The Beholder

by Anna Bright

  “Calm down,” he hissed. “They’re trophies.”

  An outstretched spear stopped our progress into the hall. “This is Selah, Seneschal-elect of Potomac,” said Lang, eyes flinty as he faced its owner. The guard shook his head, calling to another soldier. I only understood one word—Engelsk. English.

  “No stranger enters Valaskjálf who carries war-graith,” said a second guard, extending a basket. His accent was melodic, with flattened as and guttural ls and a pleasant lilt unsuited to his scowl.

  Cobie and Lang exchanged a glance. But Skop was already tugging a knife from his boot, and another from a belt beneath his shirt, so the others did the same, though Cobie looked sullen. J.J. pulled a dagger from each pocket, grinning at my wide eyes. Sir Perrault only scoffed as the first guard looked him over.

  “And her weapons?” asked the second guard, nodding at me. “What sort of princess travels unarmed?”

  “I’m not a—”

  “Does she look like she’s armed?” Lang broke in, brows arched.

  The guard surveyed me briefly and, evidently deciding I posed no threat, strode up the center aisle toward the front of the room, calling out first in Norsk, and then in English. “The Seneschal-elect of Potomac seeks an audience with you, my liege, and your royal sons.”

  Across the room, all eyes turned toward the head table, awaiting the response of the man at its center.

  This was the king of Asgard, famed Shield of the North.

  His hard-muscled forearms lay on armrests carved with the head and a tail of a snake, and a cast-iron horse strode across his chair’s high top rail. Konge Alfödr looked to be in his midforties and wore a patch over his left eye, but his visible right eye was knife-sharp blue, and powerful muscles moved under his homespun shirt; age had not softened him.

  I thought of Daddy, thin and brittle-boned, and suddenly felt sad.

  I wished he would even have the chance for the years to render him soft and comfortable. I wished even more that he possessed a tenth of the strength this man wore like armor.

  I wished most of all that I were in his hall, instead of Alfödr’s.

  Broad-shouldered and stone-faced, with a thick head of graying blond hair and a full beard, he was immediately identifiable. I knew the king of Norge at once, as surely as I’d known the redheaded boy now sitting a few places to his left was his fifth son, Torden Asgard.

  The king rose and beckoned us, and silence fell as we trooped up the middle of the room. “Strangers,” he said in a gravelly voice, accent lilting like the guard’s. “Long have we awaited your arrival. Well met, and welcome to Asgard Fortress.”

  He gestured to the woman beside him, perhaps ten years younger than he. “This is Dronning Rihttá, my wife.” His queen, the dronning, was dark-haired, with a round face, fawn-colored skin like Skop’s, and a beautiful figure. Her narrow, angular eyes were a deep, smoky shade, and strikingly sad.

  “Hail, Seneschal-elect,” she said, “and welcome to Asgard.”

  I curtsied low. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Majesties.”

  The queen cast a canny look to Alfödr’s left and right. “And this,” she added, “is our family.” I sucked in a long breath, clasping my hands behind my back.

  The king nodded. “First: I present Kronprins Týr, and Vidarr and Váli.” Three blond, burly men rose from their seats, two of them twins. Their features were weak, their eyes watery blue and disinterested.

  At a wave from the king, another pair stood—two of the boys we’d passed in the hallway. They had their older brothers’ coloring but lacked their enormous physiques, though they were still sturdier than the boys at home. “My sons Bragi and Hermódr,” said Alfödr. Bragi had curly blond hair and a face almost too symmetrical to be real. Hermódr—the one who’d jostled Perrault and beckoned Torden in the corridor—pushed up his glasses and smiled reassuringly at me, apparently not missing my locked knees and trembling limbs.

  “It’s a pleasure.” I cringed at the creak in my voice, and a few of the men who’d been close enough to hear gave low laughs.

  “Baron Aleksei, not of the house of Asgard, but of Yotunkheym.” The konge nodded, and another boy stood, pale and as dark-haired as the others were light—the sharp-boned, sharp-eyed one who’d studied me so carefully in the corridor.

  One of the Yotne, at Asgard?

  The boy’s mouth curved slowly at my evident surprise.

  “Prinssi Fredrik, and his sister Prinsessa Anya, of Varsinais-Suomi.” Alfödr nodded again, and the last blond boy and the only girl at the head table stood together.

