“Be ready to catch me, Soren,” she says, and reaches into the small pouch of tiny red seeds. She tosses three into the fire and puts one more on her tongue. As she chews, she closes her eyes.
I’ve seen seethers on TV. Usually there’s a grand display: drummers and attendants helping the seethkona up onto a chair raised high over her audience. She wears elaborate clothing: calfskin boots, a necklace of boar’s teeth, gloves from the skin of a cat. A feast is prepared, from the hearts of native animals. These things are to anchor her in the world, to firmly remind her physical body that she is of the animals, of the earth. When she’s ready, she begins her song, and her attendants pick up the tune, singing it in rounds while the seethkona dances. Seekers bring their questions and needs to her, crying them out from beside the high chair, and the seethkona answers as she can, or as she pleases.
Astrid has none of these things. She has only her fire, her berries, and me.
I wait, and she starts to sway. There’s no wind to rock her; it’s only the magic. My fever churns, flushing under my skin. Astrid brings it out in me. She’s everything I’ve avoided: desire and wild magic, like the embodiment of frenzy itself. Here in the dark, alone with her as she turns in the firelight, I can easily imagine her an avatar from the Alfather, sent to awaken his wayward berserker.
And so, crouching, I ground myself firmly. She asked me here to catch her, not to dance wildly with her. Not to let go. The fever churns, but I dig my fingers into the frosty grass.
She gives herself over to the wild darkness of the sky, dancing with her arms spread out, twirling and twirling. I remain solid, crouched on the earth with my spear for balance, watching her let go and dance. For the first time ever I wish I could do the same, but promise myself it’s enough to catch her.
The hill below us is used to bury princes and jarls, the illustrious alumni of Sanctus Sigurd Academy. When Astrid stomps on the yellow grass, I imagine I can feel their bones stomping back.
Our small fire flares orange and red. Astrid spins, her eyes blind and mouth open in wonder.
And when her feet stop but her body continues and she topples down—I’m there. I wrap my arms around her and cradle her against the crown of the burial hill. Her heartbeat pounds against her skin, and I feel it. So do the bones below.
I hold her there. The fire grabs at my back.
Her eyes are closed, but shivering with dreams. She curls her fingers into my shirt and a dark twist of hair falls over her face as she turns into me. I hardly remember how to breathe, but her own breath has a slow rhythm, and I match mine to it. All through the night I anchor her in my arms, against the earth, while her spirit flies through death.
The dawning sun paints golden waves into the Missoura River at the edge of Sanctus Sigurd land, and Astrid wakes up. I’ve been waiting, focused on smoothing my thoughts. Her passion and the bright lights of the school and my own fever kept me company all night, but as the sun rises, I’m calm.
“Soren,” she says.
Her open eyes are some sort of trigger, and I release her. She stretches and rolls out of my lap. My legs tingle fiercely as blood rushes into my calves again. “It’s dawn,” I say.
Astrid stands on unsteady legs, scanning the rolling hills, the thin spring woods, us and the silent buildings of the academy. “No movement?”
“Not yet.” My body feels hollow and light without her weight, as if she anchored me as much as I did her. I want to touch her shoulders, grasp her gently against me again.
“Then we have a few minutes.”
Inside the Great Hall, and in the dormitory common rooms, the students and faculty must be gathered in front of televisions to see Baldur rise. Everyone across the United States of Asgard will be watching the ritual in Philadelphia as his priests spread the ashes from his death pyre into the roots of the giant New World Tree. Cameras will flash, the seethers will sing, and everyone will wait as—slowly, slowly—Baldur the Beautiful climbs hale and whole out of his own ashes: new, golden, and alive. He’ll stand, bewildered and smiling, and the crowd will cheer. The gods will sweep their favored son away, until he appears at Bright Home, in Colorada, for a massive feast.
My stomach growls. There will be a feast at the academy, too. Candied plums and turkey and a whole roasted pig. Everyone but me will drink blessed honey mead.
