The Songweaver's Vow

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Tomorrow. She would know tomorrow.

  “My ravens cannot find him,” Odin said heavily. “This means he wishes to hide, and he is concealed with strong magic.”

  “Stronger than yours?” challenged Euthalia, facing his carved chair.

  Odin frowned. “Strong enough,” he muttered. “He wishes not to be found, at least not yet.”

  Euthalia set that aside for the moment and pushed to the next and most important question. “How can the curse be broken?”

  Odin looked at her, faintly surprised. “Broken? It is a curse. It cannot be broken.”

  The words were nearly incomprehensible to Euthalia. “Cannot? Of course it can.” Odin’s placid answer infuriated her. “You are the father of poetry and wisdom! You hear all manner of things from your ravens! Your wife spoke to every material thing on behalf of your boasting and beautiful son—can you not do as much for your obedient son?”

  Odin turned on her, his eye narrowed. The two ravens started up from the chair, alarmed, and the two wolves began to growl low in their throats. “I am Odin!” he thundered. “I am wisest of gods and men. If I know of no answer to this curse then there is—”

  “You did not know the mistletoe could kill Baldr.”

  It was a dangerous barb, and cruel, but it stopped Odin, who could not deny its truth.

  “Won’t you ask?” she pressed. “Won’t you look? Can you not do this much for him?”

  Odin opened his mouth, said nothing, looked from one wolf to the other. “There is one to ask,” he said. “But it will cost dear.”

  Euthalia gazed at him levelly. “My husband fled me in the middle of the night and I am homeless and enslaved,” she said. “Not asking also costs dear.”

  Odin nodded once, a bare acknowledgment of her truth. “There are some few who are skilled in seidr, the discerning of destiny,” he said. “And there are fewer still who can not only perceive the warp and weft of the Nornir’s weaving, but can weave it anew.”

  Euthalia thought of the Moirai, the three spinners of her mother’s tales who measured out and cut mortal lives. “But what is fated cannot be undone.”

  Odin raised an eyebrow. “Then why exert yourself, little bird? Why search for Vidar or a cure?”

  “But I do not know if this is truly fated, or only what has happened.” Her words sounded feeble even as she said them.

  Odin leaned forward. “And I tell you, even if the Nornir have woven it, it can be unwoven.” He reached out to pull her ragged and burned pinafore horizontal between them, and he took a thread from one of the rips and drew it across the surface of the fabric, pulling the hole wider and the thread free. “It needs only a weaver who can grasp the thread.”

  “And who can do that? Who has the power?”

  Odin sat back on his chair and rested his hand on the back of a nearby wolf. “Though seidr is a woman’s art, and I have been called unmanly for it, I am no mean practitioner. But I know I cannot undo this curse. It is beyond me.”

  “Then there is no one but the Nornir themselves?”

  “No, there is one other.” Odin’s voice was level, heavy. “Freyja.”

  Euthalia’s heart sank. “Freyja!”

  “She came and taught the Æsir the magic of the Vanir, among whom she is the greatest practitioner. She possesses the greatest skill in seidr. If the curse can be broken, then she is the one to break it.”

  “Then tell her to help us!”

  “No.”

  Euthalia stared at him. “No?”

  “Understand this, little butterfly: when Freyja first came to us, we were in awe of her skill. Magic is not ours by nature, and we marveled at all Freyja showed us. But we desired too much, and we began to abandon our practical skills for magic, and we demanded more and more of her. In the end, the Æsir and the Vanir went to war.”

  The second wolf gave up watching Euthalia and went to curl behind Odin’s chair.

  “The war was hard, and we ended it only with hostages and the brewing of Kvasir. I will not make demands of Freyja again. If you can convince her to act, I will be most glad of her help, but I will not call upon her myself.”

  Euthalia bit back the bitter taunt which rose to her lips. Even a god could choose to avoid conflict, and a war among the gods would do Vidar no good. Nor would it be likely to help Loki, as neither side would trust him to aid if released. She should be grateful for the information Odin gave.

