Iduna's Apples (Valhalla Book 2)

by Jennifer Willis

  “Lady Maggie . . . ?” Geirrod appeared in the doorway. “Is there something unsatisfactory with your food today?”

  She didn’t look up. “No, it’s fine.” She grunted with the effort of working the apple pieces into a soggy pulp. “I’ll tell you what you could do . . .”

  She paused to examine the contents of the goblet. The apples had been reduced to to a coarse mash, with a thin layer of amber-colored liquid sitting on top. A glimmer of a smile played across her lips.

  Geirrod took a few steps into the room. “Lady Maggie . . . ?”

  She started grinding the apples again. “Bring me more water, and more sliced apples.” She glanced up at him. “And a mortar and pestle, if you’ve got it.”

  Geirrod watched her a moment longer, trying to understand her sudden flurry of activity.

  Maggie sighed heavily. “You got that?”

  Flustered, Geirrod dropped into a half-bow. “Of course. I will see to it immediately.”

  Maggie waited until the giant had disappeared down the dark corridor, then paused again to gauge the apple mash. She packed down the solid material as much as possible, then held the goblet to Loki’s mouth.

  “Okay, Loki.” She used the edge of the goblet to part his pale lips, and held the spoon in place to keep the mashed bits of apple from spilling out. Slowly, she poured the small bit of liquid into Loki’s mouth. “You won’t drink water, but let’s see if you’ll drink this.”

  Maggie sat back and watched. Geirrod would reappear any minute—probably with a whole bushel of apples and several vats of water. Now that she had an idea of what he’d likely expect from her later, his chivalry creeped her out.

  She clutched the goblet to her chest. “Come on, Loki. It’s good for you, I promise.”

  “Why waste your time?” Iduna called from across the room. “Accept your fate: We’ll both be brides to these giants, whether we like it or not. No one’s coming, not for either of us.”

  Maggie heard Geirrod’s approaching footsteps. If this didn’t work, she didn’t know how she’d explain her sudden need for more of the precious apples. She leaned forward and watched Loki’s chest. Was it her imagination, or could she actually now see the rise and fall of his breath? She turned her attention to his throat and watched for any sign of life.

  Loki swallowed.

  Maggie nearly leapt out of her seat. “Loki!” she exclaimed as loud as she dared.

  Iduna rose from her chair. “What is it?”

  Geirrod appeared in the doorway, carrying a large woven basket, and Maggie motioned for Iduna to be silent. The giant held the basket up for Maggie’s approval, then crossed the stone floor and set it down a few feet from her chair.

  “I apologize for the informal presentation.” Geirrod knelt and lifted a pail of sliced apples and a large pitcher of water out of the basket. “The urgency of your request led me to believe that any delay—even to arrange the fruit on a platter befitting a deity of your status—would be an unacceptable hindrance.”

  Maggie nodded curtly, and she heard Iduna’s attempt at stifling a snort. She hoped Geirrod didn’t notice the excited tears brimming in her eyes and threatening to spill onto her cheeks.

  “Additionally, we are quite busy with the preparations, as you might imagine.” Geirrod reached again into the basket and produced a sizable mortar and pestle, made from the same stone as the floors and walls. He set this on the floor beside the apples and water. “I trust that when you see the great banquet we are making ready, you will understand and even approve.”

  Maggie eyed him cautiously. Even on his knees, he was still at eye-level with her. “What banquet?”

  A wide, proud smile spread across Geirrod’s clumsy features. “Why, the wedding feast, of course!”

  Feeling a cold knot in her stomach, Maggie heard Iduna sink into her chair with a deflated sigh. “Whose wedding feast?” she asked, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Geirrod’s cheeks pinked with excitement. “The wedding of your kinswoman Freya to our own King Thrym!” he exclaimed. “Then our two clans shall finally be joined as one.” He dipped his head, his grin turning shy. “With more weddings between our peoples to come—as the season progresses, of course.”

  “Of course,” Iduna spat with a defeated wave of her delicate hand.

  “Is there anything else you require, Lady Maggie?” Geirrod asked hopefully. “Any other service I might render?”

