Echoes of Memory

by A. R. Kahler

  “I love you too,” I said, and it was the truest thing I’d ever felt.

  I leaned in, pressed my lips to hers once more, and the warmth in my chest blossomed, became a sun that lit the night with heat and gold. The pressure between us built, and I pulled her closer, the love in my heart turning to desire. To need.

  “Chris,” she muttered against my lips. I bit her lower lip in response. Her moan filled my veins. I bit harder, tasted the iron of her drip against my tongue. She gasped, arched her back, her hands against my chest. Her hands tightened.

  The heat grew brighter. I wanted her. Needed her. I covered her mouth with mine again, my teeth bathed in red.

  One arm gripped her waist, our hips pressed tight. The other hand trailed up, slid under her hair and around the fragile curve of her neck. I grasped the base of her skull, pulled her tighter to me, until our teeth clashed and bit and it hurt, but oh, did it feel like Heaven. So much heat in Heaven. So much golden light. I closed my eyes against it, the circles of her earrings burned into my eyelids. The circles. The circles.

  “I want you,” I whispered into the golden light, into the shadowed circle. “I want you more than life itself.”

  She struggled. Her breath hot in my lungs, her heart a trapped rabbit. Her ribs snapping against my chest.

  And then the light faded. And her pulse fell as she dropped from my hands to the ground.

  As my love dropped lifelessly to the ground.

  As reality fell through my senses.

  “No. No, no, please.”

  I collapsed to my knees. No, I couldn’t have done this. Wouldn’t have done this. I wouldn’t have hurt her.

  You were born in blood. This is your power.

  “Kaira!” I screamed.

  “All this blood on your hands,” my sister whispered. “All these deaths.”

  I turned to her, but she wasn’t there. Just the hospital bed at the edge of the circle of light. The empty hospital bed. But I knew it was the same . . . I knew . . .

  “Come on, honey,” my dad said, holding my mother’s hand. “Come on, you can fight through this.”

  The screaming. The blood. And my sister yelled at my weakness as my mother yelled for mercy.

  “Fight!” my dad yelled. As blood encircled the room, as the screaming grew louder.

  I curled in on myself, clutched my hands to my ears.

  There is no God here. . . .

  I woke to cold.

  For a moment I thought I’d truly woken up, that it had all been a nightmare—though how far back that nightmare went, I wasn’t certain. Snow flecked the ground in front of me. Was I outside? Had I fallen asleep in the woods? It was quiet. So quiet. Save for the distant sound of dripping.

  Then I pressed myself to sitting. Or tried to. My back screamed out, and I bit back my own cry. I reached around, feeling the tattered cloth, the matted blood. And I remembered.

  Immediately I jerked my head up, looking toward the sky and surroundings for any sign of the harpies. But there was nothing. Just a net of tree roots above and the snow-covered ground. A hole in the roots that looked like a space I might have broken through. No harpies. No danger, save for my leaking blood.

  No Freyja.

  I couldn’t help the cry of pain as I forced myself to standing. Every joint ached, and the snow below me was soaked crimson, a splatter that made me wonder how I was still alive. How far did I fall? But the thought was as numb as my bare feet. All I could think of was getting out of here. Getting Freyja. Getting Chris.

  Before it was too late.

  What if she was dead? What if it was already too late?

  What would happen if I slowly starved down here?

  My hand still clutching the slash on my back, I hobbled and looked around. I wasn’t entirely certain I was on solid ground; the snow sloped away on both sides, a gentle rise. Had I landed on another root? Was this whole place just a labyrinth of roots and stones and demons?

  “It is what you make of it,” came a voice.

  I spun around—wincing at the movement—and there, standing beside my bloodstain, was a man that had definitely not been there before. I stepped back. Not that there was anywhere to go—the roots and vines formed a dome around us, as thick at the top as they were at the sides. Keeping danger out. And me in.

