The Strange Maid (5 page)

I thought Myra understood me better than the rest, she and Precia the Valkyrie of the South. Myra sparred as skillfully and strong as the ancient Valkyrie Hervor and Skuld, and I remembered how Precia’s cheeks would go pink with elation when we reenacted the
Flight of Brynhild.
We three would be the passionate, raging ones, I thought, spirit-sisters to tilt balance against the First Valkyrie and her conservative confederates, the Valkyrie of the Ice and the East.

But even they didn’t understand.

Alfather, help me! Give me a sign!

There was no answer but the whisper of wind through the rattle-dry leaves of the Tree. I curled between two massive roots, hair tangled in my face, hands cold and tucked to my breast, until I fell asleep.

In my dream I led Malchai to the hanging ground, and the city cheered for me as the noose slung around
my
neck. I was the one dragged into the sky, to dangle and dance and choke for the Alfather.

Dawn woke me, frost in my hair and my face numb. My throat ached for all the crying I’d done and was bruised from dreaming. I stumbled to my feet. Three of the Valkyrie stood in the garden with me: Myra Quick, Precia of the South, and Elisa of the Prairie. Tears tracked down Precia’s bright cheeks, and Myra’s lips were pale. Elisa closed her eyes and pointed to the trunk of the Tree.

I looked.

Burned into the dark, ropy bark was a riddle.

The Valkyrie of the Tree will prove herself with a stone heart.

It was the only answer I got from my god.

Thinking he agreed with them, that I’d gone too far, too fast, I took what I could carry and walked out of the Philadelphia Death Hall.

For a nearly two years I’ve wandered, sleeping where I can, earning money how I can. Poetry on a street corner or, early on, officiating small funerals before the country realized I’d run away—before one of my death priests or wolf-guards leaked the riddle to the newspapers. I’ve crashed in half-decrepit buildings, brewing street-shine and selling it for coins. Trusting people with runes in their eyes like
joy
and
strength
and
courage.
At first I tried to be cool like Precia or Siri, tried to harden my heart into stone. Not to grow wild with anger or grief or passion.

Impossible, when I can’t stop this itch to leap into action, to
do something
no matter what the consequences. How can I walk past another girl being roughed up? How can I not deface those infuriating anti-berserker subway posters? How can I do less than Valtheow, who made herself a mask of mud and blood to face down her enemies?

I don’t understand why Odin would want me to have a heart of stone, if that’s what the riddle means, when I know he was drawn to my wildness.

If this were an ancient poem, if I read the line in a song, I would think
stone heart
was a kenning for death, or maybe for a Freyan, someone who worships Freyr the Satisfied, the god of earth and fertility, like my parents. They love the earth and poetically speaking could be said to love stone, to have hearts for stone. But it’s so twisted up in language! Could a stone heart mean justice? Balance like what Tyr the Just brings to the world in the shape of laws and integrity, because a stone heart would not vary? Or maybe a stone heart is a heart of fire, because flint is a stone and it sparks fire from steel.

The people I’ve asked did not know, either. I managed an audience with several lawspeakers, and a Freyan priest in his temple, I got onto the stage at a public reading at the Mishigam Poet’s College and recited them the riddle as if I’d created it. None of them had a better answer.
How should the Valkyrie prove herself with a stone heart?

I demanded again and again. A young seethkona across the border in Acadia searched for a clue in my runes, but all she saw was the road stretching ahead of me for months and a cold, broken city. I even hitched to New Netherland city to ask Rathi Summerling, my former wish-brother, who was apprenticed to a Chautauqua preacher there and knew everything about history. I remained with him for three months, falling a little in love with him and his city for the mold in the cracks of its sidewalks, the violence of the taxicabs and sharp steel skyscrapers, the disposable smells, the crush of people streaming over all that death like it nurtured them. But not even he could give me an answer.

Two years now since the riddle appeared, most people have forgotten me.

The rune scar still marks my palm like a brand: this girl belongs to the god of the hanged. But I’m a Valkyrie in name only.

And here is this man, Ned Unferth, standing in the freezing rain outside of the Chicagland Death Hall and saying as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “I know the answer to your riddle.”

He must be mocking me.

I get right into his face.
“Liar.”

“I never lie, little raven,” he says.

Little raven.
I flatten my scarred palm over my heart, pressing down against the rise and fall of my breath. Then I lurch forward and grab his face. He doesn’t move, barely blinking. My thumbs press under his eyes. His jaw is rough and cold against my palms. He leaves his arms hanging at his sides, flicking a glance at the onlookers who pause with concern under their umbrellas. Then Unferth smiles at me again, a dangerous curve of lips that lures me even closer.

And there, there in the colorless iris of his left eye, is a single bright rune:
truth.

He promises me food and answers if I go with him. Elisa of the Prairie would lecture me about getting into cars with strangers, but I have my seax, and the rune in his eye as a hint of his worth. I don’t think he’ll try to murder me tonight, and a clue to my riddle is worth the risk.

What else am I supposed to do? Anything is better than throwing myself on Myra Quick’s mercy.

As he opens the passenger door of a blue pickup truck, Unferth calls me
little raven
again. Oh, how I miss my god of the hanged! This riddle is all I have left of him, my only way home to him again.

Unferth gets behind the wheel and turns on the heater as he drives north out of town. Neither of us touches the radio, and the only sound is the roar of the engine, the streak of wipers, and rain spattering the metal roof. By the time I’m warm, my stomach screams for food and I’m damp from the soaking my coat received.

