Fate of the Gods

by Matthew J. Kirby

  One little push. That’s all it would take to send David down the wrong road. Why should he have to reconcile himself to this if Grace could do it for him?

  Her ancestor’s name was Östen, and she tried to learn what she could about him from the other side of the wall. She felt his love for his wife and children. She felt the pride he took in his land, crops, and livestock, and because of that, she allowed herself to watch him laboring alongside Arne the Dane, ignoring her anger as best she could. She observed the two men sweating and laughing through the summer shearing of Östen’s sheep, wool clinging to their forearms, tickling their noses, and drifting into their food as they took their midday meal together, eating the same cheese and thin barley bread.

  Slavery this might be, both unjust and wrong, but at least Östen was not cruel. Perhaps that was enough for Grace to permit him entrance.

  Though wary, she opened the gates of her mind, and Östen came in with the warm strength of a boulder that had been sitting in the sun. As Grace allowed him nearer, she realized she could not and would not justify him, but she didn’t need to. She only needed to accept that this was who her ancestor was, instead of fighting it, for synchronization to happen.

  We’re looking better out here, Victoria said. Excellent work. Continue doing what you’re doing.

  That woman really had no idea what she was asking of Grace, or David. Victoria could acknowledge all she wanted how hard it must be, but she would never know. Neither had Monroe known when he’d sent them back to experience the atrocities of the Draft Riots. And for what she needed to do, Grace didn’t need them to know. She wasn’t doing it for them.

  Almost there.

  Grace allowed Östen to settle in, planting his feet as if her mind was his farm, and at last she felt fully synchronized with his memories.

  The man approaching his home with the staff drew nearer, and Östen recognized him as his neighbor, Olof, whose fields and pastures bordered his, and with whom he had never had a disagreement. The staff he carried was the Bidding Stick, and Östen felt a heaviness in his arms at the sight of it. His son, Tørgils, came around from the cowshed.

  “Father?” he asked, squinting into the distance.

  “Go inside and tell your mother we have a guest.”

  Tørgils did as he was asked, and Östen waited until Olof drew near enough to greet.

  “I wish I came to you bringing a fairer wind,” his neighbor replied.

  “Do you summon me to the Thing?” Östen asked, though he already knew the answer by the shape of the Bidding Stick.

  Olof shook his head. “We are summoned under the ledung. Eric calls us not to counsel, but to war.”

  “Against?”

  “Styrbjörn.”

  Östen nodded, unsurprised. Years ago, after the death of Styrbjörn’s father, it had been decided by the Thing, under counsel from the Lawspeaker, that until the unruly Styrbjörn was of age, his uncle, Eric, should rule in his stead. That judgment had angered the prince, and he had departed his country with the fury of a storm. At the time, Östen had pitied those who might lie in the path of that storm, wherever it made landfall. Now it seemed the howling maelstrom had returned home, and there was to be a reckoning.

  “Come inside,” Östen said. “Eat with us.”

  With a shake of his head, Olof handed Östen the Bidding Stick. “I wish I could accept the honor, but time is scarce, and I need to make my own preparations.”

  Östen nodded, accepting the heavy summons. This Bidding Stick was a thick length of knotted oak, charred on one end with a cord tied to the other.

  “Where?” Östen asked.

  “Uppsala,” he said. “We gather at Fyrisfield.”

  Östen nodded, and Olof bade him farewell, returning the way he had come toward his own land. Östen watched his neighbor’s departure for a few moments, and then turned to go inside.

  Within the central hall of his home, he found that Hilla had laid out cheese, smoked fish, bread, and ale. As Östen came inside, she looked past him, over his shoulder, as though for their guest.

  “He could not stay,” Östen said, setting the heavy Bidding Stick in the middle of the table.

  Hilla and Tørgils stared at it without speaking. Östen’s daughters, Agnes and Greta, drew closer to see what had brought such silence into the room.

  “It’s a piece of oak,” Greta said, looking up at Östen.

  She had been too young to remember the last time such a summons had taken place. “It’s a Bidding Stick,” Östen said. “The king has summoned me.”

  “What for?” Agnes asked.

  Hilla turned away from the table and went to her loom in the corner, where she resumed her weaving. Östen watched her, but even without the help of his memories, Grace could read the angry way Hilla pulled and beat the thread. But there wasn’t anything Östen could do or say to appease her. To refuse the Bidding Stick would mean death and the burning of their farm, but that was not what angered his wife. She knew that a part of him wanted to go, not for the sake of battle and bloodshed, but for his honor.

  “Father?” Agnes asked.

  “It summons all the men to war,” Tørgils said, not yet considered a man by the Bidding Stick.

  Östen laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Carry it to the next farm. As quick as you can, so that you can return before nightfall.”

  Tørgils picked up the Bidding Stick. “Yes, Father.” And he left with it.

  After that, the rattle of the loom sounded even louder and more agitated in the small hall.

  Östen turned to his daughters. “Agnes, why don’t you take Greta outside for a little while.”

  “What should we do?” Greta asked.

  “Go fetch Arne. I think he’s milking the cows.”

  “Yes, Father,” they said in unison.

