At some point, when we’d been in the air, the song had come back again. The baritone a capella singing of enn morgana fjeurn on ennsommora orn—the morning flower and the summer bird.

It began quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the passenger snoring beside me. But as we traveled, it had gotten louder and louder. Even in the car, when Bryn had the radio on, it was still there, looping through my head.

grotta insa ihkku / anda cieri insa saddjavvi

she wept all through the night / until her tears became a lake

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, resting my head against the window, but it was like a thunderous drum echoing through my brain.

lindanna fjeura blommid anyo / enndast efdar deen orn varrid torrid

linden flowers bloomed anew / only after the bird bled dry

Then finally, mercifully, the music started to subside, and I opened my eyes.

We drove along the coast, the moon illuminating the ocean crashing against the cliffs to our right, and a dense forest to our left. In front of us was nothing but a long, empty stretch of road. But then the air shimmered, and the mirage shifted into the night until the silhouette of the citadel slowly took shape.

The Mimirin was in the center of town, and even from this far away, it towered over everything. It looked like something from a gothic fairy tale, especially as we drew closer.

Bryn drove along the wall until we got to the large gate of wood and iron. Guard towers were on either side, and a guard came to meet us before opening the gates. Bryn flashed her credentials—her real ones, since a King’s personal guard garnered immediate respect, even one from another tribe.

He waved us in, and we made our way down the dirt roads. The song fell silent in my head as small houses closed in around us. The Mimirin institution loomed over the city, and I leaned forward, looking up at the thirteen atriums that lined the top of the building.

The full moon shined brightly through them, making the Ögonen’s semi-transparent ochre skin glow in the darkness. They were much too far away to see their eyes from here, but I had no doubt that they saw us, that they were watching us with their trollian eyes.

I told Bryn where to go, and the carriage house finally came into view. The apartment I shared with Dagny was on the second floor. Bryn parked in the narrow gravel spot underneath the stairs, and we grabbed our bags and went up the steps to our rustic little place. I’d called ahead to make sure it was okay with Dagny that we stayed here.

“It’s still your place,” she’d said simply. “I’ll see you when you get here.”