The Beholder

by Anna Bright

  He wore military dress like his brothers, but his uniform was Imperiya gray.

  I nearly dropped my fork, staring as if a ghost stood in the foyer outside the hall. Alfödr was at his side quicker than seemed possible.

  They were too far away to overhear, but there was no mistaking the fire in the king’s gaze, his fury as he hauled Aleksei back through Valaskjálf’s great doors. The king pointed down the hall, shook a finger in his son’s face, then strode back inside.

  At my side, Torden rubbed his temples and exchanged a glance with Hermódr. Both boys were silent.

  His choice of clothing was probably a joke.

  But part of me—a tiny part, speaking only in whispers—wondered if the uniform was some sort of message to me.

  I’d failed to read the omens back in Potomac. Here, again, I had no idea what this one could mean.

  Jaw tight, Aleksei brushed himself off and cast a backward glance at his father before heading down the corridor. But the king was already greeting his guests.

  Alfödr spoke to the crowd in Norsk before turning to the Beholder crew. “Seneschal-elect and her guardians, you honor Asgard with your presence. Please accept these treasures. Use them well.”

  His voice was strong, powerful; his people watched him admiringly. I thought with a sudden pang of how the crowd had watched my father on Arbor Day, barely able to hear him, their eyes concerned and confused.

  I wished I were home with him right now. I wished I could help him.

  My very bones felt pulled toward Potomac.

  Six men carried bags and cases to the head table, passing brilliant copper rings, swords, and knives from hand to hand, both new gifts and their own weapons that had been confiscated the day before. As my gift, a bronze suit of armor, was unveiled in the corner, I wondered when I’d ever wear such a thing.

  I swallowed, shaking off my sadness. “Skop, can I see?” I whispered across Torden.

  “Sure.” Skop nodded absently and passed me his ring. When I finally handed it back, he didn’t notice my frown; he was watching Anya as she rose from the table with her stepmother.

  The ring was finely engraved with Skop’s name and the outline of the island of Koniag. But such delicate work took time—clearly, more than had passed since our arrival.

  How did Alfödr know of Skop’s homeland? His name?

  A low cheer from the crowd distracted me from my thoughts. Dronning Rihttá had filled a drinking horn from a large cauldron warming over the fire and offered it to Konge Alfödr. As Anya passed the horn she carried to Fredrik, five other noblewomen rose to repeat the ritual at other tables, answered by every face in Valaskjálf with admiration. I glanced in question at Torden.

  “Only a few women are allowed to serve the first mead. It’s tradition,” he whispered in my ear, eyes tracking Rihttá as she approached, statuesque in black. “Their hospitality forges and preserves peace.”

  Silently, the queen passed her etched silver drinking horn to Torden.

  “Baldr,” he said, voice lower than far-off thunder.

  I didn’t understand the word she mouthed as he replaced the vessel in her hands, but her dark eyes said, Thank you. Torden nodded, gaze full of something like sympathy with a bracing edge.

  When the drinking horn came next to me, I raised it to Torden, a nervous thrill chasing the alcohol through my blood.

  After everyone had drunk, clamor rose again around the hall. Utensils scraped bowls and plates as everyone helped themselves to lamb and cabbage stew, pork and herring, cooked onions and carrots. Loud talk and jokes went up on all sides as Alfödr’s thegns and drengs and heerthmen—his householders—bragged loudly about their past and future exploits.

  “In three months, I’m going to be able to finish the morning run in half an hour,” said Fredrik.

  “That is impossible,” said Hermódr, ever practical.

  “You will see how impossible it is when I do it,” Fredrik fired back. I wasn’t certain exactly how long a kilometer was—I’d only ever measured distance in miles—but twelve seemed like a lot in thirty minutes. Torden returned my blank stare with the tiniest shake of his head: Fredrik was bluffing.

  “What’s your best time?” I asked Torden offhandedly.

  He shot me a sideways smile. “I always finish last.”

  I squinted; this didn’t agree with his reputation. “Well, you’d still have me beat,” I finally said. “I could probably handle twelve kilometers, if I were allowed to crawl the last eleven.”

