Balder spoke next, his musical voice unmistakable. Smiles swept the table as everyone remembered the twice-born god’s innocent youth. Beloved child of the gods’ matron and the AllFather, he had become the natural target of Loki’s venom, hence his death. Even Colbey saw the ironic sadness in the realization that Frigg and Odin had both been lost in the Ragnarok, only hours before their most cherished treasure returned from Hel. “How far out of line has the balance gotten? Are we in imminent danger?”
Again the others deferred to Colbey; but, this time, he had no answer. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know!” Sif shot back. “The Keeper of the Balance doesn’t know?”
Having already said exactly that, Colbey did not bother to reply.
“One presumes. . . .” Vidar said carefully, using the generic pronoun when “I” would serve as well. “If such danger existed, the Keeper would know.”
“So we’re not in danger yet,” Vali supplied.
“I don’t know,” Colbey repeated. “I don’t care for assumption, though.”
Freya picked up where her husband had left off. “It’s not prudent to presuppose things about a situation that never existed before.” Having spoken her defense, she switched to the more important question, one with a specific answer. “Vidar, what made you decide to call a meeting now? What concerned you enough to suspect the balance was in danger?”
Colbey folded his arms across his chest, the pressure diverted from him for the moment.
“I’ve been watching.” Vidar looked at Freya as he spoke as if, having asked the question, she had become the only one interested in his response. “For three centuries, the elves kept to themselves. Then, suddenly, they started moving. Within months, all of the major human kingdoms shifted power. More so, they seem in a state of transition, yet they’re not going in any clear direction. And the throne in Béarn lies empty.”
Horror wafted to Colbey’s senses, accompanied by curiosity and rage. The last of Odin’s predictions still haunted them. Midgard’s balance hinged on Béarn’s structure of power, and if Midgard fell into ruin, one way or another, Asgard would follow.
“How long?” Sif finally asked.
“A month and a half now. Almost two.”
The ensuing silence became oppressive. Emotion slammed Colbey with such intensity, he felt suffocated. Snatches of thought cut through the icy burden of fear, in one case panic, the fires of Modi and Magni’s anger, and the damp, airless quality of despair. Gods counted birthdays in decades, centuries, or millennia. Few or none might have noticed the events occurring on Midgard over the course of weeks. But Colbey had known. And so, apparently, had Vidar.
“We have a month to fix this problem?” Vali sounded incredulous. To a god, it seemed like moments. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Vidar returned the appropriate defense. “Until now, I could not determine whether or not we had a problem. Now I believe we do.”
“Then why doesn’t the Keeper of the Balance know it?” Idunn spoke her first original words of the meeting, having only echoed Vidar’s early words. Like all but Modi and Magni, she sported golden hair; but, unlike the other goddesses, she wore hers short.
No certainty could accompany any answer to Idunn’s question, only conjecture. Vidar rose to the occasion. “I suspect it’s because the balance has only become fluid. It hasn’t tipped yet. Once it does, it may prove too late.”
Modi stood, his chiseled features grave. For as long as Colbey knew, the Renshai had called upon this representation of wrath whenever their reserves flagged or they needed to fight through injury. “Then I say we do something now!” Though obvious, the statement rang with power. Thor’s sons, like their father, were known more for swift and violent action than for logic.
No one bothered to voice the obvious follow-up. That action needed taking had become evident. The specifics of it defied simplicity. Colbey understood the problem. The gods had learned millennia ago that any action they took on man’s world caused massive repercussions that stretched far beyond even the wildest speculation. To give the balance a light tap could mean knocking it over the edge in another direction. Worse, it could spiral off its axis into chaos’ deepest void. Anything a god did would likely prove more dangerous than the lack of doing ever could.
Colbey knew this better than anyone. Toward the end of his mortal years, he had championed balance the only way he could, by convincing the other Cardinal Wizards that they sanctioned law and he chaos when the reverse was actually true. His plan had worked too well, convincing gods as well as Wizards. Their attempts to destroy chaos had nearly started the Ragnarok early, at a time when chaos would have triumphed. Only Loki, Freya, and Odin had discovered the truth. And only Freya had not used that knowledge to support her own agenda.
