I craned my head to get a view of the back of the armor. My back was bare from neck to waist. Strange.

  “Come now. We have to hurry.” She rushed me with both her command and the urgency of her tone.

  A trickle of fear ran through me. Was I about to follow her to my death in some sort of arena? Or maybe a crazy gladiator fight-to-the-death reality show? Everything was too surreal yet a traitorous part of my consciousness screamed it was real. I should really find out more about this place if I was going to try to get the hell out of here.

  “What’s your name?” I demanded, the confidence in my voice sounding way too weak to my ears.

  She glanced at me, impatient with my question which no doubt would delay us further. But when she saw my face her expression softened. My fear, my trepidation, were both clear in my eyes. “Oh, I should have introduced myself when I arrived, but I do not meet new people very often, so I rarely get many opportunities to dust off my manners. My name is Sigrun. You are Brynhildr, yes?”

  It was a statement, not a question. I didn’t answer. She nodded, then led the way out of the room. I followed, tracing the warm curve of my amber stone, planning, plotting.

  “Where are we, anyway?” I asked.

  “Oh. Yes. That is the best part.” She smiled broadly. “We are in the marvelous city of Asgard.”

  Chapter 15

  Asgard!

  When Sigrun uttered those words, my jaw dropped and I stumbled, certain that I was caught within a fantastical dream. Maybe I’d been reading far too much of Aidan’s abandoned book of translations because this wasn’t possible. Not possible at all.

  My feet slowed their pace, and I soon stopped moving altogether. Needing to breathe, needing to think. Needing to be back home, thanking Ms. Custer for being such a wonderful protector, such a wonderful mother.

  I didn’t want to be here in this strange place, with a strange girl telling tall tales of magical locations in unknown lands that simply should not exist. Asgard was a darned myth told by ancient peoples to explain the way the world was.

  Asgard couldn’t possibly be real.

  Could it?

  Up ahead, the girl glanced over her shoulder and hurried back to me. “Yes. I brought you here, to Asgard, from your world, Earth, or as we call it, Midgard. But we have to be going. I am sorry.” She spoke with a kind sweetness that lightened my mood slightly. “I know this must be hard for you, but all will be explained soon and I promise you will feel much, much better.”

  Midgard. Yes. A vague memory from basic Norse Mythology.

  Sigrun tucked her arm into mine, and with a gentle tug she set a rapid pace through darkened passages lit by a scattering of flickering torches. I allowed her to pull me along, grateful for the human comfort of her body beside mine. The entire building was pleasantly warmed so even my bare feet could handle the stone floors.

  We hurried through passageways, broken here and there by large archways opening into more passages. The arches, rimmed with intricate carvings, were strikingly similar to the ones drawn in Aidan’s leather volume. I slowed, drawn to the lines of almost familiar script, but Sigrun tugged at my elbow. And I allowed her to pull me away. If I’d had time I would’ve been able to decipher much of it.

  The density of the air heightened my awareness. I assumed we neared our destination as Sigrun slowed her pace.

  “Just a few rules before we enter.” Her voice was soft as she drew to a halt before a magnificent, enormous doorway. A small knot of anxiety twisted again in my stomach. What awaited me beyond that gigantic door? She turned to me, taking both my hands in hers. “Do not speak unless you are directly questioned. Keep your eyes lowered, or at least your chin. You may look upon our Lord, but do not affect an attitude of defiance. Our Lord does not appreciate insolence.”

  Sigrun held me by the shoulder. “Everything will be fine. Do not be afraid.”

  “So who is this Lord you are talking about?”

  “Oh, our lord is the Lord of All Things, the Blessed One. The Wielder of Power, the Great Warrior.”

  When she paused, I frowned, hoping she would reveal the All-Powerful One’s name. I asked, “So? Who is he?”

  “You will find out soon enough, Brynhildr.” With those words, she gave me a little shove, sending me through the arch and into the bright, warm cavernous hall.

  The way she spoke my name sounded strange to my ears, as if I were really hearing it for the first time. As if it had a new specialness imbued within each syllable.