  The man’s skin was white. Paler than even Freyja’s, his veins a cobweb of blue beneath his flesh. He wore nothing but a tattered robe, a shapeless, colorless blanket as ragged as he was. Even his beard seemed threadbare, like it was made of wisps of spider silk and frayed string. Despite all of that, his eyes were sharp and clear. When they looked into mine, my heart skipped over. I knew it was cliché, but those eyes seemed to look right into my soul.

  “Who are you?” My words didn’t chatter; they were more of a groan. Even speaking hurt.

  “You have lost something,” he said. He took a step forward, his bare foot landing in the bloody snow. He didn’t seem to notice.

  I opened my mouth to say I’d lost many things—my mind included—but I couldn’t get the words out; a sharp pain lanced up my spine, bringing me to my knees. Fresh blood coated the hand I shoved into the snow to keep myself from falling face-first. More blood dripped from my lips. The harpy’s slash burned, but not just at the cut; I could feel the toxic poison of her claws pumping through my veins. Coating my heart.

  The clarity was cold.

  I was going to die down here.

  “Perhaps,” he said. He knelt before me. “But not, I believe, in this place.”

  He reached out and placed a finger under my chin, gently coaxed me to look at him. If I could have spoken or moved or cried out, I would have. His touch was freezing. And the line across his neck, though well stitched, explained why he looked like a corpse.

  He was one.

  “I am Mimir,” he whispered.

  The name stirred something at the edges of recognition, but I couldn’t place it. He helped me to my feet.

  “Where—” It was the only word I could force out before the pain hit and rendered me speechless again. I stumbled. If not for his hand on my arm, I would have fallen once more. For a dead guy, he was strong. He didn’t even shift when my weight fell on him.

  “Shh,” he said. “You’ve lost a great deal of blood. And there is much more to lose, I’m afraid. Yes. A great deal to lose.”

  I looked at him. It didn’t sound like a threat and he wasn’t even looking at me, but it still made my hackles rise. Not that I could have fought him off. I had no weapon and no strength, and the girl who was supposed to be my fighting half was probably dead beneath a pile of half-bird monsters.

  Mimir chuckled. It sounded like rocks falling down an icy slope.

  “Your shadow is still out there,” he said. “The creatures of this world have no interest in killing her. No, it was you they were after. And they cannot find or harm you here.”

  Where is here? I wanted to ask. The only sound that came out was a groan.

  He guided me toward a root that spiraled from the sky, a curlicue that glittered like black ice. Had it been there before? The dripping sound grew louder as we neared. Every step was agony, and I wanted to scream at him to help me.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t figured that out yet. I thought you so bright. . . .”

  Apparently Freyja wasn’t the only god who could be sarcastic.

  “Oh, I am no god,” Mimir said. “Just an old man with an older burden.”

  An oblong, concave stone rested within the curl of the root, like a bowl. Water dripped from somewhere above, a slow, steady rhythm that filled the basin to the brim. But despite the ripples and constant stream of water, it didn’t overflow. The bowl was barely an inch deep. And yet it seemed fathomless, deeper than any well. . . .

  That was when his name clicked, my brain thick with poison. Mimir’s Well, the place Odin went for wisdom. The place Odin lost his eye.

  I looked to Mimir, who didn’t look very much like a sage muttering prophecy.
And then back to the stone, which didn’t look like a well at all. This was the place the gods had ventured to learn all the secrets of the world. And yet here I was, a mortal girl, and Mimir was acting like showing me this was nothing.

  I could drink from that and know everything in creation. Everything. Maybe even how to get out of this war without spilling any blood. My back throbbed again. I didn’t care about answers: None of those would matter if I died. I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a trickle of blood.

  Mimir chuckled again. “You will not die here, Kaira, despite the poison in your veins. My well holds the knowledge of all things. To a god, perhaps, it would show what will be. But you are a mortal child; such knowledge is not for you. Not when you have free will.”

  I couldn’t hold myself up any longer. The snow at our feet was red slush, and my legs were sticky with congealing blood. It was starting to feel warm.

  I knew enough to know that was a bad thing.

  I need . . .

