by Matt Larkin
Sif glared at the older woman a moment, then took another drink. Damned horn was already empty again.
Her aunt placed a hand upon her knee. “I understand what you’re going through, Sif. I truly do. You have two choices before you—act on your feelings, or else learn to kill them. Nurturing them in darkness, dwelling on them while doing naught, it will not avail you. This passion will eat you alive if you allow it.”
“What the fuck do you know of passion, old woman? You have lived with your man so long you cannot possibly remember what it was like to …” Sif groaned and shook her head, not even certain what she wanted to say. Her mind felt fuzzy. Maybe the mead was finally doing something. About fucking time.
Now Sigyn frowned and removed her hand. “Old woman? Who do you think you are, niece? I do not deny you have suffered in your life, but if you think you are the only one, you are sadly mistaken. You cannot imagine the hardships the Aesir went through to reach Asgard. How we watched so many of our brothers and sisters die out in the cold on the journey. How we fought and bled along the way.”
“Ancient history.” Sif tossed the horn aside again. “The cold? I might sympathize more had I lived here, rather than fostering in Dalar. In the damned cold you so revile.”
“Odin thought to teach you of the world.”
“Odin thought to solidify his alliance with Gylfi.”
Sigyn spread her hands. “So the mead has not fully deprived you of your wit, even if it has stripped you of your courtesy. It appears none of your experiences managed to teach you much of humility.”
Sif scoffed, then snorted. “Humility? I guess you’d know of that, yes? They say you were once considered quite the beauty.”
“Once? I haven’t aged … you don’t think I’m still beautiful?” Sigyn’s face faltered a moment like she was actually hurt.
Bah. Hardly Sif’s problem. “Please. You’ve been jealous of me from the moment I returned to court. My hair more golden and shimmering, my body more fit, my breasts more perfect. I’ve seen how you look at me!”
Sigyn rose, shaking her head. “I have never been jealous of you, niece. And maybe you think too much on your beauty. Perhaps that’s why it hurts so much now that it has failed you. And now, when I try to help you learn to use your brain instead of your tits—”
“You talk too much. Small wonder your father cast you aside as a babe. He must have known how much trouble you’d prove. If grandfather had not …”
Sigyn’s mouth dropped open, and she recoiled. The moment the words had left her mouth, Sif choked on them. Had she truly just said that? She tried to mouth an apology, but her aunt had already turned away.
Damn it. She needed another drinking horn.
A long groan escaped her, and she rolled over. Her mouth tasted like old sweat. The whole room stank of vomit. Where was she? Head spinning, she sat up, then wobbled and had to steady herself on the bed.
A private room. One of the chambers in Valaskjalf. An odd feathery softness under her hand drew her attention, and she lifted her hand. Golden hair was plastered to it. What in the gates of Hel? That was her hair. How had it … ?
Her head was cold.
She reached a trembling hand to her scalp. She ran shaking fingers along the back of her skull, rough with stubble. “Wha …?”
Oh gods. Oh fuck. Oh Hel.
Sif leapt from the bed, tripped, and slammed her knee onto the floor. She grunted in pain, then stumbled over to a metal mirror beside the wash basin. Barely daring to look, she rose and lifted the mirror. Turning it this way and that. Because what she saw had to be an illusion, a trick, a nightmare.
Her head was shaved all the way around. Bald as an old man.
Sif screamed.
29
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
In the snowy hills of Valland, Odin sat, staring to the east. Somewhere, far behind the curtain of snow, lay Miklagard. Another realm of immortals, after a fashion.
Loki trod up the slope with slow, measured steps. Odin didn’t need to open his eyes to know his blood brother. Odin could feel the man. They were connected, perhaps forever.
Some souls were bound together, in lifetime after lifetime, struggling to get their lives right. All men were dead—save maybe Loki, who seemed to have passed every era yet living, inexplicable as that sounded. But still, Odin had known him many times, of that he was certain.