  With a tiny sigh, I walked into the welcoming brightness of the magnificent hall. When I looked upward, I stopped and stared, entranced by the height and beauty of the ceiling.

  Yikes! How would the artisans have gotten up so high? The ceiling was sixty to seventy feet at its highest point, but like the Sistine Chapel it curved, joined by six separate beams carved with entwined branch-like figures.

  I squinted to make out the finer details of the carvings, which resembled those on the six monstrous pillars that seemed to hang from the ceiling. Each pillar was thicker than the body of a large man, and intricately etched with serpentine creatures and tree-branch curves. My eyes blurred from the confusion of trying to figure out what the carvings were.

  Entranced by the architecture of the ceiling and pillars, I’d forgotten I was meant to meet Sigrun’s powerful Lord. Her low hiss brought me back to my senses and propelled me further into the hall.

  I walked toward the back of the Great Hall and silenced a gasp at the magnificence of the thrones. A matched pair sat on a raised stone dais. Here too, hypnotic carvings edged the entire dais, beautiful and entrancing. Music echoed around the room, and a strange tune floated by, as if it rang out from a long-forgotten memory.

  The thrones, carved from a gray-white marble, were beyond amazing. Legs and armrests were normal, carved again with the curving, serpentine design, while the seat itself provided sufficient space to sit five hefty men. The backrests both rose at least eighteen feet in the air.

  Stunning!

  A hunched old man occupied one of the marble thrones, gnarled fingers curling around a dark hand-carved cane.

  Sigrun had claimed this was Asgard. If I had my mythology straight, the god she spoke of must be the Great Odin, the ruler of Asgard, husband to Frigga and father of the famous Thor, god of war.

  But surely she must have been mistaken. This ancient man hardly resembled a king. Neither did he resemble what the modern depiction of the Great Odin would be.

  To start with, he was small, human-sized actually. I’d expected Odin to appear as Zeus did, gigantic even. His fingers were twisted and arthritic. His flowing gray hair was topped with a large floppy hat, which shadowed almost half of a face so wrinkled it seemed impossible for the man to still be alive. To me, he looked at least a hundred years old.

  Garbed in a dark cloak, he was far from my mental image of the Great Odin. Even his eyes were gray, a silvery, smoky gray. One of his eyes. The other eye hid within the shadow of the hat. I strained to part the shadows with my eyes, to confirm the possibility. That single visible eye compelled me toward him, and my feet moved of their own volition.

  I frowned and tried to pull back, but soon found I was standing before the old geezer, my head tilted to get a better look at him up on the dais. With a start, I remembered Sigrun’s reminder not to look straight at him. I lowered my eyes in case this rickety old man really was the powerful Odin.

  A great rumble of laughter echoed around the empty hall, so loud that fine specks of dust fell from the ceilings. I doubted the tiny old guy had barked such a powerful laugh, but I dared not look up.

  Movement around me drew my furtive glances. Women, both young and old, filed into the hall and gathered around me. As much as my stomach turned like a windmill, stirring slight rushes of fear, an instinct assured me their presence was neither threatening nor dangerous. Just supportive.

  Many smiled as I made eye contact and I sighed, releasing the twisted muscles in my gut. Perhaps it would be okay after all. If this was all in my mind, and I’d just gone seriously cuckoo, then what the heck, I might as well enjoy the ride while I was here.

  “Come closer, child.” The voice boomed, tinged with amusement. My head shot up, enticed by the happiness in his voice, expecting a benevolent smile on the old man’s face.

  I gasped.

  The old man had vanished and in his place sat a twelve-foot-tall giant of a man, decked out in glorious golden armor and a magnificent helmet, which emitted sporadic bursts of living flame.

  I stared open-mouthed at the all-powerful Odin.

  Though Sigrun’s warning reverberated in my head, it was impossible not to stare. He was, well . . . beautiful. Incredibly, amazingly beautiful. For an old guy. But he shimmered with a golden glow similar to the haze I always saw when a person was soon to be dead.

  Instinctive dread filled my bones until it was clear that this glow was different, in tone and in . . . vibration. I wasn’t sure how I could know this from a mere feeling but I did, and I accepted it.

