Betsy Tobin Read online

  “She wants the necklace, Berling.”

  “Oh.”

  Both pause for a moment as Gerd approaches in the passage. Her gown is of a golden hue that sets off her complexion nicely. Dvalin smiles at her, and her face lights up in response.

  “Welcome home, Dvalin,” she says warmly.

  “Thank you.”

  Her eyes travel to the bridled horse. She turns to him with a look of surprise. “You’re not off again, are you?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “To where?”

  “Jotunheim.”

  “Another long journey! Your feet have hardly touched the ground.”

  “It can’t be avoided.”

  “And when will you return?”

  “Within a week, I hope.”

  “You have provisions?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She turns to the boy. “Berling, go and fetch a cheese from the storeroom. And a loaf of bread.” Berling hesitates.

  “Really, Gerd. It isn’t necessary,” says Dvalin.

  “Nonsense.You have to eat. Go on then, Berling!”They both watch as Berling trots off in the opposite direction.When he is out of earshot, she turns back to him intently. “Take Berling with you,” she says quickly. Dvalin opens his mouth to speak but Gerd interrupts. “Let him see the outside world. He is desperate here. I cannot bear for him to be raised in the caves any longer. It will smother him! It will smother both of us.”

  Dvalin sighs. “Gerd. You said yourself: this is a long journey. And arduous.”

  “He is old enough.” “He is old enough.”

  “It could be dangerous, Gerd,” he says emphatically. She frowns. Dvalin shakes his head. “This is not the right time. Nor the right journey. But I swear to you: I will show Berling the outside world soon.”

  Gerd regards him doubtfully. “When?” she asks.

  “The next time.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “You have my word.”

  She sighs and raises one hand to stroke the horse’s nose. “He is devoted to you.”

  “And I to him.”

  She laughs. “He can speak of little else when you’re away. Sometimes I think you are more of a father to him than his was.”

  Dvalin stops what he is doing. He steps forward. “Gerd, my father found it difficult to show his feelings. But he loved Berling as much as he loved any of us, I promise you.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “In truth, he was a better leader than a father,” says Dvalin. “His strengths lay elsewhere.”

  Gerd hesitates a moment. “In truth, he was a better leader than a husband.”

  They stare at each other for a moment. “Then you did well to stand by him.”

  “I did my best,” she replies. Dvalin smiles at her a little awkwardly, then picks up his tools again. He takes a seat and continues to work on the horse.

  “It is better than my own mother managed,” he says lightly. “She fled the confines of his kingdom as soon as she was able. I think she grew to hate him in the end.”

  Gerd gazes down at him thoughtfully. “I never knew this.”

  Dvalin shrugs. “Their marriage wasn’t meant to last.”

  “Many aren’t,” she says quietly. She watches him for a moment. Berling comes running along the passage, bearing the cheese and a loaf of bread.

  “I’ve got them,” he says breathlessly, stowing both in the saddlebags.

  “Thank you,” says Dvalin to both of them.

  “You must travel safely,” says Gerd. “And return.”

  “I intend to,” he says lightly. All three of them look up to see Freya come along the passage. She is dressed for the journey and carries a satchel of provisions, together with the falcon suit.

  “Good morning,” she declares to all of them. She walks over to the horse he has bridled for her and pats its side. “Is this one mine?” she asks, turning to Dvalin.

  He nods self-consciously. Gerd looks from her to Dvalin, her eyebrows raised.

  “When do we leave?” says Freya. Dvalin does not answer. Gerd looks at him pointedly for a moment. He can feel her anger gathering. Finally, she turns and walks away without a word. He watches her disappear down the corridor, then turns back to Berling. The boy’s eyes are wide.

  “Now,” he says wearily.

  FREYA

  I will not sleep with him. Whatever else he asks of me, I will do. But I will not share his bed. He is arrogant and rude, especially when you consider his size.Which is not great, though admittedly, he is not as small as his brothers. He will tell me nothing about the journey, neither our final destination nor our purpose.

