Betsy Tobin Read online

  “You,” he says, incredulous.

  I am certain I have never laid eyes on him before. “Have we met?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

  “Yet you know me.”

  He studies me for a moment. “No,” he says finally. “I was mistaken.” He turns away and whistles for his mount. The horse raises its head in the distance, then comes towards us at a brisk trot. I watch as he ties his bedroll onto the back of the saddle, his hands pulling hard on the leather straps. I see that his fingers are thick and calloused, with knuckles twice the size of my own. The hands of a labourer, I think. Or a craftsman. And with a start, I realise who he is.

  “Dvalin,” I say. He turns back to me, one eyebrow raised. I see the taut line of his jaw pulse.

  “So it was you,” he says slowly. “Last night. In the caves.”

  I feel a lump rise in my throat. His eyes sweep the length of me, and I know that he is thinking of Berling. I feel my face flush with embarrassment, and it renders me speechless. We stare at each other for a moment, then he turns back to his horse and climbs into the saddle. He nods very briefly, then nudges his mount and rides past me without another word.

  I spend a few restless hours in the hot springs, uneasy over this first meeting. The man was not at all what I expected. I am beginning to doubt whether I will gain possession of the necklace after all. The thought is agonising, and by the time I leave the baths I am almost ill with apprehension. It is noon when I return to Nidavellir and Berling is waiting for me when I arrive, his face shiny with excitement. “Dvalin is back!” he says. “He’s only just arrived. Come, you must meet him!” He grabs my arm and pulls me along the passage, but even as he does I have a strong sense of foreboding. In a few minutes, we reach a natural opening in the caves where the horses are stabled. Dvalin is there brushing down his mount, and when he sees me, he stops.

  “You again,” he says, this time a little wearily. “How did you -” His eyes drift down to the falcon cloak I am still carrying. He stares at it for a moment and swallows. “I should have known,” he says quietly, turning back to the horse. Berling steps forward eagerly.

  “Dvalin, this is Freya.”

  Once again he stops. “Freya,” he repeats. “From Asgard.”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  He drops the brush and leads the horse past us to a bucket by the wall, securing the lead to an iron ring driven into the rock. He picks up a broom and begins to sweep the area clean. Berling hops excitedly about, dodging Dvalin’s broom. “So much has happened since you left,” he says. “You’ve seen Grerr?”

  “I’ve seen no one.”

  “Then you know nothing of the agreement?”

  “No, Berling, I told you, I’ve seen no one,” says Dvalin. “And I’m very tired, so perhaps you’ll excuse me.” He puts the broom in the corner, then bends down to retrieve his saddlebags.

  “We sold it,” says Berling impulsively. “We sold the Brisingamen.” Dvalin straightens up slowly, the saddlebags hanging limply from his hand.

  “You sold it?” His voice is deliberately flat, the emotion concealed just beneath the surface.

  “Yes! Well, no. Well, partly. We were waiting for you. We couldn’t sell the necklace without you.”

  Dvalin says nothing for a moment. He looks from Berling to me, then back to Berling. “To her?” he asks finally.

  Berling nods proudly. Dvalin says nothing. He looks down at the saddlebags with a sigh. In the silence that follows, Berling’s face begins to crumble. “Dvalin,” he begins pleadingly.

  “Perhaps I should explain,” I say quickly.

  Dvalin looks at me. “Perhaps you should.”

  “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?” I ask.

  “My cave is private. Or used to be.”

  “Very well, then,” I reply. I turn and walk in the direction of his cave. Berling starts to follow, but Dvalin raises a hand to stop him. “It’s all right, Berling,” I say. “I’ll speak to Dvalin alone.” Berling nods, his face ashen.

  Dvalin follows me silently to his cave. When we reach the door, he turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “But of course, you’ve been here before,” he says.

  “Only for the night.”

  “I trust you made yourself comfortable.”

  “Yes, thank you.Your brothers offered,” I add.

  “Half-brothers,” he says. “How generous of them.” He indicates that I should enter. Once inside, we stand facing each other awkwardly. “What else have they offered?”

  “We’ve come to an agreement. Subject to your approval, of course.”

  “For the sale of the Brisingamen.”

  “Yes. But you seem like a reasonable man.”

  “Don’t be fooled,” he replies evenly.

  “The sort of man who keeps the word of his brothers,” I say.

  “Half-brothers.”

  “Blood kin, nonetheless.”

  He drops the saddlebags on the floor and removes his cloak, throwing it on the bench by the fire. He picks up an iron poker and stoops down to flatten the still-warm coals into a bed, and puts two large squares of turf on top. My eyes are drawn to his forearms, for they are as thick as two stout saplings, and covered with fine, dark hair.The turf smokes for a moment, then bursts into flames. He prods expertly at the fire, before standing and turning to me. “I think it would depend on the word in question,” he says. “So tell me, what idle chatter have my brothers engaged in during my absence?”

  “It was hardly idle chatter.”

  He shrugs. “Gossip. Boasting. Rude oaths. Silly jests. Between them, my brothers excel in all manner of speech-making.”

