by Unknown
Sigyn schools her features and her body to not betray her anger. There is a knock at the door, and the queen stands. “My husband wishes for you to stay here. I know that I would have done anything to see my son one last time … but I think you will manage. After this is over, we will go see Loki.”
Sigyn keeps her eyes lowered. The queen can’t bring herself to say, “After your sons are executed in the Void.” How sensitive. “Yes, my Queen,” Sigyn mumbles.
Frigga leaves the room. As the door closes, Sigyn hears the lock click. Heart racing, Sigyn climbs to her feet. She’s angry, frightened, and feels as though the ground has dropped from beneath her feet. It’s not that she hadn’t imagined that something like this would happen … but she’d hoped. Collecting herself, she sends an apparition through the door; there are no guards on the other side.
Hurrying to the door, she plucks a steel pin out of her hair, a gift from Loki centuries ago. She has other non-magical tricks her ex-husband taught her. Slipping the pin into the lock, she glances back at the spinning wheel. Humans believe that Frigga can see the future in the threads she spins. That isn’t true, but she can see all the past. She probably knows that Sigyn can pick locks and make herself invisible, and she has compassionately stepped away to let her visit Nari and Valli one last time.
Sigyn’s jaw hardens. She won’t say goodbye to them. She will save them, or die trying. She refuses to feel guilty. She does care about the children of Asgard—but what Frigga and Sigyn see as best are two different things. The lock clicks, and Sigyn eases the door open. She makes herself invisible, pulling on photons of light, urging them to appear to pass through her as Loki taught her.
Slipping down the hall, the weight of what she’s trying to do makes her limbs feel heavy. She shakes her head and lies to herself, like Loki would do. “You are the Victory Woman, Sigyn. Even all-seeing Frigga knew it.” But she won’t be a king maker. Her lips curl in a sneer; she’s more a king breaker.
She stops at the top of a servant staircase. To achieve victory against an army she’ll have to use treachery and deceit, she is too weak for a head-on assault. But how? Her mind returns to Frigga’s talk of Hiroshima. Her concentration wavers and her invisibility slips away. Her hands shake. She’d felt guilty for not being called to help the Japanese people. But prayers weren’t to help humans, they were to help the magical being’s higher purpose …
Her limbs feel cold, and guilt pools within her like liquid lead. Like Loki, she hadn’t been ready to take Odin head-on either, had she? She’d hoped for slow steady change, but that is an impossibility in Asgard where even ideas are condemned. Somehow inside, she’d known that, and her magic had taken her to Hiroshima not to see the fission bomb, but to see the one person in the universe Odin fears. She remembers Loki ready to take on Odin and the Diar for his sons’ lives—he is the magical equivalent of a fission bomb, isn’t he? That must be why Odin fears him.
It will be easy to trigger Loki. All she has to do is set him free.
SIGYN CURLS against the chariot wall. Pain is shooting through her from the crossbow bolt in her back. The chariot is magical, and she and Loki are sailing through the air, between great spires and beneath flying buttresses. With Hoenir and Mimir’s help, she’d rescued him from the Tower, but she’d been shot in the process. Thoughts of Nari and Valli are the only thing keeping her upright … and thoughts of how she’s slowing Loki down.
She hears the roar of a crowd and realizes they must be approaching the gateway to the Void, where their sons will be sent to their death. She’s sure there are innocent men and women in the mob of spectators, maybe even a few children. Her eyes drift closed … she snaps them open, her lips curling in disgust at herself.
“Did you forget about the Valkyries?” she asks.
Bolts of fire shoot over the chariot. Loki slumps down next to her, eyes wide. “Actually, I did forget about them.”
Feckless as ever. Sigyn takes a ragged breath as the chariot rocks in the fiery onslaught. She doesn’t know why she thought he’d be able to save them. She closes her eyes. She does know—she’d lied to herself, convinced herself that she was Victory, and that she had a plan and a weapon that could defeat Odin. Even if she is Victory, Victory can never be certain, especially not when it is certain of itself! She almost laughs … or cries. At least she will get to see her boys, just not the way Frigga expected.
The world is hazy, the bottom of the chariot is slippery. It occurs to her distantly that it may be her own blood.
“Chariot down!” Loki commands, and the vehicle drops so quickly that Sigyn is briefly weightless. More fire goes off above her head. “Hover above the crowd!” Loki commands, and the fire from the Valkyries ceases as the chariot obeys. Sigyn smiles bitterly. He’s using the civilians directly below them as shields. Her bitter smile turns into a grimace. She tells herself that if they have come to play spectators as her sons are cast to their deaths, they deserve no better.
“What are you doing?” she asks in ragged gasps.
She wonders if Loki, her imagined hero, her fission bomb, has any plan. He hadn’t when he stole this chariot. Her vision is getting blurry, but she thinks Loki lifts something. “I can’t help you,” he says. “I’m no good at healing …” Regret hangs heavy in his voice and she wants to shout at him. They don’t have time for this. She needs a weapon. She needs to give away the last beat of her heart to their sons so they know she tried.
