by Ann Gimpel
I gave her a quick hug. “Of course, I’m back.”
“Are all the goblins dead?” someone called.
“Yes, and a single troll. We have a handsome new standing stone down by the small loch.” I made my way to the front of the common room and asked, “What did you decide?”
No need to elaborate. They’d understand what I meant.
“Is it acceptable if I speak for the coven?” Patrick asked.
After a sea of yesses and ayes, he went on. “We believe it best to split our forces. Initially, only a few of us will make the move to Inverlochy. We will plant seeds and tend them and see how it goes. We do have a request of you, Rowan.”
It surprised me since the witches had never asked me to for anything before. “Of course. What is it?”
“Since you can teleport, and travel between the two locations will be risky, we hope you’ll agree to spend time in both places.”
“I’d planned to do that anyway,” I told the witches. This was as good a lead-in as I was likely to get for my other revelation, so I went for it. “You’ll recall I told you Ceridwen’s magic was behind the Breaking. By the time I discovered the spot she’d loosed her destruction, it had mostly played itself out.
“I’ve done my best to oversee it since then, to make certain it’s not boobytrapped in some unknown way and biding its time before it surges to life again. So far, I’ve done all right, but magic is slippery, and there could come a time when my efforts fail.” I stopped without telling them about Mother’s legendary temper. After our last go-round, if there was a way to stoke the remains of her spell back to life, she’d do it to get back at me.
“We appreciate what you’ve done.” Hilda stood up in the middle of the room. “Before this, you’ve worked alone. We understand why. You didn’t want to reveal your magic to us, but now that we know, we’re standing ready to assist.”
“Aye, tell us what you need,” rose from several quarters.
Their unstinting support and belief in me thickened my throat, and I felt the hot bite of tears behind my lids. Mort upped the ante on his purring.
“Thank you,” I told the witches. “I appreciate it, and there may well be a place for magic that’s different from mine. Since I realized it was Mother’s magic that caused the Breaking, I’ve been considering how I can neutralize it and give Earth a fighting chance to rebuild. The earthquakes and storms have lessened enough, we might have a chance.”
“That’s a broad topic, and we’ve covered enough ground for tonight,” Patrick said. “Tomorrow, we’ll firm up who will go to Inverlochy. When I asked for volunteers earlier, nearly everyone raised their hand. I’m delighted by your enthusiasm, but what we’re looking for will be a mix of magics. So those who are there have a chance of defending themselves.”
“Worst thing that would happen,” I murmured, “is a stray Celt might show up, but when I was there a couple of nights back, the place hadn’t been disturbed in a long time.”
“What’s the best approach if that happens?” Hilda asked.
I beat back a grin. “Blame it on me. Ceridwen’s errant spawn. Apologize and leave. I truly don’t believe we have much to worry about. This place”—I spread my arms wide—“was shaped by Celtic magic too. It’s how I knew about it. Not that I’d ever seen it before, but I felt the pulse of its power.”
“You’re full of surprises,” Patrick said and angled a speculative glance my way.
I shrugged. “’Fraid I’ve about run out of them. The Celts don’t have ties here. They’ve settled on a borderworld, and, from the looks of things, they seem fine there.”
“Any chance your mother might rustle them up to undo some of the harm she—?”
“None.” I cut Wendell off. Another of the elder witches, he was angular and thin to the point of emaciation. White hair fell around his bony shoulders and patched clothing.
“What Mother did was forbidden,” I told them. Harsh words, but the witches deserved the truth. “Part of the covenant that governs those with strong magic is we will not strike the first blow against humans.”
“How could they not know what Ceridwen did?” Patrick asked.
“They probably do and have looked the other way, but it doesn’t mean any of her kinfolk would aid her if she proposed further harm.” I reached up, detached Mort from my shoulders, and cradled him in my arms. “A little bit ago, you said this was enough for tonight.”
“It is. I’ll see everyone tomorrow when we break our fast,” Patrick said.
I scuttled out of the room before anyone could hit me up with any more “what-ifs.” A lot had happened, and I was tired. Would the dragons visit my dreams again? A corner of my soul—one I didn’t recognize—made a bid for dragons.
