by Terry Graves
They circled the village and reached a house, small and dirty, almost at the end and next to the farm she had rented. When she was back from Heiðirsalr, Nefja lived there all by herself. She had never married or had kids. She probably had never tried, and she was perhaps too old now for that kind of thing. Not old-old, Alarr thought, just a bit too old for being safe. Gerda’s mother had died in childbirth and she was not the only one. Labor had taken almost as many lives as swords on battlefields.
It was warm inside, but there was someone else in there, a woman dressed in bear skins, seated with her legs crossed, eating soup made from deer bones. Solfrid set the bowl aside and looked at him intently. “I was waiting for you.”
“Is this an ambush?” Alarr laughed, but that was not really a joke. He had not taken the mirror shards from the woman, but he had played a part in the whole thing. Perhaps she knew.
“Do you see any weapons drawn?” Solfrid showed him her hands, which were empty. “We’re here to do what we said we’ll do. Talk. Listen. Now take a seat.”
She did not look angry at him, so Alarr sat on the floor and Nefja filled a bowl, gave it to him, and took a seat as well. Nobody talked for a while. Solfrid studied Alarr’s face while he drank the soup. He had never spoken with her in the past. She made him feel uncomfortable and Solfrid and magic were Kai’s things anyway.
“So what do you want to know?” Nefja asked him when he had finished.
Alarr put the bowl aside. The deer soup was good and had warmed his belly. He cleaned his beard with a hand. “Anything that puts my mind at ease.”
“If this is that you want,” Nefja said with sadness, “then the less you know, the better. Forget about Kairan and about your friends. They’re as good as dead.”
“Some said that young Ivar is now living happily with the gods.” The name of the missing boy had suddenly come back to Alarr’s mind. After all, the winters from his youth had been called after him.
“But others said that Skaði opened his chest and filled it with dirt and rubbish as a punishment for being naughty.” Nefja smiled, but this was a sad smile as well. “He disobeyed his grandmother and peeked through the windows when he was not supposed to.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“And probably not true. But I’ve spent my life compiling stories, and there are many like that. Solfrid told me that, in the Saami villages of the distant north, they hide their children during Yule’s celebrations so the Snow Queen does not take them away. Skaði is a giantess, after all, an ogress. And child’s meat is the tenderest.”
“Kai is no longer a child,” said Alarr, stubbornly.
“No, he’s not,” Solfrid said. “And I doubt Skaði is after his meat anyway. What she wants is his magic, a certain power of which the boy is in no short supply.”
“Magic? My friend is not a sorcerer!”
“What do you know about that?” Solfrid hit the floor with her fist. Her dark eyes sparked. “Nothing! I am a sorcerer and I say that the boy has more magic in his toenail that all the sorcerers in the world, and you will take my word for it, because you simply don’t know.” She paused and glared at him, but Alarr did not contradict her again. When she continued, she did it more calmly, as if she had already made her point. “The problem with Kai, with most magic these days, in fact, is that it is a gift from the gods. Now that the gods are defeated, you may have it, but you cannot use it.”
“Then it’s worthless.”
She shook her head. “Unless you have one of the mirror shards. That’s Jarta; a different kind of magic. The Jötnar had power as well, before they lost it. Only with a piece of a frost giant’s heart, a sorcerer can perform his magic again.”
Alarr remembered Fyrnir stumbling upon the square and yelling about his missing heart, and everything started to make sense. Gerda had given Solfrid’s power to him, but perhaps there was more of it around. It was as if the giant could sniff it out with his big bulbous nose. And the girl that went with Runa the next morning had burrowed a hole in the giant’s corpse and had taken something that was inside. She must have been a sorceress as well.
“So the Snow Queen only takes boys with that kind of power, and only one each generation,” said Nefja.
“But two in Veraheim? That seems unlikely.”
“Magic runs in families, like the color of the eyes,” Solfrid said, and frowned. “Nefja’s family and Kai’s family were related, as many in Veraheim are, for they have been living in the area for ages. Another boy was taken too, many years ago. He was a cousin of Nefja’s grandmother. Not many remember, but I do.”