  Torden shook his head, apparently considering my comment seriously. “You could do more than that, with training. You have very long legs.”

  Bragi and Aleksei glanced at one another wordlessly, stifling laughs. Only when Fredrik snorted over his stew did Torden seem to realize what he’d said. Torden rolled his eyes at them, elbowing Bragi as his brother clapped him on one broad shoulder in a silent, sarcastic compliment.

  My heart swelled, watching them, trading glances and the barest gestures for whole meanings as if they all spoke a secret language.

  For the first time, I wondered how on earth I could ask Torden to leave them behind. The mere thought made me press my lips together, afraid the question would blurt itself out of its own volition.

  When Torden’s brain finally caught up with his mouth, he didn’t bother trying to backpedal.

  “Well, you do.” He shrugged and scratched at his beard, brown eyes impenitent, his crooked smile rebellious, as though challenging me to ask why he’d been looking at all.

  Hermódr reentered our conversation two steps behind, as if from a dream. “Torden isn’t a slow runner,” he said matter-of-factly. “He keeps pace with Týr at the front. But he is the only dreng who runs to the rear of the pack when he is done and finishes again with the runners who have fallen behind.”

  Fredrik made a disgusted noise under his breath, half-hearted envy on his face; Aleksei cocked an eyebrow at him, silently agreeing.

  “You liar.” I nudged Torden gently in the ribs. “You said twelve kilometers every morning.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, avoiding my eyes as he sawed at his food. I could’ve counted the freckles on his cheeks at this distance, could see each of his red-gold lashes.

  I bit my lip. It does, I wanted to reply. It does to me.

  Finally, the meal came to an end, and a hush fell over Valaskjálf. As knives and forks and cups and voices fell silent, Bragi and a white-bearded man rose to stand between two of the roaring fireplaces along the far wall.

  The old man began in Norsk, his accent cradling the unfamiliar words at the back of his throat before he spoke them. Bragi watched him recite, as still as the hall around us, before interpreting. “Of Kvasir we have heard, the man a gift, and gifted of old with wisdom.”

  The skáld spoke again in Norsk, and again, Bragi translated, blue eyes focused. “Of mead we also know, and of its gift to us, poetry.”

  It should have been a stilted performance, in high-sounding English and Norsk words that meant nothing to me. But I was helpless against the spell the two of them wove and cast like a net over the room—powerless against Ragnvald’s husky accents and the subtle movements of his hands, against Bragi’s clear voice and careful rhythm.

  “I should have been studying,” I whispered to Torden, only inches away. “It would be nice to be able to understand the story in your language.”

  He fiddled with a ragged cuticle, white gloves abandoned on his lap. “If we get married, I’ll help you.” Torden shifted, and his shoulder bumped mine.

  I stuffed my elbows inside the arms of my chair, nerves abruptly on edge, and nodded over at Bragi. “Do you ever . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “No, never. I’m a poor speaker.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” I said quietly.

  He glanced at me, eyes startled again beneath their guarded cast. Torden wasn’t an attention seeker—that, I believed—but there had been no mistaking the respectful looks that had
followed him all day, that were trained on him even now.

  “People would listen. I would, anyway,” I added quietly.

  Torden shifted again and took my hand under the table.

  From that point, I heard nothing. The hall could’ve caught fire around me and I wouldn’t have noticed, so keen was the thrill of panic in my blood. Torden’s large, callused hand made my own look almost delicate. It also made my palms sweat.

  I wanted to be near him. But barely a week ago I’d been wanting someone else, kissing someone else. What sort of fickle heart could feel so much for two people, a week apart?

  Did it matter, with what lay in wait for me ahead and at home? Could I afford to move slowly, the risks being what they were?

  If I hoped to get back to Daddy and avoid the Imperiya, I had to get engaged.

  If I hoped to fall in love—truly in love, recovered from my hurt—I ought to take my time.

  I couldn’t breathe. I wriggled my slick hand from Torden’s grasp to reach for my cup.

