by Matt Larkin
Sigyn’s mouth hung open a crack. Of all the things she’d expected he might say, that was not one of them. Her first reaction was to dismiss the implausible claim. The idea of a goddess traveling to a small Ás tribe and offering the gift of immortality was absurd. But then, so was a man riding an eight-legged horse or slaying a jotunn. If the gods had truly chosen Odin, then the man was destined for a life of greatness, be it great glory or great tragedy. Sadly, the two so often went hand in hand.
She tried to speak, but only a pathetic gasp of breath escaped.
Loki raised a hand as if to forestall any further questions. “I believe I have upheld my part of our bargain. Now I have a question for you.”
Sigyn blew out another breath. “A deal is a deal.”
“So it is,” Loki said, his eyes locked on hers. “Consider this. Odin now faces the question of eternity. Ask yourself whether the life you live is one you would be content with for the rest of time, or if, in his place, you would find your existence wanting. Tell me, Sigyn, have you not felt aught missing from your life, as though some part of your soul sought for something you could not quite name?”
“I …” She swallowed. What did that mean? That she was lonely? Without doubt she was. How could she not be when most people, even her own father, had never understood her? At best she was tolerated, at worst feared and mocked for the very talents the gods had blessed her with.
Loki rose, still smiling. “Thank you for the direct answer, Sigyn. We should probably return to the warmth of the hall.”
But for a while she sat there, shivering, unable to stop running his words through her mind.
30
The pounding inside Odin’s head was even louder than the pounding on the door. For a moment he pulled the furs over his face, as if that could cut out the banging. Too much mead last night. Or perhaps not enough—a few more pints and maybe he’d have slept through this interruption. Instead, he stumbled over to the door and flung it open.
“What in the name of Hel’s frigid crotch is going on?” he demanded.
The servant, a chambermaid, reeled back, her mouth agape. Poor girl was probably no more than fourteen. Gods, Loki had been right. Odin was a vulgar man. It appeared that was something he’d have to work on.
“Uh, apologies, my lady. You woke me from a pleasant dream.”
The girl stared at her feet. “Jarl Hadding summons … er … requests your presence.”
What now?
“Fine. Run along and tell them I’ll be there shortly.”
Odin rubbed his palms against his eyes then stumbled over to a wash basin and dunked his head in the chilled water. Gods! That’d wake him well enough. He shook his head, flinging droplets of water around the room before donning his tunic.
Finally he strode out to the great hall, where Frigg and Sigyn stood by Hadding’s side. The jarl shifted in his throne with poorly disguised pain. The old man squinted at Odin before speaking. “Jarl Odin, let us not mince words. You have been holding out on your prospective allies. It has come to my attention you hold a great gift, the greatest gift a man could hope for.”
This was not mincing words? Odin folded his arms. If the jarl wasn’t going to be direct, neither would he. “Indeed. My sexual prowess is legendary, so I shouldn’t be surprised word has reached this far. Your daughter shall not be disappointed.”
Frigg pressed her lips together, barely hiding her displeasure. Sigyn blushed and stared at her feet.
Hadding glowered and rose from the throne, his knees popping as he did so. “I know you have apples that grant eternal youth! Don’t you think your allies deserve such—” A cough wracked the man’s chest, then he rubbed it before continuing, “such considerations?”
How in the burning flames of Muspelheim did he know about the apples? It was too much to hope Odin had kept the secret from his own people, but who would have told the Hasdingi? Of course, every one of them had been drunk last night. For all Odin knew, he himself might have let that slip in his boasting. Dammit, this was not what he wanted to face. Even if the apple would cure Hadding of his ailments—and Odin didn’t know if they worked that way—the man wasn’t just old, he was a coward and a weakling. Hardly someone Odin wanted to spend eternity with. Besides which, he had only one apple left, and that was meant for Frigg. He needed his queen by his side.
Odin clenched his fists at his side for a moment before answering. “Rest assured, Jarl, I will treat my allies right. Those who earn my friendship will get what they deserve.”
