The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (19 page)

“Gaeira?” Baldr blurts. “You
ought to wear a bell.”

Effortlessly, she leaps down. Rather than
approaching us, she stands and waits for us to reach her.

“What brings you here?” Baldr asks
while continuing past her. Something in the question's tone tells me
he knows her reason.

He expects no answer, and gets none. I search
Gaeira's blue eyes and face for clues, and I find in them...
disapproval? Yet she makes no move to block our path. Presumably,
Baldr, being the son of her lord Odinn, is someone whom she cannot
defy without consequence. Since her vow of silence makes action her
only available means of communication, I am left to guess at the
cause of her disapproval, if that is what it is. What does Baldr
intend? Until now, I have been increasingly inclined to trust him...
Perhaps that is a mistake.

Wisdom dictates that given the choice between
these two relative strangers, I must follow the one who commands the
most power, which is Baldr. Instinct points me in the same direction,
and so without missing a stride, I follow him past Gaeira, who could
not answer me anyway if I were to ask her for some reason I should do
otherwise.

She meets my eyes briefly as I pass, and I am
first to look away. It brings me no pleasure to ignore her warning,
such as it is, but I must. As Baldr and I proceed closer to the World
Tree, I feel, but cannot know short of looking back—something
my pride will not allow—that Gaeira follows us at a distance.
The two of us, maybe three, steadily advance across the root-sea, a
chaotic web which converges on the trunk an untellable distance away.
Only once do I try looking directly up, an error which sets my head
spinning. Thereafter I keep my eyes ahead, until at last we reach the
place where the roots rise up and gently slope into the sheer,
bark-sheathed, moss-adorned wall that is Yggdrasil.

Baldr leads me up to the rounded surface of a
mountain-like artery. Along the seam where it juts from the ground
stands a dark hole large enough for a man to climb down into. The
smile Baldr gives when he reaches it and turns to face me suggests
that that is exactly what we shall do. I glance behind to find Gaeira
stopped at a distance, watching us.

“What's down there?” I ask.

“All things,” he says. “If you
go far enough, you could come out in any one of the eight realms.
Even the ninth, for that matter. Lacking a guide, most likely you
would become lost forever.” He grins. “Fortunately, you
have the best of guides.”

“Will we travel to another realm?”

“Not that far.” His eyes flick over
my shoulder to Gaeira. The look confirms what I already suspect. She
knows where Baldr is taking me, but lacking voice and authority, she
is powerless to intervene.

Since neither of them is willing or able to
inform me, my decision must be an uninformed one. In ignorance, I
commence my descent into a dark hole under the tangled roots of
Yggdrasil.   

As the daylight from behind fades, a new light
flares at my shoulder. I look back and blink as I briefly blind
myself in discovering that the source is Baldr's own upraised palm. I
had not taken him for a sorcerer, but then perhaps all of the Aesir
wield some magic or other. It is an unneeded reminder that I know
nothing of them.

We walk in silence a short while, through black
tunnels that hardly ever progress more than a few steps before
curving. The walls, composed of black soil, embedded rocks and rough
expanses of bark,  are highly irregular and dotted with what
might either be side passages or dead ends. As I pick my way slowly,
carefully, through deep flitting shadows on a ground which seems to
delight in denying me sure footing, Baldr clamps a hand on my
shoulder.

"This way," he says, and aims his
shining palm into a small side passage that I would have passed by
without a second look. "I think it's the cold season in
Muspelheim now," he goes on. "You'd have a few hours before
your flesh roasted, but still."

Preceding Baldr down the indicated path, I can't
avoid sparing a thought for Gaiera, who might be following us. I
raise the possibility with Baldr.

"She can take care of herself," he
half-answers.

He soon stops me again and uses his hand to
illuminate a downward slope so steep that we must descend it
backwards on all fours. When the passage levels off again, I glimpse
a small patch of pale yellow light ahead. It vanishes once or twice
as we weave over, under, and around gigantic roots and boulders.

