by C. Gockel
Her lips quirk. “That’s two to my one. If you said that, I’d have to say thank you for pushing me through the World Gate in the wine cellar first so Benedal didn’t have time to charm me.”
Lionel grins. “I thought you said we should stop keeping score?”
Sitting up straighter, she lifts her chin, and her full lips part into a wide, genuine smile. “I did say that.” She is radiant. Leenine—and maybe all elves—are beautiful like still ponds. Tara is beautiful like a wild river with unexpected turns, bends, and currents. But she’s more than beautiful. She is clever. Not being magical has forced her to learn about magic in a roundabout, cumbersome way with human devices. The patience, persistence, and curiosity that must have motivated that has to be immense. She’s funny; even now, she’s making him laugh. And she hadn’t abandoned him, not in the alley, not in the Dark Elves’ prison, not after Rogier. She did not give up, not even in the Dark Elves’ cell, like he had.
Lionel’s own smile fades. “The man who let you go is an idiot.” The words are out before he’s thought of them.
For the second time in the morning, Tara looks taken aback. Her eyes fall and she smiles ruefully. “You’re right.” She lets out a long breath and her shoulders fall. “And wrong.” She meets his gaze. “He doubted me … but not without reason.”
Lionel tilts his head.
Shrugging, Tara says, “He’d moved out to Denver after Loki blew up the financial district and trolls, wyrms, and other things started showing up. I was going to join him. I had a job lined up and everything, but then—” She looks down again. “My father died unexpectedly. My mother was wrecked.”
Tara continues, and he can hear the unshed tears in her voice. “Dad left behind a lot of properties that he owned and managed. My mother couldn’t handle them all herself, and even though they are good, solid rental properties, their value had crashed after Loki and …” She takes a deep breath. “I had to stay and help my mother. My job in Denver went to someone else. I couldn’t afford to be traveling back and forth from Denver to Chicago without the job, and I couldn’t tell him how long it would take to straighten it all out.” Shrugging again, she nods to herself. “So, after a year and six months, he broke it off.”
Lionel’s brow furrows, his mind working out the math from what he knows from books of Midgard’s time scales. “That was only five hundred forty-seven days … it’s not long. He was an idiot.” If one’s species didn’t grant a soulmate, you couldn’t do better than Tara. He thinks of Leenine trying to convince him not to rescue her. Perhaps you could do no better even if you did have a soulmate.
Her dark eyes meet his. “For someone who lives centuries, probably not. But it was nearly a quarter of his adult life at that point.” She huffs. “Our lives go much faster, Lionel.”
Lionel goes very still.
“Anyway, I know it must be … disorientating, to lose that security,” she says. “Of knowing that you had someone. And … I can’t say thank you ...” She looks up at him from beneath long lashes, and nods.
An unspoken thanks … an unspoken bond, too?
He does feel disorientated, confused, and uncertain, even if he has no regrets. That she can empathize as one so young … The real gulf between them is time—the ruthless, magic-less abbreviated lives of humans.
He wants to gather her in his arms and savor what time they might have. Yes, he is upended by the severing of his soulbond, but Tara’s impending death doesn’t give him time to mourn the loss of his soulmate or life as an elf. His chest tightens. But he doesn’t know what he can give her. Odin seems intent on keeping him here. Lionel is not sure what concessions to his freedoms that will entail. He can’t believe she’d accept to be shuffled to the side, allowed only the status of mistress … if that. He can’t imagine any children they might have, living with second class status, relegated to shadowy visits from their father. His lips twist. He’d not even gotten that.
His jaw gets hard. He promised his mother he’d return Tara to her home world. He’ll do that, no matter the cost.
There is a knock at the door. Lionel thinks Asgardian mores are silly, but for Tara’s sake, he stands and says, “I’ll exit through the closet.”
Before she can answer, he leaves.
How to Be a Goddess
Tara is sitting in her room, wrapped in a luxurious robe, warm from a bath. There are six maids in front of her, including Ahnohr, from yesterday. Some are clutching neat stacks of silks; a few are holding sparkling shoes. One carries a bouquet of brilliant flowers in a vase. Some of the maids are paler than Lionel with hair textured like Tara’s, and some of them are even darker than her, with straight blonde hair.
