The Apple Throne

by Tessa Gratton

  “Loki the Changer, god of masks and mischief, of lost children and a mother’s love, began his games immediately, as he is wont to do. The Changer leaps into action and thrusts himself into trouble with nary a plan, but always a laugh.” I surprise myself with the fondness in my tone and keep my eyes out at the black highway. “Sometimes it serves him poorly, and the sting of serpent poison will always be his reminder. Other times it serves him well, for better than any other god, Loki has won more than his fair share of apples.”

  The god beside me preens; his skin shines briefly and golden rings appear on his long fingers.

  “Loki has teased Idun into gifting him apples, and Loki has tormented her. He has kidnapped and seduced her, infuriated her and begged her,” I say, almost enjoying myself. “He gave her up once to a giant in order to settle a debt, but stole her back again, straight out of the sky, and it is the only time in her long life she felt the strength of wings under her hands and reveled in the glory of flight.”

  “It sounds,” Amon grumbles, “as if Loki owes Idun more than one favor.”

  Loki waves a gilded hand to shush him. “She’s getting to it, Thorson.”

  I smile. “I am. For recently, the keeper of apples, the wife of poems, has taken a man into her heart. A strong and earnest man, a humble hero, a berserker who walks outside of destiny. He comes to her at the heaven’s holidays: Yule and Summer Solstice, Baldur’s Night and the sorrowful Baldur’s Day. Only four times a year do they spend together, and six months ago, as the sun rose over the orchard, this man, Soren Bearstar, ran to Idun across the small meadow near her cottage. The goddess threw open her arms to embrace him, and Soren cupped her face, kissed her sweetly, and lifted her off her feet in love.” I lower my voice. “Idun gave all in return, tasting her lover and reveling in his presence. She ran her fingers in his short hair, kissed his jaw and cheeks, unlocked the baldric holding his father’s sword to his shoulders and let it fall to the soft orchard floor. Sunlight cast his beloved face in rich shades as the goddess stared, taking in every detail, every little change: a new scar on his earlobe, a red T-shirt she’d never seen. And then he smiled and she kissed him anew. ‘Come inside,’ she said against his neck. ‘Hurry, Bearstar, before I start without you.’ And Soren laughed, though she’d expected him to duck his head, embarrassed. The lady of apples paused, curled her hand around his thumb, and pulled gently.”

  I take a breath and very firmly glance away from Loki. “He did not go, but tugged her back against his chest and said, ‘My Idun, I’ve been thinking.’ And immediately she knew something was wrong, for there was a secret name they used between them, a secret name for her heart. The goddess frowned, and Soren Bearstar said, ‘Give me one of your apples.’

  “Idun stepped nearer and looked at his familiar eyes, dark and terrible eyes she loved for the wildness in them, for the constant battle he waged with the fury inside his heart. ‘An apple?’ she whispered, and the berserker said, ‘Yes, and then no matter what happens to me, I can come back to you.’

  “And Idun knew. The lady of apples knew, and she tore free of his embrace. ‘What is this, Loki Changer,’ she demanded, touching her flushed lips. ‘I will deny you apples forever for this!’

  “Her lover’s face grimaced and whined, ‘How did you know? My shape is perfect!’

  “‘Get out of him, Loki, or my word will be my revenge: you will never eat an apple again.’

  “The illusion of Soren Bearstar snapped away, and there stood Loki across from Idun, palms out helplessly, red braids as thick as cobras. ‘I had to try,’ he said. And Idun spat at his shoes. ‘Get out, Changer.’

  “But Loki surprised her again. He clasped his hands together and said, ‘Wait, Idun, hear me out, I have a great need for an apple today.’

  “‘Not today or any day for a year,’ she said, but in the god’s bright green eyes she saw fear. It stretched down his pretty face, though he pulled his lips into a tight line to hide it.

  “‘Idun, please.’

  “Though enraged, the goddess of youth paused. She was fair and she was kind, and the god of mischief had said please.

  “‘Tell me why,’ Idun whispered. ‘Why you would betray me so? Why risk my fury?’

  “‘My friend is in danger,’ the god replied, eyes veered away, lips pursed with annoyance.

