by Matt Larkin
At their approach, the women both fell to one knee, inclining their heads at Eostre. Her eyes on the ground, one spoke. “My lady, Lord Frey awaits you inside.”
Frey—god of fertility and sunlight, the war champion of the Vanir. On the long trek across Midgard, Odin had mused over meeting Frey. Legends spoke of Frey wading into battle against jottunar, bearing a flaming sword and descending upon them with the fury of the sun. The Aesir prayed to him for glory in battle. Odin himself had grown to manhood shouting exaltations to the sun god, beseeching him for victory. He had prayed for such before leaving to hunt Ymir what seemed lifetimes ago. And now, he would soon stand face-to-face with the being he had once worshipped.
Foul light …
Odin ignored Audr. Heavier burdens weighed on his mind in any event. It did not bode well that the Vanr expected him. Odin had dared hope his presence remained a secret known to but a few. And yet, Idunn had mentioned he might find allies among Njord’s children. Frey—Freyja’s twin brother—was Njord’s heir. If the Vanir did join him, Odin could think of no finer ally among the Vanir. Nor any worse foe, should he misspeak.
The woman who had spoken rose and turned to guide them inside. The palace ceiling rose up three full stories, carved into a series of vaults not unlike the valleys and mountains just outside. Within each of those vaults stood massive glass windows open to the sky, allowing in sunlight that cast the great hall in radiance. Carvings of the sun decorated the walls—intermingled with reliefs of couples in more lascivious acts. The hall stretched so far it would have served well for a jotunn. At the end of it, a man sat on a throne upon a raised dais, basking in sunlight.
“Frey embraced the legacy of my father’s people,” Eostre whispered as they walked down the hall. “With his sister’s help, he uncovered the lost secrets of harnessing sunlight.”
Odin had no idea what that meant. A dozen or so other people milled about the hall, flitting in and out of side passages. None of them wore clothes. In fact, even Frey was clad in only a loose sheet draped around his waist. The god had bright green eyes and dirty blond hair that stretched to his shoulders. Resting against his throne lay a great sword, half again as long as Odin’s arm. That could only be Laevateinn, the famed runeblade with which the god had slain jotunnar and vaettir alike.
That sword …
Eostre paused on the dais’s threshold, and Frey inclined his head to her. It was the smallest gesture of respect Odin had seen anyone show the First One, and Frey was only a third generation Aetheling. Odin struggled to hide his grimace. What did this portend? He nodded his own head, a dozen possible opening entreaties running through his mind.
Before he settled on any of them, Eostre spoke. “Lord Frey, might we partake of your hospitality? My guest is weary.”
Frey chuckled. “I imagine brawling with a god would tire an old man.”
Odin’s grimace only deepened. Frey had learned of his conflict with Bragi. Certainly others might have informed him, but Odin suspected the poet god had come here himself, turned Frey against him.
“My lord, Bragi and I had a mere misunderstanding. He thought I had lain with Idunn—I assure you that is not the case.”
Frey shrugged, then rose from his throne. He strode down the steps, walking past Odin, looking him over. As he passed, he revealed a sun tattoo on his back, glittering sunbeams stretching out in all directions from it. The Vanr made a complete circle around him before re-ascending the stairs, never once taking his eyes from Odin. It took all of Odin’s will not to squirm under that gaze.
“You do not belong here, mortal.”
“Lord Odin is my guest,” Eostre said. Her voice was quiet, emotionless, and yet somehow carrying an edge of reproach.
At her words, Frey nodded. “You are entitled to any guest you wish, Lady Eostre. But I fear you misplace your trust in this man. No good will come from his presence in Vanaheim, nor is he welcome in my hall. I urge you to banish him onto the sea and be done with it.”
Damn Bragi! If Odin could not win support from a man like Frey, he would wind up having to face him in battle. Such a fight might be glorious, but it would also cost lives. And if it did, what if Eostre was right about the price of death and the nothingness that lay beyond the Veil? Could it be truth? No Valhalla for those had fallen in Odin’s quest? Suddenly his entire mission reeked of pride. What better world could he create when so many had died to make it?