  We set off soon after Gerd left us. I do not know what he said to her, but she was clearly affronted. He showed no sign of remorse. He merely handed me the reins and mounted his own horse without so much as a backward glance. “Keep up,” he said over his shoulder. Then he set off at a brisk trot.

  I turned and looked at Berling, who gave me an apologetic smile. “Wish me luck,” I said. The boy nodded, unable to speak. I could not help but feel sorry for him as I rode off. He cut such a forlorn figure as the one left behind. When I was almost out of sight, I turned back to see him. He was still there watching us, and gave a sad little wave.

  We head straight for the mountains to the north. I cannot see their tops, as they are ringed in low-lying cloud, though I know we must cross them somewhere. Dvalin rides at a fast pace and I quickly fall behind. After an hour, the gap between us has widened considerably, so I spur my horse into a canter. When I am near, I let the horse relax its gait and give myself a moment to recover. Only then do I pull abreast of him. “You do realise we could fly,” I say, as casually as I can. He does not even turn his head in my direction, though I am certain he has heard me. “It would be much quicker,” I add.

  “Who said we were in a hurry?” he replies lightly. His eyes are fixed on the mountains. Before I can answer, he gives his horse some subtle sign and it breaks into a fast lope. I am left choking on his dust.

  After some time, we pause to rest and water the horses at a stream.We have reached the foothills of the range now, and the mountains rise up in front of us like a giant tidal wave of granite. The horses lower their heads in unison and drink noisily. He stoops down and cups some water from beside them, then stands again, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Then he reaches in his saddlebag and withdraws a goatskin, crouching down again to fill it from the stream. “You’d do well to do the same,” he says, nodding towards my bag. “Unless, of course, the Aesir do not thirst,” he adds. I scowl at his back, then retrieve the empty goatskin from my bag. When I have finished, he points to the route that we will take. “The pass is up there,” he says. I follow his line of vision, and can just make out a trail that zigzags almost impossibly up the side of the mountain and disappears within the cleft of the nearest peak.

  “Will we make it over before dark?” I ask.

  He slings the saddlebag back over the horse’s saddle and gingerly alights. “I will,” he says, turning the horse towards the trail.

  Our progress slows now that we are on the mountain.The horses thread their way up the steep slope, occasionally losing their footing and sliding sideways. Behind us, loose gravel skitters down the hillside. It is hard work for the horses. Within a short time, their shoulders are lathered and their ears are laid back with the effort of the climb. Dvalin and I do not speak. He does not appear to be capable of ordinary conversation. Or perhaps he is just preoccupied, for he is all the time scanning the range for something. I wonder what he is looking for, but I do not ask. When we near the top, the track becomes too steep even for the horses. He dismounts, motioning for me to do the same.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  He points to the cleft. “Now we walk.” He starts up the slope, leading his horse, and after a moment, I follow. I do not relish being immediately behind a half-ton animal on a steep incline, but I have no choice. If he were a man of better br
eeding, he would have let me go first, I think with irritation. We pass into the shadow of the mountain, and the temperature immediately plummets. The ground is icy here and the wind bites at my face. I lower my head and follow the hooves of his horse for what seems like an eternity, until we finally come to a halt. When I raise my head, I see that we have almost reached the top. The track ends right in the side of the mountain. Above us, the peaks rise up almost vertically. There is no obvious way forward. I look at him in exasperation. He points to a narrow ledge butting the right hand flank of the peak just ahead of us. It is perhaps the width of a child’s shoulders, and it meanders crookedly across the front of the flank and disappears around a corner.

  “After you,” he says with a smile.

  I stare at him, astonished. “You must be mad.”

  “That is the route.”

  “I’d sooner die.”

  “You will, if I leave you here.” As soon as he says this, his eyes flick toward my saddlebag, where the falcon suit is stowed.