Finally, a breeze touches my face. It carries
upon it the scent of water—fresh, not stagnant, as one might
expect in a deep cave. A few more steps, and nothing stands between
us and the light's source: an opening onto some wide, well-lit space.

Ducking through it, I shield my eyes against the
brightness and squint until my vision settles. When I can see
properly I behold a great cavern, the roof and walls of which are
formed almost entirely of twisting roots like many thousands of
petrified snakes. Formations of jagged black rock, mad mountains, jut
from all sides. The dim light filling the space has no detectable
source.

We stand perched on a high precipice of rock.
Coming up beside me, Baldr extinguishes his hand and pats my back
with it before starting down a barely navigable path to the cavern
floor.

"Where are we?" I ask.

He does not answer, only leads, and I follow.
Halfway down, I look back up along our path, and my eyes quickly find
what they sought: a small, golden-haired figure following us
silently, gracefully. Again I find I am glad to see Gaeira, even if I
can hardly say why.

Baldr leads me across the rough cavern floor to
the base of one of the black mountains. I first hear the 
echoing sound of trickling water, then see the small pool sitting in
the shadow of the rocks. It is several feet in diameter, its dark
surface gently rippling.

I know without being told what it is that I
behold.

"Mimir's Well," Baldr confirms. He
gestures upward. My eyes follow and find, set upon a ledge over the 
pool, a filthy, ancient skull from which hang tufts of knotted
straw-like hair and shreds of dessicated flesh.

Baldr says, grinning, "There is Mimir,
himself, whom my father slew in his youth."

He hops down the short embankment to the dark
water's edge. I remain in place, despite a reckless urge to race down
and drink.

"Why have you brought me here? I thought
the water was Odinn's alone to share."

"I am his son," Baldr declares. I know
it is not a proper answer.

"I have not paid the price. It is not even
set."

"You said yourself no price was too high,
did you not? You may as well drink now, and pay later."

"If Odinn decides the price ought to be my
life?"

Baldr scoffs. "He will not. That much I
know. All you need decide is how much you want to know
what 
she
 knows. That, and whether you are bold
enough to seize opportunity when it stands within grasp."

I stand rooted, staring down at the water
reflecting back at me the promise of knowledge for which I yearn.
Baldr is right. My life itself aside, what do I have that Odinn could
take? He might demand my service, as he did Ayessa's. Having had time
to ponder it, I know already that I am willing to pay that price. I
owe Ares nothing, and in leaving Neolympus, I already decided that my
fellow Atlanteans would get on fine without me. Crow will lead them
well.

As I am making my choice, or rather giving
myself the time in which to unmake it, in case it is wrong, Gaeira
enters the edge of my vision. I look to her, and find her looking
back.

Spoken words could not make her message any
clearer: 
Turn back from this path
.

Baldr is right... but so is she. I am a guest in
a strange land ruled by Odinn. What right have I to defy his 
will?

I can also tell by Gaeira's look, and from the
distance she keeps from me, that she will not interfere any more than
she has already. I almost wish that she would, for I know I cannot
stop myself. I do not possess nearly the discipline that she must
have in order to keep such a vow as hers.

"I'm sorry," I say to Gaeira. I owe
her no explanation, no apology, no words at all, but they come
anyway.

Whatever her judgment, if she counts me a
weakling or fool, it remains hidden in an impassive stare. Turning
from her, going forward, I kneel, dip my hand into the black
water—and drink.

Atlantis had known dark days in her past, yet
none now living could remember any so dark as these. Under the great
golden Dome of Kings, seat of a dozen long and peaceful reigns, a
king had died by dagger's thrust. Only year ago, his queen had taken
her own life by poison out of despair at the death of her eldest son,
the heir apparent, thrown from his horse into the sea. Deaths of
queen and prince had seemed suspicious, particularly to those closest
to the king, but now the king himself lay slain, and his passing was
not only suspicious; it was openly murder.