  His armor was made of the same red bronze material as the one I now wore, only not chainmail. Odin’s was fashioned in a more masculine manner, worked by the smith to fit the shape of his body. Beneath the armor, his blood-red shift ended mid-thigh, revealing solid, muscular thighs and calves. This god worked out major.

  A sooty raven sat on his left shoulder, large head tilted to one side as if aware of what was happening and waiting for the next episode of Bryn’s Introduction to Odin and Asgard. Its knowing eyes gleamed obsidian, its feathers so black it was as if a little spot of nothing hovered over the god’s shoulder.

  The only thing missing from the scene was Odin’s famous winged helmet, but from the headdress he wore it was easy to understand how historians may have misinterpreted it as a helmet with wings. Rounded, it hugged the top of his head, curving down on each side to his sideburns. Fine gold and silver motifs covered its gleaming surface, inscribed on small square panels, which formed an arc across the top of the helmet. Down the center lay a carved golden serpent-like creature whose head settled above Odin’s eyebrows. The helmet was a thing of absolute beauty.

  Odin watched my face, one eye hidden beneath a leather patch, the other still sparkling gray, the color of storm clouds and lightning. I stared, unable to help myself. My eyes darted first to the strange raven, then back to the old man, who was a real, honest-to-goodness, in-the-flesh, larger-than-life god.

  If this was a dream, boy did I have a cool imagination. And if this were real . . . I didn’t want to contemplate that right now. I was happy to play along, as long as I didn’t have to analyze things too much. I had to hold on to my sanity for as long as I could.

  “Do not be afraid, Brynhildr.” The words rumbled around the hall like roiling storm clouds.

  A sharp elbow stabbed me in the back. Sigrun stood behind me, urging me forward. “Kneel before our Lord, Brynhildr,” she whispered. “Before he gets impatient and strikes you dead with a lightning bolt.”

  “Now, Sigrun, there is no need to frighten the girl.” His voice boomed, but he smiled. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all. But I’d just found out he had super hearing. I prayed he couldn’t read minds too.

  I stepped forward, my heart thudding in my chest as I knelt on one knee, terrified the weight of the armor would tip me over or pull me straight to the ground.

  “Now, Brynhildr, you are no doubt in the dark about what is going to happen today.”

  I nodded, hesitating at first as I wasn’t sure whether a nod indicated I knew or didn’t know what was happening. His expression didn’t harden, so I must have given the correct response. Good. Nobody would want to piss off this big guy, least of all me.

  “This is what we call the Rites of the Valkyrie.” His smile was benevolent but he showed no sign of giving further explanation.

  I stiffened. I’d forgotten about the Valkyries. I’d recognized Sigrun as one of Odin’s warrior maidens, but really, truly accepting that she was a Valkyrie was easier when I’d believed this was just a dream.

  Now that I’d begun to slowly accept that Odin and Asgard might be real, everything changed. What were the Rites of the Valkyrie, and how did I qualify to experience them? Even if my father was guilty of manipulating Valkyrie DNA and implanting it into my embryo, I’d be a mutant. A freak. Not the real deal. And I’d only be half-Valkyrie anyway. The rest of my DNA would be thanks to Geoffrey and Irene Halbrook.

  Odin squinted his one eye as if he could hear my thoughts. “It is time to stop denying what you are, my dear. Now rise and drink of the Mead. It will prepare you.” He waved a hand and I struggled to my feet. With the unfamiliar weight of the armor, it proved a challenge. But I managed to stand upright without falling flat on my face and making myself a total fool in the presence of Odin himself.

  “Come, Sigrun.” He beckoned.

  She moved to my side and peered past me. A young girl walked over. Her long brown hair tumbled unchecked to her waist. She was dressed in a garment similar to mine, only hers was made of stiff brown fabric and covered by a large apron.

  She presented us with a wooden tray, which held a single goblet. As goblets went this one would rival the Holy Grail itself. Pure gleaming gold, encrusted with dozens of precious rubies, sapphires and emeralds, the goblet proclaimed its heavenly origins. A band of entwined carvings ran around the rim of the cup, glimmering in the light.

