“So.”
“So,” Tae repeated, but did not bother with further explanation. He knew enough about street orphans to feel confident that she would not wish to stay in strange circumstances any longer than necessary. Control meant everything; without it, violation or death would swiftly ensue. He only needed to watch that he did not force her to choose between the control that came of familiar circumstances and control of the situation. That she had gotten into her current situation suggested that she had not yet learned to buy future security with present discomfort.
Three more drops of blood fell on her face, one rolling into an eye. “Ya not lettin’ me up tills I agrees, is ya?”
“I can’t afford to,” Tae admitted, fighting a well-ingrained need to win at her expense. If he negotiated right, they could both get what they wanted.
“If’n I’s go back ta B’yarn, they’s gonna toss me.”
Tae recognized the slang. “They can’t lock you up. We need you to complete the mission. That’s seven more trips to other worlds.”
The pale brown eyes widened. “Y’expectin’ me ta do this ’gain an’ ’gain?” She slithered her left foot experimentally.
Tae gave no ground, certain he could outlast her in one position, especially when he held the top. “Seven more times.”
“Hain’t doin’ it.”
Tae did not allow the refusal to upset him; he had expected no other answer. “Fine. When the others get back, I’ll have enough hands to tie you.” He only hoped he could stifle the discomfort that long. Exploited, his injuries could steal his consciousness or his power over her.
Rascal seemed to shrink into herself, and her eyes betrayed a flash of fear. “Ya’d tie me?”
Tae realized he had uncovered her failing, his only true negotiating point. “If you leave me no choice. We need you to complete a mission of ultimate importance to the world and its future.”
“Ul’ament impotens.” Rascal made a disapproving noise. “Ya hain’t no streeto.”
“Kin tahk like ya, if’n I wants.” Tae simulated Pudarian street speech with only a hint of his Eastern accent. “I was a streeto and a ganadan. You don’t survive either without smarts or the ability to imitate high-borns when the need arises.” He added emphatically, “Perlia.”
Rascal grunted again. “Yeah. But which one’s yo im’tayshin?”
Tae gave a shrug so small it did not grant Rascal any openings for escape. “Doesn’t matter, does it? I didn’t get where I am without sacrifice, hard work, and a lot of soul searching.” He did not add that his father’s toil had also played a role. He would have come to the same place with or without Weile Kahn’s bid for Stalmize’s throne, and mentioning it would dilute his point.
Rascal rocked her head back and forth, apparently seeking space. “Ya don’ b’come a prins like that.”
Tae smiled. “Sometimes, Rascal, you do.”
“Gots ta be born ta da king.”
“Not always.” Tae waxed philosophical. “They’ll always be high-born who think of me as slime and low-born who think I’m too big for my station. But all that really matters is what I think.” Memory stirred. Damn. Isn’t that essentially what Matrinka said to me?
Rascal rolled her eyes. “Lek’shur done?”
“Yeah.” Tae wondered if he could ever break through her walls. “Listen. If we’re unsuccessful, there’ll never be another baby born. Never. Humans will eventually cease to exist.”
Rascal slowly closed and opened her lids, in lieu of a shrug. “Hain’t wantin’ no babies.”
“Rascal, I’m talking about the complete extinction of mankind.”
“Hain’t my problim.”
Was I ever that stupid and self-absorbed? Tae tried not to contemplate. To believe it so might destroy the fragile self-esteem he had managed to build. To deny it might damage his will to assist her. Further proselytizing would gain him nothing. “Let’s bargain.”
Rascal came instantly to life. “Wants full freedom. Kin do’s I want w’out no one’s buggin’ me. Room in da cassil. B’come a prinsis.”
Tae bit back a laugh. “The high king himself doesn’t have that much independence.” He presented a more than reasonable alternative. “You stay with us through all eight tasks, and I’ll keep you out of the dungeon for any crimes you’ve already committed.” Tae knew Ra-khir would despise the concession, but he felt certain Rascal would never agree to anything lesser. “You haven’t killed anyone, have you?”