“This,” says Ahnohr, holding up a sheer piece of silvery fabric, “is the dress of a Vanir princess. We’re in the midst of a Vanir revival, and it’s all the rage.”
Tara’s lips purse. She might have described it as a “fancy mosquito netting.” There are little gem circles at about chest level, and a gem triangle on a belt. Swirling a finger in the direction of what Ahnohr calls a “dress,” Tara asks, “What do you wear under it?”
“Your body!” says Ahnohr with a wink.
“No,” says Tara.
“But you’ve got the perfect form for it!” Ahnohr declares. “Not too slender, not too fat, perfect. Almost Valkyrian. Show it off …” Lowering her voice, she whispers, “You have the eye of the newly found son. He may be a bastard, and he does have those pointy ears, but he is the heir apparent.” There are murmurs of agreement from the other maids.
She says “pointy” like Tara would say “milk that was left out” and Tara’s skin heats. How dare they think Lionel’s ears hideous.
Crossing her arms, she eyes the dress. What does having the eye of an heir to a throne mean if you’re a lesser unmagical human, anyway? Mistress? She’s not going that route. “No,” she says again.
A maid behind Ahnohr, who looks tiny compared to the others, though she is probably at least five foot seven, whispers, “Ahnohr, remember the other human woman who was here? Their culture is more modest … the dress, it upset her so.”
“Other human woman?” Tara asks in shock.
“She was quite rude,” says Ahnohr with a sniff. “Not polite like you. She was too outspoken. The foolish thing went back to Earth, and she had the All Father’s eye.”
Tara blinks. Definitely not wearing the mosquito net. She almost asks to hear more about this “human woman,” but then the little maid unfurls a red bundle of fabric. “How about this?”
Tara gapes. It is an almost off-the-shoulder, ankle length gown. The shimmering fabric has folds that come together in a V at the chest that will give her a little more curve there, but it smooths out at the waist and stays smooth to just a little below the hip. There it flares into an A-line skirt. The satiny silk continues below a flowing sheer gold gossamer with vibrant red embroidery. The sleeves are also made of the same gossamer fabric, with cuffs embroidered with red.
“That is only a sorceress’s gown,” sniffs Ahnohr.
“I love it,” says Tara. She may never let them take it off her. She can tell in an instant that it will make the most of her skin tone and her athletic frame.
The tiny maid smiles. Behind her, other maids jostle to bring forward shoes, start discussing the makeup she should wear, and the nail polish.
An hour later, Tara is standing before a full-length mirror. Her makeup is perfect: lipstick a slightly darker shade of red than the dress, nails the same, and pale gold eyeshadow. They’ve accessorized the dress with a drop necklace of gold and rubies. For shoes, they’ve given her sparkly red and gold flats. Normally, Tara would decry flats as blasphemy of all that is good and fashionable—the dress deserves, no begs, for a sexy pair of heels. Although—the cute little “peasant” Light Elf shoes would have also worked—sadly, they’re in Benedal’s rooms back in Alfheim. All that said, recent events make her grateful for the ability to run. The only thing left … Tara picks at her hai
r, freshly washed, magically dried and standing up at attention in every direction, except for the few curls that seem determined to dangle over her forehead. “I look like a black dandelion gone to seed,” she mutters.
Nodding beside her, Ahnohr smiles. “I’m sure that is a lovely flower. But this needs something, you’re about to have an audience with the prince …”
There are titters all around, and “he looks so much like his brother except for those unfortunate ears!” and “Lionel’s hair isn’t curly.” Which makes Tara very confused. Thor’s hair isn’t curly, either.
“... and the king,” Ahnohr says. The tittering stops and there is earnest conversation about hair accessories. One of the maids breaks the bloom off a flower and presents it to Ahnohr. It is a red and yellow blossom that sparkles with golden pollen, not quite the breadth of Tara’s palm. “What about this?”
Ahnohr’s eyes widen. “Oh, yes, magic it so it will not wilt!”
The other maid blows upon it, and then Ahnohr pins it behind Tara’s ear. She turns Tara back to the mirror. “That is perfect,” she says.