The assassin would never tell who'd put him up
to the deed, never speak again at all, for he too was dead, killed by
his own hand when cornered by the king's guard. He was a nobody, a
foreigner, surely hired for the task. Chaos might have followed in
the killing's wake but for quick action by the royal chancellor,
Ozymondros. The city's men-at-arms were accustomed to obeying him,
and they gave no second thought to taking his orders during the
crisis, as he sent them out to keep order on the great city's
concentric streets and broad radial thoroughfares. It did not hurt
that in addition to being the king's right hand, Ozymondros was also
half-brother to him, with a claim of his own to make on the throne,
should he choose to press it.

The more presumptive heir was the king's second
son, not present in Atlantis at the time of the assassination. The
young prince, Thamoth, having just been married, had taken his bride,
Ayessa, sailing up the coast. In the year since his elder brother's
accident (if that's what it was), increased attention had been paid
to instilling in Thamoth the qualities required of a king. But given
the lack of reason for all but a cynical few to think that his
father's reign would be any shorter than that of his long-lived
grandfather, grooming the new heir did not seem too urgent a task. So
if, for now, the prince spent more time than was fitting covered in
sweat and sawdust in the sheds of the royal shipwright or checking
hulls for leaks in Atlantis's walled harbor, Thamoth yet had time to
become more adept in matters of state.

An assassin's blade brought that time to a swift
and unexpected end.

A ship was dispatched up the coast to find and
notify Thamoth, and twenty days after his father's funeral, the
prince and his bride sailed into the harbor of Atlantis. The city,
still in mourning, held its breath. Most assumed that Thamoth would
smoothly assume his father's throne, even if many were silently less
than pleased with the prospect. The prince was not ready to rule,
they felt, while Ozymondros had more than confirmed, in the last
twenty days, that he was.

Met by a sea of long faces, the prince
disembarked, accepted his uncle's embrace and accompanied Ozymondros
into the palace. There, alone in a small room, they talked of the
future. The moment the door was locked, Ozymondros shed the public
mask he'd worn outside and spoke coldly and with shrewd eyes.

"I will be king, Thamoth," he said.
"And you shall choose exile, else find it imposed upon you, or
worse, when evidence turns up marking you as the one who ordered your
father's death. You could fight, but know that the city will stand by
me. Most who do not will simply stand aside. You would but ruin the
peace of the city, causing Atlantean blood to be shed by Atlantean
hand, absent chance for victory. Make the noble choice, Thamoth. Do
not let pride stop you from doing what is right for Atlantis."

The prince did not make his choice then and
there, but was granted several days under close watch in  which
to make it. At the end of them, he returned to his uncle to make
known his decision.

"I shall not fight you," Thamoth said.
"Give me but a month. I shall build a ship and sail away in it
with  my bride. You will never see me again."

Smiling, Ozymondros agreed. News went out of the
prince's plan to cede the kingship to his uncle and  sail away.
The city sighed in relief. Even as the people loudly hailed Thamoth
as magnanimous and romantic, privately they were glad they would not
be subject to the growing pains of a young ruler.

Thamoth moved to a cottage by the water's edge,
and there dwelt under guard with his bride. He built his ship and
named it 
Wellspring
, for in his wedding vows to Ayessa he
had told her, "You are the wellspring which shall nourish and
sustain me in darkness and in light."

When he had put to Ayessa the idea of forever
leaving Atlantis behind, just the two of them, the young  woman
had wept. She had married the prince for love, not the promise of
living the a life of opulence in a well-attended palace, yet still,
it stung her to know that she now would never know any taste of the
latter.

"Where shall we go?" she asked.

"Up the coast, I suppose." Thamoth
gave the answer with wet eyes, for whenever Ayessa wept, so did he.
But his bride saw something else in his eyes, heard it in his voice.

"That is not your true desire," she
rightly observed. "Where?"

They sat upon a roof of the palace, looking west
over the boundless sea. "Up the coast," the prince
persisted emptily. "There are many good—"

"Stop. I know the truth. Speak it."

Thamoth took his eyes from the ocean sunset to
gaze on Ayessa, whose beauty to him was greater than that of sun on
sea. "I can't ask you..." He faltered. "You've lost so
much already."