by Dima Zales
“My name Belladal,” says the woman next to Amy in the same lilting tones as the man.
“Amy,” says Amy, trying to keep her eyes on Conan-Loki, walking ahead of the throng, towering next to the elf in black.
“Aaay Meeee,” says Belladal.
“Aaay Meeee,” say the other elves in unison.
Amy turns her eyes to them for an instant. Beatrice and Amy are positively thronged now. She smiles and they gasp. “You many teeth for human!” says Belladal. Confused, Amy blinks. Turning her head she tries to find Loki, but he and the elf in black are nowhere to be seen. Before she even has a chance to process that thought or be afraid, great wooden doors ahead of them open and light spills out of the palace.
She hears the elf man next to Beatrice exclaim. “No, no, no! You not 85! Humans not live that long!” She can’t hear Beatrice’s response. Her eyes are nearly blinded by the golden light in the palace, and elves in much simpler attire are running out of the doors singing or maybe talking in musical tones.
“Dresses! You get dresses!” says Belladal. “Elves like humans. Not see so long! You like dresses! Music! Feast! Happy! Happy! Happy!”
“Happp—eeeee!” sing the elves.
And Amy isn’t sure if it is magic, or just that everything is magical, but she begins to feel her heart lift, and her lips pull into a wide grin.
Beatrice slips her arm into Amy’s as Belladal glides into the palace ahead of them, her dark skin warm and glowing in the light. Following the elven woman with her eyes, Beatrice shakes her head and whispers to Amy, “the elves have Negroes, too. I never would have expected that.”
Amy squeezes her eyes shut and resists the desire to facepalm. Beside her Beatrice doesn’t seem to even notice. She’s chattering away with the elven man.
Amy sighs and opens her eyes. At least Beatrice didn’t say anything about Belladal getting a position of lady or princess elf through affirmative action. She smiles ruefully; some of the magic of the place must be rubbing off after all.
An hour or so and a magically altered dress later, Amy’s standing in a great hall. Lining the wall are tapestries that glitter, glow and almost seem to move. A giant orb of gold is suspended in the air. The floor beneath her feet is white polished stone. To one side of the room are large ornately carved doors that lead, she’s told, to “big feast … little wait only.” Music that sounds like harps and flutes is floating through the air, but she can’t see any musicians. She looks around the room a little anxiously. She hasn’t seen Loki since they entered the palace.
Fenrir isn’t here either. During the dressmaking session an elf woman had taken the dog away — Belladal said it was “so small beast no smell like dead things.” Amy would have protested more, but it was true, her little beast still stunk. Fenrir’s supposed to be back in time for the feast, though. Looking around again, Amy pats her skirts and feels the comforting lumps of her key chain and pepper spray beneath the fabric.
At the other end of the hall Beatrice is sitting down on an elaborately carved wooden chair, a throng of elves around her. Grinning ear-to-ear, she looks beautiful. Her dress is palest rose with an elegant princess neckline. Her white hair is lifted up in a bun that is crowned with pale pink flowers. It occurs to Amy that Beatrice must seem far more exotic to them than Amy herself does. No one in the hall looks older than 25.
Amy looks down at her own dress self-consciously. It’s very pretty, creamy with emerald green trim. But the neckline is painfully low and wide. She’s afraid if she bends forwards she might spill out. She tried to ask for something more discreet, but her protests were met with laughter. “Why hide best feature?” Belladal had said. And then Belladal’s expression had contorted to one of genuine curiosity. “Are you wet-nurse?”
Remembering that comment did nothing to ease Amy’s self-consciousness now. The elves, male and female, crowded around her speaking in their musical tones and staring at her breasts doesn’t help either. Different ideas about propriety, obviously. None of them seem to speak English the way Belladal or the elf man in blue are able to, so commenting on her embarrassment doesn’t help.
Figures clad in black and gray emerging from a small door at the side of the hall catches her attention. It’s Loki at last — still looking like a pale version of Conan the Barbarian. The elf in black is next to him. Grateful for a chance to escape her ogling little throng, Amy casts a smile around her, looks apologetically in the direction of Loki, and then back at them. The throng seems to understand because a narrow path opens up before her. She bolts through it without a backwards glance.
