by Lentz, P. K.
"Gaeira," she says with evident warmth, and not a little surprise. She draws the slayer into an embrace and speaks more soft words. There is a maternal aspect to her affection, I decide with insufficient evidence.
Gaeira declines to return the embrace, with her one free arm or otherwise. When the woman with the red-gold hair draws back, she turns her eyes on me in a welcoming look and speaks. I can tell by her face that they are words of welcome, but I am growing tired of not understanding those around me.
"Apologies," I say with a pang of shame. "I know not your tongue."
The woman answers with a smile I interpret as one of understanding. She steps to one side and beckons us in. I wait for Gaeira to go forward first, but she does not. Instead she steps aside, and the woman beckons again, now just at me. I am to be left here alone.
Something about the woman in the cottage puts me greatly at ease, and so I enter. She and Gaeira share a quick look, and then the door is shut, leaving me in the company of someone I know not at all—which is to say slightly less well than I know Gaeira. I feel disappointment that Gaeira has not taken me straight to Ayessa and annoyance that she would leave without explanation. But then, everything she does is without explanation.
I stand in an anteroom lit by several large candles on pedestals. To one side, a staircase leads upward into darkness, while directly ahead lies a curtained, wood-framed doorway. It is toward the latter that my hostess motions me me with a kind smile. Before moving, I rest Ayessa's lance near the door and shed my sword belt, lest I prove a poor guest by bearing arms inside another's home.
For similar reasons of courtesy, I feel I ought to introduce myself. Once more, with hand to breast, I announce, "Thamoth."
She nods in comprehension and returns what I take to be her name: "Freya."
I walk ahead of Freya through the curtain and into darkness. A second later, a soft light shines from a candle she carries in from the anteroom, which she uses to light a lamp mounted on the wall. Linking her arm in mine, she guides me forward into the next room, where she pauses to light another lamp.
The room is large and comfortable. Plush furs cover the floor. Shelves hold scrolls in large numbers and a vast array of other objects too diverse for me to quickly absorb. There are couches, stools, sleeping pallets, tables both empty and cluttered, and a large, smoldering corner hearth beside which hangs from a hinged beam a great bronze cauldron, its bottom half scorched black from use.
I have seen such a place before; it is reminiscent of the dwelling of the Chrysioi healer Epione in Neolympus. Is Freya also a healer? Why should Gaeira think me in need of healing?
One thing catches my eye and seems out of place, or at least would seem so in Epione's: a hung shield, breastplate and spear glint in the firelight on one wall. They are of a size to fit Freya and although they are highly polished, they have clearly seen some use in battle.
When enough lamps are lit, Freya uncovers a water cistern and dips into it a small, long-handled tin pot which she then sets upon the glowing hearth coals. For what purpose, I cannot know. Tea?
Noticing that I have not yet shed my burdens, apart from my sword, Freya gestures at me to do so. I oblige, and she leads me to one of the room's several sleeping pallets and invites me to sit. I do. She goes to a table, selects a jar, removes its lid and inspects contents unseen to me. She carries it to the hearth, where she checks on the water, from which licks of steam now rise. She waits a short while, staring into the vapors with her back to me, and then uses a small cloth to shield her hand as she grips the pot's handle and carries it toward me. Kneeling to bring herself to my level on the pallet, she sets both jar and steaming pot on the floor.
I do not much like the look which Freya levels at me, for it says that I will not like what is comes next, but it must be done. I tense, mistrustful. Yet... there is a softness and caring in Freya's eyes, which like this cottage, remind me of our healer's in Neolympus. I should not trust Freya. I have only just met her and know nothing of her or her people. But I do trust her, I think, as much as or more than I do Gaeira, whom I trusted enough to follow for six days and sleep beside for as many nights. The deadly giant-slayer did not bring me all this way to meet some dark, quiet fate at the hand of a kind-faced woman, of that I am sure. As sure as I can be, at least.
