Battlestorm

by Susan Krinard

“Bryn has a remarkable store of power she has never been able to tap,” Freya said. “I will be able to do many things.”

  “Bryn has power?” Mist asked. “Magic?”

  “I always sensed it, which is why I kept her near me.”

  “You always intended to do this, didn’t you?” Mist took a step closer to Freya. “What else have you tried to do without mentioning it to anyone else? What about—”

  “Mist,” Konur said, laying his hand on her shoulder. She felt a spell coursing through his fingers and into her body, and turned sharply to face him.

  “What are you afraid of, Konur?” she demanded.

  Say nothing.

  The voice was in her head, the way Dainn’s had been more than once before the beast had begun to interfere. The way Freya’s had been when she and Mist had fought for Sleipnir, telling Mist to strike. To let go.

  She stared at the elf-lord defiantly, prepared to disobey his unspoken command. But it was as if the mental contact had extinguished all her doubts about him. If he’d placed a spell in her mind, she couldn’t detect it.

  “Konur is afraid of very little,” Freya said, as if there had been no pause in the conversation. “Now, I suggest we waste no time in beginning the search for the Steed. Of course, we must work closely together. I would not wish to overtax this body as I did the other.”

  Mist took a deep breath. “You want to join our powers,” she said.

  “And our minds. If you had not resisted this joining in the past, we might easily have stopped the protest without speeding the deterioration of my other body, and prevented Sleipnir from being taken.”

  Might, Mist thought. Or might not. But with so much at stake, she had no sound argument to offer against trying Freya’s method. And if she could see into Freya’s mind, she might learn what she wanted to know.

  And Freya could do the same with me, she thought. All her doubts could be exposed. Everything she knew about Danny, and Dainn, and other subjects she’d chosen not to broach with her mother.

  “I’m willing to try,” Mist said. “But only if there’s a way we can blend our abilities without invading each other’s thoughts.”

  “That would require a fine degree of control,” Freya said, displeasure in Bryn’s husky voice. “But children must always keep secrets from their parents. We shall attempt it.”

  Mist inclined her head, the most gratitude she was willing to extend. “When do you want to start?” she asked.

  “I am ready,” Freya said, spreading her hands wide. “If you are presently free of obligations…”

  “I’ll talk with my advisors and make sure I’m covered. We need privacy, I assume?”

  “I would suggest the small warehouse you have not yet refurbished. We will not be disturbed there.”

  With a brief nod of acknowledgment, Mist asked Konur to select an elven guard to stand watch over the unfinished warehouse. While she arranged to have council members assume her regular work—enjoining them not to tell anyone else that she’d be temporarily unavailable—Freya prepared the warehouse’s interior to her liking. Mist finally dropped by the Alfar camp to make sure that Dainn was well and left without seeing him. Joining magically with a mother she didn’t trust seemed more palatable than confronting Dainn face-to-face.

  Returning to the loft for a hasty snack, Mist found Anna waiting in the kitchen. Her face seemed strange to Mist, and not only because they hadn’t talked much in the past few weeks. There was less delicacy in Anna’s features: the bone structure seemed more pronounced, the jaw firmer, the brow stronger.

  But it was Anna’s soft, hesitant voice that asked her about Sleipnir.

  “Have you found him yet?” she asked, twisting her hands together at her waist.

  “Sit down,” Mist said, pointing to a chair. “It’s only been a little over twelve hours. What’s got you so upset? Worrying about Sleipnir isn’t part of your job description.”

  “Everything seems to be going wrong,” Anna said. She stood behind the chair but didn’t sit. “Now that almost all the Treasures are accounted for, I’m not much good to anyone.”

  “That’s not true,” Mist said. She leaned over the table, trying to make sense of Anna’s mood and remembering that she’d seemed equally disturbed when Mist had returned from the protest. “You and the other IT people are doing important work by monitoring what Loki and his followers are up to around the city. Just because we haven’t acted on all the information doesn’t mean that—”

  “I’m failing him,” Anna whispered.

  “Who?”

