by Anna Bright
She shook her head, unconcerned. “Not at all. We’ll have this room to ourselves.”
It had never occurred to me that we wouldn’t, though Anya’s quarters were much larger than Skop’s. Her room was built of stone, like his, but its far wall was a single pane of glass, reflecting the crackling fire and the tapers in the angular iron chandelier. I pressed my face close to its chilly surface and found we were nestled in Yggdrasil’s branches, overlooking the Lysefjord.
“The boys aren’t so lucky,” she added. “The drengs, the young warriors, sleep four to a room in the brakker.”
“Isn’t that a little crowded?” I’d never even shared a room with one person, let alone three.
Anya laughed. “Welcome to Asgard. Everything here—the big windows, big rooms, big tables—is designed for people who don’t care about comfort and who can’t stand to be indoors. Or alone.”
As I sank down on a fur rug in front of my trunk, staring out Anya’s window at the ash tree, a memory flooded my mind—a game of hide-and-seek I’d lost to Momma when I was little. I’d startled a bunch of butterflies from the trunk of an American ash in Arbor Hall, and she’d come running at my shouts. Momma found me shrieking with laughter, twirling in a cloud of raven-dark mourning cloaks and brown-winged hickory hairstreaks.
I wanted to hide somewhere quiet with my book and my godmother’s voice. I wanted to climb out Anya’s window, out of this fortress of stone and too many soldiers, and hide in Yggdrasil’s branches until I could breathe again.
Careful not to jostle the radio in the binding, I opened my book and made one more tick mark on the back endpaper.
Thirteen days left. Thirteen days, and then I would be faced with the Imperiya: with crossing its borders, or with convincing Lang and Perrault to spare me and let me go home to my father, with Torden or without him.
“You get used to it.” Anya’s gentle voice broke into my thoughts.
I considered how charming she’d been at dinner, how awkward I’d been, by comparison. “You certainly have.”
She gave a low laugh. “I didn’t have much choice. Our people—the ones who survived—fled to Asgard after the Imperiya took my father’s throne.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
Anya’s bed creaked as she peered over my shoulder and crawled onto the floor. I shifted, shielding my book; but then I saw her eyeing the contents of my trunk with interest. “We should hang up some of your things.”
“Oh. Thank you.” I set my book aside and passed her the green lace gown I’d worn in Winchester. Anya placed it in her wardrobe, fingers reverent. “And Aleksei?” I asked, tentative. “When did he arrive?”
“Yotne-born, but he’s lived at Asgard since he was seven. His father was the tsarytsya’s ambassador to Norge until he died.”
“And he stayed here after?” I asked.
Anya frowned, dropping her gaze. “In the Imperiya, few parents raise their children at all; the tsarytsya claims and fosters most of them, some in her very house. Alfödr didn’t want to send Aleksei back to her, so he adopted him—Fredrik and me, too.”
“That was kind of him.”
Anya nodded. “Aleksei had lived in Asgard for several years by then. Who knows what he had learned about Norge in that time?” She shrugged. “Alfödr was kind to adopt him, but it was a strategic decision, as well.”
I nodded, fiddling with a pair of pajamas. Thoughts of the tsarytsya made my stomach tight with anxiety; but Torden and the others had seemed at dinner to look on Aleksei more as an endearing annoyance than anyone dangerous, or even upsetting.
How must it be to have your enemy’s son for a brother?
But if Aleksei hadn’t lived in the Imperiya since he was a boy, surely that made him more a son of Asgard than a son of Yotunkheym.
I glanced back at Anya, passing her another dress. She hung it. “So you just live here like brothers and sisters?”
Anya bobbed her head side to side, as if she were thinking. Her eyes and her smile were so bright, I almost didn’t notice the way she tugged at her gold necklace as she cleared her throat. “Something like that.”
She was asleep when the transmission came.
Anya’s breathing had long gone steady beside me when I heard my godmother’s voice, muffled through the leather covers of the book and the trunk around it.
Hey there, sweet girl. I hope you can hear me; I just got back from services.
