by Matt Larkin
“Right. I didn’t really expect you to answer that. You say you want to talk, to pass this imprisonment in conversation, rather than in trying to escape. As if you are content to remain here until the end of time.”
Loki winced. “I will be freed, eventually.”
She tossed the water from the bucket once more. “When? How?”
He grimaced as another drop fell on his face. “I told you a long time ago. Naught lasts forever, my love.”
Not his imprisonment. Not his hopes. And not the world itself.
All would become ash.
Part I
Year 399, Age of the Aesir
Winter
1
If prescience was a lie, the very essence of a self-fulfilling prophecy, then the only hope to challenge urd lay in refusing to look into the future. It was a desperate gambit, of course, because Odin could not say whether a yet worse chain of events would unfold because of his refusal. One thing remained certain, however. Every dark, soul-crushing truth he had foreseen had come about, not only in spite of his striving to change them, but because of it.
Prescience accounts for itself.
That truth he and Loki had worked out in long talks sitting before fire pits such as the one he now stared at in the back of Valaskjalf. Except, Loki had known it all along. He, a slave of the Norns, had led Odin down this path from the day they met, guiding him toward slow, agonizing revelations of his utter impotence next to the will of urd. And now, his blood brother lay chained in a tunnel beneath Asgard, awaiting Ragnarok.
The final war that must lay at their doorsteps. Odin ought to kill Loki for all he had done, but he could not bring himself to such an action. No, maybe the man had felt as powerless as Odin now felt, trapped by his own destiny even as he spun out those of others.
And now, Odin’s son was dead. His wife a distraught wreck who refused to see anyone. Only Thor remained of Odin’s family, and he’d seen his last child’s death, as well. Seen it long ago and done so much to try to avert it—actions he could no longer count on to have the effect he’d desired.
Across from him, Freyja shifted. Having burned off most of her stored sunlight, her skin now cast only the faintest of glimmer. She’d held silent, letting him grieve Baldr, and too, grieve for the loss of the future he had imagined in favor of the one he’d foreseen.
After Baldr’s pyre, he’d stormed Yggdrasil and closed in upon the Well of Urd. But the Norns who had tended it had refused to show themselves. Perhaps they had retreated to their mountain abode in the Sudurberks.
“If you’re right,” Freyja said, “and some great final battle for this era impends, we must decide how to proceed. We need to call a council, as you intended when bridging Alfheim to Vanaheim.”
Whether she refused to call it Asgard or simply forgot, Odin could not say. Either way, she spoke the truth. For days he’d lingered in the dark, staring at flame and shadow as if either would have an answer, whilst adamantly refusing to allow his visions to manifest. He fought them down as much as he could—though sometimes glimpses would peek through, especially in his sleep.
“We will call a council,” he said after a moment more. “And it needs to include not only the Aesir and Vanir. We need the liosalfar and … the jotunnar.”
Freyja grimaced at him, shifting in obvious discomfort. “I don’t know that I can convince anyone from the Summer Court to attend. Besides, even with the bridge, they’d still need hosts.”
“We’ll find those.”
“You mean you’ll force captives to serve as vessels.”
Odin shrugged. When compared to the fate of the entire world, the suffering of a few meant very little. After all, if he failed, if he lost Ragnarok, they’d all be dead. “I’ve reason to believe Hel herself will make another move on our world. Before that happens, we need every possible ally. Which is why I’m sending Tyr to call even the jotunnar to the council. And you, I implore you to return to Alfheim and convince as many of the liosalfar as possible to join us.”
Freyja chewed on her lip. “We need to talk about Idunn and Hnoss.”
Oh, Odin had thought long on the two of them. “I cannot turn the Bilröst to Svartalfheim. I’ll recreate the device here to stabilize the bridge, but a bridge runs in both directions, Freyja. If I open the door to that place, I invite in the svartalfar themselves, and whatever other abominations they bring along with them. No one can afford that.”
“So we abandon our daughter? Our friend?”