  Anna seemed not to hear Mist. “Why didn’t Fenrir take Sleipnir to Loki?”

  “I don’t know,” Mist said. “But we’re going to find out.”

  “You have to bring him back.”

  Mist circled the table. “Anna, do you need help?”

  The young woman blinked, and the odd changes Mist had seen in her disappeared. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said.

  “It’s never a bother. I’m just sorry we haven’t talked more.”

  “It’s not your fault. I know the responsibilities you carry.”

  “You deserve better,” Mist said, touching Anna’s sleeve. “If you need me, you just have to ask. I’ll make sure to be there.”

  With a vague nod, Anna wandered into the front hall. Mist considered following her, but decided to respect Anna’s ability to decide if or when she needed help. And everyone in camp had good reason to be worried about Sleipnir.

  If we’re lucky, not much longer, Mist thought. But she didn’t feel lucky. Not at all.

  * * *

  “The Seidr,” Freya had said, “will be our best means of finding what we seek.”

  Sitting opposite the Lady on a pile of cushions artistically arranged over the bare floor, Mist kept her body relaxed. She had a slightly better idea of what soul-travel entailed, now that Freya had taken the time to explain.

  The explanations didn’t make her feel any better.

  “Traveling apart from the body is the most dangerous aspect of the Seidr,” the Lady said, “and it burns magical strength quickly.”

  “Aren’t you worried about Bryn’s body?” Mist asked, breathing slowly and deliberately.

  “Of course. And that is why you must follow exactly where I lead, so that nothing goes wrong.”

  Everything could go wrong, Mist thought. Especially if she found out that Freya was hiding ugly secrets that could alter the fate of Midgard.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Freya asked.

  Mist glanced at her watch, noting the time. She took Freya’s hands. There was a moment of disorientation, as if the world had tilted sideways, and then Mist could feel her soul separate from her body—not as it sometimes did when she used the ancient magic, but in a way that felt almost physical, as if an actual cord stretched between the spiritual and corporeal realms.

  Let it go, Freya said, her thought entwined with Mist’s. Release your hold on the world, and let me guide you.

  It was a heady thing to fly free, connected to Freya by a bond more real than any that tied parent to child. The Lady spread falcon wings, the tips of their feathers brushing Mist’s cheek. She felt no anxiety as they rose as one above the floor of the warehouse, through the ceiling, and into the sky.

  She looked down on the encampment, on the other warehouses and the parking lots and her own loft, a peculiar joy rising in her. Joy like she hadn’t felt in so many long months.

  You see, Freya said, how simple it is.

  Euphoria overwhelmed Mist, and some distant part of her recognized it as the Lady’s glamour. She didn’t fear it. It was impossible to fear anything. She felt Freya’s love, all-encompassing but soft and warm, like a mother’s womb.

  They flew higher, sweeping over Dogpatch with the storm swirling above them. Open your senses, Freya said. Open your mind to the spirit of Odin’s mount.

  Mist remembered seeing Sleipnir for the first time on the steppes, magnificent as an emperor, bendin
g his head to touch Danny’s—

  A veil of confusion wrapped around the memory, smothering it into silence. A mass of energy enfolded Mist, cradling her in its heart, at the same time soothing and stinging her intangible flesh. It seemed to sing of the ancient magic with ethereal voices.

  The soul of the universe, Mist thought dreamily. If she touched it, she wouldn’t lose herself. It was the missing piece she had been looking for.

  The Eitr. Vaguely, she remembered Dainn explaining it to her. But now she needed no explanation. She felt it. She knew it.

  It was the answer. To everything.

  Mist! Freya shouted in her mind.

  Mist faltered, and she felt herself begin to plummet, spinning toward the streets far below. But something caught her, holding her up in strong arms made of living wood, branches that stretched into infinity on every side. The entire tree was itself made of magic, sinking roots deep into the earth and beyond, reaching far above the atmosphere.

  Yggdrasil, Mist thought. The World Tree. But Mist saw that it was only a physical representation of the immense energy that bound the universe together. Concentrate, Daughter! the Lady said. I feel my strength beginning to wane. Give me your magic!