Loki catches her eye, says something to the elf in black, and then tilts his head towards a hallway off to the side. A few moments later Amy is there beside him. His armor is still the dark gray he changed it to in the car, and he’s donned no other finery. His face is uncharacteristically pensive.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, and he blinks.
“Nothing,” he says. “I will be granted an audience with the queen during the feast.” Her brows furrow slightly. She thinks they are alone in the small hallway, the noise of revelry at their backs, but she’s not quite sure. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she leans close to him. “Are you worried she’ll know who you are?”
Smiling a little sadly, he says, “I’m certain that she will. That isn’t what disturbs me.”
“Well, what then?” says Amy, a hand almost unconsciously going to his arm.
Not meeting her eyes, his lips quirk slightly, his expression looks sad instead of happy.
“I find myself nervous about the answer to my question,” he says.
“You never told us what the question is,” Amy says.
His eyes narrow, though the quirk of his lips doesn’t disappear. “I try, as much as possible, to push it from my mind. If I think of it I might go mad.” He looks so distraught, Amy has the urge to give him a hug.
Stepping back, he takes her hand. “But where are my manners? You look lovely.”
From the great hall there is the sound of horns.
“Nice breasts,” says Loki, barely audible over the din.
Amy’s jaw falls. Every time she feels the slightest bit of sympathy for him, he just has to go and ruin it. “Did you just say nice breasts?”
He quirks an eyebrow. Leaning in he says, “Actually, I said nice dress.”
Amy blinks and reddens; how foolish of her. She’s about to apologize when still holding her hand, his eyes drift down and his mouth stretches into a leer. “But now that you mention it … .”
Her hand connects with his cheek a moment later with a satisfying smack.
Rubbing his cheek, he just grins at her.
Amy points at her eyes and says, “Focus.”
The grin vanishes. “You’re right, I can’t be seen to be fraternizing with the help.” He smirks. “Who knows, the queen may want to take advantage of my silver tongue.”
“Huh?” says Amy, not seeing any connection.
The smirk vanishes.
Amy blinks.
Patting her shoulder, Loki sighs. “If I ever need to capture a unicorn I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Conan-Loki’s inappropriate leers are immediately forgiven. “I would love to see a unicorn!”
Putting a hand to her back, he guides her towards the hall. “And I’m sure one would love to see you.” As they step into the great hall, Loki says, “Dinner has just been called. I will see you later.”
The elf woman who had taken Fenrir away during the dressmaking session approaches, Fenrir at her feet, bathed, groomed and looking — well, almost like a dog. “This way,” the elf woman says.
Eyes going wide, Amy says, “You speak English!”
The elf blinks at her, as though surprised to be understood. “Yes. But secret, please?”
Amy tilts her head, curious. But all she says is, “Of course.” She turns to look at Loki but he’s already gone.
As the rest of the guests are herded into the dining hall, Lionel,
the steward, leads Loki to a small antechamber dimly lit by dancing fireflies. It’s furnished only with a tapestry on one wall, and two chairs facing one another, a low table in the middle. It is exactly the sort of thing Loki would have expected.
Closing the door behind them, Lionel presses his ear to it as though listening for something.
Loki tilts his head. Lionel meets his gaze, nods, and then moves quickly to the room’s only window and draws the curtains. Putting his finger to his lips, Lionel moves to the opposite wall and draws back the curtain. Pressing against a few of the white stones in rapid succession, Lionel backs up. The stones seem to dissolve, as though made of sand, revealing a dark narrow passage.
Lionel gestures with his hands for Loki to enter.
Loki does not move. “Where are you taking me?”
Lionel is small and thin even for an elf. He swallows. “The queen will speak a few words at the feast, and then she will retire to her chambers. She will meet you there.”