Lots of them.
I should have been frightened. Instead, a fine edge of anticipation tightened in my chest.
I’d have liked it better if I understood why.
Chapter Seven, Bjorn
I overslept, something I rarely do. By the time I was up and moving and had slopped down my morning tea, the sun was well on its way to its zenith. No one had come knocking this morning, also an unusual occurrence. It was rare no one wanted potions or poultices or a special tea.
Something to strengthen their magic. Or weaken someone else’s.
I held secrets. Lots of them. But I was careful not to provide anything that would weaponize anyone’s magic. I might tell them a particular powder or herb would have specific effects when it was far more benign than what they’d requested.
So far, I hadn’t been caught, and I probably never would be since my magic was more robust than anyone’s seeking my services.
I’d dreamed of Rowan. And of dragons. If my dreams were a bellwether, I’d been correct about Rowan not being her true name. Another golden dragon—not Nidhogg—had told me her name was Runa and that it meant shining secret. The small discordant ping I’d gotten off Rowan dissipated when I heard her named Runa.
It was a fine, old Norse name.
Why did she hide it away? Did she even know about it?
I tightened the cord that held my trousers in place and tossed on a shirt. The previous day and evening had been so surreal, I checked in my pocket for the moonstone. Sure enough, it hadn’t moved.
Ha. Wishful thinking. Where would it have gone?
I withdrew it and held it in the palm of my right hand. Light filtered through my single window and bounced off the stone, turning its white and gold to violets and blues. I wanted to return to Midgard, but the stone didn’t seem to have any opinions one way or the other about how I spent my day.
Guess I couldn’t use it for an excuse to shirk my other duties, ones I’d had long before Nidhogg tasked me with reporting back to him about Midgard.
I was due—actually overdue—for my monthly visit to Alfheim, home of the Elves. They’re almost a forgotten race, but they are linked to the Vanir, the gods who rule Vanaheim. I suppose you could say I answer to them, but I don’t. Not really. They haven’t paid any attention at all to me since they handed off Alfheim.
I always figured they felt guilty about ducking out from under their geas, but likely it was more of an out-of-sight, out-of-mind progression. Particularly after the Breaking, the Vanir have had a rough go of things.
I do my best to keep a low profile and stay out of political maneuverings. No one listens to me anyway, since I’m not a god. Makes it simpler to fly beneath everyone’s gunsights. Historically, the Vanir were responsible for human and agricultural fertility. It goes without saying, that’s pretty much taken a serious nosedive since the Breaking.
The humans who are left aren’t doing much breeding, and the fields lie fallow. Too much dark magic wandering about to make farming worthwhile. Not if a gnome picks you off while you’re checking on your watering system, or harvesting your crop.
I’ve overheard a few arguments between my local gods, like Frey and Freya, and the Asgard crew. They haven’t been pretty. Meanwhile, I suspect
Yggdrasil has problems of its own. The One Tree isn’t my responsibility, so I haven’t looked too closely since the Breaking.
Everybody’s been into mudslinging, and I figured if I was the bearer of bad news about Yggdrasil, the gods would blame me for the problem I was trying to highlight. Rather an arbitrary bunch, the Norse gods.
Odin used to do a better job ruling things, but he’s been immersed in doing all the plundering he can, right along with leading the Hunt. Funny thing, the Wild Hunt. Anyone who spends too much time with them ends up not quite right in the head. I’m not suggesting Odin isn’t powerful enough to keep the dead from eating up his sanity, but he hasn’t been acting like his old self, either.
He used to be more interested in drinking and wenching and chewing the fat as he relived his glory days.
Like I said, I keep my head down and do my job.
No time like the present for my long-neglected visit to Alfheim. Half the day was already spent. I headed out the door, intent on making my way to Bifrost so I could at least poke my nose in and see how the Elves were faring.
Maybe no one would be sick or need anything in the way of magic from me. That would free me up to return to Midgard with a clear conscience. I knew exactly why I wanted to be there. It should have bothered me, set off a phalanx of alarms, but it didn’t.
