The Lost Sun

by Tessa Gratton

  I stare down now at Astrid’s fingers on my knee. “My father,” I whisper, just as Astrid says, “Always the bear.”

  His last words to me, when he gave me the sword.

  “Huh?” says Vider.

  “I think …” I meet Astrid’s wide eyes. If I hadn’t told her that story this morning, I never would have let myself remember. “What if my father was one of Idun’s Bears? That’s why I’m supposed to know where the orchard is.”

  Vider asks where he is, and when I say he’s dead, she flushes but offers condolences. I cannot remember the last time anyone told me they were sorry he passed into Hel.

  “What about your mother?” Baldur says. “Can you call her?” The sun turns his eyes to gold.

  I look down into my lap. “I haven’t seen her in five years.”

  Astrid takes my hand. But I don’t deserve her sympathy. I give her a sideways glance. “I never looked for her, Astrid. I never tried. I didn’t care to, and I still don’t.”

  “Why?” In Astrid’s voice are all the years she’s spent hunting for her mother.

  “She doesn’t want me. I remind her of him.”

  “She said that to you?” Baldur is aghast, and perhaps if I were still twelve and wanting her love, it would be endearing.

  “No. But I know. She was arrested after I was tattooed, and charged with criminal negligence for not getting me training, for putting the public at risk. She was guilty, but she requested a holmgang trial, saying if she was good enough to win, she could have been teaching me herself. She did win, so the charges were dropped. I saw her for the last time at the trial. And after, she never came to collect me. I went into state protection, ended up at Sanctus Sigurd’s with Master Pirro.”

  Baldur frowns at me. “It is too long to go without speaking. We owe our parents honor, at least.”

  I want to argue that he has left his mother, Tova, rotting in Hel since Loki tricked her into drinking poison. But right now I care more about what Astrid thinks of me. Her hand remains on my knee, gripping tightly. I hesitantly look at her face. I expect disappointment, expect her eyes to be filled with recrimination because all she wants in this world is to find her mother.

  Instead she’s staring beyond me. Twisting, I see what she’s looking at. Father’s sword. The sheath is a long black bone half-hidden in the grass beside the creek.

  Father.

  The thought latches onto my heart and suddenly I’m terrified, but Astrid digs her fingers into my knee and I snap my eyes to hers. They’re wide, the color matching the late-winter grasslands.

  “What?” Vider asks.

  My eyes are only for Astrid, because I suspect what she’s thinking: on Baldur’s Night, when she danced and I anchored her in this world, she said if her mother was truly dead, she’d be easy to find. I could summon her spirit then, as I could summon your father.

  I shudder at the very idea.

  Baldur says, “Soren?” But I’m stuck thinking of Styrr. Of my father.

  I see him with blood splattered across his face, kneeling before me and offering his sword. He touches my face with fire-hot hands, then gets to his feet and faces the line of police.

  My father. Swinging me onto his shoulders, where I sit clinging to his hair as he charges across a stoneball court. I laugh as his jarring gait bounces me hard against him.

  My father. Screaming the Berserker’s Prayer, running under garish mall lights and the Hallowblot streamers.

  My father. His lips against Mom’s hair.

  My father.

  How can I face him again, even in death? How can I agree to have him dragged to the Middle World, where he’ll be forced to remember? Where I’ll be forced to remember?

  Astrid’s eyes are huge. Her lips part; she’s panting shallow, fearful breaths.

  I whisper, “Astrid.”

  “We can ask him,” she says.

  Vider’s mouth falls open. My own dismay is reflected in the surprise coating her face. But Baldur waits beside her, golden in the sunlight. Calm, strong, and so vulnerable. For him, I cannot balk at difficult choices. Bad enough I’ve felt the frenzy and lost so much of my control. I will not fail him because of fear. I will not fail Astrid.

  I clutch at both her hands. “Yes,” I say. “We can.”

  FOURTEEN

  IT ISN’T A ritual to perform in the daylight.

