The Songweaver's Vow

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  “And did he say how?”

  “No.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  “I think perhaps Odin knows how to do it,” Euthalia said. “But I think it requires something of him he is not willing to sacrifice. Not even for his own son.”

  “Odin has sacrificed much for his knowledge.”

  Euthalia’s temper flared. “His knowledge, maybe, but not his own blood!”

  “He has lost two sons.”

  “And that is no reason to make another son suffer.” Euthalia warmed to her subject. “It’s not right. Baldr was Vidar’s brother. Hodr was Vidar’s brother. He grieves them just as Odin grieves them. It is not right to let him suffer further only because Odin does not want to extend himself for his son who survives.”

  “Little Greek,” snapped Freyja, “have a care for my hair.”

  Euthalia dropped the handful of hair she’d been unconsciously pulling tighter as she spoke.

  “Listen to me,” said Freyja, “and I will tell you what you should have seen yourself.”

  Euthalia dropped the comb to her side.

  “You have asked me to help free Loki,” Freyja said. “And I will do no such thing. It would not please Odin, and it would not please me. What would please me most would be for Loki to know that I had the power to free him and to beg me to use it. That would please me. For me to petition Odin for his release when Loki has done me no deeds? That would be foolish indeed.”

  Euthalia tried to argue. “But—but he would be under obligation to you. Think of the joy in that. Didn’t you say it would be a precious thing to have Loki indebted to you?”

  Freyja shook her head. “It would indeed. But Loki has no honor. He would acknowledge himself indebted and then laugh and wave it all away. He is utgard, don’t you see? He is outside of order. He is destruction.”

  Chaos, Euthalia thought. Chaos would never serve a debt to harmony. Chaos could not be bound to a debt.

  “But you are not outside of order,” she said desperately, “and you promised to help me in exchange for my service. I have done careful service for you, and for all the Æsir and Vanir, by bringing the flesh of Jörmungandr. Now by your honor, you must help me!”

  Freyja looked faintly confused for only an instant, and then she nodded and smiled. “Ah, the flesh of Jörmungandr. Indeed, such brave service should be rewarded.”

  “Then tell me!” repeated Euthalia. “Who cursed Vidar? How can it be broken?”

  “And again,” Freyja said, “I will tell you what you should have seen yourself. Who cursed Vidar?”

  Euthalia stared at her.

  “All others see Vidar as he is,” Freyja said. “He changes form only under the eyes of love. It is an illusion spell, or a shapeshifting spell.”

  Euthalia could not look away.

  “What fool could stand before me and say she does not know who in Asgard is responsible for a shapeshifting curse?”

  Euthalia’s stomach sank. “No….”

  Freyja grinned with sadistic pleasure. “You have worked so hard to free him, thinking him wronged, and you never considered the wrong he has done you.”

  “Loki,” breathed Euthalia. “Loki.”

  Did Sigyn know? But she must know. She had spoken first of the curse. She must have known.

  Ice chilled Euthalia’s limbs and she felt faintly nauseated. She had done so much to set Loki free from his torment, and he was responsible for all of hers.

  All of hers.

  Freyja nodded with pleasure at Euthalia’s realization. “Why do you think Odin refused to break the curse? Because it would mean releasing Loki, and he is not willing to let two sons go unavenged for the sake of the third.”

  Euthalia let the blonde hair slip through her limp fingers.

  “Knowing now what Loki has done, not just to Baldr and to Hodr and to Odin and all, but also to you, do you still wish to free him?”

  Euthalia felt numb.

  “You must choose, little Greek—would you win your husband’s love, or free his tormentor?”

  Euthalia opened her mouth, but no words came.

  Freyja stood, sweeping her hair into a braid and settling a catskin cap over her head. “And now we should go. They’ve called Fenrir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The hall was large enough to hold all the Æsir and Vanir together, and yet it felt cramped once Fenrir had entered and cast his golden eyes about at them.

  “Where is my father?”

  The enormous wolf’s voice grated like stone. Euthalia swallowed and was grateful that she was no one, that she would not be expected to answer the beast. What could one say to Fenrir’s question?