“Yes.” Vidar responded to Modi’s plea for action, though a long time had passed in hushed contemplation. “And only one of us has the absolute commitment to balance to work such a change.” His gaze, then every other, shifted back to Colbey.
Doubts assailed Colbey, the concept only vaguely familiar. Confidence had accompanied abilities that grew daily. As a mortal, he had remained close enough to his origins to keep self-assurance from usurping caution. Now, he did not know if he could still maintain the necessary distance. “I’ve been among you for more than three hundred years.”
“A pittance,” Vidar supplied. “We’ve been here tens of thousands.”
Colbey looked to Freya, who nodded her support. As always, she believed in him.
Colbey’s hands slid naturally to his hilts, though he had no intention of drawing a weapon. In the past, his most stressful moments had always come on the battlefield: swift problems with swifter solutions. “I believe that, if we remove the elves from Midgard, the humans will restore balance on their own.”
Frey gasped, half-rising, then freezing in position as he realized he had moved without a plan for completing the action. “Remove the elves? How? Where? Their home was destroyed. . . .” He added, features purpling and volume increasing with each word, “. . . as you well know.” His tone laid blame where his words had not.
Only two solutions came to mind. Colbey would not damn any creature to Hel, so that left only Asgard. The Ragnarok had obliterated the other six planes of existence.
“Asgard cannot support them,” Vidar said, and no one argued. An imbalance on Midgard would likely affect gods. Ruining Asgard’s equilibrium would bring more dire consequences.
Whittled to only one possibility, Colbey spoke it. “We may need to destroy them.”
“No!” Frey stood fully, blue eyes flashing with rage. His fist crashed to the tabletop, an action better suited to Thor’s sons. “I will not allow my people to die.” He slammed the table again, and the wood shuddered beneath the blow. The table thrummed, stinging, against Colbey’s arm, and many of the assemblage jerked backward. “If you attempt such a thing, I will destroy you.”
Colbey remained in place, brows arched, wondering if he had just discovered the enemy of the Second Destruction. At least, he seemed to have uncovered the central conflict. Who got called hero and who enemy depended upon perspective. He understood Frey’s determination, as he shared it. Had they reversed their situations, he would not allow Frey to bring ruin upon humans. His own strong sense of poetic justice reminded him that the elves had survived the Ragnarok by their own cleverness and will. It went against his deepest faith to punish effort that deserved reward.
Vidar stepped in again to mediate, addressing Colbey. “Are there other solutions?”
Colbey answered without hesitation, ignoring Frey’s imposing figure and penetrating glare. “There are always other solutions.” He turned his icy eyes on the young leader of the gods. “They’re just more difficult and sometimes lead to misinterpretation and misunderstanding.”
A collective nod swept gods and goddesses, excluding only Frey and Colbey. Every one remembered Colbey’s monumental struggle for balance against
humans who believed him mad, Wizards and gods who hunted him down for presuming he sanctioned chaos, and the staff he carried that bludgeoned him toward law.
Vidar raised his hands in a gesture that encompassed all present. “Very well, then. Colbey will restore the balance, the very task he came among us to perform.”
Colbey frowned, disliking Vidar’s choice of words. He had never believed in destiny. Despite Odin’s claim to the contrary, and the One-Eyed One’s decision to place law and chaos into Colbey’s keeping, Colbey believed, with unshakable faith, that he had chosen to champion balance for himself.
Vidar continued, oblivious to Colbey’s displeasure. “None of us will question his methods so long as he does not destroy the elves.”
Frey qualified, still standing. “So long as he does not kill any elves.”
Vidar spoke for Colbey, and the Renshai’s scowl deepened. “I’m certain Colbey will resist killing anyone if at all possible, but, when the fate of the gods hangs precariously, it’s hardly fair to constrain him too tightly.”
Frey’s eyes narrowed, and he turned his rage from Colbey to Vidar. “Killing elves is not like killing mortals. Murder destroys an elfin soul, and no other can replace it. Losing only a few could begin their destruction.”