  Sigrun raised the cup to me and said, “Take it in your hands but with care. It is heavier than it looks.”

  I held tight and waited as she transferred the goblet into my hand. It really was heavy. I held on, fingers gripped around the golden stem, staring at the shimmering liquid in the bowl.

  Beautiful.

  Although gold was not my favorite color, seeing as golden people tended to die on me, the Mead had a special, magical quality of its own. It glimmered, enticing me to take a sip. But I waited. Somehow I knew that once I drank, there would be no turning back.

  “Drink, Brynhildr, Valkyrie. Warrior of Valhalla. Maiden of Odin.” His beautiful voice thundered around me like an invisible arm, buffeting yet comforting as I drank.

  I sighed in pure ecstasy after I swallowed my first sip. I’d waited all my life to savor this wondrous drink. I blinked, recalling weeks gone by, in which no hunger touched my belly, no thirst parched my throat. And now, for the first time, I truly tasted and enjoyed something. If only Ms. Custer could see me now. I felt refreshed, revived. As if all hunger was sated in one impossibly glorious sip.

  I shut my eyes as I swallowed the Mead. A wonderful warmth filled me, spreading throughout my limbs until my entire body glowed with beautiful heat.

  When I opened my eyes, the glow had spread beyond the insides of my body. A stab of fear ran through me.

  Like Joshua and Aimee and poor, dead Brody, my entire body glowed with a golden light.

  Chapter 16

  I struggled to breathe, gasping, almost sobbing. Lifted my hands and stared, turning them over and around. As far as I was concerned, any golden glow equaled death.

  I shivered with fear.

  My hands quaked and spots of bright light shone behind my eyes. I could feel the swirling abyss of madness at the edge of my mind.

  Though I longed for release, I strained to keep it at bay, desperate to remain conscious. Who knew what might happen, considering the last time I lay unconscious some unknown person had absconded with my underwear and clothes.

  “Brynhildr, Warrior of Valhalla.” Odin’s voice brought me back to my senses. “Do not be afraid. It is the nature of the Mead. The nectar of the Heavens will imbue your body and your mind with the strength you will need.”

  Strength I’d need? What for?

  I was terrified of that golden glow, but Odin’s words were ominous. What was really going on here? My eyes swept the room. Each woman and girl looked on, their faces serene and expectant. Calm, prepared.

  They knew. Even that darned raven knew. And they were unconcerned. I doubted I looked as unruffled as they did. But their lack of concern was strangely calming. What was the worst that could happen if none of them were alarmed enough to raise an eyebrow?

  “Are you ready, Brynhildr?” Odin asked, an eternal patience in the timbre of his voice, his eye gleaming with patience and assurance.

  Ready for what?

  This was beginning to sound worse and worse. I could only stare, which Odin seemed to take as acknowledgment on my part. Given the choice I would have turned and run. But even that three-second daydream reminded me I had no idea where I was, how I could escape, or even which way to run if I ever managed to escape from the hall.

  I nodded.

  Odin nodded too, a short, sharp, no nonsense shake of his head. A rustle of movement and the other women drew closer around me, forming a supportive semicircle.

  “You will be fine. Just breathe through it. And try not to be too afraid. It will all be over quickly enough.” Sigrun squeezed my hand, her eyes sparkling as she gave me a quick hug and kissed my cheek.

  I succumbed to the elation of sisterhood with this girl I’d met such a short time ago. Something I’d never had the pleasure of experiencing. Izzy was too young, and foster homes weren’t the best places to make friends. Constantly moving around, from home to home and school to school, didn’t help either. Most kids didn’t bother with friendships that were likely to last all of three weeks.

  But our connection lasted for the shortest instant as she withdrew to take her place with the rest of the women. A stab of fear replaced my rising emotions as warmth overwhelmed my body, swirling around limbs and torso. The heat was too intense.

  Too intense to bear.

  White-hot irons of pain branded my skin from inside my body. A horrible fire burned within me, demanding release through my very bones.

 

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