  “Waters heal,” he said. He waved a hand over the stone bowl, and ripples passed under his fingertips, the water peeling up to touch his skin. Droplets collected on his fingers. “Wells have always been used to heal the wounded.” He held a bead of water before me. “Drink, and you will heal. Drink, and you will know. For I think that is why you fell here, of all places. You need to understand your other half. You need to know the truth of your soul.”

  I knew enough about gods and myth to know that there was always a price. One usually too high or horrific for mortals to pay. My vision and thoughts swam. Mimir was the only force holding me up, and now my legs were burning. So was my chest. So were my veins.

  Odin gave his eye to look into your well. I knew that. I could almost see the Allfather kneeling here, offering his sight so he could truly see. . . . Wait, was he there? Were the roots moving, or was it my imagination?

  Mimir smiled. His lips almost mirrored the curve of his scar.

  “The Allfather desired a great deal of knowledge. He sought me. This situation is quite different.”

  I slouched against him. This would have a price. This would have a terrible price. My vision shadowed at the edges, and with every blink, it was harder to open my eyes. I opened my lips and felt blood dribble out.

  What do you want? I wanted to ask.

  “I wish for you to understand,” he replied. “You need your shadow as much as she needs you. And unless you work together, we all are doomed.”

  I coughed. My blood splashed into the bowl, twisting in the waters like a crimson shroud. Mimir leaned forward, examining the shapes my blood made in the swirl. Dimly, I thought he would be upset, that I’d somehow ruined the magic.

  Instead, he made a clicking noise in the back of his throat and muttered, “Interesting,” to himself. What was interesting? My life was leaking out with every beat of my poisoned heart. And for some reason, that wasn’t as frightening as it should have been.

  “You will die soon if you do not drink,” he said. His voice sounded far away. As though he were speaking from the bottom of a very deep well. “And I cannot force the waters upon you.”

  Water, warm water . . . I closed my eyes, and I was in my dorm, the hot darkness of my shower, the steam of water cascading down my back. The walls bristling with raven wings. Munin? Munin, where have you been in all this?

  Something smacked my cheek. My eyes fluttered open.

  Mimir’s palm was streaked with red.

  “Drink, Shadechild,” he commanded. “Drink, and heal. And understand.”

  He used his bloodstained hand to lift my arm—the other held my entire weight—and guided it to the water. The clear water. Hadn’t I bled into there?

  The water was warm. But then, everything was warm. Hadn’t I been shivering? How was the snow so warm? The water burning? It sizzled like static against my skin, but it felt good. Divine.

  With Mimir’s help, I brought my shaking hand to my lips, let the waters drip over my tongue. Only I didn’t feel water. I felt the heat. The prickling power that pierced into my skull, shattering with gold and silver light. Light and power and heat, burning down my throat like a serpent.

  All the light in the world.

  And then, darkness.

  The godchild was born in the tangled roots of the World Tree. She was pure and clean, born of stone and starlight, and a single, withering root clung to her navel. She did not cry; she did not stir; she was as still as statuary. When the elders came and brought her down, she curled within their arms, wrapped tiny fingers around their wrists. They christened her in the river Vinderis, a drop of water on her brow—the kiss of gods and destiny. When she finally opened her violet eyes, they named her Freyja, Hrafndottir—daughter of raven.

  When she finally opened her eyes, they knew the end had come again.

  The words drifted through my mind as I floated in the darkness. They sounded like Munin’s, but the raven was nowhere to be seen. The world was too dark, the shadows too deep. Until I blinked, and saw her. Blink, and a spot of light. A pale pearl in the darkness, a glowing gem.

  There.

  And maybe it was magic, or movement, but the shape grew larger. Until I hovered, bodiless, beside the baby girl. Her skin fairer than porcelain, colder than snow. The roots coiled around her, a knotted crib. A twisted tomb.

  And then there were hands reaching toward her. Plucking her from the roots, the tuber on her navel snapping with a crack, the sound of metal on flint, the spark of a beginning. The speaker held her to his chest, his face illuminated by her light, his little fallen star. His face was grizzled, his skin mottled as earth.

