The Strange Maid (32 page)

It’s hot despite the low rush of air-conditioning and crushed with people in every manner of gown and suit, clashing and vying for attention. Here’s Precia of the South striding toward us with her wolf-guard behind, in an elegant white gown that seems to be made of spiderweb, diamonds, and soft gray feathers. Her makeup is impeccable, her hair styled beneath a net of silver. She holds her hand to me and I take it, then she kisses Baldur’s cheek.

A yell goes up and suddenly we’re surrounded by a line of berserk warriors in black long-vest uniforms, hard black tattoos cutting down each left cheek.

They step up and bow to Baldur, but then one smiles at me, turning the attention of the entire line my way. It’s Sharkman, grinning, and when he bows to me, it’s deeper than to the god. With a happy cry, I release Baldur and go forward, pulling the berserker up and kissing his cheek just where the tattoo cuts. “Sharkman,” I say.

“Lady Signy.” His voice is inappropriately low.

I glance down the line of berserkers. It’s perhaps half of them in full dress uniform. My chest expands and some tension rolls off my shoulders because they are at my side. “Welcome, Mad Eagles.”

As one they salute, two fingers over their hearts. Even at attention, Sharkman’s shoulders slouch just a little, unconcerned with any threats, and there’s Thebes beside him, towering over everyone, and the twins Gabriel and Brick with their thin blond braids. “Captain Darius sent me the youngest and most striking of you.”

“To stand at your wings,” Thebes manages, blushing in a way that distorts the color around his fire scar.

Sharkman grins that head-swallowing grin.

When I turn to introduce them to Precia, one bright flashbulb snaps, blinding me for a moment. As I readjust I see her waiting curiously, her bodyguard watching suspiciously beneath their wolf-mask tattoos. But Baldur claps Sharkman on the shoulder, and Glory shows the pretty twins her hungry teeth. Soren stands out darkly among the pale Asgardian elite. He looks past me at Sharkman with an expression that’s somehow both hard and very sad.

But there’s no time now—our arrival is announced, names ringing from an invisible speaker system. The Mad Eagles flank us as we move into the grand ballroom, which is all golden and blue and white with decoration and lights. Star-shaped lamps hang low over spinning, colorful dancers, who make and break patterns across the floor like the pieces of a kaleidoscope. The music comes from a small orchestra tucked into a private balcony overlooking the room. It’s a lazy but pleasant melody, full of horns. An elaborate fountain at the far side of the dance floor spills golden liquid I can only assume is mead. Long flags hang from each pillar, brilliant blue with golden letters declaring,
HONOR THE DISIR!
and
WELCOME, QUEENS!

I pick a sight line over everyone’s head, to focus on none of the glitter and flashing cameras as the god of light leads us down the wide steps and directly through the dancers. Music slows and ends with a high note, conversations pause, and all the guests turn to watch us mount the dais.

The high table is set against a vast blue curtain like a sky behind it, beside great arching doors that lead out into a colorful night garden. Baldur draws me to the center, with Soren on Baldur’s right and Glory on my left. Precia moves to a seat at the far end of the table from me, and the berserkers spread out behind us. Baldur unbuckles my baldric and hangs Unferth’s sword—Hrunting—over the back of my chair. He pulls the chair out for me and weaves our fingers together.

Facing the crowd, he raises the hand not holding mine and cries, “Honor to the lady gods on this Disir Day! Honor to the lady beside me, and to my dear friend Soren Bearstar. Honor to the magnificent Valkyrie of the South. Cousins and friends, drink with me!”

Baldur lifts the silver goblet from the table before us, and I grasp mine, cupping it high and proud. We freeze and wait as the partygoers accept sparkling mead in flutes and glass goblets from rushing servants. I imagine the tableau we five are, with wings of black berserkers and the draperies of disir blue falling like water at our backs. I hope they’re making a lot of notes on this. It’s oh so very showy and grand.

