by C. Gockel
Where he sits staring at a knife blade, Nari says, “Baldur would have killed Helen earlier if Thor hadn’t rescued father. My half-sister wouldn’t have fit in Baldur’s household—no lies or illusions could persist around her.”
“Helen was the Goddess of Truth!” Valli declares. “When she was around, Nari and I were so much stronger … so of course Baldur had to kill her.” He scowls at the ground. “She was still just a little girl.”
Bohdi finds himself clutching his lighter so tightly his hand hurts.
Sigyn bows her head. “If you had seen Loki’s body when Thor returned him … Aggie blamed herself. I think she thought if it weren’t for her, Baldur would have had no reason to persecute Loki.” Eyes shining bright with unshed tears, she says, “It may seem weak to you, but in an absolute monarchy, a woman has no defense against the affections of a golden prince.”
There’s a subtle shift in the room. Bohdi’s eyes flick to the SEALs. Some of them have probably seen torture victims, and most have served in regions where dictatorships of one form or another exist; they can imagine what catching the favored son’s eye would mean. Bohdi looks at his hands. It’s a horrible, horrible story. And yet … maybe it wasn’t Chaos that killed Aggie. He flicks his lighter. Of course, Chaos hadn’t saved her either.
“Lewis, continue,” Steve says.
Amy gulps. “So Loki says, ‘Assassinate you? It never occurred to you that this might be an incredibly clumsy seduction attempt?’ just to lighten the mood.”
x x x x
“Don’t mock me,” Gullveig says.
Tilting his head, Loki smirks. “If you’re so sure I’m here to kill you, why cast aside the pistol?”
Her jaw drops. “You killed Baldur the Bold and Invincible.”
“Vicious rumors,” Loki says, perhaps too gleefully. He didn’t kill Baldur, he merely helped.
x x x x
“And mother helped, too!” cries Valli, right by Steve’s ear. Eardrums ringing, he winces and turns to Loki’s more excitable son.
Valli raises his chin. “Mother is the Goddess of Victory. And she always gets what she wants.”
Steve’s gaze goes to Sigyn. Her blonde hair is dark and damp but neatly combed. The room has warmed up, and she’s cast aside her parka. She wears the bulky military clothes appropriate for cold weather. Somehow she still looks elegant. It’s the way she stands, her poise and confidence. This is the second time Valli has declared her the Goddess of Victory, and now, like the last time, he notices she looks flustered. She denies she is a goddess … but if Loki was Chaos, couldn’t Victory have an embodiment as well?
“And what does the Victory Lady want?” Steve asks.
Sigyn’s head snaps to him. “The end to imperialist monarchies everywhere, like the one that killed my best friend, denied my husband knowledge of what he really was, destroyed the little girl I loved as a daughter, and sought to end the lives of my sons.” She looks around the room. “I want the freedom and protection from tyranny that citizens of Europe and the Northern Americas take for granted, imperfect as it may be.”
Steve’s eyes brush over the other men and women in the room. He sees the SEALs and Harding nodding in understanding and pride. He finds himself smiling at Sigyn. It was the perfect thing to say, to get their attention and win their loyalty. Sigyn catches his eye, flushes, and looks away.
Steve tilts his head. Well, that was interesting. Schooling his features to perfectly neutral, even though he wants to smile, he turns to Lewis. “Please continue, Doctor.”
x x x x
“And you killed Filmafeng,” Gullveig says.
Loki scowls. “I still dispute that accusation. It was just bad timing on Filmafeng’s part.” He doesn’t even remember killing the servant before the feast, though it was the deed that condemned him to 200 years in a cave.
“There is good timing for a heart attack?” says Gullveig. Her eyes go to the pistol, lying on the mattress. She bows her head. “My only hope is to appeal to your mercy.”