“I didn’t see her,” Astrid says, sinking to sit in front of me, blocking my view of the sunrise so that she’s a silhouette, with the golden aura behind her. It’s the first time her voice sounds like the voice of a girl, not a legend. As if overnight that otherworldly aura popped.
“I’m sorry.” Instead of watching Astrid’s eyes, I focus on her fingers. People give away so much with their hands.
Astrid says, “My uncle went to identify her body, and wouldn’t take me. But I’ve dreamed of her alive, Soren, and that’s all I need. Besides, if she were dead, she would be easy to find.” Astrid’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I could summon her spirit then, as I could summon your father.”
I don’t need the reminder that my father is definitely dead, shot twenty-three times by police bullets. I watched his body burn.
Astrid seems to regret her words immediately, and scoots closer to me. “This is what I saw tonight: Baldur sitting in a desert. Faraway cities and people with mournful faces. I saw the New World Tree with ashes at its base, and the ashes blew away in a violent burst of wind. They scattered and became hundreds of people reaching out toward me. I saw an orchard of apple trees, stretching to the horizon, as far as I could ever run or fly. The apples were every color of the rainbow and together they made a bridge leading away from the Middle World and into Old Asgard, where the gods feast and fight and laugh. I saw the tent revivals my mother loved and the White Hall in Philly when the president’s personal seethkona invoked Freya’s blessing upon my family nine months and a day after Mom disappeared. I saw the people’s tears and I saw endless streams of mourners on every TV in the States. But I didn’t see my mother.”
We sit in silence while the sky changes from indigo to pink and then to gruesome orange in the east.
“Maybe,” I say, “you should look on a different night, when there is not so much of Baldur in the air, and the expectations of the world.”
“This was her favorite holiday, though. Because of the hope, she said. She never worked on it, though she should have, and never tried to do anything but be my mom. Not a seer or prophetess or holy woman. We would curl up in her bed with a tiny TV stacked between us on books, eating bacon and roasted apples.”
It’s the most normal thing she’s ever told me. I say, “My father liked the Hallowblot, for the humor of it. He used to take me to sacrifice mice to the goblins and trolls, and said, ‘This mouse lives only for a single moment: his death. Just like us, my bear-son.’ ”
“Bear-son. I like it. I was Mom’s little cat.”
It wasn’t clever of either of our parents. Cats are Freya’s favored beast, and all berserkers are known as bears. Instead it was a promise to both of us, a naming of our fates.
“Astrid—” I begin, intending to ask her if she ever thinks of not becoming a seethkona like her mother.
She lifts her head suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
Before she finishes, I do: a wail crawling up toward the clouds.
It comes from the academy, where all the lights continue to blaze even as the sky turns blue. The wail is joined by another voice, then another, in a keening that raises the hairs on my neck.
“They’re all crying,” Astrid whispers.
The windows and doors of the dorms and class buildings leak with pain. I stand and Astrid does, too. But neither of us moves. The wailing is such a contrast to the bright morning, to the rippling clouds blowing from the south. The Missoura River is a blue ribbon sliding through the prairie, dragging streaks of sunlight toward us.
I run, and under my feet the frosted yellow grass crunches. Astrid is behind me, so I pause and hold out my hand for her
to take. We fly together away from the barrow.
As we careen into the courtyard, even the spill of water from the fountain statue of Sigurd Dragonslayer is overwhelmed by the keening. It’s all around us, as though the air itself screams. I remember what it was like to be surrounded by mournful wails and the smell of blood, in that candy-colored shopping mall, and I suddenly can’t move.
“The dorm.” Astrid jerks my hand, breaking me from my memory. We run across the courtyard and up the three sandstone steps to burst through the front door of the girls’ dormitory. The crying splits my head. In the dark wooden common room, two dozen girls clutch pillows and blankets, lips parted to wail through their teeth. The cries layer over and over and I cannot stand it. I back away.
Astrid falls to her knees, pointing at the projection screen.
