A Fire of Roses

by Melinda R. Cordell

  “Odin’s blood, no!” Gefjun screamed.

  “What is it?” Varinn asked.

  Gefjun’s hands went into her hair. “The one thing that would make Dyrfinna come here,” she wailed. “It’s Aesa on the back of that dragon. It’s her little sister!”

  “What, on Papa Ostryg’s dragon?”

  “Yes! Dyrfinna’s chasing him because he kidnapped her little sister. That little girl is five years old. The same as your son! He must have stolen her away in the night to get Dyrfinna to follow him here!”

  Varinn’s eyes grew huge and aflame with anger.

  Gefjun cursed herself. She should have realized that Papa Ostryg was serious! He’d said to her face, “I know what will make Dyrfinna come here, though she should sunder a million chains to do it.” And she hadn’t believed him! She should have asked Varinn to slam that scumbucket into a jail cell that very moment.

  In the night sky, fire bloomed like roses.

  “Where is Papa Ostryg? Where will he land the dragon?” Gefjun cried.

  “Straight ahead at that large landing ground. Hedgehog needs to know this. We need to tell the other dragons to stand down.”

  Varinn started running. Gefjun ran too. Fury made her fleet, and she flew over the ground, her shadow bursting out in front of her from a bloom of fire, then vanishing just as swiftly into darkness.

  That monster! If he killed Aesa she’d kill him too. If he’d hurt her, she’d hurt him right back.

  A huge, huge bloom of fire behind her cast the edge of every stone in the ground into sharp relief.

  Gefjun spun.

  An apocalypse of fire filled the night sky. She could feel its vicious heat on her face. Heat and fire spawned by thirteen black dragons. They hung suspended in front of the spreading fury, wings outspread, as they blasted the flames up to a raging yellow intensity.

  Dyrfinna and her dragon were directly in the middle of that inferno.

  “No!” she screamed. “Leave her alone! Let her help Aesa!”

  Dyrfinna can’t sing.

  At once Gefjun flung a song up at her.

  Clear the flames away

  Coolness, utter coolness

  A shield against the fire

  Air to breathe behind it

  Go, song! Make her safe!

  Strangely, though she could not see Finna or her dragon in that awful rose of fire, she felt her song link to another song above her. Somebody was singing. She swiftly adjusted her music to harmonize with this music, and she reached a hand up at them, whoever it was.

  But now a black dragon was gliding safely past overhead toward the landing grounds. She could hear Papa Ostryg snarling at something on its back.

  Gefjun immediately spun and ran after him. Varinn was at her side, though winded.

  If they’d killed Dyrfinna … if they’d killed her ….

  Tears streaked her face, which pissed her off even more.

  Papa Ostryg landed his dragon, nice and neat, just ahead of her. She ran up, out of breath but ready to spit fire herself.

  “Give me the child, you walrus-faced double-crossing liar!”

  Papa Ostryg was out of breath but said, “Ah, lass, good to see ye,” and gave her a broad wink.

  She ignored it. “Aesa! Aesa! It’s me. It’s Juni.” Gefjun reached up to the bundle, which screamed and kicked.

  Papa Ostryg took out a knife. Don’t you dare hurt her, Gefjun thought, but he simply cut the ropes that held Aesa on.

  “Here you go, you natty wrench. Take the little brat. May she do you much good.” He leisurely handed the struggling child down to Gefjun.

  “Aesa, Aesa,” she said, taking the bundle into her arms. Aesa was struggling too much; Gefjun put her on the ground so she wouldn’t drop her. “You’re safe from that bad man. You’re safe. Untie her!” she cried, taking the blanket off and exposing Aesa’s puffy, tear-filled face.

  Aesa’s eyes met hers. “Juni, Juni,” she said, melting into new tears.

  King Varinn was trying to untie her little hands, but a soldier with nimble fingers and a tiny knife stepped in. In an instant Aesa’s arms were free.

  Gefjun pulled Aesa free of the blanket and gathered her tight in her arms. “Oh, my poor girl. My poor girl. You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

  “I did what you told me to do,” Papa Ostryg said carelessly, tying back the straps on his dragon. “I told you exactly how I’d do it, didn’t I? But you didn’t think I would and now all your skirts are up over it.” He turned away.

