The Songweaver's Vow

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “Why?”

  He chuckled. “For all that I am known as a lie-smith, and not without reason, I will tell you this—nothing provokes like truth.” He shook his head. “And I was a fingertip’s grasp from setting Thor’s full strength against Baldr’s invincibility. Did Frigg secure a promise also from Mjöllnir? It would have been grand to see.”

  “Who is Mjöllnir?”

  He seemed surprised at her ignorance. “Thor’s hammer, of course.” The corner of his mouth curled. “I brought it to him. I goaded the dwarfs into making it, the finest of god-gifts.” He looked at her. “And when the dwarfs wanted my head and I fled, do you know who it was who brought me back to them? Thor. And he stood by, new gift in hand, as they pierced my lips with an awl and sewed my mouth shut.”

  Euthalia stared, horrified. “They….”

  “And it was my cunning which won Mjöllnir back when it was stolen. I am the reason we have a wall against Asgard’s enemies. It was I who brought the ransom when Odin and Honir were held captive. And yet for all that, I am their plaything and scapegoat.”

  Euthalia swallowed. “Let me help you.”

  “Heh.” He shook his head. “I have a wife of my own, you know. If I wanted tending, I would have gone home to her.”

  But he was ashamed to be seen beaten, and she doubted he would let even Sigyn see him in his defeat.

  “You must tell Odin what has happened,” Euthalia said. “He can put an end to this.”

  Loki raised his eyes to her, and she saw incredulity and laughter and disdain, all at once. He shook his head once, dismissing her amusingly foolish suggestion, and gingerly took a piece of fruit from the rock to eat.

  Euthalia looked at Loki, at his broken face and his bleeding skin and his dry, untroubled eyes. “But how?” she asked. “How can you stand this? You are Odin’s sworn brother, and you are one of them in all but blood—and they owe you for so many services. How can you take what they do to you without protest?”

  One corner of his mouth curled upward, a sardonic smirk made more horrible by the trickle of crimson it brought from his broken lip. “Naive little butterfly,” he said. “You forget the simplest of truths. I am not of the Æsir, no matter how much time I spend with them here in Asgard. I was born Jötunn, and I am still Jötunn, and Ragnarok is coming. And when Ragnarok descends, no matter how the Æsir and Vanir fight against the end, they will die, and the Jötunn will prevail and destroy all, Asgard and Midgard and everything above and below.” He grinned. “And while they pick at me with their petty words, and when they beat me with their stones and staves, I know that it is only time which stands between this momentary pain and my complete victory, and that finite time is running like water down a hill.” The grin widened, showing bloody teeth. “And sweeter yet, I know they know it, too.”

  Euthalia stared, her stomach hollow with horror.

  Loki took another piece of fruit. “Leave me here to consume these offerings,” he said, “and I will be well enough in time. And while I might ask your discretion, innocent little lamb, there would be little point; Baldr and Thor will be boasting enough tonight of their prowess in outnumbering me while armed with invulnerable skin and a belt of great strength.” His voice dripped disdain. “And they will have the laughter of all.”

  Euthalia tried twice to speak. “What can I do?”

  Loki’s mouth curved. “Wait. Wait and watch.” His teeth flashed red.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Euthalia went to the longhouse that night, and she looked first for Sigyn—there, beckoning her to join—and then for Loki, in his usual place near Odin’s carved chair.

  She looked next for Vidar, though she did not know how she might know him. The hall stretched long and it was full of big men, and none of them seemed to watch her with more regard than the others.

  Loki bore some recognizable bruising, if she looked for it, but he looked much better than she had expected. Most in the longhouse probably had no idea of the injuries he had suffered. Euthalia slipped beside Sigyn and asked, “How is he?”

  “What?”

  “Your husband—how is he?”

  Sigyn’s eyes dropped. “How did you know?”

  “I found him after. He was at the offering circle near my house.” Euthalia hesitated. “He was in poor condition, but he refused my help.”

  Sigyn nodded, smiling wanly. “That is typical of him. He cannot bear to be helpless or pitied by others, even if he pities himself at times.”