The New World Tree is there, towering seven stories high and shading the entire park. Valkyrie in their corselets and feather cloaks push back a mob of men and women. The angry crowd raises fists and yells, but I cannot hear anything over the awful noise that presses into my eyeballs. A reporter stands in front of the camera, microphone shaking. Her words are drowned out, but a message scrolls across the bottom of the screen in bright yellow letters: THE SUN IS RISEN BUT BALDUR THE BEAUTIFUL REMAINS IN ASHES.
THREE
WITHIN AN HOUR, the whole school’s been assembled in the Great Hall. It’s the largest building on campus, and the only place we all fit at once. Pillars hold up the high roof and a line of small windows lets in sunlight. Benches are arranged in concentric circles. As we watch the constant news coverage on ABS, various cliques gather into clumps: the vikers and the brains on opposite ends; members of the joy squad trying to cheer themselves up by painting posters for their next rally. The prayer keepers argue about whether they should be asking Freya to deliver Baldur back to us, or asking Thor to fight his way into Hel and drag the missing god home. Damon Alling, the chief of student government, is loudly explaining to his lawspeaker that this is the kind of thing that happens only under an Odinic administration, but he’s just aping his father.
Travis, one of the stoneball jocks, catches my eye and rolls his in Damon’s direction. I never played with the team, but sometimes I used to join them in the weight room. A handful of the guys will still occasionally toss the ball my way in the courtyard—from a fair distance. I shake my head at him and shrug—What can you do?—just as London sits down on the bench a couple of feet from me.
“So,” he says, stripping off his gray school jacket, “do you think it’s the end of the world?”
I glance at the wide-screen television at the front of the hall: an anchorman with black braids is interviewing a representative from Congress. Their words appear in captions at the bottom of the screen. The representative is talking about what actions the assembly is taking to find Baldur. “No,” I tell London.
“Why not?” His hands flex aggressively. His enmity isn’t directed at me, but at the world in general. Sometimes I think London wants me to go berserk, to give him a reason to fight.
“I haven’t heard the Gjallarhorn,” I say. “Without the horn’s signal, it can’t be the end.”
As he considers my answer, my gaze wanders again, this time to where Astrid sits several rows ahead with Taffy and two girls from the Poets’ Club. Their heads are together, though Astrid continually throws looks toward the small door behind the television as if she’s expecting someone to walk through.
London points at the TV. There’s a new woman being interviewed. She’s got the catskin gloves of a seethkona. “She thinks perhaps Baldur’s been swallowed by Fenris Wolf,” London says, “and the wolf swallowing the sun is the first sign of Ragnarok.”
Sighing heavily, I clap one hand on London’s shoulder. “Then, London Roschild,” I say, “we shall battle the hordes of Hel side by side.”
A smile peels back from his teeth and London laughs. “I’m being foolish,” he says.
I shrug. “Not all would say so.”
London pulls a pocket dagger from his boot and a small cleaning kit out of his bag. “We’re not canceling the campaign next week unless we have to, and I’m still short a rear guard on my team,” he mentions as casually as possible.
I don’t answer, and he isn’t truly expecting me to. We’ve had similar conversations before. He knows berserkers aren’t cleared to participate in educational war games. We’re too much of a liability. As London polishes the dagger, I glance at the hammer charm on the chain around his neck. It’s made of iron nails. Being dedicated to mighty, brave Thor doesn’t keep London from fear. I wonder what it gives him.
And I wonder what dedicating to Freya gives Astrid. When I glance at her, she’s rising from her seat, looking again toward the rear door.
Just then it opens, and Modra Hadley walks through. She’s a sturdy woman with a dozen brown braids wound into a crown, and a cool blue circle painted on her right temple because she’s devoted to Frigg the Cloud-Spinner, Queen of Heaven. And naturally unsympathetic to my situation. She knocks the foot of her cane against the wooden dais until we’re all paying attention. Her vice-modra Amanda, a spindly young woman ten years older than me, scurries after, carrying a stack of attendance sheets and holding her cell phone to her ear. She’s nodding frantically and keeps opening her mouth but can’t get a word in.
