Birna was there and started to her feet as Euthalia tumbled through the door. “Oh, Euthalia! What’s wrong?”
Euthalia shook her head. “Don’t—I can’t—”
But now that she was in her own home, away from the eyes of all the gods and goddesses and Jötnar, now her defenses finally collapsed, and she began to sob uncontrollably.
Birna rushed to her. “Oh, Euthalia, come and sit. Here, close, where it’s warm. I’ll bring you some sheepskins, your skin is frigid to the touch. You’re pale as an álfr.” She stirred up the fire and pushed a pot into it. “Here, I’ll heat something for you.”
Euthalia could not bear the thought of food, but protesting was more effort than she could manage. She sat in the chair and cried, and when Birna at last pushed a hot bowl of broth into her numb hands, she did not drop it, but she did not even look at it.
And then the door opened behind her, and Birna started up. “Master!”
“Go,” rumbled Vidar’s voice. “Leave us alone.”
Euthalia started to shift in the chair, started to turn, but his hand caught her shoulder. “No,” he said. “It is not dark enough yet. But I knew you would be upset, and I could not bear the thought of leaving you alone.”
She choked on her tears. “I needed you earlier. Today. I needed you today.”
His hand tightened on her shoulder. “I am sorry, my love. For all of it. I am truly sorry.”
Fresh sobs broke out of her. “It was—the boys, they were only boys….”
He stooped and embraced her from behind, and she cried anew, spilling liquid from the slopping bowl onto the hearth. When the ragged sobs finally slowed, she sniffed and rubbed her arm across her nose. “Why weren’t you there?”
“I saw it all,” he said quietly.
“But were you there? Did you watch? Did you watch me, watching my best friend here watch her children die?”
He squeezed her tightly. “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
You’re a monster, like your husband.
“What could I have done? Odin had made up his mind, had chosen his judgment. No one could gainsay him.”
“No one tried!” Euthalia choked. “Not even me!”
He held her.
She shook her head. “Why Birna?”
“What?”
“Birna could see you, when you entered. But not me. Why is a thrall permitted to look at you, but not your wife?”
He did not answer.
“Why Birna?” she repeated.
“It is not Birna’s love I want!” he burst, and he pressed his face into her neck as if he regretted the words.
Her heart spasmed in her chest, and she felt ill. “Why wouldn’t I love you if I saw you?”
He shook his head into her neck.
Tentatively she reached upward, fingers out-splayed, until she found his half-exposed face. She spread her fingers across his cheek and jaw, feeling, as she had done before but now searching harder than ever for something else.
He caught her fingers in his own. “No,” he said. “Just trust me. Love me. Please.”
She could turn her head. She could turn, too fast for him to react, and she could see him in the dim light lingering in the house. She drew a breath.
His hand caught her cheek, gently blocking her. “No,” he said. “Please.”
There was pain in his voice, and fear, and she had heard too much of both this day and could not bear to hear more. She covered his hand with her own. “Later,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”
He did not answer.
She looked down at the bowl, spilling broth across the cooking hearth. “Poor Sigyn. I don’t—I don’t know how she can….”
“We are strong in love,” Vidar said. “And she—she has nothing to bring her back to Asgard, no sons now to raise. She can remain in Midgard with him.”
“Until Ragnarok.”
“Until then.”
Euthalia sniffed. “I can’t even imagine…. Why not just kill him? Wouldn’t it be kinder?”
Vidar exhaled slowly. “It was not about being kind. Loki has long angered many; this was not a response only to the death of Baldr, though certainly that was a large part of it.” He shook his head. “He should not have done that.”
“Baldr had beaten him,” Euthalia supplied. “Badly. With Thor.”
“That does not surprise me,” said Vidar. “But does that justify killing him?”
Euthalia supposed it did not.
“And why did they beat him?”
She started to answer, and then stopped. “I—I don’t know. He may have….”
“He may have done something to provoke them? Like shaving Thor’s wife’s head as she slept as a jest, or delivering the magic epli which perpetuate the Æsir and Vanir into the hands of an enemy Jötunn? Yes, he has done these things and more. He has earned himself beatings time and again, though he will lick his wounds and tell himself he has been poorly used.”
“But no one could deserve this,” she protested.
He sighed. “That may be, or it may be that Odin has spared us something worse than fratricide.”
“Those boys were not a danger.”
“Remember that Loki’s other children are anything but harmless. Odin is wise, and he sacrificed a great deal to gain vision and wisdom. If he let such monsters as Fenrir and Jörmungandr and Hel survive, but he chooses to kill Narfi and Nari, what might he see that they might become?”
“Or what might he think of killing two sons to avenge two sons? He said himself it was vengeance.”
“Well, that is true.”
Euthalia shivered. “I cannot stop hearing them. I had not even seen them before. She kept them at home. Maybe to protect them.”
He slid his arms about her. “Let me take you to bed—just to hold you, to warm you.”
She nodded numbly.
Euthalia lay awake beneath Vidar’s arm, feeling the cold through the outside wall. Autumn was coming on.