I give Freya a steady look to tell her I am ready—for whatever unpleasantness she has in mind—and reassuring me with a smile, she bids me lie down and turn to one side. While I comply, her graceful, white fingers reach into the jar and emerge with a pinch of herbs. She puts them into my ear and packs them down. It feels strange, but not uncomfortable. It is when she sets a palm on my temple, exerting gentle downward pressure, whilst the other hand reaches for the pot of scalding water, that I realize with a start what she intends. My every muscle clenches, which does not surprise Freya. She pushes harder on my head and whispers some soothing, meaningless words. I brace myself and hold fast. The pot rises out of my field of vision. I grit my teeth and await the pain.
It comes. The water sears horribly, and I groan through set jaw, clutching the blanket under me. The pain is awful, but within a few seconds the worst is over, and Freya strokes my hairline maternally before indicating with a light pressure that I must turn over, surely to repeat the process on the other side.
That is indeed what transpires. It is marginally more tolerable the second time... marginally. When the deed is done, I lie on my back in pain and ignorance while Freya smiles down upon me using the cloth from the pot handle to clean the wet herbs from my two scalded ears.
She asks, "Do you understand me?"
23. Freya
My jaw, until now tightly clenched, falls open. I forget the stinging in my ears.
“I-I... yes,” I stammer. “I think I do.” I push myself upright on the pallet, putting myself closer to Freya's face, where there materializes a bemused smile.
“Shall I speak some more, so you can be certain?”
I chuckle. It makes my ears throb, and I rub them. “Thank you.”
Pot and jar in hand, Freya rises and moves to return them. I likewise stand. My gratitude toward her is real, but I am no more inclined to dwell upon it than I am to sit here idle in her home while perhaps somewhere in this very city...
“I seek a woman named Ayessa,” I say urgently to Freya's back. “Is she here. Is this Asgard?”
Freya finishes putting the items back in their proper places before facing me. “Yes, this is Asgard.,” she says calmly. “And she is here.”
My knees weaken. It is the answer I had yearned to hear but did not dare allow myself to expect. Ayessa is well—and near.
“Please,” I say, striding toward Freya over the fur-strewn floor. “Take me to her. I must see her!”
Unaffected by my exuberance, if not untouched by it, Freya offers another comforting smile. “Patience,” she chides. “Gaeira will return for you soon. At least, I think so. Her vow makes it difficult to know her intentions, even if I am better at it than most. Until she comes, perhaps you might manage to tolerate my company?”
There is no spite, no harshness at all, in Freya's tone. Her reprimand is of a humble, gentle kind which evokes in the hearer instant regret.
“Of course,” I hurry to say. “I meant no offense.”
“None was taken. Ayessa must be quite dear to you. Be assured, you will see her soon. In the meantime, my home is yours. Sit. Rest. Talk with me, if you are so inclined. But if not, you'll not offend me with silence.”
I try to force Ayessa from my mind. I have waited this long and come this far. I can wait a little longer.
“I have had enough silence from my guide to last an age,” I say. “You speak of Gaeira's vow. Is that why she does not speak? A vow of silence?”
“Yes,” Freya answers.
“To what purpose?”
“To ensure that no breath is wasted whilst she yet pursues the other half of her vow.”
“Which is—?”
“Venge
ance,” Freya answers plainly. “Her father and brother were slain in the last war with the Jotnar.”
“Jotnar?”
“Giants. They invaded Vanaheim, her homeland and mine. She swore to avenge their deaths by killing ninety hill giants and nine frost giants. Until she has, she shall utter not a sound to anyone. She does not communicate at all unless it cannot be avoided.”
And just that quickly, in the time it took Freya to speak a handful of words, my understanding of Gaeira vastly increases. Whatever bitterness I felt toward her for having withheld knowledge from me evaporates.
“And I suppose she must kill them all by herself,” I observe, “with no help.”
“Correct.”
“Vanaheim,” I pronounce. “She is Vanir.” Heimdall told me this. Looking mildly impressed, Freya affirms it. “And you are also Vanir.” She affirms this, too. “What are Aesir?”