  The ravens on each shoulder, larger than the girl.

  The patch over his eye, a cloth of spider’s silk.

  He looked at the raven on his left.

  “Go to her, Munin. Guard her memories. See she stays safe.”

  And the white-eyed raven bowed his head, then took off in a flurry of feathers.

  “You, Hugin,” the Allfather whispered, turning to his other avatar, “the godchild is your charge. Train her. Teach her. Give her your wisdom.”

  This bird bowed and leaped, and in a curl of shadows transformed into a man with ink-black robes, his face hooded. He reached out for the child, his bony, clawlike fingers curling around her with tender care.

  “Protect her,” Odin said, smoothing the girl’s brow. “Her destiny is far from kind.”

  The Allfather stepped back, into the shadows, and with a ripple of water, the trio was no more.

  • • •

  “Again,” he snapped. His anger made her flinch.

  The girl went through her motions, twin daggers slicing the air so fast as to be invisible. Sweat beaded her skin as she spun and flipped, dodging enemies in her mind’s eye. She refused to show weakness or exhaustion; with each cut, each turn, she kept her focus sharp, her motions intentional. She didn’t shake, even though I could feel the exhaustion aching in her limbs. She didn’t pant, even though I felt the burn of air in her lungs.

  Hugin stood a few feet away, robed and hooded as always, and he would take nothing less than perfection. Her mentor knew all things. And that meant he knew her to her core. If she gave less than everything she had, she would be there for days. She didn’t want to repeat that accident. She wanted to be finished. She wanted to return to Bragi. . . .

  Hugin grumbled something and waved his hand, and suddenly she was not alone. Shadows swirled around her, twisting into wraiths with claws like rapiers, their long, sinuous limbs slashing through her defenses.

  Freyja gritted her teeth but said nothing. She fought harder, both against the shadows and against the fatigue that wrapped around her.

  “Do not let your attention waver, Freyja,” Hugin said. His voice was more crisp than I’d imagined. Munin sounded like the rumble of waves, the depth of the ocean. Hugin was clearer, higher-pitched. Poetic.

  Despite her tiredness, she fought hard. The shadows didn’t die or disperse, but their ethereal n
ature didn’t keep them from harming her. Soon, she was covered in slashes. Not once did she scream. She wouldn’t give Hugin that satisfaction. She lunged toward another shadow, slashed it in half, only to watch it rethread and reach out again. Its taloned hand wrapped around her neck, forced the breath in her lungs to stillness. It squeezed, and her throat was millimeters away from collapsing.

  Hugin held up a hand. The shadows paused.

  “Remember how this feels,” Hugin said as he walked forward, tracing a slow loop around her like a shark circling its prey. “This agony. Notice the pain in your body, the fear in your mind. And notice how your mind reacts.” He knelt by her side. Her wide eyes tried to catch his but, as usual, she couldn’t see him through the depths of his robe. “Notice the resignation. As your breath slows and your heart hammers. As your brain tries to calculate any means of survival and finds there are none. You are accepting defeat.”

  Hugin watched the whites of her eyes turn red with a detached sort of fascination.

  “You must fight to the bitter end, Freyja.” He sounded sad. “Even now, you should be struggling. You should be trying to kill that which cannot be killed. Anything less, and you have failed. You know the price of that failure.”

  He snapped his fingers, and the shadows vanished. Freyja fell to the ground, her gasp a death rattle. Her wounds closed in the next heartbeat. But the pain, and the self-hatred, didn’t vanish at her defeat. Because she had brought this on herself. If she had stayed focused, he wouldn’t have summoned the illusions. He wouldn’t have had to show her this lesson. Again.

  Hugin stood and walked away.

  “Again,” he said, still facing away. He didn’t summon any more demons for her to fight. He didn’t turn around.

  She forced herself up on shaking legs, then picked up the daggers she’d dropped in her fall. She tried to force down the disappointment, to temper it into something she could use. Something beyond anger or need. A detachment, a single-pointed focus. She began moving through her forms again.

  Hugin still didn’t turn around.