Loki stammers, “... and this bucket will never get close enough to Valli and Nari.” She thinks he smiles. “Chariot to Hoenir’s hut!” he orders.
“What!” Sigyn shouts.
But he’s already jumped over the edge into the midst of the crowd and the chariot is shooting away. The scream has stolen the last of her breath, and Sigyn can barely keep her eyes open. Everything goes dark, but then it’s strange because she finds it easier to summon magic … a tiny part of her wonders if when you’re on the edge of death, you’re more magical. She sends an apparition to her boys. Landing beside them, she tries to touch them—and of course passes right through. Worse, they seem not to see her and they are so still she fears they have been turned to stone … but no, their skin is golden. She looks out at the crowd surrounding the podium they are on, just below the gate to the Void. The crowd is weirdly motionless and as silent as the dead—or is she dead, and beyond the range of sound, as she is beyond the range of touch? She looks more closely and sees Odin’s magic twisting through the people, locking them in place. Odin himself is just paces from her, if only she had substance ...
A cry of rage splits through the eerie hush. She recognizes Loki’s voice, and it is like music to her ears. Spinning, she sees Loki flying toward her ghostly apparition—toward their sons! A snarl is on his lips, his skin is completely blue, hair and eyes as dark as midnight. His body is haloed by fire and in the glow she sees Odin cower. Sigyn’s heart lifts as her apparition begins to slip farther and farther away from the scene. The unstable elements in their family have been united; she isn’t witnessing fission, but fusion. She smiles. A new age has come to Asgard—and it will spread to all the Nine Realms.
~ Fin
ALSO BY C. GOCKEL
Thank you for reading Atomic. If you enjoyed the world I’ve described, the mixture of magic and science, and the themes of modernity and antiquity clashing, you can read more about Sigyn, Loki, and adventurous humans in my USA TODAY bestselling I Bring the Fire series.
The first book, Wolves, is free.
If you enjoy space opera with a touch of romance, you might enjoy my Archangel Project series. Start with Carl Sagan’s Hunt for Intelligent Life in the Universe, a free novella, or dive right into Archangel Down.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C. Gockel has been writing stories for her friends and family since the dark ages (i.e., before word processors existed.) A few years ago, she started posting those stories to the intertubes. She received emails, messages, and reviews from her fans telling her she should 'do t
his professionally.' She didn't; because she is a coward and life as a digital designer, copywriter and coder is more dependable. But in the end, her husband's nagging wore her down: "You could be the next '50 Shades of Gray' and I could retire!" Unfortunately, the author writes science fiction and fantasy, and isn't particularly good at writing erotica. She is sad about this; she'd love for her husband to be able to retire and just work for her so she could nag him.
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For More Information
www.cgockelwrites.com
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QUEEN JOANNA
KATE DANLEY
Thrust into a loveless marriage of state, Queen Joanna soon discovers her new palace is home to many dark secrets. And when a face in the mirror confronts her with a dire warning, she realizes her life is at risk. Has she awakened a curse—or been struck by madness?
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Queen Joanna. Copyright © 2014. 2015. 2017. Kate Danley.
All rights reserved.
Originally published in the From the Indie Side anthology 2014
Queen Joanna 2015
Magic Under Fire anthology 2017
Created with Vellum
1
QUEEN JOANNA
T he thick, white damask and heavy beading of her wedding gown was no armor against their hate. She could feel their loathing burrowing into her back like a dagger. It was not just her corsetry which crushed her breath from her breast. Their silence there in the king’s chapel was more chilling than the screams of war. Still, the wedding continued. She looked up at the carved statues of strange saints over the altar, their long and sharp features judging her wrongful presence, just like every stone in the castle whispered back in her echoing footsteps that she should fly. She glanced at her bridegroom: this king, this widower, this enemy. How could she look upon this day with anything but the heaviness of duty? But she would do her duty, no matter the cost.
But what cost! She was the daughter of a dead king, the man who killed the family and friends of these, her new subjects. Peace was her pitiful dowry, but peace bitterly bought by abdicating her rule, stolen from her by her uncle who would take over the northern throne while she ascended in the southlands as a despised queen. Here, she would be no more than a figurehead, a pretty bird in the courts with no more power than a sparrow.
She glanced once more at this King Stephen, the man whose command was responsible for killing her father, whose armies slaughtered thousands of fathers and sons of her own people. The back of his rough, hairy hand was cold beneath her resting palm. It sought no warmth or comfort from her. In fact, it seemed to repel it. Or perhaps it was her own revulsion which thought it so. She was gladdened that he had no interest in her, that he did not even meet her carriage at the gate upon her arrival. There would be no pretense of affection. Only duty.
There were whispers that King Stephen had once been a mighty king. His dark, blonde curls caused women to swoon, and his bear-like physique caused men to quake. But now he was broken. There were rumors that he still longed for his long-since-dead wife, unnaturally so. They said his cries for his Queen Mary could be heard echoing through the halls late at night.
They said that the old queen went mad. That her death was by her own hand. That this king who was to be Joanna’s husband drove his wife to such ends with his cruelty and wickedness.
