On a silver dais, blue curtains were pulled aside with finely worked silver twine to reveal the high table. Thirteen tables total. A very bad number, especially paired with sixes. Above this table was a mural of a one-eyed man slaying baleful-eyed giants. This was framed by a silver serpent forming a circle, eating its tail. Jormungandr, the legendary sea wyrm.
The large man sitting at the head of the head table looked exactly like the one fighting the giants in the painting. He could only be Woden, with his flowing, white-blond beard—the exact shade as Freya’s—its length ending somewhere under the table. His one eye appeared to focus on everything and nothing all at once. Leaning against his towering Frost Throne—a throne made entirely of silver ice, carved dragons frozen in perpetual stances of battle—was his spear, Gungnir, its tip glinting in the torchlight. It glowed as Freya’s trident did, but this spear was not made of pearl and abalone, but ice.
He thought Freya would hate this place; she was always cold. Why would she ever want the Frost Throne? Especially if she sat in it wearing that short armor… Siegfried groaned at the thought, her round ass, barely covered as it rested upon the throne, that round ass he so loved to spank.
“Ho, Balder, you return from the mortal realm,” Woden bellowed, rising to point his spear at him. A grin lit his face, warming it to something almost human when it had seemed as granite before. Woden’s face betrayed none of the emotions Freya’s did, but the smile on his face was becoming very familiar. He realized then that Woden had been bored until they arrived.
And Woden was wearing a loincloth of long white fur, a thick silver belt clasping it beneath muscled abdominals. A brown fur cape was clasped over his shoulder, the silver medallion pinning it shaped like Jormungandr.
“I am here, Father,” Balder called, waving. “And I’ve brought friends.”
“Hedwig. I approve.” He winked his one eye at his son. “I worried you’d taken up sewing when you went to assist Freya. Glad to see you accompanying my son, Sea Witch. Surprised you came. Bet you’ll never make another bet with Hecate.”
“It isn’t like that with Hedwig and I,” Balder said, blushing.
“Balder’s a virgin,” Hedwig whispered to Siegfried. “He saw me naked once and he fainted.”
They neared the high table, past the rows of beautiful yet strange creatures, most with some sort of animal feature, be it donkey ears or frog legs.
“Is this faun one of your lovers or Hedwig’s?” another man asked from Woden’s left as Balder took the seat on his right. The man had long hair of a brilliant, unnatural red that sifted over his shoulders to fall somewhere below the table. His eyes were black, and his lips twisted in a sneer, a sharp contrast to the tight purple tunic he wore, trimmed with orange and pink fur. What kind of creature did that come from?
“This is Siegfried the Fox, Father, Loki,” Balder said. “He’s been with us in the Rhinelands.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Woden asked. “He doesn’t look like a fox. Doesn’t even have a tail or red hair. Besides, he’s part stag.” He turned to a human woman dressed in a metal bustier and a brown leather skirt that barely covered her ass. A servant or a slave? “Fetch the faun some wine. Ah, Fig-Reed, do you have any preference?” He scratched his head. “What kind of name is Fig-Reed?”
“A dry red,” Siegfried said.
“Never heard of a dry red called Fig-Reed,” Woden said, but the woman had gone already to fetch the wine. There were other human women in similar attire attending to the many guests. Siegfried noticed for the first time that the fey women, scattered amongst the men at the tables throughout the hall, wore tight-fitting, low-cut garments of bright fish scales, like what Hedwig wore most of the time. They were wearing similar shoes to Hedwig’s as well, complete with coral heels. A few had painted their faces with the Marks.
As the talk turned to pleasantries, Siegfried was torn between studying Loki and the man across from Woden at the other end of the table. The other man was wearing a cape that was near blinding. It seemed to be made of gold threads that matched the yellow of his hair. His eyes were a bright blue, his teeth a perfect white. He wore a white tunic, a black eye in the center of a sun over his heart. A gold diadem with diamonds glittered on his brow. In the center was the sun symbol again, only made with onyx. Lugh Lamfada, the Long Arm, Ard Righ. He seemed to watch the conversation as well.
“Why are you all still hanging about in the Wine-Lands?” Woden asked. “Nothing there but a river and huts and those Greeks.”