Hadding nodded, apparently satisfied with Odin’s words, though Sigyn frowned. Odin tried not to look at her. The girl had recognized his words actually promised naught. She was a clever one, one worth watching. And if she told Hadding, would he listen?
Hadding coughed again. “Well, then”
“Once the marriage is concluded, our alliance becomes formal. Why stand on tradition? We could well hold the ceremony tomorrow.”
When Odin turned from Hadding he caught Frigg smiling at him. It was well she was pleased with the union. Eternity was a long time to spend with an unhappy wife. Odin returned her nod. She whispered something in her father’s ear, and he grumbled about it.
“I’m afraid we need at least one more day to arrange the feast.”
Odin tried not to let the irritation mar his face. Every moment he wasted with this frivolity was a moment Ve slipped farther from him. If the only way to save his brother was to bed Frigg, that was hardly an onerous task. But they needed to get on with it. Still, arguing over it would only lead to suspicions and quarrels. Odin waved his hand in acquiescence. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He then strode off to find Tyr. The warrior was outside, despite the early morning hour, shirtless and working through forms with his sword, a daily regimen Odin wished he still had time and discipline for himself. Once, growing up, he’d trained like that with Tyr every morning.
“Come to join me?” Tyr asked without looking his way or even pausing in his strokes.
How the fuck did he do that?
“The jarl has set the wedding for the day after tomorrow.”
“Good.” Tyr continued swinging his sword, not even looking at Odin. A master of the blade, for certain.
“I’m going to ask for a house here, for my brothers. Watch over them.”
Now Tyr paused mid-stroke, and turned to face him, sweat streaming down his face. “They are men grown.”
Odin stepped close to the thegn. He had to trust someone with this. And he had named Tyr his champion. How far did the man’s loyalty stretch? “After the wedding, I will have to leave, to find these Niflungar. Hadding has learned of the apples and thinks I’ll give him one. I have none to offer him, nor would I if I did.”
“Not a strong man. Not anymore.”
Odin grunted. “I see you understand me. The jarl will not be well pleased. He might even encourage the Wodanar to leave Halfhaugr.”
“We need it.”
They did. Odin had sworn on Gungnir and his father’s name to make himself king. And that meant holding a fortress like Halfhaugr.
“Most of our warriors, half the tribe, they dwell inside the town walls for the wedding. If Hadding pushes too far while I am away, do what you must, but do not lose this place.”
Tyr’s grumble sounded almost like a growl, but he nodded.
31
Sigyn pulled the golden headband from Frigg’s brow, staring at it a moment. Unmarried noble girls wore these as a symbol of purity. And now she would be wed in mere hours. Traditionally, this ceremony should have taken place the day before the wedding, but both Hadding and Odin seemed all too eager to speed things along.
Their father because he was too blinded by greed for the apples to think of aught else. Odin because … well, Sigyn had to assume Odin had reasons beyond simple lust for Frigg. The man sought power. And while he had promised naught definitive in his clever wordplay, he would be locked into alliance if he married Frigg. Nor could she imagine he’d
want an enemy of the Hasding tribe, not after going to such lengths to gain them as allies. And if Sigyn aired her fears to Frigg, it would only further agitate her already apprehensive sister.
“Why are we rushing all this?” Frigg asked again, while the maids pulled away her dress.
Sigyn wrapped the circlet with care. If Frigg had a daughter, she’d present this to her one day. “Father is just overwhelmed. You know he’s not well.”
“And you really think those apples might save Father?” Frigg suddenly seemed aware of the other women around.
“I don’t know,” was the only answer Sigyn could offer. She had no reason to doubt Loki’s statement, but it all seemed too fantastical. She’d found Loki a few more times over the past day, and though every conversation had been fascinating, none had truly revealed much. “Come.”
