The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (22 page)

"I did not do those things," I tell
her. "I know I did not. I am no monster. "

In truth, I do not know that. I feel it, but how
can I be sure? I have only Mimir's waters to trust.

"Not only are you a monster," Sigrid
counters with rage unabated, "Essa knew it even before she drank
from the Well. Why else did she flee your people the instant she had
the chance, not even knowing what awaited her?"

"No, she... she did not flee," I
argue. "She was separated from her hunting party."

Sigrid smiles, wickedly. "Aye, slug. Jotnar
attacked and forced them to scatter. And then Essa had a choice, did
she not? To find her way back, or to search for something better. The
choice took her but a  heartbeat. She never looked back."

"No!" I protest without thinking.
"That is a lie!"

As a guest in this place, I instantly regret the
accusation, loudly spoken. But someone must be lying, whether it is
Ayessa or Sigrid. I cannot accept the alternative.

Sigrid bares her teeth, looking closer than ever
to murder. But with a look around at her sisters in the courtyard,
who feign disinterest, she checks herself and says, without moving
her jaw, "May the flesh wither from my bones if Essa has told me
a single untruth—
monster!
"

The strength of her faith in Ayessa is every bit
as clear in her eyes as is her hatred of me. They are the eyes of one
with whom it is futile to argue.

She spins and starts to walk away. This time I
let her go. There is nothing to be gained by further words, even if
Sigrid consented to give them. I am interested in the truth, not one
woman's conviction. Calmly meeting several of the many stares upon
me, I walk back to the cluster of Valkyriar and Gaeira.

"Forgive me for disturbing your peace,"
I say to our hosts. "We shall take our leave now."

"You both are welcome to remain," the
senior Valkyr surprises me somewhat by saying. Even more surprising
is that she appears to mean it. "A meal and beds are yours for
the asking."

"Do you give no weight to her accusations?"
I venture.

"I do give them weight, even if I do not
fully understand them. But..." She pauses, and her features tick
strangely before she continues, "perhaps as Essa's lover, Sigrid
is a mite overzealous in the desire to protect her."

Lover
. The word lingers, expanding to
fill my skull, my chest, my gut, the entirety of my being. Outwardly,
I reveal no discomfort, I think, but inside I grow numb, so detached
from my surroundings that I can scarcely be sure what words of
farewell I let spill from my mouth as we take our leave of Folkvang.
I am cordial enough, I hope, in declining their hospitality and
bidding them farewell.

An unblinking ghost on horseback, I ride hard
behind Gaeira, for whose silence I am suddenly grateful,  across
the plains of Asgard toward the city of the same name.

Evening is upon us when we leave our horses at
the stables outside the city wall. Proceeding through the gates on
foot, I speak for the first time since leaving Folkvang.

"Must we go straight to Odinn?" I ask
Gaeira. Even in my own ears, I sound fearful and childish, but it is
not fear that compels me to seek a delay in my punishment. "I
would yet seek out Ayessa first."

Gaeira, as ever, keeps her silence. Not knowing
the streets of Asgard, I still have no inkling where she intends to
take me when she suddenly grabs me by one arm and breaks into a run,
dragging me behind her with apparent purpose. The streets are hardly
full, but there are enough Aesir about that we must dart and weave to
avoid collisions. A minute later, our run ends as abruptly as it
began. Before I can ask Gaeira (who would not answer anyway) what was
her goal, I see it with my own eyes.

Before me stands Ayessa, whom the keen-eyed
slayer of Jotnar must have spotted from afar.

Ayessa stops short, but shows no surprise at my
sudden appearance before her. If I did not know better, I would think
she had not immediately recognized me, as if her eyes would have
passed right over me were I not standing directly in her path. My
mind races. I know I must speak before she simply  brushes past
me and goes on her way, with or without pausing to knee me in the
groin—or worse. There is too much to say; how do I begin? I
have had much time to ponder such things, but thrust unexpectedly
into this moment, whatever I have previously thought flees my mind,
leaving tongue frozen.

