Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  She tilted her head to look at him. “Really?”

  “Oh yes.” He nodded. “My soul is already bound to the sun-steel, the rinegold, around my neck. That relationship is governed by the metal, it keeps me changeless, and thus immortal. So by giving all of you a bit of my soul, a small part of that relationship is passed on to you. It’s a transitive property. I can show you the math, if you like. But in short, your bodies now have a strong resistance to change as well. So I imagine that this generation of Yslanders will live very long, very healthy lives. Not as long as me, but that’s a good thing.”

  “But the ears.” Freya passed her hand carefully over her head, petting her tall, soft fox ears.

  “As I said, I can’t take the fox-soul out. It was still in those bloodflies. But my soul is holding it in check, and my soul is much stronger than some prehistoric mongrel’s.”

  “Hm.” Freya rested her chin on her knee. “Is that why the bloodflies don’t bite you? Because your soul is in them?”

  “Of course they bite me!” Omar glared at the sky. “The damn things must have bitten me a hundred times when I was making those nests.”

  “But you don’t have fox ears or eyes.”

  “Because I am entirely unchangeable.” He held up his rinegold trinket on the chain around his neck. “Oh, I started to grow ears once or twice, but each time the fox-soul would be pushed out and I’d return to plain, old Omar again.”

  “So does this mean you’ve lost your soul? Did it hurt you?”

  “The soul-breaking was a bit unpleasant, courtesy of the flies,” he said. “And it has left me feeling a bit stranger than usual, mostly giving me an extremely strong sense of where all the Yslanders are at any given moment. But as they die, as they inevitably will, those drips and drabs of my soul will find their way back to me. In a hundred years, everything will just like it was before I ever came here.”

  “Oh.” Freya stared over the smoldering bones at the black waters of the bay. She whispered, “I miss him.”

  Omar nodded.

  “I keep looking out there like he’s just going to come up out of the water without a scratch on him, smiling. Holding a fish. But he’s not, is he?”

  “No, it’s been far too long. I’m sorry, but if that drop of my soul inside him was going to save him, if he was going to come back, he would have by now. I’m sorry.”

  She sniffed and exhaled loudly. “So it’s really over then. What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I should leave before I cause any more disasters around here. I don’t really belong here,” he said. “Not that I belong anywhere, but I definitely don’t belong here. It’s too cold and gray and quiet for my taste.”

  “So your homeland is hot and bright and loud?”

  He smiled a little. “Something like that.”

  “Oh. I think Erik would have liked a place like that.”

  Chapter 33

  Halfdan sat uneasily on the wooden throne of Rekavik. He shifted his weight, first asking for a cushion, and then putting it aside. And every time the wood creaked beneath his weight, he winced. Finally he stood up and said, “My cousin Ivar was a good man, and he’s dead. His son Magnus was a good man, and he’s dead. We’ve all lost good men and women over these last five years. Ysland has bled too much. There will be no more killing today. Turn them loose.”

  The guards let go of the prisoners’ wrists, and Leif and Thora stepped away from them, rubbing their sore arms.

  Freya stood on Halfdan’s left side with Omar, and Katja and Wren stood on his right in matching vala black. A single night’s sleep in a bed had brought Katja back from the shock of her cell, and now wearing one of the dead queen’s simpler dresses, she looked as confident and wise as ever, if a bit thinner around the waist and wearing a new pair of ears. Nearly everyone gathered in the new king’s audience chamber wore the fox ears now, and more than a few women had covered theirs with scarves, and some of the men wore caps, and some people couldn’t seem to stop tugging and picking at the soft furry things on top of their heads.

  Freya touched her own ears. She kept forgetting they were up there. She wasn’t in the habit of fiddling with her hair, or wearing scarves, or looking in mirrors, and it was so easy to forget that they were up there. They felt soft and downy and warm, and they could bend and flop a little bit. Rubbing them gently sent a shiver down her scalp and spine, but mostly from the strangeness of it rather than any sort of pain. And they tickled sometimes when her short hair blew about in the wind. But otherwise, they were invisible to her.