  The move would have been more convincing if I hadn’t used my right hand to stretch for an object well to my left. Skop winced.

  As the story ended, the musicians’ instruments were nearly drowned out by the shriek of boots and bench legs on the floor. Torden and I remained seated after our table had emptied.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out.

  Torden’s eyes sought mine. “Do not apologize,” he said steadily. “I would not compel you, not even to something so minor.”

  I bit my lip at the earnestness in his voice. “You surprised me, that’s all. And . . .” I trailed off.

  The books. The fire. The rain. The kiss.

  The thought of my naïveté paraded in front of England curdled in my stomach.

  Bear had lied to me, and for good reason. He’d been wry and sulky and difficult, and that had made him all the more charming.

  His kiss had been perfect.

  Even now, I had to force myself to close the book on those memories, warm to the touch, searingly painful, too tangled to sort out.

  Torden wasn’t forbidden fruit, appealing because I couldn’t have him. Torden could save Daddy and me. He was necessary to a degree that tore me in two.

  I needed him, and I needed to want him, and I needed him to want me. I felt the pressure like a bruise on my heart.

  Perhaps Bear had made things easier for both of us by disguising himself all that time.

  Perhaps, when I thought of all the things I would do because I had to do them, I understood Bear better than I’d thought I did.

  “What is it?” Torden asked.

  I slumped a little in my chair and stared hard at the table, running my fingernail over a rough spot in the wood. “How much did you hear about my last visit?”

  He hesitated. “Not much.”

  “And?”

  “The rumor is that it ended poorly,” he said.

  “The rumor?”

  Torden nodded at two men I didn’t recognize standing near the edge of the dance floor. One was wispy and white-haired, the other younger, his features unremarkable but for bright, intelligent eyes. Both wore black cloaks that flapped and waved like massive ravens’ wings with their every gesture. “Huginn and Muninn—Muninn is the older one, and Huginn is the younger—are my father’s advisers. They know everything that happens in Asgard, and probably everywhere else.” Torden paused. “They told him the prince proposed and you declined because of a misunderstanding.”

  “That’s a fairly misleading version of the story,” I said flatly.

  “What happened?”

  “They tricked me.”

  Torden’s brow furrowed, and I slid deeper into my chair, shaking my head.

  “It’s a mess to explain. My suitor’s father pretended to be my suitor; my suitor pretended to be my guard.”

  He drew back slightly. “Why?”

  I leaned forward, watching the dancers, unable to meet his eyes. “They distrusted Potomac,” I said. “I don’t think it was personal.”

  Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

  “Selah, I am not perfect,” Torden finally said, his tone frank. “My brothers could—they will—offer you a long list of my failings.”

  I swallowed. “Like what?”

  Torden raised his eyebrows. “Will you tell me yours if I tell you mine?” he asked baldly. I considered this a moment and nodded.

  He blew out a breath. “I am rash,” he said. “Impatient. Not as wise as my father or as thoughtful as Hermódr, and Aleksei is much cleverer. And I am too ready to fight when I should try to talk.”

  I didn’t agree out loud, but he’d spoken truly. I could see those things in him.

  And yet, I thought, you confess quickly, too.

  His fingers flexed, a few inches from mine on the table. “Your turn.”

  “I question myself ceaselessly,” I half whispered. “I have no confidence—I’m afraid to fight. Afraid even to be laughed at.”

  I thought of myself fleeing the ball in Potomac, fleeing the ball in Winchester. Running away from watching eyes and whispering mouths.

  Torden scratched at the wood grain on the table, then turned his gaze on me, searching my face. “That’s the worst of you,” he said in a low voice. “Now tell me the best. Don’t be shy. Don’t be modest.”

  I swallowed hard and reached for his hand.

  This list took longer to assemble, my brain buzzing at our touch. “The best things about me are gifts from the people I love,” I finally said. “Kindness. Loyalty. Faith.” I paused. “More than anything, faith that a larger story is being told all around us, even when it’s beyond our view.” I swallowed and glanced at Torden. “Your turn.”