Loki settled down beside him, snow crunching beneath him.
Now Odin did open his eyes, though he could make out little through the falling snow. In years past, he might have relished spending the evening thus, talking with his blood brother. But everything had changed when Odin had summoned Svarthofda. The unspoken and half-spoken recriminations had rent a chasm between Loki and him, one he might never again bridge. “I wonder, brother, what the flames showed you this time.”
Loki sighed and shook his head. “A king who, despite his love for his son, uses him as a pawn.”
“More than a pawn.”
“Is he? You send him on a mission he cannot possibly succeed at. The wall will fail, as it has been failing for long years now. Even could that jotunn be bargained with, Thor is not the man to head such negotiations.”
Odin rose, shaking the rime from his shirt, then brushing it from his breeches. “True enough. He lacks wisdom, but then, neither of us ever expected the wall to work. It will, however, make him stronger, more ready for what is coming. A motivation, we both know, has lain behind some of your own machinations, brother.”
Loki shook his head and motioned for Odin to follow him. Odin could refuse. But that would be petty and foolish, denying his own need for warmth out of some misguided desire to spite Loki. Odin liked to think he had moved beyond petty motivations, though sometimes doubt lingered. Always, doubts.
His blood brother trod down the slope to a shallow cave where, as predicted, a small fire blazed. Loki sat before it roasting some small animal—a rat, perhaps. Given the scant game here, Odin would take it. Loki removed the spit and handed it to him. “I know what you face, making these blind moves in the hopes all your pieces finally line up.”
Odin picked at the animal’s flesh, searing his fingers. “I do not yet see enough.”
“No one possesses perfect prescience, Odin. Imagine the world as a tafl board, but you play against many opponents. You cannot see all the pieces and even your own pieces do not always respond as you wish. Your glimpses of the future give you forewarnings of some of the moves your opponents may make but rarely the strategies behind them.”
Odin pulled off a hunk of meat. “And how does one win such a game?”
“Maybe you cannot win.” Loki stared off into the flame. “Maybe the best that can be hoped for is a stalemate.”
“Restart the game? Wouldn’t that mean sacrificing my own pieces?”
“Most of them, yes.”
He bit down into the hot flesh, letting the juice run down his beard. The beast had little fat, just damn chewy muscle. After gnawing at it enough to swallow, he looked back at Loki. “Sometimes I understand you very little, brother. On one hand, you seem to offer recriminations against my using Thor; on the other, you admit that we both find ourselves forced to play this long game against our unseen opponents. What is a king to make of your conflicting advice, then?”
“This conflict, like so many, becomes a matter of perspective. Because you do not fully understand your own moves, you risk making them simply for the sake of making them while holding back from your people the import of the tasks before them.”
Odin spat out grease. “The more such conversations we have, the more blatant your hypocrisy becomes. You speak of withholding the true nature of Thor’s mission from him while, you, in turn, concealed crucial truths from me for long years. You, the man who I took as my own brother, failed to play true with me.”
Loki leaned forward. “Disregarding for the moment whether my choice was right or wrong or necessary, where has it led us? Convinced my withheld truths rep
resent a lie of omission, you cannot forgive me. How then, do you expect your son to forgive you when he learns the full scope of your schemes?”
Odin flinched. Indeed, Thor might never forgive him, though that did not change Odin’s situation. Loki, as usual, spoke wisdom. Sitting here, like this, Odin could almost forget the broken faith between them. He could almost reach back, across the years, to when Loki had been his closest brother and most trusted friend.
Almost.
“I will tell you one last time, brother. Do not go to Miklagard. Withdraw from your bargain with the dark smith however you are able. Neither this throne nor what actions you undertake in order to craft it will avail you well in the end.”
Odin warmed his hands over the fire. “We both know you did not leave your pregnant wife just to tell me this.”
“I leave her only because you give me no choice.”