  “That is unlikely,” I say smugly.

  “Have it your way,” he answers “But you’ll not get the necklace.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need you and your horse over that mountain.”

  I snatch up the reins and lead the horse right past him, but I hesitate when I reach the ledge. I call back to him over my shoulder. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” I lie.

  “The horse will be fine,” he says. “Just do it.”

  I take a deep breath and step out onto the ledge. To my surprise, the horse requires little coercion. It follows me easily enough, stepping daintily along the narrow shelf of rock. I move at a steady pace and soon I have reached the corner where the ledge turns. Once around it, I see with relief that it is only another dozen steps. Beyond that, there is a wide gap in the peaks and a clearly visible trail over the top. I can hear Dvalin and his horse behind me, though I keep my eyes fixed on the ledge in front. All at once, I feel faint. I stop and lean down, bracing myself with one hand against the rock face. Black spots dance in front of my eyes, and I realise that I’ve not been breathing. I pause for a few moments, taking in some air, until the spots finally disappear. When I straighten, I feel a lone drop of sweat trickle down my side. I hear his voice call forward to me.

  “Just a few more steps and you’ll be there.”

  Is he coaxing me? I think crossly. For I do not need it. Quickly, I take the last few steps, and when I finally step onto proper ground I feel my knees buckle. The horse snorts exuberantly and trots a few steps up the hillside. I do not turn to watch Dvalin finish, though I can hear that he is right behind me. Instead, I walk over to my horse and calmly remove the flask of water from the saddlebag. Irritatingly, my hands tremble when I remove the stopper.

  “You did well,” he says, reaching beneath his horse’s belly to tighten the cinch on his saddle. After a moment, he crosses over to my mount and does the same. “People often die here,” he adds, yanking hard on the leather strap. Then he looks at me and gives a broad grin.

  The north side of the slope is easier, and we descend quickly. The sun has almost set when we reach the lower elevation, though Dvalin shows no signs of stopping to make camp. We continue riding through the last rays of light, until the hills around us are no more than dark shapes, and the first few stars have appeared in the night sky. Eventually, I see a light in the distance, and make out a small farmhouse tucked behind a copse of birch trees. He is clearly headed there, though he saw no need to inform me of his plans.When we reach the house, he dismounts.

  “Do you know this place?” I ask, climbing down.

  “I’ve stopped here in the past. The farmer and his wife are hospitable enough.”

  “They’d have to be,” I murmur. For truly we are in the middle of nowhere.

  At that point, an old man appears in the doorway carrying a torch. He raises it high. “Who stops there?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

  Dvalin steps forward. “Friends. Seeking a warm hearth for the night.”

  The old man peers at Dvalin, then swivels his gaze around to me. I can just make out his features by the torchlight. He is thin-faced and balding, and slightly bent with age. “What are you called?”

  “I am Dvalin, son of Ivaldi, from Nidavellir.”

  “Nidavellir?” The old man frowns. “You’re not dwarves, are you?”

  Dvalin hesitates. “No.” The old man looks at me. “This is my wife. She is Barga, daughter of Thorgood.” I scowl at him in the dark, but he does not see.

  “You’d best come in,” the old man says. “The horses can go in the stable.” Then he turns and shuffles back inside. I wait while Dvalin unsaddles the horses and leads them into the stable. He crosses back towards the house and motions for me to follow.

  “Barga?” I say to him in a low voice as we enter the house.

  “Say nothing,” he replies. “Do not draw attention to yourself.”

  “I’ll do as I please,” I mutter back.

  “Then you can forget the necklace.”

  The house is small and damp, made of turf and a crudely cut timbre frame. A turf fire burns in a pit in the centre of the hard mud floor. They have little furniture and even fewer adornments.The old man and his wife stand to one side as we enter. She is a small, bird-like woman, with a pinched face and wary eyes. She nods cautiously in welcome, and beckons us over to a bench by the hearth. “You’ll be wanting some supper, I expect.”