Loki stares at him for a few uncomfortably long heartbeats. Not because he doesn’t believe Lionel’s words — Loki can’t read hearts, but he has a sense for lies. It is the truth, but still unbelievable. Loki is nowhere near the queen’s station, whether a member of Thor’s personal legion or as Odin’s retainer … former retainer. Having him in her chambers would be scandalous, but it would explain the secrecy; and a secret passage would make perfect sense.
“If you like, I will go first,” says Lionel.
“I would like,” says Loki. Lionel may not be lying, but he wouldn’t put it past a monarch to leave a surprise without their retainer’s knowledge.
Lionel bows his head. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a dull olive orb. As he lifts it, it lights from within, casting the same green glow as the orbs outside the palace. And then Lionel steps into the dark passageway, Loki following.
Loki hears the tapestry fall back into place, and a sound like pebbles sliding together. When he looks behind him there is a seemingly solid wall.
After a few paces, the passageway changes to a stairway. The steps are low and narrow. Loki touches the walls. They are dry and cool beneath his slightly warm damp fingers. He can feel his pulse quickening. This is it. Soon he will know where his sons and Sigyn are, whether they are alive or dead.
Taking a deep breath, he tries to calm himself as best he can.
They have gone a few flights when the scent of stone and dust gives way to the smell of green living things, pine and sage maybe. It’s not unpleasant at all. Loki suddenly has an overpowering sense of deja vu. He blinks. Prophecy is completely beyond him. He is over 1,000 years old. He may never have been in this stairway, but he has been in ones like it. Surely.
And yet … the fragrance. He takes a long breath. He is just anxious.
In front of him Lionel draws to a stop. Loki can’t see what he does with his hands but the wall falls away, and they step from behind another tapestry into a living area. The smell of pine and sage is stronger, and there is also the smell of meat and fresh bread. There is a chandelier above that looks like a mass of long silver leaves. There are no candles or orbs set in it: the whole thing glows, casting a glow like moonlight. Below it are two chairs, and a table laden with food. Nearby Loki can hear the sound of falling water.
“Her Majesty’s chambers,” says the steward. He gestures to a seat. “Please, sit and eat your fill.”
Loki’s mouth is watering, but he doesn’t sit down. He tilts his head to the sound of water. In his mind he pictures a living wall of lichens, a small spout emerging from it, and a stream of water falling into a semi-circular pool set flush in the floor. Turning, he walks quickly from the little room, Lionel at his heels, saying, “Stop! Wait!”
He steps into the next room over and draws up short. There are the wall and fountain just as he imagined them.
“Sir,” Lionel says, “you are to wait in the other room.”
Loki doesn’t move. And then he sees it, magic, the same color as moonlight, spilling from behind his back.
“Leave us, Lionel,” says a feminine voice as smooth and sure as water over rocks.
Loki and Lionel both turn. The elf queen approaches them. She wears a simple circlet on her brow. Her ears peek out from straight black hair. Her eyes are almond shaped, almost like a human from the continent of Asia, but they are nearly as light as Loki’s own. Her features are fine, delicate and almost painfully symmetrical, like all of the elf race. She is as slender and willowy as a reed — not precisely his type, but undeniably beautiful.
Loki has seen her several times before. He’s always looked at her from a distance, or from over Odin’s shoulder as a retainer. She’s never met his eyes before. She does now. Loki has the peculiar sensation of coming in from the cold to find a warm and welcome fire.
For some reason he almost says “Gala” aloud, but holds it back. Strange to be affected so by a silly human myth.
He tilts his head. This feeling of belonging, is it a trick of her magic?
“Yes, my Queen,” Lionel says, drawing Loki from his reverie. Bowing quickly the retainer leaves the room.
“Loki, son of wildfire and the green and peaceful isle,” says the elf queen.
He hasn’t heard his heritage described that way before, but he doesn’t argue. Bowing, Loki lets his disguise drop and prepares to kneel.
“Please,” says the elf queen holding out a pale hand. “Don’t.”
Loki straightens. There is something in her voice, fear or apprehension; he can’t tell.
“Why are you here?” she says coming forward, magic swirling in the air so much it warms his skin. She cannot possibly be afraid of him, her magic is so much stronger.