I crept silently out of the bed and sat on the floor to listen as Godmother Althea made quiet, one-sided conversation, as though I were a sick or elderly relative, too tired or confused to respond. My failure to reply didn’t matter; she was simply keeping company with someone she thought might be lonely.
So on and on she rambled, about how the lector had lost his place during a reading, about the flowers they’d arranged on the altar that week.
It was almost as good as being at home.
They, ah, brought a wheelchair along for your daddy this past Sunday, Godmother added. Just in case. They do that a lot now. My throat tightened.
Did Torden and his brothers know how lucky they were, to know only their father’s strength and power? To know he would always be there, would never fail to protect them?
But he’s carrying on, sweet girl, she added. I hope you are, too.
I am, I thought at her, wishing she could hear me. And I will.
39
I awoke to find Anya traipsing around the room like a fairy princess, practically singing with the dawn.
“Good morning,” she lilted.
I blinked at her. In the golden light sloping in through Yggdrasil’s leaves, she reminded me of nothing so much as a ballerina on the stage.
Anya gave a cheerful laugh at my nonresponse and forced me into an outfit nearly identical to hers—a dress, undershirt, and some wool tights—and dragged me to Valaskjálf. Heads turned from their breakfasts to follow her willowy frame and halo braid as she flitted between the tables.
“Just a minute,” I told her, glancing at the other end of the high table.
Perrault sat near one of the twins, eating fruit with a fork and a knife. Properly, of course. I made my way toward him.
“Good morning, Sir Perrault.” I planted my hands across from him on the table, still standing. His eyes slowly wandered up to meet mine.
“Good morning, Seneschal-elect. In what way can I be of service?”
I cleared my throat. “I was wondering if you’d determined my schedule for this stay.” I glanced nervously back at the boys seated around Anya.
Watching them, big and boisterous and entirely too many, I suddenly longed for the safety of an agenda. Of order. Organization. A plan.
Perrault’s brows arched sardonically. “Oh, I won’t be coordinating engagements for your time in Asgard.”
“Why not?” I drew back, feeling like someone had dumped cold water down my back. I needed a plan to survive the next thirteen days—and the days thereafter.
Perrault cocked his head. “First of all, that is not the way of this place. Second of all—it’s not as if you put much store by the schedule I appointed for you in England.”
I gaped at him. “You’re going to jeopardize my trip to punish me?”
“I’m not punishing you.” Perrault was serene, unflappable. “I’m simply not going to squander my expertise.”
“Winchester was different,” I protested. “My pretend suitor was forty years old!”
“Norge is different,” Perrault said neatly. “Make your own way, Seneschal-elect. I won’t make it for you this time.” He ran his eyes over the hall distastefully. “I’ll be fully occupied with enduring this stay. Make no mistake, I’ll be watching, but you’re on your own.”
I gaped at him, dumbstruck.
Without a fiancé, I could be forced to travel to the Imperiya. I’d be that many more weeks away from seeing Daddy, from protecting him from whatever Alessandra was planning.
If Torden didn’t propose to me, I’d
be left at the mercy of boys I could not afford to love. To boys who could never come home with me to Potomac.
My stomach plummeted.
Perrault dismissed me with a smile and a nod at the Asgard boys. I turned and made my way to the other end of the table, his mockery still ringing in my ears.
Skop fit in well among Anya’s freshly scrubbed, sturdily built brothers, already well into huge plates of porridge and eggs and brown cheese when I reached them. I flopped down beside Skop, and he pushed me a cup of coffee—or something like it—and exchanged a knowing smile with Anya over my rounded shoulders.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, dumping cream in the mug. There was no sugar anywhere on the table. I rubbed at my eyes, weary and unsettled from my conversation with Perrault.
Aleksei smirked. “Only children drink milk in their coffee.”
I took a long slurp and half glared, half squinted at him. “You let children drink coffee?”
“Leave her alone. She can have whatever she wants.” Anya slid me a plate of food and turned to Hermódr. “How were your times this morning?”