“Romans,” Siegfried said.
“Whatever. Can’t tell the bloody difference. So what are you doing there? Oh, whatever.” Woden waved off Balder before he could answer. “Now, introductions.” He pointed to the man opposite him. “This is Lugh Lamfada, the Ard Righ. At Lugh’s left is Nuada Airgetlam, Warden of Summer Isle.” Airgetlam was a black-haired elf with silver eyes and a silver circlet, bearing the Ard Righ’s sigil. At least, Siegfried assumed he was an elf, considering he had long, pointed ears. He also remembered Nuada Airgetlam as the author of many of the texts he had been given to read. “At his right is Aillen MacMidhna, Administrator of the Ard Righ’s Justice.”
Aillen MacMidhna was leering at Hedwig, who was purposely not looking in his direction. Siegfried did not blame her. MacMidhna looked as if he had not washed his hair in ages. It hung around his face in black, greasy black strands. His face was sharp and gaunt, giving him the appearance of a frilled lizard, given the white collar he wore. Below the white collar was a loose tunic with green and orange zigzags.
“White wine for Hedwig,” MacMidhna called, winking at the Sea Witch, a gesture that made him look like he had a lash stuck in his eye, or perhaps some sort of facial tic.
“No, not from him,” Hedwig said and MacMidhna’s face turned red. “Alien, get away. Loki would have better luck than you. Perhaps you ought to follow his lead and swive most of the animals in the Otherworld.”
“The Trickster comes!” Woden and Nuada said, raising their tankards of mead. “Lock up your cattle!” When Nuada lifted his tankard, Siegfried realized the man’s hand was solid silver, yet it could move. Enchanted metal?
Loki sighed. “At least I keep my options open. They call them bed furs for a reason.”
“Though it is always a pleasure to come to Asgard to partake of your fine food and listen to Balder’s unparalleled skills, I’m afraid I am here on business,” Lugh said.
“What business and why does it make you afraid?” Woden asked. “I was looking forward to challenging you in hnefatafl. I will beat you this time. It will be wholesale slaughter at my hands. I shall send you home weeping. Then you shall know true fear.” He laughed, a booming sound. “All shall know of Lugh’s unprecedented annihilation at my hands.” This was too much like Freya, so much that Siegfried wanted to quit the place.
“They wish to talk about Freya,” Loki said, casting an irritated glance at his brother. “The woman has been accused of murdering her parents, her human parents.”
“Uh, Loki, you’ve been accused of a lot worse,” Hedwig said. “If we mentioned all that, this stupid dinner would last forever, because it’d take eons before anyone had an appetite again.”
“You’re so refreshingly blunt, Hedwig,” Lugh said with a smile. “The deaths of mortals are hardly my concern. There is a bit of an uproar—”
“Haha, a pun,” Woden said. “I see what you did there. Uproar.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Let it be known, that on this day, it was discovered that our sober Ard Righ does have a sense of humor.”
Lugh did not appear amused, but the rest of the hall laughed. Most men would not dare such with a man of Lugh’s power. Woden, it seemed, was an exception, able to get away with whatever he dared. So, Woden was some sort of threat to Lugh’s power, because Lugh was treading carefully.
“What our Ard Righ is saying is that your daughter roared,” Nuada Airgetlam said. “The Romans simply seek to impose law on lawless lands. All the bett
er for the people who are too foolish to govern their own lives. She has a problem with rules.”
“The tribes do have laws and they’ve managed to survive for quite some time without Roman intervention,” Siegfried said. “You cannot claim that other lives are owed to the empire.”
Nuada Airgetlam tapped a silver finger against his goblet, as if he wanted to draw attention to his hand. “I might be worried she’ll try for Asgard’s crown next. Hecate’s daughter…Oblivion…I’d be wary.”
“Leaf Clan of the elves?” Balder sat his lyre on his lap, his left arm securing it. With his other, he held the tankard of mead Siegfried hadn’t seen him touch.
“Yes, one of the proud, yet unworthy followers of the unicorns,” Nuada said, bowing his head. “You’d do well, Woden, to forge an alliance with He Whose Mane Tames the Wind. You’ll need the unicorns if Freya finds out how to use Oblivion magic. The Lord of the Unicorns would be your best ally. He has to know of Freya by now. He might deign to grant you an audience if you made your problems known.”
