Rise of the Firebird (13 page)

“That is how I
earned
my name. The Divine Spear. It sounds very dramatic in the human tongue. I’m surprised you can pick up our language so easily.”

“It’s not that complicated. It’s very close to old Norse. It makes sense that natives of Álfheim would speak a variant or higher form of Norse.”

“There are very few outsiders that know that Álfheim actually exists. You’re a very unusual, learned man.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to study.”

“I can see that,” Ásgeirr pointed to the books. “Light reading?”

“I wanted to see what the Álfr had to say about demons marks.” Despite Aleksandra’s reassurances, Mychal still hadn’t given up on the hope that he could find a way to remove the marks on her. His area of expertise was high risk and he couldn’t guarantee that he would always be around to protect her.

“You’ll not find knowledge of the Blakkrvirđar in the open sections of the library. Understand, Mychal, we are the Ljósálfar. We do not keep darkness around us.”

“It’s a little naïve to ignore that there is darkness though.”

“We do not ignore it. We choose to dwell in the light. You’ll not be able to access the knowledge we have on the Blakkrvirđar on your own, but I will go with you if it’s something you are determined to study.”

“I am. Not for myself, for my friend. I know I’m damned and there isn’t any magic in the world that will change that.”

“That’s not true, Mychal. You are not damned. You are divided. Your greatest blessing is paired with the greatest of curses. You will learn to be comfortable in the divide within time. I see your pain. You do not know your full purpose. This is a time of testing. You will not remain in this place for much longer, I feel.” Ásgeirr rubbed his forehead.

“You’re prophetic?” Mychal asked, recognising the symptoms. Vadim would drift off much the same, mid conversation and then suffer nausea and headaches afterward.

“I see things that others do not. I usually have much better control over it. You don’t appear to be upset by it.”

“My father was prophetic. I know it can come unbidden.”

“You truly have been the most surprising find in this library today,” Ásgeirr laughed, shaking his golden head. Mychal smiled back. He liked this strange Álfr. He blamed Aleksandra’s influence, making him soft, but something familiar about Ásgeirr made it easier.

“I have been called worse things than surprising.”

“I can imagine. Forgive me. I’ll stop interrupting your studies.”

“I wasn’t getting very far.”

“I will show you the Blakkrvirđar books tomorrow if you wish. I need to seek permission first.”

“I would appreciate any help,” Mychal replied. He hesitated before asking, “You wouldn’t happen to teach people how to use a spear by any chance?”

“You don’t strike me as someone who wouldn’t know how to use one.”

“I know basics but my weapon of choice has always been a sword or a hand gun. Spear training would be useful and who better to teach me than the Divine Spear himself?”

“I see enough in you to know that you aren’t one to often ask for help so I’d be happy to teach you, but I should warn you, I’m a hard teacher.”

“I am hard to teach.”

“Then we should suit each other fine. Meet me in the amphitheatre near the forest in an hour,” Ásgeirr said as he turned to leave. “Bring energy.”

Mychal left the library and walked briskly back to his room. He needed to change into workout clothing and something in his mind told him he’d best warm up. Aleksandra crashed into him as they both tried to use the door at once.

“God, Mychal, you scared me,” she squealed. He picked her up and lifted her out of his way.

“I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry.”

“I can see that. Where’s the fire?” She followed him into their bedroom while he started to shed his clothes.

“I’ve training with one of the Álfr.”

“Made a new friend already? I’m surprised.”

“I met him in the library. He’s going to teach me how to use a spear.” He pulled on a singlet and bent to kiss her cheek.

“Be careful. If he’s anything like Søren, he means to draw blood and your blood is precious to me.” He ran his thumb lightly between her eyebrows to push away her frown.

“It’s training. Stop worrying about me so much.”

“I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “You attract too much trouble.”

Mychal headed outside and into the day light. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year. The meteorologists were making all sorts of predictions, the activists were blaming global warming but everyone else was pleasantly surprised by an early spring. The only people who weren’t concerned were those living with the Álfr. They knew the cause of the heat wave was thanks to Anya’s midnight adventure in the forest four days ago.

Ásgeirr was standing under the trees, stretching slowly like a lethal cat. His hair was tied in one thick braid down to his waist. He was wearing loose fitting white trousers and no shoes. As Mychal drew nearer, he saw the scars. Ásgeirr’s white skin was a jigsaw of them.

