The Apple Throne

by Tessa Gratton

  “Soren would murder no one.” I set my hands on my hips, elbows wide. “He killed, and so your cousin pushed him to it.”

  Eirfinna lashes out, and I feel nothing but the slick of air, followed by a burn of pain on my cheek. Shock makes me gasp as Sune draws his gun again, aiming it for Eirfinna’s head. Amon, though, pushes Sune’s braced arm aside and grips her by the throat. His black hand presses against her marble-white skin, and she shrieks, gripping his forearm with both obsidian-clawed hands.

  “Stop,” I say, resisting the pain in my cheek, the warm slick of blood sinking toward my chin. My left eye waters from the burning, and I blink the tears away.

  Sune stands with his chest near my shoulder, gun held out like a shield between me and the elf.

  Amon slowly releases her. She hisses at him, eyes narrow. “You could not kill me if you tried, godling, and I know you don’t want to.”

  “I won’t let you harm the Lady of Apples.”

  “She is no god.”

  “She is the Lady of Apples, and if you deny it, you deny not my word but the word of the Thunderer himself.”

  “Amon,” I say, gently moving past Sune to touch Amon’s elbow. I look at the elf as I speak. “Eirfinna only defended her cousin’s name.”

  She reaches out and takes my hand off Amon, giving the godling her shoulder. “What you say is true, lady. And Soren Bearstar killed that cousin. I am owed. Is that not a thing Asgard will honor?” She says it with deceptive lightness.

  “I do not speak for Asgard,” I say carefully, sensing this conversation is not only dangerous, but as delicate as negotiating with Loki Changer. “But if I did, I would say that a blood price for murder is death, not torture, and a holmgang is the only blood price you have a right to call for.”

  “Torture!” Her hairless brow wings up, widening those black eyes. “You think I torture him?”

  “You have him chained in your mountain and are using bearbane to ruin him, to run him dry. Are you so cowardly? So weak you cannot face him yourself in honorable combat?” My voice wavers, and I clench my jaw.

  She does not seem affected by the insults. “I am killing him as I see fit.”

  “I will not allow it.”

  “What will you offer me in compensation for him, then?”

  “My currency is the ear of Asgard and apples of immortality.”

  “Apples.” Eirfinna waves a dismissive hand. Her white-gold rings flicker. “I have no interest in the death-defying magic of Asgard.”

  “What is it you want, then, Eirfinna? Tell me and we will bargain.”

  Eirfinna steps nearer to me, until all I smell is her wildflower breath. She says, “Do those apples cure illness? Or only bring one back from the dead?”

  “The gods do not get sick, and so I could not say.”

  “We never sicken, either. And neither did our poor cousins, until recently.”

  “The Stone Plague,” I murmur, thinking of the tragic troll mothers in the chamber above, the one in particular who stared at me as she clutched her dead son. “You ask on their behalf?”

  “It is a curse, not a plague,” she spits. She grasps my wrist hard enough to bruise, and I rip it away. I carefully perch on one of the workbenches. Amon and Sune both move nearer, but I wave them away as Eirfinna stalks close. She sets her hands against the table behind me and leans in, trapping me there. Her huge black eyes fill my vision, and I see only sadness in them and a dark mirror-image of my own face as if I peer into tinted sunglasses. To prove she can’t intimidate me, I reach up to touch her delicate jaw.

  “I am so sorry about the mothers,” I say quietly, “but I know nothing of it.”

  “You are a god of Asgard, Amon claims. How can that be true?” Her voice is taut and high.

  “The gods did not do this.”

  “Yes! The plague struck exactly when the Father of Death regained his lost strength! A hundred and fifty years he was not whole, and then the Valkyrie of the Tree took her throne and Odin Alfather had his full strength again. So did he take his vengeance on the weakest of the etinfolk—the trollkin, the only of us who never hid under the mountain. They are dying, Idun of the Apples. Soon every troll mother will be gone.”

  I think of Signy Valborn standing with her sword pressed to my neck. She became the Valkyrie of the Tree a year and a half ago, and Soren was there. They killed a massive troll mother, and Signy took the heart as her prize in order to answer a decade-old riddle and claim her throne. Is it possible that Eirfinna is correct, that Odin Alfather cast this curse onto the troll mothers when Signy solved her riddle?