Together the entire company drinks, cheering and calling out
Baldur
and
hope
and
bright blessings.
Baldur orders the feast, and the dancers join those guests already seated at their many round tables. Gentler music springs back to life and I look up to the orchestra ensconced in its balcony.
Is Rathi here yet?
I scan the crowd for him. He’s at one of the front tables, sitting with a glittering man who must be Ardo Vassing. They’re deep in conversation.

We eat a first course of soup, and Baldur toasts again. There are three more courses to pick at, all while holding myself as calm and relaxed as I can. Glory beside me eats every last morsel, smoothly and methodically, and between my own bites I slide pieces of broccoli and pork onto her plate. I didn’t pay gods only know how much for a ticket to this thing, after all.

Being at the high table gives me too much time to watch, to remember the final feast at the circus hall, when Ned pressed his back to my knee, when I saw
chaos
for the first time. By the third course I don’t bother hiding the moment I dump my candied potatoes onto Glory’s plate.

She laughs and tells me I don’t need to worry about my figure.

I study her, remembering that her destiny was manipulated by Freya. The goddess of witches saw in the web of fate that the Fenris Wolf would one day begin the end of the world by swallowing the sun. It was on Freya’s word that Glory was bound with the silver chains around her neck, forged by goblin magic and placed there by our gods—her kin. It’s easy to forget sometimes that our gods are so vindictive. “Do you hate them?” I ask.

The godling puts down her spoon and leans nearer. She smells like candy. Her dark green eyes fix upon me. “Who?”

“The gods of Asgard.” I see
truth
in her wild eyes, too.

Glory slides her tongue against the tips of her front teeth. “Some of them, sometimes.”

“They’ve chained you. Kept you from your destiny.”

“Nothing can keep me from my destiny.” Her lips curl and she glances past me to Baldur. “He will be so delicious.”

“You wish,” Baldur says, like a child.

“I’ll make certain you enjoy it, boy.”

They’re so mundane suddenly, cousins arguing over attention or the best seat at Yule.

Nothing can keep me from my destiny.

At the end of the meal, Baldur offers his arm and invites me to dance.

We sweep across the marble tiles. I remind myself what I’m getting out of this—Red Stripe, a powerful ally in hunting the troll mother, and of course charity for the Summerlings—as I put my arms around Baldur and let him turn me and spin me, taking tiny steps, focused on his eyes. They’re so dark blue they’re nearly black, with tiny points of light reflected in them as if the universe peers through.

He hands me off to Soren for the next song. The berserker dances smoothly but with such concentration it furrows his brow. “You’re pale under that makeup,” he says. “Are you well?”

“Tired, that’s all. Glad to see the Mad Eagles.”

Soren glances at the black line of berserkers and I add, “But are
you
well?”

“So many berserkers together make me nervous,” he admits with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows.

I reach up and push it out with one finger. He scowls and shakes me away. “They’re good men,” I tell him, replacing my hand on his shoulder.

“As good as Odin’s madmen can be,” he says.

An older man with his beard in a seven-strand braid cuts in.

It’s the king of Orleans kingstate, his coat heavy with ribbons and medals from the Mediterr Conflict. He tells how glad he is to have our gala in his fine, fine kingstate and I admit admiration for the bursting flowers and heady air. Around us dancers whirl, faceless and pressing in. At least the king doesn’t bring up politics. He does tell me everyone is praying for Vinland.

I say, “I’m afraid there’s little that prayer can do for Vinland these days.” Of course I mean to suggest what we need is money. The point of this entire ball.

He says, “It brings communities together, strengthens them.”

I wonder if he believes it. “I assure you, the Freyans at Jellyfish Cove were strong and together when they died with weapons in their hands, not prayers.”

The king frowns. “There is always room for prayer.”

From behind me, Rathi says, “You’re both right.” He touches my bare shoulder, nodding respectfully at the king before he continues. “The wounds on our home are fierce, and etched in bone and blood. The smell of sacrifice is everywhere now, drowning all else.” His fingers tighten on my shoulder. “But the Valkyrie never stay on a battlefield past the gathering of souls. The dead are buried or burned, and the grass grows back. The earth heals itself. None of joy’s children have forsaken Vinland, none of those who live have given up. We’re working—and praying—together, and we will rebuild Freyr’s throne. He will be there again, because we are there.”