  I have a fox-soul inside of me.

  And I have Omar’s soul inside of me.

  What does that even mean?

  The question faded as soon as she asked it. It didn’t matter.

  “Leif Blackmane,” Halfdan said loudly. “You murdered many free and innocent men, and you allied yourself with the reavers, who also killed many free and innocent men, but you did so at the command of your queen. So you shall not die here today.”

  “I’m telling you, I never spoke to any filthy reaver! It’s a lie!” Leif shouted. He turned toward Omar. “He’s a damned liar!”

  “Shut up and be condemned like a man!” Halfdan snapped. “You are hereby banished from Ysland.”

  The scowling youth looked up sharply. “From Ysland? Where am I supposed to go?”

  “You have six months,” the new king continued. “When autumn comes, if any man should find you still in Ysland, he shall be within his rights to strike you dead where you stand. And you, Thora Ingasdottir, for keeping Skadi’s secrets and knowingly, willfully aiding her in her schemes to seduce the king, to seize the throne, and to lead Rekavik into ruin, you are also banished from Ysland.”

  The tall girl said nothing. She stared down at Halfdan’s feet with haunted, miserable eyes. But then she slowly lifted her gaze and turned to look at Freya, and Freya saw the cold hatred in the apprentice’s face as the tears tumbled from her unblinking eyes.

  Halfdan grunted. “It’s only three hundred leagues or so to Alba. If you start swimming now, you may reach it before your six months are up. Guards, throw them out.”

  The guards took the exiles out of the room, and the crowd of onlookers at the back all seemed to relax and exhale and stand a bit easier.

  “Finally.” Halfdan sat back down on his throne, which creaked, and he winced. “Omar Bakhoum.”

  Omar stepped out in front of the throne and turned to face the king.

  “You came to this country as a friend, and you were treated poorly. Yslanders pride themselves on their hospitality, and you were most grievously wronged by Skadi and Leif. But despite that, you returned to us, you killed the demon Fenrir…” He trailed off with a frown.

  Freya understood. They had told him earlier that morning, after he received his royal torque and sword, that Fenrir had been his cousin Ivar.

  “You defeated our enemies and cured the plague,” Halfdan said. “For this, our entire country is in your debt, and anything you ask will be yours.”

  Omar smiled brightly. “Well, that is most kind, my lord. I can see you will be every bit the king that your wise cousin was before you. But as for me, I’m merely pleased that I was able to right the wrongs that I helped to create, and all I ask now is for some small help in constructing a ship to carry me home south. A small sailing ship should suffice, an elegant xebec, perhaps. I can sketch something up later.”

  “But we have no wood for making ships,” Halfdan said.

  “That’s no problem, my lord. We’ll make it of steel. I’ll teach you how. And after I’m gone, well, if the Yslanders wish to take to the seas once more on ships of steel, well, that would be a very fine day, wouldn’t it?”

  A happy murmur ran through the crowd behind him.

  “Then you will have everything you need and every comfort as long as you are with us,” Halfdan said. “And the last bit of business to deal with, before I can get off this damned chair, is the small matter of our
new vala.” He turned to the young ladies in black. “Is there anyone interested in holding this important position and fulfilling its sacred duties for us here in Rekavik?”

  Wren and Katja exchanged smiles and nods, and Katja stepped forward. “I would be honored to serve you, King Halfdan.”

  The king nodded. “And I’m honored to have your wise council. And what of our other little wise woman?” He smiled at Wren.

  She smiled back nervously. “Actually, I’m far from being ready to serve anyone as a vala. I only know a few things, and I only have these eight unhelpful old ladies to guide me.” She held up her hand wearing the rinegold ring of Denveller. “So I think I’d rather continue as an apprentice. For now.”

  “Ah, under our esteemed Lady Katja?”

