Lokis gambit, p.90
Loki's Gambit, page 90
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
All awesome wonders of the Nine Realms. None quite so awesome as the deliberate density of Thor’s big head. She can’t get it through to him that Asgard might not be the best place for Loki.
Standing beside her, he laughs good-naturedly as he recounts a story. “So because Loki was being blamed for stealing more than his fair share of Idunn’s apples, I built a squirrel trap, he made it invisible, and we caught Ratatoskr in it! Odin ransomed the rat for one free answer from the Norns, Ratatoskr being their most faithful servant and—”
“Doesn’t it bother you that when apples first started disappearing, everyone’s first impulse was to blame Loki?” Amy says. She digs her hands into her down coat to ward off the chill. Down on the ground, Nornheim is comfortably warm, but up here, at high altitudes it’s cold. She and Bohdi have both put their winter coats back on.
Thor waves a hand. “My father believed in Loki’s innocence. That is all that matters.”
Beyond the great man, Bohdi lifts his hand to his mouth in a yawn.
Amy’s tired, too, and her feet hurt. “Your father will treat him as a servant!” She says, the words snippish. She blames her exhaustion.
Thor’s good-natured chortling stops. “Aren’t we all at our best when we are servants of peace and order?” He brings a hand to his chest. “And my father will never abuse him.”
The slight inflection on abuse makes Amy’s memory flash to Baldur’s comments about buggering, and Odin’s response. Her skin heats. But before she can respond, Bohdi says, “You keep saying he, what if the next incarnation is a she? How would Odin treat a her?”
Coming from Bohdi, the question leaves Amy a little imbalanced. He doesn’t seem particularly sensitive to gender issues. Her eyes slide to him. He’s leaning against the wall of the chariot on the other side of Thor, one side of his mouth quirked. He’s just asking the question to provoke a reaction. Still…she looks expectantly at Thor.
Thor’s jaw is set in a hard line, his nostrils are flared, and his flame-red hair whipping about his head makes him look just that much more angry.
“Loki wouldn’t come back as…” Thor’s voice trails off.
Amy rolls her eyes. Bohdi grins. “Wasn’t he sort of the god of transvestitism? One of his better qualities—”
Thor spins to him, the chariot lurches and Amy barely holds on. Bohdi makes a strangled “gurp” as Thor grabs his collar and snarls. “You little…”
Stamping a foot, Amy shouts, “It’s a valid question, Thor! How would Odin treat a girl?”
As soon as the question is out of her mouth, she feels like she might throw up. She knows…
Dropping Bohdi, Thor stammers, “I’m sure he’d treat a…woman with respect.”
Bohdi promptly sneezes all over the back of Thor’s head. Thor turns with a snarl, and the chariot lurches again. “Watch yourself, human!” Thor shouts.
Memories start to spill before Amy’s eyes. Her legs give out beneath her. Grasping the side of the chariot, she slides to the floor.
It’s Baldur’s birthday, but Baldur is dead. Loki saw to it, giving the human warlord Hothur the secret of Baldur’s allergy to mistletoe. That doesn’t keep the Aesir from celebrating the birth of the golden prince. Loki stares at the gigantic golden statue in Baldur’s likeness that stands just outside Odin’s hall. Even more flower wreaths than normal adorn its base.
Beside him, Tyr says, “So, Loki, are you going to Aegir’s feast?”
Loki doesn’t bother to respond. Of course he and his wife Sigyn haven’t been invited.
Baldur killed Loki’s daughter Helen. So Loki killed Baldur, or rather, helped a human warlord kill Baldur. But even though Loki carefully covered his tracks, he’s still blamed for the crown prince’s demise.
Irritated, and a little depressed by how events have conspired against him, he veers from the main pathway and into the gardens. He needs to be with someone who is nearly always on his side. Also, he’s hungry.
Before long, he has reached Hoenir’s hut. The main door stands ajar. Sleipnir grazes outside. Loki looks around the hut; Odin must be here, but where are his guards?
Giving Sleipnir a friendly pat, Loki goes to the door. Before he enters, Odin’s voice makes him pause. “I haven’t been able to sleep, not since Baldur died.”
Loki hesitates. This is a conversation he is sure Odin does not want overheard. The polite thing to do is walk away. Loki doesn’t. But he refrains from interrupting—which he thinks shows amazing self-control.
Odin continues. “Would you give me some more of that sleeping draught, Hoenir?”
