The Apple Throne (36 page)

I chew on my lip and stand. As I turn to go, he calls, “She’s considering it, curse you. That’s where she is.
Away
and
contemplating
and probably thinking she’s alone in the world because that’s always how it is with her.”

Stopping with my back to the drunken poet, I tilt my head up to glance at the tiny pieces of sky between thin black branches of the New World Tree. This garden is nothing like my orchard. The massive Tree is a symbol of sacrifice, dark and dangerous and wild; it is the realm of the Alfather, the god of the hanged, of death and madness. The Tree’s black roots break through all the pruned paths between flower beds, brambles tangling among the lily stalks and winter-dry seed pods.

My orchard is safe. Though there are places where the trees grow out of line, where wildflowers scatter, it is lovely and calm. It is life and springtime, rebirth and growth. My sacred space—Idun’s home, where the gods come for a gift of life.

I breathe the cool air here, and my mind falls quiet, strangely numb, but not with fear or apathy. With anticipation. The Valkyrie will make her choice, and I’ll be there for her, with her.

T
he sun sets, and we are a small group who circles the altar which has been transformed into Soren Bearstar’s funeral pyre. There are only myself and my friends, Signy’s household and berserkers. Many who would have come were he forever-dead, like Vider or maybe his estranged mother, who would have traveled days to get here, have not even been told we’re burning his body.

The Valkyrie wears her grandest funerary attire, all blood-red and death-green, and her berserkers are in dress blacks, medals gleaming in the candlelight. Even the poet is in a finely cut suit. Amon has on his silver and white silk suit he wore to visit Gunn-Elin, and Sune brushed dirt and blood from his uniform coat and polished his weapons and boots. I stand apart from all but Amon because of the gold, wearing only this simple summer dress and loose violet cardigan, my scuffed boots, the black horn necklace. I remember so vividly when I stood in my tiny orchard cottage and told myself this is what Soren likes best: me dressed like it’s summer at the beach. But every finger of mine is circled with elf-gold or silver rings from Asgard, subtly pressing the others away from me. My hands, when I move them, glitter and spark like flames.

I think of Baldur’s funeral this year, how I watched from beside Tyr the Just at the far edge of the gods because neither of us enjoy the limelight. The television crews turn on their cameras and all the great flashes flicker to life, and we fade back to allow our brighter cousins to speak and preen. Though he will return, we always cry when Baldur’s body burns. There is something about the fire, the shadow of bones and crackle of flames, that makes us remember centuries of death and dying.

There should be cameras here, too. Soren Bearstar’s funeral should fill the Death Hall to the rafters and spill out onto the sidewalks and streets. Mourning and tears and long eulogies from politicians and priests vying to say better than the last how wonderful he was, how well and fully he overshadowed his father’s shame with bravery and success.

Tears track down my cheeks, though I know he will come back to me. I know right now he probably is laughing with Baldur or sparring with him, maybe remembering nothing of his life, as the dead are wont to do.

Signy welcomes us quietly with formal Valkyrie words.

Captain Darius Strong and his handful of berserkers recite the Berserker’s Prayer for Soren, and Ned Unferth passes around another bottle of very potent mead. He sings a verse from the
Lament of Beowulf
.

I say nothing. There is nothing I would share with strangers.

One of the hooded women of Signy’s household offers us each a small jar of mint salve with which to anoint ourselves. It is a heady scent when smeared over the lips, tingling that delicate skin in preparation for the smell of the pyre.

It is Pilot who lights it, with a long ash-wand and accelerant. The roof of the Hall roars as the ventilation kicks to life—a complicated system of ducts and fans to suck the smoke up through the carved branches of the Valkyrie’s throne. I watch it rise.

She ordered evergreen and yew branches and scattered lavender, rose, and anise potpourri into the flames to further mask the smell of his flesh. At first the Hall is filled with a sharp winter smell, bright and living. I stand, and I stare.

I think of that smile nobody but me knows is a smile because it only touches his eyes, and the hesitant touch of his hand on my breast. I think of the way he affixes his feet to the earth to fight, the strength of his stance and the smooth, graceful dance he does with a sword in hand. I think of his low voice, the pull of his shoulders under every T-shirt. I think of how easily he could have refused my apple.