  “He seems nearly well now.”

  Sigyn nodded again. “That is one advantage they have. An offering, a magic nut or berry, and all the miseries of mortality can be discarded.”

  “A story!” someone shouted. “Give us a story!”

  “A story!” the cry went up. “A tale!”

  Bragi, the gods’ own skald, stood, but the call continued. “No, a Greek tale! Tell us a new story, a story of the strange southern gods! Where is Euthalia?”

  Euthalia felt her face grow warm, but she glanced at Sigyn and smiled. “I suppose they like me at least a little,” she said, and she hoped it did not sound like bragging to the forgotten Sigyn. But Sigyn was smiling with real pleasure, she thought, and urging her up with the others.

  Euthalia climbed atop a table so that all could see and hear her, and the long hall whooped with approval and anticipation. She lifted her hands. “And what kind of story would you hear tonight, friends?”

  “Bravery!”

  “Treachery!”

  “Love!”

  “Victory!”

  She gestured for quiet again. “What about you, Lord Odin? What would you have us hear?”

  Odin, detached as ever, grunted from his chair. “Your Greeks are fond of tragic stories, and those are different enough from our own. Give us a story of tragic death.”

  “A tragic death.” Euthalia scanned her memory.

  “A dear one’s death,” Odin added.

  Euthalia wondered if she were missing something in the court politics of Asgard, if Odin were using her to deliver a message, but she could not think of anything which might be related. “I could tell you of Apollo and Hyakinthos,” she said. “It is not a long story, but it is very sad.”

  “Very sad!” cheered the tables of gods and warriors.

  “Apollo is the god of the sun,” she began, “or so the Greeks say. They say he rides a chariot of fire across the sky, and that is what lights the world.”

  The Æsir jeered good-naturedly at this.

  “Apollo is the handsomest of the Greek gods, forever a young man in the prime of life. And he has had many lovers, both mortal and immortal.”

  The hall cheered again at this. Sex was always a popular subject for a story.

  “But he was especially fond of his dearest Hyakinthos.”

  They liked the strange names, which added to the exotic feel of the stories. “Was she human?” called one voice.

  “Was she beautiful?” called another.

  Euthalia hesitated. “Hyakinthos was very beautiful, and human, but—he was a man. A young man, handsome beyond all others, like Apollo himself.”

  The general enthusiasm faltered, and Euthalia regretted her error in judgment. Even among the more scandalous reports like Freyja and Freyr’s incestuous union or the many unions with Jötnar or other outsiders, nothing she had heard here involved two men as lovers. She might have shocked the fierce warriors into disapproval.

  But she had failed to recall the general proclivity for the prurient, and this new fact only underscored their general amusement in the Greek ways. “Man-lovers!” Baldr declared. “It is very Greek of them!”

  Euthalia breathed a sigh of relief and went on. “But Apollo and Hyakinthos, while wholly infatuated with one another, were not alone unto themselves. Remember I said that Apollo had many bed-mates, willing and unwilling, mortal and immortal. He sired many children. And Hyakinthos was also greatly admired by Zephyrus, the god of the western wind.”

  This triangle
of man-lovers was a new level of titillation for the more than half-drunk audience, and they laughed and cheered. The laughter grew suddenly louder, and Euthalia turned to see Loki the Jötunn standing beside the fire pit, fists grasping after an invisible and elusive lover as he drove his pelvis again and again into nothing at all. He stumbled about, seeking and always missing his unseen target. “It is hard to hump the wind!” he declared in mock frustration, and the listening hall roared with laughter.

  This was supposed to be a tragic tale, Euthalia reflected with faint despair. It would be difficult to bring her rowdy listeners under the story’s spell. Best to move past the sex and focus on the skills of training, something they would also appreciate but in a different way. “Apollo taught Hyakinthos to throw the discus—that is, it is a projectile, a flat disc to be thrown as far as possible. It is a contest of skill among the best athletes.”

  “It seemed they had other athletic skills that were in great demand,” called Loki in an overloud whisper, and the hall burst into fresh laughter.

