Immediately in control of her muscles again, Kevral glanced toward the never-ending war within Valhalla’s wrought-iron barrier. She had had no difficulty hearing the clash of weapons, the clatter of a hard blow fended by armor, and the glorious shouts of victory. When she and Colbey had climbed inside, they had easily communicated with Ra-khir and Tae on the outside. “That’s not right!” Kevral shouted before Ra-khir could stop her. She waved rapidly, indicating the broad spaces between the bars. Although they would not admit even a toddler, sound could pass freely through such an opening.
El-brinith saved Skögul the need to explain. “There’s an unseen barrier. It seems to me it would prevent physical and magical entrance in addition to sound.”
Kevral’s hands fell to her sides, balled into fists. “But I hear the war cries. The screams. Threats and howls of victory. The chime of . . .” She trailed off, recognizing every eye curiously upon her. Cocking her head, she listened again, shocked to discover only a dense and eerie silence issuing from beyond the fence. Imagination, not reality, had added sound to a spectacular war.
“My Lady.” Ra-khir tore concerned attention from his wife to address Skögul again. “Could we then impose upon some servant of yours to communicate our need to the warriors?”
“Einherjar,” Skögul corrected, smiling fiercely. “The warriors of Valhalla are called Einherjar. And I’ll think about it.” She turned her back on the gathering.
Incited by a gesture Renshai deemed insult, Kevral clamped a hand to the hilt of one sword. Battling a Valkyrie would prove as exciting as satisfying, especially when she sliced that irritating grin from the woman’s face.
Ra-khir shook his head in warning, a clear plea for tolerance. The party studied Skögul with an intensity she could not ignore. Even the patience of an immortal must wither under such long scrutiny.
Finally, Skögul rolled her eyes. An ululating cry broke from her lips so suddenly that Kevral assumed a defensive posture. Even Ra-khir’s steady hand wrapped around his hilt. The Valkyrie fell silent almost immediately. Moments later, another appeared, alike enough to pass for a twin. She, too, wore armor that shimmered in the sunlight and clutched a spear in a battle-scarred fist. Savagely beautiful features peered out from waves of wheaten hair.
Skögul stepped back to speak with her sister. The newcomer’s eyes found the party and remained there throughout their discussion. Finally, Skögul addressed Ra-khir. “What is it you seek?”
Ra-khir described the Pica shard, aside from the specifics of its shape. They would not know that until they found it.
The second Valkyrie nodded once, then headed around the fence once more.
“Herfjötur will perform as you have asked.” Skögul seemed to find it necessary to add, “Not because it’s your bidding, but because it is mine. In this way, I hope to dismiss you from my notice.” She executed a back-handed wave clearly meant to indicate they lay beneath her regard, though she had spent much time in conversation with them.
Darris had slipped back with Tae and Andvari. He made a motion for Ra-khir and Kevral to join him, which they did. It seemed reasonable to give the Valkyrie some space after she had granted them a favor. Kevral went only reluctantly. The urge to match her skill against one of Odin’s chosen became a red-hot ball of need burning in her chest. Alone, she would have accepted any excuse for a fight. Now she forced her attention to the need of mankind and her promises to Béarn’s queen to heed the mission first.
They had barely drawn beyond hearing range when Kevral grumped, “What happened? No magical barriers and Valkyries last time we came. Why aren’t they out picking up warriors from the battlefield where they belong?”
“What battlefield?” Andvari supplied. “The North is finally at peace, and I don’t know of any current danger to Béarn.”
Just Andvari’s voice irritated Kevral, and she turned her suppressed irritation on him. “You stay out of this!” she shouted, not caring if Skögul heard. “Are you just stupid? Or are you trying to incite people against me?”
“I—I wasn’t—” Andvari started.
Kevral leaped in again. “Just answer the question.”
“Kevral,” Ra-khir said with a hint of patronage. “There’s really no safe or correct way to answer that question, the way you phrased it.”
Kevral whirled on her husband. “He didn’t have to reveal me. You know how dangerous that can be to the mission.”
Tae summoned Andvari with a subtle jerk of his chin.