  “Half-brothers,” I say. He smiles for the first time. “I can see you think highly of them,” I add.

  The smile disappears. “What I think is my business,”

  “What if I told you they made a contract?”

  “A binding contract? In my absence?”

  “An agreement, then.”

  He smiles. “And what trinket have they accepted in return?”

  I start to speak but feel my throat tighten, as if the words themselves will choke me. It is too late to change my mind, I think, for the deal has already been done. I take a deep breath. “Me,” I say, in as loud a voice as I can muster.

  He looks at me, and when he speaks, his tone is one of complete disbelief. “You?”

  I nod. “For one night each.” I feel my face redden, curse the hot tide of blood rising up in me. My entire body feels alight with embarrassment. Where was this man when I arrived?

  “So the Brisingamen is to be traded for a few nights of debauchery?”

  “I would hardly call it debauchery.”

  “What would you call it?”

  I stare at him. Pleasure, I think. Passion. Love of a certain kind. These are not evil words, but I cannot bring myself to speak them.

  “The Brisingamen is a sacred object. You profane its very essence with your offer,” he says intently.

  “If you don’t like the price, then you are free to name another,” I say quietly. “I don’t think your brothers would object. Their own demands have already been discharged.”

  He looks at me in complete astonishment, then throws back his head and laughs. “Discharged? The three of them? And you?”

  “Not at the same time,” I say grimly.

  “What kind of woman trades herself for a . . .” He hesitates, searching for the right word.

  “A trinket? You said yourself the Brisingamen is a sacred object. Powerful. Mysterious. The embodiment of beauty and perfection.”

  “You forget one aspect of its nature,” he says slowly. “Dan gerous.”

  “I forget nothing,” I snap back. We stare at each other for a long moment. Finally, he turns away. He crosses over to his saddlebag, removing a wineskin from one side. He pulls out the stopper and takes a long drink, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

  “It’s clear your brothers underestimated your atta
chment,” I say carefully. “As I said before, if you do not like the price, then you are free to name another.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You own but a quarter of the necklace.The rest is already mine.”

  He shakes his head, slowly. “Then I have no choice,” he says.

  I shrug. He takes another long drink of wine, then crosses over to the sleeping platform and sits down upon it heavily. He rubs his eyes with one hand, clearly exhausted by the journey. Finally he looks up at me. “My price is this: not one night, but three.”

  Now it is my turn to be incredulous. “Three?”

  He holds up his hands. “Three nights. That is my price.”

  I stare at him for a moment. “It could prove difficult,” I say haltingly. “Perhaps you ought to confer with your brothers.”

  “Why?” he asks. “They did not confer with me.You accept this price, or we do not have a sale.”

  I look at him and what I feel is fear. I do not know why. He is a man like any other, I tell myself. What harm could come of it? “I accept,” I say finally.

  “Fine,” he says wearily. “Make ready your things. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

  “Leave? To where?”

  “Jotunheim. There is something I must do there.”

  “But what of me?”

  “You will help me.”

  “How?”

  “You will see.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “The necklace will be yours,” he says simply. “We’ll take it with us if you like,” he adds. He throws the empty wineskin on the floor and lies back upon the bed, closing his eyes. “I am extremely tired,” he says.

  I do not move. After a moment, he raises his head and looks at me. “You do have somewhere to go?” he asks. I nod. He closes his eyes again and sighs deeply. “Good. I prefer to sleep alone, if you don’t mind.” He rolls over onto his side, away from me. I turn to leave. “Perhaps one of my brothers will accommodate you,” he murmurs.

  THE NORNS

  The Norns are not immune to beauty: we understand why gold occupies the high seat in the minds of men. Gold is the noblest of metals. It cannot be eroded and is impervious to attack. It does not dissolve easily, nor tarnish, nor lose its brightness, and can reflect light rays humans cannot see. Though it is rare, traces of gold are everywhere: in the crust, beneath the oceans, and deep within the core. But gold must accumulate in order to be found. It congregates in ancient fault lines, deposited by the movement of warm fluid through fissures in the rock. As mountains shift and sheer over time, these veins are exposed, enabling gold to migrate from the centre of the earth into the hands of men.

  DVALIN

  He dreams of Menglad. They are alone together in a dense pine forest. The ground is soft underfoot, a spongy floor of moss and aromatic pine needles. The forest is eerily quiet. No birds call, no animals can be heard rustling through the undergrowth. Menglad walks ahead of him, choosing her route with care. His eyes are fixed upon her slender frame. She wears a long, pale blue tunic that washes around her legs with every step. She pauses from time to time to gather something from the earth: a handful of leaves, a few fragments of moss, the blossom of a tiny flower. She stows each in a small pouch that swings freely at her side. Each time she stops, he finds his own feet frozen to the ground, as if she controls both of them with her movements.

  Finally, she turns to face him. He sees at once that she wears the necklace he made for her, a delicate choker of elaborately woven gold and silver threads. Her neck is long and creamy; his eyes are drawn to the way the necklace clings to the base of her throat. She smiles at him, raising a hand to finger the necklace. “You see?” she says. “I wear it always. Just as I promised.” She reaches for his hand. At the touch of her he feels a searing pain. He jerks his hand free with a gasp. They both stare down as blood flows freely from a wound in his palm. Her face creases with concern. “You’re bleeding,” she says.