  Euthalia gritted her teeth. “It is a weapon,” she said. “Surely such skilled warriors who have earned a place in the Hall of the Slain can appreciate the deadly efficiency of a metal plate which strikes in the head at a hundred paces or more?”

  They could, and they nodded and cheered, and she had them again for a moment at least. “So Apollo taught Hyakinthos this difficult skill, and they spent long hours together, and Zephyrus grew jealous to see that Hyakinthos preferred Apollo to him.

  “And so one day, as Hyakinthos threw the discus with Apollo, Zephyrus observed them, In a sudden fit of jealousy, he determined that if he could not have Hyakinthos to himself, then no one should have him, and he blew hard upon the discus—”

  “Blew hard,” intoned Loki, and the listening gods and warriors snorted and laughed.

  Euthalia pressed on. “And Zephyrus caught the discus with his wind and turned it back upon Hyakinthos. It struck him hard in the forehead and he dropped to the ground, bleeding.”

  The listeners quieted a little, caught off-guard by the sudden death though they had been warned it was a tragic tale.

  “Apollo ran to his Hyakinthos and cradled him in his arms, sobbing, but there was nothing to be done. The pretty boy’s head had been crushed, and bone and brain spilled onto the grass.” This was a rather more lurid telling than any she had heard, but she thought her listeners would appreciate the detail, and she was not wrong. “And Apollo cried and wished aloud that it had been him to be struck instead of Hyakinthos, and he swore that Hades would not have his dearest companion. And so he took the broken body and the blood, and he transformed them into a flower, a beautiful purple flower, marked with characters to read, Alas, to express forever Apollo’s mourning.”

  There was a moment of quiet, and then a voice called, “And then what?”

  Euthalia shook her head. “And then the flower grew and spread, and they may be seen yet today. That is the end of the story.”

  “No, did Apollo go and kill Zephyrus to avenge Hyakinthos? Was there blood feud?”

  “Er, no. No, the Greek gods do not war with one another. That is, they certainly have their disputes and their quarrels, and at times they are even petty in their politics, but they do not enter blood feud on—”

  “Then this Apollo is no god!” declared one of the valkyrjur’s chosen. “How can a man allow his lover to be murdered, even a man-lover, and do nothing?”

  “Where is Zephyrus now?” demanded another.

  “He—he is the west wind, he resides on Olympus with the others,” she tried. “But this was long ago—”

  “Murdered blood does not dry,” they shouted. “Apollo should have acted!”

  For a moment she thought they meant to assault Olympus itself, to drag Zephyrus from the mountain and demand justice for a death a millennium and more ago. But their contempt for Apollo’s weakness kept them from taking his side, she realized, and thus from joining his cause.

  “Certainly it was a lapse in Apollo’s justice,” she agreed. She tried to remember what had become of Zephyrus, to see if she could placate them with a satisfactory conclusion.

  “It is a good story,” said Odin, and that seemed to settle the question. The hall cheered.

  “It paints a better picture of the Greeks,” conceded Loki. “Even if they cannot avenge their dead, one has to admit the discus is an efficient weapon.”

  “Let us have our own contest tomorrow,” called Baldr to the Æsir and Vanir and Jötnar about him. “We can throw our own weapons!”

  “And you can be the target!” added Thor, and all laughed and agreed.

  Sigyn leaned close as Euthalia returned to her seat. “A good story,” she agreed. “They won’t soon forget that one.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They met for the game in a broad, flat field, lined with thorny bushes marked with bits of captured wool from browsing sheep. The gods and Jötnar gathered, joking and slapping one another’s backs as they displayed their choice of weaponry to attack Baldr.

  Euthalia divided her attention between their preparations and simply looking about the field and surroundings. Sigyn had instructed her on how to pass through Valhöll and into this separate part of Asgard, and she was delighted with her new ability to travel beyond her own tiny empty village. She would learn how to visit all of this strange country.

  Baldr stepped out, arms raised overhead, and the group cheered. Blond, tall, powerful, he was every bit the shining god Loki had called him. He was clearly a favorite among the Æsir and Vanir.

  “Bring your best!” he challenged.