  “‘Danger enough to die?’

  “Loki turned the shifting green eyes to hers, and his face crumpled. His hair fell off his head like autumn leaves as he shrank. Only a boy stood before her. ‘Yes.’

  “‘Men and women die,’ Idun said, not without sympathy. ‘It’s their nature. It is the risk we take, the dare we cast when we love them.’

  “The red-haired, angry boy said, ‘But this is my fault, Idun, mine. She is going to die, and it will be only because of me. Not fate or her choices. Me.’

  Beside me in the van, Loki takes a slow, silent breath through his mouth, and as he exhales, he whispers a name I cannot quite hear, but I guess it. I reach across the aisle and gently touch his arm. Softly, I finish my story. “Idun was moved, for how could she not be? And she went to the gnarled, crooked apple tree to pluck a single tiny apple. She brought it to Loki Changer and held it out. ‘Ask me next time, Changer. Ask and never deceive me so because my anger is nearly bold enough to eclipse my sympathy this morning.’

  “Loki looked at her from his knees, mouth agape. ‘Freely given?’

  “‘Freely given,’ Idun said, dropping the apple into the god’s hand. ‘But for the trick, you owe me a debt.’

  “‘So granted, Lady Idun,’ the god said and flew away.”

  Amon says, “Who was she, Loki?”

  The god rolls his eyes in the rearview, as if there’s any chance he’ll say.

  “A pretty, spirited horse? Palomino blond?” Amon needles.

  Loki laughs derisively. “Yes, because I’ve never heard jokes like that before.”

  Amon laughs, too, but with genuine pleasure. I glance back to see it cracking like lightning in his sky-blue eyes. He says to me, “I don’t think Sleipnir jokes will ever grow old.”

  “Maybe in twelve hundred years,” Sune offers, and Loki nods vigorously.

  I lean my head against the passenger seat, turning my cheek to the cloth so I can see all three of them. My eyes drift closed as I think of Soren, of his anger and embarrassment when I told him what Loki had done, and then the pride when he realized how easily I’d understood the most perfect copy of him was not truly him. A yawn surprises me, and I barely get my hand up in time to cover it.

  “Sune,” Amon barks, “trade places with Idun so she can sleep stretched out back here. You got to sleep all afternoon.”

  I consider protesting, but weariness drags at me. Though slightly awkward, I climb back over Sune and press his hand as he replaces me in the front. Amon unzips a sleeping bag and aids me as I kick off my boots and curl inside. Vaguely, I notice him turn down the small camping lantern, and I hear murmurs as they shift and rearrange themselves, but I fall into sleep almost before I’ve made a pillow with my arms. My last thought, as it so often has been, is of Soren and a longing prayer I’ll see him soon.

  FIFTEEN

  Though the van stops once or twice, I roll tighter inside the sleeping bag and cling to my dreams. There is Soren is in his stone cage, wrathful and screaming, smeared with blood and sweat, pounding the walls with his fists, slamming himself against the floor. I grow hot myself but huddle under the blanket, sweating. Tears leak out of my eyes, and I hear a beautiful hum near my face. Rings warm my fingers; not my own, but circles of gentle fire that lick up my bones to my wrists, my shoulders, and find a way to wind through my ribs and into my heart. The warmth loosens the cut of the bodice against my waist. My cheeks flush, and I fold my hands under my cheek. The rings hum mysterious, tempting songs into my ear. The rhythm of the road beneath me thrums against my skin and so does the quiet murmur of conversation all around. Oh, I’m finally warm, down to my toes. There’s more of it
, too—the gold. I dig through blankets and earth, push aside thick vines that scrape my hands, until I uncover it: a hoard of gold rings and brooches, a necklace of gold and garnets, two cloisonné belt buckles. The hoard glows like yellow embers, gemstones winking at me. My breath catches and I reach out, brush my fingers against the heat, plucking out just a single ring: beaten gold nearly as wide as my first knuckle, with knots worked into the edges. It slides over my middle finger perfectly. It is so beautiful, so glowing and comfortable. I stare. I turn my hand over and admire the way it compliments my pale fingers, the lines of my palm. It’s heavy, but doesn’t overburden me, instead completing my hand like it’s been missing since birth. I bring it to my lips and breathe in scents of ancient forest and whitewater cutting through granite valleys, acorns and evergreen and secret, shadowed springs. I taste wildflowers and honey.