  The boy was almost as cute as Bragi—another charmer, for sure—and the girl was slender but broad-shouldered, with blond hair braided into a halo around her head. A necklace sparkled against her pale skin, woven strands of cloth of gold dotted with amber stones that reflected the firelight. “Anya will be your companion while you remain here,” added Konge Alfödr, and she gave me a smile.

  But I could only stare. The eastern Norden countries—including Anya and Fredrik’s kingdom of Varsinais-Suomi—had fallen to the Imperiya Yotne a decade earlier. Even its name was no more. As a terytoriya, Yotunkheym called it Finlyandiya.

  So the tsarytsya did. With teeth like knives and spears and armies, she chewed up an independent nation and spat out something entirely different.

  And here was one of the Imperiya’s sons, sitting at table with them. Disquiet was a deep, cold pool in my stomach.

  What was he doing here?

  Konge Alfödr cleared his throat. “Last, may I present to you my son Prins Torden.” As the red-haired boy rose, only the fireplaces continued to whisper.

  The Asgard boys were an attractive group. They had clean jawlines and straight noses (except where they’d apparently been broken, and they couldn’t fault nature for that). Muscles that bespoke years of healthy eating and hard work filled out their button-up shirts and the rough pants tucked into their boots. But Torden stood out among them. He defied comparison.

  Torden Asgard was handsome in a way entirely indelicate and unpolished—rough and ready and serious, deep-chested and thick-limbed and fair-skinned. Dark brown eyes burned above his snub nose, and a scruffy, red-gold beard lined his jaw. Sleeves rolled to his elbows revealed arms and hands as freckled as his face, and a tattoo inside his left wrist.

  He was so good-looking it made me nervous. Just the sight of him made me hesitate to try to win his affections.

  But I had to try. He was my best—my only—choice.

  I fought the urge to fiddle with the hem of my cardigan as he sat back down with his brothers, gaze still fixed on me, guardedness mingled with something else I couldn’t quite read.

  Trying to drum up some bravery, I glanced from Captain Lang to J.J. to Cobie. She nodded, eyes bracing.

  “My father, the seneschal, sends his greetings and his gratitude for your welcome,” I called. “Allow me to introduce the crew of my ship, the Beholder.” The sailors dipped their heads or bowed as I gave their names. When I introduced Skop, he straightened, blushing and shaking himself out of a daze. I followed his gaze and found he’d been staring at Anya.

  “Well met, and welcome,” said Konge Alfödr again. “Please, join us.”

  Sir Perrault must have seen the sheer cowardice in my eyes as I started toward an open bench nearby. “No.” He took my wrist. “The head table. Sit with the prins.”

  I yanked my arm from his grasp and glared at him. Lang stepped between us, a dangerous look on his face.

  “Do not repeat the errors you committed in England,” Perrault said. His voice was quiet—but his tone was almost pleading. I exhaled a long breath, gritting my teeth in frustration.

  We were interrupted by Anya rushing forward, beaming at us. “Come and sit down!” Skop returned her lilting invitation with a blank stare and slack jaw, so I took his elbow.

  Then I nodded at Perrault, begrudging, and followed Anya toward the boys seated on Alfödr’s right.

  Lang watch
ed me walk up the aisle and took the rest of the crew to the konge’s left, near the older of Konge Alfödr’s sons. As Cobie, Perrault, and J.J. followed him, I noticed the queen watching J.J., her expression unguardedly sad—almost hungry.

  A stuffed, silently yawping moose head on the wall caught my eye as we wove up the aisle. “Unbelievable.” I shuddered, nudging Skop.

  But Skop didn’t answer. His eyes didn’t leave Anya as she led us to the front of the hall, pausing here and there to smile and fill mugs from foaming pitchers scattered across the long tables. Glasses rose to her as she passed.

  I nudged him again gently with my shoulder. “You’re going to burn holes through her, Skop.” He blushed bright red.

  “She’s perfect,” he said, disbelieving.

  “You met her three minutes ago,” I pointed out, not very helpfully.

  “So? You only have two weeks at each court. Your time crunch elevates our whole situation.”