  His voice was quiet but sure. “I’m not afraid.” One thumb rubbed my knuckles. “I keep my promises. And despite what he did, you can trust that I will never lie to you. Whatever I tell you, you can believe it is the truth.”

  I squeezed his fingers and faced him, blood pounding in my ears.

  Just do it, he’d said. I’ll catch you.

  Across the room, Perrault was eyeing us. He nodded, pleased.

  I didn’t want his approval; it washed over me like icy water. But somehow, it drove me nearer to Torden.

  “Will you dance with me?” I asked.

  Torden didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go of my hand as he led me from the table.

  42

  The Asgard boys had ribbed Fredrik in English the night before, but the way they hassled Torden while we danced made me grateful I didn’t speak Norsk. He ignored them for an hour until something else made him falter—the twins, Vidarr and Váli, at the head table with his father and stepmother. They were too far away to hear, but their hands were unmistakably tense and argumentative, their mouths surly.

  “It— Selah, I am sorry,” he said, looking perturbed. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.”

  Lang gave an anemic smile as I approached his perch on a table near the edge of the room. “Your Grace.” He raised his mug to me in an ironic salute, wiping foam from his upper lip with an ink-stained finger.

  “Captain.” I sat on the bench next to his feet, studying the room. Cobie stood alone in a corner, arms crossed over her worn black dress as though daring someone to approach her. Perrault seemed to be busily ingratiating himself with a group of thegns, though I wondered whether his flattery would find purchase in a place like this. J.J., I hoped, was in bed. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Sure.” Lang shrugged. “And you? Things look like they’re . . . moving along.”

  I glanced at Torden. He stood at his stepmother’s side, listening to her intently. My heart warmed a little. “He’s kind. He’s handsome. He’s genuine.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  I frowned at Lang, and he laughed wryly. “He’s so honest and brave, he’s like a prince in a fairy tale.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

  Lang gave a sardonic half grin. “He’s a paper
doll.” He eyed me, curious. “I’d just think after what you’ve been through, you’d have a bit more appreciation for . . . chemistry.”

  The kiss.

  Bear and me, in front of the fire.

  Lang’s words sent a flash of heat and shame through my blood.

  I sat up straight. “After what I’ve been through?” Across the room, one of the twins had stalked away from the head table. Torden stood, resolute in his blue military jacket, between his stepmother and whichever twin remained. “Lang, what I’ve been is lied to. And what I appreciate now,” I said, jerking my head at Torden, “is solidity. Sincerity. And those things can coexist with attraction.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t see it, that’s all.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” I said awkwardly. “You run the ship and keep us safe, and I’ll worry about figuring out how I feel.”

  “Ooh, are we talking about our feelings?” With no warning, Aleksei slid down the bench and careened into my side. He draped an overly familiar arm around my shoulder, and I shrank away, laughing uncomfortably. I had no idea when he’d returned, dressed now in a black suit.

  “Good evening, Baron Aleksei.” Lang’s barely disguised grimace belied his greeting.

  “Delighted to formally meet you.” Aleksei gave the captain a broad, ghastly smile. “Mind if I steal her?”

  Lang looked away. “I’m not Selah’s keeper. She’s made that abundantly clear.” He gave a tight nod and leapt from the tabletop, striding off toward Cobie. I frowned after his back, feeling a little deflated, though I didn’t know why.

  “So. I see you’ve tamed the stallion.” Aleksei nodded at Torden, grinning wolfishly.

  I cringed. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”

  My stomach twisted at his insinuation. Did Aleksei just want to get a rise out of me? Or was his behavior about something larger—meant to unsettle me, throw me off course?

  “Goodness, you women.” Aleksei smiled, but it was a hard expression, cadaverous. It tightened the lines of his face, emphasizing the curve of the skull beneath his pallid cheeks. “Anya lets Alfödr’s drengs chase her hem and tortures Bragi endlessly, and you shy away from the word tame. A heartless beauty and a shrinking violet.”