by C. Gockel
Taking a step toward his doppelganger, Steve says, “Dana’s dead. Odin killed her. Claire survived; Mom and Dad, they’re okay.”
His other self, or subconscious self, looks away. Head dropping, he crosses his arms over his chest. “You know …” He sighs and puts his hands to his temples. “It’s actually good to know … Claire, Mama, and Dad are alive somewhere.”
“They might not be safe for long,” Steve says, pressing the other man—or himself. His mirror image turns his head sharply in Steve’s direction. One eyebrow goes up. “Trying to interrogate me, Steve?”
And of course, he can’t use his own tricks on himself. He snaps in frustration. “I have to keep them safe from Odin!”
His unconscious self draws back. His single eye goes to a point beyond Steve’s shoulder. “Yes, yes, you do.” He sucks in on his lip. “ … So that I can imagine they’re alive and safe somewhere.” He takes a breath so deep Steve can see his chest rise and fall. “The Preserver’s nature is to preserve, and persevere; it takes a lot to make him give up willingly.” He gives a rueful smile, and his eyes go toward the direction Steve just came. Smile dropping, he says, “To defeat him you need Chaos and Creation. The Preserver is stronger than either, but together they can destroy him.” Looking down, his other self says, “If the Preserver, Chaos, and Creation all work together it is the best of all things.” Voice becoming a little wistful, he says, “If the memories are right.”
Steve says nothing for a long moment. He hears a baby’s cry from the tunnels. The sound makes him shiver and he suddenly thinks he’d like to wake up. He can’t trust a figment of his imagination. This is pointless. He blinks his eyes and wills them to open. And just finds himself staring at himself. “Why can’t I wake up?” he mutters.
His other self lifts his head. “You think this is a dream?”
Steve snorts at his unconscious. “I was floating and then I was pulled through the wall.”
His other self’s lips curl up in a look of impatience. Tilting his head, he says, “Then try waking up.”
Steve concentrates, squeezes his dream hands, and blinks his eyes. Nothing happens.
Voice clipped, his other self says, “I summoned you, so I could find Loki and Hoenir. And obviously I fucked up because you don’t know where my Loki is.” Shaking his head, he lets out a long exhale. “Next time I’ll focus on summoning a consciousness that knows where Loki is in my universe, not one that only knows where Loki is in his universe.” He growls and turns away. Pinching the bridge of his nose, squeezing his single eye shut, he says, “I hate magic.”
Steve blinks and backs away slowly. He’s aware of the smell again, and the moans from the tunnel just on the other side of the wall. “Only a nightmare,” he says. Believing otherwise is too much. He doesn’t hop universes; even in dreams. His nightmares usually involve forgetting to put his signature on requisition forms.
His other self’s voice lowers. “Maybe I should keep you here until you believe.” He steps toward Steve, voice rising. “Because if you don’t believe you can’t keep our family safe! Our world safe.”
“No!” Steve says.
He hears screams from the tunnel, and then a banging on metal. Turning toward the sound, his other self shouts. “Come in!” A door Steve hadn’t noticed opens. Bryant comes in, his jacket torn, his hair a mess, his face unshaven. “We have a hydra in the tunnels to the North.”
“Damn,” Steve’s other self says. With a quick movement he unsheathes his katana, bathing the room in a blue glow. “Laevithin,” Steve whispers. It’s Loki’s sword after it was magically charged by Cera. Up close, there can be no doubt.
Without answering, his other self stabs the blade through Steve’s gut. Steve’s jaw falls open, pain races from the wound to every part of his body. And then everything goes black.
CHAPTER 11
In Steve’s hospital room, Amy runs a magic detector over Steve’s forehead and gets a riot of beeping. His eyelids don’t even flutter. She runs it down the length of his body and gets a steady beeping the rest of the way. It’s been twenty-four hours since she administered the serum. Fenrir recovered in as much time.
Across his body, Nari gazes down at Steve’s unconscious form. “When I had a similar injury I recovered much quicker. As did your ... ” His eyes go to her little mutt, “err, thing—pet.”
Standing back, Amy looks nervously to where Henry sits at the edge of a chair. Steve’s father is leaning forward, a book dangling from his fingers. He’d dropped the book from his eyes as soon as Amy started the exam. Beside Henry sits Beatrice, a pile of knitting in her lap, her umbrella leaning against the chair beside her. Amy drops her eyes. Steve should have had some return of function by now. She feels ashamed, even if she shouldn’t.
