The Lost Sun (11 page)

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why are you still here while the rest of the world is so afraid?” I can’t help but talk high and fast, shaking my head. I turn to wake Astrid. But her face is drawn and her eyes dart under their lids.

Elijah touches my elbow and I whirl on him.

“Understand.” Abby touches my other elbow. There is such brightness in her eyes—faith like Astrid has. “He told us he was waiting here, for someone to come. For someone to bring him his spear.” She nods toward my face. “What could we do but wait here with him? So he would have a bed. So that he would not be alone. And now, the spear has come.” When a new smile
splits her face, there’s only the dim red glow of embers to show it. A thrill of fear cuts me, because I don’t know if she’s right or if she’s crazy.

But she tilts her head and the moonlight fills her face. Abby Kelsey is calm and peaceful. Her smile is only friendly, and her hands have lost all the pent-up energy from earlier.

She says, “Soren, the god of light was waiting here for you.”

SEVEN

INSIDE THE SHELL of the Volundr Spark, all I see is darkness within and without. All I hear is Astrid’s quiet breathing. I sit with my back against the door and she curls beside me, head on my chest, arms tucked between us. Through the opposite window I watch the pop-up trailer. The Kelseys spread two zipped-together sleeping bags in the bed of their truck and have not moved in hours.

Astrid barely woke as I lifted her from the chair at their camp and helped her back to our car. We climbed into our makeshift bed and Astrid huddled against me, asleep again immediately. Sometimes she smiles and her lips move as if she speaks in her dreams. Her fingers tense and relax against my T-shirt with every new dream. Part of me wishes to shake her awake and tell her everything. But I think,
What if it isn’t true? What if they’re mad, or fanatical?
Selfishly, I don’t want to risk ruining her peaceful sleep, or the way her soft hair tickles my neck. So instead of confessing, here I wait.

Tonight I have no desire to sleep. I never even close my eyes,
but keep watch out the wide windows to make certain the Kelseys don’t vanish in the night, don’t take their wild story with them.

And if they
are
being truthful, if Baldur sleeps in the dark of their pop-up trailer, I must be ready.

I cannot miss the moment when he will emerge to face the sunrise.

The moment there is a first sign of light in the east, I whisper Astrid’s name against her hair. “Wake up.”

The silver line grows, flat and narrow against the prairie horizon.

Astrid shifts, groans softly.

“Astrid.”

She sucks in a great breath and sits away from me. Rubbing her eyes with her fingertips, she says, “Yes? What? I was so comfortable.”

“Watch with me.” I point out the window toward the trailer.

“Watch what?”

“Just watch.”

She settles back against me, at an angle so she can see what I see. I finally shut my eyes for a brief moment, knowing she watches for me, because I want to remember this feeling. Astrid’s shoulder presses under my arm, and one of her hands rests lightly on my thigh. My heartbeat quickens, and to distract myself I ask, “What did you dream of?”

“You.”

“Me?” This is the opposite of the distraction I hoped for.

“You rode upon the back of a great wolf, as black and large as Fenris Wolf, with a spear in your hand and a wild grin on your face.”

I remain quiet, and assume the wolf is my berserking, except that I smiled in her dream. Thinking of battle-frenzy does not make me smile.

“There were also apples,” she adds irritably. “Many of them, in that same orchard stretching into infinity, until the colors transformed into the Rainbow Bridge that connects this Middle World to Old Asgard.”

“Perhaps it’s Baldur’s way home, across that bridge.”

“Oh, perhaps.”

The horizon is white now, fading upward into blue. There are no clouds, only the empty, perfect bowl of sky over the prairie. She says, “I hope we find him today. If we don’t, I’ll make a fire outside the park and dance a true seething.”

“I do not think you’ll need to.”

“Why?”

Silently I point again at the trailer. The door squeaks open. I hold my breath.

A man walks stiffly down the two plastic steps and pauses, glancing toward the rising sun.

Astrid’s hands fly to her mouth. Before I can say anything, she crawls to the door and pops it open, spilling out onto the ground.

She scrambles up and stands perfectly still, watching as he walks away from the Kelseys’ camp until he’s alone and free of shadows. Light catches his hair, and it blazes as brightly as fire.

I move to watch through the open door. His back is to us, and his arms stretch out, palms open and facing the sun. As if embracing it. I see his shoulders lift as he breathes deeply. I wish I could see his face.

All the prairie brightens, becoming a plain of dazzling gold and silver.

Astrid takes faltering steps closer, and I finally climb out of the car to follow her. She continues toward him, walking as if in a trance.

The sun is fully up, a silver-white circle against the sky, blazing in my face. It warms me despite the chill in the air.

He turns to her, and they face each other before me. Astrid holds out her hands and says, “Baldur. Prince. We’ve come to take you home.”

The smile she gives him is so bright, it eclipses the sun.

I feel trapped in shadows, without her warmth against my skin.

“My name is Astrid Glyn,” she says. “I dreamed of you here, Prince. And so we came, to lead you to your father at Bright Home.”

“Astrid. An old name.” His voice sounds human, unaffected, not at all godlike.

“My mother, who gave it to me, is a favored seethkona of your cousin Freya.” Astrid offers her hand again, and Baldur takes her fingertips, raising them as he bows.

“It is honoring to meet you, daughter of magic,” he says as she leads him toward me. My frenzy blazes up in something that feels like anger, and in a fleeting thought I regret my spear is not at hand. I lift my chin, straighten my shoulders to take whatever comes.

Baldur appears perhaps twenty years old, slimmer than me, but his movements are as graceful as any warrior’s. Below too-long sweatpants his feet are bare, and his sweatshirt is two sizes larger than he needs. Swimming in the clothes, he looks like a little boy emulating his father. Perhaps we’re wrong and he is not the god of light. That would explain my sudden resentment.

