The Lost Sun (36 page)

“I also”—Odin tilts his head as the raven on his shoulder clacks its beak—“understand that with that spear at your throat you swore yourself out of my service and into his.”

“I did, lord.” I glance to Baldur, where surprise makes his eyes even brighter. The god of light watches me and slowly smiles.

“Interesting.” Odin turns finally to Vider. A single barking laugh launches from him. “Vider! No wonder that layabout wanted to come.”

Vider flushes so hard her delicate skin turns pink from
collar to crown. Frowning, I look beyond Odin to where stands a boy I’ve never seen before, with a bush of violent red hair, wearing sunglasses and a T-shirt the color of the hawk’s red tail feathers. No hawk is to be seen. The boy waves. Winding between his fingers is a strand of Vider’s white-blond hair. The strand Freya transformed into that little bird when we were still in the orchard.

Ignoring the boy, Vider raises her chin and says to Odin, “We were promised boons.”

My heart stops and Astrid lets loose a tiny groan. But on the Alfather’s face shock is followed fast by amusement, which is lucky for Vider.

“So you were, trollkin. Let it not be said that all of Loki’s children mince words.” He crouches, and his raven spreads its wide wings for balance as Odin brings himself down to Vider’s level. “And what is it, child, that you ask of me?”

There’s no drop of hesitation before she says, “I would be your berserker, with your madness in my stomach, as wild and strong as Luta Bearsdottir.”

The red-haired boy cries out, “Vider!” and jumps forward. He throws off the sunglasses and strides toward us, with every step aging until he is about fifteen. Her age. Freckles stand out stark against his suddenly bloodless face and he’s reaching one pleading hand to her. “What are you doing?”

I recognize him now: this is Loki himself, patron of caravans. And Vider knows him personally. What else did she not tell us?

But Vider ignores the god of thieves, holding her eyes on
Odin’s pale blue gaze. The Alfather ignores the boy, too, and says something. I only see his mouth move, but no words issue forth. Vider, though, must hear them, for she releases my hand and covers her mouth in the most fearful gesture I’ve ever seen her make. Tears fill her eyes but don’t spill over as she nods. “Yes,” she says, and her hands lower to her belly, as if she will feel the growth of the frenzy there.

Astrid squeezes my fingers and I look with her past Odin to where Loki sinks to his knees. The strand of Vider’s hair is still caught in his hand, and I wonder what part he played in all of this. I remember that Fenris Wolf told me it had to have been a god who stole Baldur’s ashes, and although Loki was given alibi, the alibi was from Freya herself, who is clearly involved. Had Glory known? Was she warning me? Or is her faith in her father more than it should be?

Odin says, “So be it.”

Loki casts a baleful glance at Freya.

“Vider Bearskin,” the Alfather intones, “the fever will grow to fill you, and you will writhe with madness and power. From this moment, not berserker born, but berserker made.” Odin places a hand on Vider’s white-blond head. She bows, shivering, and that is all of the passing of power.

Loki jumps to his feet and claps his hands. He is a fire-red hawk, screaming as he flies up.

“That shall be your burden as well, little warrior,” Odin tells Vider. She purses her lips angrily and says nothing.

“And so,” Odin says, standing again. He holds out a hand to me. “What is your wish, Soren?” Amusement glints in his eye.
“Immortality? Shall I bring you to the Valhol and make you one of my Lonely Fighters?”

I open my mouth and think for a moment what a thing it would be, with Vider asking to become a berserker, if I were to ask to be free.

But it isn’t what I want anymore. I take a deep breath and say loud enough that Freya is certain to hear, and perhaps the gathered of Idun’s Bears as well, “I want to remember Astrid.”

I feel her tense beside me, going as still as stone. I don’t breathe, either.

Odin frowns thoughtfully. The raven on his shoulder ruffles its feathers and tilts its head at me.

The moment drags out, and I cannot think that he will refuse. It is really so simple a request. Only memory. Only to hold her always in my heart. Nothing more. No power or immortality. Nothing to bend the laws of gods or men.
Please
. Just a memory.

And he says, “So it is done.”

All the air falls out of me. “Just like that?”

His smile now is almost tender. “Just like that.”

Astrid grips my arm and stares at me for a split second, then she reaches for Odin. With more courage than I have, she touches the Alfather’s hand. “I want him.”

Freya walks over and slides her fingers around Odin’s braid. The two gods watch us—one blue eye and two gray as the moon. Freya smiles as if this was her intention all along, and on Odin’s cheek a scar slowly blooms, cutting it in half under his missing eye. Just like my tattoo.

The weight of their consideration is the only thing anchoring me to the earth. We are all the beings in the world, me and Astrid and Odin and Freya, and everything hangs between us until Odin finally agrees. “Four days a year you may have him. Once at each quarter of the sun. Every other day, you will serve your apples.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and closes her eyes.

And like that, our destinies snap together again.

TWENTY-THREE

IMMEDIATELY WE’RE SWEPT away.

Because most of us are incapable of transforming ourselves, Henry Halson offers up the berserk band’s heliplane, a long black machine with two rotors and the face of a grizzly bear painted on its nose. Odin barks a laugh and accepts, clapping Henry on the shoulder with such force the warrior shakes.

Vider and I are taken into the heliplane with Baldur and Odin, and one of the berserkers to fly it. We’re given headsets, but Odin ignores us, talking instead with Baldur the whole ride, in Old Scandan. I can understand maybe one in twenty words. Vider presses her face to the window, and I lean back in the hard leather seat with my eyes closed and hold the image of Astrid in my mind. I believe in Odin’s word this once, because of all the witnesses, but as we lift off the valley floor and soar over the Cascades, I can’t help the crawling fear that it was a lie. That I’ll forget her. I whisper her name to myself.

