She pushed away from the offering place and went to her little house. She would not stay home, waiting passively, she decided. Tonight she would go to the longhouse again, and she would present herself well.
This time, Euthalia had no escort, but took herself to the longhouse. The noise of the carousing warriors and gods and Jötnar grew steadily louder as she drew nearer, and at last she put her hand upon the latch, took a breath, and stepped into Valhöll.
Inside it was twilight again, and she wondered if it would always be. She looked across the room to where Sigyn had sat and she saw the woman sitting comfortably, looking down the long room away from Euthalia’s entrance. Euthalia started toward her, picking her way through the crowded carousal.
A hand reached out to her from one of the tables, and a woman—a goddess—spoke to her. “Euthalia?”
She stopped and nodded, pleased beyond speech that someone knew her and showed interest in her. “Yes?”
“I am Gefjon,” said the goddess. “Euthalia, are you yet a maid?”
The blunt question surprised her, and in her astonishment she answered honestly. “Yes. My husband has not yet lain with me.”
Gefjon nodded. “I thought so. But that is not a bad thing, though some here would certainly think poorly of it. All my attendants are virgins, and I have been robbed of many fine maids by overeager men. Your husband is cautious and wise.”
Euthalia’s cheeks were growing hot; she had not thought to discuss her marital bed with anyone, certainly not a stranger and a goddess, but Gefjon at least did not seem to think ill of her for having her marriage yet unconsummated. “I thought him kind,” she admitted. “I was a sacrifice in a strange land, and I thought I was going to be killed by a dragon. I was much relieved when he proved to be something other than a monster, and when he did not take me by force.”
Gefjon laughed. “Vidar is no monster, whatever else he might be.”
Euthalia’s stomach leapt. Was this his name? Had she learned his name?
Gefjon was still speaking. “Many of us thought him unwise, but his choice has been borne out. You are a good woman, Euthalia. Do not let him corrupt you.”
Euthalia was surprised by this. “Is he likely to? Would he?”
Gefjon snorted. “All men would,” she said simply, and turned back to her plate with an air of dismissal for either Euthalia or the subject, Euthalia was not sure which.
She turned away and started again up the long row of tables, and another hand stretched to interrupt her passage. She glanced from the hand to the man who had extended it.
Not man. One of the gods, dressed in bright colors and beaming beneath his beard. She stared at him, knowing she should greet him and utterly helpless to recall his name or position.
“Bragi,” he said, and the skin about his eyes crinkled in a nearly invisible smile. “I am Bragi, skald of the Æsir.”
She nodded gratefully. “You sing the epic tales.”
“Yes,” he said. “I am a storyteller, like you.”
“Oh, not like me,” she corrected him quickly, looking down. “I cannot sing the epics and sagas as you do. I only tell stories.”
“All stories are songs,” Bragi said. “Only some have music.”
“Now you mock me,” she said. “I am no... skald. You are a master of story—of song. A god of poetry.”
“I, as you say, am a god,” he answered. “And I entertain gods. And you have the power to entertain gods even as a mere mortal. Which of us then has reached farther, which deserves more praise for our efforts?”
She hesitated, and he laughed aloud. “And now I am teasing you,” he admitted. “You would not answer that, of course. But what I said before—you are a songweaver, the same as I.”
“Songweaver,” she repeated. It was a good word, and one she realized was familiar to her—in her own Greek, an ancient rhapsode was a stitcher of poems.
She had never thought of herself as anything so grand. But Bragi was a god of wisdom and poetry, and she could not argue with him, no matter how it made her flush.
“You must come to me sometime and tell me your stories,” Bragi said.
“Oh, I couldn’t! They are poor things, not fit for the halls of gods.”
Bragi held up a finger. “Do not sell great fish for the price of small ones,” he said warningly. “Your stories are of such a quality that I have heard of them, and Odin as well. Learn to weave them properly, and you will entertain here as well as I.”