  We have several hours to wait, and Astrid must use them to prepare her body and mind through meditation. I try to attend her, but she shoos me off and says I should rest. It will be the two of us alone, and she’ll need all my strength to anchor her.

  “What kind of anchoring?” I ask. “Will it just be to catch you, like before? Do I need to prepare, too?”

  She taps a finger against her lips, then her hand flutters away. “All sorts of things can go wrong with a resurrection ritual. I could summon the wrong spirit. Whatever spirit I summon could possess me, or decide to tear us apart if I’m not careful. Your father might come, but be caught up too much in his final memories, in which case …” Astrid shrugs.

  “In which case he’d be in the middle of a full killing frenzy,” I say, stepping forward to loom over her. “Astrid.”

  “Or …” She puts her hand on my chest to back me away. “Or I could manage to produce nothing at all. Or simply lose myself in the darkness beyond the stars.”

  “I don’t like this at all.”

  “It’s what we have.”

  “I should try calling my mom on the phone instead.”

  “You said you don’t even know where to begin with that. It could take days to reach her.”

  “But it’s better than risking so much. This is insane!” I fling out my hands.

  Astrid catches them and pulls them together. “I can do this, Soren. I only need to prepare, and I need you to help me. We can do this together.”

  I hunt for the truth in her eyes.

  “I promise,” she says, placing her fingers very gently over my tattoo.

  What would it take for me to say no to her?

  “I’m strong, Soren, and you know it. Especially with you at my side. My mother did this three times, and always with success.”

  My sigh is consent enough, and Astrid takes her seething kit south along the creek. I stare after her, nerves pulling me tight, until she is only a tiny figure against the grass.

  Baldur comes up behind me. “I want to get closer to the sky.” He’s feeling alert, but his blood is running slowly, he says, and perhaps the sun will lend him vitality. He eyes the partially collapsed roof of the barn.

  I frown, following his gaze. There’s a patch of roof that appears solid from here, but I don’t trust it. Before I can say so, Vider dashes inside. We follow to find her scaling the inner wall up to the hayloft. She discards Astrid’s cardigan, and it falls softly all the way to the floor. “Vider, be careful,” I call up.

  “Don’t distract me!” Her fingers grip a dark board and she lifts herself easily as a spider. She isn’t even watching her feet, and her toes seem to stick to the wood. By the time she reaches the jagged hole in the roof, I’m half-convinced I could do it.

  With perfect balance, Vider crawls to the edge. She crouches on hands and feet, then slowly rises. Her arms splay out and the wind catches the loose tendrils of her hair. She is all silver and green in the sunlight, skinny and graceful as an egret. In a few quick steps, she’s around the gaping hole and standing directly over us, where a heavy crossbeam holds up the rest of the roof.

  Bending over to wave down at us, she says, “I think this is sturdy.” To prove her point, she jumps up and lands hard on the flat of her feet. The crossbeam doesn’t even shake.

  “Excellent!” Baldur removes his sandals and T-shirt.

  I touch his arm. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “I want to be close to the sun. And”—he dips his head to seem more earnest—“I’ll be careful. No tripping and ruining the mission, I promise.” His eyes shine and I know I’d have to pin him to the
ground for the rest of the day to convince him not to climb up there with Vider.

  With a sigh, I release him. Briefly I consider climbing up, too, but I weigh more than both, and what would I do on the roof?

  Instead I go outside again, where the grassland meets the creek, and do what I do best. Especially in a stressful situation.

  I let myself fall into the empty place where I’m not thinking or feeling, only moving with the beat of my heart. My hands are shovels, scooping energy from the world, moving it up through my torso, over my head, around and around in a calm sphere. I dance my slow dance, allowing the chip of chaos to churn and crunch in my chest. I move where the energy wills, where my body naturally shifts from step to step.

  It’s easier, for some reason, than it has been before, to move the hot frenzy.

  I’ve lost all thought of time, my senses are open and my body’s energies aligned, when Vider comes hesitantly toward me.