Our ride lasts less than an hour, not enough time to fly to Bright Home, and yet that’s where we are.

The helipad is halfway up the mountainside, and as I disembark I see the black roof glinting in the sunlight at the peak. Bright Home perches among snow-capped cliffs, its golden pillars and silver doors brighter than the ice.

Here, tucked back into the evergreens, is a network of old-fashioned longhouses, looking like luxurious halls out of an epic romance, with carved double doors, and round shields decorating the roofs. Torches burn with silver light, paved red paths connect the halls, and a lake shimmers in the center. The air is cold and thin, yet somehow I feel safe.

And I continue to remember Astrid’s name.

I’m separated from Vider and put into the hands of a host of women who lead me into one of the halls. The inside is divided into a lobby and guest rooms, making me think of the kind of resort vacations they advertise on television. The women hardly talk, but give me no choice about being bathed and dressed. They trim my hair and present me with a tunic-like white shirt to wear under the bearskin coat Henry Halson gave me. I pull on leather pants softer than cotton, and new boots that match the coat. Finally, the women fit golden and copper bracelets around my wrists and shove rings onto my fingers. I’m being made into a proper-looking warrior, and when they belt Sleipnir’s Tooth across my back, I stare at myself in the mirror. No one from Sanctus Sigurd’s would recognize me if not for my distinctly non-Asgardian skin and eyes, and the tattoo gouging down my face.

I can’t tell how much time has passed before I’m thrown back together with Vider in the lobby. She’s been cleaned up,
too, and put into a berserker’s uniform of black so that she will fit beside Idun’s Bears. Her silver-blond hair is braided in a crown. Her eyes are reddened with pain.

Because of the tattoo.

It’s harsh and black against her left cheek, the delicate skin around it inflamed just enough to turn pink.

I reach out and brush my fingers down her temple, not too close to the fresh ink. Vider raises her chin and forces a tight smile. “This is what I want.”

Her hand slips into mine, and we wait in the center of the marble floor while attendants and Valkyrie rush around us.

Baldur’s Feast.

I’ve watched it on television; I’ve skipped it to practice with myself in the holmring. I never thought to find myself a guest.

The Bright Home feast hall where it takes place is nine times larger than the Great Hall at Sanctus Sigurd’s, and at the high table are nine thrones, each for one of the most powerful gods of Asgard. Stretching out from it like multiple legs are long tables where the rest of us sit: minor gods and the president of New Asgard, the lawspeaker I saw so recently address the country, along with other blessed members of the Congress and specially chosen representatives from local assemblies. There are Valkyrie serving everyone honey mead in golden cups, and Lonely Warriors bring forth roasted boar. Berserkers chat with a handful of Thor’s generals, and high priests of every Asgardian temple have assigned seats. There are film
stars and that telepreacher, the prince of Mizizibi, we listened to on the road. I’m overwhelmed by the press of people, both famous and obscure, and by the presence of so many gods. TV cameras and flashbulbs crowd in the corners, and there’s a constant stream of reporters tapping the guests’ shoulders for attention and in hopes of an interview.

I whisper Astrid’s name.

The roof arcs up into an illusion of the afternoon sky, with a false sun moving slowly across it. The torches here are silver, too, and everything is gilded or carved in intricate detail with the histories of our greatest heroes. When the attendants lead us in, I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my mouth closed. Thinking of Astrid. Gundrun Graycloak herself greets us and shows us to our seats just below the high table. Many eyes turn to us, though they don’t know who we are. I hunt for Astrid or Baldur and find neither—Odin is not yet here himself, nor any of the leading gods.

I’m too nervous to eat. I sip the mead Gundrun offers, sharing most of it with Vider. The boar smells of cloves and pepper, and makes my mouth water. I don’t know where Astrid is—the loss twists my stomach. But at least I know her name.

When the gods arrive, they each carry in a massive plate of food: candied fruits and apple dumplings, roasted potatoes, buttery rolls, and whole cooked crows and swans with their wings spread. There is Odin, of course, and his wife Frigg the Cloud-Spinner. Freya in her half-death mask hand in hand with her brother Freyr, who is the god of wealth and plenty. They laugh together, though I don’t see what’s funny. After them
Thor in a shining corselet with his fiery hair blazing, and Tyr the Just, missing his right hand because Fenris Wolf devoured it. There is Loki, looking fifteen and glowering.

Baldur enters, and a roar of approval lifts the roof of the hall. So many cameras go off I’m blinded, but I’m smiling, too, because Baldur is here and alive, and this is what I’ve seen through the lenses of those cameras for my entire life, only now I’m here. And I was part of what made it happen.

A hush falls. I look to the high table.

Astrid.

I remember her name.

She stands in a white dress, still with her black plastic pearls about her throat and her dark curls tumbling down over her shoulders. She carries a basket of large, beautiful golden apples, and suddenly I realize a secret: the gods never show their believers what the real apples of immortality are. We aren’t supposed to know they are wizened little things; we’re meant to believe they are these brilliant, round fruits that Astrid hands now to the gods: one to each, ending with Baldur. The god of light kisses her hand and takes a bite of the apple.

Another rousing cheer lifts through the hall, and Astrid herself quiets us with an open palm. She says, “Welcome to life, Baldur the Beautiful.”

I am light and alive, laughing with happiness because she is so beautiful there with the table of gods. She glances out into the crowd. She finds me, and smiles.