The Lost Sun (13 page)

“I won’t forgive you if he hurts you.”

Laughter bursts out from my bear-smile. If Baldur is a god, he has a chance! I take her shoulders and move her out of my way. I draw my spear off the roof and quickly unwind the wrapping. Astrid pops the trunk and gets her seething kit.

With the shaft of the spear smooth and strong in my hand, I start after Baldur. But Astrid does not follow. I turn. “You aren’t coming?” The first true shadow of doubt settles across my shoulders.

Astrid folds herself down to sit, legs crossed, at the edge of the field. She spreads open her bag. “I will not go watch my allies try to murder each other.”

“It’s your duty to bear witness.”

“Not to foolishness!” she snaps, eyes up and locking with mine. Her cheeks flare pink.

I don’t know how to explain to Astrid why I need to do this. Why everything Baldur has said to me has led to this holmgang I’m fighting now, for Baldur to prove his honor to me, regardless of his godhood or his memories. I stare at her, so small beside the sedan, in a violet dress and thin gray cardigan. Her plastic pearls reflect the sun like black mirrors, and her fingers dance over the tiny pockets sewn into the seething kit, as if hunting for consolation.

When I turn from her and stride toward the grove of trees, I’m no longer furious. But not any less determined.

Baldur waits for me with a straight branch in his hand. The trees form a thick curtain around us. Inside, all is quiet and still. The grass is sparse, the earth covered in wrinkled brown leaves. A ditch that must run with water after rain cuts through the northern edge of the grove. Although the trees are bare, their interlaced branches shade the ground. Only a few sun spots dapple the air, and Baldur has found the largest. The light shines on him even as he steps closer to me, following him like a loyal dog.

“I would prefer swords, I think,” he says. “But this will have to do.”

Because his feet are bare, I stoop to remove my boots.

“That is unnecessary.” Baldur drops into a fighting crouch.

He attacks the moment he sees me ready. I smack at his staff with my spear, and we bounce off each other, then begin to circle. The dead leaves crunch under our feet, and a breeze makes the dry limbs overhead clatter together. Though I haven’t stretched or warmed up, I hardly notice. I am so alive and ready to spar—to fight! I’ve not faced a real opponent in so long.

And what an opponent! He may not consciously remember who he is, but his body knows. I see his movements in his face as he steps forward to attack, see the feint in time to catch his true blow. I skid with him, the two of us spinning with our weapons locked together. I’m smiling—grinning—then laughing. His own lips press together into a determined smile and he shoves me back.

I land on my knee and one hand, spear raised to defend, but
am on my feet again in an instant, stabbing at him. He swerves in time, air huffing out of him. The butt of his staff knocks into my shoulder, and I whack my spear back into his thigh.

We pause, panting and staring at each other.

His fighting—his battle sense—reaches for mine, and in the cool spring clearing there’s nothing in the world but the two of us. My blood roars in my ears, my arms are alive with wind, my heart aflame, and the spear in my hand is a bright bolt.

I’ve heard it said that a proper battle is fought between two champions, and indeed most wars in our past were decided that way. And I’ve heard that a great battle is one in which the warriors do not clash, do not oppose, but one in which they dance. Together, back and forth, giving and taking, reaching always for the sudden jolting moment when one weapon pierces through the other’s defense and everything ends.

I dance with Baldur the Beautiful.

And I can barely keep up. I push myself, past the aches in my bones, past the screaming muscles: attack, defend, withdraw, dash forward to attack again, whirl back, trip away, and always the thud of our weapons together, the hard smack of my shoulder into his chest, his knee slamming behind mine to drop me to the grass. I roll and am up again and again, faster than he expects, to drive him closer to the dry creek ditch. He leaps over it and I follow—we push against the trees.

Suddenly I feel it stronger: the dark, waiting chaos. It burns
inside me, promising that if I break it open the world will explode with light.

I falter. I push it down, shake myself free. I grip my spear in both hands and attack Baldur in a flurry of short snapping swings.

He says, panting, “You are holding out on me, Bearskin.”

“No,” I manage. Every snap of my spear he meets with his own. The staccato echoes through the grove.

“Stop.” He brings his staff over his head and slams it down. I block and the reverberations rattle my teeth. “Holding.” Again, his weapon crashes into mine. “Back.” With the third blow my knees buckle.

Baldur flings his staff away and catches my spear in both hands. He shakes me and I fall.

My hips and shoulders hit the ground, and then my head, snapping against the yielding leaves. My vision bursts into black. I push my palms into the ground and open my eyes.

He stands over me, ready. The tip of my own sharp spear presses into the weak hollow just over my collarbone. His head blocks the sun, and all around his dark form the sky is alive with light.

“Now, Soren Bearskin, are you ready to take me wherever I need to go?”

I allow myself time to breathe. His arm is steady; the spear never trembles. I keep my eyes on his. He’s sweating and his breath comes almost as hard as my own. He could kill me now; it would be his right. But his face is calm. Pleasant, even. He
does not frown or grimace, but waits with mouth relaxed, eyes calm. With the infinite patience of the sun.

I say, “I am ready, Prince. Under the sun, and to the edges of the world.”

His mouth widens into a wry smile and he removes the spearhead from my throat. “Then up you come!” With a jaunty laugh, Baldur offers down his free arm. I clasp it, and he heaves me to my feet.

My body is shaking. By the pattern of shadows against the grass, I know we’ve been in the grove for nearly an hour. A long battle. I need water, and perhaps to collapse for a day or two.