So many had died and maybe were lost. Odin had to do all he could to avoid more war, more death.
“My lord Frey,” he began.
Frey waved him to silence. Odin grimaced. The damned poet had poisoned Frey against him. The look on the Vanr’s face was enough to confirm that—aught he said now would only further draw Frey’s ire. There was naught to be done now. Not today. In time, perhaps, he could change the Vanr’s mind. He prayed he could.
“Forgive the intrusion, Lord Frey,” Odin said. “I will not stay where I am not wanted.”
Eostre lingered a moment longer, then turned, shaking her head. “I’m sorry he wouldn’t grant you a respite,” she said as they left the hall.
So was Odin, though not because he needed rest. If Frey was any indication, the Vanir were not like to cooperate with him. But at the least, he saw very few of them who bore any arms. If it came to war, perhaps the battle could be won quickly.
“I can manage to trek on,” he said. “I just hope Bragi has not swayed Lady Freyja as well.”
Eostre nodded, continuing up the path.
20
“The sorceress aids our enemies,” Frigg said.
Sigyn’s sister stood, looking over yet another foray by the Volsung army. With Tyr and Odin away, the Aesir had lost their greatest warriors, and perhaps Frigg had begun to doubt her decision to send her champion for aid. Tyr had the best chance to make it, of course, and like as not, the best chance to actually win the aid. Still, they had lost many lives yesterday, and today was shaping into more of the same.
With the mist blocking all view and men wailing about death omens haunting them, morale had begun to break. How long until the jarls once again began to think of breaking away?
Loki had joined them not long ago, watching the warriors clash without comment.
“A sorceress turns her power against us,” Frigg repeated.
Not an idle comment, then. On the day Sigyn was captured, Loki had not been by her side, instead turning his power against the draugar. Fulla had told Sigyn the tale—twice—since her return mere days ago. And if Frigg’s maid knew it, half the Ás camp probably knew it as well and must wonder now, as Frigg did, why Loki did not act in their favor once again. They would wonder, because they did not understand the terrible price he seemed to pay for any use of the Art, though Frigg ought to have known better.
Sigyn tapped a finger to her lip. She could intercede and tell Frigg to back off, but the queen was only thinking of saving Ás lives as, in fact, was her role. Maybe Frigg did have an inkling that Loki would pay dearly to do as she asked—or rather had not yet asked. Loki’s hand brushed over Sigyn’s, as if he had anticipated her speaking on his behalf. As if, while acknowledging and appreciating that, he still wanted to forestall it.
“Will you not do something for our people?” Frigg finally asked.
Loki looked to the queen now. “There will be a cost.”
“Whatever it is you wish, we will pay. But please, help us live through the present first.”
Sigyn opened her mouth, and Loki’s grip on her wrist tightened. He wouldn’t tell her. He was going to let her misunderstand his words, think that she would be the one to pay that cost, as if Loki would be interested in chests of gold or trinkets of silver. Why? Why did he insist on suffering rather than speak?
Oh, but the answer was all too obvious, for it was the same reason as ever. Loki wanted to teach something. He was always trying to teach Odin and Sigyn, and, with Frigg connected to them both, perhaps he needed to teach her as well.
And he said na
ught now, just offered Sigyn’s wrist one more squeeze and then left, claiming up a pair of torches from nearby guards. Her love trod toward the battleground, where men and women massacred one another and stained the ground with rivers of blood, there to spread ash and flame at the behest of Sigyn’s own sister.
“You were not listening to what he said.” She could not hold this in any longer, and Loki was already well out of earshot. “He never said you would be the one to pay this cost—at least not directly.”
“What are you saying?” Frigg asked, not taking her eyes off the battle.
A cacophonous boom stole away all sound. Sheets of flame incinerated men and burnt away mist meant to shield them. Even here, above the battle, Sigyn and Frigg both fell back a step from the intensity of it.
All the warriors fell still a moment. Fire erupted in a swirling arc, like a maelstrom at sea, boiling the flesh and blood of all men in a twenty-foot radius. In the chaos of those flames, Volsung’s army began to break, men routed in all directions.