"I too drank of the Well," I blurt. I
must convince her that I am not the monster she thinks me. "I
know I wronged you, Ayessa. But not in the way which you saw. Please,
let us talk in private. A few minutes is all I ask before you banish
me forever."

Ayessa gazes curiously at me. Something in her
eyes is wrong, but the faint, derisive sneer which presently appears
upon her lips is right, more or less. If anything, her scorn is too
faint given her behavior the last we met.

While awaiting her response with bated breath, I
notice that in place of her Valkyr's garb she now wears the hunting
clothes and cloak she would have worn on the day she vanished. It is
not odd; there is no reason she should not dress thus in Asgard. But
that she more closely resembles the Ayessa I recall from our brief
time together in this life  makes even more acute the sense of
loss I feel while looking at her.

"Whatever you have in mind to say, say it,"
she says eventually.

Ayessa's voice is the one I know, but something
about that, too, seems different. I dismiss that observation, along
with the others, as an effect of our separation. She has dwelt for
seasons among the Aesir, and my own mind is clouded at present by the
restoration of my lost identity, just as it was clouded back at
Freya's cottage first by joy and then horror. Perhaps I cannot trust
my own senses when it comes to her.

"Sigrid told me what the Well showed you.
It is not what I saw. I never imprisoned you, I never—" I
cannot bring myself to repeat the entirety of Sigrid's accusation. "I
did not kill you, Ayessa. I know it. I swear it. There was love
between us, even if I was unworthy of it. We have another chance now.
If we are fated to be apart, then... so be it." Those words come
with difficulty. "But let it not be because of lies!"

I fall silent, surprised somewhat that the same
Ayessa who knocked me to the floor at Freya's has let me speak as
long as I have. Still she says nothing, just staring at me, faintly
scowling as if certain that I  am worthy of contempt, yet unsure
what answer she will give. That glimmer of uncertainty is, to me, a 
beacon of hope.

"No," she says calmly, dousing it.
"You did kill me. And I shall never forgive you for that."
She draws back a half step, preparatory to walking around me, then
pauses to lift her chin and look haughtily down her nose. "Speak
to me again," she adds, "and I will even the score."

Her manner is far cooler than it was when last
we met. I suppose she has put me so far from mind that  I no
longer even warrant passion in hatred. Flicking her cloak so that it
strikes my legs, she strides off down a side-street, passing Gaeira
without a glance. The Vanir, by contrast, watches Ayessa closely,
giving no hint of what she may be thinking. She thinks, perhaps, that
the favors she has done me this day have been in vain after all, for
here I stand on the twilit streets of Asgard, shunned and humiliated.
I have no fear of what lies ahead for me, no worry about what price
Odinn might exact for my transgression. I can think of no further
punishment that might approach in magnitude the blows already
suffered.

"Take me to him," I say dully to
Gaeira. And she does.

We return to the vast, bright chamber in which I
first met the Aesir highlord and his sons. Baldr runs up on seeing us
enter.

"Thamoth!"

I do not quite know whether to thank or blame
him for what has transpired since last I saw him. Either  way,
he might have stayed by me at the Well instead of running off.

Whether or not I am pleased to see Baldr, my
grief-dulled senses are yet sharp enough to know it will do me no
good to show displeasure with a son of Odinn, particularly now when I
stand to face the All-Father's wrath.

Baldr grabs my arm and draws me in close for the
sharing of secrets. "Tell me, what did you see, Thamoth? What
was your crime against the girl?"

I draw breath to speak, but fail to conjure
words. My shame is still fresh; I will not give voice to it just to
satisfy his idle curiosity.

Baldr grins knowingly. "That bad?"

I like Baldr rather less now than I did a short
while ago.

"She... does not hate me without reason,"
I say, hoping it will suffice. "But—"

I would tell him that I doubt the truth of her
vision—but that would be to shed doubt on Mimir's Well itself,
the source of Odinn's knowledge concerning the future of the Aesir. I
am not ready to cast such aspersions, particularly in the absence of
proof.

"But what?" Baldr prods.

I improvise, "But now it is time for me to
face your father and pay his price. I will save my words for him."