“I’ve no desire to abandon either of them! What would you have me do? I … I made so many mistakes, my love. I thought I was saving people when I banished the Vanir. I thought I could save the future by bargaining with Volund. It’s all … I cannot take such risks again.” He shook his head. “No. We’ll go back to Svartalfheim ourselves, once we’ve secured Midgard against the impending threat. It’s happening now, Freyja. I can feel it. I …”
She crawled around the edge of the fire to take his hand. “You take the weight of all the worlds upon your shoulders. Be careful that burden does not crush you beneath it.”
Oh, it probably would.
The wolf …
Fenrir’s jaws closing around his throat. No! Odin would no longer look into the future. He would cut through the web of urd by refusing to acknowledge it. Fenrir would remain chained far below Asgard, howling in impotence.
Why not give in … to the future …?
No.
Freyja squeezed his hand. “I’ll go to Alfheim. I’ll do as you ask. Promise me … once this Ragnarok is done, we’ll go back for our daughter.”
“I swear, if I still draw breath, I’ll find a way to reach her.”
His lover frowned, clearly not pleased with his words. But—much as it tore him apart—he could see no way to dedicate himself to Hnoss or Idunn’s rescues at the moment.
Give in … Let it be done …
No.
Odin would never surrender. He would fight until the last gasp of the world. Hel had destroyed the last era and created this poisoned one. This time would be different. This time, he’d win a true victory.
“I do not have all the details,” Odin said to the small crowd he’d gathered in Valaskjalf. Frigg had refused to attend and Freyja had already left, but many others stood here now. “But Ragnarok is upon us. We have, perhaps, one last chance to ready ourselves before we are faced with the threats now impending. Tyr already knows his mission. The rest of you must act as seems needful to gain as many allies as possible. And I would see us armed against the threat. I am told the dvergar now hide, deep within their halls. But their crafts remain.”
He beckoned Hermod forward, and his apprentice came, bearing a bundle wrapped in cloth. This he laid at Odin’s feet and unwrapped it slowly.
A few of the gathered crowd murmured when runeblades were revealed.
Odin knelt—ignoring the pop in his knees—and took up Laevateinn. “This blade was given to Frey by the Lofdar, long ago. So I return it.”
Frey might never much love him. He was, however, one of the strongest warriors they had, especially infused with sunlight. The Vanr knelt to claim his former weapon once more, offering Odin a grim nod.
He understood, of course. They need not love one another.
“Tyr.”
The man trod forward, and Odin handed him Mistilteinn. The hateful blade had claimed Baldr’s life—could kill any immortal, in fact. And there was no one Odin could trust more with such a weapon than his champion.
Hermod already bore Dainsleif, and Thor had Mjölnir. For Thor’s daughter Thrúd, Odin offered Hrotti, a runeblade Frigg’s agents had recovered after the death of Gunnar.
To Thor’s son Magni he gave Skofnung, arguably the most vicious of all runeblades.
And to Syn, Hermod’s wife, he granted Gramr—nor did Odin miss the look of lust Tyr gave that one, even after so many years. Frigg’s people had recovered it from Sigur’s pyre, he was told.
“The last two runeblades are los
t,” Odin said. “At least one was destroyed, and I have not uncovered the other. Those called upon to wield a blade must do so with the utmost care, for these are cursed things, wrought in the dark by dvergar as twisted gifts for princes of old.”
“I was there,” Frey pointed out.
Odin offered a nod of acknowledgment to him, saying naught more on it. “That’s it. All of you prepare. The council will be held in two moons. If it can be arranged, we shall meet at the hall of Aegir off the coast of Valland. Tyr will stop there to arrange it.” Odin looked to Hermod. “A word with you.”
The others departed, leaving him alone with his apprentice.
Hermod folded his arms over his chest and stared at Odin, while he climbed back into his vacant throne.
With Frey and the other sunlight-infused Vanir gone, the hall seemed so much darker now, lit only by the crackling braziers.
