The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (16 page)

Vaguely I realize that, irrespective of my
purpose in coming here, and whether I wish it or not, I will be an
ambassador for Neolympus. But at the moment I can spare little
thought for that role. It is for Ayessa that my heart beats to
bursting by the time we draw up on the tall, broad gates. Warriors
standing atop the flanking towers hail us with friendly words unknown
to me and wasted on Gaeira. With a wooden moan, the gates swing wide,
and we enter.

In front of us stretches a torch-lit street of
hard-packed earth, lined on either side with white-walled dwellings.
Lights flicker in the windows of some, but most are dark. Outside, no
one is abroad. Clearly knowing her destination, my guide strides
ahead of me, following the main road or a while before turning and
turning again until we face a cluster of taller, more imposing and
more ancient-looking buildings. Among them is a small stone cottage,
where Gaeira stops to pound on a humble wooden door on which hangs a
bronze disc painted with a red sigil. After a few minutes of patient
waiting, dim  light pours out from the space under the door, and
it opens inward.

A woman stands within, red-gold hair falling
unbound to her waist. Fair of skin and fine-featured, she bears at
least a passing resemblance to Gaeira. Barefoot, she is dressed in a
thin, flowing, unadorned gown of white, almost certainly bedclothes.
If she has been roused from sleep, she does not seem in the least
aggrieved by the disturbance. On the contrary, a gentle smile spreads
on her lips as she looks upon my guide.

"Gaeira," she says with evident
warmth, and not a little surprise. She draws the slayer into an
embrace and speaks more soft words. There is a maternal aspect to her
affection, I decide with insufficient evidence.

Gaeira declines to return the embrace, with her
one free arm or otherwise. When the woman with the red-gold hair
draws back, she turns her eyes on me in a welcoming look and speaks.
I can tell by her face that they are words of welcome, but I am
growing tired of not understanding those around me.

"Apologies," I say with a pang of
shame. "I know not your tongue."

The woman answers with a smile I interpret as
one of understanding. She steps to one side and beckons us in. I wait
for Gaeira to go forward first, but she does not. Instead she steps
aside, and the woman beckons again, now just at me. I am to be left
here alone.

Something about the woman in the cottage puts me
greatly at ease, and so I enter. She and Gaeira share a quick look,
and then the door is shut, leaving me in the company of someone I
know not at all—which is to say slightly less well than I know
Gaeira. I feel disappointment that Gaeira has not taken me straight
to Ayessa and annoyance that she would leave without explanation. But
then, everything she does is without explanation.

I stand in an anteroom lit by several large
candles on pedestals. To one side, a staircase leads upward into
darkness, while directly ahead lies a curtained, wood-framed doorway.
It is toward the latter that  my hostess motions me me with a
kind smile. Before moving, I rest Ayessa's lance near the door and
shed my sword belt, lest I prove a poor guest by bearing arms inside
another's home.

For similar reasons of courtesy, I feel I ought
to introduce myself. Once more, with hand to breast, I announce,
"Thamoth."

She nods in comprehension and returns what I
take to be her name: "Freya."

I walk ahead of Freya through the curtain and
into darkness. A second later, a soft light shines from a candle she
carries in from the anteroom, which she uses to light a lamp mounted
on the wall. Linking her arm in mine, she guides me forward into the
next room, where she pauses to light another lamp.

The room is large and comfortable. Plush furs
cover the floor. Shelves hold scrolls in large numbers and a vast
array of other objects too diverse for me to quickly absorb. There
are couches, stools, sleeping pallets, tables both empty and
cluttered, and a large, smoldering corner hearth beside which 
hangs from a hinged beam a great bronze cauldron, its bottom half
scorched black from use.

I have seen such a place before; it is
reminiscent of the dwelling of the Chrysioi healer Epione in
Neolympus. Is Freya also a healer? Why should Gaeira think me in need
of healing?

One thing catches my eye and seems out of place,
or at least would seem so in Epione's: a hung shield, breastplate and
spear glint in the firelight on one wall. They are of a size to fit
Freya and although they are highly polished, they have clearly seen
some use in battle.