“No! I have no choice, brother. I will finish the throne, and I will have my answers. And that means I need the blood of Kvasir, even if I have to take it from these nachzehrer.”
Loki shuddered now, then rubbed his forehead as if in pain. “In Miklagard, they hold another name: vampires.”
“You know of them.”
Loki nodded.
“Then you ought to accompany me. That is, after all, why you are here, is it not?”
“You will pay a price for this course, Odin.”
He waved that away. There was always a price to pay. Sometimes, you just had to pay it and keep going.
30
Eighteen Years Ago
The greater the ritual, the more power required to complete it, and, unfortunately for the woman Odin had tied to the tree, power came from life. Odin had provoked the poor shieldmaiden into challenging him and, having overcome the Kvenlander, now had his sacrifice. To her credit, the warrior said naught as Odin traced glyphs in her blood, drawing on rock and ice.
Despite the chill, a sheen of sweat ran down Odin’s back and neck. The physical labor of it meant little, but perhaps the knowledge of his intent weighed on him. He pulled back his hat to mop his brow. Every joint ached these days.
Power has a price …
Since he could not well glower at the wraith inside him, Odin ignored Audr and resumed his work.
A flash of intuition gave him pause even before he heard the crunch of snow underfoot. Odin turned to look at Loki as his blood brother drew nigh, bundled in furs and bearing a sputtering torch.
Odin grunted. “You have come to counsel against this course, no doubt.”
Loki’s gaze darted to the prisoner before coming back to Odin’s. Those crystal blue eyes had once seemed to hold wisdom beyond all ken of mankind, secrets and truths Odin had relied on above all others. In fairness, Loki still held such wisdom, but now Odin had seen beyond the Veil and he himself knew more of the Otherworldly than any vӧlva. “You speak as though your course has become set beyond all dissuading.”
That drew a snort. “It is. I will have my answers. So, unless your flames have told you how I might reach Alfheim while yet breathing, you have no right to interfere.”
Loki frowned. “Right? Brother, I came here for your benefit.”
“Oh?” Odin pointed to a bare stone he had not yet attended to. “Then by all means, help me finish this circle. Time is hard to judge in this land of enduring nights, but I think midnight must draw nigh.”
“You jest while courting darkness you do not understand. I would not turn to sorcery while any other course yet remained to me. Even death may be better than the malignancy you open yourself up to with the Art.”
Death is not so … pleasant …
Unable to see Audr, Odin glowered at Loki before resuming his work. “If you will not help, at least do not delay me further, brother.”
“Your desperation leads you to speak with scorn to those whom have done you no wrong.”
Not yet …
Odin stifled a groan. Some visions could not be forgotten. His hands, wrapped around Loki’s neck, squeezing. This man he had loved, even before his own brothers. Perhaps Loki did mean well, but no one would keep Odin from rejoining Freyja. Nor from winning Ragnarok. He would do both, and damn the cost.
Neither Loki nor the warrior said aught more while Odin finished and awaited midnight. His blood brother kindled a ring of small fires around the summoning circle, no doubt as much to keep the mist at bay as for light. Though the man refused to aid in the conjuring, Odin still appreciated the gesture.
He looked up at the sky. How was he to know the hour? Perhaps it did not truly matter. He blew out a long breath that frosted the air, then shut his eyes to steady himself. The will mattered more than aught else. With a strong enough will, most any vaettr could be commanded.
Opening his eyes, he began to chant in Supernal, the spirit tongue. The strange words tasted acrid and reverberated against the inside of his skull. The warrior began to squirm. Those not schooled in the Art might not see or understand it, but sometimes they could feel it when the Veil grew thin and a profound wrongness began to seep into Midgard. It was like a chill that would not pass, growing into a waking nightmare. For his victim, the true nightmare had not yet begun.
Odin could not afford to become distracted. He strode toward the Kvenlander. She raised her chin defiantly. Odin nodded at her courage. Then he slit the woman’s throat. Dark crimson dribbled down her neck in a thin waterfall that soon stained the snows.
