"The lines within your weaving where wheat and wood meet are undetectable. The added crystal brings luminosity and depth as if the figure lives."
"Is that all?"
"Isn't that enough?"
He shrugged. "I know you like my ability in song, but what about me?" There. He had said it.
"You?" Seretta's eyes widened as if considering him as a person for the first time.
And Rolf was sorry he asked.
She paused, her eyes flitting around the cavern as if she didn't want to look at him. "You're a fine young man, Rolf."
Young.
The silence between them erupted once more. He swallowed again, trying to moisten his throat.
She thinks I'm just a naïve boy, stupid enough to want to tell tales and sing jigs.
The songs from various citizens floated through the air around them, elongating the already awkward moment until Seretta broke their stalemate.
"Is she someone I know?" She gestured toward the figurine.
"Nei," said Rolf, staring down at the perfectly shaped farm-girl in his hands. "She’s nobody." Just a girl who loved my jokes and stories and possibly me for me. Ginna! That was that filly’s name. How could I ever forget? She was sweet, starry-eyed, curious, and eager…
"You could add a fertility rune to her, and the bearer would fall heavy with child upon her first try."
Rolf started. "Why in Valhalla would I do that?"
"For its usefulness."
"It's not about the practicality. Don't you do anything for the fun alone?"
Rolf placed his creation in his lap. He drummed his thumbs over the figure’s form as he spoke. "I’ve been thinking. Why do all songs need to be sung in the old tongue?" He grinned, flashing Seretta the most charming smile he could muster. "And, furthermore, why do they need to be so bloody serious? I’d like to do a jig, maybe. Something lively and upbeat!"
Seretta scrunched her brows over her green eyes. She might as well have settled her hands on her hips like a goodwife scolding a child. "Rolf Sigtriggson. Why is everything a jest with you?"
"I’m not joking. I was just thinking; we're always doing these slow, drawn-out songs. Sure, they are lovely, but a man can’t eat salted pork every day of his life."
A blank expression crossed her face. "I am not even sure what that means."
"I am just saying, wouldn’t it be nice to change it up a little?"
She stared at Rolf. Her features hardened. "Why in all of Alvenheim would we do that?"
Rolf shrugged. "For something different?"
"We’ve done it this way from time out of mind. It’s served us well. There’s nei need to change what works."
Seretta stood, huffed and returned to her own creation. She placed her willowy fingers over the crystal slate in front of her, focused on the piece and sang… in the old tongue… a slow, drawn-out melody.
She'll never understand me.
Rolf glanced all around him. Songvaris were everywhere—creating—some tunneling new caves, some adorning homes with "useful" functions, some creating lights, or rock-warmers for their beds. Some worked with crystal, while others weaved different materials. Still, some farmed, calling fruits and vegetables inside crystal houses kept warm year round by songvari ingenuity. Asheim was awe-inspiring, and yet a frown wore on Rolf’s face.
The only person that looked like he didn’t belong was a bear of a man who normally stood erect in the doorway to a home. Rolf had asked Seretta about him once, and she had replied that the man awaited the recovery of his lover, then dropped the subject—apparently talking about others was considered gossip among the citizens of Asheim and like joking, was frowned upon.
Rolf slumped. He missed his brother. Even if Erik scowled at his lays and warned him off bawdy songs, Rolf knew that his brother secretly liked them. No matter how beautiful Seretta was, or how perfectly they sang in harmony together, he missed telling jokes that people laughed at, and singing songs that made Andvarri’s ears turn red.
He chuckled to himself at the memories.
What was so wrong with making people happy?
"Well," Rolf said, interrupting Seretta’s "serious" song. He'd had about enough of this self-imposed somberness. After all, he was who he was, whether she'd accept him for that or not. "If jests are out, what about lays? I know you don’t believe in them and call them Scandian nonsense, but what’s the harm in telling stories? A good tale moves a man to dream, to think, and to go beyond our norm!"
"How goes young Rolf," came a mild voice from behind.