Loki finds himself feeling suddenly exhausted. “It’s not my mercy you need. It’s Odin’s.” He looks around the room. It’s warm, despite the chill outside, and bright despite the night. He looks at the thick curtains that surround the bed. They’re woven and sewn with machine precision—and probably were made with the aid of machines. Waving a hand, Loki says,“Really, I like what you’ve done with the place. But I know that it isn’t the gift of sight that is giving you all these human innovations. The Allfather, and my friend Hoenir, too, they need assurances you’re not visiting Midgard and interfering in human affairs.” He smiles tightly at memory of the giant he killed as a boy. “Or kidnapping children and demanding sacrifices.”
Gullveig takes a step back.
“Show me how you’re acquiring human magic, Gullveig. If you’ve done no wrong, then that is what I will tell Odin.”
“Odin has wanted me dead for a long time, Loki.”
Loki waves a hand.“And he’s wanted me dead on occasion, too, but he hasn’t killed me yet.” He hops off the bed. “Show me how you’re acquiring human magic, Gullveig. If you’re innocent, I will tell Odin he has no claims against you.”
Gullveig crosses her arms and looks away. Her chest heaves. At last she says,“Come with me.” Without a backward glance, she leads him to the fireplace—or rather the hearth. There is an enormous metal stove there. Gullveig goes to the support trees beside the mantle and waves her hand at a knot of branches. They unfurl and reach out to caress her wrist. She reaches between them and pulls on something. In front of the stove, the stones are set in a different arrangement. Instead of being small and brick-like, they are large and flat. One of the large flat stones lifts a few fingers’ width from the floor. Bending down, Gullveig slips her hands beneath the stone. It must be on some sort of leverage apparatus, because she easily lifts it up and over, revealing a spiral staircase. Taking a free lamp from the mantle, Gullveig says,“Come.” And then she begins to descend. Loki follows.
By the time they reach the bottom, Loki is dizzy from the circuitous route. He lost count of the number of steps, but he knows they must be below even the level of the levitator. Gullveig leads him into a cavern with tables covered with papers and diagrams, many wooden chests, a single chair, and two easels. One easel is empty; the other has a picture covered by a cloth.
The easel with the cloth draws Loki’s attention immediately. He can feel the power radiating from it. He looks around the room. They are safely out of reach of the trees, but concealed by them from Heimdall’s gaze. Unless Heimdall thought to look through Jotunheim’s molten core … is Heimdall even capable of that?
Gullveig walks straight to the easel and its mysterious picture. “My magical gift is longevity. But I have the gift of sight with this.”
She pulls back the fabric, and Loki sees himself in what appears to be an ordinary-looking oval mirror.
“Tell it what you wish to see, and it will show you,” Gullveig says.
What does Loki wish to see? At that moment it is Aggie … maybe because of how much Gullveig reminds him of her, or maybe because of how difficult things are with Sigyn. He shakes his head. He will repair things with Sigyn. He will show her that she is wrong—and show Gullveig that she is wrong, too—he isn’t here to be her doom.
Leaning to her ear, he whispers, “Why don’t you show me what you want to see.”
Gullveig turns to the mirror. “Show me Midgard, Paris.” And suddenly Loki is looking at a nighttime cityscape so magnificent it would put Asgard to shame. “The City of Lights,” Loki says. “I’ve been there. But it still doesn’t explain how you’ve managed to copy this human technology so accurately.”
Gullveig glances at him, and then turning to the mirror she says, “Show me the schematics for a sewing machine.” And the mirror changes so that Loki is staring at schematics for a foot-powered sewing machine. The diagram is perfectly lit, the tiny notes of the engineer even legible at the margins.
; Loki’s eyes go to the drawings around the room. “You drew these—”
Gullveig ducks her head. “No.” Standing, she goes and picks up a rolled up piece of paper. As she lifts it, Loki notices it is so thin it is nearly translucent. She picks up a narrow wood cylinder with a pointed dark end, only about the length of Loki’s spread fingers, and Loki almost laughs. “A graphite pencil. You are taken with humans, aren’t you?”
Gullveig shrugs. “It’s easier for this sort of thing than a feather pen, or a fountain pen, for that matter.”