  Gefjun stepped forward with Aesa still in her arms. She grabbed a big handful of his red hair and hauled him backwards off his feet. Papa Ostryg, his arms pinwheeling, crashed to the ground. Gefjun stood over him, shaking a handful of his red hair out of her hand.

  “You witch!” Papa Ostryg said, struggling to his feet.

  Instantly three of Varinn’s guards held him back.

  “That’s not even enough to pay you back for what you did to this little girl, you monster,” Gefjun screamed. “That’s not enough for all the horror you put her through.”

  “Gefjun. Take this little girl back to the castle and put her in your room. I’ll deal with Háthski.” King Varinn put his hand on her shoulder.

  Papa Ostryg smirked at Gefjun. “Run along, little mama. Let the boys handle this.”

  Gefjun turned back toward Papa Ostryg with a smile. But under her breath she was singing a little song of strength.

  Fortified with song-magic, she swung a powerful kick right up between his legs—a kick so hard that it brought him off the ground a few inches.

  Papa Ostryg’s face went red with shock and pain. He fell to his knees and pissed himself, then collapsed on his side, groaning.

  “Now, pay attention, Aesa,” Gefjun said. “See his face? That’s him being very sorry he brought you here.”

  “Great Eternal All-Father, Gefjun,” Varinn said sternly, though there might have been a hint of a smile in his attitude.

  Aesa was still crying on her shoulder. She wasn’t sure if Aesa had even seen that kick. But that was fine. Gefjun considered it an honor to have delivered it so effectively on her behalf.

  She carried Aesa toward the castle. “I’m done with that idiot. Come on. You can sleep in my room on my bed.”

  Aesa hugged her tightly and kept sobbing into her shoulder. “I want Sissy. I want Puppy. “

  Gefjun’s heart broke for the little girl. “I know, honey.”

  “Is Mommy here?”

  “No sweetie, she’s still at home.” She hoped so, anyway. “I’ll send a messenger to let her know you’re safe.”

  “I want to go home.” Aesa burst into fresh sobbing. “Mommy, Sissy ….”

  Stroking her hair, Gefjun hushed her as she walked back into the keep, a young page rushing ahead to open doors for her—probably sent by King Varinn. In her heart she blessed him. “Poor Aesa,” Gefjun crooned as she started down the worn stone steps. “Poor girl. Come on. You can sleep in my bed tonight.”

  “I want Mommy!”

  “I know you do. We can’t fly back tonight. Let’s get some sleep first. We’ll get you back home as quick as we can. I’ll keep you safe tonight. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she sobbed.

  “I love you, Aesa.”

  “Love love.” Aesa lay her head on Gefjun’s shoulder.

  Her tears were dying down. Now that she was safe in Gefjun’s arms, a pair of familiar arms, somebody who loved her, the exhausted little girl started to fall asleep.

  Gefjun’s heart warmed, and she snuggled Aesa close.

  By the time Gefjun reached her room, Aesa was mostly asleep. Gefjun’s arms were ready to fall off. A five-year-old girl wasn’t really that heavy until you had to carry her down three flights of stairs.

  Sóma opened the door of Gefjun’s room for her, thank goodness. “Hello, Sóma. This is Aesa. She can sleep in my bed tonight.”

  Gefjun could see Sóma’s heart melt when she saw the little girl. “Who is she? Where did sh
e come from?”

  “A piece of hog dung kidnapped her. But I took her away from him. This is Aesa. She’s a friend of mine.”

  “Look at her eyelashes; they’re so long,” Sóma said, enchanted. “Oh, the poor baby’s been crying. Bring her to your bed. Let me see if I can find a clean nightshirt to fit her.”

  “Thanks.” Aesa had an accident on the dragon, and Gefjun would have to change her clothes too, since Aesa’s clothes left a wet spot on hers. But who could blame the poor girl, Gefjun thought. Dragged from her home by an evil man, thrown across the back of a dragon, and flying through fire. Thank goodness she’s sleeping now.