All the other maids nod. Tara’s not so sure—yes, Tavende’s magic had made her natural hair glossy and healthy, but it is so short and puffy.
Ahnohr declares, “Look at the time. You’ll be late for your audience with the king,” and Tara decides she’s just going to have to go with it.
She’s led through the halls again, this time by Ahnohr. For some reason, the hallways have more people than the day before. Tara tries not to stare … but can’t quite help herself. Asgardians appear to come in every shade and are taller than the elves. They nod and smile at her in passing, whether they are dressed in servants’ garb, or more formal attire. She notices that, like the elves, social class and skin coloring do not seem to be at all related. She mentally searches the Asgardian language for “racism” and doesn’t find the word.
They pass a group of women in armor, wearing vests with wings attached, and swords in their belts. One of them calls to her in a cheerful voice, “Will you be joining the ranks of Freyja’s Valkyries, Sister?”
Tara shrugs and shakes her head, as Ahnohr leads her past them.
“We’ll be here for you if you need us!” One calls back in a very loud, boisterous, and camaraderie voice.
“You could, you know,” Ahnohr whispers. “Personally, for me, I’m too timid. Their training …” She shivers. “I don’t like being poked with spears or having my bones broken for practice.”
Tara’s eyes widen. “Pardon?”
“Well, generally they’re weaker than the male warriors,” Ahnohr explains. “So, they make it up with fierceness, indifference to pain, and the ability to heal wounds and bones faster. They practice those things … a lot.”
Tara’s knees go weak. Ahnohr stops at two double doors that are ajar. “I’ll leave you here, Milady.” She gives a wide grin and bounces on her feet. “I think the All Father has great plans for you, yes I do.”
“Great plans?” whispers Tara.
“Oh, yes,” says Ahnohr. “He put your room right next to Lionel’s.” She gives a knowing nod. “Play your cards right, ignore those ears, and you’ll do well.”
Tara’s brow furrows. A mental search does turn up a word for “class.” She’s pretty sure, as an unmagical human, she is among the least class, despite the hospitality. All she says, though, is, “Thank you, Ahnohr.”
The maid curtsies and smiles.
From the open door, Odin’s voice rumbles, “Tara Gibson, you’ve arrived.”
Tara turns. Within the double doors is a great room that appears to be a sort of foyer. There is a gold and red silk carpet, an enormous chandelier, and another set of double doors at the far side guarded by two men in gleaming armor. The doors are thrown wide open, and standing just inside is Lionel silhouetted by a beam of sunlight. He wears a sort of armored vest that appears to be made of white gold. Her breath catches. His eyes meet hers and he takes a step forward.
“Well, come in, Tara!” Odin says with a chuckle. Which is when Tara first notices the king, a little to Lionel’s left, behind a great wooden desk. Two ravens are hopping up and down on the back of an enormous chair behind him.
Lifting her chin, Tara enters the first great room and passes into the second. The doors slam behind her.
As Tara enters Odin’s study, Lionel feels breathless. Clad in the gown of a Vanir sorceress, she seems to float above the floor. Everything about Asgard is bigger than on Alfheim, even the inhabitants. They’re taller, stronger, broader in the shoulder. Tara looks like she belongs here. Her hair halos her face, and the red and gold of the sorceress’s gown and flower suit her perfectly.
The doors shuts, and Tara curtsies. “Your Majesty.”
“You look beautiful!” Odin rumbles with a smile, and Lionel internally berates himself for not having said it first. Recovering, he inclines his head, eyes on her midnight tresses, and says, “A halo suits you.”
It must have been the wrong thing to say because her lips purse and she looks confused. He turns quickly back to the All Father.
“Now, I need you two to tell me exactly what happened,” Odin says. “So I can resolve the fury among the elf High Houses.”
The ravens whistle. Tara gives Lionel a worried glance. He gives her a nod that he hopes is reassuring, and she begins her tale. When Tara tells of Rogier’s first advance upon her in Benedal’s chambers, Lionel thinks he almost turns the room to ice. Odin holds up a finger, eyes intent on Tara, and Lionel’s magic never leaves his fingertips. Lionel blinks, and sees the All Father’s magic wrapping around him. It is as dark and strong as a cloudy night.