  “Well, no, actually.” Wren looked across the room. “Under Master Omar, if that’s all right. He seems to know more about the spirit world than anyone else alive. I can’t imagine a better teacher.”

  All eyes turned to the southerner, and he rolled his eyes. “Oh very well, little one, but don’t expect to learn much from me. I’m sure I don’t know anything interesting.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Halfdan stood up from his wooden throne. “Freya Nordasdottir, please come here.”

  Her heart pattered just a bit faster at the unexpected summons, and she felt momentarily nervous and even guilty, wondering why she was being called to answer to the king. But the girlish feeling vanished as quickly as it came and she stood in front of the bearded man. “Yes?”

  A sad and weary look filled his eyes as he looked down at her. “Ask. Ask me for anything. Nothing in Ysland could reward your courage, or restore what you’ve lost, but ask anyway, so I can give you something.” He stepped down off the dais of his throne and stood in front of her, looking so much like her father that she almost wanted to hug him to make him stop looking so miserable.

  “I don’t need or want anything,” she said. “Although, you’ve taken my sister as your vala, and Omar has taken my little friend as well.” She jerked her head toward Wren beside her. “So I suppose I’d just like to stay here. Maybe your seal-hunters and I could learn a thing or two from each other.”

  “Done,” Halfdan said with a weary grin. “And more besides. Feasts and silvers and furs and whatever else I can heap on you, will be heaped on you.”

  Freya managed a tired smile of her own, and nodded. “I suppose there are worse fates than that.”

  Epilogue

  The iron door of Rekavik slammed shut behind them. Thora glanced back once at the high south wall, at the lone guard at the top who was staring back down at her. And she set out.

  “Where the devil do you think you’re going?” Leif asked as he started after her. “There’s nothing around her for leagues. Everyone’s dead or missing. The only people around here are in the city. We’ll never find any food out here, not in the middle of winter.”

  Thora marched on. She headed west and stayed within sight of the sea, not straying south toward the snowy hills.

  Leif followed, his entire gait a bit off balance for the lack of his arm. “You could have defended yourself, you know. You could have argued with Halfdan. He didn’t have any real charges against you, no evidence. You could have stayed if you really wanted to,” he said.

  “I didn’t want to,” she said. “I don’t want to be here anymore, so there was no point in arguing.”

  “No point?” He jogged up beside her. “Well, where the hell do you want to be? And don’t tell me you’re so in love with me that you just couldn’t stand to be apart, that you just had to follow me into exile, because I couldn’t stomach the sentiment.”

  “I don’t love you, Leif, I never did,” she said quietly. “And I’m not following you into exile. You’re following me.”

  The youth swept his long black hair back from his face. “And where exactly are we going? I don’t suppose you know of some mystic troll tunnel that will take us to Alba?”

  “No. But I do know where we can find a boat that will take us to Alba.”

  “What? Where? I thought all the old longships had rotted away or been burned as firewood.”

  “They were. This isn’t a longship. It’s the steel ship that Riuza was building when she was supposed to be building the drill. Skadi kept the ship. She hid it.”

  “Skadi kept the ship?” Leif grinned. “Clever old cow. She never told me about it.”

  “There were lots of things she and I never told you about.” Thora paused on a bare flat rock and looked back at the distant walls of Rekavik. “I was the person that Omar saw meeting with Magnus two nights ago.”

  Leif’s eyes flew wide and he lunged at her, his hand reaching for her throat. “You miserable bitch!”

  She stepped aside and shoved his limbless shoulder, sending him stumbling through the snow. From inside her sleeve she drew a long, thin dagger of white bone. “I loved Magnus. I still love Magnus. He was strong and kind and beautiful, and he loved me. And when I heard that Fenrir had killed him, I wanted to kill myself. Of course, I learned soon enough that you were the one who led my prince out there to be slaughtered so Skadi could take the throne unchallenged.”