She fumbled for an answer. “But, they are only stories….”
“Nothing is only a story,” said Bragi, “and nothing is so mighty as a story.” He held up a finger again, smiled once more, and waved her on her way.
She went on to where Sigyn waited, waving her into an open space. The other woman welcomed her with a smile. “Hello! I was hoping you would return.”
Euthalia was grateful for the warm greeting. It seemed she had won Sigyn’s respect after all. “A chance to humiliate myself before gods and goddesses and great warriors? I would not miss it.” She smiled and took the seat. “And as much as I am growing fond of Birna, her conversation is fixed upon chores and she circles that subject like a tethered goat, wearing out a path.”
Sigyn laughed. “And who is Birna?”
“She’s a thrall, who was—” Euthalia hesitated. “Sent with me.”
Sigyn nodded, understanding. There was only one way a thrall followed to serve outside of Midgard.
Euthalia regretted her lightly mocking words. “I shouldn’t have criticized her, not when she died because of me.”
“She did not die because of you,” Sigyn said. “Well, she did, in a way, but you had no part in it.”
“She’s always been kind to me, even before we could speak together, and she tried her best to gentle my fears before the sacrifice. She’s very sweet.”
“Then it seems she does not blame you, either,” Sigyn said. “And in truth, she might have had quite another end altogether.”
Euthalia did not wish to speak of this. “And where do you live? Do you have a house like mine? That is, my house seems to be in another place entirely, though I can walk from there to here.”
Sigyn nodded. “Distances and places can be deceiving. We are all in Asgard, but this longhouse can be reached from all parts of Asgard. My house is set apart from the rest; my husband is not fond of neighbors.”
Loki, Euthalia recalled. She looked toward Odin’s great chair, and Loki beside it. “Was it long ago that you came here?”
Sigyn made a tiny sound of false laughter. “Long enough.” She looked at Euthalia. “The years do not matter. It is enough to say that my family has been long forgotten in Midgard.”
Euthalia had not thought of that, that she might remain here unaging with the gods. “Do you have children?”
Sigyn’s eyebrows drew together, and Euthalia thought it an expression of pain. Had she unwittingly probed a wound?
And then a roar went up from another table, and Baldr leapt to his feet, all handsome grin and smooth muscle, with another god—another Æsir—and they faced one another as the warriors began to shout and chant encouragement. Baldr’s opponent was blond and heavy with muscle, grinning through his beard.
“Go ahead!” called Baldr. He slapped his chest, standing tall. “Come, Thor, try your best.”
“I never tire of this game,” growled the blond man, and he took up a drinking horn from the table beside him and drove it, point-first, into Baldr’s chest. Euthalia’s breath caught in her teeth.
But Baldr never flinched, and as Thor drew back the horn, Euthalia saw it had splintered, as if struck against stone.
The hall cheered, and Euthalia drew breath again. She leaned close to Sigyn, partly to conceal her question and partly to be heard in the tumult. “Can they not be killed?”
“Oh, they can,” Sigyn assured her. “But not, it seems, Baldr. At least not by weaponry.”
“Come again!” cried Baldr, slapping his chest, and this
time Thor took up a knife from the table and cut across Baldr’s breast. Again, the handsome god was unharmed.
“Loki!” called Thor. “Come down and game with us!”
Loki’s mouth twitched before settling into a smile. “But of course.” He came down from the little platform on which Odin’s chair sat, stepping carefully around one of the wolves. “How good of you to ask.”
But as Loki reached the table, Baldr chuckled and called, “No, first it is your turn to play the target!” and flung a platter toward Loki. The dark-haired Jötunn raised his arm, but not quickly enough, and several dozen gooseberries pelted him across the face and torso.
The hall roared with laughter. Sigyn went stiff beside Euthalia, and Euthalia reached for her hand. What could she say, what could she do, should Sigyn go to him or—
Loki wiped the back of his hand across his face, where one of the berries had burst and left a smear of juice. “Ah,” he said, his voice dark and velvety, “who would not wish to play such games with a mother’s favorite?”