Odin sighed, and rubbed his brow. “I must ask you to attempt something … drastic. Something you alone have the power to accomplish, given that we need Andvaranaut to maintain the bridge to Alfheim.” Oh, he’d been tempted to claim the ring and go himself. But she might even expect that. The battle had to come between him and her, and he could not deliver himself unto her doorstep. Besides, he’d have no way to bring back his son. “I need you to use your power and travel between the realms.”
“To where?”
“To Niflheim. Take Sleipnir—I suspect you can carry him across the Veil, given his nature—and ride to the very gates of Hel.”
Hermod’s arms dropped to his sides as he took a faltering step forward. “What madness?”
“I must have Baldr back. I … His death begins this final battle. I fear our only hope left of averting it would be to restore him. And you alone have the ability to reach Niflheim, and to bring someone back to us.”
“You really think she’ll let him go?” His voice shook with trepidation, though no one would have thought him craven for that.
No, and Odin pitied him, hated himself for placing the man in such a position. But there was no one else. “Offer her Draupnir. Offer her … aught else that seems needful. Or sneak in, if it suits you. But find a way to bring back my son and we might yet avert the end.”
Hermod shook his head. “This is mist-madness. No one passes the gates of Hel save the dead.”
We are all dead …
Odin nodded grimly. “You are the son of a valkyrie, Hermod. You can do this.”
Hermod looked away, staring at the rafters, the columns, everywhere else before finally turning back to Odin. “You truly understand the peril you place me in?”
“You understand a father’s grief.”
Hermod glowered at that.
“This is more than grief, though. Baldr’s life might save this world. If there is even a chance, we have to take it.”
“And do your visions tell you I will succeed?”
Odin lowered his gaze.
“So I fail?”
Now, Odin looked sharply back up at him. “I don’t know.” It was better that way. “But I’m asking you to try. And be wary, Hermod. The orbits of the spirit worlds are elliptical, which is to say you cannot judge how much time will pass here, while you are away.”
Hermod groaned, then finally nodded. “I cannot deny you, my king. I must see my wife, first.”
“Do so. But do not tarry long.”
“One more thing … you’re seeking allies. In Hunaland I met a völva, Bergljot, who strives to uphold the old ways. She is protected by a varulf, Didrik, and well respected. You might call upon her as an ally.”
Odin nodded.
Without another word, his apprentice turned and fled Valaskjalf.
Your madness sends him to torment …
No. Hermod was strong. Maybe stronger than any of them. He’d survived passing into Svartalfheim to rescue Odin. Now, he would have to pass into Niflheim to save Baldr.
And save them all.
2
The Bilröst shimmered before Yggdrasil, within the city of Gimlé in Alfheim. Freyja watched the glittering bridge as the ferryman carried her out over the waves toward the islands of Tír na nÓg, where the queen’s Summer Court lay. Sunlight reflected off the waters like a field of diamonds stretching out forever—or seeming to, given that Alfheim itself had its bounds and, if one passed far enough, one would come to the other spirit worlds.
Exactly where … well that was more nebulous, with the intersecting orbits of the worlds being somewhat irregular. At the moment, if she were to travel far enough out to sea she might reach the realm of Noatun, whence came mer and the like, though she had never traveled half so far from shore. Only the bravest—or most reckless—of traders made such a crossing.
The islands ahead glittered themselves, so lush and green they seemed like single living beings rising up from the sea. Given the choice, she’d have advised the construction of the Bilröst there, not in Gimlé where Dellingr reigned, ineffable and unknowable. But Frey had insisted closer proximity to Yggdrasil would create a stronger connection between realms.
The ferryman’s canoe scraped up on pink, sparkling sand, and Freyja hopped over the side, landing in ankle-deep water. Always so warm here. After her time, however brief, back in Vanaheim, Alfheim seemed almost overpoweringly hot.
“Thank you,” she said to the ferryman.
He kept his gaze lowered, probably unused to being acknowledged at all. Such people were slaves of the Summer Court, after all.