The king of Orleans claps a hand on my wish-brother’s back. “You speak like your father.”

Rathi bows. “My thanks.”

“Dance with me,” I say, and turn away into the crowd, bringing Rathi along. He’s warm and smiling back at me, those too-green eyes bright as he spins me onto the dance floor.

“Thank you,” I say.

Rathi turns me under his arm and then back. “Peachtree wants you to pay attention to how I do in a room with at least one person better-looking than me.”

“Surely she knows you’re used to it enough to hide your feelings?”

“Wounded!” He slips a hand from mine to slap it over his heart. The ruby ring on his forefinger catches fire.

I regard him. It might be a curse to have danced with Baldur and let him reframe my understanding of beauty, but as I study Rathi’s short eyelashes and smooth cheeks, the wave of his slick hair that’s not only one golden hue but a half dozen ranging from wheat-colored to sandy and brown, the scar just in front of his right ear and the small indent in his chin, I realize I can’t remember anything specific about Baldur’s face except those magical eyes. The god of light is too perfect to hold in my memory.

“God, Signy, what
are
you staring at?” Rathi laughs nervously.

I look down at the black horse pin holding his wide silk tie in place. “Oh, you.” Forcing myself to meet his eyes again. “I’m thinking I prefer your sort of looks to—to certain gods’.”

“Signy—”

“Hrothgar.”

He purses his lips and changes course. “You do look remarkably dangerous, but up close your eyeliner is like a raccoon.”

Smacking his arm absently, I glance around for Soren. There’s Baldur and Glory back up at the high table, but no Sun’s Berserk. The red eye of Unferth’s sword catches my attention, hanging there on the back of my seat. “Rathi.”

“Hmm?” Over my shoulder, he watches the ever-shifting crowd with his confident, relaxed preacher’s mask, which makes him seem both approachable and above it all.

“Did you know Ned’s sword has a name?”

Rathi frowns. “Hrunting.”

I release him and head for an abandoned chair near one of the white pillars. I smooth my hands down my skirt until they’re folded peacefully. “What does the name mean?” I ask as he joins me.

“It’s the name of the sword Beowulf used to slay Grendel’s mother.” Rathi raises one eyebrow.

I nod slowly, wishing I had Unferth’s flask. “Beowulf got the sword from Hrothgar’s poet, right?”

“Yes. The poet, Unferth Truth-Teller, gave it as a sort of peace offering between them. The theory was that maybe Hrunting would work against the trolls when no other weapon would, because Hrunting was tempered in blood. It was a kinslayer. Don’t you know all this?”

Unferth whispers,
I killed my brother with it.

Is it possible? Unferth had the sword; he claimed to be a kinslayer; he knew that poem inside and out; he knew so much about me and the Alfather. But Baldur claims there are no Einherjar with his name. Unferth himself said he was only a man.

“Signy.”

With both hands on my shoulders, Rathi shakes me just once and ever so slightly. I refocus on his face. He’s frowning worriedly.

“Do you think it could be the real thing?” I glance past him up at my sword on the dais.

“The real …” Rathi looks hurriedly over his shoulder, then back at me. He laughs. “Signy, the real Hrunting has to be sixteen hundred years old. That sword is not. There are re-creations of famous swords all over the place, especially at a Viker Festival. Edd Smithson made copies of Gudrun’s Helblade every year.” He laughs again, but sympathetically.

What game was Ned playing? Who was he? Whether I convince myself he was the original Unferth or not, he put the pieces before me. All these hints that connect the Beowulf legend to my quest.

Some were the workings of Fate: my own attraction to Valtheow the Dark’s bloody story, the Alfather’s love of her. That my wish-brother is named for her husband, the famous Freyan king Hrothgar. But some were invented by Ned Unferth: he brought trolls into my life, he used the ancient poet’s name. He told me my rune scar is linguistically linked to her name. Valtheow,
Strange Maid,
and the troll mother paints herself with it in my dreams.