She puts the paper to the mirror and begins to neatly trace the image beneath. “When I finish a diagram, I take it to the blacksmiths in the marketplace. Jotunheim has plenty of iron and copper, and the Iron Wood has natural gas, coal and diamonds.” She turns to him, eyes bright, a strand of gray hair coming loose and falling in front of her face. “Have you seen what humans are doing with steam power? They’re building chariots of fire that run on roads of iron. If we could build such a thing we could export wood and diamonds to the World Gates. We have mills here! We’re making fabric from the linen we produce locally; it’s as fine as what’s woven by the elves.” Her eyes get a far-off look. “The humans have no magic, so they’re making their own magic—so will we!”
Loki raises an eyebrow, bemused and impressed. It is an incredible amount of work. “Why do all this?” he asks.
“So the Iron Wood won’t be a savage, magic-less backwater,” says Gullveig.
“You could leave, and have all the magic of the Nine Realms at your disposal.”
Gullveig’s eyes narrow. “But then I’d be a servant of Odin.” She looks away. “And besides which, the Iron Wood is my home.”
Loki looks at the mirror and the lines so carefully drawn by a human hand. In the corner there is the name of the illustrator and the year … 1836. When did the Roman Empire fall? A thousand years earlier? Most Europeans still don’t have running water again—but they have sewing machines. Anyone will be able to sew with speed and relative accuracy, not just those with “the gift.”
Of course, Europeans have other toys. His smile fades. “You have a pistol. Do you have cannons and rifles, too?”
Gullveig stills. “How do you think I’ve bought the loyalty of the tribes of the Iron Wood?”
x x x x
“All you needed to say was there is a big hole in the ground, and there might be cannons,” says Rush, sitting on the floor, his feet hanging in the service tunnel.
Amy’s skin heats. Actually, she left out a lot. How much Loki wanted to touch Gullveig as she guided him down the stairs—because of the draw of her magic or just how much she looked like Aggie, he wasn’t sure. Or, how he wasn’t so much teasing when he suggested lying in her bed was a clumsy seduction attempt as much as he was testing the waters.
She looks down at her hands … and sees Gullveig’s hands, rough and worn, holding the pencil …
“Lewis,” says Steve, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad you gave us the details. But right now, I would like to know … the firearms … how many, what kind, can you tell us?”
Amy blinks. “Oh, yes, well … Gullveig said she’d made about fifty rifle-like things and gave them to the leaders of the Iron Wood tribes. They were clumsy …” She looks between Steve and Bohdi. “I don’t know a lot about weapons. But you had to load them over and over, and there was a stick?”
“Muskets,” says Bohdi.
Amy shrugs. “Gullveig had cannons in the Keep on the terraces …”
“We’ll look for them,” says Steve.
Amy’s eyes widen. “The mirror, down below ground … they were using magic there. Which means if Odin wanted to create a World Gate he could, right below us!” She scratches her temple. “I think? Loki needed to envision the place he was going to walk the In Between—creating a World Gate isn’t quite the same thing, but it seems like it would be similar.”
“We have to find that hole and make sure it’s got a tight lid on it,” says Bohdi.
“Agreed,” say Steve, Larson, and Berry in unison.
“Maybe we shouldn’t let Ullr and his entourage know at all?” Amy says. She shivers.
“That would be prudent,” Steve says.
A few mutters and snorts go up around the room. Outside the little room, Fenrir growls and then woofs. A knock sounds at the door, and Park pokes his head in. “Sir,” he says to Steve, “we’re being invited to a feast.”
Steve nods. He turns to Amy. “Any important etiquette points we should be aware of?”
Amy bites her lip. “They don’t have a lot of food on Jotunheim … you can eat all you want at the table, but if you take something from a serving platter, finish it.” She looks at the twisty-branchy vines on the ceiling. “Also, don’t take any green sausages from the platters, because you won’t be able to finish it.”
“What is it?” asks Bohdi. Amy’s stomach turns.
Berry raises a slightly bushy eyebrow. “Something like herbivore intestines with the natural filling?”
Loki’s memories of the smell of the things fills Amy’s mind, and she squeezes her eyes shut and nods.
“Eat everything on our plates. No green sausage. Anything else?” says Steve.
