by Lentz, P. K.
She moves toward the door, toward me... Dazed, I make the choice to step aside, letting her pass. She spares me no glance, as if I am but a furnishing, and the door closes with a heavy, final sound.
My eyes stare out blankly, but behind them, my momentarily frozen thoughts race. They bring understanding, and it fills me with rage.
“I see what you have done!” I grate at Freya, whom I see now for the enemy that she truly is. “You've filled her head with lies and made her think she is one of you! But she is not! She is Atlantean!”
Just how I intend to act upon my snap judgment, I have no clue as yet. I am hardly well placed to make demands or challenge the folk of Asgard in any way.
Freya confounds me by declining to reveal her true, wicked nature in a peal of heartless laughter. No, instead what I get are more softly spoken words—doubtless lies.
“Nothing was done to Essa that was not of her own choosing.”
“Done to her?” I echo. “Then you admit it! What did you do? She spoke of knowledge—what knowledge?”
“Thamoth,” Freya says, her look full of sympathy, “I promise to you that I was unaware Essa bore you ill will. Had I known, I would have seen that you two were kept apart until the time was right.”
“What knowledge?” I insist. “Tell me!”
“Please,” Freya urges, “if you will but keep your wits about you, all will be explained.”
Unlike mine, her manner is one of utter calm. She clearly has no fear of me—and she need not, not with a mute observer at her shoulder whom I am reasonably certain could dispatch me in seconds if need be. Then again, something about Freya makes me suspect she could do the same. I am powerless here in this cottage, and even if were I not, I am still far, far from home in the middle of a strange city.
Such realizations, more than Freya's urgings, cause me to swallow my anger.
“Apologies,” I murmur. My head swims. I set a hand on the wall to steady myself.
Freya comes swiftly to my side. “Come, sit,” she says. “I will tell you what you wish to know.”
“No, I beg you. Tell me now. What knowledge?” I fear I already know.
“Very well,” Freya says from close beside me. Her skin smells of sweet herbs. “Ayessa has drunk from the Well of Mimir. It is the source of the All-Father's knowledge of the Aesir's future, but the visions it gives, if the seeker so wishes, may shed light on the present... or the past.”
Knowing what Freya will say next, I begin to grasp from whence came Ayessa's fresh hatred of me, and I barely keep from crying out.
“When Essa drank from the Well,” Freya finishes, confirming my fear, “she recalled her prior life in Atlantis.”
25. Odinn
The time which follows passes in a blur. I am vaguely aware of being half-carried to a bed in the next room, of Gaeira departing, of Freya passing in and out of my dull-eyed vision. Time ceases flowing, and so I know not how much passes before I speak my next words, clutching at Freya's skirts from my bed.
“Let me drink from the Well! I must know... I must!”
“That is possible,” Freya tells me, gently removing my fingers from her dress. “But there will be a price.”
“Anything,” I pledge without thought. I swing my feet to the floor and stand, waving off Freya's attempt to help.
“The Well belongs to Odinn,” Freya says. “If he permits you to drink of it, the price will be set by him.”
“Ayessa paid it,” I reason. “So will I.”
“She paid her price. Yours may be higher. Or lower.”
“What was her price?”
“From what you have seen and heard already, have you not guessed?”
I cast my mind back to find the answer. What could I have seen or heard that would—
The matching swooping eagle blazon on Ayessa's and Freya's armor. Ayessa goes by another name and bows to Freya's authority. You are a Valkyr now, Freya said to her.
“What is a Valkyr?” I ask.
Freya smiles, telling me I am on the right path. “A fighter in the force which I command on Odinn's behalf, the Valkyriar.”
I conclude, dismally, “Ayessa's price was... allegiance.”
Freya nods, and my spirits sink lower still. Unless I am mistaken, it means that Ayessa's intention is—and was even before she learned of her past—never to return to us.
***
First light brings Gaeira's return. I am pleased that she has not yet left Asgard. I have no good reason to trust her, less to count her as friend, but hers is the face to which I am most accustomed in Asgard. She and Freya escort me through winding alleys to the black stone citadel which stands at the very heart of the city of Asgard. Its walls and yard crawl with warriors who greet my guides, particularly Freya, with cordial deference. Freya, dressed in regal gown of gold-trimmed blue, dispenses warm smiles in return.