“Not yet,” Rascal hissed.
Tae’s grin returned.
“I’s still lissnin’.”
Tae continued, “A cottage in Pudar, or Béarn if you prefer. Enough gold to start a legitimate business of your choice . . .”
“Gold?” For the first time, Rascal’s fierce facade slipped.
“. . . and the advice to get it started.”
“How mich gold?”
Tae schooled his expression to utter sincerity. “Imagine all the gold you’ve seen in your entire life. Pretend all the silver you’ve seen is gold and add that.”
Rascal nodded eagerly.
“More than that.”
“Deal.” Likely, Rascal could not have stopped herself from saying it. “But I gits the gold fust.”
Tae knew better than to agree. Even a quarter up front would probably prove enough to send her running with it. “After.”
Sounds in the brush sent both heads flicking toward it. The first of Tae’s companions had returned. He eased his hold slightly, knowing her cooperation would require threat as well as promises. “And one more thing. I’ve got connections even a streeto couldn’t fathom. You run, you will be found. Some of the people I know don’t share my morals. I’ll get you back alive; but short of that, I won’t guarantee anything.” He gave her his best “I’m-not-bluffing” glare. “Then we drag you, bound, through seven worlds, after which you get nothing but a long stay in Béarn’s dungeon.” He let her up, anticipating an attempt at escape despite bargains and warnings. As excitement diminished, the pain in his nose grew in increments.
Rascal scrambled to a crouch, but she did not flee.
The brush parted to reveal Kevral and both elves. The Renshai’s eyes went to Rascal, and she shook her head evenly. Her attention flitted to Tae. “How?” she started, then her expression went soft as she apparently noticed his injury.
“Scum knows scum,” Tae said, suffering roughening his self-respect as well as his answer.
El-brinith glided toward them. “Let me take care of that injury.”
Tae placed himself in her care, hoping her elfin magic could take the place of the healer they did not have, now or, he realized suddenly, over the course of the next seven tasks.
* * *
Asgard’s golden walls sparked a million bright reflections, the familiar patterns blunted by the candles not yet replaced after the battle that had resulted in Baldur’s death. The gaps shadowed Odin where he sat in the high seat, adding an aura of mystery and power that he scarcely needed. Ravn could not fully shake the awe that no longer drove him to acts of obeisance but still suffused his judgment of every action of the AllFather.
Odin seemed bothered by the missing candles, frowning at intervals at the odd array of glimmers and glancing at the candelabra more often than his otherwise casual movements warranted. Near the door of the Meeting Hall, Freya, Frey, and Idunn crafted their spell with a few graceful gestures and huffed gutturals. No great flash of light or magnificent gesture announced their conclusion. Only a dark shape forming between them revealed their magic and a single silver spiral that wound from its top, defining a human form before slithering to the floor.
A frown scored Odin’s elfin features, though whether because of the newcomer or the extra trickle of magic, Ravn did not know enough to guess. The AllFather had proclaimed wards useless and unnecessary, yet someone had doubted enough to try.
In a moment, the conjured shape became more distinct, a lean sinewy man who, even in stillness, showed
astounding grace. Colors shimmered through otherwise simple linens, flickering oddly in the irregular candlelight. Golden locks a bit longer than usual feathered from defining features.
Vali, Sif, Modi, and Vidar glided around the table, weapons readied. Magni wrapped his fists around the haft of Thor’s hammer.
“It is as I said.” Despite impending violence, Odin remained placidly in his seat. “From the plane of chaos. The Prince of Demons himself.”
Despite the bared steel, Colbey did not draw his chaos sword.
To Ravn’s mind, the truth became irrefutable. Memories of his confrontation out-of-time rushed back to the forefront of his thoughts, its reality certain. Absently, he rubbed the knot at his injured wrist. My father is a demon. Colbey is chaos incarnate. The ideas materialized from nowhere, yet disputing them never occurred to Ravn. He simply stared, stunned into immobility.