“Will you come with us?” Astrid asks him.

He glances at her. “I, too, have dreamed. I am waiting for someone to arrive, whom I shall know when they do, because of my dreams.”

Her eyebrows rise. “What have you dreamed of?”

They’re just before me now, and my doubts about him drain away. Up close, his eyes mirror the fading silver and gold of the dawn sky, and every line of his face is perfect. My knees shake.

“I have dreamed …” Baldur pauses when he sees me. His lips remain parted to speak, but no words break free. Dropping Astrid’s hand, he takes the final three steps separating us. He’s taller than me, and beside him I feel like a heavy mountain troll. He raises a hand, coming close enough to touch my face. But he does not.

“I have dreamed,” he says, “of spears.”

EIGHT

BEFORE WE LEAVE, Abby Kelsey warns me that a spear is always what kills Baldur the Beautiful.

I don’t know enough about her faith to know if she means her god of light, too, but it’s true enough about our Baldur. A spear was his first murderer, and in every year since then he has stood before a funeral pyre on the last night of summer and waited for such a weapon to pierce his heart.

Astrid jitters with energy as she delightedly packs Baldur into the passenger seat of the Spark. I take the keys from her to drive.

As I attempt to keep the car on the narrow road, I’m constantly distracted by the brightness of Baldur’s hair. It’s right there in the corner of my eye, reminding me that beside me is the most beloved son of the Aesir. In this enclosed space, his presence is as big as fireworks.

He rolls down his window and sticks out his hand, palm upward, as if to catch sunlight.

“What do you remember?” Astrid asks him, leaning forward from the back bench.

“Buckle up,” I tell her.

She ignores me, propping her elbows on either front seat.

Baldur leans his head back. When he answers, his face is only inches from Astrid’s. Even in the shade of the car, his sky-mirror eyes have not dimmed. “I only remember pulling myself free from the roots of a tree. The sun rose overhead and I spread out on the rocks to drink it in. Foxes came, and a coyote; then as the heat of the day swept through the ravine, I was watched over by tiny little birds.”

“You did nothing? Just waited?” I say, glancing disbelievingly at him.

“I was weary, Soren. The weight of the sky held me pressed to the earth.”

“Usually you hop right up and go with your father.”

“Soren”—Astrid lightly smacks my shoulder—“this is different and you know it.”

I tighten my hands around the steering wheel and stare out at the road. The asphalt draws us forward; it’s like a black string winding through miles and miles of fields. We’re headed south, hoping to find a highway Astrid recognizes, or a gas stop where we can purchase a map. Our destination is the mountain in Colorada atop which sits the great hall of Bright Home, where Odin holds his earthly court. At the foot of the mountain is Skald, home of the Valkyrie of the Rock, to whom Baldur must be returned. Though I remember from
the radio news yesterday morning that Skald is overrun by pilgrims.

Into the silence, Baldur says, “I walked out of the desert and found those kind people waiting with a fire. They told me my name, and welcomed me. That first night I dreamed of battle and death, of … so many things. I can’t remember them clearly. It’s all impressions and darkness, leaving me feeling like I’ve left behind an entirety of some other life. I woke afraid and cold. The desert is very cold at dawn.”

I would not have believed Baldur the Beautiful could feel coldness. Nor, I suppose, would I have believed he needed to eat, but he devoured the sandwiches we’d saved last night.

“What did you do?” asks Astrid, concern deep through her voice.

“I waited.”

“Why stay there? Why didn’t you call a—an eagle, or yell out for Odin?”

“It never occurred to me to do such a thing.” Baldur shrugs. “I had—have—no memory.”

“None at all?”

Baldur closes his eyes, and the hand outside the car fists. “When the sun shines in my face, I know that the sun is my friend.”

“We’re your friends, too.” Astrid is gentle, her smile calm.

I want to ask more about his memories, for if he has none, how can we be sure of who he is? How can Astrid just accept this? My anger sparks against the cooler voice reminding me that when I look at his eyes, I know. I trust.

But he says, “The second night my dreams were the same, yet with more brightness. Feasting, perhaps, and battling with men I think were my brothers, or cousins. There was a warm family around me, though I know not their faces; that is the feeling the dream gave me. And as the dawn came, I held in my hand a spear of light.” He smiles, eyes darting past Astrid’s face to mine. I feel his gaze but keep staring at the twisting highway. “That is how I knew to be calm, and to wait. The spear I needed would come.”

Astrid says, “He will keep you safe, Baldur. He’ll keep both of us safe.”

I clench my jaw. I do not want her promising things to this forgetful god, this man who charms her so easily. But I can’t say anything because I know what she says is true. I will keep them safe.

Astrid runs into a gas stop to pick up a map and honey soda. She’s the least noticeable of the three of us, and we want to not cause a stir. I wonder if the video that the guy in Bassett took of her holmgang made it onto the interweave, but I can’t worry about it. There shouldn’t be a connection between that and the missing god.

Baldur stands outside the car with me as I fill the tank, with his back to the store and his face to the sun. His shoulders relax and his spill of hair is like strings of gold. I allow myself to stare. The angles of his face are not what I expected. I thought I knew what he looked like—what he’s supposed to
look like. For my entire life I’ve seen videos of Baldur rising from the New World Tree, golden arms clawing up through the earth and twisting roots, then at the feast afterward being presented by Odin to the gathered mortal luminaries. Baldur always smiles brighter than the torches and shakes hands with the lawspeaker and members of Congress, staying near his father, Odin, but reaching happily to kiss babies and accept a glass of champagne.