“I didn’t think that the Álfr had enough wars to warrant so many wounds,” Mychal said when Ásgeirr caught him staring.

“I’m very old, I’ve seen many wars. I’m sure you have many of your own.” Ásgeirr was looking at him expectantly so Mychal shrugged and pulled off his singlet. “I see now why you want the Blakkrvirđar books so badly. You really should be dead to be marked so deeply by them.”

“I know,” said Mychal self-consciously, “I was healed.”

“By your friend Gabriel?”

“Or one of his kind.”

“Then you must be very important, very special, to warrant such attention from the Hvítrvirđar.”

“Or they are saving my life to kill me in some extravagant way later.”

“Don’t be so cynical. You’re protected. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to live this long, let alone hunt the Blakkrvirđar so efficiently. You must be very quick.”

“Well, yes I…” Mychal managed before he was knocked to the ground. Ásgeirr was standing in the same spot, smiling.

“Not quick enough, it would seem.” Mychal’s leg swiped out but Ásgeirr moved out of reach. Mychal was on his feet and quickly dodging a blow aimed for his head. Mychal swung, kicked, ducked, and moved, but Ásgeirr always seemed to move at the last instant. Mychal, fierce demon slayer, could not lay a finger on him.

“So this…is what…it must feel like for the others to fight…me,” he wheezed after fifteen straight minutes of pure frustration. He had spent most of that time on the ground.

“Dear boy, you’re being a little optimistic there.”

“I don’t understand. Søren and I train and I thought he was good.”

“He’s good, but I am better.”

“But you have so many scars.”

“How do you suppose I learned to be faster?”

“You must’ve had an excellent teacher.” Ásgeirr’s eyes flooded with instant pain and regret.

“Yes, I did.”

“You miss him.”

“Very much, but he is long gone.” Ásgeirr folded his arms casually before continuing. “Do you wish to know why you can’t lay a finger on me, Mychal?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s because you are angry.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Not at me, you aren’t, but you are angry. You hold it deep within yourself. The only time you know peace is when you are killing.”

Mychal’s fist was fast but Ásgeirr grabbed the end of his long braid, twisted it around Mychal’s arm like a rope and used it to throw him. Mychal hit a tree, his back and shoulders cracking on impact, and collapsed on the grass. When Mychal finally opened his eyes, Ásgeirr was standing over him, a hand offered. Mychal took it and was hauled to his feet.

“I’m sorry. That was impolite,” Mychal said as he looked at his feet.

“It only proved my point. You need to be aware of how your anger can affect you.”

Mychal brushed the dirt from his trousers. “Anger helps me focus.”

“It keeps you weighed down and vulnerable. You must do something to let it go. Meditate, exercise, anything to get rid of it and practice calming your mind. If you can lose the anger, you’ll find that you will move as light and as clear as air.” Ásgeirr moved through a series of strikes, graceful and silent. He walked to where two foot long metal cylinders lay on the grass. He handed one to Mychal who had stopped trying to think or object and shut up and listen. It was a new experience to be beaten so thoroughly and effortlessly. The metal in his hand was cool and heavily engraved. He turned it over a few times and inspected the tracings.

“You are not ready to use that yet, but I want you to get an idea of the feel and the weight for when the time comes,” Ásgeirr said as he moved away from him again, giving him space.

“I don’t understand. This isn’t a spear,” Mychal replied, the smooth metal moving over and over.

“It isn’t?” Ásgeirr held his out in his right hand and with a quick jerking movement the metal in his hand grew straight out of both ends until it was as long as the Álfr was tall. The top of the spear tapered into a thin sharpened blade.

“The Álfr,” Mychal shook his head. He held out his arm and shook the metal in the same movement. Underneath his fingers, he felt something give, like a small button in the engraving he hadn’t noticed, and the spear slid itself out.

“That’s incredible.” Mychal moved his hands up it, looking for a joint, or a hinge, anything that would give the weapon a weakness. There was nothing but a very beautiful and solid weapon. He moved it so it lay flat against his palm, feeling its balance. He laughed with joy at the simplicity and perfect make.

“There’s hope for you yet, Mychal,” Ásgeirr commented. “You’ve a warrior’s heart and the shining steel in your hand will fill it with songs of glory and battle.”