“Only boys,” said Alarr.
“Only boys.”
“The rest of the story is known,” said Nefja. “The Snow Queen uses them to increase her power and maintain the Fimbulvetr, the Great Cold. So you have to come to terms with Kai being gone forever. One sacrifice to save many.”
There was a hint of sarcasm in Nefja’s words, as if she was repeating what most in Veraheim had said many times before, but she did not believe it.
“But if she wants his magic… Why does he have to die? It would be better to keep him alive.”
“No, he has to die. You need a sacrifice for growing crops in spring, and you need a sacrifice for rain, and a sacrifice for winter to come and for winter to go away. Weather has won battles, has sunk fleets, has caused misery and death and happiness and wealth. Weather, you see, is a serious thing.”
Alarr looked at the embers of the hearth, which glowed red and orange. Kai had been chosen for slaughter like one of Gerda’s pigs. Perhaps that was the reason the boy’s mind was always lost in thought, a thousand miles away. “It is hard to accept something like this.”
“That’s why Kai will refuse to do it.”
Alarr’s eyes jumped from Solfrid to Nefja, but he found no answer in either of them, so he asked: “Why do you say that? And why does it matter anyway? Wouldn’t the Snow Queen just force him?”
“The sacrifice must be voluntary,” said Solfrid. “Kai’s death would keep things going for a while, I’m sure. But he won’t bulge. He said ‘no’ to her once when he was a little child and he’s old enough to understand now what death means. And he won’t do it. That’s what I hope, at least.”
Alarr blinked, not sure if he had got the last bit right. Nefja noticed his blank stare. “Solfrid has spent many years preparing Kai for this day.” Her face had brightened and the shadow of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. “The Snow Queen is wrong.”
“So you’re welcoming Ragnarök. You witches have lost your minds!”
He tried to get up, but the wound hurt and he had to put his hand on his chest. Neither Solfrid nor Nefja moved an inch or changed their faces.
“I have mirror shards no longer,” said Solfrid, “which means I’m just an old hag. But mind you, I’m still strong enough to break all your teeth. I need no magic for that.”
“Nobody wants Ragnarök,” said Nefja. “But this is not something we choose. The end of the world will come in naught or in twenty winters, but it will come. The Seeress’s prophecy foretells it and there is nothing we can do. As soon as the Fimbulvetr is over, the final battle will take place. We cannot change a prophecy, but we can work with it.”
“Now you’ve lost me completely,” Alarr sighed. “What’s said is said. Fate cannot change.”
“But not everything is said, there are many holes that we can use to our advantage,” Nefja insisted. “Yes, the Jötnar and the Æsir will fight and destroy each other, and the world will burn in the meantime. A wolf’s mouth devouring the sun, Surt coming from the south with his blazing sword, the whole Múspell rising in arms to see heaven and earth in flames, and all that. But there will be survivors at the end, there will be a prairie of grass. Some gods will be reunited, and there will be humans as well. Only giants will be gone.”
Alarr had heard the prophecy before, but he did not remember the details by heart. There was a new beginning, perhaps, but
to him it still looked bleak and lonely, a consolation prize.
“There are signs, boy, for the end is near. The two ravens that fly again over the world. The scales of the serpent that the fishermen have seen under the waves. The song of winter that dies away into nothingness. The tribute that choses life over sacrifice. I won’t live much longer. If I die before the Great Cold ends, I won’t be able to play a role in the events to come. I’ve trained Nefja to the best of my abilities, and yet…” Solfrid did not finish the sentence and Alarr was not sure what that meant. She changed the subject. “I have tried to keep Kairan away from Himinbjörg and I succeeded for many years, and perhaps I would have forever if it was not for that damn giant buried under the frozen lake. That changed things. It forced the boy to use the amulet the Queen gave him, that hideous bee. And now Skaði has a chance.”
Alarr remembered Kai’s pendant as well, that thing that looked like a piece of quartz. “You could have simply taken the amulet off him.”