“They are the people native to this land, Asgard. Their lord is Odinn, whom you will meet quite soon. Long ago he conquered Vanaheim. Rather than destroying us, he made the Vanir his subjects.”
I consider myself a poor ambassador and even poorer spy, but I sense in this talk of past conflicts no small potential relevance to the future of Neolympus. “And he treats the Vanir well?” I ask.
“I choose to make my home here in Asgard and am warmly welcome. As is Gaeira when she visits. As are any of our tribe. Our two people intermarry. We and the Aesir, once bitter foes, are now as kin.”
A better spy would quickly produce more questions concerning Odinn and the Aesir. Maybe later I will think of some. “Gaeira does not dwell in Asgard?” I ask instead.
“She lives on the farm in Vanaheim that was once her father's. If not for the necessity of delivering you to Odinn, I suspect, she would be there now. The same happened on her last hunt, a few seasons ago, when she brought us Essa.”
The re-entrance of Ayessa—if by some shortened form of her name—into our conversation catches me by surprise. I open my mouth to ask again to see her, but I resist, sparing Freya the necessity of reprimanding me again for impatience.
“If she saved Ayessa, then my debt and gratitude to Gaeira are doubled.”
“Tell her,” Freya says. She smiles. “She does hear. Quite well. I imagine she shall return shortly.” Freya guides me to a couch, practically forcing me down onto it. “While we wait, would you drink? Eat?”
I am too anxious to do either. She accepts my refusal and descends onto the soft cushion beside me, legs folded neatly under her plain sleeping gown. “Would you permit me to ask a question of you?”
“Of course.”
“Essa spoke of creatures which came in great number and devoured your world.”
Suddenly thrust back into my role as ambassador, I take a moment to consider my response. How much do I wish these people to know? How much do they already know?
“It was not my world, as such,” I say, dodging the question.
“Ah, I see. Then you are like Essa, an old spirit in a vacated shell.” Freya's warm eyes sparkle, and I think of Medea, but not because Freya resembles her in any way. Rather the opposite: Freya's look warms where Medea's chills.
Still, I begin to suspect that Freya is no mere healer, but like Medea, a witch.
“These creatures, the... the...” Freya begins.
I supply the name that escapes her. It never escapes me: “Myriad.”
“Yes, the Myriad. In the time since Essa came to us, I wonder, has there been any sign that they may have followed you into our world?”
I find the question surprising, but hardly difficult to answer. “No. There has been no sign. It is not something we often contemplate, to my knowledge. Perhaps because—”
Freya waits patiently for me to finish, despite looking as if she knows what I will say.
“Because there is little point in being prepared,” I conclude. “Were they to come, nothing in our power could stop them.”
Through pursed lips, Freya makes a sound which is one of agreement, but also worry.
A thought strikes me. “Have you encountered them before?” I ask. “Perhaps by another name?”
“No,” Freya answers. “Odinn has seen the future of our world and assures me that such creatures as these Myriad do not feature in it.”
Although Freya ceases speaking, I sense something left unspoken.
I venture a guess: “You are unconvinced.”
She chuckles. “Odinn is All-Father, the Finder of Truth. When he decided that we Vanir were a threat to his rule, he did not wait for us to attack first. He struck and defeated us utterly. He is not one to treat threats lightly. If he sees no reason for worry... then there is none.”
It is clear that she doubts her own words. Why else would she have asked me the question she did? But I have no desire to press her on the depth of her faith in this Odinn. Besides, if someone called the Finder of Truth has foreseen a future without the Myriad, it pleases me to think him right.
“Am I a prisoner?” it suddenly occurs to me to ask. More importantly, “Is Ayessa?”
“It is Odinn's choice what to do with you,” Freya answers. “You will see him in the morning, which is not far off. As for Essa, I will let her speak for herself.”
“When?”
Freya smiles. “Patience,” she counsels. “I can see that she is special to you. She must be, for you to have come this far in search of her.”
Too late I realize that I like this subject even less than I do that of the Myriad. “Ayessa is...” I begin, with no clear idea of what will come next.
I am saved by a knock upon the door. Freya's brows rise in clear delight, and she stands. “That will be Gaeira.”