Sigyn took Frigg’s hand and led her to the bath the others had drawn. Rocks heated in a brazier decorated the room. Sigyn dipped her hand in the water. It was almost too hot to bathe in, but it would cleanse Frigg of her old life in a ceremony every girl dreamed of, and one Sigyn would never be like to know herself. She flicked drops of water from her fingers on the heated stones, starting a curtain of steam throughout the room. The other five girls did the same while Frigg eased into the bath. Before long, Sigyn was tempted to remove her own clothes as well. The room had filled with so much steam a sheen of sweat built on her forehead and damped her blouse. It wouldn’t take much of this for her to miss the damned snow.
If she was honest with herself, Sigyn envied Frigg for all of it. The rituals, the ceremony, the honor, having a man between her legs … Frigg, vӧlva that she was, was getting it all. And Sigyn should be happy for her sister. She was happy for her. But being part of all this forced her to confront her own distance from everyone else. Now she’d lose one of the only people in the whole tribe who understood her. Sigyn knew part of Frigg had feared her, feared she would replace her as Father’s heir. Sigyn could only hope this marriage alliance would ease that fear, because Frigg was also one of the few people she truly cared for.
At last they led Frigg to another bath, this one unheated. The icy water would wash away the sweat and warmth and the old life Frigg had known. Sigyn did not envy her that ritual. Her sister shivered as she sunk into this tub. She dunked herself underwater briefly, then rose. One maid handed her a towel, while Sigyn watched the other maids gathering Frigg’s dress, its deep green fabric embroidered with red knotwork.
Frigg’s mother should have been here to do all these things. Though Frigg was two years older, it had been Sigyn to comfort Frigg when her mother died. Agilaz and Olrun had been the only parents Sigyn had ever known.
After Frigg had donned her new gown, Sigyn placed the bridal crown on her head. It was real gold, taken in a raid centuries back, before the Hasdingi had settled at Halfhaugr. Vӧlvur spoke of those days, living in Bjarmaland, raiding villages for plunder. Odin’s people still lived that way. Sigyn liked to think abandoning the savagery represented progress. Would Odin take them back to such days? Unless, of course, she were to truly believe Frigg’s vision of spring, mist-madness though it sounded. But Loki had said the Vanr goddess had chosen Odin. And much as she wanted to dismiss it as superstition, the foreign tracker had a way about him, one that bespoke wisdom and truth.
Frigg straightened the crown on her head and examined herself in the reflection of a washbasin. She blew out a slow breath, then stared at herself in silence for a long moment—a silence Sigyn dared not break. What tensions and joys did her sister feel this day?
“I am ready,” Frigg said at long last, eyes still locked on her reflection.
Sigyn took her by the hand and led her out through the great hall.
“Jarl Odin has already given the bride price and brought a sword,” a servant told her.
This was it, then. She led Frigg out into the yard. By now, the sun had risen. Most of the townsfolk had gotten little sleep through the night, but the excitement filtering through town was intoxicating.
Odin’s people stood in front of a table laden with gold and silver ornaments. There were necklaces wrought like winding serpents, arm rings of twisted gold, a headband depicting Yggdrasil. Hadding would probably have accepted an offer of half as much. For the apples, he’d have probably taken a tenth of it.
For a dowry, he presented two goats, two horses, and two cows. If Odin took offense at the offer, he gave no sign, nor had he during negotiations. He was so eager for Frigg, Sigyn almost had to wonder if he truly had feelings for her sister. A marriage for love was uncommon at best, despite the tales skalds told of such things. No, impossible. Odin would have come himself if he had … And Tyr had acted without his jarl’s knowledge.
Hadding and Odin clasped hands, accepting the exchange. Odin turned to wink at Frigg. Sigyn couldn’t see her sister’s face beside her, but she assumed she gave no reaction. Frigg was so poised. So responsible. For the sake of her marriage, Sigyn hoped her sister could show a little emotion when Odin was bedding her. The last thing a man like Odin probably wanted was a woman indifferent to his attentions.
Already, laughter filled the air, mingling with raucous shouts. Someone had opened the mead.