“It’s brilliant. The way it shrinks and expands would be so perfect for concealing it and for travelling with.”

“Weapons need to be practical first. They need to become a part of you, a perfect extension of yourself.” Ásgeirr moved his spear, swinging it in a fluid arc. “Now, get ready for lesson number one.”

Aramis stepped around over turned furniture and accidentally kicked an empty bottle. There was a roll of leather lying on the bench top and a sharp steak knife was in a threatening position beside it.

“Anya?” he called. She hadn’t left her room in days and when he tried to pressure Yvan into getting any sense out of her, the surly Russian had turned into the firebird and ignored him.

Aramis knocked on her bedroom door. “Anya?” He tried the door handle but it didn’t budge. He placed a hand on the wood and felt her magic keeping it shut. Well, two could play at that game, especially when they shared parts of each other’s power. He pushed magic into the door until it connected and linked with his. The spell recognised him and it broke under his command.

“Anyanka?” Aramis opened the door. There were clothes and bed sheets scattered on the floor. He found her in the bathtub wearing one of Trajan’s purple shirts. The tub had no water in it but was filled with Trajan’s clothes and books. Her eyes were blank. They were the eyes of someone who didn’t have a single tear left inside of them. She was clutching a dog-eared copy of Pablo Neruda poems to her chest.

“Dear one,” he whispered and stroked her head. She was shaking and she gripped the book tighter to her.

“I don’t remember what happened in the forest,
hjarta bróđr
.” Anya reached up and gripped his arm. “I’ve a head full of words and sounds that aren’t my own. Izrayl said I had sex with the
Groenn Skaer,
but I can’t remember. I was a wolf and there was blood, earth, and heat. Spring.” Aramis knelt down beside the bath and took her face gently in her hands.

“Anyanka, you had the power of the forest inside of you. No human should’ve been able to survive that. You did and you let it go.”

“I heard Yvan.” Her shaking became worse and her eyes wouldn’t focus on him. “Did you see how he looked at me,
hjarta bróđr
?”

“He had a very rough night, Anya. He was very worried about you and it was too much for him.”

“He’s going to leave like Trajan. Like Eikki and Ilya…” Her face crumpled in on itself. Aramis was starting to worry. This wasn’t her usual drunken ramble.

“He’s not going to leave you and neither am I. In fact, I’m going to get him right now. Just… stay here.” Anya sank back into her nest of clothes and seemed to pacify. He hurried from the room, hiding the knife off the bench on his way through. He found Yvan pacing in his room.

“Please, Yvan, don’t change, just listen!” Aramis begged before Yvan could say anything. “You must go to Anya. I know you are angry with her but the forest…something has happened. She’s not right in the head. She isn’t Anya. It’s like she can’t remember who she is. The forest has let her go but it’s taken something from her.”

“Then what do you need me for? It’s Álfr magic.”

“Your voice called her back, Yvan.” Aramis gripped his arm tightly, “She loves you and you are the only one who can make her mind right again. She thinks you are going to leave her. That’s the only coherent thing I could get out of her.”

“Ask the
Groenn Skaer
. He did it to her and she let him.”

“I don’t think she let him do anything. She can’t remember anything, Yvan! Only that your voice called her back. You were there. You saw what she was when she walked from the forest.”

“She looked willing enough.” Aramis’s fist lashed out and hit Yvan in the face. He stumbled but didn’t fall.

“Anya was under a spell, Yvan. You saw it at the beginning of the night. What makes you think that she knew what she was doing? You’re the person she loves and relies on most. If you leave her now, I don’t know what she will do.”

“I wasn’t going to leave her,” Yvan said as he rubbed his jaw.

“You’d best go and tell her that yourself. If the forest has scattered her mind, then we need to bring it back.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could you kiss her like in New Orleans and bring her power back to her body?”

“Her power is there. She had spells on the doors trying to keep everyone away from her. The rest of her isn’t there. She was mumbling, calling me
hjarta bróđr,
heart brother. That’s an Álfr term I haven’t taught her. It is the name of a powerful bond, it’s implications alone…I haven’t heard the term spoken about in over a century. She is saying that there were words in her head that weren’t hers. I believe that she’s had memories imbedded in her, like a racial memory of the actual forest.”