Rowan—Runa—fascinated me. I wanted to know more about her. Aw hell, I wanted to know everything. It was convenient to have the dragon’s orders as a fallback—in case anyone gave me grief for being gone.
I made it through one of many entrances to Bifrost and jumped on its shining surface. When it became clear I wasn’t heading for Midgard, the moonstone sent hideous waves of cold into my leg. It was easier to take than when it had jabbed me last night, but it was still damned unpleasant. Like I said, I’d passed beneath the lintel and was on the bridge. It’s not the kind of place where I could have stopped and had a heart-to-heart with my new pocket-mate.
Once I access Bifrost, I can’t turn around, nor can I leave until I reach the destination I keyed into its harmonics when I tapped into its particular magical frequency. Spells are like that. Once cast, they don’t “uncast” easily. Now I might miss my get-off point. It only meant I’d have to cycle through the worlds once again to reach it. I gripped the stone, but all it did was freeze my hand.
“Now look here,” I tried for stern, “I will return to Midgard as soon as possible.”
If anything, the cold grew worse. Did the stone know I couldn’t reverse paths? Or was it only steeped in instructions from its dragon lord? I suspected the latter. Bypassing the moonstone, I raised my mind voice.
“Nidhogg. I must stop by Alfheim. As soon as I’m finished, I’ll go back to Midgard.”
I waited, wondering if I’d ever regain the use of my right hand. It was so cold I couldn’t uncurl my fingers from the stone. They’d frozen in place. It wasn’t immediate, but by the time I got near my exit point—and believe me, I was paying very close attention—the infernal cold had retreated a few degrees. And then a few more.
Alfheim has heated pools where steaming water bubbles up. My hand was better, but my first stop once I stepped off Bifrost was a nearby tarn. I was soaking my hand, luxuriating in the return of blood to my poor fingers, when I heard movement behind me.
“Bjorn. It’s so good to see you.”
I didn’t have to turn around to know Mirie had found me. She was kind of a combination grandmother and busybody who knew everything that was going on in Alfheim. About a meter tall with pointy ears and gobs of rainbow-shaded hair that fell to her feet, she peered over my shoulder and asked, “Are you all right?”
“I am now,” I told her. Before she could dig for details, I added, “I had a small run in with a dragonstone.”
Her mouth rounded into an oh, and she murmured, “I see.” Her eyes were dark, expressive pools. Like most of her kin, she wore a long, sashed cream-colored tunic woven from a combination of sheep and goat wool. Alfheim wasn’t as warm as Vanaheim. A chilly breeze crept into every gap in my garments and made me wish I’d tossed a cloak over my shirt.
“How is everything?” I asked. “Seems as if you might have been waiting for me.”
“Och, I was…”
I listened as she rattled on about an elf in the midst of a difficult labor, an aging elf whose magic was fading, and concerns about Yggdrasil. Apparently, the tree root that touched Alfheim had retreated a few centimeters. I shook water off my hand and straightened.
We set off to deal with the elf in labor with Mirie chattering a mile a minute. Elves are the gossips of the Norse world. If I ever wanted to know what everyone in the eight worlds occupied by Norse magic was up to, all I had to do was visit Alfheim.
Obviously, the elves would have done fine without me, but they took comfort from my presence. My power is different from theirs, less earth and more air and fire. It’s a good blend, or I wouldn’t have been so quick to agree to caretake them.
I hadn’t meant to spend quite so long in Alfheim, but Mirie insisted I take a peek at Yggdrasil’s root before I leave. It didn’t look any different to me, so I did my best to reassure her. The baby elf—a boy—was healthy, and I’d eased the aged warrior into Valhalla. All in all, a satisfying day. My trips to Alfheim didn’t always go quite that well.
I was tired. And hungry. But the stone had taken up its incessant nagging again. I’d have to speak with Nidhogg and see if he couldn’t tone it down a bit. Despite my eagerness to see Rowan, I’d have stopped by home to grab a quick bite before traveling to Midgard.