  “I have not seen him,” said Ullr, which was probably true enough. None of them ever went to the cave, so far as Euthalia knew.

  Fenrir’s ears flattened in irritation. “I have sought him all over Asgard and found no scent or track of him.”

  “There is no reason he should be here in Asgard,” said Njord. “You know he likes to make mischief in Midgard. Or,” he continued, perhaps thinking it was unwise to prompt the wolf to explore the world where Loki lay bound, “he may be in Jötunnheim, where he is wont to go.”

  “Perhaps he’s with the dwarfs again in Svartheim,” suggested Freyja.

  “He will turn up,” grumbled Bragi the bard. “One cannot be rid of him for long.”

  This insult seemed to placate Fenrir more than any supposition, perhaps for its familiarity. “That is true,” he acknowledged.

  “In the meantime, then, play with us,” said Freyr. “As you used to.”

  Fenrir curled a lip. “When I was a foolish pup? But you have been content to leave me in the wastes all this time. Why should I come to entertain you now?”

  “Oh, come,” said Bragi. “It is not entertainment solely for us. You enjoy showing your prowess and strength, which has no equal.” He turned, his eye falling on Thor.

  Thor stiffened. “My strength is equal to Fenrir’s,” he said gruffly. “My strength exceeds Fenrir’s.”

  The great wolf sneezed.

  “In truth,” said Bragi, “since we have lost Baldr, we have suffered for entertainment, as there is no one to meet our challenges. And while I have my stories and songs to share, it seems—”

  “No one wants your songs,” growled Fenrir with a curl of his lip. He looked at Thor. “You are quite proud of your muscles.”

  “They are the match of yours and more,” declared Thor firmly. Euthalia could not guess whether he was baiting Fenrir into a trap or had been baited by Bragi.

  “Shall we test this?” asked Freyr, stepping forward. “What about a contest of strength between Fenrir and Thor?”

  Fenrir’s ears went back as he looked from Freyr back to Thor. “And we shall see whose blood runs red first?”

  “No,” said Bragi quickly, holding up his hands. “No, this is a match of strength, not combat. We will test who can break chains.”

  Fenrir laughed. “But I have already broken many chains,” he said, tongue flashing red behind his white teeth. “That is no challenge.”

  “Then you have no reason to refuse,” said Bragi, “and you may laugh loudest if Thor is trapped.”

  “I will not be trapped!” Thor protested predictably.

  Fenrir grinned. “Bring the chains.”

  “Oh, not here,” Bragi said quickly. “It’s too narrow in here for a test of strength. You and Thor would break the walls with your striving.”

  Fenrir and Thor both grinned agreement.

  “Let’s go out to a field,” Bragi suggested. “Where we gamed with Baldr.”

  Where Loki had engineered Baldr’s death and Hodr’s. Euthalia shivered.

  “Let us say the marsh,” Njord countered. “It seems wrong to sport where Baldr died.”

  “The little island,” suggested Freyja.

  “There is a small island there in the marsh,” said Freyr. “That is a good place.”

  Euthalia watche
d them, all dissembling in unison, luring Fenrir to his doom. Part of her wanted to warn the wolf, and part of her wanted to rush to help bind him herself.

  Fenrir agreed to the marsh, which seemed, if an unlikely spot for games, at least an equally unlikely spot for battle. They walked out together from one of Valhöll’s many doors and came to an island in the midst of a clammy fen. They gathered beside an enormous boulder pierced with a wide hole.

  Bragi gestured, and thralls came after them, each laden with a staggering amount of draping chain. Euthalia gaped at the sheer quantity of metal and metalwork—this was a kingly game, indeed, to judge by the expense of the playing pieces.

  Ullr and Freyr directed the dividing of the chains into two lines, sorted by craft and size of the links and the matte sheens of the metals.

  “I’ll go first,” said Thor, and he reached down to the first chain in the row beside him. “Here!” He thrust his arms out before him, wrists together. “Bind me!”

  Freyr and Ullr wrapped a length of chain about his wrists three times and secured it with a pin. The spectators fanned into a broader semi-circle to watch, and Thor gave Fenrir a quick grin. “Thus,” he said, and he flexed his massive arms and tore his arms apart, snapping a link easily.