The path to the Summer Palace was paved with cobblestones and flanked by marble columns covered in ivy that grew overhead to create a shaded canopy. Freyja had come here oft over the centuries, and, despite the glory of the court itself, she always found the walk the most soothing. It was a kind of meditation that otherwise could become challenging in Alfheim, much less in Tír na nÓg.
Some days, the trek felt long, but this day, it seemed to end too quickly, as the queen’s palace came into view. It rested on a greenery-covered mountain slope, with small waterfalls pouring down through giant arches just outside it, all leading to a water garden. The palace itself was carved from marble and pearl, with sparkling towers supported by great buttresses. Around balconies, bards played harps and lyres, the music never ceasing here, by command of Queen Áine. The Summer Queen, she called herself, and—as summer and daylight never abated here—insisted that all eternity must be passed in revelry.
A marble staircase rose up over the mountain, cut into the slope and doubled back in a zigzag as it rose. Much of the path remained shaded by palm trees, ferns, and the occasional rosewood. Three-legged sun crows flitted about in the trees overhead as Freyja passed, climbing the long stairs up to Áine’s palace.
Smaller abodes dotted the lower slopes, homes and workspaces for those who served the palace but were not permitted to dwell in the grand chambers within. Freyja herself had once occupied one, before withdrawing from the court for favor of the redwood groves beyond Gimlé. Few of the Vanir had ever attained the full trust of the native liosalfar, even if her brother Frey operated with a greater leeway than most others.
Beyond the steps, Freyja trod into the grand palace itself. Great, fluted marble columns supported a domed atrium, with water trailing from the ceiling in thin falls between the columns. Within, several dozen males and females were caught up in an orgy, whilst others drank honeyed wines or smoked forest herbs designed to provoke visions.
The temptation to join them—either group, really—flooded over her like a wave, drawing her in, its pull almost irresistible.
This was not why she’d come here. In fact, that pull was a good reason to avoid the Summer Palace entirely. Freyja pushed on, not to the throne room—Áine herself would almost certainly refuse to help—but to the wing leading to the water gardens.
In Gimlé she had heard Saule had come to the palace, and the water gardens had always most attracted the other woman.
Massive windows flanked either side of the path up to the gardens, before the roof
terminated entirely and the sun washed down over Freyja once more. Its radiance held its own kind of intoxication, though she remembered once fearing it, her skin burning and peeling if she spent too long outside the rainforest canopy. Now, though, she absorbed sunlight. The path rose up gradually, without need for stairs, before leading to an artificial plateau the queen had ordered built here.
Ponds and tiny falls dotted the surface, along with flowers of every imaginable color and a scattering of palm trees. A place of wonder and beauty, indeed, and Freyja had come here oft on her visits to the Summer Palace.
As expected, Saule lounged on a rock, gazing into a lily-covered pond where rainbow-colored fish swam within. The red-haired woman glanced in her direction, brow raised in surprise. “Come back from the Mortal Realm so soon?”
Freyja climbed atop a rock across from the other woman and settled down, pulling off her boots so she could dangle her toes in the water. So many times she’d run over what to say. Saule was a Sun Knight, a commander among the warriors of Alfheim, and if Freyja won her over, she could bring in a small army of liosalfar.
But, as with all native liosalfar—and increasingly the Vanir who’d stayed here long—Saule was removed from human culture and tended to see mortals as amusements, at best, uncomprehending of how seeming pranks might drive mortals to madness or worse.
“I’ve come to seek your aid.”
Saule shrugged. “We lost a great many people rescuing you from Svartalfheim. I’m not sure Áine would permit another such attempt, much less for Idunn.” The liosalf managed to instill enough scorn into Freyja’s friend’s name that Freyja found herself flinching.
Given the choice, yes, she would have gone back for Idunn. But maybe Odin was right. Maybe he had to stop the impending war first. “It’s not about Idunn.” Or Hnoss, much as it pained her. “The mortals are inviting us to their realm, offering to find hosts.”
