Marina waited, her hand gripping his upper arm, until he took a bracing breath, straightened, and nodded slightly.
“I can make it across the hallway, I think,” he said. “I’ll be fine until there’s more of that draught.”
“Are you sure?” Marina pressed.
Loki glanced down at her, smiling crookedly.
“Admit it, Twig,” he said quietly. “You’re just a little fond of me.”
Marina lifted her head.
“No,” she said. “I don’t like you at all.”
Loki winked at her, touched the back of her hand lightly with the fingertips of his wounded hand, then moved carefully through the door and out of the kitchen. Marina stayed just where she was, listening. But no violent sounds of falling or tripping greeted her, and so she finally relaxed her shoulders, and turned to face the cabinet.
“Bestemor? I need your help, please.”
They stayed put for three more days. On the night of the first day, it began to snow, and poured so steadily that soon it had covered the lower windows of the house. Loki spent most of his time lying before the fire, sleeping or drowsily reading books. Marina straightened the clutter that had been caused by their sudden flight, replacing all the fallen books onto their shelves, putting the furniture in order—although some had been badly broken—and wiping the dried blood off the doorframes and the floor. The two of them ate cold things from the larder, or Marina occasionally made a nail soup of her own. Loki always ate everything she brought him, without a single complaint.
In the evenings, they challenged each other with riddles, and told stories. Marina recited several of Grimm’s fairytales to him, and other folk tales that she knew. Loki enjoyed Rapunzel and Beauty and the Beast, but decided his favorite was The Peasant’s Clever Daughter. In turn, Loki entertained her with fantastic tales of elves, dwarves, sprites and spells unlike any she had ever heard. As he spoke, gesturing precisely and delicately with his good hand, the firelight caught in his hair like embers, turning his locks chestnut and amber, and his eyes gleamed with a bright green—like a spring morning. The flow and ebb of his words transported Marina to deep and ancient lands—she could smell the must of the bogland, feel the cold wind gust across the moors; hear the haunting, wild songs of the elves as they perched around the flickering fires in the woods, plucking lute strings and eating grapes, nuts and flower petals…
Finally, on the third day, Marina got dressed and came downstairs to find Loki wearing his travel clothes, standing near the door.
“Are we leaving?” she asked, hesitating. He nodded, then gestured toward the door.
“The snow’s stopped. You go and eat breakfast—I’m going to dig us out.” He grasped the latch, tugged the door open—
To reveal a solid wall of snow.
“Hm,” Marina snorted, covering her smile.
Loki sighed briefly, then brought his hands up, rubbed them together and breathed into them. He then flicked his fingers, and blue sparks darted out, and bit into the snow. As Marina watched, the balls of lights pushed into the ice, creating holes that widened every second. Loki glanced back at her.
“This will take a moment,” he reminded her. “But once I’m finished, we’ll need to be off.”
She nodded, still hiding a grin, went into the larder, and found some bread and cheese for herself.
After she had eaten, she dressed for the cold, and found the doorway clear—the snow formed a kind of steep ramp up and out of the house. She started to step through—
“Wait, wait,” Loki called from above, then skidded down the short hill and onto to the threshold. He brushed snow out of his hair, then pulled off his glove. “Here. We’ll lose you otherwise.” He snapped his fingers, and tapped her forehead.
Instantly, she felt herself lighten, her feet barely dusting the rug.
“Come on,” Loki urged, turned and hopped up the ramp. Marina followed, skating on the top of the snow and grinning stupidly—until she saw Loki watching her, and she buried her smile again.
She lifted her face and took deep breaths of the bright, frosty air, enjoying the feel of the sun flashing through the white treetops—she felt like she hadn’t seen it in ages. Absently, she noticed the sounds of Loki’s hands striking together as he folded up the house, and the next moment, when she turned, she found the house vanished, as if it had never been there. Loki flicked his wrist and his walking stick leaped into being, slapping into his palm. He pulled his gloves back on, then nodded to her.
“Shall we?”
Two more days, they hiked up the ever-steepening, snow-locked hill, weaving between massive, shrouded boulders, picking across ice-choked streams, avoiding the piles of huge branches that had broken beneath the massive weight of the sudden winter. They kept quiet as they traveled, the deathly stillness waiting like a listening ear all around them, threatening to carry their voices far through the valleys, and either return with an avalanche, or an enemy.
In the evenings, they maintained their ritual of riddling and tale-telling, eating their meals by the fireside. Bestemor often lingered in the wall as well, smiling to herself, quietly humming, and sometimes inserting a comment that would startle both Marina and Loki, especially if they had been deeply listening to each other.
The first day of hiking, Loki strode more slowly than he had before, and Marina kept a wary eye upon him, walking close behind him in case she needed to catch his arm. The next two days, however, he improved, and much of his color returned. Marina became quite glad of it, for she soon had no energy to expend on looking after him—the air was getting very thin.
And then, suddenly, they reached it.
“Wait…” Marina gasped, stopping next to a large outcropping of snow-piled rocks, which Loki had passed.
