A seething, shimmering ribbon of light had struck out of the sky like a giant snake. The head of it slithered closer to them, and as it did, its colors became more vibrant—red, blue-green, purple, all writhing together. If not for the time of day, Satara would have thought she was looking at an aurora borealis.
But no aurora moved this quickly. She fought the urge to back up as the lights touched the edge of the cliff with a shrill hum like a saber being drawn. Each color shivered and burned like fire, and indeed, she could feel heat coming off the strip of red; she could hear the crackling of flames. The air around them went from freezing to warm in a second, and the frost on the grass began to melt away.
Then, distantly, the sound of beating wings reached her ears. She raised her head and spotted three figures gliding down the band of light. As they approached, she could tell they were armed, their skin glowing with an inner light and their hair twisting in the air around their helmeted heads. Valkyir.
They soon came to stand at the end of Bifrost, hovering just off the ground. All three were tall, much taller than even Cal, holding bloody shields and spears. Their eyes weren’t visible from under their winged helmets, but Satara could feel all three gazes burning into her. Instinctively, in greeting, she spread her tattered wings as wide as she could.
“Satara,” the one in the middle said, her voice rich and somehow silvery against the skin, “shieldmaiden of Astrid. Faithful of Freyja. You have blown the horn and called us three messengers to Midgard.” There was a pause as her voice echoed over the cliffs. The sky seemed to have gotten darker around her and her sisters. “Are you prepared to step into the realm of the gods and accept your trial?”
A jolt of fear ran up her spine at those words. “I am.”
“Then come.”
“Ah-ah”—Basile’s voice came from over Satara’s shoulder, and she turned to frown at him—“not so fast, sister.”
It took her a moment to realize he was speaking to the valkyrie. The valkyrie’s face remained impassive, but her tone held an undercurrent of annoyance: “What is it, priest?”
“I think there are a few people who’d like to see this thing through to its end.” He jerked a thumb at Edie and the others. “I’m sure the big guy won’t mind if you let them in for a bit.”
The valkyrie scanned the group, mouth pressed into a line. Satara shivered as her gaze swept the cliff top—she could feel that this being saw more than any human’s eyes could. Eventually, she raised her chin and motioned for them all to follow her.
Satara stepped forward, though she hesitated at the edge of the bridge. The colors were nearly opaque, but the way they seethed made the whole thing seem insubstantial. Still, she found it held her as any other bridge would, the misty jade of the center strip winding around her ankles. She avoided the hot red at the far end, though its heat didn’t seem to affect the valkyir at all.
As she trudged forward, pushing through her fever, she began to wonder how long it would take to walk the cosmos. Would they actually be climbing the World Tree? Would they climb higher and higher until they breached the atmosphere? How would that affect her human friends?
But she hadn’t taken five steps before she could no longer feel the bridge under her; indeed, she could no longer feel her feet, or her legs moving.
Suddenly, she was moving much faster than anyone could ever walk. Instead of the sea and the cloudy sky, her vision was filled with prismatic light, twirling and coruscating like a kaleidoscope. Within a few seconds, past those bright colors, she could see stars. Galaxies. A trillion planets and suns that, at this distance, at this speed, looked as insignificant as a smudge against a black canvas.
Then, just as suddenly, they slowed. Satara wasn’t sure where they were, but the skies were the color of a ruddy sunset. The bridge was a visible structure again, and far in the distance, she could make out the walls of an enormous, golden city. It was floating on air, Bifrost its only connection to anything else.
Ásgarðr. Asgard. The realm of the Aesir.
To her right, still far away but significantly closer, was another floating structure. Its placement reminded her of a waycastle, a fortress to watch and protect the one route to the city. She realized that this must be the home of Heimdallr, the watchman god.
Though their travel across the bridge had slowed, they were still moving quite fast. They only lingered by the waycastle for a few moments. Looking up, Satara could barely make out a horned figure that was, in all likelihood, Heimdallr himself. Then they were speeding off in the direction of Asgard again.
The thought of being watched by a god chilled her to the bone.