The laughter slowed as the hall tried to catch Loki’s words.
“Now, Loki,” began Thor.
But Loki pressed on. “This warrior,” he gestured at Baldr with barely concealed derision, “is made invincible only by his mother’s begging, and to what great purpose does he dedicate himself? To flinging food in the hall of his father, for the amusement of his bastard half-brother.”
The laughter slowed, as even the half-drunk warriors recognized the passing of the joke.
Baldr was visibly swelling with indignation, his arms swinging wide as he tried to puff up. “Watch your tongue, Lie-Smith. You will—”
“Do you say that I lie, Baldr? Or is it not true that fair Frigg, mother of the shining god, extracted an oath from each material thing never to harm her dear, dear son? Or do you mean to say that it is your own valor which withstands the renowned strength of the mighty Thor?”
And now Thor’s face darkened. “My strength is not the question. If I used the full measure of my arm, even Baldr’s protection must fail.”
Loki looked at him with exaggerated surprise. “What? Surely that cannot be, for dear Frigg’s protection could not be so flawed. Thor’s great strength could not be confounded by a woman.” He grinned suddenly. “Shall we test it?”
Thor started to pull back an arm, but Baldr acted first, lunging at Loki. Loki leapt backward, planting one hand on a table and vaulting it as men and thralls scattered. “Oh, but shining god, what valor is it to enter battle when you cannot be harmed? What honor could be found in that victory?”
Baldr hesitated, confused, and now Thor stepped forward, and there was a hammer in his hand which had not been there a moment before. He looked uncertainly from Loki to Baldr, as if trying to decide which of them to shout at or strike. He looked again at Baldr, and the hammer twitched in his hand.
“Enough!” Odin’s commanding baritone cut across the hall, silencing all at once. One of the wolves at his feet snarled. “This petty brawling is unbecoming.”
Baldr turned from Odin to Loki, and his gaze might have cut flesh.
“Loki, sit down. You’ve done enough mischief for now.”
Loki started toward his seat again, letting his eyes shift just enough to Baldr that the handsome god saw. Thor turned away, taking again his seat at the quieted table.
“What was that about?” asked Euthalia, as conversation and eating slowly renewed.
Sigyn took a deep breath, her first since the argument started. “Loki is not fond of Baldr, and Baldr spares no love for him.”
“They nearly fought!”
“It would not be the first time they came to blows,” Sigyn said. “But Baldr is protected from every weapon, as you see, and so the fight is unequal in any case.”
“From every weapon,” repeated Euthalia, “even the fist?”
Sigyn gave her a small smile. “I like what you say. No, not the fist, I don’t think, but that would matter little when he himself might bear an axe or a club.”
Euthalia looked about the room. Most of the warriors had resumed their usual drinking and eating, and few were watching Loki as he sat beside Odin, his chin resting in his hand, one finger propped against his chin, watching Baldr accept a new horn of mead.
CHAPTER NINE
When her husband came to her that night, she was ready for him. “Vidar!” she declared. “I know you! You are Vidar!”
He stopped in the doorway, faintly puzzled. “Yes, I know.” He took another step and stopped again. “Did you not know?”
“How could I have known? You have never told me!”
He sat down in the wooden chair, his outline only faintly discernible in the dark. “You did not ask me, love. Vidar, a son of Odin. I thought you knew.”
She shook her head, though she did not know if he could see it. “I knew nothing. I thought—I thought I was possibly being given to a dragon.”
For just a moment he held his laughter in check, his heavy silence betraying him as surely as braying hilarity, and then his control failed and he laughed aloud. She clenched her fists. “Why do you find that amusing?”
“No, no,” he laughed, shaking his head, “I am not laughing at you. Not at your confusion, anyway.” He hesitated. “Well, a little at your confusion, I admit. But as valiant as I hope I am, I am no dragon.”