“What?” he asked softly, coming back to her, his feet almost soundless. Marina narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun on the snow, and bit her lip. She tilted her head, trying to remember…
And a deep jerk tugged on the center of her forehead.
“Oh!” she slapped a hand to her head as she took three involuntary steps forward. Loki grabbed her right arm.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“I…” She swallowed, staring straight at the rocks. “I think it’s here.”
“What? It’s…It’s solid rock,” Loki said, assessing it.
That jerk came again, making Marina lunge clumsily forward. Loki almost slipped in an effort to keep hold of her.
“I…I don’t know why I keep…” Marina tried, her pulse skyrocketing.
“It’s a spell…” Loki breathed—
And the next second, Marina was yanked by a completely invisible force out of Loki’s grasp and straight at the rock—
And through it.
A painful throb of terror banged through her heart—
And she stumbled two steps onto a smooth, stone floor.
She clenched her fingers around her coat collar, fighting to regain her sense of balance, making her eyes focus…
The darkness shrank back. Ahead of her, in what looked to be a small, rough-hewn round room, a small wooden chest lay on the floor. Open.
And light poured from it.
Memories flashed back to her. Memories of that vision that had swelled through her mind. The golden gem deep in the mountain…
She started forward, her footsteps ringing in the small stone enclosure. Battling to catch her breath, to keep her head from spinning, she carefully knelt down on the cold floor in front of it…
And gazed down at a quarter-sized jewel that shone with all the facets of the summer sun. Heat radiated from its surface, touching her cheeks and nose. The swimming, glittering surface dazzled her eyes—and from deep within it, a soft noise seemed to breathe out…
Almost like voices…
Marina vacillated for a very long time, studying every feature and edge of that gem. She could feel power pulsing out from it, in an ancient language she couldn’t understand.
/> What would happen if she touched it?
She glanced behind her at the black wall through which she’d passed. Loki clearly couldn’t follow her. She gritted her teeth.
She had no choice.
She stretched out her hand, breathed a quick prayer, and picked it up.
Chapter Eighteen
Warm.
The stone felt warm in her fingers, even through her glove, and a strange sound seemed to ring through her head when she carefully turned it this way and that. A soft jingling.
Golden light flashed from inside it, reflecting into her eyes. Other than that, it kept its secrets.
Marina slowly stood up, cupping it in her palm. Then, she took a careful breath, and turned and faced the way she had come.
She couldn’t see the wall she had obviously come through—darkness hid it. Her stomach sank, and a chill passed over her. What if she couldn’t get out…?
She started toward it, biting her lip…
The light from the stone glanced up and out, suddenly showing her a solid rock wall.
Her mouth tightened. She put the stone in her bad hand, stretched out her good one, squeezed her eyes shut and pushed…
Fingers caught hers.
Jerked her hard.
She tumbled forward—
Blazing sunlight hit her face—she opened her eyes.
“Marina!”
She blinked, trying to refocus—
Loki bent close to her, his hair blazing with locks of gold, his earnest eyes a brilliant green. He let go of her hand and grabbed her hard by the shoulders, rapidly searching her face.
“Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Ha!” she exclaimed, looking around her to find herself on that same snowy path. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“I couldn’t get through!” Loki panted, his grip on her loosening but his gaze intensifying. “I tried everything I could think of, short of bringing the mountain down—” He stopped himself, brow furrowing. “What did you see?”
“I…I found it,” Marina breathed, and made herself uncurl the fingers of her bad hand as far as they would go, to let the sunlight fill the gem. It glittered and winked at him against the dark fabric of her glove.
Loki’s attention fixed on it—auburn rippled through his hair, deepening its tone. A penetrating, stricken, solemn blue overtook his eyes, catching the full brightness of the snow.
“What is that?” he whispered. Marina stood up straight.
“You don’t know?”
Loki, unblinking, leaned just an inch closer.
“I might have an idea,” he murmured. “But I’m not willing to try anything out here.” He glanced up and around, his eyes darkening to ocean blue, his hair to dark chestnut. “Come on. We’ll find a better place to put Festning.”
The rest of the day, they toiled part of the way back down the mountain, toward a thick forest that waited like a black curtain below them. As the light faded, they finally reached a set of towering boulders that loomed like goblins standing in a circle, all surrounded by very old pines. Wasting no time, Loki strode into the center of them, flicked the red sparks onto the snow, and Festning bloomed, leaning its back against one of the snow-draped gray stones. As soon as the knocker spat out, Loki pushed inside, and held the door open for Marina to follow.
She sighed as warmth washed over her, her fingers aching from holding the stone so tightly all day. She’d been so afraid of dropping it into the plunging snow…
The door shut noisily behind her, and Loki whipped off his coat and gloves, raked a hand through his hair, and then held out his hand.
“May I see?”
Marina looked up at him—all grave and pale again—and set the stone in his palm.
He jumped slightly at its touch, all sorts of colors sweeping through his hair before settling again on a deep brown. He then closed his fingers around the gem, turned and swept into the sitting room.