The dead come …
Odin continued his evocation. On and on it went, until something foul began to strain against his will. He relaxed his eyes into the Sight, looking beyond the Veil. There, shades flitted about, lost and wailing, trapped outside the circle. It was meant for a particular ghost, be she now wraith or aught else.
The shieldmaiden’s own shade had fled her corpse, writhing in pain and confusion, finally giving in to the terror she had forestalled in life. Much as Odin pitied her, it was too late.
Loki crossed into the circle and stood some distance away from Odin, turning slowly as if afraid of what was coming. Could his blood brother see across the Veil? The Sight was different for all, and Loki’s seemed so very much tied to flames.
The woman’s corpse jerked. It coughed up blood.
“Svarthofda,” Odin said.
She sputtered, dribbling a stream of red over her lips. A sickly tongue darted out then and licked at that blood.
“Svarthofda,” Odin repeated, then knelt before the possessed corpse.
“You dare … command … me …” Her words came out clipped and aspirated, spewing blood and spittle that Odin chose to ignore.
“Tell me how to cross the worlds.”
“Gguck … ha!” The corpse chortled, licking up more of her own blood. That tongue was growing longer, pointed. “Die.”
“Sorceress. Tell me all your secrets.”
“All secrets … you have not so long …”
Odin snatched up her braid and jerked her head forward even as he pressed his will against the shade. “Speak, Svarthofda, for I am versed enough to cast you into farther realms than even the Roil. You are ancient, and though the Lethe may have stolen memories, I know you yet remember enough.”
“Remember … gck. I remember … jotunnar born in mist in early days, wild … and wise … oh. They nurtured me, as I lay beneath them … and they made me … great.”
Odin struggled to keep his face impassive. The first sorceress seemed to be saying she had learned the Art from the jotunnar. That she had allowed many of them to fuck her until she at last began to fathom the truths of the chaos that engendered them. And why not? After all, the Art was vile … why should it not come first from the children of chaos?
Now he leaned in. “I care not what monstrosities plowed your trench in life, sorceress. Tell me of the worlds of the Spirit Realm.”
“I remember … nine worlds … bound to the World Tree … and between them the yawning void of chaos …”
“How do I cross that void?”
> “Gguck … haha … there were powers standing … before the thrones of fate … beholding night and her children …”
Odin scowled. “Wretched shade, do not force me to increase your suffering.”
“You too stood before the thrones of fate … but knew them not.”
Loki knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. “She means the Norns.”
“The tree stands above Urd’s well … They saw it … no doubt … when the war came … and Gullveig fell.”
How did this witch know aught of what had happened in Vanaheim? She had died ages before these events yet spoke of them with alarming acuity.
“Od’s girl is lost now …”
What? Was she … ? Odin snarled and slammed the corpse’s head against the tree. “How dare you, witch! You may not speak her name! Tell me! Tell me how to reach Alfheim! How? How do I find her?”
Loki pried him away. “Calm yourself, brother. Do not allow her to distract your focus. Your will is all that—”
Odin shoved the man away and snared the corpse once again. “Speak, damn you! How do I reach Freyja!”
“Many are the spawn of Modsognir.”
“Dvergar?”
“Great crafts they wrought in darkness beneath this world … and the others …”
The dvergar made something to travel between worlds? Odin swallowed. “Where do I find it?”
“In terror he waits … oh but … gck … he saw … the serpent that feasts on the dead …”
“Nidhogg?”
“He fears now … to use the ring …”
“Who?”
“Andvari …”
Odin shook her. “Where do I find him? Where!”
“The sun turns black … the land sinks into the sea … the bright stars vanish … hot flame scorches the heavens …”
“Speak!” he bellowed. “Tell me!”
“Odin,” Loki said, again trying to pull him away. “You let your emotions—”
Odin jerked his elbow back into Loki’s face, silencing his objections and sending his brother sprawling.