Ra-khir soothed, voice approaching a whisper. “Actually, Kevral, it’s not a danger here. Valkyries obviously love Renshai. In fact, that might be the real reason Raging did us the favor.”
Kevral could only concede the argument, though she credited it to Ra-khir, not Andvari.
Darris seized upon Kevral’s silence with the answer she had sought before the simple act of Andvari speaking had goaded her to fight instead. This time, he unslung his lute to accompany the singing of another translation, this time a piece of a Northern prayer:
“Chosen by the Valkyries,
Einherjar war the day,
Then retire to Odin’s barracks;
The feast is underway.”
Darris paused, fingers still on the strings to ascertain whether or not he had made his point. Kevral caught it at once, nodding briskly while others without her religious background considered moments longer.
“Odin controls the Valkyries and the wars,” Kevral said thoughtfully, suddenly certain whom Odin intended his new security to ban from Valhalla. Colbey. Faith instilled since birth clashed with a frenzy that required time and deep-searching to become realization. The very foundation of Northern religion had been built on respect, awe, and fear for the AllFather. Yet Kevral could not help holding Colbey in equal esteem; the once-mortal Renshai turned god had become an object of worship among her own people and her own personal hero. She already knew the two worked against one another, yet the actual understanding failed to penetrate until that moment.
Before Kevral could consider longer, the one known as Host-fetter, Herfjötur, again appeared around the fence. She took a position beside her sister, standing as tall and with the same uncompromising posture. Highlights more like sparks seemed to emerge, rather than glimmer, from the spear points. “A Northman called Mundilnarvi states he has the thing you seek. He will not surrender it to a Renshai . . .” Her gaze swung to Kevral whose sudden, intense rage at Andvari rekindled. “. . . unless you agree to battle him to the death.”
“Coward,” Kevral spit. She could not help adding, “Like all Northmen,” for the sole purpose of insulting Andvari.
“Kevral . . .” Ra-khir warned.
Kevral justified her words, “He knows he can’t really die. And I can.”
Tae gave Andvari an encouraging nod, but the Northman backed down from the argument with a hopeless shake of his head. Ra-khir fought the battle for him. “Fine. Then this Mundil . . .” he strived for the ancient, Northern name. “Mundil . . .” When the correct syllables did not come, he used others. “. . . this Einherjar is a coward.” The words clashed absolutely. “There’s no reason to drag friends and strangers down with the same label.”
“What do you call people who attack others at night, asleep, unannounced, and in numbers of ten to one?”
When Ra-khir did not answer swiftly enough, Kevral jerked toward Andvari. “What do you call Northmen who set out to deliberately destroy a single tribe, butchering honored warriors, once slain, to bar them from Valhalla?”
“I chose many of those Renshai,” Skögul reminded, speaking easy memory of a battle more than three centuries old. “Take the news back to your kin: dismemberment cannot bar a brave fighter from Valhalla. Perhaps where ignorance fosters bitterness, knowledge can overcome it.”
The words stunned all of the anger from Kevral. She had not expected the Valkyrie to speak freely on such matters. Colbey had already informed her of the error of a belief most Renshai and Northmen had surrendered cen
turies past. Yet, though most vocalized the understanding, many still superstitiously believed and worried desperately over injuries the way Kevral now did for her soul.
“Now,” Skögul continued, jabbing a finger toward distant parts of Asgard. “Go.”
“My Lady,” Ra-khir started. “Could you not grant us the right to further bargaining?”
Herfjötur’s eyebrows glided upward even as Skögul’s pressed inward, expressing irritation. “We’ve wasted as much time on you as we will. Mundilnarvi cannot leave. You cannot enter.” Skögul made a dismissive gesture.
Kevral swung around to argue, this time stopped by Ra-khir’s gentle head shake. For the second time, the humans retreated to discuss their options and Darris chose to continue his song:
“Through the battle undisturbed,
The Valkyries come raging.
Shields and byrnies striped with blood
The worth of corpses gauging.
But Freya comes to claim her half
Of casualties most worthy.
Odin’s choosers take the rest
Of those whom they deem . . .”