Balder's smile fades. "I told my father
last night of our actions and put the blame on myself. I think he
will show you mercy."

I furrow my brow in confusion. "Last
night?" I ask him. "Last night I had not even met you."

Balder momentarily shares my confusion. Then he
glances at Gaeira, and his face lights in understanding. "I
suppose you would not have heard from 
her
, would you? It
was yesterday that we rode to Yggdrasil. You lay unconscious by the
pool for a day and a night. It is not uncommon."

I throw my gaze at Gaeira behind me. Did she
really remain at my side for a full day and night, not even approving
of my actions at the Well? She does not react to my look, but just
stands there as ever,  looking neither pleased nor displeased,
yet... present. The vision of she and I naked and entwined springs to
the forefront of my mind, prompting me to quickly remove my gaze from
her. When I turn my head, Freya has appeared by the thick, pleated
curtains covering the walls of the great hall. Her eyes are on me in
a somber look.

"Thamoth," she calls calmly, sternly.
Ominously. "Come."

Standing straight, I put Gaeira and Baldr out of
mind and walk toward Freya at an even pace, alone, both knowing and
not knowing what awaits me behind the curtain. When I reach her,
Freya behaves as a stranger, which stings me. She pulls the curtains
back by a pleat, creating a thin, dark gap through which I precede
her.

On the other side is a small, brazier-lit room
the walls of which are decorated with skilfully painted pastoral
scenes that I presently have little interest in admiring. My gaze
goes instead to the simple throne of carven oak, set upon a stone
dais, in which sits white-bearded Odinn, Lord of the Aesir. The
throne's knotty arm, on which he drums thick, calloused fingers,
looks well-worn from that very habit.    From under his
hoary brow emanates a heavy, one-eyed glare of which I am the
minuscule target.

I venture as far into the room as Freya does,
too close to Odinn for my liking, and halt where she does.

"Kneel," Freya orders. I do not
hesitate. "Speak," she says next, almost before my knees
have touched  the stone floor. The command is as vague as it is
unexpected. Am I to defend my actions? Beg for mercy? That is my
choice to make, I quickly understand.

"Lord Odinn," I begin, "I have
violated your hospitality and taken from you what is yours without
leave. I make no excuse. I stand ready to pay your price."

"You drank from Mimir's Well." It is
Freya who says this. Odinn only glares.

"I did."

"Did it grant you the knowledge you
sought?"

"It did. It showed me visions of my
unremembered life. They were... not much to my liking."

"Your past is of no concern to the Aesir,"
Freya declares. My transgression has soured her to me, it would seem,
else there simply is no room for sentiment before the throne of
Odinn. "Did the Well grant you any other visions?" she
continues. "As you answer, keep well in mind that as it stands,
you shall leave this room with life intact. Attempt to deceive us,
and that may change."

Nothing about either of my present company leads
me to believe the threat an idle one. Any inkling I may have had
about holding anything back from them flees my mind.

"There were other visions," I admit.
"I saw the Myriad, the creatures who drove the Chrysioi from
their  realms. There was a great swarm of them, as we fought in
Hades, but the landscape in my vision did not match that place."

"Where?" Freya demands.

"I cannot say. There was a meadow, some
trees, a rocky ledge. I have seen its like in Asgard, but..." I
bow my head. "It could be anywhere. I'm sorry. It was but a
glimpse."

Freya is silent a moment. "What else?"

"I saw a great serpent in flight," I
tell them. "Its wings eclipsed the sun. Drops of venom from its
teeth set fire to the land beneath."

Before I have finished, I catch Freya looking
abruptly at Odinn. She clasps one forearm with the hand opposite as
if against a sudden chill that is not present in the flame-lit room.
My vision frightens her, and not just in some vague way.

Odinn, for his part, might well be carved from
the same stuff as his throne, for all the reaction he shows. But he
does emit a low, thoughtful growl.

"Continue." The fresh quaver in
Freya's voice is subtle, but detectable even in the single word.

I have two visions left to tell. One is entirely
personal to me, the other of cataclysmic significance to the
inhabitants of eight realms.