She looks up at Steve’s forehead and sweeps the magic detector over it once more. The device beeps with such intensity it’s almost a constant whine. Pulling it away, she bites her lip. The frontal lobe of the brain sits behind the forehead. Among other things, the frontal lobe is responsible for planning, reasoning, and problem solving. In humans, the frontal lobe is comparatively big.
She looks at Fenrir. Fenrir looks up at her, pants, wiggles her body, and wags her stump of a tail. In dogs, the frontal lobe is much smaller. Amy’s dog chases cars and eats dead things that other dogs pass up. Fenrir’s frontal lobe might be small even by canine standards.
“Your brain was already magically wired when you had your injury,” Amy says, not looking at Nari because looking at Nari makes her stomach do funny things. He resembles nothing so much as Loki’s better-looking brother. “Steve’s brain wasn’t.”
“What are you getting at?” asks Nari.
“Maybe it’s the complexity of Steve’s brain that’s slowing things down,” Amy says. “The magic matter isn’t just working on his injury; it’s rewiring his mind. In Fenrir it wasn’t an issue because … well, there’s not that much in there to be rewired.”
As if agreeing with her, Fenrir gives a happy bark and wags her body.
Nari looks down at the dog. “She did try to eat that used gauze earlier.”
Amy winces. Fenrir didn’t try to eat it so much as swallow the two foot spool of filthy used bandage whole. If Amy hadn’t induced vomiting it would have been another trip to the vet emergency clinic for sure.
Fenrir barks and goes to the door. “Speaking of the little monster,” says Beatrice, putting her knitting down.
Amy looks between Steve and her dog. Amy took a shower earlier, and she’s wearing some clean clothes that ADUO agents acquired for her; but she hasn’t left the hospital, or even this floor, since the troll invasion. She’d like to take Fenrir out, just to go outside. Sigyn is fairly confident that if Amy stays close to the hospital and keeps a magical guard, Odin’s unlikely to try another abduction ... at least for a while.
She looks at Steve and bites her lip. The thought of leaving makes her feel negligent.
As if reading her thoughts, Henry says, “Dr. Lewis, why don’t you go. Being here isn’t going to speed anything up, and you need a break.”
She looks toward the old man. Tucking the book under his arm, Henry puts his hands on the armrests of his chair and pushes himself up. Amy sees him wince a little. He walks toward her, massaging his fingers. The subtle signs of chronic pain make Amy’s heart fall, and yet she knows pain isn’t the thing most on Henry’s mind. He hasn’t left the room either. The only reason Ruth has left is to look after Claire. She’s down in the lobby with her now, Sigyn with them.
Amy looks at Steve and suddenly finds herself drawn into one of Loki’s memories. Helen, Loki’s half-blue daughter, was dying on Loki’s lap in Niflheim. On the periphery of Loki’s vision mist swirled. There were monsters in the mist, but all of Loki’s attention was on his daughter. The side of her that was pale and human hued was covered with lesions. The side of her that was blue was unmarred. Her eyes were closed to nearly slits and she was not looking at him, but her fingers were wrapp
ed around his. Her magic was dimming and Loki wished more than anything in the Nine Realms that they could switch places.
Amy blinks away the memory before tears have a chance to build. Her own parents tend to contact her when they need something. Loki probably didn’t have much in common with the upright Henry, or the tender Ruth, but at least in love and devotion to his children, he was the same.
“Go,” Henry says. It’s not a suggestion. And it strikes Amy that maybe he wants some time alone with his son. Loki never cried about Helen’s death when he returned to Asgard. Not in front of anyone. On Niflheim he wept until his eyes were dry.
Putting the magic detector on the nightstand, she backs away. “Okay.”
“I’ll come with you,” says Beatrice, setting aside her knitting.
“As will I,” says Nari, looking straight at Amy. Amy does her best not to look back.
The three are just at the door of Steve’s room when Nari says, “My scabbard, I forgot it!” Without waiting for a response he turns and goes back into the room. The magic scabbard is the same one that a not-so-mythical Arthur used to hold Excalibur. As long as he wears it, Nari cannot be injured, but it has a low-grade ambient magic. Although it normally doesn’t set off magic detectors when not in use, Nari had slipped it off just to be certain it didn’t influence Amy’s magic readings.