A foreign presence touched his mind suddenly, a gentle request for entry. Enraged beyond reason by the intrusion, Ravn found his hand on his sword. Then, the contact turned apologetic and angry at once. Pain stabbed his head as thoughts that had felt integrally his moments before peeled away, leaving the doubt and confusion that now seemed as right as his condemnation of the father he loved had moments earlier. He staggered to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor behind him.
Colbey’s features twisted, eyes locked on Odin despite the threat at every side. He raised a hand toward the AllFather, as swift and cutting as a Renshai maneuver. The irregularity of the light intensified, shot through with a spectrum of color so divided and intense it defied Ravn’s ability to define it.
Raw chaos, Ravn realized, even as Odin dodged aside, looking astounded for the first time in Ravn’s experience. The gray god’s hands wove furiously through the air, restructuring the format of the room: first the air, then the candelabra, then the table. Deities leaped aside as objects swirled, fragmented, and reformed, the wind of creation a frigid swirl that muted light to darkness and upended reason.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it ended. Odin stood in his place. The sixteen remaining candles, positioned in perfect groupings of four, whirled and flashed highlights from the gold. The table had vanished, a black circle hovering in its place. In the confusion, Colbey had slipped nearer the door, no longer directly threatened by the gods’ weapons.
All eyes zipped to the ball of darkness. A gate, Ravn realized, and the explanation followed. Colbey had attacked Odin with chaos, and the AllFather had fashioned it into a brand-new world. Creation. Ravn’s short lifetime, though all of it spent among gods, had not prepared him for this. All of the worlds had existed since long before his birth. I’ve witnessed creation. The awe that had originally assailed him in Odin’s presence returned.
Colbey’s steady voice broke the silence, effective for its deadly quiet. “He killed Honir.”
Only then, Ravn realized the long-legged indecisive god had disappeared.
“And he will kill the rest—”
“He did it!” Odin roared over Colbey’s warning. “He tried to destroy us all. His chaos—”
“Could have harmed only him!” Colbey shouted over the AllFather, the loss of composure uncharacteristic. “He sacrificed Honir to the creation process . . . but he didn’t need to—”
Odin interrupted again. “Lies!”
“From the new Father of Lies!” Vali added, brandishing his sword.
Odin finished, “His chaos killed Honir. Just as it did Baldur.” The reference to the murder of the most beloved of the gods filled nearly every eye with burning rage. “Get him.”
Vali, Sif, and Modi lunged for Colbey, swords leading. Uncertain of his next action, Ravn started toward the conflict. His foot came down on the edge of his fallen chair. The wood flipped, slamming his shin. Agony shot through his leg, and he backpedaled for balance. Misjudging the chair’s position, he brought his other foot down along a leg. Skin tore in a line across ankle and calf, dotting his breeks with scarlet. A door banged against its lintel. Ravn toppled to the floor, rolling to rescue his hip from a bruising. By the time he scrambled to his feet once more, Colbey had vanished, leaving only a jumble of words in his head: “Cowardice is always wrong, but it is acceptable to abandon a battle if it can only result in killing friends.” A strange emphasis on the last word gave it the connotation of “fools.”
Only my father would pause to teach in a situation like this.
Vali fumbled with the door Colbey had apparently slammed as he departed. “Get him.”
“Stay,” Odin commanded.
Vali’s free hand balled, but he obeyed.
“He’s long gone.” Odin’s voice dripped distaste. “Back to chaos’ world with the other demons.”
Idunn moved from her corner, speaking her first words since the spell. “Wouldn’t he need banishing?”
Vali snarled, “Did Loki need banishing? He’s not really a demon, just an entity bound to the Staff of Chaos.”
“Honir,” Sigyn whispered, the first to go teary-eyed. “First Baldur, now Honir.”
Vali still stood at the door, as if debating whether to violate Odin’s request. “He’s working to destroy us.”
Ravn said nothing, needing time to process all the events. The battle had begun in his head, he felt certain. If Colbey had bound with chaos, if he no longer held loyalty toward family, why would he single out his son for such a thing?