And then, from nowhere, great balls of hail began to rain upon the Ás archers. Skulls splattered, bows snapped, and men died.
Loki had unleashed an apocalypse on the battlefield, and the Niflung sorceress—Gudrun or Grimhild, it did not really matter—had responded in kind, abandoning attempts at subtlety.
Sigyn closed her eyes, not wanting to behold any further cataclysm. When she at last opened them, the battle had fallen silent, both sides beginning to limp away.
Frigg had a hand to her mouth. “This? This was the price he meant? That they would also …?”
If only it were that simple. Sigyn’s gut clenched at the thought of what lay ahead. She grabbed both of Frigg’s cheeks to draw her sister close. “You still do not understand, do you? The power costs him! He has but so much he can call upon, and by using it now, he may not be able to do so when we need it even more. Say, when we move to strike against the Vanir. Because you used this weapon now, Frigg, you may not have it when the greatest battle lies before you.”
Sigyn released Frigg without waiting for answer. She dashed down to the battlefield.
She found Loki there, kneeling amidst charred bodies and a field of cinders, wafts of smoke still rising from them, and from him. The sickly sweet stench of cooked human flesh saturated the air and left Sigyn gagging.
Loki did not look up as she drew close. Rather, he stared down at his hands, which still smoldered like embers, and he trembled as if in the grasps of deathchill. Pieces of his shirt had burnt away, and it hung loose about him now, like the burnt out remains of a razed house.
Sigyn knelt before him. Flames swam behind his eyes, obscuring the crystal blue, and he did not seem to see her at all, giving no acknowledgment of her presence. She brushed his shoulder with a hand, then jerked it back, singed.
While she sucked her burned fingers, Loki’s trembles increased until he pitched forward, catching himself on his palms.
“Love?”
He didn’t answer.
Not like this. She wasn’t going to lose him like this. He had saved her again and again, not just in body, but more than that. He had saved her from a life of mediocrity she had not even known was suffocating her. And he had taught her to harness her pneuma and use it.
She wrapped her arms around him, trying not to shriek as his smoldering skin seared hers. Her arms and chest felt like she had thrown herself atop a boiling cauldron. But she did not—would not—let go. Frigg had healed Vili by sharing her own pneuma. So why then, could Sigyn not do the same? She envisioned the rivers of it, flowing through her. And she imagined one of those rivers diverting into Loki.
Naught happened.
Sigyn shut her eyes and concentrated harder.
Loki jerked beneath her arms as if swept over by a wave. Apt enough, as cold seized her, so profound she began to shiver despite being pressed against his burning flesh. Like her very soul were being sucked out.
Her throat closed over, too cold to breathe. Her thoughts became a thick languor. Life was leaving her. Unable to hold on any further, she let go of the river and collapsed. They both fell over sideways.
When she woke, they lay abed together, in Frigg’s hall. Loki held her tight.
“I’m surprised you could do that.”
“Me, too.” Her voice sounded harsh.
“You should not have tried—you might have killed yourself.”
“I won’t let you go.”
He shuddered and pulled her even closer. “Your life force gave me strength to fight for mine. But do not ever try that again.”
She giggled weakly. “No promises.”
Gods, she was starving.
21
The roar of waterfalls grew louder the closer he drew to Sessrumnir. Once he reached the threshold, the golden sparkle of the palace in the sun grew nigh to blinding. The ivy that covered the walls offered the only protection from the glare. Perhaps Freyja had cultivated it for that very purpose. Up here, the sheer size of the fountain faces—as big as a jotunn—made him feel tiny.
Though not as sprawling as her brother’s palace, Freyja’s hall was taller—four stories, not even counting the numerous towers. Also, unlike her brother’s hall, this one boasted a hefty door of gold, twice Odin’s height. Eostre placed a hand upon it, and the door shuddered, then began to slide down into the floor with the sound of grating metal. The foyer it revealed was flanked by twin streams of water pouring out of a pool ahead of them. Those streams ran into the wall, presumably to flow out of the faces and become the waterfalls running down the mountain.