  Maggie cleared her throat and looked away. “No. You may leave us now.”

  Geirrod bowed his head and got up to leave. He paused briefly at the end of Loki’s bed and looked down on the sleeping god. The giant’s face brightened. “You are working your healing magick, yes?”

  Maggie wiped at her tired eyes before looking up at him.

  “With the apples. You are working to restore him.” Geirrod gestured toward Loki. “I see some color returning to his cheeks.” Geirrod held a hand to his chest and bowed to her. “We had no doubt in your abilities. I will leave you now to continue your work.”

  Maggie watched his departure. Then she knelt on the floor next to the mortar and tossed a handful of apples into it. Next, she splashed some water into the bowl and sat cross-legged on the cold floor. She groaned with the effort of pulling the heavy bowl into her lap, but she figured she didn’t have a moment to lose. She started grinding the apples at once.

  “Okay, Loki,” Maggie called to him as she worked. “Let’s see if we can get some more of this into you.”

  She added more apples to the bowl. Across the floor, she could hear Iduna quietly weeping.

  11

  “I don’t like it,” Heimdall spat.

  He tried to get up from the living room chair where Freya tended his forehead. The swelling had largely subsided, leaving him with a purplish-red bruise to rival Mikhail Gorbachev’s birthmark.

  Freya grabbed Heimdall’s arm and pulled him back down into the upholstered chair.

  “You don’t like it?” She brushed the thick, blond hair out of his eyes and held a cool compress against the receding knot on his brow. “How do you think I feel? Your dear brother here has just promised me in marriage to a freaking Frost Giant. This very night, no less.”

  Thor stood with his back to the rented house’s picture window and its perfect view of Higravstinden. Heimdall looked like he was about to jump out of his skin, and Thor adopted what he hoped was a placating tone. “We didn’t find anything on the mountain, except for getting a bunch of rocks hurled at our heads.”

  “Your head,” Freyr corrected as he leaned against the wall.

  “What I mean is,” Thor continued, with a sharp look to his Vanir cousin, “we could be seriously outnumbered. And then when we caught Thiassen following us through town on our way back from the mountain . . . It was the best arrangement I could work out on the spur of the moment.”

  Freyr sank down next to Saga on the nearby sofa and gestured toward the god of thunder. “Because Thor improvising always turns out so well.”

  Saga giggled.

  Thor tried to catch his eye. “Freyr . . .”

  The nature god turned away. “You promised my sister to a Frost Giant, buck-o.”

  “The king of the Frost Giants, actually,” Thor corrected, then realized he wasn’t making the situation any better.

  Freya scowled across the room at Thor. “And you couldn’t have, I don’t know, taken the Frost Giant hostage or something? That way we’d at least have a bargaining chip of our own.”

  Heimdall reached for Freya’s wrist, and she stopped her ministrations. “And then the giants might have retaliated by harming Maggie or Iduna. You know Thor couldn’t take that risk.”

  Freya bowed her head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She sighed, and Heimdall could hear the tears in her voice. “I guess I’ll go ahead and marry Thrym, if that’s what will get Maggie back.”

  “There’s no way I’m letting that happen,” Heimdall tried to reassure her. He couldn’t
remember ever seeing Freya so unglued. “Concussion or not, I’ll find a way to get you out of it.”

  Thor stomped his foot, and the furniture rattled on the hardwood floor. “Well, of course it’s not going to happen!” He sighed loudly and rested meaty fists on even meatier hips. “What kind of an idiot do you think I am?”

  Everyone in the room paused and looked at him. Saga opened her mouth to offer a snide remark, but Thor held up a hand and waved her off. “Okay, don’t answer that.”

  “What’s going on?” Looking harried and disheveled, Sally emerged from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. Her hair stuck out from her head at odd angles—the result of static electricity from her latest round with the new runes—and the hem of her PSU Vikings sweatshirt was singed. “Did I just feel an earthquake?”

  Freya gestured silently toward Thor standing on the other side of the room.

  “Oh,” Sally nodded. She took a few more steps into the room and sat down on the arm of the sofa next to Freyr.

  Saga looked over at the Moon Witch. “What in the world happened to you?”