Though Ravn had not spoken, he received an answer: *Because chaos can manipulate your loyalty to one no longer your father. Until you detach yourself from a love now misplaced, you remain vulnerable.* A wash of certainty accompanied the words, this time too weak to penetrate the depths of his doubts.
Deliberately, Ravn shoved the train of thought aside, his mind no longer safe from intrusion. For all he worried about his father, he worried for Odin’s influence as much. Experience told him no one was solely right or wrong, good or bad. And Odin had much of evil in him.
Odin addressed the group. If, as Ravn believed, the AllFather was the one who had spoken to his thoughts, he gave no sign of it now. “Mourn your loss as per tradition. Then disperse to your homes. I will contact each of you about your part in dispatching this threat to our worlds. We defeated chaos once at the Ragnarok. Handled properly, we can do so again.”
To Ravn’s relief, not all of the deities let Odin’s plan go unchallenged. Frey tugged at the sleeve of his own cloak and met Odin’s single eye. “You will inform us of our roles? It seems wiser for the greatest minds in existence to work together on this problem.”
Vidar chose to answer before Odin could. The soft, commanding voice soothed, taking its rightful place at the meeting. “Colbey reads, even manipulates, minds. Binding with the staff could only have made that power stronger.”
Nods followed the point. Though not the explanation Frey sought, it made the answer clear enough. If they all knew the plan, Colbey shortly would also. Only Odin had the power to detect and dispel Colbey’s mental probes, so he alone could have access to the entirety of the strategy.
Though it bothered Ravn to place his trust in what little Odin decided to reveal to him, he had no choice in the matter. None of the others seemed to harbor his doubts and concerns.
Odin strode for the door. Vali stepped aside, and the AllFather exited into the daylight, trailed by a mental warning: *You are the weak link, Ravn. I cannot allow your foolish, young doubts to destroy us all.*
Uncertain whether he had received a threat or a warning, Ravn forced his attention to Vidar and the beginning funeral service.
CHAPTER 9
A Hero’s Welcome
When love and kindness fail, there’s always violence.
—Colbey Calistinsson
HEALING bag dangling from a shoulder strap, Matrinka tapped on the door to Tae’s room, warned to tread lightly by descriptions of his appearance and demeanor. When the adventurers had returned from the first leg of their mission, Tae had reportedly thundered from the room without a word to anyone. The serv
ants stationed to watch for them had mentioned two black eyes and a swollen nose purple with clotted blood. The child who had replaced the healer Perlia had acted sullen and suspicious, but the others seemed in high spirits. Kevral and Ra-khir had headed off to wash before their requested audience with her and King Griff. After a brief exchange of hugs and hurried promises to meet later, Matrinka and Darris had separated. With Andvari, the bard had left to take the Pica shard to Captain and discuss the details with the elf and the sage. She looked forward to hearing them as well, once she assisted Tae and the uglier business with Ra-khir and Kevral had finished.
Matrinka hitched her kit higher onto her shoulder, then knocked on the panel again, this time rewarded by a loud, gruff answer.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Matrinka, Tae.”
Several moments passed in silence while the Eastern prince debated his options. “It’s not locked.”
Matrinka suspected that was the closest she would get to an invitation. Tripping the latch, she eased the door open.
Tae sat on his bed, knees tucked to his chest, still wearing the rumpled, bloodstained tunic and britches from the journey. Black hair fell in tangled, matted clumps to his shoulders. Between errant strands, partially healed scratches marred his cheeks, and the swarthy skin darkened in circles around his eyes. The bloated nose displayed every shade of purple, brown, and red. He did not look at her, though he had surely heard her enter. Ingrained wariness would not let otherwise be the case.
Matrinka closed the door with a quiet click, then walked to stand directly in front of Tae. She placed a hand over the hanging pouch of herbs, salves, and bandages.
Tae did not move.
Matrinka placed a hand on a shoulder as hard and tense as stone. The urge to question him burned strong, but her healing instincts nudged her toward matters less likely to fuel anger. “Let me see to those wounds.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” Tae mumbled. “El-brinith tried.”
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