Darris broke off with an apologetic smile, speaking the last word: “nerve-y. Sorry. Rhymes in translation don’t always work. Either the meaning gets distorted, sentence structure becomes impossible, or . . .” He grinned again. “. . . you stretch a bit.”
Ra-khir tried to rescue the struggling bard. “Not all songs have to rhyme.”
“The teaching ones do. Otherwise, we could just say whatever we wanted to a tune, without effort. Not much of a curse.”
“Odin’s curse,” El-brinith reminded, their current feelings about the AllFather unpleasant.
Darris shrugged. “A permanent and unremitting curse, nonetheless. Jahiran may claim otherwise, but look what happened to him.” He shivered at the memory of the crazed bard on the first shard world. “I don’t care to personally suffer the result of attempting to break a centuries’ old decree by the most powerful of gods, thank you very much.”
Kevral gleaned the information inherent in the song. “Freya claims half the Einherjar.” She brightened, repeating with a measure of understanding, “Freya claims half the Einherjar.” Kevral looked at Darris to ascertain she had taken home the right message. “She should have some say in who enters Valhalla.”
Darris nodded broadly.
“And Freya is Colbey’s wife,” Tae reminded. “Surely she’ll at least listen.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t all go,” Chan’rék’ril finally added his piece, leaving Rascal as the only one who had not yet spoken. The Pudarian spent most of her time avoiding Tae and keeping her mouth shut. “A bit intimidating.” He made a circular motion with one finger to indicate the size and oddness of their group.
“To a goddess?” Andvari said.
Mind gliding back to the spirit spiders, Kevral stiffened; and Ra-khir spoke the thought aloud. “I don’t like the thought of splitting up. Especially when we have Odin to worry about.”
“Bigger problem.” Tae spoke from his haunches, peering out over the vast emerald grassland. “How do we find her? I don’t suggest wandering around till it happens. And I doubt they’re going to help us.” He fluttered his fingers toward Skögul.
“Practice field,” Ra-khir said suddenly.
Kevral smiled. When Colbey had brought them to Valhalla, he had paused long enough to show them one of his favorite skill-honing areas. Freya might not prove as obsessive about going there, but Ravn probably would. “Perfect.” Kevral started off before anyone could recommend another course of action, and the others scrambled after her without protest.
They trotted across meadowlands filled with symmetrical, uniform grass spears and interrupted by wildflowers. At first, worries about addressing a goddess captured Kevral’s thoughts, but, at length, an oddity claimed her attention. Asgard’s patterned routine, its lack of weather, and its steady temperature had added to its alien and special feel the first time she had come here. She knew the grasses remained always at human ankle length, but she did not recall the clover, yellow chrishius, and amethyst-weed seeming so patterned. The breeze that added a touch of reality to a world that seemed more like perfectly painted play backdrops had disappeared. Every green blade pointed toward the sky, without a stir of air to bow it.
As the group followed the pathway into forest, Kevral’s gaze traced lines of evergreen, constructed of ever smaller triangles. At her last visit, these had seemed perfect. Now, they seemed too perfect, every angle alike and every side matching. Each towered nearly to the same height, unmoving beneath the golden ball of sunlight. The sky resembled a sapphire shroud, the sun gleaming through a precisely cut circle and fluffy clouds stable amidst the blue, like statues of sheep. She recalled other trees the last time they had come, hardy deciduous types unlike anything on Midgard, with seed pods spinning like tops in gentle currents.
The forest broke upon another meadow, like a vast ocean of green water. The evergreens apparently blotted sound, for the instant they stepped from the trees’ shelter, sounds wafted to them. The flawless chime of a well-timed block preceded a flurry of chinging sword clashes. Then the sound of combat stopped, replaced by a voice whose words could not quite reach Kevral. She froze, the others stilling behind her. Scanning the field, she discovered two figures, the smaller one demonstrating something from behind the other. She watched as they disengaged, and the teacher began a kata with a sweep that seemed endless, the blade tossing highlights like tiny suns. His sword cut back suddenly, direction reversing impossibly fast, and a second leaped out to join it. These spun and wove together in chaotic movements too fast to follow. At times, it seemed as if the swords cut through their wielder and one another.