Astrid has rolled away her seething kit by the time we climb up the shoulder to the car. She sits against the front wheel, arms crossed, glaring at us.

Baldur and I pause, and we share a look. He smiles first, then I do, and soon we’re laughing. I’m suddenly light-headed.

“You bastards,” she sneers, shoving to her feet. Baldur leaves me where I can put out a hand to support myself against the car as the ground spins.

“Astrid, don’t be angry.” Baldur reaches to touch her arm, his voice gentle and pleading. “We didn’t hurt each other.”

“I might pass out,” I insert, and for some reason am not ashamed to admit it.

Astrid opens her mouth but says nothing. Her lips press together and she glances between us, her expression slowly settling into resignation. “Well, good. Let’s go.” She pulls open the
passenger door and waves her seething kit. “Baldur, can you drive? I’m working on something.”

“Um.”

I nod. “Man can fight. So, driving—that’s like riding a bike.”

Baldur frowns at me, his head tilted quizzically. But Astrid opens the rear door. “Get in, Soren. You’re delirious.”

“He’s in shock,” explains Baldur.

Astrid sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, sweet swans, he didn’t—”

“No. That sleeping bear was forcibly restrained.” Baldur sounds irritated.

I scowl at him. “Lucky for you, or that cut on your cheek would be a crushed skull.”

Baldur touches his cheek, smearing the small stripe of blood. His mouth spreads into a grin again. “I barely dodged that one.”

“Freya’s tits,” Astrid whispers, clutching at Baldur’s wrist. She drags his hand toward her face and stares at the smudge of red. “You’re bleeding.”

“So is Soren,” he says, face falling as if he’s been caught out in some untruth.

Astrid barely spares me a glance as she drops Baldur’s hand. She reaches up and nearly touches his face, but then she clutches her hands back against her stomach, fingers weaving together as if she’s discovered her own dark chaos lurking there and must press it back into her intestines. “Don’t you see?” Her sepia eyes are wide.

It creeps up on me slower than the sun sets.
Baldur bleeds
. Baldur, god of light, stands before us with a slow trickle of blood marring the perfect gold of his face.

“What?” He puts his hand against his cheek, hiding the wound as if that will make us stop watching him like he could crumble to dust any moment.

Astrid steps close to him again and gently takes his hand away from his face. She holds it between both of hers and then lifts it so that his palm cups her cheek instead of his.

I sink slowly to my knees. I’m dizzy once more, and Baldur puts his free hand on my shoulder to steady me. The three of us are connected in an arrow, with Baldur at the point.

Looking up at him, I say, “You’re mortal.”

NINE

THE ROAD RUSHES below me, growling in rhythm with the wheels. Voices murmur near the edges of my consciousness. I could reach out and be awake, could share their quiet conversation, or I could sink back down into the nothingness of sleep.

I sleep.

“Soren.”

The car is stopped, and a gentle breeze drifts over me. Fingers skim across my forehead, brushing hair away. Astrid whispers my name again.

I open my eyes. She’s crouched outside the car, the door wide. Her face is inches from mine and seems upside-down.

She is so beautiful.

I don’t say anything, but merely watch. Her hand stills against my cheek. Dark curls fall toward me, hiding the edges of her face and framing her eyes. I could tilt my head and touch my lips to hers.

Astrid draws in a long breath. “We’re just outside Fort Collins. There’s a motel here, and a string of fast-food places. I’m going to go book a room so we can rest for the night.” The corners of her mouth turn down, and she blinks her eyes several times.

“What are we going to do?” I keep my voice quiet.

Again she sighs. “I tried calling the info line they’ve been repeating on the radio, but can’t connect to anybody I trust. They just want me to leave a message and a number for them to get back to us. Can you imagine? ‘I have Baldur, call me!’ ” She hums displeasure before continuing. “We’ll get a room, as it’s near dark, then go more cautiously in the morning into Shield. We have to be careful with our delicate prince now.” Nudging at my head, she angles herself into the car. I begin to lean up so that she can sit where my head was, but all my body blossoms with dull pain.

“Soren?”

I must have grunted, because Astrid is behind me suddenly, propping my shoulders with her hands. She pulls me back down, arms cradling me. “Stop moving if you’re in pain. Oh, that blasted Baldur. I didn’t think he really hurt you.”

Shaking my head, I push away, sitting up through the aches that pummel at my ribs. “I’m fine. I was just out of practice and wasn’t stretched out well enough and—” I manage to sit upright, but she’s still got her hands on my back, sliding them down my arm and trying to keep me from opening the door to climb out the other side of the car. “Stop fussing, Astrid.”

I say it more sharply than I intend, and she jerks her hands
away. We both wait, not looking at each other. I glance out of the car.

One side of the road is lined with squat evergreens. Shadowy foothills stretch behind them, pale toward the far horizon. We’re the only people here. Cars pass by along the highway frequently, and I hear a radio from inside the gas stop. Just beyond it is a cluster of stucco cabins under a neon sign that reads:
SIGYN’S KEEP-INN
. I don’t see Baldur.

“I’m going to go to the motel,” Astrid says. “I just didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

She starts to get out, but I say, “Wait,” and she pauses, glances back over her shoulder at me. Her eyebrows arc neatly, impatiently.

“I didn’t mean …,” I begin, but don’t know what I want to say.

Astrid shakes her head gently. “Don’t.”

I want to grab her shoulders and lift her up the way I did in Bassett, to make her listen to me. Where has our easy communication gone? Why do I feel like every simple word with her is suddenly a struggle?