“Fine.” Fredrik rolled a shoulder forward. “Today’s route felt longer.”
Torden laughed. “You always say that. It’s never longer.”
“Well, it felt that way,” Fredrik grumbled.
“Enough groaning, squeaky door.” Anya smiled and ruffled her brother’s hair. “It is always twelve kilometers. No more, no less.”
I choked on my coffee. “Every day?”
Bragi speared a piece of scrambled egg and nodded. “Týr leads the drengs; Pappa leads the thegns—the older warriors. Twelve for us, eight for them, every morning at sunrise.”
I stifled a whimper.
“You might wake up faster if you opened your eyes all the way,” said Torden, leaning across the table. My heart stuttered at the teasing shape of his grin, and I felt a sudden stab of guilt. Predictable.
“Yes, but then she’d have to see your whole face,” said Aleksei.
Fredrik jostled him. “Nicer view than yours.”
“Boys,” chided Anya. “Leave her alone.”
They didn’t. I poured another cup of coffee.
“Now.” Torden passed me a practice sword. “How should you hold this?”
It was a mercy the Norden summer was cool. Already I was sweating beneath the mail shirt Anya had draped over my shoulders, though whether from anxiety or exertion I wasn’t sure.
I’d gawked when the five Asgard prinsene and Anya first led us into Konge Alfödr’s armory, a long, low stone building designed to evade notice. Past a maze of weapons and equipment smelling strongly of oil and polish were rows of lockers; a bow and a half-dozen daggers and swords hung in Torden’s, with a shield, two helmets, and other armor heaped on the floor. An enormous hammer was propped in the back corner, its impossibly short handle engraved in elaborate knots.
They carried their gear to a quiet, grassy hill outside the fortress walls. “I’ll work with Skop,” Anya announced, testing the edge of a broadsword. Skop grinned to himself as he stretched his muscles, rolling out his neck.
“And her?” Aleksei nodded at me.
Torden’s searching gaze was like a sunburn. “I will work with you. If you like.”
Make your own way, Seneschal-elect.
Perrault had been deriding me. But this had to work.
Torden was my last—my only—chance.
If I was going to do this, I was going to have to do it my way.
I swallowed hard. “If you need to get in some real practice, I can just watch. But I’ll do whatever you’re doing, if you’re willing to teach me.”
The prins passed me a practice sword in answer, nodding firmly. Hermódr and Bragi exchanged a meaningful glance and got to work.
Skop learned quickly under Anya’s guidance. She was a natural, quick and graceful, the gold and amber around her slim neck flashing in the sunlight with every movement, and she sent Bragi and Skop tumbling into the dirt more times than I could count. Over and over, Anya offered them a hand up, and they accepted her each time, their faces never growing less admiring.
But I grew more and more anxious working nearby with Torden. He began by teaching me to parry a thrust, but I kept fumbling it: I failed to shift my weight correctly, my wrists were too slow to reangle the blade, I held the sword too far out and opened my side to attack. Worse yet, I couldn’t read him at all, his quiet study of me so unlike Bear’s open watchfulness.
“Again,” he said simply, over and over. Over and over I got it wrong, but his serene scrutiny never faltered.
I needed his approval. But his patience in the face of my inability—his total, steady calm, such a contrast to my rapidly fraying nerves—was unsettling.
Wasn’t he irritated, to find me so slow to learn? Wasn’t my incompetence getting under his skin?
Either way, his expression betrayed nothing. It unnerved me.
After about an hour and a half, the muscles in my arms and back were aching, and I eased down onto a patch of grass to rest. Most of the others dropped down beside me, but Torden wasn’t finished. Careful and deliberate, he kept working, practicing a single maneuver with the blade until I thought his arm might fall off.
“Slow and steady, old man,” Aleksei taunted.
“You are going to hurry yourself into an early grave,” Torden returned.
Aleksei’s face tightened. “Care to help me get there?” He opened his arms, and the boys began circling one another.
Torden was taller than his dark-haired brother by half a head, his arms the size of the other boy’s legs—but Aleksei struck first. Anya scooted close to Skop and me as they went around, their armor and the faint sheen of sweat on their foreheads gleaming in the sunlight.