Colbey broke in then, tired of others discussing his methods. “I will kill no elves. Or humans, if I can possibly help it.”
Now it was Vidar’s turn to frown. “You don’t have to make such a vow.”
Frey’s face reddened so deeply it turned purple at the edges.
Colbey shrugged, composed. “I have, though. My brother-in-law deserves the comfort of that knowledge.”
The flush drained from Frey’s face, and he even managed a small smile.
Colbey finished. “An immortal killing mortals would have an extreme effect on the balance. That’s why Odin banned the Wizards from such action.” It was not precisely true but near enough. Odin’s Laws had not tolerated the slaying of significant mortals, those who might affect the future of man’s world. However, since no one could tell precisely who these mortals might be at any time, the Wizards usually interpreted that to mean they could not directly harm mortals at all. Colbey looked around the assemblage, discovering all eyes turned on him. He concentrated on Freya, never tiring of the bright, blue glimmer of her eyes, never taking her beauty for granted. Every day, he recognized anew how lucky her love made him. “I’ll handle the balance as long as none of you interfere. And I won’t kill anyone.”
Vidar rolled his eyes and shrugged sadly but said nothing. His gesture conveyed that he disapproved of Colbey limiting his options before the task had even begun, but he always allowed it to remain Colbey’s decision. That fed directly into the Renshai’s request to avoid interference. When the leader did speak, he moved on from that point. “Does anyone have anything else to add or discuss?”
Colbey caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced at the source, his own son, Ravn. The boy had stiffened, and his lips parted as if he would speak. But no words emerged. He settled back into his seat with a fitfulness that suggested something unspoken.
Apparently, Vidar missed the signs that indicated one among them wished to add something. “Adjourned, then,” he said.
The gods and goddesses rose and filed from the room, Frey giving Colbey a respectful nod that showed his appreciation more than words. The farthest away from the door, Colbey remained in place longest, practicing the patience that so many accused him of never learning.
Finally, as Modi’s and Magni’s footfalls thundered against the floor’s copper tiling, Colbey stood and headed after them. Mild disappointment at his son’s timidity disappeared beneath contemplation of the burden the gods had thrust upon him. He felt strongly that no single right way existed to perform the task, and he focused on intruding as little as possible into the affairs of mortals. Certain key figures required visits designed to gently tweak them in the right direction.
Though the method seemed necessary and obvious, doubts descended on Colbey. His experiments into this method thus far had met with as much failure as success: Pudar had freed Kevral, buoyed by his interference; yet now she had become so overconfident she spent more time challenging strangers to combat than attending the companions who needed her and the task to which she had pledged her loyalty. From town to town, she insisted upon facing the finest warrior and demoralizing him in single combat. Colbey’s temple meetings with Baltraine had goaded the prime minister to exchange uncertainty and fear for self-assurance. Yet the destruction of Béarn’s temple had resulted, and Baltraine now supported the precise opposite of the cause toward which Colbey had tried to steer him. Colbey wrestled with the vexation these earlier attempts raised, wondering whether even he had become too immortal to interfere in the affairs of man.
Still, he trusted no other god to handle such a problem better. One way or another, he would work man’s world back to its proper alignment. He simply could not afford to fail.
Colbey’s thoughts took him through the long hall, through the great doors, and into Asgard’s eternal sunshine. By the time he arrived outside, all of the others had vanished. All, except Ravn. The youngster stood beneath a cluster of the tall, sturdy trees that shaded the gods and bore multicolored fruit as sweet as honey. All of his taciturn reluctance had disappeared. The blue eyes radiated the confidence he had not displayed at the meeting, and his stance revealed strength.
Ravn waited only until Colbey acknowledged his presence. “Father, we need to talk.”
It seemed a more than reasonable request. Colbey nodded and approached Ravn, glad for the interruption.
“I did as you and Mother said. I did not interfere when the elves took Griff. Now, I want you to lift my punishment. I have to be with him. He needs me.”