Loki blinks. The mighty Odin, in such a state, because of the death of his worthless son? “I fear I won’t be able to sleep tonight without it…”
The hairs on the back of Loki’s neck stand on end, and he feels like he’s covered in ants. Odin is lying.
“He was my boy, the most beautiful of all my sons…” Odin says. Loki’s jaw twitches. Odin has had many healthy, hale, and distinguished sons. The Allfather’s descendants litter the royal lines of Midgard’s Europe. But the words don’t make Loki itch; Odin believes them. Loki frowns. Frigga all but put an end to Odin’s whoring centuries ago, and Odin’s mortal sons are now dead. But there is still Thor. Thor is dense at times, not imbued with Baldur’s glamour, and not conniving enough to be a king. But Thor is real in all his faults and strengths. Even Loki will admit Thor has more character and a greater sense of justice than anyone he’s ever met. Foolish traits, but Loki has benefited from them and doesn’t chide Thor for them—not much, anyway.
From Hoenir’s hut there is the sound of creaking floorboards, and then Odin says, “Thank you.”
Hearing footsteps coming his way, Loki slips quickly over to Sleipnir. Odin emerges from the hut. Hoenir comes with him, carrying a staff with the head of Mimir mounted on top.
Sleipnir nuzzling his hand, Loki says brightly, “Hello, Allfather!”
Mimir raises an eyebrow at Loki, and mouths the word, “Hush.” Odin doesn’t do more than grunt. Giving a nod to Hoenir, Odin mounts Sleipnir, gives the horse a quick kick, and rides off.
The Allfather’s lack of acknowledgment niggles at Loki, like a splinter too small to pull out. His skin heats and a spark lights in his fingers. He has done nothing wrong. Odin asked Loki to kill Baldur, and Baldur was vile.
“You know, Loki,” Mimir snips. “Things would be better between you and Odin if you showed some remorse.”
“I have no remorse for Baldur’s death,” Loki snaps. “Why should I? Odin himself said his golden son would bring Asgard to ruin.”
Hoenir sighs.
Mimir huffs. “Odin sacrificed Baldur for the sake of Asgard! But no matter what sort of monster Baldur was, Baldur was also Odin’s son, and Odin loved him, even if he wasn’t perfect. Surely you can identify with that?”
Loki’s skin heats at the implied reference to Helen and her blue skin and twisted limbs. He takes a step toward the head. Hoenir draws Mimir, and the staff he is mounted on, back quickly beneath the eaves of the house.
Loki restrains the fire itching to spring from him for Hoenir’s sake. But he is unable to keep from shouting at Mimir. “My daughter. Was not. A monster!”
Mimir closes his eyes, and inhales—though he has no lungs for air to go to. Opening his eyes, he says, “Odin came here because he can’t sleep. He had to borrow a sleeping draught from Hoenir to—”
Loki cuts Mimir off with a sharp laugh and a slow, “Pffffffttttt!”
“I beg your pardon!” says Mimir. Even Hoenir puts one hand on his hip and fixes Loki with a glare.
Rolling his eyes and waving a hand, Loki says, “He’s lying about the draught.”
“What?” says Mimir. The glare washes off of Hoenir’s face and he just looks confused.
Loki shrugs and says, “I overheard.”
Hoenir’s eyes go wide. Mimir’s eyebrows rise. They both know Loki can detect lies.
Motioning for Loki to follow him, Hoenir abruptly turns into the hut, thunking Mimir’s staff hard on the ground as he does. As Loki enters, he finds himself in Hoenir’s kitchen. From his perch, Mimir says, “Hoenir, you shouldn’t get involved. You can’t confront Odin.”
Ignoring Mimir’s words, Hoenir leans Mimir’s staff against the wall and grabs a nearly empty teacup from the table.
Mimir sighs exasperatedly. “I know you think you know what he’ll do with the draught—”
Hoenir cocks an eyebrow and glares in Mimir’s direction.
Mimir looks to the side, “—and I know he’s done it before, but it’s been a long time…not since that business with Andvaranaut.”
Andvaranaut? Loki tilts his head. He feels like he’s heard that name before.
Atop the staff, Mimir continues. “Do you think you’re letting your…sensitivity…to this subject cloud your judgment?”
Hoenir’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t acknowledge Mimir. Lifting his balding head, Hoenir gestures for Loki to approach. Loki does tentatively. He’s never seen Hoenir this agitated before.