  A moment later, Östen and Hilla were alone, and he crossed the room to the corner where she attacked her weaving, saying nothing to her at first, simply watching the way her strong arms moved the shuttle and beater. He smiled at her careless braid, loose and uneven in places as it always was. As long as he had known her, she had never tried to lighten the color of her dark hair with lye as other women did, and he loved and admired that about her.

  “What do you want, Östen?” she asked without turning around.

  From within a corner of her mind, Grace smiled at her ancestor’s predicament, wondering if he understood its precariousness, and how he would answer.

  “I want a skein from you,” he said.

  Hilla ceased weaving and turned around to face him, frowning. “You want a piece of thread,” she said, sounding unamused.

  “Yes.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him, and then turned to pick up a skein of gray yarn. She stretched out a length of it, cut it off with her knife, and handed it to Östen. He shook his head, and extended his wrist.

  “Tie it,” he said.

  Still frowning, but now also shaking her head in confusion, Hilla wrapped the thread around his wrist.

  “Make it tight, and tie it fast,” he said.

  “What is this for?” she asked.

  He nodded toward the loom. “Watching you just now with your weaving, I fell in love with you again.”

  She finished tying and shifted her stance, placing one hand on her hip. “Did you, now?”

  “I did.” He looked down at his wrist. “And now I will carry that moment with me into battle. This is the thread of my life, and only you can cut it off. When I return home.”

  His answer seemed to disarm her, and her posture lost some of its hardness. “You fight for yourself, Östen. For your own glory and—”

  “Styrbjörn has returned,” he said.

  Her frown vanished.

  “This isn’t a petty squabble between Eric and a Geat chieftain,” he continued. “Styrbjörn must not be king, or we will all suffer under his rule.”

  She reached down and touched the thread at his wrist. “I see.”

  “I do
n’t like the thought of leaving you—”

  “I know.” She laid her other hand against his chest. “But don’t worry about us. I have Tørgils and Arne. All will be well here until your return.”

  “Hilla, you are—”

  “And you will return.” She looked directly into his eyes. “Won’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was the only vow Östen ever made knowing he might break it. “Only you,” he said, holding up his wrist.

  Just then a shadow fell across them as a figure stepped through the door, blocking the sunlight. It was Arne the Dane, reminding Grace that no matter how good a husband and father Östen was, no matter how honorable in the other aspects of his life, in this he would always be dishonorable. But she reminded herself she didn’t need to justify him, and even though she felt some of her anger returning, the memory continued.

  “You asked for me?” Arne said.

  “Yes,” Östen said. “Olof brought the Bidding Stick just now. Styrbjörn has returned.”

  “I see.” Arne stepped farther into the small hall. “When do we leave?”

  “I will leave tomorrow. You will stay here.”

  “Yes, Östen.” The Dane bowed his head. “Then I am not to fight?”

  “I need you to look after the farm with Hilla and Tørgils.”

  “Very well.” Arne gave Hilla a nod. “We’ll manage.”

  “I am relying on you,” Östen said. Then he and Hilla glanced at each other, and she nodded her approval for what he was about to say. They had been discussing it for some weeks now. “When I return, if you have served my family well in my absence, we will talk about the terms of your freedom.”

  Arne bowed his head even lower. “Thank you, Östen.”

  “You have earned it,” Hilla said.

  With that, Arne the Dane left the hall to return to his work, and Östen set about gathering and packing what he would need for the journey to Uppsala. Throughout that process, Grace considered what had just occurred, searching through her ancestor’s mind for a better understanding of it. Thralls, it seemed, could be freed, and while the promise made to Arne had the appearance of generosity, Grace couldn’t forget the fact that the Dane should never have been enslaved in the first place.

  Hilla helped Östen prepare his food stores of dried fish, cheese, and hard bread, along with some smoked mutton. He gathered his knives and other tools, extra clothing, and bundled it all into his cloak.

  After the evening meal, surrounded by his family, he sharpened his spear, his sword, and his axe by the light of a sun that would set but little at this time of year. He accompanied the grinding of the whetstone with stories, some his, some those of other people, and some those of the gods. After Agnes and Greta had fallen asleep, he gave instructions to Tørgils for the managing of the farm. Even though Hilla and Arne would be there, it was time for his son to take on more responsibilities. After Tørgils had gone to bed, Hilla nestled up to Östen by the fire until it was time to sleep.

  The next morning, Östen bade his family good-bye and departed while the ghost moon still haunted the sky. The journey to Uppsala would take several days by foot, and he set himself a hard pace, following the old roads to the great temple. Grace, almost a passenger on this journey, took in the countryside of lakes, rivers, forests, and hills, while her ancestor marched to war.

  Sean lay in bed, and even though the sun hadn’t risen yet, he had been awake for hours. He couldn’t sleep with the room bobbing and swaying, as if he were still aboard the ship in Styrbjörn’s mind. Even though Viking vessels were far more flexible than Sean would have thought, bending with the currents and waves to a frightening degree, they were still relatively small and easily tossed about by the sea. For a while now, that sensation had been following him from the Animus. Some kind of Bleeding Effect. Sean wondered if he would ever enjoy eating again. The only thing that brought relief was to get back into the simulation.

