

“She veiled his eyes and cursed their firstborn.” 

“And now the spawn walks among us with heinous intentions, surrounded by the darkness of the spirits of witches past.”

“Stop!” Ove interrupted, thawing from his position at his throne. “Witches? Spirits? Curses? Mountain goats? This is not what my father taught. Cease this folly and stop spinning tales. Where is the information that can act as my rock, I ask of you? All you're giving me is empty stories of that which doesn't exist.”

“Of course not, master.” Dagmar calmed him with hands on his shoulders. “But heed the meaning of these stories. The Empress may not have anything to do with spirits, but she is wild. We must focus on this.”

“She believes.” All turned to look at Gottfrid, whose voice carried and echoed off the walls. “She holds and maintains a shrine to the varkare. My men on the inside have seen it. Have heard her thank them, ask for guidance, show her the way.” 

The words put the room in a chokehold, a cold shiver running through each of them, eyes on the stone figures of the dead-eyed living figures of the helm of the Adeln.

Ove broke eye contact first, dropping to the table, his hands, his ring, the buttons on his coat, the tassels hanging from his shoulders. He thought somehow Gottfrid would know, would read in his sunken eyes or his shaking lips, that he already knew. He thought Teresa would warn her husband against his secrets as she saw the bead of sweat that slid by his ear in the chill of the hall.

“It may already,” Ingrid said with a trembling hand to trembling lips, ”be too late.”

Ove cleared his dry throat. “Could it not, ahem, be folly of old? Childhood habits come to light?”

“No,” Teresa said before Ove had even closed his mouth.

“Danger is imminent, master,” warned Alfred.

After a pause, Ove stood, smoothing down the front on his coat, cleared his throat, brought his cloak from around the back of the chair, cleared his throat again, washed his gaze over the Adeln and said “Then we do what must be done,” and left.