“I mean you no harm, your highness. I come only for an exchange of information.”
“What information do you wish to give me?”
Loki tilts his head. “A pathway, from your realm to Asgard.”
“I know many of those,” she says dropping her eyes and moving quietly as a shadow so they are no more than a foot apart. That closeness should strike him as odd — but it doesn’t, and that is truly odd.
“Ah, but this is a very strategic one, your highness. Right from the heart of your realm to just behind the throne of Odin himself.”
The elf queen’s eyes shoot up to his and then she looks aside and walks away. “I already know of such a pathway,” she says.
Loki feels the first prickle of worry. “But this, your highness, this one … .” He licks his lips. “It is very near, but so small you would never find it unless — ”
“The one inside our wine cellar,” she says.
Loki’s eyes go wide. He feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him. He brings a hand to the chest plate of his armor and feels the press of his book tucked inside there. The queen’s eyes follow the movement, and for an instant he thinks he sees something cruel and predatory flash in them. But then the look is gone, and her features again are cool and distant.
“Someone already bartered that piece of information to me … long, long ago,” she says, her eyes dropping to the small pool in the floor.
She looks sharply at him, and then comes forward again. Tilting her head she says, “But I would hear your question anyways.”
It takes a moment for Loki to process her words. No barter? No exchange? When do gifts ever come freely?
“Tell me,” she says. And again she is very close, too close for decorum, and again it is a fact that hovers at the edge of his consciousness, something that should strike him as uncomfortable and off, but the feeling of her proximity is completely different. It’s like a warm fire.
He closes his eyes. He sees Valli and Nari as children, with Helen — who he also lost. He cannot think them lost, too — or Sigyn, gone like his Aggie. “My sons, my ex-wife, Sigyn, I want to know where they are, ” he says softly. She draws back, just a bit. Maybe he isn’t speaking softly, maybe it just sounds faint over the angry pounding of his own heart.
&nb
sp; “I don’t know,” she says, her gaze firm on his. “I cannot see everything. I am sorry.”
She’s not lying … and yet …
His next breath is too hard and too loud. He wants to turn away, but doesn’t think he can. Valli and Nari’s faces and the blackness of space flash before him. His sons … his beautiful sons.
The elf queen takes his arm, and that act of comfort is scandalous, ridiculous, coming from a queen. Not that he hasn’t gotten women far above his station to do things far more scandalous — but not without trying.
“Come sit down,” she says pulling him towards the chairs in the other room.
“I should go,” he says. He doesn’t know where.
“Odin does not know you’re here,” she says.
That is pure truth.
He lets himself be led and sinks down into the chair. She doesn’t move away. Rubbing a hand on his shoulder she says, “Loki, Loki, Loki,” as though practicing the word. Her touch is oddly familiar.
Almost unconsciously he takes her hand in his and she comes around so that she stands just to the side of him, very close. She leans down so their eyes are level; locks of her black hair fall down over her shoulders. “If I cannot give you the knowledge you need, at least let me give you comfort,” she says, her face close to his.
When Loki jested with the human girl earlier about the elf queen taking advantage of his silver tongue, it had been just that, a jest, and nothing more. The queen was not known to take lovers casually, if at all. Even Baldur had tried and failed.
And yet … Loki looks at the pale skin where her neck meets the junction of her shoulders. He has the feeling that if he ghosts his lips there he knows exactly what sound she’ll make. He looks at her lips and thinks he knows exactly how they will taste.
He pulls her closer and she doesn’t resist. When he kisses her it isn’t like a first kiss, laced with excitement and uncertainty. It’s like comfort and homecoming. He needs those things.
And she tastes exactly as he thought she would.
Afterwards, when he feels a brief bit of peace, it feels natural to fall asleep with his arms draped around the elf woman he hasn’t called anything less formal than “your Majesty.” He dreams of a younger Alfheim, with a brighter, yellower sun, of gazing out the window of the palace at a mortal peasant man come to visit. The human smiles at Loki and it’s warm, good humored and yet it fills him with dread.