  “Such fragile goods are made in Asgard,” Fenrir said. “Now it is my turn.”

  Freyr visibly hesitated before approaching the wolf to wrap the chain about his fetlocks, and Fenrir noticed and grinned faintly. But Freyr did his work, and as he stepped back the wolf lifted one massive paw free, breaking the chain with a sound like cracking rock even before Freyr had gotten clear.

  Euthalia clenched her fists. If Fenrir could break these heavy chains so easily, then he could break Loki’s bindings. A tiny flame of an idea took light in her mind. Fenrir was looking for Loki; he would free his father, if Euthalia led him to the place. And then Loki, in gratitude for his freedom and relief from eternal torture, would tell Euthalia how to find Vidar and break the curse.

  Hope swelled in her for the first time in a long while. She would stay until the games had finished, as it looked as if Fenrir’s great strength would leave him at liberty, and then she would gather the courage to somehow approach the great wolf and tell him she could lead him to his father.

  Thor was scowling at the wolf’s accomplishment. “Let us forego the daisy chains and test ourselves against the dwarfs’ work.”

  Fenrir grinned, white fangs flashing. “Let’s do.”

  Ullr pointed to a set of chains further up the two rows. “This one, perhaps?”

  The next chain was cast of rough iron, with links the size of Euthalia’s open hand. It was too wide to wrap about even Thor’s broad arms, so they passed it about his torso, binding his arms to his sides.

  “Stretch hard, little pup,” rumbled Fenrir.

  Thor took a slow breath and then thrust his arms outward, roaring as he stretched a link and then snapped it. He gasped for air after his effort and beamed his pride at the cheering spectators.

  Fenrir’s lip curled. “There must have been a flaw in that link,” he said dryly. “I thought the dwarfs were better smiths.”

  “Our smithing is the finest of the craft!” shouted a short, bearded figure. Euthalia had nearly missed him among the spectators for his height and his soot-black skin which blended with the dark thorn bushes behind them. Two other dwarfs stood beside him, silent but similarly scowling defiance of Fenrir’s insult.

  “Brokk.” Njord stepped close and bent to whisper assurances or conciliations, pointing at the lines of chains.

  Which was the chain forged especially to hold Fenrir? When would they test it—and would it work?

  Fenrir was submitting to the over-sized iron chain now, amused at the way the two men wrapping his legs and shoulders tried to avoid touching him as they worked. When they stepped back, he took a deep breath and bent his head, straining.

  Euthalia dug her nails into her palms. Come on, Fenrir.

  And then the massive chain gave, a link fracturing cleanly and dropping the entire heavy mass to the ground. Fenrir straightened and grinned, tongue flashing between his white fangs.

  And then it was Thor’s turn again, and this time the dark dwarf was coming forward in short, angry strides. “I will settle this,” he said. “Let us see if any of you can stand against Gleipnir.”

  “Gleipnir?” repeated Fenrir dubiously.

  “When a work is wondrous enough to win a proper name,” snapped Brokk, “you should speak its name with respect.”

  Fenrir’s lip curled at the rebuke.

  The dwarf and his two companions went to the far end of the array of chains and selected a line from the ground. It was dark with the dullest of gleams, and it was forged of links so fine it appeared almost to be rope rather than chain.

  Thor and Fenrir laughed together. “It is made of hair!” accused Thor. “It is no chain at all!”

  “Then put out your hands, if you would mock the craft of the dwarfs,” said Brokk.

  Thor obeyed, and the fine links were wound about his forearms. Brokk stepped back and nodded his satisfaction.

  Thor smiled and pulled his arms apart—or tried. He frowned and pulled again. Then he placed his bound hands against the wide belt he wore, as if to pull strength directly from it, and tried again, elbows quivering with the strain. He grunted, he sweated, he moaned.

  Fenrir laughed toothily.

  At last Thor stopped, panting, and covered his angry humiliation with a nod of acknowledgment to the dwarfs. “That is fine work,” he said. “Gleipnir is the greatest of its kind.”

  They received his praise as their due and unwound the links from his bare arms, revealing the spiderweb-fine impressions of his struggle.