We reach a plain double door of polished oak, its handles made from the sleek horns of some beast. A guard raps on it, and presently it opens from within, permitting us entry. The hall beyond is dazzlingly bright. All surfaces, the expansive floor and walls which extend upward without visible end, are of purest white, as is the illuminating glow from above, which is brighter than the daylight without. As my eyes settle, dark patches at the hall's far end coalesce into three human-shaped figures. The two on either side are tall and slender, while the one in the middle is just as tall but more thickly built. I gather he must be Odinn, and it is him upon whom I focus as I proceed steadily forward, Gaeira to one side of me, Freya on the other.
Among the first of Odinn's features that I distinguish is the vast beard falling in white waves halfway to his waist. Next I see that he wears over his left eye (or where the eye would be) an ornate patch of black and silver, colors which match those of his battle-dress. The skin of his face is deeply lined, like mud that has baked and cracked.
Whilst I look at him, movement comes from above, a fluttering sound, and down from the hall's glowing upper reaches a bird swoops down to perch on Odinn's right shoulder. A sharp caw draws my eye a short distance to the right, where the black bird's twin sits on an iron bar.
Ares was right. The birds do serve a master, and that master is Odinn, lord of the Aesir.
The identities of the two men flanking Odinn, I cannot guess. One is fair-haired and clean-shaven, dressed in brightly shining armor and a cloak of deep purple. The other has long black hair like Crow's, deeply sunken eyes and a thin beard that traces the jawline. His shoulders are draped in a gray wolf pelt; the beast's fang-filled mouth rests upon his left shoulder, as if devouring the wearer's arm from the top down. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, the arm in question ends not in a hand but in an iron-plated stump.
We draw up before them and halt. Gaeira falls to one knee, Freya does not, and I am left quickly to decide which of the two to emulate. I do not wish to offend, particularly given my desire to drink from the Well, but Odinn is not my master. I may not be a willing ambassador, or even a competent one, but an ambassador I am. I elect not to kneel lacking a direct request, which does not come.
“Rise, child,” Odinn says, and Gaeira does so. Even though Odinn speaks with a gentle tone, his voice is deep and commanding, a match for his appearance. “You've brought us another one?”
I half expect Gaeira to speak. Odinn is, after all, supreme lord of her conquered tribe, and besides that, he radiates authority. But her vow of silence, it seems, yields not even to a lord.
Freya answers for her. “The man is called Thamoth, All-Father. He ventured from the Interlopers' city in search of the woman, Essa, who came before him.”
Odin smiles, adding new creases to his well-creased face. His gray eyes fix briefly on me before returning to Freya. “To steal her back?” he asks. “Will a Valkyr quit your fold to return to quaint life among the Jotnar?”
Freya does not bother to answer a question obviously posed in jest. To them it may be a laughing matter. To me, it is not.
“I believe he cam
e in good faith, All-Father,” Freya says. “He poses no danger and should be granted the freedom of Asgard for as long as—”
“Yes, yes,” Odinn accedes impatiently. “Let him enjoy civilization for a while. Yet until I have decided the fate of his folk, of course, he must not return to Jotunheim, on pain of death.” For the first time, Odinn's single eye lingers on me. His craggy, ancient brow, bristling with white hair, furrows. “Perhaps he has something to say for himself. Do you, pup?”
If I did, it is lost now. But I must find some words. I only hope that the fate of “my folk” does not rest upon whatever they turn out to be.
“I assure you, All-Father,” I find myself saying, “that when they learn of the Aesir, my people will have no interest in warring with you. We desire only peaceful—”
Odinn's laughter peals off the white walls. “I should hope they have no interest in war, pup! You misunderstand. If I thought that you Interlopers had any hope of doing us harm, I would have exterminated you the moment my ravens whispered of your arrival. Your so-called city only remains standing on account of its insignificance. I merely am not yet certain whether there might be something to gain by bringing some of your number into my service. This sorceress of yours, for one. To have torn a hole between worlds, she must be quite powerful. Even if she cannot hope to match the enchantress at whose side you presently stand.”