You’re a monster, like your husband.
They had at last made love, slowly, comfortingly, and then lay together until he had finally fallen asleep. Euthalia did not sleep. She saw again and again Loki’s face—upside down, with venom burns running into his eyes, grinning.
What did he know?
She had needed Vidar today, needed him like never before, and he could not be with her because he would not allow her to see him. If she knew his face, he could be a truer husband to her, able to stand with her before Odin and the hall of einherjar or before such monstrous travesties as she had witnessed this day. If he were not afraid to show himself to her, he could have held her as she wept for the destroyed children.
His selfishness kept them apart. If she could but see him once, his excuse would be ended, and they could be closer than ever. Vidar was afraid; he needed her to act on his behalf. She had to look at him to bring them closer.
Outside, the moon was full. She had only to knock out that knot and let in a thin beam, and she would see him. She would know.
Vidar is no monster, whatever else he might be. Gefjon had said that, hadn’t she? Wouldn’t she know the truth? What had she meant by whatever else?
Her father had lied. He had pretended he was a great man, a respected trader, and then in Byzantium she had seen he was only a lowly peddler and a coward willing to barter his daughter. Men could hide what they were.
The things you’ll breed.
Sigyn’s husband had fathered the guardian of the death-realm and two world-destroying monsters. She must know what was possible.
Loki hung upside down, writhing in pain, laughing at her feeble defense.
Euthalia sat up, pulling a skin about her shoulders to stay warm. She drew her knees under her and knelt, looking down where she knew her sleeping husband to be.
She had only to press out the knot. She would see him, and then she would lie down again beside him, and he would wake in the early dawn and
go, just as usual, and he would never know what she had done. Or she would see him, and she would never lie with him again, but then wouldn’t it be better to know?
But of course there would be nothing, and she would lie down again, and it would be as if nothing had ever happened. No, it would be better, because he would realize there had been nothing to fear, and now he could stay with her through the day and always.
You know. You already know, or you wouldn’t rush to defend him.
She placed her hand on the wall. Cold radiated through her palm and into her fingers as she slid her hand along the rough wood, seeking the knot.
The dragon’s bride.
Her fingers found clumped dirt. She hesitated, breathed, hesitated again.
You already know.
She pressed open the knot to admit the moonlight.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Moonlight slid through the knothole like a tangible thing and, as if precisely planned, fell upon Euthalia’s abandoned place, leaving Vidar’s face in shadow.
But there was enough to faintly edge his features, and if she leaned close she could begin to make him out.
He had dark hair and high cheekbones, and a gently angled chin covered by the short beard she already knew well. Aside from the color of his hair, none of this was new to her. She had imagined him attractive, of course, but this was no monster. What had Loki meant?
She looked down at him. He was very attractive. Beautiful. Like Apollo, or Adonis.
But the strong bones beneath the skin were very strong indeed, stretching the skin taut and looking almost… almost animal. For one stomach-churning heartbeat it seemed his bones and skin were shifting, like Narfi turning to wolf.
Euthalia jerked backward, fighting sudden nausea. But now in the stark moonlight his skin looked pasty and soft, like a corpse rotting. She blinked, trying to shake the horrific impression from her mind. Of course his skin was not moving, of course his bones were steady, she had touched his face a thousand times and—
His eye opened, and it glowed red.
Euthalia screamed. Vidar jerked upright and then immediately pulled a sheepskin to block her view of him, but she was already pushing back against the cold wall. He could not cover himself quickly enough, and now she saw a twisted, animalistic face like a half-melted ogre, fully revealed in the direct moonlight. How could he have appeared normal, even handsome? How could she have embraced him?
“How could you?” he demanded, backing toward the sliding panel. “How could you?”
She started to answer him—how could you keep this from me?—but the words stuck in her throat.
He tumbled off the platform, crawling away on the floor. “I loved you! I trusted you!”
She stretched across the bed. “What—what are you?”
“I’m your husband.” His voice broke. “Or, I was.”
Her heart caught between beats. “No—I’m sorry—”
But he was pushing out the door and fleeing into the night, trailing an anguished cry.
A monster.
I trusted you.
Euthalia scrabbled out of the sleeping compartment and snatched at the bearskin as she ran outside. “Vidar! Vidar!”
But he was nowhere in the empty village.
Euthalia wept until dawn. She cried for Narfi and Nari, for Sigyn, for Loki, and for herself and her lost love.
She sobbed until she was exhausted, and then she quietly sniffed and rubbed away tears as she thought on what she could do now.
There seemed few options.
She could wait in her house until Vidar returned, if ever he did, and then apologize and ask his forgiveness, as she forgave him for keeping such a secret from her. But it was possible he would not return, after she had so betrayed his trust—and anyway that course depended entirely upon his action, not hers.
She could go in search of Vidar, chasing him through Asgard. He might be more likely to believe her apology if she sought after him, and it was something she could do herself. This seemed the wiser course, acting instead of wishing. But she had few ideas on how to find him, and he might still refuse her apology.