Why does everyone here refer to me as young?
Rolf puffed his chest and turned. Weyland approached, a mint leaf hanging from his lips. He turned the leaf with his tongue and rolled the herb into his mouth. Even though the sharp smell of the herb glanced the air, Rolf smelled a hint of rotted breath beneath the mint.
"I was just telling Seretta I wanted to try something new."
"Rolf…" warned Seretta.
Weyland stared expressionlessly at Rolf.
But the young man continued, "Mix it up a bit. What do you say?"
"Well, then," said Weyland. "We’re all free to do as we are called here. There are nei restraints on you like there would be elsewhere. Go ahead, young man, show me."
There he goes calling me young again.
"Rolf…" Seretta’s tone tinged with agitation.
Rolf swung his mantle over his shoulder and stood, reciting an ancient poem from the Heimskringla Saga—a very serious subject, using it as the basis for a dramatic, made-up melody.
"Unfettered will fare the Fenris Wolf
And fall on the fields of men…"
Weyland interrupted, "You’re quite fascinated with untruths aren’t you, young man? And obsessed with this nonsense of Loki’s son as a beast."
Rolf bristled. "It’s a humorless poem," he argued.
"Rolf, please—"
"Please what?" the young man turned on Seretta. "It’s not a jest. It’s a serious performance."
"We sing what is real, and the one thing that is real is the connection to the Mother and the creations we bring forth," insisted Weyland. Though the man’s voice remained level, his eyes flashed and for a moment, Rolf thought they glowed yellow.
A warning ran the length of Rolf's spine—though he didn't like Weyland, it was the first time he thought there might be something off about the man—but he pushed on anyway, determined to make his point. "Well, we could always spice it up a bit with lyrics of my own. I know some truths must be the same here as they were in my homeland."
Rolf swished his mantle a few times.
"There once was a maid,
From the ole’ River Rind,
Whose fresh ripe melons
Looked just like her be—"
"Rolf!" yelled Seretta.
"What?" asked Rolf, stopping in mid-phrase.
"I thought we discussed this." Redness flushed her face but not out of embarrassment. Out of anger.
Rolf continued anyway.
"She wasn’t fine,
A gap-toothed young lass,
But it didn’t matter,
If you stared at her a —"
"Rolf, please!" begged Seretta.
"Please what?"
"Desist with these bawdy jests!"
Weyland crossed his arms over his chest though his face remained expressionless. Seretta’s lips pressed together in a sour grimace and regardless of her beauty, her face twisted like an old nursemaid’s.
Nei. They are never going to accept all of me—just the songvari part. But that's not all that I am.
"You two are drawn tighter than a maiden's dress strings in the King of Birka's Hall."
Seretta gasped, covering her mouth.
Rolf rambled on, "Life is not all about usefulness. If a man,"—and he emphasized the word man with as much bravado as he could muster—"can’t show a little humor now and again, what’s the point of living?"
Then Rolf grabbed the figurine he’d been
working on and strutted away.
Chapter 26
Weyland watched the young man strut out of their view. Seretta helplessly lifted her shoulders, as if apologizing for Rolf’s bad behavior.
"Don’t mind the boy," Weyland assured her. "He’s young and has much to adjust to."
"I try to impress upon him the seriousness of song, but he just keeps up these awful jokes. They aren’t even humorous."
"Nei matter. Keep on with your work, and he’ll settle in sooner or later."
"I hope you’re right."
"You’ll see. In the end, everything will work out just fine."
Then Weyland turned away and allowed his façade to crumble. The boy made him angry. Not only that, but Weyland was tired of cajoling these foolish, self-important songvaris. He’d spent thousands of years pretending to be someone other than who he was; it exhausted him. Why did he let that boy’s silly lay upset him? He’d heard the Scandian version of the gods before. He knew what tales were told on cold Scandian nights about Loki and his abomination of a son, Fenrir. He knew that neither the Scandian myths, nor the Alven versions were the truth.
