Page 59 of North Is the Night
“It was awful,” I whisper. “Loviatar, I watched the life leave her eyes.” I look up, searching her face. “How do you bear it? How can you stand to feel such suffering, to know you are the cause of it?”
“You showed mercy,” she replies. “You granted that girl a clean death, a blessed death. It was a noble act.”
My heart thrums at her words. Leaning forward, I take a chance. “Tuonela is cursed, isn’t it?”
She goes still.
“The Witch Queen has somehow cursed this realm,” I go on. “Only her magic thrives, only her chaos and violence. Where is Lord Tuoni?”
She says nothing.
“Is he cursed?” I press. “Can the King of Death die? Is he lost? Tell me, Loviatar.”
The witch remains unmoving. She’s not answering, but neither has she taken out her wrath on me. Perhaps she doesn’t know how to answer?
Getting to my feet, I join her at her loom. “Tell me about your father. Is he the god from the stories and songs?”
“There are many stories,” she replies. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Is he truly the god of blessed death? Does he believe in peace and justice? Or does he prefer this wanton violence and destruction?”
The witch remains silent for so long, I fear she doesn’t mean to answer me. The moment I’m ready to turn away, she speaks. “My father is an idealist.”
“An idealist?”
“A fanciful dreamer, a hopeless romantic,” she goes on, her voice dripping with disdain. “He had a vision of what he wanted Tuonela to be. He became obsessed with bringing it about. He pulled us into his schemes, he made us hope... made us dream.”
“And what was his vision?”
“He would see this realm be a paradise,” the witch replies. “To him, Tuonela means peace. It means an end to all suffering, all sorrow and strife. He believes death should be a land of hope, where all souls come to find blessed rest.”
“Yes, that is the Tuonela of my mother’s stories,” I say. “Peace and contentment, eternal rest. What happened to his dream? What happened to Tuonela?”
“Tuonetar happened,” the witch replies. “My wretched sisters happened. Witches who cannot share his vision, for they lack all sight.” She turns to face me. “I may be blind, Aina, but I was the only one who could see. I saw his vision for our realm. I believed in it. I helped him craft it... and it cost me everything.”
I search her face, trying to see past her careful veils. “Where is he?”
“My mother and sisters found out about his plans to remake Tuonela. Her vengeance was swift and exacting.”
“Why must she seek revenge against him?”
The witch scoffs. “Do you really think there is any place for a witch like Tuonetar in my father’s vision of a peaceful Tuonela? She stands against everything he hoped for.”
My mind hums. “Wait,was he going to try to banish her? Strip her of her powers?”
Loviatar smirks. “Such a clever little mouse.”
“But she got to him first, didn’t she? Loviatar, is he dead?”
Her smile falls. “It would stifle my mother’s triumph greatly if he were not alive to watch as she remade Tuonela in her own twisted image.”
Then he’s alive. Somewhere.
“What was his plan? How was he going to supplant her?”
Her fingers brush over her weave, checking the tightness of the knots. “There are many moving pieces in a game of the gods, little mouse.”
“Am I one of the pieces?”