  “The runes,” Sally sighed. “They’re . . . just not cooperating right now.”

  “Not cooperating?” Freya turned to Sally, but the girl just shrugged in reply.

  Ignoring the interruption, Thor turned toward the window. He rested one hand on the heavy drapes and looked across the water at the mountain. “What I meant was, we needed some way of getting ourselves inside that stronghold.” He gestured toward Higravstinden, then turned his back to it. “And, we needed a way to secure ourselves at least some portion of the apples.”

  Refusing to look at Thor, Freya turned back to Heimdall. She dipped the compress into a metal bowl of mixed herbs and purified water, then squeezed it out and held it again to her cousin’s head.

  Thor took a few steps toward her. “You’re the best bargaining chip we have. Thrym wanted you all those centuries ago, and it seems he still wants you now. This is a good thing.”

  Freya faced him and lifted her eyebrows.

  “It’s a good thing for our strategy.” Thor raised his hands in a futile gesture. “We need this.”

  Freya shrugged and went back to tending to Heimdall.

  “We don’t actually really need you, anyway,” Thor offered. “You’re not going anywhere near that place.”

  Freya cocked her head to one side and looked up at him. “You don’t think Thrym will notice if his bride doesn’t show up for the wedding? The Frost Giants may be out of touch after spending thousands of years under ice, but they’re neither dimwitted nor oblivious.”

  “Oh, the bride will be there, don’t worry.” A wry smile spread across Thor’s broad face.

  Heimdall sighed and pushed Freya gently away. “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to approve of this?”

  Sally and Freyr glanced at each other, and Sally tried not to laugh. Covering with a cough, she looked away, blushing slightly and hoping no one else noticed.

  “They’ll only allow the bride and her brother to enter their stronghold for the ceremony, right?” Thor gestured toward Freyr on the sofa. “After that, we’d be kin, preventing us from taking any retaliatory action against them.”

  Heimdall’s jaw tightened. “Even though they kidnapped Maggie, and Iduna, and apparently have Loki as well? Even though they stole all of the apples out of the grove and forced us to our knees?”

  “Well, yeah,” Thor shrugged.

  “I’m afraid it’s the way of it.” Freya sat down on the sofa, strategically placing herself between Sally and Freyr. “You remember the periods of uneasy peace, when there were marriages and other partnerships and unions—no matter how impermanent—between the giants and the gods?”

  “I remember.” Heimdall sank back into the upholstered cushions. “But I’m not wild about this plan.”

  “You haven’t heard it yet. So, anyway,” Thor continued, his tone still upbeat, “Freyr and I will show up for the wedding, right on time.”

  Freya frowned up at Thor. “But if they’ll only allow the two of us in there . . .” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no. You are not going in there disguised as me!” Freya climbed to her feet and stomped across the floor toward him. “You don’t look anything like me. And there’s no makeover reality show on the planet that could change that.”

  Towering over her, Thor smiled. “That’s what bridal veils are for, darling.”

  Her mouth hardening, Freya crossed her arms over her chest. “Sure, it’s been a few thousand years since Thrym last saw me, but I don’t think he’s forgotten what a woman looks like, dear cousin.” She looked Thor up and down with a cold eye. “And, I mean, really, how fat do you expect him to believe I’ve gotten?”

  Thor’s face darkened, his breath high in his chest as his temper threatened to erupt. “I am NOT fat.”

  Freya laughed out loud. Tossing her long, blond hair over her shoulder, she smirked up at Thor and rested a gentle hand on his protruding belly. “Whatever you want to call it, I don’t exactly need you to fight my battles for me. I’m not some helpless damsel in distress.”

  “She’s got a point,” Sally offered. She’d been begging Freya for lessons at the dojo, but Freya kept turning her away. Freya insisted the Moon Witch should first turn her attention to developing and exploring her natural talents for magick, with some vague promise of possible martial arts training at some undefined point in the future. Sally knew—intellectually—that she was a clever and capable witch, when she could concentrate and keep her emotions in check. But she thought that Freya of all people would understand how helpless Sally had felt during much of the Battle of the White Oak as untrained and un-tested warriors engaged in hand-to-hand combat all around her.