“One would think so,” Solfrid admitted, “but I am too old. I would have not survived.”
Those words surprised him. The sorceress was old, that was true; but still stronger than many men, and Kai would never have harmed her. Solfrid must have been referring to a different thing. The amulet had magic and maybe it was harmful to the touch, or perhaps the Snow Queen would have come to get her.
“What I don’t really understand is why are you telling me all this. I know you’re not doing it because I asked you to. I just wanted to cope with everything that has happened. With the fact that my father’s gone, and my friends, and the girl I love…” The last word died in his throat. He had never dared to say this out loud yet. Love. It just slipped out of his mouth. He coughed and continued: “All I wanted was to share some thoughts with Nefja. I know nothing about magic, I’m not interested in it. If in the future someone is going to tell my saga, I want him to know that everything I got was because I’m worthy of it, not due to trickery.”
“This is a trade-off,” said Solfrid. “We told you some things, now you will tell us some things in return. This is how it works.”
“Then ask.”
Nefja and Solfrid glanced at each other before they started questioning him about Fyrnir. Alarr told everything again: Jötunheim, the battle, the spell. Neither of them was impressed with what he revealed. When he finished, Nefja said: “Three men came to see you today. They brought you weapons and armor for you to fix, but they paid you too much and too soon. Why?”
“Hafgrim, and two of his warriors, yes. He gave me a bracelet in payment, not for the blacksmithing, but for my services. He wants me to go with them back to Heiðirsalr.”
“As part of his hird?”
“Not exactly. As a smith. But perhaps in the future, who knows? I have not given him an answer yet.”
“You will accept,” Solfrid concluded, and grinned.
Alarr snorted in return. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she insisted, ignoring the amusement in his voice. “You’ll go to Heiðirsalr and you’ll get close with that Hafgrim, who is close with King Fróði. And we will go as well and you will tell us all about it.”
“Nonsense.”
Solfrid was going to reply, but Nefja stopped her. She turned back to him.
“I have an uncle who can take care of the smithy while you’re away.” And then, before he had the chance to reply or protest, she hastened to add: “This is your saga, Alarr. Your call. If Solfrid’s right, very soon the giants will burst into Miðgarð and we have to be prepared to force them back. You can alert the king and you can fight and expel them, and save your people. Smiths are respected because of their skills, but they’re not material for songs. You wanted to be a mighty warrior? Well, this is what the norns have chosen for you.”
Alarr was not so sure. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the giant in his killing spree. He had wanted to flee with the old and the children and, if Fyrnir had not been so fast, perhaps he would have done it. He was scared about what would happen next time. But if turning into a great warrior was easy, it wouldn’t be worthy of merit. And he did not want to step down, so even then he knew he would not refuse.
Still, he remembered that day, in the forest, when Gerda had convinced him to help her free Fyrnir. She had acted in good faith, but she had been wrong, and her act had brought much misery and pain to Veraheim. Alarr had the feeling that maybe Solfrid and Nefja could be wrong as well.
“I’ll do it.” He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “But it will be on my terms. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m with you, and Hafgrim less than anyone.”
“That’s what I said before,” Nefja shrugged. “We will talk this one time and then we won’t talk again. That’s it, of course, until you arrive at Heiðirsalr.”
SEVENTEEN
Kai spent the rest of the night huddling in the bed under Gerda’s cloak, barely dozing off. His eyes were lost in the intricacies of the ceiling, which was vaulted and vaguely resembled the spotless geometry of a snowflake. Morning brought sun, dim and faint over the mountainous landscape. He must be so far north that, despite the cloudless blue sky, it did not bring him much heat or light. Still, Kai opened the big windows and let the sun in. When he did this, it was probably past midday already.
He looked at the Bifröst Bridge. He had seen it before, when he had traveled with Solfrid. But then he had had the eyes of a sparrow and he had never been so close. According to the stories, it was supposed to have all the colors of the rainbow, but it had not. The bridge was wide, perhaps fifteen or twenty paces, and it was difficult to attest to its original shape. It lay under a thick covering of ice, full of bumps and spikes, with icicles sprouting out from its belly.