  Someone shakes my shoulder, and I groan, fisting my hand against my mouth. Soren is screaming, is the first thought I have.

  “Idun, we’re as far as the van will go.” It’s Sune.

  Loki Changer says, “There’s maybe ninety minutes to dawn. We’ve a few miles of hiking ahead of us.”

  “Through snow,” Sune adds.

  I rub my eyes and sit. They’ve the sliding door open, the travel lamp glowing enough to make a cavern of the van. Beyond is only darkness and cold wind. The glint of snow. Please Freya, let us be near him. Only two more days.

  Sune snatches my wrist. “What’s this?”

  In the dim glow, I see the heavy old ring from my dreams overwhelming the more delicate gold and silver rings I brought from the orchard. My lips part.

  “Skit,” Amon says from over Sune’s shoulder. Sune’s mouth is pressed tight, his eyes boring into my hand, but Amon grasps the back of his neck and pulls him away from me. Sune gasps raggedly and falls to his knees outside the van. From the passenger door, Loki laughs. He points at my lap where gold is spilled across the folds of Gunn-Elin’s skirt. I clutch at another ring before Amon can take it away. Tucking the ring into my bodice, I take up a belt buckle and a necklace. The necklace should fit around my throat and compliment Soren’s black horn beads well.

  Amon sighs and starts to drag me out of the van. He doesn’t bother removing gold or fighting me as I grab for more. The godling just dumps me on my feet in the frigid pre-dawn and shakes me so my teeth snap. “Idun. Skit, jill, think.”

  I shut my eyes and shiver. The gold from my dream is the gold we collected from Evan Bell’s basement. Trouble. Elf-gold. It tempts and sings and makes us forget ourselves. Made me grab for it in my sleep. Frantically, I throw the necklace away. A streak of bright yellow trails it into the thick pine forest, where it thuds into wet snow. My hands are shaking. I dig for the ring in my bodice, burning against my breast. Amon catches my hand before I can throw it, stripping it from me. More gently, he takes the belt buckle. I hug myself, pulling my coat tight.

  Loki says, “The ring.”

  I splay my fingers, staring. I tell myself to use my other hand to tug off the thick ring, but nothing happens. My hand trembles. My breath speeds up into short pants. Take it off. I bite my lip hard for distraction. The ring embraces my middle finger. “I…can’t,” I say.

  Amon takes it and tugs. It doesn’t budge, even when I pull too. I grimace, and Amon shakes his head, then takes the rest of the gold. I shove my hands into my pockets and watch him crawl back into the van and replace all the gold in its pouch. He walks around to the rear and swings open the back doors. There’s the sound of metal on metal and the creak of his trunk opening. After a moment, the lid thuds back down, and he locks everything again.

  Loki leans over me. He murmurs, “At least we can still see you, darling.”

  I shake my head, not understanding. My eyeballs feel larger, pressing into my skull.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Amon grumbles and goes to Sune, who’s crouched against the pale dirt road, mud under his boots and clinging fists. More gently than I’ve seen, Amon lifts Sune up onto his feet again. The godling puts a wide, dark hand against Sune’s face, sliding it back against his skull. “Are you keen?” he asks in undertone.

  Sune shivers visibly, but nods. Amon lets him go.

  “Do you—do you have the sal volatile?” I ask, remembering I want to take some if they might help Soren free his mind of the frenzy. Amon tells me Sune’s carrying it, as he found some ammonia-based in his military first aid kit.

  I climb back into the van for my coat, my boots, and Soren’s sword. I put them on and turn to see Loki’s eyes glint in the moonlight. He grins at me, teeth white and sharp. “Into the woods.”

  With flashlights and weapons and my seething kit, we follow the god off the road along a skinny elk trail. Starlight vanishes, and we’re left with layers of evergreen forest and the tall black columns of lodge pole pines. Massive granite boulders jut up from the frosty undergrowth, glittering like broken bones of the mountain.