Even traveling quickly along Bifrost, it took what felt like forty-five minutes to reach the walls of the city. As they did, without warning, the soles of her boots made contact with the light bridge, and Satara was able to feel her legs again. Glancing down, she could see her body properly, and glancing behind her, she watched her friends materialize near the end of the bridge, too.
The lot of them marveled at the golden walls before them, Marius most of all, expression so earnest as to be almost pained. Satara watched as the pair of jewel-studded ivory gates, taller than she could see, slowly opened for them.
A gasp caught in her throat. Before them, Asgard rolled on for what seemed like an eternity. The lower city held a thousand dwellings, ranging from cozy to large, their beams and eaves intricately carved, their roofs thatched with glittering golden straw. Shields bearing family crests and paintings or carvings of the gods’ deeds decorated the outer walls. To and from these dwellings, beings of tall stature walked, very few of them in any hurry; they spoke and laughed and drank, a cluster gathering in what looked like a city square in the distance.
Though apart from their height most of them were indistinguishable from humans, Satara realized with her heart in her stomach that these were lesser Aesir. They were in the presence of enough gods to fill a celestial city.
And they hadn’t slipped under the radar. The gates of Asgard opening must not be a common occurrence, because as the valkyir led them through, many of the Aesir turned to look at the newcomers. Satara was sure the valkyir had been expecting her, but confusion crossed most of the Aesir’s faces when they saw the size of the party following her.
“Come,” the middle valkyrie said, turning sharply to the right, in eerie lockstep with her sisters. “Mortals aren’t meant to linger in this place.”
Satara glanced at her friends as they followed the valkyir. Most of them looked on the verge of panic, all for different reasons, she was sure. Except for Cal, who only looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Basile, who looked no more concerned than if he was strolling through Midtown. Satara herself couldn’t deny that she was overwhelmed, especially when she felt hundreds of gazes shift to her damaged wings.
But soon, mercifully, the valkyir showed them to a ramp with parapets. It looked to be made of limestone, but its surface shifted, oddly iridescent. Following it with her eyes, Satara saw that it climbed upward in lazy circles before evening out above the city.
Her entire body seized, waves of pain and nausea crashing into her. Exactly what she needed when she was on death’s door: a test of cardio.
“This path will lead us to the Hall of the Riders,” the valkyrie announced, mounting the ramp. The bloodied gray shroud around her waist, falling down past her feet, whispered against the stone as she climbed quickly; and just as quickly, the two valkyir flanking her took to the skies, soaring ahead of the group.
Satara longed to spread her own wings, however injured they were, and expedite her journey. But, aside from the fact that the pain of flying might kill her at this juncture, she was almost certain this was part of her test. Looking back, she exchanged glances with Edie, then mounted the ramp herself.
The first few turns weren’t so bad. The last was nearly torture. As they reached the heights and the path became straight, though, the breeze hit her—an oddly honeyed breeze, as if scented by mead—rejuvenati
ng her trembling muscles, if only a little.
She could do this. One foot in front of the other.
And if she couldn’t, she could feel Edie at her back, so close she was nearly touching her. The necromancer would figure out something, even if it meant carrying Satara into the Riders’ hall. Of that, the shieldmaiden was absolutely certain.
A blessed numbness sank through her muscles at that thought. It was nice to be certain of something.
It wasn’t long until the Hall of the Riders loomed before them, covering them in shadow. Satara was sure they could see the whole city below them from the glimmering catwalk. Behind her, she could hear Marius speaking softly to Adam and Elle, pointing out the halls of the gods in the distance—the starry tower of Breiðablik, Baldur’s hall; a speck on the horizon that was apparently supposed to be Thor’s Bilskirnir; nearer and to the east, the walls of Odin’s Valhalla keep. The handful of others must be farther away, spread out within this seemingly endless realm.