Amy opens her eyes. “Also, as the leader, you may be expected to sing, Steve.”
“We’re doomed,” says Bohdi.
“Hey!” says Steve.
“We’re so dead,” says Claire.
“This is a problem,” says Beatrice.
Steve turns to Beatrice. “What? How do you know?”
“Your mother,” says Beatrice.
Steve puts a hand to his temple. “Okay, yeah, this is a problem.”
“He sounds like a dying hyena,” Claire supplies, and Amy and a few other people’s eyes get wide.
Steve’s skin is naturally very dark, but Amy swears she sees it go a shade darker. He sighs. “It’s true. Am I allowed a pitch singer?”
Larson’s stern visage cracks and his lips quirk up. “Rush has a great singing voice.”
Amy raises an eyebrow.
Rush scowls, and Redman’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “He sings like an angel.”
Shaking her head, Amy clears her throat. “It’s the leader who is expected to provide musical entertainment—”
“I forgot to put my piano in my pocket,” says Steve, and a few guys chuckle.
Sitting on the floor, head bent over her equipment, foot still trundling away, Harding says, “Captain, I’ll have you covered, but I might be late for dinner.”
Expression returning to its default serious, Steve says, “Do what you need to do, Marine. Our lives might depend on it.”
Amy gulps.
Chapter 12
Steve stands outside what passes for a banquet hall. It looks more like a dilapidated barn to his mind. The main door is about as wide as a two-car garage and wide open. The four corners of the building are trees. Their branches curl among the rafters—the largest are as thick as his waist and appear to be load bearing. Slimmer, snake-like branches curl around them.
There are three holes in the roof set at regular intervals; the branches give them a wide berth. Beneath each there is a large metal garbage-can sized container. Fires burn in them, and smoke billows from their tops up to the ceiling. Black soot stains the tables, the floor around the fires, and the roof. The room is crowded with Frost Giants, redcheeked, mugs in hand, and already looking buzzed. Steve doesn’t spot the dwarf woman anywhere—or the Asgardians.
Standing in the door frame, his fists clench at his sides. So this is home for the next few months. Heiðr says that to the west there are World Gates to Alfheim’s Dark Lands and Svartálfaheim—as near as he can gather about seventy miles away through mountains. According to Heiðr, the way is impassable in the winter. Steve would like to see how accurate that assessment is by getting Bohdi to ask Heiðr some questions. Larson would like to send a team. Steve’s jaw grinds. The last thing they need is to be separated here. Did
n’t the Donner party split up?
A fist streaks toward Steve. Without thinking, he catches it. The Frost Giant who just tried to punch him laughs and pats his shoulder. “Humans are fast and magical!” Steve smiles and drops the fist. Still patting his shoulder, the man leads him into the room. As soon as Steve and his team step through the door the conversation stops, and then it grows nearly deafening. Their hosts crowd around them. Men cheer and shake their fists. Women reach out and touch them, and Steve feels a hand working its way to a place that is frankly inappropriate. He grabs it, pivots, and finds himself face to face with a giggling blonde. Except for Heiðr, they all seem to be blonde with light blue to gray eyes, and like Gerðr and Loki, with skin so pale it looks unhealthy. Steve manages a smile and removes her hand. He glances behind him and finds Sigyn raising an eyebrow in his direction, doubtlessly a witness to the whole exchange. Fortunately, Claire didn’t witness it. She’s fallen to the end of the line and is walking between Thomas and Redman. He knows he has nothing to worry about, but he still wishes she were closer. His eyes go to where some Frost Giants are playing a game that seems to involve balancing a knife on their chins.
“Captain, here, sit.”
Steve looks to the voice, and finds one of their guides gesturing toward the middle of a bench set beside the longest table in the room. Swinging a leg over, he takes his seat. The table is just the right height for Steve’s six-foot five-inch frame, and so is the bench, which is probably the first thing about the place he likes. Sigyn sits down beside him. Bohdi, Amy, Larson, and Gerðr are seated across from him, and the rest of the party is just told to “sit now.”