  My boots slip on the slick trail. I focus on Amon’s wide back, on the prints he leaves. One foot before the other, up and up at a sharp incline. I use my hands sometimes to grasp the edges of boulders or to catch myself against rough bark. Sune is at my elbow, his breath hard but steady. The god of orphans leaps ahead of us all like a deer, footsteps precise, easy, calm. His hair is a beacon that manages to catch what little moonlight filters its way through the thick forest.

  And then we come into a clearing where the path hugs a sheer drop-off and I can’t help but gaze out at the valley pulling away from us. Its depths remain as dark as nighttime, but where the mountains rise in the east, they’re sharp silhouettes against a deep blue sky. The sun is coming. There’s a glow from the distant town of Shield at the base of Etintooth Peak, and high up the slope, almost directly across from us, burns the god’s earthly hall, Bright Home. I wonder which of them are in residence, sleeping in gilded beds or sitting up with each other to drink holy mead and laugh. Does the Alfather, seated at his high throne, see us here? Will his ravens, Thought and Memory, bring him word that Idun is not in her orchard?

  “Lady?” Sune says, nudging my elbow. The edge of one battle-ax glints with the pre-dawn light.

  “I’m well,” I say and turn to trudge after Amon again, who waits at the far end of the cliff path.

  “Hurry,” calls Loki from above. I tilt my chin and find him over us on a switchback. He grips the threshold and peeks down at me. “If we miss the mark, you’ll be stuck here until tomorrow, but my debt will be paid regardless.”

  I nod and push faster. Amon takes my hand when I reach him and lends a little strength by pulling me along.

  There’s a silvery glow casting down through the pines now, transforming the frost into diamonds and bringing a slip of ice-wind. My eyes water and my nose is runny from the cold. My lips chap, and I miss the balm from my old seething kit. Soren’s sword grates on my shoulder, the baldric crossed down over my chest to bind my coat more tightly shut. I wish I could shove my hands into my pockets, but I need them for balance.

  Another kilometer and we emerge from the trees into the hidden pocket between two snowy peaks. Rock fall spills from the jagged summits toward the tree line, and a glorious lake ripples gently under the wind. Ice spreads inward from the shore, and the boulders half-fallen into the water are bright with yellow lichen. Bold brown and orange pine needles create a windblown carpet that’s soft under my boots. The air is clear and cold, the sky lightening. Clouds have pulled away as we hiked, revealing the last of the morning stars. Loki leads us over a cluster of boulders so cold my fingers go numb, around to the north side of the lake.

  There are no trees here, nothing to block the first fingers of dawn that reach over the eastern horizon. They creep across the valley behind us, past Bright Home, lighting up the mouth of the Etinridge one fang at a time.

  Loki lifts one hand and points at the crumbling face of the cliff beside us. My eyes follow the sun from the far shore of the lake as it finds the first ripples and sets them alight w
ith silver fire. The flicker races over the ice and trembling water, an arrow pointing the way. I back up from the lake until my back touches a boulder. The ray of sunlight dances past me to the cliff, and the moment it glances against the stone, arcs of thin silver crackle along the cliff face, revealing veins of crystal running up in the shape of branched lightning. Each silver limb is a line of runes that flickers and blinks, spirals out and disappears again.

  Amon says, “Skit,” and I can barely breathe. I see the seams of an arched doorway around the tree of lightning and three runes where a knocker should be that glow red and pink like rubies.

  And then the sun is up; the cliff reverts to plain rough granite. The magic is gone.

  “Amazing,” Sune says as he touches his hand to the place one of the branches flared. He rubs his gloved fingers down the stone, and I hear the scrape, but he shakes his head.

  “Good luck,” Loki the Changer says cheerfully.

  Amon grabs his arm. “But how do we open it?”

  Loki’s eyes grow wide, and he slips out of Amon’s grasp, slick as oil. “Speak friend and enter?”

  Sune snorts, and I try to ignore all of them, staring at the spot where I saw the three ruby runes. “Amon, lift me up, please.”