Only he knew the truth. A truth that would soon be known. A truth that had been squelched throughout the ages as the Alvens made up their own mythology to make themselves so much more important than anyone else. Just like the Guardian had done to his father ages and ages ago.
Weyland’s skin twitched for release. His flesh wriggled underneath his muscles, signaling he could not contain himself much longer. But he didn’t want to rush—rushing meant calling attention to himself, and he had one more job to do before he could seek release. He forced his feet to slow as if sauntering along as if he hadn’t a care in the worlds, and he pasted the fake smile back onto his face.
Regardless of what the boy said to the others, they wouldn’t believe in the tale. Weyland knew that neither Scandians nor Alvens realized there were both lies and truths in everything; if you looked hard enough you could find either. They were too foolish. Both races believed what they were told—what was passed down to them as if it were law. Even if the boy was determined to undermine his teachings with lays that actually contained bits of truth, not a soul would believe him.
Both Alvens and Scandians are too entrained to open to the possibility of being wrong in their beliefs.
Weyland strode through Asheim, waving at residents, smiling at those fools, looking for a moment of solitude where he could slide into the shadowwalk. He always had to be careful—if any one of them ever discovered he was a walker, discovered what he actually was, they’d never bend to his "suggestions" again, but ages of disguising himself left him more capable than any of these bothersome children.
Besides, over the ages, Weyland had learned to blend in—to not be noticed. It was a gift from his father—a final sacrifice to keep him safe—and he loved his father for the ability more than he could express. Besides, he knew it was better to be the one whispering in the ear of the leader than to be in command himself. Leaders came and went, but Weyland had been since the dawn of the ages.
And Weyland had whispered to these silly, hapless fools, positioning them since Aldr Skilja, when Loki had been locked away in his shadowy prison and held from the power that created Weyland so long ago.
Soon their time would come, and he would hide no more.
Weyland crossed into the gray-shifting landscape as soon as he escaped the songvaris, but he couldn't allow himself release. Not yet. He had one more duty to attend to—a duty that would clinch the final battle and bring them victory.
***
Weyland emerged in Scandia on the King of Upsalla's training field. The practicing soldiers started then dropped to their knees at his appearance. He normally wouldn't make such a flamboyant entry, but it amused him that Scandians thought he was a god—or at least the messenger of one.
"Rise," he said, waving with his hands for them to stand. His skin itched like a thousand beetles moved underneath his flesh. Patience, he told himself, but the desire for relief started to boil inside him. His thigh bone cracked, threatening to split. He bit down, pressing his teeth together to hold himself back, carefully making sure his outward appearance remained expressionless. He wouldn't betray himself—not to the Alvens or Scandians. Not to anyone.
A warrior scrambled upright, cleared his throat and approached Weyland with his hand over his chest. "Shall I notify the King of your arrival, Sire?"
"If you wish," replied Weyland.
The man tore off across the frozen meadow toward the gleaming tower of the Temple of Upsalla, the metal plates of his shoulder and breast armor clanking.
Weyland scrutinized the army. Thousands of war-ready men stood before him.
"Who is in command here?"
A well-muscled man wearing an iron helmet and double-edged sword strapped over his back stepped forward and bent to one knee. His eyes peered through the holes as he chanced a look at Weyland, making sure to keep his chin low. He wore a leather tunic painted with the usual triple horn emblem of Odin, but atop the highest horn sat a black raven.
"Nice addition," said Weyland.
"Sire?" asked the man, confused.
"The raven." Weyland waved toward the emblem.
"Ja, Sire. All the men have had it added to their armor. We are ready for the battle."
"Stand," commanded Weyland.
The man straightened as a retinue from the Temple approached. Flanked with warriors on each side, a severe featured man with a graying white beard that sprawled down to his belly and a golden crown atop his flat head approached. He tipped his chin at Weyland as he strode to his side.
"I hope you find that all is in order." His voice was thunderous and gravelly.
"You have but two days to annihilate the Women of the Way and position your army for the final battle."