  “I will ask her,” she said. “I will convince her.”

  Odin chuckled, and it was so unlike him that it frightened her. “Little spitfire,” he said. “I doubt she will hear you, unless you can bargain with her. Freyja’s taste is for fine things and power. I hope you can satisfy her.”

  “I will make her listen,” Euthalia said.

  And now that she stood before Odin, now that he had his ear and he was helping her to help his son, now she should ask….

  “And Loki,” she said, more abruptly than she’d meant. “Will you release him?”

  Odin turned dark eyes on her. “What? Why?”

  “For—for Sigyn’s sake. His wife. And for the sake of your own bond with him. He has suffered—”

  “He murdered my sons. Baldr and Hodr are both dead, by his scheming.”

  Hodr! But he had meant no ill! But Euthalia could not pause for this news. “Baldr tormented him, you must have known—”

  “Enough! I will not hear more of this. Loki is bound where he can do no more harm, as should have been done long ages ago. He will stay where he can do no harm. And it will take more than your pleading to sway my mind on this.”

  Euthalia hesitated and then nodded. “I will go and speak to Freyja about the curse. Thank you for your help.” She retreated from the hall, and Odin did not look as she went.

  He had not said that he could not be persuaded to release Loki—only that she could not persuade him. She could still enlist another who might have more influence. There was yet hope.

  And she could ask Freyja to help her find the answer to Vidar’s curse. Her chest tightened. Poor Vidar, waiting long years to find a bride who had never seen him, who would keep his wish to never be seen, lest he lose her love…. It was terrible to think of. But she would petition her mistress, press Freyja to keep her part of their bargain, and together they would find the answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Valhöll ran with mead and rang with shouts and songs, another night of feasting among the einherjar. Odin sat in his great carved chair, ravens at his shoulders and wolves at his feet. The Vanir and the Æsir cheered past exploits and bragged of future victories, while Euthalia and the other thralls bore endless food and drink about the long, long tables.

  The change was small at first, subtle, and Euthalia did not comprehend its significance. Valhöll had many doors, and when the laughter and cheering at a table nearest one of them slowed, it was hardly worth noting, if the change could even be noted in the noise of the great hall. The einherjar at that table glanced at one another, smiles propped up on their faces as their eyes questioned. Had anyone else heard it? Should they carry on?

  But then all laughter ceased, and heads at other tables swiveled to look at the door as well. Several men jumped to their feet, and several hands went to axe hafts and sword hilts.

  The sound came again—hardly a sound, more a sensation, a deep, deep groan at the very edge of hearing as the massive timbers over the door flexed. A tiny rain of dust came down about the door and table.

  The Æsir and Vanir were on their feet now too, glancing back to Odin on his chair.

  “Go,” he ordered.

  But the einherjar were already crowding about the door, pushing to brace it and drawing weapons in a ring about the straining wood. It was bending visibly now, creaking with pressure. The heavy beam across the door cracked, and Euthalia wondered when they had begun barring the doors during the feasts. She remembered clearly the doors had been unbarred when she and Sigyn would leave the hall as the feast continued ever on.r />
  The einherjar were shouting now, and the braggadocio of a few minutes before was gone. Their faces were serious, ready for fighting but worried, too, in a way Euthalia would have not expected in strong men who had died gloriously in battle.

  Euthalia crept backward until she came up against the edge of a table.

  The beam splintered only a heartbeat before one of the hinges, and the door half-swung, half-fell inward over the einherjar. The press of fighting men gave way as if everyone wanted room to swing his raised weapon, but no weapon moved forward.

  A wolf came into the hall. But it was only a wolf for lack of any other ready word, for it was like no ordinary wolf. It ducked its head and shouldered through the gaping door, its withers scraping the upper lintel. It was enormous, dark and thickly furred, and its gold eyes glared about the hall with a keen understanding no wolf ever showed of the halls of men or gods.