As Beatrice and Amy wait in the hallway, her grandmother wags her eyebrows and smiles. Dropping her voice to a whisper, Beatrice says, “He likes you.” Giving Amy a nudge with her elbow, she adds, “And he saved your life in the cave!”
Amy flushes, remembering Nari’s body draped over hers. Excalibur’s scabbard had protected him from harm; it wasn’t like Loki jumping through the In Between to rescue her from the fire, or Bohdi refusing to leave her in the spider nest. She looks down at her shoes. Still, he had thought of her. She shakes her head, “Romance isn’t what I need, right now.”
“Or it might be exactly what you need,” Beatrice says brightly.
Amy’s gaze flashes in her grandmother’s direction.
Beatrice tilts her head. “He’s a nice boy, who is nice looking, and nice to you. Is that really so bad?”
“He’s not a boy, Grandma,” Amy whispers.
Beatrice raises an eyebrow. “But is he nice?”
Amy feels her shoulders go slack. Despite his readiness to surrender earlier, Nari isn’t really a coward. His courage is just more intellectual than physical. In his life, Nari has been more than nice, he’s been brave enough to stand up to Odin himself.
x x x x
At Odin’s right hand, Loki sits at the long feasting table swirling his mead. Thor sits at Odin’s left. Around them the hall rumbles with the shouts and cheers of warriors. There are the upright Einherjar, and uptight Valkyries—Sigyn now among them. Asgard’s own native warriors dot the room—Loki’s eyes drift down the table to where Valli is sitting. As usual, his brave and reckless son is flanked by the brashest and most foolhardy of the Valkyries. Nari is also in attendance. His more thoughtful, but cowardly, son has managed to convince Hisbernia, Idunn’s daughter, to attend the rowdy feast with him.
In attendance are also Vanir, Frost Giants, elves, and even a few dwarves. They are the remainder of the foreign forces that helped Asgard beat back the Fire Giants ten years ago. They are the same undisciplined, ungrateful foreigners who pushed Odin to reinstate War Rites. They are the loudest, most unruly revelers in attendance. Loki despises them like he despises fire lice.
Normally, he’d despise playing Odin’s lackey, too. But ... his eyes drift back to Nari and Hisbernia Things being what they are, he’s actually glad he came. He lets an invisible double of himself slip toward the couple. The double is almost in earshot when Odin slaps a hand on Loki’s back, spoiling his concentration. “I smell magic. Who are you spying on, Trickster?”
Loki stews under the hand, gaze still on his quarry. Too late he realizes his gaze has given him away. “You are spying on Nari and his woman!” Odin declares. He snorts. “You’re just like a woman, Loki, interested in your children’s latest romantic foibles.”
Leaning around his father, Thor says brightly, “I see them, Loki. A good match!”
Withdrawing his hand from Loki’s shoulder, Odin sits back in his chair and grumbles. “You’re both women!” With that he tips back his mead.
Ignoring his father, Thor says excitedly, “Hisbernia is certainly clever enough for your Nari.”
Loki looks down the table at the daughter of Idunn. Idunn is an elf. Despite being only half elf, Hisbernia is the spitting image of her mother, her ears are pointed, and her frame is delicate. Once long ago, Loki had an affair with Idunn. He scratches his head. Actually, maybe it had been Hisbernia he’d slept with, he can’t remember … and they look so alike. Hisbernia works in the orchards of her mother, and by all accounts, is as talented at growing and caring for the immortality-bestowing apples. She is a suitable match for Nari. Witty, charming, and one of the few in Asgard who actually does something rather than simply living off the stipend Odin doles out from the tolls collected at Asgard’s World Gates.
A meaty hand hits his shoulder with such force Loki nearly falls off his chair. His head whips in Thor’s direction. Thor has an upraised fist hovering in the air. Though aimed at Loki, the fist hovers in front of Odin’s nose. The Allfather rolls his eyes.
Brow furrowed, skin a shade darker than usual, Thor says to Loki, “Of course, if you’re a grandfather before me I will be furious.”
Loki draws his head back. “You have hundreds of grandchildren.”
Sighing, Thor drops his fist. “Yes, well, they’re all human. They die so quickly. I wish Magi or Modi would get to it.”
Magi and Modi are Thor’s illegitimate sons by Jarnsaxa, a Frost Giantess ruling over a small kingdom in Jotunheim. Thor has proposed to her on several occasions, but she always says no. Loki is not sure why; he’s heard her declare her love to Thor and sensed no lie.