"We are prepared. Our scouts report that the Lion Clan has not returned to the Sacred Groves yet. The women are short on protectors. We will move within the day, and they will be annihilated or contained before they realize we have descended upon them."
"And the Lion Clan?"
"Will be dealt with."
Weyland nodded. "We cannot have stragglers. Once we open the gate into the land of the gods for your army, we do not want any with ax or sword to protect Glitner."
"It will be as you say. We will honor our God with a swift and mighty conquest."
Satisfied, Weyland allowed himself to dissolve into the shadowwalk—back to the in-between world where he could finally seek release—as the King of Upsalla saluted him with his hand over his heart.
***
A moan released from Weyland's mouth as his form settled in the mist. He spat out the mint leaf tasting the fetidness of his own saliva.
Black smoke whirled in front of Weyland, morphing until a man’s figure appeared. The black-haired man reached out, smiling, waving his milk-white hand in a welcoming gesture.
Weyland stepped toward him, his desire to be near him overtaking his limbs.
"All is as we planned?" asked Loki.
"The army of Upsalla marches within the day. The Women of the Way will be eliminated, and our army will be in place for crossing. Also, Asheim believes they are safe." Weyland stopped a foot’s length from the man, the dazzling white of Loki’s smile capturing him. "And Glitner?" asked Weyland.
"Riled, ripe, and ready. The First occupies the Guardian’s attention, leaving his sister vulnerable."
"And the Conspirators?" Weyland knew the answers to his questions, but he needed the confirmation. He needed to know their years of careful preparation dawned at long last.
"They rise. A new leader will put them in direct position as well. As we maneuvered, Lothar’s death moves them further to our aim, separating the forces of Grimnear and Glitner with venom."
"And what of the girl?"
A smile bended the man’s face; shifting smoke danced in his irises.
"None of them will even realize what has happened until a
fter I am freed."
"So she will sing?"
"She will."
Weyland moaned, his skin trembling. His muscles slithered underneath his skin like a snake seeking an exit from a rat’s den.
"Come." Loki spread both his arms wide.
Weyland strode to him, falling into the man’s embrace.
"Let me see you," said Loki, stroking his hand over Weyland’s back.
Weyland shivered at his touch. His muscles shifted under his skin. He couldn’t hold his form any longer and with a sigh, then a scream, his flesh stretched. His bones cracked and with a slick scraping noise, his form burst from his gray-brown tunic and trousers. Beastly black flesh sprouted. Muscles bulged. He stood upright, howling. Even though his bones broke to rearrange themselves, even though the pain of the transformation seared throughout every part of his being, he exhaled a slick sigh of relief from containing himself in the tiny form of Weyland.
Rolf had been right about one thing: he was his father’s—Loki’s—creation, a man-beast, the Fenris wolf, and he knew his true form was gruesome to behold.
Once Weyland’s shift had been completed, he hovered several feet over Loki, even though his spine curved at an awkward angle. He smelled his own fetid breath. His mouth wouldn’t close, pried permanently open from blade-sharp fangs. Neither man, nor wolf, nor beast, Fenrir Lokison, Weyland’s true identity, sank to his hind end and whimpered beside his father. He’d been many men over the years—his father had seen to his ability to shift before the Guardian trapped Loki here, in this ever-changing space between worlds.
Loki petted the dull-black fur with bald blotches of dark skin peering through. "My beautiful, beautiful, son," he crooned. "My mother? The Guardian? They couldn’t see your beauty. But to me? You’re blindingly perfect."
His father’s voice soothed him—filled with love and pride and compassion. Fenrir Lokison never questioned his father’s honesty. Others may have seen him as monstrous, but not Loki. Not the Shadow. Not the Dark One. He saw beauty when he looked upon him.
Fenrir groaned at his father’s acceptance—it felt so good to be himself and be loved for what he was. His chest swelled with unending affection for the man. He lifted his paw toward his father. His claws measuring the length of a short sword accidentally swiped his father’s tunic, leaving a shredded shirt and a trickle of blood in his wake.
Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga Page 14