  It stepped forward, and once free of the door it straightened to its full height. One of the einherjar, bold or stupid with mead and boasting, rushed forward with a spear. The wolf twisted its head, opened enormous jaws and snapped the spear and the arm which held it. It slapped a paw on the unfortunate warrior and pinned him to the ground, tearing the arm partly free with the force. The man shrieked and then was muffled beneath the massive paw.

  The wolf dropped the spear and arm and raked a mildly curious glance at the armed men around it. None stepped forward.

  The wolf took its eyes from them and turned its golden gaze on the gods standing at their tables. Its mouth opened, showing white fangs like knives. In a deep voice which rolled through the hall like a grinding stone, it asked, “Where is my father?”

  There was an awful moment in which no one answered.

  Its father? How could such a beast seek its father in Valhöll? And then Euthalia remembered Vidar answering her questions about Loki. He fathered Hel and Jörmungandr and Fenrir. Fenrir is a wolf, though that is the same as to say that Yggdrasill is a tree. He is a mighty beast, and fearsome.

  Vidar had not spoken plainly enough. Fenrir was massive and heavy with malice and they had—oh, they had bound his father for eternal torture.

  The table pressed hard against Euthalia’s back and she clenched her fingers uselessly on its rough edge.

  Fenrir’s ears rotated, flattening with annoyance. “Where is my father?” he repeated, and there was a snarl in the words now.

  He is a mighty beast, and fearsome, and one day he will kill Odin, in the time of Ragnarok. And then I will fight him.

  Odin had not risen from his chair, but Euthalia saw his knuckles tight on the armrest. “Your father is not here,” he answered evenly. “You seek him here in vain.”

  Fenrir lifted his head. “I can see he is not here. I am asking you where he is to be found.”

  “By what right do you break into my hall and make demands of me?” snapped Odin. “Your father is not here. Seek him in any of the nine worlds, but do not trouble my hall with your insolence.”

  Fenrir sat and seemed to smile. “There was a time when I was welcome in your hall,” he said. “Such games we played.” He ran his eyes over the watching Æsir and Vanir. “Such games.”

  “Your father is not here, Fenrir,” called Tyr. He stood erect and, if not unafraid, at least uncowed. “And you have not been invited to this hall.”

  Fenrir turned a cold yellow eye on Tyr. “I shall go to find him,” he said. “And I shall see you again in this hall.”

  “And we shall play again as we once did,” said Tyr, and there was no hint of merriment or game in his voice.

  Fenrir rose and turned, stepping over the body of the dying einherjar as if it were a bit of debris, and pressed through the big door which was too narrow for him. His black-furred tail waved through the door and disappeared into the dark outside as if the night were a sea which had swallowed him, immediately invisible.

  For a moment no one spoke or moved. At last one of the einherjar stepped into the line of the door, well away from the threshold itself, and leaned to peer out into the darkness. After a moment he shook his head. “I cannot see anything. I believe he is gone.”

  It was unlikely he could see Fenrir in the dark whether the wolf had gone or not, but his words released a thick tension and the hall began to breathe again. Some men began to prop the door back into place, while others muttered to each other. All turned to the Vanir and Æsir and Odin in particular.

  Odin’s face was grim. “The feast is ended for tonight,” he said. “We must talk.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  None of the einherjar were eager to go outside Valhöll and into the darkness where Fenrir had disappeared, so the Æsir and Vanir left for another of Odin’s halls to discuss the wolf’s visit. Euthalia, following discreetly, noted it was the same in which they had condemned Loki.

  All through the moonless dark she imagined hot breath on her back and worried the fear-sweat dripping down her neck was drool. But if they were going to discuss Fenrir and Loki, she needed to hear what would be said. Loki’s screams as Sigyn carried away the venom-brimming bowl were too fresh in her memory, too ready to return to her ears.

  Sigyn could not free Loki. She depended on Euthalia to do that.

  The gods and goddesses went into the smaller longhouse—still a great hall, even if not so grand as the enormous Valhöll—and closed the wooden door behind them. Euthalia’s chest tightened. Don’t leave me out here, not in the dark, not with Fenrir….