Eostre led him forward, to the edge of the pool. Giant flowers Odin could not name floated upon the surface in a parade of pink and white and magenta petals that somehow never drifted into the streams. The dawn goddess let him admire the sight a few moments before leading him onto a stone bridge arching over one of the streams.
“The Vanir used sorcery to build this place,” Odin said. He could see no other explanation.
“They invoked vaettir long, long ago, in times when the depth of the price they would pay still remained unknown.” Her voice sounded far away, mournful. Of course, Gefjon had told him most of the other First Ones—those who had not fallen in battle—had become corrupted by their power. How many friends had Eostre left behind? How many loved ones lost to create a sanctuary like this? In extraordinary hubris, the Vanir had called themselves gods and thought to defy the order of nature. Pride was a failing Odin understood only too well.
They walked through a long hall and into a room where two women and a man reclined, reading. Row after row of books lined the walls, thousands of them. Gudrun had shown Odin books. This room must have contained more words than could be read in the lifetime of a mortal. Eostre, however, did not linger in the book room, instead heading straight for a wide staircase that rose on the far side. The stairs wrapped along a graceful curve, leading to a second level filled with more books. Eostre continued on, leading him through hall after hall and up several more stairs. Finally, they reached one of the towers and climbed the winding stairs to the terrace.
Arches here supported a sparkling, iridescent crystal overhead. Given it was as tall as he was and twice as wide, Odin imagined it must weigh more than a horse. In the terrace floor, a pool of water rested beneath the crystal, and beside that pool lounged a pair of cave lions. The felines looked at Odin as he drew nigh, but did not rise.
His steps almost faltered, staring at them, until he realized a woman with long golden hair sat between the pair. Her face was soft, innocent, and surprisingly endearing for one of the Vanir. As Odin looked into her vibrant green eyes, a pit he could not explain opened in his stomach, and he found himself stumbling over his own tongue, unable to speak. Those eyes held his own, enraptured him like some enchantress, though he didn’t think it was seid working at him.
The woman wore a sleeveless white shirt, unlaced, and a white skirt. She bit her lip, toying with a rose in her hands, before quirking a half smile. “I s
aw you climbing the path.”
“I knew you would expect us,” Eostre said.
“I’m not sure I expected you.” She rose gracefully, drifting closer to Odin, then stalking around him in much the way Frey had, albeit with less judgment in her gaze. Indeed, her resemblance to him was obvious.
“Lady Freyja?” he asked. One of the cave lions turned to look at him now, though he tried to ignore the cat.
Again, she quirked that mischievous smile. “You know who I am, old man.”
Odin couldn’t help but recoil at that. Sometimes, being judged an old graybeard was an edge he could use. Others, less so.
“Lord Odin has come here to learn from you, Freyja,” Eostre said. “The Niflungar have returned to threaten his people.”
Freyja clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “And you want me to instruct a mortal in the Art? Father would have a fit if he learned of it.”
“Then don’t tell him.”
Freyja laughed and rolled her eyes. She walked to the edge of the terrace, looking out over the balcony.
When she said naught else, Odin took it as an invitation to join her, casting a wary glance at the lions as he did so. Up here, he stood almost level with the canopy of Yggdrasil in the valley beyond. The closer he drew to the tree, the more cosmic it seemed. Even from here, spots of glittering blue and white light like fireflies appeared, weaving in and out among the branches.
“There’s a theory,” Freyja said, “that all living beings in this world are born from Yggdrasil.” She pointed out into the canopy. “Do you know what grows up there?”
To admit it might raise her suspicions, but to deny it risked raising them even more. Odin had already lost his chance to win over Frey. His sister was his last, best chance to avoid having to raze Vanaheim before he could claim it. Razing a land of endless green valleys and waterfalls and wonders would be a crime as great as any the Vanir had ever committed. How odd that here, at the end of his journey across Midgard, he should find himself so reluctant to take that final step. But until he had seen Vanaheim with his own eyes, he’d had no idea how monstrous the final step must be.