“Won’t Torden flatten him?” I asked her. “He’s so much bigger than Aleksei.”
“It’s not so simple.” Anya flashed us a grin. “Torden is not just strong—he is focused, and fearless. He works very hard, and he always makes the bold choice.”
“But?” I prodded.
“But this isn’t a wrestling match, and Aleksei is fast and tricky—creative,” she said. “He isn’t afraid to dance around or retreat when it will catch Torden off guard. He isn’t afraid of looking silly or cowardly, if he wins.”
Hermódr, sprawled nearby, nodded in agreement. “Still, you would beat him more often if you trained more, Aleksei.”
“He’s right, brother,” Torden called. “Skjerp deg. Some discipline would do you good.”
“Is Aleksei lazy?” I whispered to Anya.
“Famously,” she hissed back. “He has not made it to a single morning run in two weeks!”
I groaned again, remembering the boys had put in a full day’s work before I’d shown up to breakfast.
Torden glanced over at my voice, and Aleksei surged forward, spotting the gap in his focus. “Too much practice makes you predictable,” he snapped.
The tip of his sword was aimed at Torden’s stomach.
Torden snapped back to attention and just barely blocked the attack, metal screeching against metal. I wrapped my arms around my legs, cringing as his arms strained, forcing Aleksei’s blade away. Then, in a blinding flash, Torden threw his brother off and brought the point of his own weapon to Aleksei’s chest. They were finished.
Elation flashed beneath Torden’s nonchalance as I whooped with the others, congratulating them both while they stripped off their armor. But resentment flickered across Aleksei’s face as he sat down in silence.
“Should we go for a ride?” Bragi asked eagerly.
Please, someone else say no.
I tried not to sigh audibly with relief when Anya held up a hand. “Relax. Let’s eat something.”
“Is it lunchtime already?” Skop asked.
“No.” Hermódr helped himself to a large serving of bread and brown cheese. “But have some brunost, anyway. Aren’t you hungry?” Skop grunted in concession, and Anya passed around more food and a l
eather canteen.
We lay in the grass for a while, the boys joking and horsing around as though their full morning hadn’t wearied them at all. Anya braided tiny flowering weeds into a crown for herself, then wove one for me. I beamed at her as she tossed it over my hair, but she and Skop were lost in conversation.
“This is pretty,” he said quietly, running a finger along her glittering necklace.
Anya darted a look at Bragi and bit her lip but didn’t pull back. “Old boyfriend,” she murmured. I turned away quickly, cheeks burning, glad the other boys weren’t paying attention. Fredrik had made a joke I hadn’t heard to Bragi and Hermódr, and the three were a rolling jumble of elbows and knees and fists.
Unsure whether to be concerned or amused, I glanced at Torden and found him leaning back on his elbows, studying me. His hair was tousled and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, and though my limbs felt heavy enough to sink into the ground, he didn’t look tired. “You’re not going to jump in?” I asked lightly.
He shook his head. “Not interested today.”
“Ah.”
A pause wider than the sky overhead stretched between us.
“I take it you are not a great lover of sports,” he finally said, tone as casual as mine. Or was it? Either way, I couldn’t pretend just to please him.
I picked at my borrowed wool tights. “I like to think I just haven’t found my game yet.”
Torden took the bait. “What have you tried?”
“Whatever Sister Agatha made us play in school.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Football. Rugby. Basketball. I wasn’t any good at any of them. I once hit myself in the face with a tennis racket.”
Torden’s lips twitched, and he scooted closer. “What about track and field? Badminton? Cricket?”
“Scratched every day for two weeks in the long jump. Would not touch a badminton racket after I hit myself in the face in tennis. And in cricket, I’d just jump to the end of the line over and over when my team was batting.”
He gave a broad laugh. “Really?”
I buried my face in my hands, peeking out through my fingers. “You’re probably really good at all of those.” Torden didn’t answer, but the set of his mouth said, Of course.