Thor gazes mournfully into his cup. Loki’s not sure if the big oaf’s thinking about his rejected proposals, his lack of magical grandchildren, or the passing of his human descendants. But Loki is sure it’s his duty to distract Thor—after all, what are friends for? And there is the delightful business with Pru, Thor’s daughter by his ex-wife Sif. “There’s always Pru and that dwarf she fancies,” Loki says with his most charming leer.
Loki feels a charge of electricity sizzle in the air. Thor’s face goes bright red. “Why, you little—”
A mug of mead crashes into the wall behind the Allfather’s head, interrupting what was bound to have been an epic tirade. Thor, Loki, and Odin all turn to look at the source. A group of Vanir “warriors” are shoving each other and shouting, oblivious to their grave faux pas.
With a grunt, Odin grabs Gungnir, his magical spear, and raps the ground. “Enough!” The hall goes quiet. The guilty parties pause their fighting, turn, bow their heads, sink to their knees and weakly thump their right hands over their hearts. The Allfather says nothing for a few long minutes, and the hush in the hall begins to take on physical weight. Rapping the spear one more time, Odin says, “You may be seated.”
The men sit down hurriedly. The hush turns to an ambient whisper, the whisper to a low din, and then the shouting resumes again.
Loki prepares to speak his mind when Thor does it for him. “Father, why do you tolerate such lack of discipline? These men are brigands, not warriors. Throw the lot of them out!”
Eyes still on the men who threw the mead, Odin says, “I’d rather keep my eye on the disorder this rabble raises than have other, wiser men use the rabble to rise against me.” Leaning back in his seat, Odin says, “Besides, I will have use for them.”
As if on cue, someone in the hall shouts, “May the Merchant Dwarves rise against their masters so that we have cause to kill them all!” Cheers go up around the room.
Across the room, Sigyn turns to Loki and locks eyes with him. She’s urged Loki to convince Odin to ignore th
e Merchant Dwarf uprising. Loki has tried—to no avail. She says the trouble is that he doesn’t really believe in the cause of the Merchant Dwarves. Which is true. Loki could give a damn about their desire for self-rule; but he does care about his sons, and Sigyn and would rather they not be caught up in a military scuffle.
“May they rise so I have an excuse to thin the ranks of those idiots,” Odin grumbles.
“Father,” says Thor, “I realize the Merchant Dwarves are too weak militarily to pose a real threat—but don’t send these men. Sent in your name they become the face of Asgard. Send the Einherjar, the Valkyrie ...”
“They’re needed elsewhere, and too valuable to be wasted on petty squabbles,” Odin says.
“Father … ” says Thor, his voice low, hands slipping to his hammer. For just a moment Loki feels the prickle of electricity in the air again. His heart skips a beat, a showdown between father and son? No, Thor would never …
Odin waves a hand in Thor’s direction. “Oh, don’t fret. I’ll send a few Valkyries and Einherjar to insure the job is done right.”
A movement down the table catches Loki’s eyes. He turns to see Nari and Hisbernia rising but making no move to leave the room. Instead they stand together, facing the seated guests. Loki’s heart skips a beat, this time in joy. Are they going to publicly announce a betrothal? Nari’s never seemed much interested in such things, but maybe there was a happy accident?
Nari’s voice rings clear and true across the din, hushing the room instantly, a trick of Nari’s particular glamour. “Why go to battle with the Merchant Dwarves at all?”
Loki deflates. He looks to Sigyn, expecting to see a similar look of disappointment. Instead she is holding her chin high, pride shining in her eyes.
Nari’s voice rises again. “They merely want their freedom from the tyranny of the Red and Black Dwarf kings!”
Loki leans back in his chair. The dwarf kings are rather a horrible, venal bunch. Maybe it is because the true wealth of their realm lies with the merchants and craft guilds and they are jealous. Maybe it is because they are horribly inbred and stupid. But they tax their people cruelly and insist on ridiculous rules—they don’t allow anyone outside of the nobility to wear colors, dress in silks or cottons, and the lords and ladies have the right to arbitrarily declare goods, services, and lay people as property of the crown. If they bothered to run the realm well, it might be forgiven. But certain segments of the Merchant Class, forced by the nobility into enormous ghettos, have had to learn to govern themselves. Sadly for the dwarf nobility, and inconveniently for peace in Loki’s marriage, they’d discovered they prefer self-rule.