Page 26 of Goddess of Light
I try to reach Lovia, Tuonen, even Ahto, but again, there is nothing.
“Are you all right?” Torben asks quietly from beside me.
I open my eyes and glance down at him, surprised by his concern.
“I can’t feel any of them,” I admit in a hush.
He nods solemnly. “Neither can I. It’s this place. It’s laced with wards and black magic. Don’t take it to mean your family isn’t out there.”
I nod, my jaw clenching. “I’m worried about Hanna.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he says. “I’m not.”
I frown at him. “How can that be? You’re her father.”
“And she’s a Goddess,” he reminds me. “She’s the prophecy. You don’t become that for nothing. She’s somewhere and she’s fine. We’ll find her when the time is right.”
And now, I feel bested by the shaman. I’m the one who should have such steady, stoic feelings here. I’m the one who is supposed to be an unstoppable, hardhearted God.
That’s what you get for having feelings for her, I tell myself, my chest tightening, revealing that my heart has grown so much softer than I’d like.
Hanna—fierce, clever, mortal-born, but with a lineage and a purpose that still mystifies me. She made me feel things I am not supposed to feel—hope and longing, frustration and tenderness, all muddled together. There is something in me—something old, stubborn, and proud—that resists admitting love, but I know I cannot bear to lose her. Not now, not when so much is already lost.
I push these thoughts aside. I have a more immediate goal I need to focus on: Ilmarinen, Louhi’s consort, the shaman she left me for. I have never met this mortal—I would have killed him and probably prevented this whole uprising if I had—but rumor has it she was siphoning him for his magic, letting it fuel her own power. Louhi was clever and had a demon’s power all her own, but she needed mortal magic, mortal blood, to amplify hers enough to take over my shadow self and raise the Old Gods.
Ilmarinen is supposed to be a sad excuse for a man, like a dog she kicks around, and I have a hard time believing she took him with her if she already gained the power she needed. If he still lives in this forsaken palace, he may have crucial answers. If she has discarded Ilmarinen, that might mean he’s still here, drained of power, somewhere in these halls.
I summon a few generals to accompany Torben and me inside. Three of them follow, their minds heavily influenced by my power. They carry rifles and lanterns, spreading a weak golden glow over the black stone walls and warped floors. This palace is a labyrinth of twisted corridors, many caked with frost and something darker—old blood, perhaps. Rusted chains hang from walls, hooks that once held tapestries now covered by dangling cobwebs. An odor of stagnant rot lingers, as if the place itself is decaying already.
“This is pleasant,” Torben says dryly, his breath steaming from his lips. His eyes dart around warily. “I’m guessing Louhi never bothered with housekeeping.”
“She had servants for that, though it’s curious how quickly this place has crumbled.” I trace a claw-like fingertip along the wall, where old carvings depict strange scenes—twisted faces, ominous symbols. The place was crafted to unnerve, to impress upon any who entered that they are in the domain of someone powerful and cruel. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find Ilmarinen quickly. I have no desire to linger here longer than necessary.”
Torben nods and gestures to a corridor branching off to the right. “This way feels…heavier,” he says. I trust his instinct; he can sense magic resonances. If Ilmarinen is a conduit of power, Torben might feel it.
We move down a spiral staircase carved from volcanic stone. The generals’ boots clink softly on the steps, lanternlight striking facets of black crystal embedded in the walls. My nerves feel taut—something is wrong here, some old echo of suffering that puts me on edge. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that everything is in jeopardy: my realm, my family, Hanna. It has all slipped out of my control, and I cannot abide that. I am the God of Death. I rule the afterlife. I am supposed to be on top, unchallenged, and yet here I am, sneaking through my ex-wife’s palace, praying I can find some half-dead mortal who might help me.
I hate feeling powerless. I hate that without Hanna at my side, without my loyal subjects, I feel hollowed. The desire to see her again is sharp, almost painful. It’s not just because she was useful to me, either. She’s something else. She touched something deep within me I thought long dead. If I let myself think on it too long, I might lose my composure, and I cannot afford that now.
We reach a broad hallway lit by pale, phosphorescent fungi growing between cracked stones. A door made of iron barsstands at the end. The generals hesitate, so I prod their minds gently, pushing them forward. We must see what lies beyond.
The door is locked. I run my hand over the iron, feeling the residue of old spells. Louhi’s magic lingers like a stale perfume. Torben kneels and studies the lock, muttering softly. After a moment, he presses his palm to it, whispers a few words, and the iron creaks and yields. One of the generals shoulders the door open, and we step into a chamber that reeks of rot.
It’s a dungeon of sorts, or a torture chamber, or perhaps both. Chains dangle from the ceiling, old stains mar the floor, and along one wall is a raised platform, half-covered in dusty animal pelts. Lying there is a figure, barely moving, chained at the wrists and ankles, the sound emanating from him a low, wheezing breath. We approach, lanterns held high, illuminating a face as pale as bone, cheeks hollowed, eyes sunken, bearded chin crusted with old blood and saliva.
“Ilmarinen?” I say, more to test the name than anything else. He doesn’t respond. I glance at Torben, who tries a gentler approach.
“Ilmarinen,” Torben says softly. He steps closer and places a palm on the man’s forehead. The shaman flinches but is too weak to pull away. I notice his ribs pressing against his skin, as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. His hair is matted, and scars crisscross his arms, strange marks carved into his flesh.
A flicker of recognition passes over Ilmarinen’s dull eyes. He tries to speak, but only a ragged cough comes out. Torben waves a hand, and one of the generals passes a canteen of water. We help Ilmarinen drink, tilting it carefully. After a moment of choking and sputtering, he manages a rasping whisper. “Who…who are you?”
I straighten. “You don’t know,” I say, feeling humbled by his ignorance. “I am Tuoni, the God of Death. The very God Louhi left for you.”
His eyes widen slightly. “D-Death…? Why are you here?” He coughs again, voice cracking. “She’s…gone. Left me. Needed…my magic. Used me up.”
“How did she use you?” Torben asks quietly, wiping some grime from the man’s brow. “Tell us.”
Ilmarinen licks his cracked lips, and I see now that runes have been etched into his skin. Not just random patterns—they look like siphon marks, sigils that drain a person’s essence. “She…took me from the Upper World,” he croaks. “Said she needed mortal power. Blood. Soul. She bound me, carved these runes so my magic would bleed into her. She…consumed it, every day, growing stronger until…she had enough.”