He played with the idea of escaping, but he disregarded it fast. The bridge was no longer passable; if he attempted it, he would slip and fall. Kai glanced down, to the sea of clouds beneath, and felt dizzy. It was a very long drop.
There was a bridge between Miðgarð and Ásgarð, Kai thought, and there was another one between the worlds of the living and the dead. The latter was called Gjöll, and he would probably have to cross it soon enough. There was no point in rushing things.
He sighed and stepped away from the windows.
Someone, perhaps the Queen, had left some clothes on a chest next to the door. He picked them up and lay them out on the bed. They were white and soft and clean, with silver brocades, but they looked foreign to him, too lavish and strange for his taste. Kai decided he would not wear them. He folded them again and put them back in the drawers.
He stayed in the room for a long time, not knowing what to do. He had expected to be thrown into a cell, fettered, or killed on the spot. Skaði was of Jötnar descent, so Kai had even considered the possibility that perhaps she wanted to devour him.
The Queen, however, had merely guided him into that room and left, not even bothering to take his knife from him. The place was hardly a dungeon and, if Kai ignored the fact that everything was hidden within a layer of ice, it might have passed as the dependencies of a king. He tried the handle and the door opened.
It was as if he was not a prisoner at all.
Kai covered himself with Gerda’s cloak and peeked into the corridor. Everything else was built or carved in ice and had a translucent quality, but it was opaque enough that he could not see through. Last night it was too dark to appreciate it — although Kai remembered that the place was bathed in a pale light that came from nowhere — so now he looked around, marveling at the view. There was carved foliage, fake but lifelike flowers and vines that crawled up the columns, geometric patterns and strap work. He thought of Runa and her wooden figures. They had looked beautiful to him but they were nothing compared with this.
He paced toward the end and climbed down a flight of stairs to reach a big space, a chamber which shared some resemblance with Veraheim’s great hall, because it also had a table and a throne. The dais under it was made of ice and looked like glass, but the throne was wrough
t from gold, and the table and chairs were of solid dark wood, and stood out because of this.
On the table there was a silver jug, a cup, and a plate with a slice of bread and some honey.
“Hello?” he said, tentatively. The echo had a vibrant and musical quality. Ice replicated his voice in a very different way than stone.
Nobody answered. Kai was very thirsty, so he took a seat and filled the cup with the contents of the pitcher. It was not mead or ale or wine, just plain water, cold and clean and refreshing. He served himself a second cup and vacillated. The water could be poisoned or worse. He looked at the interior of the cup, looking for carved runes, but found none. An absurd thought, he reasoned, as if she wanted to enchant me or poison me, she could do it without resorting to these tricks. He drank.
He was hungry as well. He pinched the bread with two fingers and found it spongy enough, and he cut a slice and ate it with honey. It was frosty, but tasted good.
So she doesn’t want to keep me trapped and she doesn’t want me to starve. But what does she want?
Kai rose from the chair and examined the doors, but they were closed. Then he approached the throne. It was solid gold, too heavy for him to push it and very big, as if it had been made for someone larger than a human.
According to the stories, the name of that place was Himinbjörg, and that throne may have belonged to Heimdall, the White God of the Æsir and their watchman. It was claimed that he could hear a cat’s footstep a hundred miles away and hear the noise the worms made when they burrowed into the soil, so he was responsible for blowing his horn every time the frost giants tried to get into Ásgarð and defending the Bifröst Bridge.
Apparently, last time he had failed miserably.
Kai hugged himself. He was getting cold again, so he kept walking, unsure of where his steps would lead him. He traversed more corridors and entered new halls and rooms. Everything looked the same to him, except for the beautiful carvings and their painstaking detail. Some of them depicted mountains and rivers and there were thousands of trees as well, most of which were missing all the leaves from their branches. Others were of giants or gods, or wolves or bears or hares. But most of the time they were just geometry, whorls and knots and shapes interlaced. Finally, Kai reached another door which opened when he pulled it. He walked outside Himinbjörg and looked around, amazed.