  I had two weeks to succeed with Torden, if I hoped to avoid the Imperiya and get home to Daddy quickly. My pulse rose suddenly. “It’s protocol,” I snapped, “it’s not my—”

  “Shush,” he cut me off. Anya stopped short, and I walked right into her. Right in front of Torden and his brothers.

  38

  I gawked at the five Asgard boys. “Evening,” Skop supplied, finding me temporarily mute.

  Anya directed me to a chair across from Torden, and I pulled it out, wincing as its legs screeched.

  “The queen seems glad to finally meet you,” offered one of them.

  Dronning Rihttá was still stealing glances at J.J. at the far end of the table. If this counted as upbeat, her melancholy must be miserable.

  “I’m glad—um . . .” I trailed off.

  “Hermódr.” He winked behind his glasses.

  “Right. Hermódr,” I repeated, serving myself from the platters of roast goose and cabbage at the center of the table. “This would be much harder if your mother didn’t like me.”

  Aleksei scoffed. My throat tightened as I studied him—pale and dark-haired, an Imperiya Wolf sitting at a table with them as though there were nothing strange about it at all. But he sat just as easy as the rest of them. “Rihttá is actually their stepmother,” he answered me. “Shame. Inheriting her face would have been lucky. You all got stuck with your father’s looks, Torden excepted.”

  Anya’s brother, Fredrik, rolled his eyes. “Yes, poor, ill-favored Bragi suffers especially.” One of the boys—Bragi, the perfect one—barked a laugh. At my side, Anya’s fingers tightened around her knife and fork, and her mouth thinned.

  “Dronning Rihttá is from Sápmi,” she said quietly in my ear, referring to the land of roving hunters north of Alfödr’s kingdom. “The kongen had never been married before he married her about fifteen years ago.”

  “I—oh. Of course.” I glanced over again at the queen. She was obviously too young to be their mother. Alfödr’s oldest sons looked at least twenty-five.

  “None of us here are hers by birth, but Hermódr might as well be.” Torden scratched his beard and nodded at his brother. I blinked, caught off guard by his deep voice. This close, I could see his eyelashes were the color of rose gold.

  I didn’t know what he meant by none of us here—were they hiding more brothers somewhere? “There are a lot of you,” I mumbled, poking at my plate.

  “Well, you’re not going to confuse any of us with Týr and the twins.” Hermódr pushed up his glasses and nodded down the table, where Alfödr’s oldest sons tore into their dinner, shouting over one another. I cringed. Týr had food around his mouth—goose fat and foam from his beer. Cobie, no manners mistress herself, sat among them in grim silence.

  “Poor Selah.” Aleksei leapt up to stand behind me. “Never fear. We are easy to remember, once you get to know us.”

  I only had time to register Torden’s horrified expression before Aleksei seized my shoulders and twisted me toward Anya. “Our prinsessa is beloved, but no one is prettier than Bragi.” He flicked a hand past her at Alfödr’s fine-featured son. Bragi smiled tightly.

  “And yet”—Aleksei gave my shoulders another tug, forcing me to face Anya’s brother—“no one does better with the ladies than Fredrik.”

  Fredrik opened his mouth to protest, but Aleksei only raised his voice in my ear. “Hermódr is studious, impressively responsible, the only real grown-up among us.”

  “Hmmph.” Hermódr rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses as though he had a headache. “Perhaps if I’m in a room alone with you.”

  My head was spinning. “What about you, Aleksei?”

  “Me?” Aleksei jerked my shoulders backward with no warning, looming over me, eyes dark in his pale face. “Oh, I’m trouble, and that’s all you need to know about me.”

  Perrault had warned me what a slight to the Imperiya would mean: danger, a massive misstep with political ramifications for Potomac. Did that apply here, to Aleksei, as oddly as he was behaving?

  But when I glanced at Anya and the other boys, I found them rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, as if they found the whole display a little childish and nothing more.

  I gave a trembling laugh, all nerves. “I consider myself forewarned.”

  Aleksei winked. “Doesn’t matter. The only person you have to impress on this visit”—he set me gently upright—“is Torden.”

  I faced the redheaded boy across from me, cheeks burning. “Any advice?”

  “He’s got a nasty temper.” Aleksei leaned down to stage-whisper in my ear. “And he gets physical quickly.” He glanced at the others for their reaction.