Kevral recognized the method, if not the details. Renshai maneuvers. Then the lithe wielder added his own movements to the drill. Slender and sinewy, he moved with a grace and speed that held Kevral spellbound. Threading through the motion of his swords, he sprang and spun and capered like some new type of faery. The swords seemed a part of him, their movement never slowing, even when he shoulder-rolled or barreled across the grass. He launched into a wild series of high maneuvers, leaping, spinning, and kicking in midair, without ever losing the track of the thrashing swords. Then a hand closed around Kevral’s arm. She whirled to Ra-khir, drawn from the scene long enough to realize she had drifted dangerously near it. The man’s svergelse had enthralled her, hauling her with the inexorability of undertow.
“Ow! Damn it!” the man’s musical curses broke the last traces of his spell.
A female voice followed. “That’s what you get for showing off.”
“Ow! Ow!” The male grumbled breathlessly, “Your sympathy is greatly appreciated, Mother.”
Kevral glanced back at the combatants. The fiery beauty of the man’s movements had kept her focused on them, and only now she recognized Ravn rocking on the ground, clutching his left foot. His boot lay beside him. Ash-blond hair hung nearly to his shoulders, tangled from his wild svergelse, and a single lock curled between his eyes. Though not classically handsome, like Ra-khir, his features held enough of Colbey’s likeness to fascinate her and enough of Freya’s to make him striking. Kevral caught herself staring, unable to turn her gaze to the perfect loveliness of the woman who stood over him.
“Cut all my stupid toes off, and all you can say is I deserve it.”
“Not enough blood for that.” Freya’s stance radiated more caring than her words. She headed toward him, then stopped suddenly and looked toward the woods. Noticing the audience, she froze in place.
Still oblivious, Ravn continued wistfully, “If Father hadn’t left, I’d have had that thing perfected by now.”
Freya said something too soft for Kevral to hear, then Ravn stopped complaining and looked up suddenly. His hand fell from his foot, and he reached for his boot, eyes locked on her and Ra-khir.
Freya stepped protectively in front of her son. Now, Kevral managed a good look at her: the mild, flawl
ess oval of her face, the billowing cascade of golden hair, and a body whose curves defined the female ideal. She glanced toward Ra-khir, only to find him shielding his eyes with a hand. He performed a bow that lasted longer than she would have believed possible, containing every possible flourish, then dropped to one knee, head bowed.
Stunned, Kevral took several moments to realize she should also demonstrate some grand display of respect. As the understanding that she faced a deity finally struck, she found herself incapable of remembering even the protocol for royalty. For the first time ever, she wished Matrinka allowed her the practice. Capable of nothing grander, she lowered herself to one knee beside her husband.
Ravn stepped around his mother. “Kevral,” he said, cheeks scarlet against ivory. He limped to her, taking her hands, and assisting her to her feet.
His touch felt electric. Memories flooded Kevral suddenly, a dreamlike picture in which the participants seemed ghostly and faded: the strange, golden figure with the sword maneuvers of a Renshai; the single night of quiet passion amidst Leondis’ wooden and teary-eyed rape during which the prince, not she, had cried; and the Renshai’s apologetic and gentle ministrations. More than once, she had wondered if any of it had truly occurred or if her own desperation had created all of it. Colbey’s words had added the truth intellectually, but only now did she finally know in her heart. Ravn Colbeysson had likely sired the baby stirring inside her.
Under his mother’s curious scrutiny, Ravn pulled Kevral aside. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—Father said—I didn’t want. . .” Running out of words, he shook his head.
Kevral found herself equally incapable of speech. The being in front of her looked as nervous and abashed as any teenager caught in a desperately compromising situation. She could scarcely believe she stood in the presence of divinity. Equally to her surprise, she found her tongue first. “Please don’t apologize, my lord. You did me a favor and an honor. I begged your father’s assistance, and he helped the only way he could.” She closed her fingers around his scarred and callused hands. “I . . . did so willingly. If not for you, I would be carrying Pudar’s baby.” She demonstrated her revulsion with tone and expression.
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