  Gefjun changed Aesa’s clothes, doing her best to keep Aesa sitting up while she pulled the nightgown over one heavy arm, then the next. Then she put a clean nightgown on her while the laundress took Aesa’s wet clothes. Gefjun lay Aesa’s heavy little body on the pillow, pulled a blanket up to her neck, and tucked her in. Aesa rolled on her side and sank into quiet. Gefjun kissed her on her warm cheek. Aesa’s hand came up and brushed it away. What a goof.

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  One of Varinn’s guards stood there when she opened it.

  “We’ve captured Dyrfinna,” the guard reported.

  A shock traveled through Gefjun. Her eyes widened. “Is she alive?”

  “Yes. She sustained a few mild burns but she’s otherwise fine.”

  Gefjun sagged against the doorway. She could hardly believe it. After seeing that cloud of fire in the sky, she was sure that Dyrfinna had not survived.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. She cleared her throat and willed them away. “Is there any way that I can see her and talk to her? Alone?” Gefjun found herself blurting out.

  “The king wants to question her as soon as he gets there.”

  “Where are they taking Finna?”

  “To the throne room.”

  “Could you tell the … I mean, could you beg the king to give me a moment to join him. Ask him not to talk to Dyrfinna until I arrive. Please.”

  The guard looked dubious, but said, “I will tell him.”

  Gefjun knew the king would agree.

  She remembered the kiss they’d shared on the roof. She clutched her hands to her heart, longing for yet another kiss.

  Then she saw, once again, Ostryg dying on the ground. Her guts churned, and her joy at the kiss turned to ashes.

  Ostryg used to be so jealous. Even if she just smiled at another man, he’d fume about her wandering eyes, or ask if she really had to bat her eyelashes at that man, or why she had to be so friendly to men in general?

  And what kind of woman was she? Her betrothed had been killed, murdered before her eyes. Before a moon cycle was up, here she was, kissing another man.

  She felt sick, unclean.

  But there was no time to think about that. Dyrfinna was in the keep and Gefjun had to meet her.

  But not looking like this.

  Gefjun rushed back into her room. “Okay, Sóma, I smell like pee and I’m pretty sure that my hair is standing up on one side, and I have to go meet my mortal enemy who was formerly my closest friend. I need something to change into in less than an eyeblink that keeps me from looking like some evil worm that just crawled out of the ocean.”

  “I’m not quite clear on what’s going on, but I’ll get you fixed up,” Sóma said, hurrying to the closet. “Throw off your dress, quick.”

  Just as soon as Gefjun stepped out of her dress, Sóma whisked over, sprinkled her with rose water, and dropped a white dress neatly over her head. Gefjun looked at it as it slid down over her body, a white marvel with golden trim. As soon as it was on, Sóma untwined Gefjun’s braid, grabbed a strip of white cloth, deftly braided her hair into a crown round her head with the cloth, and pinned it. Sóma lay a lovely dark cloak over her shoulders and pinned it with an exquisite silver dragon brooch. “Will that work?”

  Gefjun looked down at herself with awe. “Oh my goodness, you are a marvel. I don’t know if she’ll recognize me. I hardly recognize myself.”

  “Go, then. And hurry. Follow Burdr, she’ll take you to the king. I’ll watch the little one while you’re away.”

  Down the stairs Gefjun darted, her heart thumping. What time was it? Through one of the cracks in the casement, a bit of dawn glowed in the east. It was very early.

  Gefjun reached the room behind the throne room just in time to hear a kerfluffle in the great hall.

  “Somebody wants to see you,” a soldier sneered, and the door to the great hall boomed shut.

  King Varinn stood outside the door to the throne room, waiting patiently for her.

  “Your majesty.” Gefjun dropped a curtsey. “Please, allow me to go in first,” she said, though she felt as if she might throw up.

  “Go in before me? You’re not going to punch her, are you?” Varinn said, raising an eyebrow at her.

  “No.”

  “No kicking her anyplace.”

  “Only if she kicks me first.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Gefjun. I need to mention something unrelated to Dyrfinna.”

  “What’s that?”

  Varinn’s voice softened. “What I said there on the roof, I meant. I want you to know that. I know this is a bad time to tell you this, but the day will be starting soon, and I don’t know if I’ll have any time alone with you for the rest of the day. You are helping me, you’re making me stronger. And you get extra points for kicking Papa Ostryg where it counts.”