Freya bows her head in meek acceptance of the compliment.
“Still,” the one-eyed All-Father resumes. “Freya herself came from a tribe which it fell upon me to vanquish before embracing as kin those who remained. As for you Interlopers, it but remains to be seen whether I shall go to the trouble of vanquishing you before accepting your vows of fealty. What say you, pup? Would this leader of yours, this Ares, submit to my rule, absent force of arms?”
I rather think not, but I would not be so foolish as to say so. “I am not empowered to speak for him,” I say instead.
Odinn scoffs. “I ask for your opinion, no more. You must have one. Or are you a dullard?”
Perhaps I am. Given how little I know of myself, it is not outside the realm of possibility. But I am quick enough, at least, to produce an answer I hope will suffice.
“Ares is practical,” I say. “If his choice is between yielding and dooming us all, I have confidence he will spare us destruction.”
A satisfied “Hmmph,” emerges from within Odinn's great beard. “We shall see, we shall see. But what of you, pup? Thamoth, is it? The last of your kind to come before me suffered a void she sought to fill with the waters of Mimir. Are you likewise afflicted?”
“Freya has told me of your Well,” I say too eagerly. “I, too, would drink from it and see a void filled.”
“She must also have told you that none may partake without paying a price. It is never a light one. How dearly are you prepared to pay?”
“When I hear the price, I will know.”
Odin's one eye gazes appraisingly at me down his large, bent nose. “When I have better kenned you, I will give it. Perhaps I will demand your service, as I did of your kinswoman. For now, the freedom of Asgard is yours, under the watch of she who brought you. By slinking back to Vanaheim, Gaeira escaped responsibility for the last Interloper she brought us. This time, she will do her part.”
I throw a glance at the slayer, who reacts not a bit to Odinn's decree.
“Now, all of you, begone from—”
“Father...” The interjection comes from the younger, fair-haired figure in the shining armor standing at Odinn's right. “Would it be so terrible if a guest in Asgard were actually to feel welcome one day?”
Odinn treats the younger man to a frosty glare and throaty growl. Ignoring it, the latter addresses me.
“Welcome, Thamoth,” he says. “Since my father neglected to introduce us, I am Baldr.” He gestures casually at the somber, dark haired figure on Odinn's other side. “That is my half-brother Tyr. If the fair Vanir maid will surrender the privilege, it would be my pleasure to show you the sights of Asgard.”
Baldr looks expectantly at me. He has put me in an awkward spot. To give one answer I risk offending Baldr; the other, Odinn. With a knowing smirk, Freya intercedes on my behalf, answering my silent plea and earning yet more of my gratitude.
“Prince Baldr,” she says brightly, “your offer is most gracious. If the All-Father wills it”—she looks pointedly at Odinn—“it is one I cannot imagine our guest would decline.”
Odinn snarls, in indifference more than anger, waggles thick fingers, and turns to stalk off in the direction of some heavy yellow curtains on one side of the hall which evidently conceal an exit. His son Tyr departs after him without ever having parted his thin, bloodless lips to speak, though he does study us all carefully with narrowed eyes before taking his leave.
Unburdened of her duty as my custodian, Gaeira is next to depart, retreating the way we came after a look of her own which suffices to excuse her while conveying nothing of her mood or thoughts.
Baldr steps forward smiling and lays a hand on my arm in brotherly fashion. I find myself taking an instant liking to him. In manner if not appearance, he reminds me of Kairos. Maybe now that Ayessa has spurned me, I am overly receptive to any slight reminder of my home.
“Worry not, Thamoth,” Baldr says congenially. “Heed mine and Freya's counsels during your stay in Asgard, and all will be well.”
“I am grateful,” I say to Baldr uncertainly. I want to trust him.
“Heed my counsel foremost,” Freya says with a trace of a smile, which Baldr reciprocates. “That is, if you favor wisdom over rash action.”