  She kneels down and presses her lips to the wound. When she raises her head a moment later, the wound is gone. There is no trace of blood upon his hand, nor on her lips. Still clinging to his wrist, she applies the slightest pressure and pulls him down to the ground, until he kneels opposite her on the forest floor. She leans forward, her mouth just brushing his ear. “I can heal you,” she whispers. He feels dizzy suddenly, disoriented. Now that she is so close, he can see the intricate design of the necklace. The fine strands of metal seem to writhe and twist in front of his eyes, like tiny curling tendrils of a vine. Menglad slips the tunic from her shoulders. It pools about her knees. He tries but cannot see her nakedness, can see only the glint of gold and silver at her throat. She leans forward to kiss him, her body pressing closer to his own. He wants desperately to feel the warmth of her lips, but the necklace bars her mouth from his.

  And then he wakes, his heart beating hard in the darkness. He turns in his bed, half expecting to see Menglad lying next to him, but there is nothing. He takes a deep breath. He feels her dream presence slip away from him, and knows that it will soon be gone. He closes his eyes to recapture it, but she is lost. He opens them and stares out at the dying embers of the fire. He must not think of her. He will go to see her; he has promised Idun that much. But he will not succumb to the lure of her again. Besides, he thinks, she will be married now. Bound to the man she had sworn herself to when they first met. He is not in the habit of pursuing other men’s wives.

  He does not know how long he has slept. His body still aches from the journey, and the air in the caves is cold and damp. Each time he returns to Nidavellir, he wonders why. Unlike his brothers, he prefers life above ground. He rises and stirs the embers in the fire, loading on more turf, then climbs back into bed. He can tell from the stillness that dawn is some way off. As much as he dislikes the caves, he does not relish the prospect of another long journey. Even less does he like the idea of travelling with a woman. But he needs Freya for protection. They will not harm him in Jotunheim with one of the Aesir by his side. For all their strength and might, the giants who live in Jotunheim remain in awe of the Aesir. They would not risk incurring their wrath for such a trifling prize as his head. Still, Freya is bound to slow him down on the passage over the mountains. On the other hand, he thinks, to have a woman by his side when he reaches Menglad is perhaps not such a bad thing. Particularly one whose beauty rivals hers. He will not feel such a fool. The thought brings him a small measure of comfort.

  He sleeps again, this time too long, and when he wakes his head is heavy and his mouth is dry. He rises quickly, his mind already crowded with preparations for the journey. His horse has thrown a shoe; that will need tending straightaway. And he must organise a mount for Freya, as well as provisions for them both. He packs a dry set of clothing and an oilskin for warmth, then adds a second one for her. She may be capable of flight, but he hopes that she can sit a horse. He would sooner die than use the falcon suit.

  When his pack is ready, he goes to the stables. Berling is already there, brushing down the horses. The boy casts a shy glance in his direction. “You’re not angry?” he asks.

  “With you? Of course not. Why would I be?” Dvalin pulls up a small wooden stool and sits down beside his horse. He takes an iron pick out of his pocket and lifts up the animal’s foot.

  Berling shrugs. “You seemed cross about the necklace.”

  “I was only surprised that a decision had been taken in my absence. But I do not blame you, Berling. At any rate, the deal is done. Pass me that knife, will you?”

  Berling’s face lights up. He hands a small iron blade across to Dvalin. “Then you’ve agreed to the sale?”

  Dvalin nods. “In principle, yes.” He carefully trims the horse’s hoof, allowing the pieces to drop to the ground. After a moment, he pauses. “Berling, why are you so keen to sell the necklace?”

  Berling considers this. “I don’t know. It seems the right thing to do, I guess.” He shrugs. “Besides, I like Freya.”

  Dvalin smiles. “I
can’t imagine why.”

  Berling colours. “It’s not because of that. It’s just, she’s different.”

  “Different from what?”

  “From other people.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “I don’t know Dvalin! Our people.” The boy makes a face.

  Dvalin stands up, having finished trimming the horse’s foot. “Of course she’s different. She’s one of the Aesir. Build up the fire, will you? I need to shoe this horse.” He walks over to the other ponies and selects one for Freya, leading it out from its stall.

  “Are you going somewhere again?” says Berling.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” says Dvalin. Berling watches him bridle the second horse.

  “Who is that for?” he asks hopefully.

  “Her.”

  “She’s going with you?”

  “Yes. The fire, Berling.” The boy stands there frowning, then comes to all of a sudden and begins to load fuel into the fire. He takes up the bellows, and starts to fan the flames.The fire leaps to life under his hands. Dvalin steps forward holding a pair of iron tongs. He clasps the shoe and holds it in the flames while Berling watches.

  “When will you return?” asks Berling.

  “Four days. Five maybe.”

  “Will she come back with you?”

  “She doesn’t live here, Berling.”

  “I just thought . . .” He breaks off with a shrug.

  “Why would she?”

  “She likes it here. She told me.”