  She knows not to leap into my path or startle me, and keeps back a few meters. I’m glad she’s here; I want to talk to her about why she’s afraid of Fenris. Most Lokiskin don’t know the gods any more personally than I know Odin.

  Letting out a long breath, I settle into a solid stance and look at her.

  All her pale hair falls around her shoulders and she watches me with hunger sparking her green eyes. There is a new, long pink scratch down her left forearm, and dust marring her cheeks. She says, “Soren, there’s something I think you should see.”

  My eyes dart toward the roof, and she hurries to assure me. “Baldur’s fine. Basking.”

  And I see the glint of gold where he lies splayed against the dingy white roof. “What’s wrong, then?” I ask Vider.

  “This way.” She flicks her hand at me to follow, and leads me around toward the north face of the barn. Here in the lee, the paint is less bleached, less worn away. I can see the red it used to be.

  The day is warming nicely, so that in the moments between one breeze and the next I feel the presence of spring. Vider crouches against the barn, where scraggly bushes clump together. She points at the dusty ground. I bend down with her and see that there are paw prints clustered. Small, and without claw marks. “Barn cats?” I say, glancing at Vider.

  She’s got her elbows resting on her knees in a very childlike pose, and frowns down at the prints. “That’s what I thought at first. But look.”

  We walk ten feet north, through grass that scratches at my jeans. The paw prints fade, but the last two are definitely aimed in this direction. Vider pauses beside two stones, one knee height and the other just shorter, both of them huddled together as though seeking comfort. They’re taller than they are wide, and oblong.

  I turn a full circle, scanning the ground. No other rocks like these near. It isn’t rocky ground at all, but rolling grassland. When my eyes hit again on the huddled stones, my stomach sinks.

  Troll sign.

  Here in Cheyenne, we’re bunched up next to the Rock Mountains and the Bitterroots that stretch into the Canadia Territories. I’ve never been so near Trollhome. These are plains around us, but with the troll advisory, even if Vinland is far to the east of here, we’re in clear danger.

  And I forgot.

  In all the intensity of the past twenty-four hours, I forgot to keep on guard against trolls. I stare north, and then turn slowly all around. The nearest trees are on the other side of the creek, and to the northwest where the water curves. There’s no flash of paint that might be warning runes. We’ve been completely vulnerable.

  Vider says, “These must have been caught out at dawn, on their way back to their den.”

  “I heard nothing.”

  “Neither did I, but I was sleeping pretty soundly.”

  “I was awake.” I put one of my boots against a stone troll. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been to not keep aware of my surroundings, to neglect the dangers of being out alone, where there are no ranger patrols or warded trees.

  Vider puts a hand on her forehead as a visor, peering north with me. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t make any mischief for us.”

  Scraping my sole down the rock, I nod. “At least they’re small ones.” Greater mountain trolls don’t tend to fraternize with their littler cousins, which suggests we don’t have to worry too much. But the small grass-wights can be as dangerous, if they have a large enough pack or a smart troll-mother. Once the sun goes down, these two stones will melt back into flesh—creatures with tooth-filled mouths and spindly arms.

  And we can’t pack up and drive away. We need the privacy of this barn and the flowing water for Astrid’s summoning ritual.

  I suck a breath in through my teeth. “We have to find their den and bind them, or appease them. Run back to the car and grab some of the mead, and a handful of the energy bars. We can all manage without until tomorrow’s lunch. Be sure to leave some mead for Astrid to use tonight if she needs it.”

  Vider runs off, and I go collect Father’s sword. I strap it on, to my left shoulder while my right continues to heal. I’m less skilled at left-hand draw, but still better than most. I make it back to the troll-stones first, and carefully pick them up. Hopefully, returning them to their den will be step one of soothing any disgruntled troll-mother.