But there were others who knew more than she did about where in Asgard Vidar might have gone, and one in particular who might be able to help her, who knew many things and saw many places. The question was whether Euthalia dared to approach Odin after yesterday’s atrocities.
She washed her face clean of tears and dressed herself as well as she could, pinning Vidar’s golden brooches with care. She left the house before Birna came—she could not bear to explain to the older woman what had happened—and started for the empty village’s longhouse.
Valhöll had five hundred forty doors, Sigyn had once told her as they looked down the impossibly long hall. Euthalia had assumed, but was not certain, that each door led to a different part of Asgard, like her apparently-isolated village. But then, Sigyn had exited the same door and had apparently gone elsewhere, so perhaps that was not to be relied upon.
Regardless, five hundred forty doors were five hundred forty chances of finding Vidar or someone who could help her to find Vidar. She pulled open the longhouse door and stepped into the hall.
The feast was not ongoing, as she half-expected even at this early hour. There were still einherjar on some of the benches, but most were drowsy or sleeping. Many were sprawled or splayed on the platforms along the walls.
She had not really expected to see Odin himself still in his chair, but he was there. Perhaps after the previous day’s events he had wanted to be in a place of laughter and feasting and people who revered him, rather than alone with his blood brother’s pleas ringing in his ears alongside the cries of murdered children.
Euthalia hoped that was why he was here.
One of the wolves raised its head as she started toward the massive carved chair. She balled her fists, determined to fear nothing. She had already seen Odin at his worst, and now she came with a petition to find and help his son, and surely Odin could find no fault in that?
His son, whom she had disobeyed and driven away from his own bed. No, Odin might find fault in that.
“What brings you here so early in the morning?”
Odin’s voice startled her. She had been so caught in her own worried thoughts that she’d failed to recognize when he saw her.
“My lord,” she began, her voice unsteady, “I have a petition of you.”
He grunted. “I thought you might. I know you are friends with his wife.”
For a moment Euthalia was confused, and then she realized. Loki. Odin thought she’d come to beg mercy for Loki.
For a moment the idea took her. Even Prometheus had been freed, eventually, and perhaps she could convince Odin to be merciful. And maybe, maybe, if Vidar saw how she treated Loki, maybe he would think she could love a monster.
She did not know what Vidar was, not really, but she knew he was kind to her. He was not a man like Loki, who might indeed be kind to Sigyn, she didn’t know, but who had arranged Baldr’s death and was responsible for other misadventures. Not Vidar. She could love him.
Odin shook his head. “Do not waste your breath. Loki has well earned his place there.”
Euthalia swallowed. “Loki is not the reason I have come to you, my lord. I have come because of Vidar.”
He looked at her, and whether it was because of his vast knowledge or the way her voice had caught on Vidar’s name, he sighed a great sigh and looked suddenly sorrowful. “Ah,” he said. “You have seen him.”
Euthalia nodded.
Odin took another deep breath. “It is ended, then. Go on, little butterfly, and flit away from here. Here is little to be done.”
Euthalia’s breath caught in her throat. “But—”
“Faithlessness is poison to love. All know that.”
“But what now? He has left me, and I am alone in this place.”
“By your own doing,” Odin reminded her with a growl. “Go and do what you will. There are einherjar who mig
ht have you, or perhaps you can find a place with another Æsir or Vanir.”
Euthalia stared at him. “You cannot leave me to—”
“The woman who abandoned and betrayed my son, I can leave without further aid, yes, and without acquiring dishonor or shame. Find your own way, fickle little butterfly. It is your doing that has brought you to this.”
The worst of it was, she could not refute him. She swallowed hard against the mounting pressure in her throat. “I will go,” she said, her voice thick. “But I will come again, and I will ask you again where to find him. For I wish to find him.”
Odin’s mouth curved upward in something the very opposite of a smile. “I doubt that,” he said in a low tone. “You only wish to protect yourself.”
Euthalia drove her fingernails into the flesh of her hands, concentrating on that pain to keep the hurt of his words far enough that she could speak. “I will find my husband,” she said. “He was afraid of my reaction, and indeed I justified his fear. But I never loved him for his face, and I will not now for his face abandon my love. I mean to find him. I would have your help if I may, but if I cannot, I will find him another way.”
She turned her back to the god, heedless of wolf and raven, and stalked to the door. There was a sound behind her, but tears were already blurring her vision and she dared not stop to argue further. Weeping before a god like Odin would not win his pity, only his derision.
She made it out the nearest door just as she choked out the first suppressed sob. She pushed to the side of the timber wall and cried.
Not Odin, then. But someone would help her, surely. Someone would tell her where to find Vidar. And she would tell him that his twisted face did not matter, or if he insisted then they would go to live in the dwarfs’ black home of Nildavellir where she would never look upon him again, and they would be happy.
Someone would help her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Good morning, Greek,” said Freyja as Euthalia entered. She was reclining in a tall chair at the head of the hall, and she held a drinking horn. “What brings you to my hall Sessrúmnir, and so early?”
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