  Rising up like a flame, Mist felt a sword in her hand … not Kettlingr, but one that might have belonged to the mortal God’s avenging angels. Like an angel, she soared with wings of fire, the branches of the World Tree interlocking and rising with her, unsinged. She had endless power to share, an abundance of love and righteous fury, and she poured it into the goddess.

  More, Freya urged. A little more, and I will find him.

  Yes, Mist thought. Freya reached for her again, and Mist turned the sword, about to pass it into hands that were not really there.

  A bolt of lightning shot from the tree branches writhing around her, striking at the Lady. The universe reverberated with a shriek of pain and rage. The sword fell from her hand, and as it spun away she glimpsed reflections of faces in its perfect blade—some strange, a few she recognized. Svardkell and Konur were among them.

  Then her mind went dark, joy turning in on itself, twisting to become its opposite.

  Hatred. Jealousy. Fear. Raw images of battle, of sex, of plotting in dark corners. Asgard in ruins. The Void, jaws wide to swallow all life.

  And then the struggle. Dainn and the beast. Treachery. Sorrow beyond bearing.

  There were too many thoughts in her head, but she understood what Freya had hidden so well. The Lady had betrayed Odin and all the Aesir. She had known of a prophecy that negated the one that foretold Ragnarok, and had intended to seize rule from the All-father in order to save Asgard. She had met Danny with Loki in the Void, and she really had intended to kill the boy.

  And Dainn had conspired with the goddess to seize Mist’s body and soul. He had lied to her from the beginning, setting her up to die.

  Forget, Freya whispered. Surrender, and be at peace.

  Unable to bear the horror of what she had seen, Mist nearly gave up. She rejected the energy, the power, the World Tree and all it contained. She wheeled on blackened wings to return to the warehouse.

  A blinding white light speared into Mist’s mind. Freya’s weapon, carrying all her will, her ambition, her desperation.

  Mist tried to block the spear as it plunged toward the center of her being. She batted the shaft aside before the blade could touch her, Freya’s raging face before her … an image of the true goddess, flawless features framed by golden waves of hair.

  You were always mine, Freya said.

  Wheeling back toward the warehouse on singed wings, buffeted by the endless storm, Mist fled. Freya’s spear never ceased its inexorable progress. Lightning arced from one cloud to the next, and Mist called to it, opening herself to the ancient magic, letting it consume her.

  She didn’t hear the thunder. She was barely aware when the spear snapped, and Freya began to scream again.

  Bryn will die! the Lady cried, clawing at Mist with invisible fingers.

  Mist heard her, but felt nothing but the will to survive.

  I am your mother! I gave you life! Freya began to shed tears of molten gold. Loki will destroy you!

  Lightning struck Freya through the heart, and she tumbled earthward, her wings folded tight to her body, her hair flying around her. Mist watched her fall. A great, surging triumph filled the emptiness inside her, and she laughed.

  When she snapped back into her body, it was lying far from the pillows, and her joints and bones and muscles ached as if she had plunged to the concrete floor from a great height.

  She lifted her head, wincing as the faint late-morning light from the high windows struck her eyes. Freya lay near the far wall—Bryn’s body again, unnaturally twisted. Her eyes were closed, brown lashes sweeping her tanned cheeks, and she wasn’t breathing.

  Forcing her aching body to move, Mist struggled to her feet and stumbled across the room. She fell to her knees beside her mother and touched her throat.

  There was no pulse. No life. The body was dead. And the spirit …

  Mist searched. She knew Freya’s soul as well as her own now, would know if it still existed.

  It did not.

  Mist had killed her, and Bryn’s body with her.

  The room spun around Mist as she got up and wandered around the echoing space, remembering bits and snatches of what she had done. What Freya had tried to do. The floor danced, and random flashes of light struck the walls and vanished almost instantly. The ancient magic spilled from Mist’s fingers, thick and warm as honey, and circled her head as if she were a Christian saint. More magic than her body could possibly contain.