  They’re heavy, but I tuck one under each arm. Vider’s eyes widen when she sees them, but she sets off first. There isn’t a path, but it seems the grass is bent just enough for her to track them. I’m impressed. The caravans usually have well-established routes, and their territory is marked by warded trees and ribbons braided into leaves or grass. But still, it’s the children’s task in the caravans to do a sweep every morning for troll sign.

  Vider’s sharp eyes catch more catlike paw prints in the dirt, so we know we’re heading in the proper direction. We veer farther away from the highway, which is hidden by a large roll of hill, and closer to the creek and the tall groves of evergreen and birch trees. Through the clicking bare branches, I see the farmhouse.

  The trolls, of course, are why our barn was abandoned.

  We stand in the yard. Vider’s shoulder brushes my arm. My wrists are tired from carrying the hefty stones, but I don’t put them down yet. The farmhouse is two stories, a single white rectangle with windows like dark eyes. The front door’s been torn from its hinges and lies in the tangled lawn like a discarded toy. A porch swing hangs by one chain. Most of the structure, including the roof, appears intact. But across the face of the second story is painted a purple rune: thorn.

  Do not enter here, it warns, for I am inhabited by trolls.

  “I don’t think we can bind this whole house,” Vider whispers. “Not without Astrid.”

  And we can’t bother Astrid unless we absolutely must. “Bring the mead,” I say. I walk slowly forward, eyes on the doorway. I stop several paces from the shade of the porch to turn in a circle and show any wights peering at me from the interior darkness that I am unarmed but for my sword. Vider walks with her arms out, the mead in one hand, the bundle of bars in the other.

  We proceed carefully. There’s a large iron elf-cup right beside the front door. Like an upside-down bowl, with a tiny impression pressed into the top of its dome, the cup is made for offerings to the land-wights and goblins. This cup is bone-dry, and likely has been for years.

  Vider knows what to do. She uncaps the mead and goes purposefully to the elf-cup. She drips just enough in to fill it, though one quick drop slips down to the porch floor.

  A tapping sound begins, coming from inside the doorway. It echoes through the wood of the porch.

  The steps creak mightily under me, but I ignore them to bend down and gently place the troll-stones on the wooden floor, where they’re completely shaded.

  Then Vider dashes to me and we back away.

  “I am Soren Bearskin, son of Odin,” I call. The tap-tap-tap stops immediately.

  Vider says, “And here is Vider Lokisdottir.”

  “We bring you honey mead and cakes of nuts and berries; we bring you two o
f your lost, sun-frozen brethren.”

  The darkness through the doorway shifts. There’s something—or many somethings—inside. Their claws click against each other, creating a sound like insects flying.

  The larger of the stone trolls shivers. The shade cools it, and a thin layer of stone cracks where its head will be. Tiny crumbs tumble away. As it shrugs its shoulder, the smaller troll begins quaking as well.

  The stone breaks apart and they wake. The larger has orange eyes as big as apples, thick shoulders, and a ridge of fur down its back. It bares square teeth at us, hulking over onto its fists. But the smaller crouches, looking like nothing so much as a cat with arms and hands instead of forelegs. Its whiskers twitch and it puts one of those hands against its compatriot. The angry troll closes its mouth, while the cat-wight smoothes its whiskers and hisses, “Cakesss.”

  Vider unwraps one of the bars and takes it forward. I want to tell her to toss the thing its cake, but won’t interrupt. She creeps closer on tiptoe, holding out the energy bar. The cat-wight reaches out, too, and Vider must go all the way onto the first porch step so that it has no fear of moving into the sunlight. “Here, little brother,” Vider says gently.

  The larger troll quivers, but does not move, as the cat-wight nibbles at the bar. Vider remains at the foot of the porch steps. When the cat-wight has eaten half the bar, it offers the rest to the other and then holds out its hand. It curls its claws in a gesture for more, more. I gather up the rest of the bars and bring them. Holding them carefully, I crouch down and let the two trolls pick them out of my hands. The orange-eyed troll stuffs them under its arms and trundles inside with them. It chants something guttural that sounds like “Shiny-shiny-shiny.”