She needn't have said so. The terse pattern of three sharp raps on the door—just enough, and no more—is typical of the slayer's manner.
I rise also and follow Freya through the curtain into the anteroom, where Freya opens the door to her home. On the other side, I see Gaeira, candlelight dancing in her golden hair. Behind her stands another female figure. My eyes settle on her face. As breath flees my body, my lips manage to form her name in a faint, unbelieving whisper.
“Ayessa...!”
24. Essa
Her face I know all too well. Her garb I recognize also, even if it is out of place on her. She is dressed as some of the Aesir warriors I have seen: a long-sleeved tunic under blazoned breastplate, leggings which extend from waist to boot. A fine-handled sword hangs at her hip. The silver blazon on the black armor, clearly wrought for a female wearer, shows a swooping eagle in profile. I have seen its like before, on the shield and armor hanging on Freya's wall.
It is this armor, I think, that stops me from rushing toward Ayessa. Or maybe it is that she makes no move toward me. Instead, I take half a step and then balk. It is not the reunion I might have wished for, but not even the tight-lipped, hard-eyed look on Ayessa's face can rob me entirely of my joy. When I speak my wellspring's name more certainly, “Ayessa,” I cannot keep from smiling.
Gaeira comes fully into Freya's home, but Ayessa hangs back in the open doorway. She stands frozen, her brow creased, mouth tight, eyes narrowed, hands clenched by her sides. I dismiss those signs. I care not that her appearance and behavior are not quite what I expected; the sight of her causes my eyes to brim so full with joy that they begin to leak. The joy spills into my voice as I explain to her, “I came looking for you...”
A powerful feeling overwhelms me, and I speak words I have never spoken to Ayessa with my present lips, although in the instant they cross them, I know that I spoke them many times in our unremembered past.
“I love you, Ayessa,” I declare to her. “We are meant to be together.”
She starts toward me. I open my arms, believing for an instant that my journey will end in a warm embrace.
A second later, I double over from a kick to my abdomen. An elbow follows to the back of my neck, and I fall. My palms slap the stone floor, just keeping my head from hitting.
; “Stop, Essa,” Freya says. Her tone is iron-strong, but calm.
The words have no effect. Seizing me by the head, Ayessa raises me to a kneeling posture and delivers a punch to my temple, then a knee to my spine.
I sprawl face-down on the floor and hear Freya say, in more commanding tones, “Essa, stop this!”
I roll over, confused as to whether or not to defend myself. Thankfully, I am not forced to choose, for my assailant, my wellspring, heeds Freya's instruction.
“I am not in the habit of letting guests be abused in my home,” Freya reprimands her. “You are Valkyr now. You know better.”
My world is upside-down as I peel myself from the floor. I can barely bring myself to meet the venom-filled look that haunts Ayessa's eyes, but I manage to.
I will remember that look for eternity.
I speak but one word. “Why?”
Ayessa's icy hatred does not crack. She shakes her head and says, presumably to Freya, who would appear to wield some authority over her, “I'm finished here.”
She starts for the door. Since I am in her path, I must quickly decide whether to stand aside or bar her exit. It is not a decision I wish to make, and so I am grateful when Freya stops Ayessa for me with the voice of command.
“You will answer his question, Essa. It is the least recompense you owe him. You owe it to me, as his host.”
“I owe him nothing!”
“Answer him,” Freya commands, sounding as one whom few would dare to make repeat herself a third time. This Freya, surely, is the one to whom belongs the war-gear in the next room.
“My hate for him comes from our last life,” Ayessa says. “I will not speak of it. If he wishes, he can come by the knowledge the same way I did!” She lowers her voice, but the fire in it still burns. “I regret having come. If the one who summoned me had the use of her tongue, I would not have.”
My chest becomes a great knot. My head is afire. I cannot think, much less speak. It is too painful to look at Ayessa and so I stare at Freya, vaguely hoping she will reject the answer offered and demand another. But she nods calm acceptance, which Ayessa takes as leave to depart.
