Page 30 of North Is the Night
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m Aina. This is Helmi.”
“I’m Riina,” says the black-haired one.
“Satu,” offers a short girl with curly brown hair tied in two loose braids.
“I’m Salla,” says a beautiful, freckle-faced woman with flowing red hair.
“And I’m Lilja,” says an angry-looking woman, her blonde hair tied in one long braid. She reminds me so much of Siiri, it takes my breath away. But where Siiri has blue eyes, this Lilja has brown. And where Siiri has a face of freckles, Lilja has none. Still, her gaze darts around the room as if she’s looking for anything she might use as a weapon.
Helmi and I turn to the last young woman. She’s tall and willowy, with pale grey eyes and white-blonde hair that holds as much life as her sallow skin. “Inari,” she mutters, her lips barely moving.
I look around the room, taking in as much detail as I can. It’s an antechamber, clearly leading to a great hall. The hum of voices comes from behind a pair of wooden double doors. They’re carved with ornate patterns of forest animals and fruiting trees. I smell roasted meats, spices, and fresh-baked bread. The rest of the room is bare of furniture, but the walls are decorated with embroidered tapestries. They’re like something out of the songs—golden-horned stags racing through a sunny wood, maidens with flowers in their hair bathing in a pool. Everything is light, everything is golden and green and teeming with life.
“It’s going to be all right,” I whisper to Helmi, squeezing her arm.
The great double doors creak open, and we all gasp, spinning as one to meet our fate. The noise from the feast slams into us—deep, boisterous laughter, the clatter of plates and cups. After so many days of isolation, my ears ring with it. Inside the hall, every surface glitters with gold and candlelight. The tables overflow with a bountiful feast. Men and women drink and carouse, all as finely dressed as we are. They’re so engrossed, they don’t even notice that the doors have opened.
A man with beady eyes shuffles towards us. He wears robes like the those of Christian priests, except his are the deepest of bloodred, the sleeves trimmed in richest blue. “Stand up straight,” he barks. “Shoulders back, chins up. You’re about to meet the Queen.”
Helmi and I drop our hands to our sides, weaving our fingers together.
Riina scoffs. “Finland has no queen.”
The man raps Riina hard on the shoulder with a thin rod, making her shriek. “Face front, you. Do not dare avert your eyes from her honored majesty.”
A horn blasts near the huge doors, making us jump. All faces within the hall turn as one, locking eyes with us. The benches and tables screech and creak against the stone floor as the revelers get to their feet. Some stand on their benches, curious to get a better look at us.
The man turns, rod raised in the air, and marches into the great hall, clearly expecting us to follow. We shuffle forward, my hand still gripping Helmi’s. I gaze up in wonder as I walk. The sharply arched ceiling angles so steeply that the apex is lost to the shadows. Three colossal antler chandeliers hang down on thick metal chains. They hold hundreds of dripping candles each, illuminating the vast interior of the wooden hall.
The walls are adorned with all manner of weapons: sword and shield, lance and axe. It reminds me of the stories Siiri’s mummi would tell of the kings of Kalevala. In summertime, they lived in the deep south, right at the edge of the sea. Their palaces were used for hunting and fighting and making merry. They had winter palaces in the north too, great structures of stone and ice with fires that burned blue.
The longer sides of the hall are dotted with massive hearths, three on each side. Each one is so large, a pair of men could dance inside. They blaze with fire. I follow the line of the hearths down to the far end of the room. There, behind the top table, sit two throne-like chairs, decorated in furs. The large throne sits empty, but the smaller throne is filled by a woman of enchanting beauty.
My steps slow as I take her in. Her blonde hair is piled high in intricate braids adorned with silver clasps. Atop her head sits a silver crown. Like me, she wears a dress of spun gold. She tips her lips in a knowing smile, not breaking her hungry gaze from us as we make our way closer. Then she raises an elegant hand, and a hush falls over the room.
“Welcome, my children,” she calls. “What a terrible time you’ve had. Come forward. Join my daughters and me in our feast.” Her voice is sweetness itself, dew on a spring flower, as she gestures to a pair of benches placed on the opposite side of the high table before her.
The other girls hurry, but my steps are slow. None of this is right. I don’t want to sit with my back to the room. I glance to either side of the thrones to see four young women dressed as richly as the queen. The woman sitting directly across from me has sullen features, carelessly sipping from her goblet of wine as if she’s bored by the whole affair.
“Yes, come, come,” says the queen. “Take your ease at my bountiful table.”
The other girls are already sitting, so I feel I have no choice. I sink onto the bench between Helmi and Satu. I can feel every eye in the great hall boring into my back. I flinch as a servant appears behind me, reaching over my shoulder to fill my goblet with wine. I lean away from him, trying to keep a smile on my face as the queen and her daughters survey us. The princess across from me makes me ill at ease. She keeps staring, her face utterly expressionless.
The queen remains standing, lifting her jeweled goblet with a flourish. “A toast to your health,” she croons. She holds her goblet aloft, clearly waiting for us to do the same.
As one, we pick up our cups and hold them up.
“Kippis,” she calls out. Tipping the goblet back, she drains it in two gulps.
“Kippis,” a few of the girls say.
I raise the goblet to my lips, but I don’t drink. Jaako’s fear is still fresh in my mind. All is not as it seems.
Behind us, the crowd raises their own cups and goblets, toasting our health in a great chorus of cheers. The queen resumes her seat, which signals the hall to do the same. I flinch again, gripping the table, as, behind me, a host of two hundred people move benches and rattle plates, and the sounds of conversation and merriment grow.
“You all must be famished,” says the queen in that simpering voice, cutting through the revelers. “Please, make my home your home. Eat and be merry.”
None of us move to taste the food, though it sits tantalizingly close. In front of me rests a whole roasted chicken, fish stew, a shaved leg of lamb, and what looks like a dish of mashed turnips. But I’m not hungry, for Jaako already fed me more than my cursed barley bread.