Colbey sighed deeply. The last thing he needed was for an overeager, undirected youngster to meddle in a job that already taxed him. In his mortal years, nearly every problem he faced had a violent solution. He had trusted in his ability with a sword, and that had seen him through nearly every crisis. In the end, he had learned to use his intellect as well, but that could fail him in a way his sword arm never did. “I’m sorry, Ravn. No.”
“No,” Ravn repeated, lips puckering into a thoughtful grimace that showed no sadness or despair. He had heard the word but would not accept it.
“No,” Colbey responded, as this seemed necessary. “I have enough problems to deal with on man’s world without worrying about you as well.”
“You need not worry over me. I’ll stand by Griff without harming anyone. I won’t free him. I won’t crush his enemies. I’ll just be there with him to share his pain.”
“No,” Colbey said.
Ravn continued as if he had not heard, “Without me, he may not maintain the innocence necessary to become Béarn’s king. He needs me. And we all know man’s world needs him.”
Colbey refused to accept anything as certainty. Trusting unproven facts had become the downfall of so many. “We do not know man’s world needs him.”
Ravn shrugged, his point too obvious to dismiss. “Free me from this punishment, and you can inflict as many others as you wish. I can take any other.”
“The most effective punishment is the one for which you would trade unlimited others.”
Ravn could not possibly deny the truth in Colbey’s statement, but he did find an answer. “Effective as punishment, certainly; but only if the mistake warrants it. If you use the most effective punishment on me for this, what can you possibly turn to in the future should I do something worse?”
Colbey laughed, tension broken by the desperation of Ravn’s argument. “One hopes that such a strong deterrent will keep you from doing anything worse. That’s the whole purpose, you know.”
“A good point.” Ravn smiled back. “But I’m sixteen. I’ve only just begun doing things that annoy my parents.” He raised and lowered his brows once, mischief dancing in his eyes.
Colbey sighed. “
I’m creative. Trust me to think of something worse. Eventually.”
Ravn dropped a line of conversation that had brought him nowhere. “I know where I belong now. I came to you so I wouldn’t have to defy my parents to do as I must. Are you going to force my hand?”
Colbey refrained from the obvious, threatening to keep Ravn under guard. To do so would violate the bond they had created and nurtured since birth. It would only teach Ravn not to come to his father with difficult problems. Instead, he placed an arm around his son’s shoulders and discussed the matter conspiratorially. “Look, Ravn. I do know how you feel. I spent a lifetime on man’s world, once one of them. But friendships with mortals are doomed from the start. Mortals die in a space of time that still seems long to you and me but becomes an eye blink when the true recognition of immortality arrives. Better not to let such ties arise.”
Ravn studied his father with widened, skeptical eyes. No words needed saying. Even after three hundred years, Colbey’s tie to man’s world remained as strong as the steel of his sword. He followed the deeds and antics of individuals with a father’s interest, those of Renshai most of all. For all the gods told him his perspective would broaden, he could not see people only as racial groups or, especially, as a single unit.
“I’m different,” Colbey said. “You can’t judge by me. I believed myself mortal for too long to change. A man, and apparently even a god, cannot help becoming what he believes himself to be.”
“I believe myself to be Griff’s friend,” Ravn explained softly. Sensing a crack in Colbey’s defenses, he bore in like a true Renshai. “At least give me a chance. You would let even the weakest, most despicable enemy battle for his life.”
Having been handed the perfect solution, Colbey smiled again. He released Ravn and turned to face the boy who was becoming a man. “Very well, then. We spar. If you win, you get your wish. If I do, you do not raise the issue again.”
Ravn paled, mouth poised partway open and unable to speak. Since his mortal youth, Colbey had trained the world’s best swordsmen, at times sparring them three and four at once. He drove every student to spar him to the extent of their ability and beyond. He forced them to use live weapons with deadly edges, to battle him as if involved in the greatest war of conscience, and never to pull any strike. Yet, in all his years, no student had ever landed a blow; not one had drawn a single drop of blood. Even Freya, a sword mistress among the gods, had never achieved better against him than a tie.
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