  She shouted a Rune-spell and flung it at the wall. A gaping hole appeared, scattering rubble and rebar.

  Her power had not diminished by one iota. She tried again, directing her fury at the ceiling. It evaporated, and she felt the magic continue up, meeting no barrier, until it reached the clouds. Lightning plunged down to meet her, and she absorbed it without the slightest pain. Absorbed it, and knew her mind and body could accept no more.

  She fell to her knees and crawled back to Bryn’s body. Her fingers felt for the Cloak in its pouch. It tore from its cord as she collapsed.

  Go away, she chanted silently. Go away.

  Freya vanished, body and soul.

  * * *

  Consciousness came and went like the shadows flickering over her closed eyelids. Sometimes she heard voices; sometimes the voice was her own, shouting denials and rage and madness.

  Once she woke to find Koji beside her. He smiled and stroked her hair as she looked up at him.

  “You’re doing much better,” he said. “When you’ve—”

  He vanished, and didn’t return. Later, the healers were there, frowning in concentration. Then came the elf-lord, whose name she couldn’t remember, and Rota, and Hild, and various mortals in succession. She had no sense of time. The struggle went on as her body fought to absorb the infection that had invaded her, a disease no physician, not even the greatest in Asgard, could ever heal.

  When she finally came to full awareness, Konur was beside the bed, holding her hand. His expression was grave, but his gaze was gentle.

  She surged up, tensing to escape. Konur eased her back down before she collapsed again.

  “You must remain quiet,” he said.

  “No,” she whispered.

  He squeezed her fingers gently. “Something happened to you when you were with Freya, something no healer has been able to determine. You have resisted every effort to wake you, but it seems that the power that has been burning in you like a fever has finally subsided.”

  The power. All at once Mist remembered. She turned her head on the pillow, beginning to gag.

  “Drink,” Konur said. He cradled her head and offered a glass of water. Without meaning to, she found herself gulping it down, begging for more as soon as the glass left her lips.

  When she’d drunk three glasses, she lay back and closed her eyes. “H
ow long have I been out?” she asked.

  “Three days.”

  Her throat seemed barbed with thorns. “Is everyone all right? Has Loki—”

  “He remains quiet.” Konur eased her down again. “There have been few fights with the Jotunar, and the camp continues to run smoothly, thanks to Captain Taylor and your other officers.”

  “And … you?”

  He gave a subtle, very elvish shrug. She almost asked him about Dainn, but then she remembered. Panic pushed her heart into a frantic rhythm.

  “I have to get out of here,” she said. “I can’t just—”

  “I know you will wish to return to your work as soon as possible,” Konur said, “but you must not tax yourself too soon.” He hesitated. “What has happened to Freya?”

  Suddenly she was weeping. “No,” she said, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

  He stroked them away with the pad of his thumb. “Do not fear me,” he said.

  “I don’t,” she said, despising her helplessness.

  “Then tell me what has become of her.”

  “Where is the pouch?”

  To her surprise, he produced the Falcon Cloak and laid the pouch on her stomach. “This was in your hand when we found you.”

  After she’d ripped the roof off. The whole camp must have seen …

  She covered the pouch with her hand and commanded the tears to stop, remembering when Konur had mentally urged her to “say nothing” when she’d tried to question Freya about Bryn and other things the Lady might have kept from her.

  If she asked him what he’d meant, would he tell her now? How much had he known of Freya’s evil intentions? Had he prevented Dainn from warning her about her mother?

  If he hadn’t known, would he believe what Freya had tried to do, and why Mist had been forced to kill her?

  I can’t, she thought. She couldn’t tell Konur the truth. Not until she was sure. Sure of him, and of herself.

  So she told only a small part, and nothing of the Eitr or the World Tree. “We tried to do what Freya wanted to,” she said. “But once we were … mentally joined, something went wrong. Freya just—” She covered her eyes. “There was a … kind of darkness I’d never seen before. It sucked her in, and she just disappeared. When I woke up in the warehouse, she wasn’t there.”