When enough lamps are lit, Freya uncovers a
water cistern and dips into it a small, long-handled tin pot which
she then sets upon the glowing hearth coals. For what purpose, I
cannot know. Tea?

Noticing that I have not yet shed my burdens,
apart from my sword, Freya gestures at me to do so. I oblige, and she
leads me to one of the room's several sleeping pallets and invites me
to sit. I do. She goes to a table, selects a jar, removes its lid and
inspects contents unseen to me. She carries it to the hearth, where
she checks on the water, from which licks of steam now rise. She
waits a short while, staring into the vapors with her back to me, and
then uses a small cloth to shield her hand as she grips the pot's
handle and carries it toward me. Kneeling to bring herself to my
level on the pallet, she sets both jar and steaming pot on the floor.

I do not much like the look which Freya levels
at me, for it says that I will not like what is comes next, but it
must be done. I tense, mistrustful. Yet... there is a softness and
caring in Freya's eyes, which like this cottage, remind me of our
healer's in Neolympus. I should not trust Freya. I have only just met
her  and know nothing of her or her people. But I do trust her,
I think, as much as or more than I do Gaeira, whom I trusted enough
to follow for six days and sleep beside for as many nights. The
deadly giant-slayer did not bring me all this way to meet some dark,
quiet fate at the hand of a kind-faced woman, of that I am sure. As
sure as I can be, at least.

I give Freya a steady look to tell her I am
ready—for whatever unpleasantness she has in mind—and
reassuring me with a smile, she bids me lie down and turn to one
side. While I comply, her graceful, white fingers reach into the jar
and emerge with a pinch of herbs. She puts them into my ear and packs
them down. It feels strange, but not uncomfortable. It is when she
sets a palm on my temple, exerting gentle downward pressure, whilst
the other hand reaches for the pot of scalding water, that I realize
with a start what she intends. My every muscle clenches, which does
not surprise Freya. She pushes harder on my head and whispers some
soothing, meaningless words. I brace myself and hold fast. The pot
rises out of my field of vision. I grit my teeth and await the pain.

It comes. The water sears horribly, and I groan
through set jaw, clutching the blanket under me. The pain is awful,
but within a few seconds the worst is over, and Freya strokes my
hairline maternally before indicating with a light pressure that I
must turn over, surely to repeat the process on the other side.

That is indeed what transpires. It is marginally
more tolerable the second time... marginally. When the  deed is
done, I lie on my back in pain and ignorance while Freya smiles down
upon me using the cloth from the pot handle to clean the wet herbs
from my two scalded ears.

She asks, "Do you understand me?"

My jaw, until now tightly clenched, falls open.
I forget the stinging in my ears.

“I-I... 
yes
,” I stammer.
“I think I do.” I push myself upright on the pallet,
putting myself closer to Freya's face, where there materializes a
bemused smile.

“Shall I speak some more, so you can be
certain?”

I chuckle. It makes my ears throb, and I rub
them. “Thank you.”

Pot and jar in hand, Freya rises and moves to
return them. I likewise stand. My gratitude toward her is real, but I
am no more inclined to dwell upon it than I am to sit here idle in
her home while perhaps somewhere in this very city...

“I seek a woman named Ayessa,” I say
urgently to Freya's back. “Is she here. Is this Asgard?”

Freya finishes putting the items back in their
proper places before facing me. “Yes, this is Asgard.,”
she says calmly. “And she is here.”

My knees weaken. It is the answer I had yearned
to hear but did not dare allow myself to expect. Ayessa is well—and
near.

“Please,” I say, striding toward
Freya over the fur-strewn floor. “Take me to her. I must see
her!”

Unaffected by my exuberance, if not untouched by
it, Freya offers another comforting smile. “Patience,”
she chides. “Gaeira will return for you soon. At least, I think
so. Her vow makes it difficult to know her intentions, even if I am
better at it than most. Until she comes, perhaps you might manage to
tolerate my company?”

There is no spite, no harshness at all, in
Freya's tone. Her reprimand is of a humble, gentle kind which evokes
in the hearer instant regret.

“Of course,” I hurry to say. “I
meant no offense.”