The procession continued on to the grove just outside town. Marriages were always held here where the fertility spirits could bless it, most especially Freyja, the goddess of sex. If she heard them at all, Sigyn wasn’t convinced Freyja would care. At least she’d never listened to any of Sigyn’s prayers.
Odin presented his ancestral sword to Frigg, a finger ring resting on its hilt. Sigyn’s sister hesitated only a moment before taking the sword and putting the ring on her finger. A maid in turn came and gave Frigg a ring and sword, which Frigg handed to Odin. The jarl took both, slipping on the ring and sliding the sword into a scabbard already prepared for it. He’d wield that for the rest of his life, using it to defend his family—or so the tradition went. In turn, Frigg was meant to hold the ancestral sword in trust for their first son. Sigyn was no sap, but she liked the custom. The tribes were now bound by rings and blades, their fates entwined.
“Now let us feast!” Hadding proclaimed.
The crowd cheered and raced back toward the great hall. Sigyn grabbed Frigg’s hand, pulling her along. Unsurprisingly, Odin and his warriors were first back to the hall, meaning the bride’s party would serve the mead. Sigyn didn’t mind. As everyone sat around the table, she moved from one warrior to the next, taking their measure while she poured drinks. Odin’s two brothers could not be more different in appearance—the one a mountain bursting with vivacious laughter, the other a short man who stared vacantly ahead. Then there was Tyr, the champion, always solemn, always watching everything. And, of course, Loki, whose eyes followed her every step. She felt them searing into her back as she walked around the table. Her cheeks burned at the thought of it.
When everyone was seated and had a drink, Frigg sipped the bridal mead daintily. She wiped her lips, then handed Odin the drinking horn. The Wodan jarl chuckled, and Frigg frowned. Then Odin downed the mead in one swig and slammed the horn on the table. At that rate, the drink would run out before the honeymoon. Still, Sigyn had to smile at his exuberance.
Servants brought course after course of food to the table. There were platters of wild vegetables gathered in the woods early that day—celery, radishes, spinach. Troughs of butter, curd, and cheese, flatbreads, apples, and plums decorated the table … If Hadding had skimped on the dowry, he made up for it in hosting the feast. He had dipped deep into the winter stores, as she well knew. She and Agilaz had done much of the gathering, after all. As the day drew on, slaves brought out oysters and mussels, pike and bream, and all manner of fish harvested from the nearby rivers.
By this time the guests had begun rearranging themselves, finding companions to share drink and talk. Sigyn had sat with Frigg while her sister seemed at odds with Odin, but they sank into deeper political topics, and Frigg at last seemed to find her place.
&
nbsp; Sigyn took the chance to bring Loki a plate of radishes. He was the most interesting guest at the party, after all. Few men she had ever known would match wits with her, much less seem to enjoy doing it.
She sat across from him and slid the plate over.
“A peace offering?” he asked.
“Are we at war?”
“I should hope not. Where I come from, this was once offered to rivals to stem hostilities.”
“You’re not of the Aesir.”
“Not originally.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he said naught else, just watched her.
“Why did you tell me about the apples?”
“Because you were clever enough to figure out how to ask.”
Sigyn smiled, shaking her head. That had sounded like a compliment. How refreshing. “There’ll be trouble for those apples.”
“Trouble follows all things worth having and many worth less. It is the way of mankind to fight over scarce resources. And when there is naught scarce enough to fight over, they invent conflicts of philosophy, ideals worth killing and dying over.”
“You make humans sound like violent animals—or trolls.”
Loki grunted. “Trolls? They have more in common with men than you might like to think. But, no. Mankind is more devious and more glorious. To be capable of villainy, one must first be capable of heroism. Do you call a bear that mauls a child a villain? Of course not. The bear lacks the capacity to be other than it is. But a man who did the same thing made a conscious choice to do so and made that choice with an understanding of its meaning and consequences. And trolls … they are somewhere between bears and men—twisted and given over to vicious instincts, neither animal nor any longer human. Victims of their own natures.”