She could only focus on the building bearing down on her: an enormous stone barrow, every inch engraved with staves, runes, or images of death. Moss grew on the domed roof, hanging off the edges—though it was more red than green, painted with blood that sluiced down the sides of the hall. The tops of the largest support stones had been carved with snarling wolf heads, and dozens of ravens perched on each. Standing stones etched with tales of the valkyir flanked either side of the approaching walkway like sentinels.
The formidable circular doorway was blocked by nine intersecting spears in the shape of the Web of Wyrd, but as they reached it, their guide held out a hand, and the spears retracted into the stone. With a great bone-shaking roar, the door lifted.
Satara stepped over the threshold, and all at once, the sunny civilization of Asgard melted away. The familiar cold of death embraced her—usually an oddly comforting feeling. The feeling of being a child, venturing into her clan’s barrow to help her father prepare and tend to the dead, or to watch her mother ward against wights and draugar.
But, as their guide led them further down a hall lit with blue sconces, she could tell that this place was not the same. The sharp, distinct scent of blood filled her nose, sticking to the back of her throat. It smelled like war here.
The dread of what was about to happen, what she was about to become, filled her again.
Almost as if reading her mind, Basile said, “Psst,” and pulled up beside her. “Remember what we talked about.”
Before she could answer, their guide threw open the doors at the end of the passage and ushered them in.
What awaited them beyond was a strange combination of a meeting hall and a burial chamber. It was a long room, its walls decorated with gore-crusted weapons and shields. Six pillars, carved to look like nude valkyir in the midst of reaping souls, held up the roof, and carrion birds crowed among the crossbeams.
A quiet river of conversation flowed from the actual valkyir, all unveiled, who filled tiered rows of benches on either side of the hall. Each one was armored, their skin with that unearthly inner glow—all strong, though their physiques ranged from lean and toned to full and powerfully thick.
At the end of the hall, a large fire pit stretched lengthwise before a dais, the blue flames crackling steadily. Atop the dais were six thrones, all occupied save for one. The valkyir lining the room were awe-inspiring enough; as Satara approached the beings in the thrones, she had to fight to keep from shaking. The power emanating from them was so ancient that it was nearly primordial.
There was no doubt—these were Skuld’s Riders, Freyja’s elite captains, the first and most powerful valkyir ever created.
In the back of her mind, she wondered why the sixth throne was empty.
Their guide motioned for Satara to stand in the center of the room, facing the Riders with the fire separating them. She could feel her wings folding in, half-cradling her, but she couldn’t stop them. Hopefully that was the only indication that she was barely keeping it together. Was this really happening?
All eyes turned to her, a hush falling over the valkyir. Silence reigned as one of the Riders pushed up from her crystal throne and stepped off the dais.
Like all her sisters, she was much taller than an average human, her pure black skin shimmering with that same ethereal glow. But it was clear that she was not just any valkyrie. Her raven wings were etched with faintly glowing coils and runes, making them look more like a magical text than feathers. Aside from her silver helmet—featuring not wings but an elegant rack of antlers—and breastplate, she wore no other armor; an intricate, layered silk dress poured from her waist and shoulders like water. Jewelry of silver and bone glinted on her wrists, her fingers, her chest. In one hand, she held a wand with a pear-shaped head like a distaff.
The jaw-hugging collar of her dress shifted as she raised her chin. Though her helmet obscured the top half of her face, with seemingly no eye slits, her gaze penetrated the entire room.
She raised her distaff diagonally across her chest, idly drumming the fingers of her free hand against the head of it. “Welcome, Satara, shieldmaiden of Astrid. Welcome, priest of the Blind. Hellerunan, again-walkers, Blade of Tyr. Welcome to our hall.”
Satara bowed her head and didn’t dare to look back at the others. Considering the wand, she was relatively certain she knew which Rider she spoke to—the one whose name meant wand-wielder, of course. “Göndul, my lady, thank you.”
She felt Basile step up, not quite at her side but close. “Göndul. I don’t believe we’ve properly met before.”
If nothing else, Basile had the nerve.
Göndul leveled her gaze, and a smile crept across her dark-painted lips. “No, draugborn, we have not. It pleases me to meet one about whom I have heard so much.”