Hadley taps her cane one last time, then gestures at the television, which is nearly as tall as she is. “Boys and girls, in two minutes the president will be addressing the country, and so will Gundrun Graycloak and Lawspeaker Howardson. Please be attentive. And after the address, will the following students report back to your dormitories, please. Your advisors will be waiting to help you pack a bag, as your parents have contacted the school in the last hour and will be arriving to take you home shortly.” There’s an immediate uproar, but Hadley gestures at Amanda, who hurriedly snaps closed her phone and begins calling out names over the noise.
Amanda’s gotten through about two dozen, including Damon Alling and half his cadre of politically involved students, when the news broadcast is interrupted by a bright blue screen depicting the seal of Congress: a white eagle over a shield, gripping an ax and a spear in its claws, and above, the rune for justice. Professor Dayling turns the sound up as the seal fades and we’re presented with the president and the lawspeaker sitting side by side at a broad mahogany desk at the White Hall. Lawspeaker Howardson is a woman with solid-silver braids and a stern mouth. She holds a replica of the Poet’s Cup, symbol of her office, and as she begins to speak, she raises it slightly off the desk with both hands. The official words are in Old Scandan, but we all know them: So the law is written, so the law is spoken, I give life to the law. She passes the cup to the president of New Asgard, a middle-aged warrior I haven’t paid attention to since he was elected by Congress two springs ago. His name is Adamson and he has dark hair. There’s a small raven pin on his lapel, indicating his allegiance to Odin Alfather. A ragged scar under his jaw twists as he offers his country a somber smile. “We of the Congress ask that our people across the USA not panic, but hold steady in this time of distress. We are doing all that can be done to search out Baldur the Beautiful and discover the culprit who stole him. Please remain calm and go about your daily business as best you can. The worst thing we can do is give in to fear. We are a people of courage, no matter which god we hold dear, and I personally ask you to remember that. The sun will return to New Asgard.”
He continues on, giving us details about how the national army is coordinating with kingstate and community militias to conduct searches. An emergency hotline number scrolls across the screen, for phoning in any tips. After a few minutes of continued assurances, the president hands us over to the press room, where the beautiful Gundrun Graycloak stands behind a podium with the Alfather’s triple-triangle valknot symbol behind her on banners. Gundrun is the chief of the Valkyrie, and she speaks on the gods’ behalf to the current mortal administration of New Asgard. Over a dark pantsuit she wear
s the traditional swan-feather cloak of the Valkyrie, and there is a spear in her hand. “I bring tidings of comfort to the people of New Asgard from the Alfather and all the gods under his rule: Baldur lives, though we know not where he is. The ashes spread at dawn this morning over the roots of the New World Tree did not belong to the god of light, but were the ashes of a pig.”
From beside Astrid, Taffy yells, “What’s the difference?” only to be shushed by her friends in the Poets’ Club. A quiet snicker passes through our hall, though I frown.
Modra Hadley glares mightily and bangs her cane against the dais.
Gundrun Graycloak is saying, “… have questioned Loki, and Freya herself has vouched for his whereabouts. Do please alert your king’s hotline if you know anything that might possibly aid in the search. I am authorized to inform you that Odin Alfather himself will grant a boon to any citizen of New Asgard who significantly helps to locate Baldur.”
A collective gasp pops in the Great Hall. Even the professors and Modra Hadley show signs of shock and sudden greed. The stoneball players begin yelling to London and his battle-guild team, trying to talk strategy; the vikers cheer from their end; and the prayer keepers send up a plea to Odin, no longer needing to argue about who will receive their appeal. In the chaos, I can’t hear how Gundrun Graycloak finishes her brief speech, but it doesn’t matter because I see Astrid push through the benches and head for the main doors.
I follow, thinking only about what she said this morning: that she saw Baldur in the desert and ashes blowing away from the New World Tree.
Just as the heavy doors swing closed behind me, I catch a glimpse of her skirts as she rounds the corner of the girls’ dormitory. I jog after in time to see her vanish into the woods.