  “Even before the martial arts training, I was a formidable opponent,” Freya continued. “But now, I’ve got karate, ju-jitsu, tae kwon do, judo, kendo, aikido, bokator, baranta, hanmudo, kung fu . . .” She poked Thor in the belly as she named each discipline. “Capoeira, muay thai, savate, wing shun, sikaran . . .”

  Sally was about to ask again for training—even a hurried lesson here in the living room—but seeming to sense the Moon Witch’s intention, Freya raised a hand and waved her off without even turning around.

  “No, Sally, I will not have you distracting yourself from your studies by indulging in some krav maga. Let your confidence come from your true power. Then we’ll talk.” Freya crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at Thor. “You name it, I’ve got it under my belt. You think I’m no match for a crusty old Frost Giant?”

  Thor smiled. “I like your spirit, cousin.” He clapped a strong hand on her shoulder and was doubly impressed when she didn’t flinch under the pressure. “I would never think to question your skill or ability.” He nodded toward Freyr. “You and your brother have proven your mettle. But from a strategic standpoint, I cannot send you into the giants’ lair.”

  “It’s the same problem as having you head up the mountain earlier,” Heimdall offered. “If it’s our women they want . . .”

  “But I could do a working,” Sally interjected. “An invisibility spell that would allow more of you to enter at once—”

  “No, Sally,” Heimdall cut her off with a stern look. The last thing he needed was for Sally to go rushing into the Frost Giant fortress and get herself captured, too. He’d be in for a severe lecture from his mother for allowing the Moon Witch to fall into enemy hands, but he’d also grown somewhat fond of the teenager. Despite her occasional outbursts, she’d grown up a lot these last months and was no longer quite so annoyingly whiny and needy for reassurance. He even admired the headstrong young woman that was emerging—when she didn’t get in his way.

  “We can’t very well deliver any females—butt-kicking warriors or not—into their hands.” Freya nodded her head, clearly disappointed. She glanced over her shoulder at Sally and Saga on the sofa. “So much for women’s lib.”

  Thor let go of her shoulder. “We’re dealing with ancient mindsets
here—”

  “If you’re supposed to be me . . .” Freya held her chin in her hand as she studied her cousin’s shape. “You’ll have to pass as the shy bride for only a few minutes, right? Still . . . We have to disguise your obvious, well, stocky maleness. Somehow.”

  Knowing the timing was inappropriate, Thor couldn’t help but blush at Freya’s appraisal. He started to turn away, but she looked past him to the heavy, tapestried curtains bordering the living room’s picture window. Then Freya glanced over her shoulder at Saga and tilted her head toward the drapes. “What do you think?”

  Saga rose to her feet and crossed the floor to stand next to Freya at the center of the room. “Hardly today’s traditional white, but we can probably make it work.”

  Thor looked from Saga to Freya, and back again, trying to figure out what they were scheming. He glanced briefly at Sally for help. She just shrugged and shook her head, but by the color rising in the girl’s cheeks and the smile she was trying desperately to hide, he was pretty sure she had an idea of what he was in for.

  He turned to the window. All he saw was the mountain and the fjord. “I don’t get it.”

  Saga took Thor by the elbow, then grabbed a fistful of the curtain. She held the fabric close to his face and frowned. The material—mostly a dull gold, with intricate patterns woven in kelly green and royal plum—glinted in the sunlight. “Not exactly your color.”

  It took a long, awkward moment for Thor to realize what she was hinting at.

  “You must be joking,” he said, pushing the material away from his face. “This fabric is hideously busy. It would never work as a wedding gown.”

  “O-ho!” Freyr sang out. “Look who’s a fashion designer now! When’s your guest spot on Project Runway?”

  Thor glared at his cousin, then softened his expression into a smirk as he turned toward Sally. He gestured at the curtains. “This is all just a little too Gone with the Wind, isn’t it?”

  Freyr rolled his eyes. “First, the fashion advice, and then the chick flicks?” Freyr glanced at Heimdall and hooked a thumb in Thor’s direction. “No wonder he’s still single. Or is he?” Freyr added with a lifted eyebrow.