Marina quickly hung up her own winter things and followed him, wrapping her arms around herself and watching him closely. He neared the fireplace, his back to her. She approached his right side, peering at him, to see that he stood with his eyes closed, the gem pressed between both his palms. He pulled his hands up close to his face, his brow knotting. Then, slowly, he knelt on the rug in front of the blazing fire. Without quite knowing why, Marina knelt next to him.
Then, Loki opened his hand, and breathed three times onto the stone. Then, he whispered a single word.
“Syna.”
And he tossed the stone into the fire.
Marina gasped—
The fire cracked, spitting wildly and leaping up the chimney. It changed hue, deepening to an almost living, liquid, burning gold.
And then, Marina began to see shapes inside the flame.
They rose up, ghost-like at first, but gradually clarifying, taking on color and edges, until at last they stood within the hearth, fire sputtering around their feet, as real as life—only small.
A long, grand hallway, lined with pillars and decorated with hanging banners. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a white beard and long white hair, wearing majestic dress armor, a patch covering one eye, strode down the center of the corridor toward them.
Marina, hardly able to breathe, heard the thud of his footsteps against marble, the clinking of his armor…
It was Odin. It had to be Odin!
A young man darted out from a side corridor and drew up beside Odin’s right. It only took an instant for Marina to recognize him.
He wore a flawless, sleeveless white tunic and trousers, tied with a rope belt, his golden hair flowing around his shoulders, his handsome face tilted toward the king.
Bird. Bauldr.
She gasped, a painful stabbing sensation traveling all through her chest.
“Father,” Bauldr said, trotting to keep up with his long strides. “Why have you put Fljotur in the stable with the old horses going out to pasture?”
“Fljotur is not to be ridden,” Odin answered.
“But I need him!” Bauldr protested. “Thor, Loki and I are to go hunting this afternoon, and I wouldn’t consider taking another mount.”
“Fljotur is not to be ridden,” Odin answered, stopping and turning frankly toward his son. “Not until I give the word. Is that understood?”
Bauldr’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. And he did not follow his father as the king strode on.
The image blurred, and the next moment, the fire showed them Bauldr once more, pushing into the stable, glancing gingerly around, and then hurrying inside up to a magnificent cream-colored stallion.
“Father wants you for his own hunt tomorrow,” Bauldr muttered, pulling open the stall and slipping inside. The horse nickered at him, and rubbed his shoulder with his soft nose.
“He doesn’t want you to be tired because of me—but you’re my horse, not his.” Bauldr began taking blanket and saddle off the wall and draping them over Fljotur’s back. “You’re coming with me today, just like I promised, and you and I will give Loki and Thor a run for all their gold.”
The images swam together once more, and then solidified…
To reveal Bauldr standing beside an imposing fireplace, his face bruised, his right arm in a sling. And tears in his eyes.
Odin paced back and forth in front of him, his hands clenched behind his back.
“What did I tell you?” Odin bit out. “What were you not to do?”
Bauldr swallowed and did not speak. Odin stopped pacing and faced him.
“Answer me!”
“Ride Fljotur,” Bauldr choked.
“I said you shall not ride Fljotur!” Odin thundered. “Did you think that I was giving that command for my own amusement?”
Bauldr bit his lip and shook his head, tears brimming.
“I…I didn’t know he was injured…”
“Did you not trust me?” Odin shot back. “And do you know so little about your own animal that you cannot tell that he was already lame before you took him o
ut of the stable at break-neck speed? Did you care so little for him?”
Bauldr’s tears spilled down his cheeks.
“He was one of the finest stallions ever bred in Asgard, and now we have had to kill him,” Odin snapped. “You injured him so badly he would never have been able to stand again. And in the process, you nearly got yourself killed as well.” He gestured to Bauldr’s cast, while Bauldr hung his head.
“You shall not receive another horse,” Odin told him. “And you shall not go riding. Not until you are certain you will never disappoint me like this again.”
Bauldr said nothing, just let his tears drip from his chin.
“Go on, go to bed,” Odin sighed. Bauldr stood for just a moment, then turned and left the room.
Marina’s throat felt thick. She couldn’t speak as the images dissolved…
Replaced by Bauldr once more—but he looked different. He looked almost exactly the way she remembered him the night of the feast. He stood by a window in a large, dark room, gazing out, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze absent and sad.
Odin stepped slowly behind him, approached a small table and poured himself a goblet of mead.
“You caused a stir by bringing that Midgardian woman to the feast,” Odin remarked. “You really ought to break that habit, Bird. You risk Lady Nanna’s displeasure.”
Bauldr’s expression darkened.
“She knows the truth of my regard for her. She has never doubted it.”
“Perhaps, but her reputation suffers. And you are being inconsiderate to the Midgardian,” Odin countered. “Bringing their kind into Asgard, especially those who are not dying of a terrible disease, is cruel. Allowing them to stay without marriage is forbidden, and teasing this little girl with our realm, our feasts, the goodness of our life, and then sending her back there to that land of death and darkness is unkind. You must see that.”
“At this point in my life, I do nothing without reason, Father,” Bauldr murmured.
Odin paused, gazing at him, the moonlight from outside the window illuminating the myriad scars and wrinkles on his wizened face. He stepped up to his son’s side, his eye bright, his brow furrowing.
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