Somehow I manage to remain on my feet, though my vision blurs and I take the tissues handed to me.

Gradually people shift and move and mingle, remaining in the sanctuary to sit or chat quietly. They leave me alone and apart. My elf gold pulls too strongly perhaps, or none of them wish to engage me as I stare at the flames.

I sit lightly upon the first pew. I sip the water I’m handed. I let Amon hulk beside me as Sune kneels and makes the sign of the hammer at the foot of Soren’s pyre.

There is drinking around me and some laughter, and distantly I hear Ned Unferth recite a poem about Soren he invents on the spot. I pull my legs up onto the pew and lean back, here for the duration, for the long night’s vigil. My vision slides unfocused, and all I see is the lick of flames, the flares of orange and white, the shadows in between. It will all be over soon.

Signy joins me hours later when the Hall is silent again, seated an arm’s length away.

The cavernous sanctuary has grown cool, the ceiling ventilation clicked off, and the altar glows with embers. If I look closely enough I see charred pieces of bone. The blade of Sleipnir’s Tooth glows. The sharkskin grip is destroyed.
Perhaps I’ll have it redone with bearskin
. He’ll have to break it in, soften it up and cover it with the oil from his palm. There will never be his father’s DNA upon it again.

Signy says, “I know a great metalsmith,” as if she read my thoughts.

I nod without glancing her way. My legs are stiff and my knees. I’m chilled and numb, and there is a buzzing in my ears. “I looked for you today.”

“Unferth told me.”

“I dreamed the heart eventually consuming you, Signy. I’ve seen it in your fate. The temptation, its hunger, will grow and grow, and finally, years from now, you’ll lose. I saw tusks tear out of your jaw.”

She huffs a laugh. “Not so bad a look, maybe? My jaw’s pretty square as it is.” I’m quiet until she continues, “Freya told me so much herself. I didn’t give in to her then.”

“It isn’t about Freya. It’s about you. It’s about the troll mothers dying and about you dying.”

“You can’t stop death.”

A tiny laugh pops out of me. “I can, actually. It’s what I do.”

“The apple,” Signy whispers.

“And this elf gold.” I hold my hand out to her, fingers splayed. “I’ve had dreams and…I know its healing power. It could be an armor for you. It is strong and made of etin-magic. If you wear it, it might protect your body as the apple will protect your life. Help you become a monster of your choosing, different from the stone-caged trolls.”

There is a profound silence as Signy Valborn holds her breath.

And she says, “I do not want this heart.”

I take her hand in my heavy gold one. They rest entwined against the pew.

“Something must be done, Signy,” I murmur.

“Why don’t
you
swallow it?” she says, but the snap of the words is belied by the resignation of her tone.

The strength of her profile is highlighted by the red glow of embers. The iron chain hangs down her chest, arrowing beneath the collar of her red dress. I cannot see the fire heart, but looking now, I feel the draw. My gold thrums in response. “I would survive it, I think, if I ate the apple,” I say. “I’ve dreamed of this gold melting over the hands before me, of swallowing it and turning into a statue of gold as the troll mothers turn into marble and granite.”

“But?”

“It can’t be me I’m dreaming of, Signy. I have no thread in fate. Not even Freya can see my future. I must see another woman becoming this new thing, this gilded lady of trolls. And besides, I am Idun. That was my choice. And Idun is… Freya called it the paradox of life and death united—always young, always dying. If I ate an apple, I would no longer be that spark to keep the apple tree thriving. And despite everything, I
want
to be the Lady of Apples, the giver of youth.”

“Yes, I understand,” she says excitedly. “I am a Valkyrie, not a troll queen. I am a monster
inside
. A Death Chooser. I am part of a sisterhood that reaches back centuries. I can’t break my promises.”

With my gold-encrusted right hand, I reach for the chain that vanishes down the collar of her beautiful red dress. She catches my wrist and says, “I have fought against this heart every day for a year and a half. I dream of it, and it begs me some nights. It wants to burn me up—”

“It
will
.”

Our eyes meet. My lips are apart, my elf-gold scar aflame. “We must do something with it,” I whisper. “The heart must live, or it will destroy you and all the trolls who are left in the world. Someone must consume it.”