“None was taken. Ayessa must be quite dear
to you. Be assured, you will see her soon. In the meantime, my home
is yours. Sit. Rest. Talk with me, if you are so inclined. But if
not, you'll not offend  me with silence.”

I try to force Ayessa from my mind. I have
waited this long and come this far. I can wait a little longer.

“I have had enough silence from my guide
to last an age,” I say. “You speak of Gaeira's vow. Is
that why she does not speak? A vow of silence?”

“Yes,” Freya answers.

“To what purpose?”

“To ensure that no breath is wasted whilst
she yet pursues the other half of her vow.”

“Which is—?”

“Vengeance,” Freya answers plainly.
“Her father and brother were slain in the last war with the
Jotnar.”

“Jotnar?”

“Giants. They invaded Vanaheim, her
homeland and mine. She swore to avenge their deaths by killing 
ninety hill giants and nine frost giants. Until she has, she shall
utter not a sound to anyone. She does not communicate at all unless
it cannot be avoided.”

And just that quickly, in the time it took Freya
to speak a handful of words, my understanding of Gaeira vastly
increases. Whatever bitterness I felt toward her for having withheld
knowledge from me evaporates.

“And I suppose she must kill them all by
herself,” I observe, “with no help.”

“Correct.”

“Vanaheim,” I pronounce. “She
is Vanir.” Heimdall told me this. Looking mildly impressed,
Freya affirms it. “And you are also Vanir.” She affirms
this, too. “What are Aesir?”

“They are the people native to this land,
Asgard. Their lord is Odinn, whom you will meet quite soon. Long ago
he conquered Vanaheim. Rather than destroying us, he made the Vanir
his subjects.”

I consider myself a poor ambassador and even
poorer spy, but I sense in this talk of past conflicts no small
potential relevance to the future of Neolympus. “And he treats
the Vanir well?” I ask.

“I choose to make my home here in Asgard
and am warmly welcome. As is Gaeira when she visits. As are any of
our tribe. Our two people intermarry. We and the Aesir, once bitter
foes, are now as kin.”

A better spy would quickly produce more
questions concerning Odinn and the Aesir. Maybe later I will think of
some. “Gaeira does not dwell in Asgard?” I ask instead.

“She lives on the farm in Vanaheim that
was once her father's. If not for the necessity of delivering you 
to Odinn, I suspect, she would be there now. The same happened on her
last hunt, a few seasons ago, when she brought us Essa.”

The re-entrance of Ayessa—if by some
shortened form of her name—into our conversation catches me 
by surprise. I open my mouth to ask again to see her, but I resist,
sparing Freya the necessity of reprimanding me again for impatience.

“If she saved Ayessa, then my debt and
gratitude to Gaeira are doubled.”

“Tell her,” Freya says. She smiles.
“She does hear. Quite well. I imagine she shall return
shortly.” Freya  guides me to a couch, practically forcing
me down onto it. “While we wait, would you drink? Eat?”

I am too anxious to do either. She accepts my
refusal and descends onto the soft cushion beside me, legs folded
neatly under her plain sleeping gown. “Would you permit me to
ask a question of you?”

“Of course.”

“Essa spoke of creatures which came in
great number and devoured your world.”

Suddenly thrust back into my role as ambassador,
I take a moment to consider my response. How much do I wish these
people to know? How much do they already know?

“It was not my world, as such,” I
say, dodging the question.

“Ah, I see. Then you are like Essa, an old
spirit in a vacated shell.” Freya's warm eyes sparkle, and I
think of Medea, but not because Freya resembles her in any way.
Rather the opposite: Freya's look warms where Medea's chills.

Still, I begin to suspect that Freya is no mere
healer, but like Medea, a witch.

“These creatures, the... the...”
Freya begins.

I supply the name that escapes her. It never
escapes me: “Myriad.”

“Yes, the Myriad. In the time since Essa
came to us, I wonder, has there been any sign that they may have
followed you into our world?”

I find the question surprising, but hardly
difficult to answer. “No. There has been no sign. It is not
something we often contemplate, to my knowledge. Perhaps because—”

Freya waits patiently for me to finish, despite
looking as if she knows what I will say.

“Because there is little point in being
prepared,” I conclude. “Were they to come, nothing in our
power could stop them.”