  But she could not open the door and walk in, a thrall among the gods. They would throw her outside again, and Freyja would beat her after. She pressed herself against the door, sitting with her shoulder and ear to the wooden planks, leaning close to listen and to shrink away from whatever might be nearby in the night.

  The men’s voices carried more clearly. “It’s going to be trouble,” said someone, possibly Tyr or Njord.

  A woman’s voice answered, and Euthalia strained to hear. “…Lie to him. He will learn.”

  “He already knows,” said someone else.

  “No, or he would have opened battle tonight in Valhöll.”

  “He will learn. And then he will return.”

  “We must keep him from learning. Or prevent him from waging his father’s blood-feud.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “We bind him.”

  “We have tried that, again and again!” This was Freyja’s voice, too recognizable to Euthalia’s ear. “Always he breaks whatever chain you think to put on him.”

  “Then forge a better chain.”

  “You can say such a thing, Bragi, as if it is so simple. Why don’t you spin us a worthy chain out of your sleek words, poet?”

  “Stop! There is only one forge, and one smithy of craftsmen, which could make such a chain.”

  The speaker—Heimdallr? Tyr?—had the others’ attention now. There was a moment of quiet.

  “Whom shall we send to Svartalfheim?” Thor’s brash accents and cocky tone were easy to identify. “Only two people have ever been able to wheedle gifts from the dwarfs, and we’ve bound Loki in a Midgard cave.”

  There was a pregnant pause, and then Freyja snapped, “You loathsome self-righteous ballsack. I won the Brisingr brooch for myself, and a dear price I paid for it.”

  “Four nights,” said another masculine voice. “Four dwarfs.”

  “Oh, shut up. I’m not sleeping with any more ugly dwarfs for this. You bound Loki, you deal with his son.”

  “So you’ll open your legs for gold, but not for the safety of us all?”

  “Enough!” This was Odin’s voice. “Freyr, send to negotiate with the dwarven smiths. Give them to understand that Fenrir’s wrath will not leave them unaffected even in Svartalfheim.”

  “And when Fenrir is bound, then what?”

  Euthalia froze. That voice! Was it the dragon’s voice—Vidar’s voice?

  “Fenrir is not the only son of Loki who may come to demand repayment for his father’s humiliatio
n and blood. Jörmungandr will be a formidable foe.”

  “Then we must be certain they cannot join together,” said someone else. “Bind Fenrir, and then find and kill Jörmungandr.”

  “Kill Jörmungandr?!”

  Thor’s hearty chuckle came clearly through the door, overloud and cocksure. “I will kill the serpent,” he said. “Leave him to me.”

  Euthalia shifted against the door. If she could but see—if she could peer through the door….

  They were arguing with Thor. They would not notice her. With her heart in her throat, she reached up for the latch. She could ease it open, so slowly….

  But unlike the enormous Valhöll, with its many doors set along the impossibly long walls, this hall’s door was set at the narrow end, with a short wall to baffle the wind gusting in when the door opened. Euthalia saw nothing but the dark wall and a soft glow from beyond the wind block.

  The voice came again, more clearly. “This is stacking more logs upon the fire in the hope of smothering instead of fueling it. You mean to suppress them—but if you cannot? If this plan does not work? You will only have enraged the both of them. And what if they should enlist the aid of their sister?”

  Euthalia’s heart ached with the sound of it, for it was not Vidar’s voice. He was not here.

  “Leave her out of this,” said Freyr curtly. “She does not trouble herself with Asgard, and we will not trouble ourselves with her. It is the sons we must take care to stop.”

  Or perhaps he was here, but not speaking, not just yet. They would not see if she entered. She could creep inside, listen, look around—

  No, she could walk directly inside and call his name. He would turn, and she would know him, and—

  And the curse would be activated. He would become a monster before her eyes. She would disregard his only request, again, and in a room full of watchers. How could that reassure him?