When Lionel tells his version of events, he chokes up, relating how he told his mother to go to the edge of the Dark Lands. The Dark Elves are enemies of Odin and the Elf Queen. Has he turned his mother into one of Odin’s enemies? “I am sorry, sir, but I wasn’t thinking and—”
Odin cuts him off with a wave. “For Light Elves who irritate the High Houses, it is the only escape. Lady Benedal is vengeful and petty.”
“Tavende is too small to be in the Dark Lands alone,” Tara bursts out.
Lionel swallows and meets her wide-eyed gaze. She’s right. Even if his mother finds a safe house on the border, she’ll be in danger of starvation.
“Agreed,” Odin rumbles. “Your mother is much too gentle for that dark place. We will find her, son. Once we do, we’ll send out a party and bring her here where she will have amnesty.”
“Oh,” says Tara. “Yes.”
All Lionel can do is nod.
“Frigga will be … intolerable …” Odin mutters, referring to his wife. “But she’ll get over it.” Meeting Lionel’s gaze, he says, “Your mother can’t stay in the palace. However, there is a lovely cottage that has recently come back into my possession in the gardens. Tavende will love it.”
Lionel bows again. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
The king whistles, and one of the ravens rawks, “Yes, Master?”
“Find Tavende,” Odin instructs. “Tell her what I just told Lionel. If she has found a bolt hole, tell her to stay safe. If she hasn’t, help her find one or get to the Golden Road. I’ll deal with the Elf Queen and the High Houses.”
Lionel swallows. He supposes he shouldn’t be shocked that Odin knows that there are safe houses, “bolt holes” as he calls them, at the edge of the Dark Lands.
The raven bobs its head. “Yes, master.” Lifting its wings, it flies out the window. The other follows. Odin’s single eye bores into Lionel, as if guessing his thoughts. “Once we know her location, we can send a team.”
Lionel’s hands clench behind his back. There are hundreds of thousands of paces of border between the Dark Lands and the realm of the Light Elves. Intellectually, Lionel understands that sending the ravens is the fastest way to find and help his mother. Emotionally, he wants to leave now.
He bows low but can’t quite manage a thank you.
Odin comes around the s
ide of the desk. “And now … onto the matter of Ms. Gibson.”
Lionel straightens, feeling like his body is a wire pulled too tight. To his surprise, he finds Odin smiling genially, half sitting on his desk.
“You are as lovely on the outside as you are on the inside, Ms. Gibson.” Odin turns his single piercing eye to Lionel. “Did you know she has prevented the death of hundreds of her city’s citizens?”
Lionel’s jaw falls open and he looks at Tara. Her eyes are wide.
A smile tugs at Lionel’s lips. “I did not, but I am not surprised.”
Putting a hand to her mouth, Tara says, “I am.”
Chuckling, Odin says, “Your timely warnings to the populace through your”—he grimaces—“magical tele-phones and com-pu-ters has saved many an innocent.”
“Oh,” says Tara.
“You went around your superiors to do so.” His single eye narrows, and Lionel straightens. Odin doesn’t like anyone subverting him.
Tara lifts her chin. “They were too busy with interdepartmental politics to think of the people who might be hurt.”
Lionel slides infinitesimally closer to Tara. He isn’t sure where Odin is going with this.
Odin nods. “Agreed, and I can’t abide that sort of inefficiency and pettiness.” He waves a hand. “And for a woman to go around her superiors out of mercy—” He tilts his head. “It is not such a bad thing.”
Tara looks at the floor. Her eyes are wild and confused. Lionel is confused, too.
“Would you like to help more people, Ms. Gibson?” Odin asks.
Tara lifts her head. “Pardon, Your Majesty?”
Odin sighs. “I’ve been failing your world, Ms. Gibson.”
Tara glances at Lionel, and he can see the silent plea for help, but he doesn’t know what to say. He shrugs and shakes his head. Looking back at the All Father, Tara says softly, “I’m sure that is not true.”
Raising an eyebrow, Odin says, “The trolls, wyrms, Dark Elves, and other monsters coming to your world, they are my responsibility to keep out, and I have been failing.” He releases a long breath. “Before, Loki would close the World Gates that open from time to time in your realm.”