Siegfried remembered He Whose Mane Tames the Winds mentioned several times throughout the texts he’d been given, though there had not been all that much information about him. He was a mysterious creature, weaving in and out of the tales when it suited him. If Enbarr balked at offering audiences to those of Woden’s stature, Siegfried wondered what it meant that Enbarr had allowed him to ride him. It had been unwise of him to dismiss Enbarr’s importance.
“Hecate has been…more than problematic.” Lugh frowned. “She could be dangerous, though her long existence has, perhaps, finally tamed her. Beasts know no laws, Woden, Hedwig. Nor do they want them. The possibility of another Beast wielding Oblivion could be disastrous. Is Freya a Beast?”
Woden shrugged. “I don’t know what her powers are. You worry overmuch. She was raised by mortals.”
“I know Balor was your friend, Woden.” Nuada cleared his throat and gave Woden a grave look. “But even you realize they were on the wrong side. Otherwise, you would have joined Balor.”
“Asgard remained neutral, if you remember,” Woden said. “If there are two Beasts and they are friends, it is not surprising they would fight together, along with other Beasts. The Fomori had their own kingdom then. I have no interest in wearisome politics. Remember, Freya is not Balor’s daughter. She is mine. While you may still bear a grudge against Hecate, I have done naught against you. Methinks you should be grateful that I spared you Asgard’s frosty wrath.”
“Freya is a swan,” Balder said. “Just a swan.”
“As Ard Righ,” Lugh said, “it is my responsibility to ensure my people feel safe. Something might need to be done.” They knew nothing of Freya and were willing to…to what? Bash her skull in, as Hecate had said? Siegfried tensed, setting his goblet down eight times. He’d listen before he spoke again.
“You would do well to remember that I did not try to become Ard Righ myself.” Woden’s single eye flashed with a silver light. He then turned to Siegfried, “Freya is one of the Aesir, a proud citizen of Asgard. Fomori or not.”
“Don’t worry so, Woden,” Lugh said. “I haven’t come to suggest sending Freya to Summer Isle. I want to suggest a match. It would ease hearts if Freya were wed to Airgetlam.”
“I don’t worry. It is much easier to crush things before they cause me worry, as a man should.” Woden’s words surprised Siegfried, but not as much as they had before the revelation that Woden could have easily been a contender to become Ard Righ.
Siegfried set his wine down, then set it down again seven more times. Woden gave him a speculative glance, then shook his head. No, there could be no match for Freya. Siegfried had promised her he’d do his best to protect her.
“I’ve heard Freya is beautiful,” Airgetlam said. “If she is gently bred and biddable, it would forge a powerful alliance between you and the Ard Righ.” Now that Siegfried had seen Freya, the real one, he shuddered at the thought of her with a warden. “It is better than putting her in one of the prison cells. I would care for her well.”
“Nuada,” Loki said, “the problem is someone managed to put the Marks on Freya’s face.”
Nuada dropped his wine. “She’s disfigured? Lugh, if she is marked with those—”
“Then I should be seeing to her,” MacMidhna spoke up. His frilled, white collar trembled with the virbations of his Adam’s apple. “I’ll gladly take Freya. She cannot wed if she’s been Marked. Unless, Lugh, you’d make an exception for Woden’s daughter.”
“He’s just as virginal as Balder,” Hedwig whispered to Siegfried, side-eyeing MacMidhna. “Not that that’s a surprise that there is not such a thing as ‘drunk enough’ when it comes to sleeping with that.”
“None of you seem to realize the other problem,” Loki said calmly. “Beast or not, Marked or not, Freya is in love with Siegfried the Fox.” He gestured at Siegfried.
“A faun?” Woden bellowed at the same time Airgetlam said, “A pirate?”
“How did you even come to be involved with this, faun?” Woden demanded.
Balder and Hedwig gave an explanation with several interruptions.
As soon as he was able, Siegfried cut in. “Freya is not in love with me. Circumstances forced an alliance, a friendship between the two of us. Tell me, Loki, how is it you know this very recent information?”