  I shake my head. “Why would he do it?”

  “He has been opposed to us for millennia! The Alfather and Thor and Tyr and their brothers have been against us ever since we chose not to join them in the light, so long ago it is ancient history now. They hold grudges and are so unforgiving that even when we wished to make a new choice in this new land, they forbade it. Why do you think the giants fought so hard? In order to push back against the genocide the gods of Asgard perpetrated against us—their own kind! They rose above what they called our dark lives and chose to rule humankind, but to do that, they claimed to be gods! Immortal! Our betters! They stole our magic and our names. They took everything from us and hunted us until we were hiding like this in the goblin halls under the mountains, becoming goblins ourselves. And the Alfather would cast us all out and away, even now, punish us by destroying our watchdogs, our allies. The troll mothers. That is why.”

  I can hardly parse her words, shaking my head as she flicks passionate tears away from her huge black eyes. Even though much of her story aligns with what Freya has told me—that the elves, giants, and gods were all one people long ago—it does not follow that the plague must be related to her imagined war on all etinfolk.

  “Back off,” Amon growls, looming beside us. Eirfinna does, swiftly pulling back, chin up.

  “Eirfinna,” I begin, but trail off for I’ve nothing to say against her.

  The elf curls her lips. “Truly, why does not matter, only how do we stop the curse in time. That is what I want. Find that answer for me, and I will give you Soren Bearstar. Ask Odin or Thor—I do not care. But bring me that answer, Idun, and hurry. I do not know how much time your berserker has, nor the troll mothers.”

  “Wait.” I stand. “I can find out faster than that. I can seek an answer for you without leaving your halls.”

  Her frown is magnificent, and her black diamonds glint dangerously. “How?”

  “I am a seether.”

  “A daughter of Freya!” Eirfinna grips my chin, glancing back and forth between my eyes. We are near enough to kiss. “You truly are a woman, no goddess, if you seeth.”

  “Does it matter?” I whisper.

  “It will one day, and I’ll ask you at the end how a human woman became guardian of the apples, but today it does not. My bargain is the same: give me an answer to the curse of the Stone Plague and I will give you Soren Bearstar.”

  “Show him to me now, Eirfinna of the Mountain. Prove to me he lives.”

  “He is not fit for company, Lady Idun.”

  “Do it anyway.” I am shocked by my own deep calm.

  Eirfinna stares at me, and I return it, too aware of the heavy, slow beat of my heart. “He might kill you in his rage.”

  “I have sal volatile,” I say.

  The elf scoffs. “There is no cure for the frenzy, no remedy for bearbane but time!”

  Amon says, “The ammonia in the potion should break this frenzy because it’s drug-induced, but if he’s got too much in him, that won’t matter until he’s cleaned out. He’ll just keep getting caught up again and again.”

  “We’re breaking it now,” I say more firmly. “I will not let him bash himself to death, waiting for the drug to wear off. If you want my help, Eirfinna, you will take me to him, allow me to break the cycle, and give him food and water to cleanse his blood of the remaining poison.”

  Eirfinna holds out her h
and, the one with four small slashes where her claws cut. They seep tiny amethyst crystals. I take it in my own and look into her eyes.

  She stares quietly for long moments, until finally she says, “You have my word.”

  “And you mine,” I reply.

  • • •

  Soren is imprisoned in a small chamber far below us, where the air is dank and stifling and no matter how he screams or pounds the walls, no one will hear it. Eirfinna explains again with relish that bearbane has trapped him in a constant cycle of frenzy and if I go inside he might kill me if he is conscious. Sick bile burns the back of my throat, and I wipe sweat from my brow before it stings the shallow cuts she sliced into my left cheek.

  Where Soren’s tattoo is, I think with sudden, bitter humor. I put my fist between my breasts, pressing hard over my heart as Eirfinna leads me through dark passages, twisting into the depths of the mountain.

  We reach a blank wall, and she says, “Here is the door. But, Idun, if you die in that chamber, I will kill him, too. Instantly. And your friends.”