“All good things, I hope,” he said half-heartedly. Satara was able to tear her gaze away from the Riders for a moment to see that his expression was tinged with confusion. “Are there not supposed to be six of you?” He scanned the thrones and frowned deeper. “Where is Skuld?”
His words were met with eerie silence. Even the dignified Göndul tensed and stilled.
Satara’s blood turned to ice. Something was wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When no one answered promptly enough for him, Basile’s tone became harsher, more urgent. “Where is Skuld? Where is your General?”
Perhaps unhappy with his attitude, another of the Riders rose from a throne covered in thick, opaque icicles. This being towered over even the other valkyir, her armor apparently made of shards of ice. Frost clung to her deathly blue skin and hair the color of dead straw. “Skuld is not here, little priest. She is missing.”
“Excuse me, what?”
“What Skögul says is true,” Göndul said evenly. “Skuld has been missing for two of your Midgardian months.”
Satara shivered, dread spreading like poison. Missing? What were the chances that a Rider—the only beings besides Freyja and Odin who could create a valkyrie—would go missing around the same time Daschla showed up?
She wasn’t sure she could speak even if she found the words, but there were no words for this weightless feeling.
Thankfully, her words weren’t required. Of their party, only a few fully understood the gravity of the situation, and of those few, it seemed only Basile was bold or stupid enough to sass these godly beings.
“What the hell do you mean, missing?” He sputtered. “She’s a Norn; where the fuck could she have gone?”
One of the other Riders growled, though she didn’t rise from her throne of icy spears. She was similar in appearance to Skögul, though not as tall. Satara assumed this was her twin, Geirskögul. “Watch how you speak, soulless one. You are unwise to have no fear of us.”
Göndul held up a long hand. “Fear is the snarling wolf that lashes out. Is that not so, Gunnr?”
The leftmost Rider, whose throne and body were both draped with pelts, reached down to scratch the withers of the horse-sized timber wolf curled
up at her side. “Aye, so it is.” She looked at Basile, her eyes laser-point blue dots boring into him from the hollows of her wolf’s skull helmet. “He fears much.”
The priest rolled his eyes. “I didn’t ask to be psychoanalyzed, ladies. There are apparently more important matters at hand.” To Göndul, “Skuld?”
“Freyja and Odin have been informed,” she said curtly. “I have been communing and scrying with our Mother Valkyrie since we became aware of the General’s disappearance.”
“And?”
“We have reached the conclusion that she was abducted.” Before he could open his mouth, Göndul added, “By whom, we have no idea. We are without a Rider-General.”
As the wand-wielder confirmed abduction, Satara could practically hear the gears clicking in her friends’ heads. A few whispered curses reached her ears. Now they were beginning to understand. A missing Rider was bad enough. A missing Rider now?
What had the Gloaming done?
Fuzzy numbness began to crawl up the back of Satara’s neck. Her mouth and chest felt unbearably hot and dry, her veins pulsing.
“And Odin didn’t think he should maybe bring this up with me?” Basile spread his hands. “Perhaps just mention the Rider-General, one of the Mother Norns, was missing so I could keep my eyes peeled?”
The last Rider—Hildr, Satara thought vaguely through her numbness—hissed from her throne of skulls. She was a thin, deathly pale creature in black armor and a shadowy cloak, her face obscured by the hood. Smoke, or perhaps steam, like what curls off a battlefield of freshly dead men, shrouded her so that only her head, shoulders, and hands were fully discernible. “Let’s have done with this man, sisters; we asked for no meddling priest. It is the fledgling’s right alone to speak with us now.”
No sooner had she said it than pain ripped through Satara’s body, exploding across her shoulders and down her back—brighter than anything she had felt so far, even worse than when she’d exited the Wending. A scream tore the room, accompanied by the sound of weapons clattering to the floor. Suddenly, she was on her hands and knees, her palms and wrists stinging as the cold stone floor bit her flesh. Another keening scream. Her head was too foggy to tell whose.
Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3) Page 30