Her lashes flutter. She pushes my hand away. “Freya cannot have it. I do not trust her, and I won’t let her win. I will not give it to the troll mothers again, Astrid. I will never give it to one of them for what they did to my family.”

“Eirfinna of the Mountain?” I say. I imagine Eirfinna’s obsidian bones turning into gold. It causes a breathless pause between my heartbeats.

“She killed Soren!” Signy yells.

“She did,” I sigh. “And tortured him. And she has stolen from the gods, is ferocious and loyal to her family. In other circumstances, you might like her greatly.”

Signy snorts.

“Eirfinna wants to bring her people out of the darkness. She wants to lead them, to protect them.” I shake my head. “Maybe she needs the heart more than either of us.”

“I don’t trust her, Astrid.”

“Trust me, then.”

The Valkyrie studies me through narrow eyes. “I should destroy it.”

“But the trolls… That would be genocide.”

“I know.” She pushes to her feet. “I know!” she cries, flinging her arms out. “I don’t even know if I
could
destroy it.”

The Valkyrie paces to the burning altar. She spins to face me. “I want to meet this elf. I want to meet the hidden queen of the mountains, this champion of trolls, the murderer of my best friend.” Her chest heaves with some exertion.

“She’ll be here,” I murmur. I look to the altar and remember my vision of Signy and Eirfinna facing across an ash-covered pyre. “Tonight.”

• • •

Signy charges out of the hall, leaving me with the ashes.

I walk to the altar and remove the torc from my neck. I place it upon the slab of granite. One by one, I remove the rest of the gold rings and lay them in a line. Except for the wide ring fused to my finger, they are not for me. The altar continues to exude heat, to smell of smoke and burned meat. It will all have seeped into my hair and clothing. We’ll have to let the hooded priests come soon to sweep up the ashes for his urn.

The slam of the rear door lets me know she’s returned. In heavy boots, jeans, and another red sweater, with a sword at her back and a thick belt around her hips that holds an ornate seax. The fire heart hangs free outside her shirt, beating dark red in the rhythm of a pulse. Signy’s pulse.

“I’ve put the guards off,” she says, stomping up to stand on her throne and face the door. “And ordered the berserkers to let us be. Your godling and hunter, too. Let her come.”

I sit on the first pew again, knees up, and try not to drift into sleep.

• • •

Eirfinna joins us quietly.

There is flickering light from the prayer candles and very dim silver light streaming in from the gated door leading to the garden of the New World Tree. Signy slouches on her throne, and I have not moved.

The front doors shove open, and there she stands: Eirfinna Grimlakinder with all the shine she can muster cocooned around her like a star.

Her eyes are so deeply dark they are hollows in a bleached skull, and the harsh lines of her black-diamond cheek ridges cut up into a wide jack-o-lantern grin. She walks silently in white boots and a white tunic, hair loose and flowing. She carries a short sword in hand, but there is no decoration upon her, no ribbons or jewels or rings. Only what grows in her bones.

She stops halfway up the center aisle and gestures behind her with a flat hand.

It is meant for the goblins crouching behind her in the arched doorway of the Death Hall. They snap their teeth and click claws against the marble floor, scrape down the walls, but they do not enter.

Eirfinna slinks her way to us. I stand, joints aching. “Eirfinna,” I say. “This is Signy Valborn, the Valkyrie of the Tree. Signy, Eirfinna Grimlakinder of the Mountain.”

Signy plants her feet wide and draws her seax. It is nearly as long as Eirfinna’s short sword. The two face each other beside the altarstone.

“You killed my friend,” Signy says.

“And you killed countless trollkin,” Eirfinna replies.

The Valkyrie lifts her chin defiantly.

The elf holds out her empty hand. “Give me the heart.”

Signy tightens her grip on the seax. “I won it, shadow-eater,” she says proudly. “I killed Valtheow, the mother of all trolls, and I took it, as trolls have killed and taken and killed and taken for centuries.”

Eirfinna cries, “You didn’t swallow it! The heart must live and breathe with blood to thrive!”

Signy raises her seax, pointing the tip at the elf’s chest. “What would you do with it?”

“There are troll mothers alive still. Barely.” Eirfinna steps forward. “I will give it to them, and they will choose. They will regenerate their kin.”