“I have found that a measure of each serves well,” Baldr counters. “It keeps life interesting, at any rate. Will you accompany us on our tour, Lady Freya, or leave our guest at the mercy of rash counsel?”
“I shall take my leave, Prince Baldr,” Freya says, “trusting in you not to lead our friend to ruin quite yet.”
I can see in her eyes and hear in her tone that the warning is not entirely unserious. Without further word, the sorceress lays a hand lightly upon my neck, plants an even lighter kiss on my cheek and exits.
“Come now, friend,” Baldr says when she is gone. “I will show you all of Asgard that is worth seeing.”
26. Yggdrasil
Baldr guides me on the meandering route out of the city. I find myself at ease in his presence. As we pass certain sites, he is reminded of tales from his own past or that of the Aesir, and he tells them to me. It becomes clear that Baldr likes to talk. Fortunately, he is good at it, and not unpleasant to listen to.
Before long, we exit the walled city by means of a smaller gate than the one by which I entered with Gaeira. Just past the gate is a flat, open structure the air around which is permeated by a distasteful odor. While Baldr greets and jokes with a man there, I spy through the structure's open wall a largish animal I have not before laid eyes on in this life. It is a horse, my hidden memory tells me, and I realize at the same time that Baldr intends for us to ride upon the beasts' backs. I warn him I am no horseman, but he laughs and tells me not to worry.
Before we mount, he offers some brief instruction which, as it turns out, suffices to keep me firmly astride the creature and moving in the desired direction, if barely. For a while, I am more concerned with the challenge of riding than with seeing the sights of Asgard that are ostensibly the purpose of our sojourn. But thanks to a patient guide, who slows his pace considerably for my benefit, eventually I am able to push my gaze out past the horse's mane and the ground moving under its hooves.
By then we have crossed the huge plain on which sits the city of Asgard and entered a wood of sorts, the trees of which tower high above us. Their red trunks are branchless except for far up, where they sprout broad leaves. The forest floor is carpeted with them, each larger than my head.
As we ride at an ever-steadier pace, Baldr tells me of the various peoples who inhabit the eight realms that comprise his world. In addition to the Aesir, Vani
r, and two breeds of giant of which I am aware, there are the graceful, magic-wielding Alfar; their forest-dwelling cousins the Svartalfar; the diminutive, tunnel-dwelling Dvergar, who craft the finest weapons; and a third type of jotnar, fire giants, the most formidable and thankfully smallest in number. Each tribe or race dwells in its own realm, which apart from conquered Vanaheim is ruled independently, though all recognize Odinn, to greater or lesser degree, as overlord.
Baldr has never heard mention of places called Hades, Olympus, Ocean, or Atlantis.
“Would that I had tales to share of my land,” I lament to Baldr. I explain to him of my awakening in the borrowed body of a fallen Chrysioi, a people who hail from another world altogether than the one in which my soul originated.
“You came to Asgard looking for the Interloper woman who became a Valkyr,” Baldr says. “Has the reunion yet occurred?”
“Yes...” I answer tentatively.
It is but one word, but Baldr evidently hears in it much more. “Hmmh. She was not glad to see you, was she.”
“She...” I start, and struggle for words. “I would as soon not speak of it.”
“Oh, come now,” Baldr urges sympathetically. “Not to brag, but I have considerable experience with the softer sex. None of them Atlantiar, mind you, but in the end, they are all of a kind, are they not? You might find I can be of help. Do not be bashful. There are none present but us.”
I am not quick to answer, but a moment's consideration lets me see the wisdom in accepting his offer. I have little use for his experience of women, but he is Asgardian, and a prince no less. I have everything to gain by befriending him. If in the process he surrenders useful advice, all the better.
“A drink from Mimir's Well convinced her that I did her some wrong in our past life,” I admit. “Might the Well's visions be untrue?”
Balder smiles wryly. “Untrue? I have never known it to be so. Troublesome, yes, and frequently not to the seeker's liking. But then, I imagine she is the first to have drunk whose flesh and spirit were, how to say it, not of one kind. You will be the second.”