  Fredrik laughed generously as I gaped. At Skop’s sharp glance, Anya swatted at Aleksei. “Stop it. You know what she thinks you mean.”

  Torden cracked an embarrassed smile and scratched at the scruff on his chin. “I never pick the fights.”

  Oh. I’d misinterpreted Aleksei’s comment—he’d intended me to. Relief flooded me. But Torden’s siblings had dissolved again into scoffing and eye-rolling.

  “What?” Torden demanded. “I do not look for trouble. I don’t begin fights.”

  “You finish them,” Bragi teased.

  “Someone has to. You never complain when I am taking your punches,” Torden said calmly. “Come on, don’t make me look bad in front of Selah.” He glanced at me, a smile catching the corner of his mouth, and something jolted in my stomach.

  I thought of Bear—how, time and again, I’d felt my heart in my throat at the look in his eyes. Too soon, chorused my thoughts. I bit my lip.

  Fredrik elbowed him. “She ought to know what to expect.”

  I changed the subject again. “What should I expect?” I asked. “From this visit, I mean.”

  Hermódr shrugged. “Most of our days proceed according to routine. We train together. Eat here together. Visit the village to help out as we can.”

  “And you’ll be here for Midsummer’s Eve!” Aleksei exclaimed. Hermódr swallowed hard and glanced away, silent. The others suddenly seemed very interested in their plates.

  “Midsummer’s Eve may be different this year,” Torden muttered, sawing at his food.

  But Aleksei ignored the warning in his tone. “We have to!” he protested. “It’s bad luck not to have the bonfires.”

  “Did the bonfires bring Baldr or Hodr any luck last year?” Torden asked, suddenly fierce. “Or the rest of us?”

  “Boys,” Anya said softly, laying a hand on each of their arms. Torden’s tensed, veins rising; Aleksei’s looked fragile beside it, his bones delicate as a bird’s. Neither boy said anything.

  Suddenly, Fredrik threw down his fork and knife, stretching and yawning. “I need to get some sleep.”

  “You mean you need to go meet Kjerstin or Ida or Janne or whoever it is this week,” Aleksei snickered.

  Fredrik glared at Aleksei. “It’s Lisbet, and this time is different.” At this, even Torden gave a good-natured snort.

  Hermódr leaned forward to tousle Fredrik’s
hair. “Where have we heard that before?”

  Fredrik slapped Hermódr’s hand away. Before I knew what was happening, Anya’s brother had seized Hermódr by the collar and they were wrestling over the stone floor. Men nearby cheered as Bragi and Torden jumped in—Bragi to defend Fredrik, Torden taking Hermódr’s side. I jumped back, and so did Aleksei, casting a quick glance at Alfödr, but Skop and Anya hovered close, amused.

  “But Hermódr’s glasses . . . ?” I asked sheepishly.

  Skop gave me a wry look that said, Don’t be a stick in the mud.

  “Will be fine,” Anya hurried to reassure me. “They are only playing. Brothers,” she sighed, flashing Skop a winning smile. His ears turned pink.

  I shrugged, envying her the easy companionship of the boys whooping and tumbling over the floor. Her friends—her brothers. “I wouldn’t know.”

  The Asgard boys jostled Fredrik good-naturedly—Bragi calling after him with advice, Aleksei with inappropriate suggestions—as they headed off to bed and he left to find Lisbet, wherever she was.

  Anya installed the Beholder crew where there was space for us to stay—Captain Lang, J.J., and Perrault in a room near Valaskjálf, Cobie with a stranger. I pitied her, but she didn’t seem to mind. Skop was given a room just large enough for one, and from the coats and boots heaped along the far wall, I suspected it had been a closet before our arrival. His single bag waited on the iron bed that filled the rest of the space.

  “Please call on me if you need anything, First Mate Koniag,” Anya said with a smile. “We are not far.”

  He pushed his dark hair off his forehead, grinning unselfconsciously. “Please, Prinsessa. Call me Skop.”

  “If you like.” His smile broadened as Anya batted her lashes and pushed through the very next door.

  Yes! Skop mouthed, punching the air.

  I stifled a laugh. Sucker, I mouthed back. I ignored his gentle but profane silent response and followed Anya into her room.

  Anya flopped on her bed, blond wood like the rest of her furniture. I held up my rosary and pointed to one of the bedposts. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”