Loki tipped his head back and laughed. “Years-old information is hardly recent, at least it shouldn’t be to a human. The daughter of a Beast backing Rome? You show your ignorance, my lusty faun. You’re rather disappointing as the Fox.” He traced his finger around the rim of his wine goblet. “A simple puzzle, really, that you could have figured out without searching her chamber. How easy would it be for the princess to steal keys, bat her lashes at the warriors, and free those prisoners? How easy would it be for no one to suspect vain Freya would go skulking through the dungeons at night? As Balder said, Freya is a swan. But more than that, she is Swan.”
Loki watched Siegfried’s face as he considered what the Trickster had just said. Freya had been so eager to come to him, in so many ways. All that silence at first, the nervous squeals, they had been squeals of excitement? She’d asked him whether or not he wanted her to remove his toga with her teeth, the way she washed his feet had been almost reverent. She’d been so fervent about pledging herself to no one but Siegfried. She’d bowed before him, prostrated herself in willing submission. But was Loki a reliable source? He didn’t think so. He looked to Balder and Hedwig.
Balder sighed and Hedwig whispered, “You’re just realizing this now? Really?”
Could Swan really be Freya? The details on the wedding she’d sent him had been detailed, to say the least, and almost always spotted with vegetable stew. But Swan had been surefooted. Shoes, it was the damned shoes. He thought back to Swan’s garb with the high slits, exposing her thighs. Hedwig had been around that night, no doubt encouraging the princess to wear something more revealing and providing her with shoes she could comfortably wear.
“Ah, Siegfried, ever the one not to trust,” Loki said. “Didn’t want to see what was so obvious, did you? Not even the warriors that had to be scraped off the ground at Vercingetorix’s camp. Oh, have the rest of you seen Freya’s pretty little power? Not the incinerating of people with lighting, the other one.” Siegfried tensed until Loki clarified. “The one that makes men’s veins explode? It happens when she’s upset. Almost killed General Pompey by accident.”
“Loki, how did you come upon this information?” Lugh asked, the gold rim of his goblet thudding against the food-laden table. Siegfried was thankful the Ard Righ had asked. Mayhap Woden would pay attention now. When Loki described the Blood Call, a huge grin had spread across Woden’s face.
“An uncle should watch over his niece,” Loki said. “Come now, Hecate had Balder watching over her. My shapeshift forms aren’t as ostentatious, if I don’t want them to be. Who is going to notice a small spider or a fly? Don’t feel badly, Siegfried. I know more about Fr
eya than her own father does. But she does loathe when an insect lands in her hair. And if any of you suspect I have something to do with this, I would not have had my niece Marked. Not unless I were certain I was going to have her allegiance.”
Siegfried wasn’t breathing. He took eight sips of his wine. Why hadn’t he seen how eager she’d been? How quick she’d trusted him? How staunchly she’d defended him? Because he didn’t want to. What must she have thought when her “hero” made her do all those things? She had admired him enough that refusal of whatever he had asked was not possible.
“By gods.” Woden rose. “I do not know if I want to kill or celebrate. Perhaps I shall have mead and do both.” He tipped back a horn of mead. “My daughter, the fruit of Asgard’s mighty loins, turns her enemies into piles of blood and bone. My seed rains glorious carnage upon the cowardly of the earth. But who has shamed my illustrious progeny with the Marks of the Condemned? I remained neutral for a reason, and yet the Great War finds its way into my hall over a thousand years later! The skies shall rain blood and ice with Asgard’s wrath. The yellow shall quake and piss themselves. My daughter, my flesh and blood can explode people.”
“The problem now is what happens to Freya,” Lugh said, showing none of Woden’s excitement on his serene features. “She roars and has no rights. She has one sennight to be claimed. Less than, perhaps. I assume she is ignorant of this.”
“Asgard will not enforce those laws,” Woden said.
“She cannot be your heir with the Marks.” MacMidhna leaned forward eagerly, the frill around his neck dipping into the gravy covering the chunk of boar on his plate. “I would care for her, and she’d want for nothing. I will dissuade her from this infatuation with Siegfried—for all we know another Balor—and claim her as mine.”
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