From his perch, Mimir rumbles. “Hoenir, he could be anywhere in the Nine Realms.”
Peering into the cup, at first Loki sees only the dregs of tea, but then a scene appears: the honey-colored plains of Vanaheim, filled with peacefully grazing unicorns.
“Well, he wouldn’t be there,” snorts Mimir. “You don’t know where to look. The odds of you finding Odin are impossible—”
Scowling at Mimir, Hoenir thrusts the cup toward Loki. Holding up his hands, Loki catches one side of the tiny cup automatically, lukewarm tea sloshing onto his hand. Hoenir doesn’t release the cup, and his fingers brush Loki’s. Mimir abruptly goes silent.
Loki blinks. What does Hoenir expect? He’s never been able to manage the trick of sight and… He blinks again. In the teacup, he sees snow-covered mountains jutting into an overcast sky like wicked teeth. Just before the mountains is a utilitarian fortress, surrounded by a ramshackle village.
Loki smiles in recognition. “Oh, it’s King Billings’ fortress on Jotunheim.” Pulling the cup back to himself, Hoenir swirls the contents, and suddenly, Odin appears beside Sleipnir in a copse of trees in front of the fort. Loki blinks. Odin shimmers, and in his place stands an ancient Frost Giantess wearing the robes of a medicine woman. Loki’s eyes go wide. He never thought the Allfather would stoop to disguising himself as a woman.
The hag that is Odin lifts her eyes and looks directly at Hoenir and Loki.
Mimir sighs. “He saw you. Now he’ll block your view.”
The image in the teacup swirls and disappears.
From where he leans, Mimir says, “Told you he’d do that.”
Hoenir frowns and swishes the cup.
Loki grins. The sly old fox knew he was being watched. But it’s too late, Loki knows his shame. What fun!
Hands shaking, Hoenir drops the teacup onto the table. It rolls onto its side, spilling its contents, but doesn’t shatter.
From his perch, Mimir says, “If he is up to what you suspect, Hoenir, you can’t stop it.”
Hoenir runs his hands through his hair. He looks like he will cry. Mimir continues. “You don’t even know where he’s gone! He could have gone into the village, the fortress, or to some remote hut in the mountains.”
Hoenir begins to pace the room, hands still in his hair. Maybe he needs a distraction? Clearing his throat and rubbing his stomach, Loki smiles and says, “You know…it’s always easier to think on a full stomach.”
Hoenir doesn’t even lift his head.
In a pitying voice, Mimir says, “There’s nothing you can do, Hoenir. You can’t kill a bug, let alone fight Odin.”
Loki knew that about Hoenir, that he can’t kill or maim, but he can’t remember ever being told. His eyes flash toward Mimir. There’s no need for the head to rub in Hoenir’s inadequacy.
Hoenir stops pacing and abruptly grabs Mimir’s staff. He pulls back a hand as though he might strike the head. Mimir doesn’t even flinch. Hoenir’s hand begins to shake and then abruptly drops.
Loki swallows. He doesn’t like seeing Hoenir so vulnerable and exposed.
Hoenir’s eyes flick to a nearby door.
Mimir’s nostrils flare. “What? Do you intend to set the velociraptors loose?”
Loki’s eyebrows rise. Hoenir still has those beasts?
“You’ll be responsible for more innocent blood than Odin if you do!” Mimir snaps.
Hoenir’s eyes slide to Loki. He leans Mimir’s staff against the wall again, points at the teacup, and then at Loki.
“Oh, no, no, no…” says Mimir. “No, don’t do that.”
Loki looks at Mimir and then at Hoenir. Hoenir’s nostrils are flared. Scowling, Hoenir points at the teacup again, and then again at Loki.
Hoenir has occasionally used sign language in the past. Cocking his head, Loki says, “You want me to go to Jotunheim?”
Hoenir nods.
“No, Loki, don’t! It’s none of your business,” Mimir says. “Trust me, it’s best to stay out of it.”
Loki scowls at Mimir. He doesn’t like being told what to do, he doesn’t like how Mimir’s talking to Hoenir, and frankly, at this point, Loki’s just plain curious. Raising an eyebrow he says, “To do what, exactly?”
Hoenir makes a slashing motion across his chest.
“And kill Odin?” says Loki, eyes widening. His anger at the Allfather minutes ago abruptly changes to horror.