  “We’ll not take food if you’re short,” says Dvalin.

  “We’re not short,” she answers. “You’re welcome to any that’s ours. Though it isn’t much, I can promise you.” She serves us each a bowl of dried shredded fish mixed with butter, and a cup of ale brewed from fermented whey. As we eat, the farmer and his wife watch us in silence.When we are finished, the farmer clears his throat.

  “Where are you headed?” he asks.

  “North. To the Hill of Healing.”

  “Ah,” he says with an understanding nod. He and his wife exchange a knowing glance. “You intend to pass through Jotunheim?”

  “We have no choice.”

  “There has been much fighting there of late,” says the farmer. “Between rival clans.” His wife nods vehemently. “Be careful you do not get caught in it.”

  “We will certainly try not to,” says Dvalin.

  The farmer’s wife looks at me with renewed interest. After a few moments, she leans forward and pats my arm reassuringly. “Know this,” she murmurs in my ear. “She will help you.” I smile politely. Perhaps age has robbed her of her reason.

  Dvalin clears his throat. “We would not keep you from your sleep any longer.”

  The farmer nods and stands with a grunt. He and the old woman retire to their bed closet, leaving Dvalin and I alone beside the hearth. I watch as he unrolls his bedding and spreads it by the fire. He looks up at me.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “The Hill of Healing? Is that our destination?”

  “Yes.”

  I look at him askance. “But it is for women.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you go there?”

  “For reasons of my own.”

  “Yet you need my help.”

  He scrutinises me for a moment. “I need safe passage through Jotunheim,” he says finally. “I am not greatly loved there,” he adds.

  “Why?”

  He frowns into the fire. “I killed a man there once,” he explains. “Two, in fact.”

  “You killed two giants?” He nods. I am impressed, but I do not let it show. “I did not take you for the fighting sort.”

  He shrugs. “I was provoked.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  “You already are.” He gives a small half-smile, then stretches out upon the bedroll with a sigh. I think this is his first joke. It must have tired him, for he closes his eyes, giving me the distinct impression that our conversation has ended. But after a few moments, he sp
eaks again. “They raped my sister,” he says bluntly.

  I stare at his outstretched form. His eyes remain closed. “I’m sorry.”

  “So were they. In the end.”

  “And your sister?”

  He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Married now. But childless.”

  “So you are here on her behalf?” He nods. “And I am here on yours,” I add.

  “They are not fools enough to risk war with the Aesir.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “I’m sorry to put you in danger. It was necessary.”

  “For your safety,” I say accusingly.

  “For Idun,” he replies.

  “Idun?” I repeat, surprised. It is not a common name. “Idun, wife of Bragi?” I ask.

  “And daughter of Ivaldi,” he counters.

  I have known the woman he speaks of all my life. We played together as children and came of age at the same time. Indeed, we met and married our husbands within a year of each other. I attended her wedding, and she mine. But I do not remember him.

  “You are Idun’s brother?”

  “Is that so difficult to believe?” He is clearly annoyed.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Our mother was a swan maiden.”

  “One of the Aesir?”

  He nods. “She was my father’s second wife. Before Gerd.”

  “And your father was?”

  “Ivaldi,” he says with slight exasperation, as if speaking to a child.

  “A dwarf?”

  “A king,” he says emphatically. “My father was a great leader of his people, by any standard.”

  “So you are half-man, half-dwarf.”

  “I am both man and dwarf,” he says tersely. “As are my brothers.”

  “Yes of course, I only meant -”

  “I know what you meant.” An awkward silence spreads between us. “In the eyes of other men, I am a dwarf,” he says. “That is what counts.”

  We both stare in silence at the fire. His resentment is so strong that if I put my hand out it would bite me. “And in the eyes of women?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  “The women of Asgard do not often cast a glance in my direction,” he says coldly.