  She felt her cheeks warm up under his gaze. She didn’t want to get rid of what she’d known all her life. As sweet as this was, she needed to stay loyal to Ostryg, just for a little while. All the same, she said, “Thank you,” sincerely, and meant it.

  Varinn said, “Now. Look through here.” He set his hand next to a small window in the wall. “This is in the middle of a large painting on the wall, cleverly disguised to look like part of the painting. It lets me gauge the feel of the room before I saunter in and get trounced by my subjects about tax bills.”

  Gefjun stood up on her tiptoes to see. The small window gave her a watery view of the throne room and great hall with its long tables for the people to sit for dinner. Dyrfinna stood upon one of those tables, sword out, alert, but looking at the fine art on the walls.

  She had evidently been home, because she no longer wore the clothes that she’d worn the whole time she’d been out in the field. The cloak was a newer one that her mom had made, and clean, unstained by blood. Finna was very thin, still looked weak, and kept clearing her throat as if nobody would notice she had a cold.

  And here she was, rushing into trouble before she had a chance to recover, the idiot.

  Relief and hatred struck Gefjun at the same time.

  She had the urge to run out and hug Dyrfinna and say, “I’m so glad you’re alive.” She also wanted to head-butt Dyrfinna so hard that her nose would be purple for weeks.

  “This is going to go well,” Gefjun muttered, and opened the door.

  11

  Confrontation

  Dyrfinna

  When they had captured Dyrfinna, they bound her hands together and marched her to the keep.

  Dyrfinna looked toward the top of the keep, surely where the dragon stables were, though these were hidden from the ground by high walls. “Please. I want to see my little sister. They just captured her. She’s five years old, so she must be scared.”

  Nobody answered. A spear jabbed her in her back. She kept walking, staying alert for any opportunity to fight, to run.

  They took her to a very large hall filled with tables. The place smelled faintly, deliciously, of roses. And in the back of the room, a burnished golden throne shone faintly in the light of the torches they brought in. Nobody else was there.

  “Leave her here,” one of her captors sneered. “Somebody wants to see her.” And they shoved her inside.

  Dyrfinna tried to push her way back out, but they slammed the door. The bolt snapped to on the other side.
r />   She immediately leapt on top of the nearest long table, drew her sword, flipped her burned shield onto her arm from her back, and began looking around the room. They had just shut one door behind her and another door stood next to the throne. The windows sat high in the walls, well out of reach, even from the tabletop. No other means of escape.

  Beautiful tapestries covered the walls, scenes from epic battles, but the style of the art woven in them wasn’t Norse. She gazed at them, curious. They reminded her of the art that her grandpa had brought from Iberia and from North Africa, elaborate scenes with great knights and valiant warriors.

  Larger than the others, more ornate and centered between the thrones, hung a huge tapestry with a king and a queen on it. The king held a white rose, while the queen held a red rose. And all around them bloomed white roses whose petals were streaked with red. Persian art, she realized. In their art, a person of distinction held a rose as a symbol of their worth or high rank.

  Dyrfinna peered into the shadows around the throne. She didn’t hear any other sounds beside her own breathing and the birds beginning to sing outside in the early dawn. It was birdsong already, that time of morning when all the birds started singing at once.

  On the other side of the room, far back in the shadows where the torch light didn’t reach, came the quiet click of the throne door.

  Dyrfinna instantly turned, watching the shadows, sword at the ready.

  “Finna,” came an exasperated woman’s voice.

  Dyrfinna startled.

  Only her close friends and family called her Finna.

  “You idiot. Just get down from the table already,” the woman added in a scolding tone.

  Dyrfinna went hot and cold all over. Still staring at the shadows, she hopped down and sheathed her sword.

  And… and former friends also used that name.

  A goddess swathed in white came out of the shadows around the throne. Her white dress was richly embroidered. Her fine cloak was neatly trimmed with white furs, clasped with a silver brooch. Her hair was skillfully done in superb braids like crowns, and her face was clean with just a trace of kohl around her eyes.