  Thora shivered as the winter wind threw her long brown hair around her face. “I was planning to kill you both when I discovered that Magnus was still alive. He came to me one night when I was walking along the wall, and the sight of him nearly stopped my heart, he was so huge and hideous. But he spoke to me, and I knew it was him. So I stayed in the city, serving Skadi, hoping to find a cure for him. And when Freya came back with Ivar’s head, I had to tell Magnus. He deserved to know what had happened to his father.”

  “You snake!” He hurled a fist of snow and pebbles at her.

  Thora let them thump harmlessly on her heavy black cloak. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand real loyalty. Or real love.”

  He laughed. “I loved you well enough.” He curled his tongue through the air in a beckoning lick.

  She smiled strangely. “Not as well as you think. I loved Magnus, but as long as I couldn’t have him, I was willing to settle for you. It amused me to play with one of Skadi’s toys, simply because it shamed her. But it was never about you, Leif. I never saw you. It was always Magnus. Why else did you think I kept you on your knees?”

  He threw up his hand. “And now?”

  “Now Magnus is dead, and there’s nothing here for me anymore. So I’ll go to Alba, or wherever else the sea takes me.” She started walking again.

  “What about me?”

  “You can come, too. I suppose I can always use another pair of eyes or a spare hand. I have no illusions about how hard it will be to survive on the sea, or in Alba, or wherever we go,” she said over her shoulder. “But if you ever touch me again, Leif, I will kill you.”

  Fury of the Witch Queen

  Chapter 1

  As she entered the decaying church, Wren’s footsteps echoed across the empty chamber, and her shadow melted into the darkness. She stared up at the tall gray columns webbed with cracks and grimed with ice and bird droppings. She looked left and right at the dimly colored starlight falling through the broken stained glass windows depicting men in strange armor and women in strange dresses, all kneeling in prayer or peering up at the shattered sky. And all the while, the foreign words and names whispered in her mind with their own exotic flavors and magic.

  Europa. Vlachia. Targoviste. The Church of Saint… someone or other.

  She gently ran her fingers over the arms of the long benches covered in scraps of wet paper and clumps of dirty snow. At the far end of the church was a raised platform with a naked marble altar dappled in shadows, and beyond it stood a tall statue of a man between a woman and a boy, all in gray stone. Black shadows clung to the rafters overhead, a cold breeze sighed through the broken windows, and a thick carpet of aether mist glided across the floor.

  “This place is amazing,” she whispered, her breath curling in white vapor around her nose.
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  “What, this?” Omar strode past her, rubbing his gloved hands together. His long coat swished as he moved, his short seireiken clinked softly in its scabbard on his belt, and his little blue sunglasses sat down on the end of his nose as he looked around. “This is a ruin. I’ll show you some truly amazing places when we reach Stamballa, and Damascus, and Alexandria.”

  Wren touched the cold face of a column. “How did they make the stones so perfectly square, and round, and smooth?”

  “With good tools and a lot of time. Too much time,” Omar muttered. He called out, “Hello? Anyone?” Only his echo answered. “What the devil is going on around here? It’s been four days since we’ve seen anyone. Vlachia was never this quiet before, even in winter. There should be thousands of people here in Targoviste.”

  “Maybe it’s a plague,” Wren said. “Just like back home. All the people are dead or hiding in the hills.”

  Omar shook his head. “I doubt that. It’s more likely that the city just dried up. Too cold, not enough food, too many wars. Just the usual. The people moved on to wherever they could find food or work, that’s all. It’s a pity though. Targoviste was a lovely little place a few hundred years ago. I liked it quite a bit in the summer time.”

  Wren nodded glumly.

  “Well, as long as we’re here, we might as well break into the old castle and find someplace decent to sleep tonight. Maybe the beds are still in one piece.” Omar gallantly gestured toward the open doors, inviting her to lead the way back out into the dark street.

  Wren took one last look around the shadowy ruin, trying to see every last little detail, to remember every little stone cherub and faded painting and tarnished candlestick. She could see them quite clearly in the gloom. In the shadows, her golden fox eyes could find even the smallest lines and faintest forms.