  Around us is only silence. I put Sleipnir’s Tooth against the wall, unwilling to take it in with me, and set my coat down as well, first removing the vial of sal volatile. I stare at the rock face, ribs squeezing, and say, “No, you won’t. If I fail, that will be your blood price, and you will let the rest go.”

  She smiles a twisted smile. “I like you very much, human girl.”

  “Idun,” I correct.

  Eirfinna touches my shoulder with surprising gentleness. “I can administer that to him. I am made of stronger stuff.”

  “No.” I tuck the vial into my bra, go to the wall of granite, and put both my hands to it. The stone is cool and rough. “I will do this.”

  She smiles knowingly at the hitch in my voice.

  I step back. “Open it.”

  “I’ll be right here,” she says, then suddenly digs her obsidian fingernails into the granite wall. Eirfinna leans to nearly press her lips against it, murmurs something, and as the castle gate shifted and flowed like water, so too does this solid rock.

  I walk in before either of us changes our minds.

  The prison is dimly lit; weak silver light emanates from a narrow crack in the ceiling. It casts pitiful rays onto a matching narrow crack in the floor that glints wetly, as if they spray it all down, washing his waste into the depths of the earth.

  But still the chamber reeks of ruined man. It is rank and vile: sweat and sour urine and so much blood. Before I even see him, there are tears on my cheeks, for I suddenly understand the reality of this place, the suffering. I peer into the corner shadows for him. Discarded breadcrumbs trail near the far edge, and there is an over-turned cup.

  Soren is a great dark shadow slumped across from me, chained by only one wrist to the rock wall. Metal links scatter around him—the remains of previous chains. I cover my mouth and grip myself too hard, desperate to hold back the whine of horror, the wail that I will not know how to stop.

  He shifts, iron chain scraping stone, and his wide shoulders tremble as he groans.

  He’s naked, mottled and striped with bruises. His knuckles are torn up, his elbows and knees scraped raw. I can barely make out his apple-tree tattoo with its red and gold fruit, its lush green leaves circling his right forearm under the streaks of sweat and blood.

  My whole body shakes. “Soren,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond.

  I dash across to him, grab his shoulder, and push it to turn him off of his stomach. He rolls, a wide grimace showing me his teeth, his eyes so tightly shut deep lines flare out from them toward his temples where blood is crusted in his hair. Hair that flops against his ears, black and soft and too long. I wipe it back, hand trembling.

  “Soren,” I whisper again. I kneel beside him, slide my hand down his arm, and put my other under his neck, lifting his heavy head onto my knee. “Oh, Soren, god.”

  His skin is hot and slick. I touch his cheek, his lips and jaw, put my palm to his neck as my tears plop onto his forehead. A shudder flies along his entire body; his hands curl into fists.

  At least he’s alive.

  I pull out the bottle of sal volatile to jar him out of the drug haze, but instead of uncorking the stopper, I kiss him.

  He tastes like sweat and salt, grimy mud and blood sharp as a knife.

  A purr shakes up his throat, turning into a rumble and then a growl.

  He grabs me, crushing my shoulders, and he drags me against him, suddenly awake and devouring me. He knots his hand in my hair, pulling tight and painful. I push away, but can’t.

  He’s staring at me.

  His dark eyes, usually so calm, so understanding, are blank and furious.

  I jerk and squirm, but he won’t let me go. He shakes me hard, and I jab my fingers into his throat.

  Soren gasps hoarsely and releases me.

  I scramble back as he rises, as he screams, wheeling his chained hand around to punch the rock wall. The chain rattles, and Soren cries again, crushing his hand into the wall. There is a splatter of blood there, layered over and over, as if he’s been punching for days.

  “Soren, stop!” I scream, hands out and splayed, but I jerk away before getting too near. I press my back to the invisible door in the wall.

  The temperature in the chamber has risen enough to make me sweat, too, and Soren roars again and again. I cry his name, but he only flails, stomps, and spins in rage.

  My lips burn from the horrible kiss, my scalp is on fire, my shoulders ache where he bruised them, but none of it compares to what he must feel. I have to stop this. I have to break him out of it. The ammonia will work. It has to interrupt the cycle. That’s all I need it to do—interrupt the cycle until he falls asleep or faints and can rest it out the way Sune did.