  A bird chirped outside the high window in his room, signaling that morning wasn’t far away. Isaiah would be coming for him soon. He knew he’d never get back to sleep, so he sat up, and then leveraged himself easily from his bed into his wheelchair. The strength in his upper body was one thing the accident hadn’t taken from him.

  Through his window he saw the yew tree that had been his view each morning for the past several days. They’d moved from the Aerie facility and flown here, an old monastery out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rugged green mountains crisscrossed by stone walls. It looked like England or Scotland to Sean, but when he’d asked about it, Isaiah had told him he didn’t need to worry.

  Sean was safe.

  His parents knew where he was, and they were proud of the work he was doing.

  Isaiah was proud of the work he was doing.

  That was all he needed to know.

  And Sean had faith in Isaiah. He believed in the mission. Sean’s work in the simulation would lead them to the final piece of the Trident, and when they found it, they would have the power to end the war between the Templars and the Assassins forever. They would have the power to set things right for the whole world.

  Sean looked around his small room, imagining the devout monks who had occupied this chamber through the centuries, and what they might have experienced before the modern world had brought in heat and electricity.

  The bird sang again, sounding somewhat farther away, and then someone knocked at the door.

  “Sean?” Isaiah asked. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sean said.

  “May I enter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door opened, and Isaiah ducked into the room, his presence seeming too large for its close walls. “I see you are ready. Excellent. We have much to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Isaiah strode around to stand behind his wheelchair. Sean normally hated it when people pushed him, ever since he’d gotten the hang of wheeling himself. There was nothing wrong with his upper body, and it was important for him to know he could go where he wanted to go. But it didn’t bother him to let Isaiah push him.

  “Off we go, then,” Isaiah said, reaching around to hand Sean an energy bar.

  Sean accepted it, and the wheelchair moved.

  They exited his room and moved down the monastery’s silent corridors, past stained glass windows only dimly lit by the sunrise, and past a courtyard dotted with weedy flower beds.

  “How are you feeling?” Isaiah asked.

  “I’m tired,” Sean said, taking a bite out of the bar. In fact, he had never felt tired in the way he did now. The exhaustion reached into the deepest recess of his mind, but left him upright, awake, but not quite himself.

  “I know you’re tired,” Isaiah said. “But your efforts will be rewarded. I need you to be strong. I need you to tell me the moment you think the Piece of Eden might come into your ancestor’s possession.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They came to the monastery’s front gate, where one of the Abstergo vehicles waited for them, idling. It was painted white, and looked a bit like a Humvee, if that Humvee had gone back to school for a double PhD in aerospace engineering and computer science. It was a prototype that Isaiah had commandeered, and Sean called it Poindexter, just to keep it from getting too full of itself. Since coming here, it had been his regular means of transportation, because the only space in the monastery complex large enough for the Animus was the chapel, which sat at the top of a hill. A very cumbersome climb with a wheelchair.

  Isaiah rolled Sean up to Poindexter, and at his approach, a rear door opened and a ramp lowered to the ground automatically.

  “Welcome, Sean,” Poindexter said, with its precisely enunciated robot voice.

  Isaiah wheeled Sean up the ramp and secured him inside the back of the vehicle. Then he hopped into the front passenger seat.

  As always, no one sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Are we going to the chapel again this morning?” Poindexter asked.

  “Yes,” I
saiah said.

  “Very well,” the vehicle said. “We will arrive in approximately four minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

  “Thank you, Poindexter,” Sean said.

  “You are welcome, Sean.”

  The vehicle rolled out, moving along a course it had calculated to the inch.

  Isaiah shook his head. “I can think of nothing more unnecessary than manners with a machine.”

  “Maybe,” Sean said. “But when that machine is controlling the steering wheel, I’ll play it safe.”

  As they reached the top of the hill and came to a gentle stop, several Abstergo agents greeted them and helped Sean out of the vehicle. Isaiah had brought dozens of men and women from the Aerie, and more had joined him since then. They acted as guards, technicians, and labor.

  “Is everything ready?” Isaiah asked Cole as he pushed Sean toward the chapel.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, her manner somewhat severe. She had been head of security back at the Aerie. “I believe they finished calibrating a few minutes ago.”

  At the chapel entrance, one of the other agents opened and held its heavy wooden door, and Isaiah wheeled Sean through. Inside, the old pews had been stacked against one wall to make room for the Animus in the middle of the floor. The air smelled damp and earthy, but not unpleasant. Thick wooden rafters stretched overhead, much of the vaulted space beyond them kept in shadow. This church wasn’t like the bright cathedrals Sean had seen in movies, with all their stained glass. This place felt more like a fortress, with narrow windows that let in little light, keeping the edges of the chapel in darkness.

  Technicians circled the Animus beneath the only real source of light, a broad chandelier made of iron with bare bulbs, stepping over the wires and cables that snaked across the flagstones. Isaiah wheeled Sean up to the device and then helped him out of his chair and into the harness, strapping him to the frame. Then Isaiah brought the helmet down and placed it over Sean’s head.