“I was terrified!” she shot at him. Distantly she realized this was their first fight, and distantly she wondered how that mattered in an artificial marriage such as theirs. “I thought I would die that night!”
His laughter stopped. “And for that I am truly sorry. I did not know, or I would have done more to alleviate your worry.” He hesitated. “But when I came, I was not so frightening, was I?”
She pressed her lips together. “You were frightening enough.”
This seemed to hurt him. “I did not mean to be. I meant to be careful of you.” He inhaled and exhaled, clearing the last of the gaiety from his voice. “Were you never told what the ceremony was?”
“I hardly spoke the language,” she reminded him. “It wasn’t like this place, where I can understand you and everyone else. There was an old thrall to tell me what was happening, only it must have been a lifetime since he spoke any Slavic, and he only told me I would be a bride of the dragon. A sacrifice. And then they killed a horse, and—” She stopped, because her voice was wavering, and she realized she was afraid again despite it having been long done and harmless in the end and why did her body betray her now?
But he reached out to her, his hand first brushing hers on the wooden chest and then settling over it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have laughed, at least not without making it plain that it was not because you were afraid. You are right, you had every reason to be alarmed.”
“Not alarmed,” she corrected. “Terrified.”
“Terrified,” he agreed. “You were a young woman sold into a strange land by a cowardly father not worth the price of his piss, and you were made a sacrifice and sent into the dark to await a dragon.” His hand rose to caress her cheek. “And yet I found you unmarred by tears and facing the door, not weeping and clawing at the rear wall.”
She relaxed a little and realized his voice was pleased. “And you thought well of that?”
“Thought well of it? I was proud of you. And I am more proud now, now that I know how great was your fear.”
“Proud of me?” She had not expected this, and it was an odd piece of knowledge to be given.
“Of course.” His fingers spread to cup her face, soft against her cheekbone and jaw. “As I was proud of you when you spoke to Odin and told him the tale of the fire-thief.”
“You were there?!”
“Of course I was there,” he said, surprised. “Why would I not be?”
“Because if you were there,” she returned, “you would have stood with me, would have claimed me and introduced me, would have kept me from being a fool with my silly story and my ignorance.”
/> She was being demanding, she realized, she was echoing her mother’s tone when her mother spoke too far, and now he would respond as her father did, and she had lost—
But his voice returned steady and gentle. “Euthalia, my love, you were no fool. You answered Odin and gave him a bold story. You did not tell it quite so smoothly as you tell your tales to me, but it was your first story in a great longhouse. You would have been no less nervous if I had been beside you—more so, perhaps, if you were thinking of me instead of your audience.”
That might be true, she reluctantly admitted. She would have been thinking of how her words reflected upon him, instead of thinking of how they played upon Odin. “But I was left standing alone!”
“Only for a moment, until Loki went to you and directed you to a seat.”
Euthalia hesitated. “You were watching.”
“Of course I was watching. But if I had intervened, you would have been my wife only. Now they have seen you for yourself.”
No one can speak or write my name without his. I am nothing of myself, because they know only him. Whatever worth I had has been lost. Sigyn had warned her of being only a wife. But it seemed Vidar had steered her clear of that rocky trap before she even knew of it.
“As it went, you brought Loki down to give you aid. And Loki does not give his affection or assistance lightly. You presented yourself well, well enough that he respected you and thought to help you.”
“That was not out of pity?”
Vidar laughed. “It may be possible Loki has the capacity for pity,” he said, “but if he does, he would not spare it on the human bride of an Æsir. No, my love, you won those words from him, though you did not realize you had fought for them.”
She frowned. “He called me a sheep.”
“And that is a sure sign of his respect, for he did not call you much worse.”
His hand was warm on her cheek, his fingers brushing her ear, and she was enjoying the feel of it. Was this the first time he had touched her this way? It was certainly the first time she had thought of it this way. “It is a sad thing that I cannot recognize my own husband at a feast.”
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