  Freyr went first, throwing a fist-sized rock with disturbing precision against Baldr’s skull. It struck and bounced off him without harm.

  The missiles began flying in earnest. Pebbles, rocks, a spear, even a throwing axe. Laughter and cheers rang around as Baldr withstood them all without so much as a flinch.

  Frigg, Baldr’s mother, watched with a tight expression varying between worry and pleased relief. Her arms were folded across her chest, daring anyone or anything to harm her favorite son.

  “Could I try?” asked Sigyn, and Euthalia turned toward her in surprise.

  But no one seemed to think anything of the woman stepping forward with a switch cut from a sapling. Baldr smiled at her, a bit distantly as if he were trying to place her face or recall her name. Sigyn did not introduce herself as she stepped forward and struck him full across the face with the switch .

  A roar of surprise and hilarity rose from the spectators, and Baldr himself laughed with the ferociousness of the attack. It did not hurt him, of course. Sigyn lashed him with the switch a dozen times before dropping it with a little shrug and a smile. The onlookers cheered her attempt and turned their attention to the next assailant.

  Euthalia caught Sigyn’s arm as she returned. “He did not know you, I think. He didn’t know why you did it.”

  “No,” Sigyn concurred. “But I feel the better for it.”

  They looked across to where Loki stood a little apart, watching. His eye met Sigyn’s, and for a moment Euthalia saw a tiny smile pass between them, a glimpse of something she thought she should not have been privileged to see.

  A few paces from Loki stood Hodr, Baldr’s blind brother. He was not participating in the sport, either. Loki closed the distance between them. “You will not challenge Baldr with the others?”

  Hodr looked surprised to hear someone speaking to him. “Loki? No, of course not.”

  “It is one thing to shun me, a Jötunn and a thief and a liar. It is another to shun Baldr’s own brother. They should let you join them.”

  Hodr smiled wanly. “I think it is obvious why I cannot.”

  “Oh, of course,” said Loki. “It is because you did not bring a weapon.” He produced a slender shaft of pale green wood. “Here, I will lend you one.”

  Hodr chuckled. “Even you, oh shifter of shape and of words, must know that it is not the lack of a weapon which keeps
me from sporting with the others.”

  Loki snorted. “So you cannot see. What, are you afraid of accidentally hitting him?”

  Now Hodr laughed aloud. “I suppose that would be a foolish fear, after all.”

  Euthalia, watching, smiled to herself. There was a tender side to Loki, after all. He loved Sigyn and appreciated her striking back for him in her own way, and he could show kindness to a blind man and bring him into a communal game.

  Loki pressed the pale green wand into Hodr’s hand. “Go ahead,” he urged. “While he’s standing alone, and there’s no risk of hitting anyone but him.”

  Hodr started to speak, hesitated, and then grinned. “You know, I think I will.”

  Two dozen paces away, Skathi loosed an arrow into Baldr’s chest. He slapped the place where it struck and grinned proudly.

  “Now, he is standing alone,” Loki said. “Go ahead.”

  Hodr raised the wand over his shoulder like a spear, point forward, and Loki gently adjusted his aim. Then Hodr stepped forward and threw the little green shaft. It sailed forward past the grinning group to pierce Baldr’s throat, sticking partway through his neck.

  Baldr stood frozen for an instant, eyes wide, and then he raised his hands to grasp at the protruding shaft. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “Did I strike him?” asked Hodr with a grin.

  Frigg screamed.

  Baldr’s knees went from beneath him and he spilled onto the grass. The group surged toward him, all speaking or shouting at once, and Frigg clawed her way through them all to reach her son. “Baldr! Baldr!”

  “What happened?” demanded Hodr, reaching a hand toward Loki. Panic edged his voice. “What happened?”

  “It seems the shining god has fallen,” drawled Loki.

  Euthalia stared at him, sick horror crawling through her stomach and lungs and up her throat. He had done it, he had used the game—

  Like Zephyrus.

  Sigyn’s fingers were digging hard into Euthalia’s arm. “No,” she whispered. “No, no—they will say it was Loki. They will say he did it.”