“Erm…” says Mimir.
Hoenir stares at him, looking vaguely thoughtful.
Loki steps back. He doesn’t think he could kill Odin. Odin is as close as Loki has to a father—not to mention ruler of the Nine Realms, and Thor’s father.
But then Hoenir shakes his head. He makes the slashing motion again.
A misunderstanding. Sighing in relief, Loki suggests, “Stop him?”
Hoenir nods vigorously.
“Don’t do it,” says Mimir.
If Odin is as close as Loki has to a father, Hoenir is as close as he has to a mother. Loki shrugs. “Alright. I’ll have to go to the World Gate, and I don’t know if Heimdall will…” His voice drops off, a little ashamed. Mimir says Loki is capable of opening World Gates on his own if he’d just practice. And Loki has tried…a few times…but his efforts only end in frustration. Besides, it’s so hard to find the time—what with his duties to Odin, chasing his sons, drinking with Thor, and as Mimir snarkily remarked, “watching grass grow.” Odin says the only way Loki will ever learn is if someone chains him to a rock for a few centuries.
Hoenir walks quickly over to another door leading off the kitchen. Leaning his forehead against it, he grabs the handle and begins to silently move his lips. As soon as he finishes, he steps away, cheeks flushed as though from exertion, forehead slightly damp. He turns the doorknob and opens the door.
Loki finds himself looking through the doorway and into the courtyard of King Billings’ fort. The king is not about, but the yard is milling with peasants, soldiers, and the odd courtier. No one seems to notice Hoenir or Loki standing in the doorway.
Hoenir nods at Loki. Mimir grumbles.
Hesitating, Loki wills an illusion around himself of an ancient Frost Giantess in the same medicine woman robes Odin had worn. Hoenir nods and smiles encouragingly, at the same time making a fast rolling motion with his hand.
Reading the signal, Loki concentrates on the task at hand. “Alright, I’ll be quick…”
“He’ll still be too late, Hoenir!” Mimir says. “Pick your battles!”
Before he really knows what’s happening, Hoenir gives Loki a shove. Loki hears the door close behind him. Looking back, he sees only a crude stone wall. He restrains a shiver. Jotunheim is much colder than Asgard, and the fort’s walls radiate chill. He’s not dressed for this. Letting his shoulders stoop as though with age, Loki makes his way into the courtyard proper.
It takes nearly half an hour to find someone who can help him. No one seems to remember another medicine woman in the vicinity. Finally, Loki gets the attention of an elderly courtier. Loki tells the man that he has come to help his “sister” on “her errand.”
The courtier, a tall, painfully pale man with a balding, uncovered head protruding from voluminous robes, accepts the lie easily enough. Fingers fluttering, he says, “Oh, yes, she is already with the Princess Rind. I will take you there immediately.”
Loki resists the urge to sigh. Apparently, Odin has gone through ridiculous lengths to gain a paramour. Still, he says, “Lead the way, young man,” making a show of gathering skirts.
With a smile and a bow, the courtier leads Loki from the courtyard, and into the fort, at a painfully slow pace.
As the minutes slip by, Loki begins to second-guess his reasons for being here. Why would Hoenir intervene in an affair? Hoenir has turned a blind—albeit, perhaps a slightly disgusted—eye many times as Odin seduced women with baubles, magic, and gold. This is Frigga’s business, not Loki’s…He fidgets with his illusionary skirts. Also, Mimir’s words are beginning to sink in. Odin sacrificed his son for Asgard; Loki doesn’t think he could sacrifice his sons for anything. No matter what. But Odin…Odin isn’t just Loki’s protector, he is the protector of the Nine Realms. Odin won’t just give his life like he’d nearly done in Nornheim…he’ll give the life of his son.
Loki’s stomach feels hollow—with regret, remorse—and maybe awe for his mentor. Suddenly feeling small, he wishes he were on Earth, where he could just disappear. But he is among Frost Giants. If he draws too much attention to himself, they might call on one of their sorcerers, and he might wind up in another Frost Giant dungeon. He shivers, and it is not from cold. They turn down a dark stone hallway, and climb a narrow staircase. His guide is gasping for breath by the time they reach the top. As they enter a dark drawing room, Loki estimates at least another quarter of an hour has gone by. In the room, King Billings sits upon a rough bench, head bowed, clutching a pewter tumbler of something in his hand.
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