  “How is it made?” asked Freyr, inspecting the chain in the dwarfs’ hands. “For this is a wondrous piece of work.”

  “It is forged from materials which are very difficult to work,” answered a dwarf with the falsest of modesty. “A cat’s footfall and the beard of a woman, the voice of a fish.”

  “The spittle of a bird,” contributed another.

  “And the root of a mountain,” said another.

  “It is woven like the words of a poem,” said Brokk. “It is fine work, and no one can undo it.”

  The dwarfs turned to Fenrir, and for the first time he hesitated.

  “This means of course,” suggested Bragi, “that if Fenrir can break the chain Gleipnir, then he is stronger than Thor and the strongest of all.”

  Thor’s face darkened. “Not so,” he said. “I only couldn’t get my footing on this marshy ground.”

  “That is a lie,” refuted Fenrir. “You had every chance to show your strength. You simply could not break the silken ribbon of the dwarfs.”

  “Then test it yourself,” growled Thor, “and you’ll see it cannot be broken! You’ll be as trapped as I was!”

  A ripple of protest moved silently through the spectators as Thor came too near the truth in his angry taunts. It was terrible to entrust such a critical plan to a dull braggart like Thor, Euthalia thought. How the Æsir and Vanir must hate the necessity of depending on him.

  But she did not mind. She needed Fenrir now, and if he refused the test of Gleipnir, she would have him so much the sooner.

  Fenrir’s eyes shifted over the onlookers, who stirred and shuffled beneath his gaze. “This is a curious game,” he said, “and I wonder what would happen if I were indeed as trapped as Thor.”

  “Why, we would free you,” said Freyja with a placating smile. “Just as we freed Thor.”

  “Is that so,” Fenrir said, and it was not a question. “What surety do I have of this?”

  “Thor was freed, wasn’t he?” Freyr said. “You saw it happen. And this question is meet only if you are bound by the chain, which could happen only if you were no stronger than Thor.”

  Fenrir’s lip wrinkled. “I should like some greater surety,” he said. “Or it seems this game is no game.”

  Freyja s
pread her hands. “What surety can we offer you beyond our word?” she asked.

  Fenrir looked at her. “Flesh,” he said.

  Freyja recoiled despite herself, fear and disgust showing in her face.

  Fenrir looked about at the gods and spectators. “One of you should place a hand in my mouth,” he said, “and then I will be bound. I will release the hand when I am free, by my effort or yours. This is fair.”

  They stared at him. Bragi shook his head. “You might bite down in your effort to break the chain,” he said. “That would maim someone undeservingly. We can find another—”

  “A hand,” Fenrir repeated, his voice grinding like rocks. “I can be careful of it. But a hand will prove your trustworthiness.”

  Someone seized Euthalia’s forearm, and she turned her head to see Freyja’s hard face. “Here,” her mistress called, and she dragged Euthalia stumbling forward. “Take this one. Keep her hand in your mouth.”

  “No!” gasped Euthalia, pulling back against Freyja’s iron grip, and it had nothing to do with the fear of treachery and everything to do with the nearness to the great dark beast.

  But Fenrir was laughing humorlessly. “A thrall? Do not mock me or take me for a fool. The life of a slave is no surety from you. Give me the hand of one of your own.”

  Euthalia twisted her arm free from Freyja’s grasp and retreated, her heart pounding. How had she ever thought she would simply approach the wolf? He was terrifying.

  Silence drew out, and she looked around her at the silent gods. Their scheme was undone, and Fenrir would go free. Equal parts fear and relief warred in her, wanting the wolf to help to free Loki and yet so afraid that he would be left unchecked.

  “I will do it,” came a voice, and Tyr stepped forward. He kept his eyes fixed on Fenrir as the spectators shifted around him. “You know me of old, Fenrir. I raised you, I fed you, I cared for you.”

  “After a fashion,” murmured Fenrir.

  “Take my hand in your mouth,” Tyr continued, his chin high, “and when you have broken the chain, you will release me unharmed. And if the chain proves stronger and you do not break it, then we will unbind you, and then you will release me.”