The damned moonstone would have a nervous breakdown—or kill me outright—if I tarried, though. So I boarded Bifrost with a clear image of Midgard in my mind. The human world was quite shy on rations, so it would be a while before I was able to eat. As I moved from one level to another, I wished I’d had more than a cup of tea before leaving home.
I walked out into Midgard in nearly the same spot I’d left it the previous night. Residual smoke from the goblins still marred the horizon. At least it wasn’t raining, but clouds covered the gray sky from end to end. I checked the angle of the sun. It would be dark soon. Days were quite short in Midgard this time of year.
The dragon had instructed me to do what I usually did in Midgard, so I headed for the spot responsible for the Breaking. It was quite a way from where I’d emerged, so I called up a teleport spell to take me to the flat plain just south of Loch Lomond.
Once, it had been a busy area, and quite a collection of rusted cars and trucks were parked at odd angles. Some off to the side, but others in the center of the road. They’d been abandoned during one of many violent earthquakes. Huge craters had broken the asphalt, making further progress impossible in a vehicle.
I did a quick scan, keeping my power subdued, to see if anyone remained in the assortment of deserted buildings. I checked every time, but never found a soul. Not like last night where there’d been a small herd of humans next to a loch.
Had they been there all along, and I’d missed their presence? It was possible since I’d never focused much attention in that area. No reason to. It was magic I was on the hunt for. I’d never fancied myself a savior for mortals.
I could see where a more pastoral setting would be preferable to living here, though. Castle Balloch had been reduced to a rubble heap. The new Castle Balloch, mind you. The original one crumbled around 1300. This one wasn’t built until the early years of the nineteenth century. Both were right on the shores of Loch Lomond, a lovely setting at one time.
Not anymore.
Something about the Celtic spell that spawned the Breaking had opened channels deep in the earth. Toxic gasses and fumes had billowed out and killed most of the trees and shrubs and grasses. They’d probably not been easy on any mortals in the area, either.
By the time I located this spot, there weren’t any dead lying about. Not because no one had died here—some of their shades still roamed—but because human flesh is prized as a delectable
treat by every wicked thing that walks the Nine Worlds. As if Midgard sensed my bleak thoughts, it added chilly rain to the weather mix. It was cold enough, once full dark fell the rain would turn to snow.
My scan came back clean. Nothing anywhere near. But then, there never was. I could have gotten away with doing nothing, not bothering to check my surroundings, but it wasn’t my bent to be sloppy. Sloppy caught you off-guard, and it could get you killed. I am long-lived, but far from immortal. If someone was determined, they could drain my essence quicker than I could replace it with magic. The Nine Worlds were full of those with magic. I’ve never understood why mine was stronger than most. Part of it is I’ve worked hard to master spellcraft, but I had the raw material to begin with. If I didn’t, all the elbow grease in the universe wouldn’t have mattered a twit.
I hurried to the shores of the loch and squatted next to it. The water looked clearer to me, and I hoped the fish who’d survived were doing better than they had been. A few years back, I’d worried they’d all die out. A school swam toward me, silver-orange scales gleaming beneath the water’s surface. Probably, they retained some archetypal memory of humans feeding them.
If I’d had food, I’d have eaten it myself. The gift I could—and did—give them was not snaring any of them to make myself a meal. I stood and hustled to the spot that had spawned the Breaking. The magic clinging to it made my skin crawl, so I drew power of my own, cloaking myself with it to reduce the sting of Celtic enchantment.
Usually Celt power has a clean feel, but not this spell. Whoever had done this knew full well they’d done wrong. The stink of guilt hugged places where the spell had burst forth, fully formed. Maybe guilt isn’t quite right. Whoever had done this hadn’t given a good goddamn who they hurt. They’d wanted something.
I drew back from the jagged edges of what was left of the spell.
What the hell could a Celt have wanted with Midgard? Granted, they had a small presence here in the ruins of Inverlochy Castle, but I’d always seen it as a portal to some borderworld that suited them better. Kind of like what Underhill was to the Fae: a spot to bide separated from humans, yet still with a toehold in this world.