The priest interrupted Joanna’s thoughts, murmuring the words which bound these two royal lines, these two people, Joanna and Stephen, together for eternity. King Stephen turned and took a necklace from a velvet pillow. He placed it over Joanna’s head, letting it dangle from her long, pale neck, his brown eyes still never meeting hers, his face blank and joyless. His tanned and weathered hand slid a large golden ring with a stone the color of blood upon her finger. He kissed her chastely upon the cheek when instructed by the cardinal, his coarse brown beard scraping against her delicate skin.
And then the ceremony was done. Their guests broke out into polite, half-hearted celebration. It was only noise. All spirit was dead. Keeping her hand atop his, Joanna and this man made their way through the mirthless court, more actors in a pageant than new husband and wife.
Thus begun the rule of The Mad Queen Joanna.
SHE SAT STIFFLY in her bed waiting for him. Her long black hair had been braided and arranged by her assigned handmaidens, every fold of her gown placed, the candles lit so that they highlighted her beauty and cast the rest in shadow.
Her uncle swore it would be her head if she failed in this stately pact of marriage. He controlled her father’s armies, and so he controlled her. Thus she found herself sitting in this empty bridal bed waiting unwanted for a king.
She wondered how many times Stephen came to this chamber when the old queen was alive. What passion had these walls seen? What was it about Queen Mary that caused him still to mourn?
She knew his advisors used logic to convince him to take Joanna as his wife. The line of succession was barren and unclear. “What better way to ensure the peace than to have a child born with two bloodlines, of north and south, a child to heal the wounds of a centuries-old rift?” they had urged.
Her uncle’s face had boiled red when she refused this plan. “You shall bend to the will of the state or else find yourself without! The lives of thousands of your subjects depend upon this. Do you forget your duties to those you lead? Your anointed duty to protect those who have pledged their lives to you? You shall win his heart, and if you cannot, we will find a woman who can!”
The wind began to blow and howl outside, and suddenly her window swung open. She leapt up, undoing the enticing picture her ladies had painted for the king. She reached out and grabbed the lead-paned glass before it could smash against the stone of the building and break. She pulled it back into place and double-checked the latch, then grabbed the purple velvet curtains and drew them tight.
As she turned, she caught her reflection in a looking glass over the dresser. She seemed a stranger. Who was this woman, she thought to herself, this new queen of the southlands? She stepped forward. Her face was tired from the travel, tired from the ceremonies, tired of all.
“Do you think you can really make this king love you?” she asked her image, leaning until her nose almost touched the glass.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied a dark figure at the edge of the mirror. The king! She turned quickly. But no. There was no one there. She looked again at the glass, pressing her forehead against its cool surface. She was alone. She climbed into bed, blew out the candle, and pulled the covers to her neck.
The wind continued its empty howl.
“DID YOU SLEEP WELL, MY KING?” Joanna asked Stephen at dinner the next night. The sounds of celebration in the Great Hall hid her words from prying ears.
He did not look at her, his eyes glassy and blank. “I was sure you would be quite exhausted from the day’s festivities and did not wish to trouble you.”
He picked up his golden goblet and drank the hot, mulled wine in one draught. A servant stepped forward and filled it again, then backed away and out of earshot.
“I am at your command,” Joanna replied dutifully, just as she had promised when her uncle threatened her with violence if she uttered anything but words of seduction and support. “Shall I expect to see you tonight?”
King Stephen bit into a turkey leg and chewed. “No.”
She was unable to hide her smile.
She reached out and placed her hand upon his. He stopped chewing and stared at her offending touch. She leaned closer to him, careful to project nothing but the image of a supportive wife, and whispered, “My liege, rest peacefully knowing that you and I perhaps share much more in common than you think.”
She then withdrew her hand and settled into her own meal, feeling more content th
an she had in ages.
SHE LOOKED upon his indifference gratefully as the days passed. Indifference was better than forced interest.
Winter crept in with its frozen breath, the short fall color having left the land. The trees were barren, skeletal. The ground was brown and dead, killed by the early frost. Joanna wrapped herself in her thick capes and frequently walked the grounds, her ill-tempered court trailing behind, wondering who this queen was that would force them to endure the elements when warmth and comfort for their gossip could be found inside. The winters were twice as bitter in the north, and Joanna did not understand their desire to cloister themselves in hot, smoky rooms when the final days of freedom still stretched before them.
So the days passed. Each night, she would see King Stephen at the evening meal. Still his eyes continued to be glassy and blank, unseeing, unwanting. It was as if she didn’t exist. He was impervious to the rumors of their unconsummated marriage and the kingly duties he would not partake of. His obsession for his dead wife made him blind and deaf.
She heard that each night, the king retreated to a wing of the castle and threatened death to any that followed him. They said all the portraits of Queen Mary had been removed from the walls and that King Stephen kept them in a locked room which only he held the keys for—a chamber to which he retreated each night, surrounded by her presence so that her face would fill his dreams.
Joanna only knew he did not trouble her, and that was all that she cared about.
It was several months into their marriage when a wrinkled advisor stepped before Joanna and begged an audience. She turned and dismissed the ladies about her.