  It has to work.

  His voice when he screams is so raw, so broken and cracking.

  I take a deep breath and uncork the bottle, holding it away from myself. “Soren,” I murmur, for courage, “Soren, it’s Astrid, and I love you.”

  As if making himself ready, he spreads his arms, fingers rigid, palms and face up, as if he is screaming to the distant stars.

  With two fast steps I fling myself against him, arms around his neck, pressing my breasts to his chest, my legs to his hips, feet off the ground as I drag up and dig my fingers into his back. His skin is so hot, nearly burning, and I lift the sal volatile to his nose. The sharp, painful ammonia smell hits me, and he sucks in a huge breath. He jerks, grips my neck, and flings me away.

  I crack into the wall and pain bursts in my chest, burrowing from my collar to my shoulder blade, up into my skull. I fall to the ground, my right arm numb—I can’t feel it or anything past the grating, crushed pain radiating in my shoulder and the right wing of my collarbone. I gasp, barely seeing as Soren strains against the chain toward me.

  “Astrid,” he says, dark eyes wild but clear.

  My ears ring high and sharp, my vision goes fuzzy, and my numb right arm jars against something. A blinding flash of pain grips my chest. My head lolls back into the stone wall, but it’s nothing compared to the frantic pain that cuts off my breath, stops my heart.

  I faint.

  EIGHTEEN

  History and Legends with Professor Heaney ends, and my new classmates escape in a slow, motley herd. I stand, nodding absently at my roommate Taffy, who tugs the cuff of my cardigan impatiently. I wave her out with the professor, who gathers thin black cigarettes from his desk drawer and rolls his eyes at us, as if he can’t be bothered to care that we’re not leaving, too. Taffy purses her lips and glares behind me.

  Slowly I turn, my shoulders and neck shivering suddenly with elf-kisses, for I know his face so well, though we’ve never spoken in our lives.

  He hulks in the desk, barely fitting, all muscle and bulk, in a school shirt and slacks, running shoes incongruous with the uniform. The seams of his shirt pull and stretch as he shifts uncomfortably. He stares at his large hands, still spread over the open history text
book, but he’s not reading; his fingers block the words.

  I walk slowly down the aisle and stop with my hip at the corner of his desk. His head is bowed, black hair buzzed short enough to see the shape of his skull. I wait, breathing shallow because I remember what will happen. I saw it in a dream.

  He raises his eyes first, and they’re simply brown, curious and scared, and it’s so endearing because he’s a berserker, large and strong enough that nothing should frighten him. I can’t smile, though. I’m too overwhelmed by the exact images from my dreams. His coppery skin, his resting frown, the long pitch-black spear tattoo inked straight down his left cheek. Unable to resist, I reach out to touch it, but hesitate because Soren Bearskin stops breathing.

  “I’ve seen you in my dreams,” I whisper.

  His shocked expression fades as I realize I’m waking up.

  I lie on my stomach, cheek pressed to a soft sheet over flat stone. My right arm is spread away from my body, tied in place, though the rest of me can shift slightly against this hard bed. I open my eyes to a gentle bluish light. There is my hand, naked and pale but still wearing the elf-gold ring, and the room beyond is marble and quartz.

  The elves-under-the-mountain. I’m there, and the last thing I remember is Soren, enraged and lost, flinging me into the wall.

  I moan softly, head aching, and try to sit.

  “Gentle, Idun,” says the elf Eirfinna. She slinks around into my field of vision, and behind her is another, just as marble-skinned, with thin fingers of amethyst growing out of his cheeks like whiskers. He wears a long robe and crystal rings. His hair is a short flair of silver around his head. He smiles at me, but Eirfinna continues to speak. “We’ve fixed your bones. You will be weary and sore for some time, but they won’t ever break again.”

  “What…” I clear my throat, swallow again and again. I need water.

  The amethyst elf gracefully unties my wrist from the outcropping of stone bed, and Eirfinna helps me sit, offering a heavy mug of water. I take it in my left hand and drink. My right arm and shoulder feel weighted down and clumsy. “What happened to me?” I ask. I’m naked, with only a thin sheet to gather around myself.