“Where are we going?”

“Dinner, and then, if you like my answers, north into Canadia.”

I could get used to such truth-telling. It’s relaxing, despite the excitement that thrills up my spine. Canadia. That more than anything convinces me he has a plan: there are no good reasons to head into troll country. I watch him as he drives, eyes on the road, going about five kilometers below the speed limit, hands at two and ten. Always uses his blinker, lets cars merge, and never cusses, even in the Chicagland traffic.

Either he’s from another planet or too cautious to be an Odinist.

“What’s the answer?” I say after ten minutes and only about seven kilometers.

“I’d prefer to lay it all out in proper order,” he says tightly.

“Did Odin send you?” I ask instead. “Are you one of his men? Not a berserker, not a death priest. A warrior?”

“I’m a poet.”

“An Odinist, then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Most poets are Odinists.”

“These days.”

I frown. It’s all true, but not exactly answers. “Are you dedicated to Odin?”

He flicks an irritated glance at me but has to look straight back out the windshield. “Does it matter?”

“Obviously! Did Odin tell you the answer to his riddle?
And
you know my secret name.”

“Hrafnling,”
he mutters. “An Old Anglish diminutive only. ‘Little raven’ was a Valkyrie’s child name in ancient times, in the oldest songs.”

“I’ve never heard it before!”

Unferth only shrugs.

For ten more minutes I glare at his profile. His nose is crooked and his lips thin, but I quite like his cheekbones and jaw. There’s a twist of shine on his neck that might be a scar. As his hair dries it brightens to a wispy pale blond. He’s got scars on his knuckles and fingers, too, from fighting.

Unferth pulls off the highway into the parking lot of a Xia buffet. “You must be hungry,” he says.

“Just tell me the answer,” I insist.

He settles his hands and the keys in his lap and leans his shoulder into the door to face me.

I try again. “How do I prove myself with a stone heart?”

“Kill yourself a troll.”

“What?”
I’m trapped between laughing incredulously and kicking him across the gearshift.

“A stone heart. If you kill a troll, it turns into stone, doesn’t it? Heart included.”

Laughter dries on my tongue. I stare for a long moment. Unferth waits expressionlessly.

“That’s so …” I pound a fist onto my thigh. “Ragging literal. Too literal. It can’t be. It has nothing to do with the … kind of Valkyrie I want to be. With the reasons I clashed with my sisters in the first place! The answer should be about being bold or not, about danger or power or safety! It should be more dramatic than this, at least.”

Unferth’s eyebrows go up. “Trolls aren’t dramatic or dangerous enough for you?”

I shrug a little helplessly. It’s a valid point. Killing a troll—a greater mountain troll, a monster—would be glorious and violent, a thing only the wild berserkers do these days, or Thor and his army.

Valtheow the Dark faced trolls.

Hope sputters to life. For the first time I wonder if Odin sent that riddle to prove to my sisters that I was
right.
Maybe I’m not supposed to learn something about myself or change, maybe
they are.
He wants the old ways back, and I’m his vessel for it.

“Perhaps some food will fatten up your riddling muscles,” Unferth says, unlocking the doors. He tucks his sword under the dashboard and leaves me, running through the rain toward the buffet. I scramble down after him.

Cozy red decor welcomes us, along with tinny harp music. The walls are covered with banner paintings of misty hills and old fishing boats, and gentle lamps hang low over the booths. It smells like fried vegetables and fish, and I barely pause at our table before heading for the buffet. Unferth orders a beer after asking the hostess which is her favorite import, and adds a second for me before following.

I ignore that it’s been weeks since I ate food this rich and plentiful, and devour it messily. Unferth eats like it’s a science experiment. A bit of every offering fills up two plates and three small soup bowls, and he tastes it all, either discarding the whole after a single bite or devouring what he likes. I’ve finished long before him, feeling stuffed for the first time in ages. I continue to study him, as if his clothes or his habits will tell me how he guessed the answer to my riddle.

Under his coat he’s got on jeans and biker boots, a plain T-shirt over a long-sleeved one. It’s definitely a scar around his neck, just exactly where a noose would pull, and three of his left fingers are encircled by rings. He’s exceedingly polite to the server who refreshes our waters and offers chopsticks, and his speech has a rhythm to it that’s not quite an accent but marks itself. I take a drink of the pale Xian beer and close my eyes. With a full stomach and warm all over, my body wants to sink deeper into the booth and relax, but my mind is sailing.

Here is this Unferth with a supposed answer to the Alfather’s riddle—a miraculous, well-timed answer nobody has suggested before. If Odin didn’t send him, how did he find me, and why now?

I set down my chopsticks. “How old are you?” I ask.

“As old as the flower that blooms and dies every year.”

I scoff. “Where are you from?”

“A country where the sun rises and sets every other day.” Unferth turns over an egg roll and meets my eyes as he spears it with his fork.

“Who is your father?”

Now a lazy smile stretches across his face and he slumps back into the booth. “As much a king as I am.”

His answers are riddles, too, and could mean: he does not age, he is not from the Middle World, or he is as divine as his father. As Odin. The thrill of leaping to a conclusion makes my toes dance in my boots. “You’re one of the Lonely Warriors,” I guess.

The Einherjar, Odin Alfather’s undead soldiers, drawn from the greatest of our heroes from all the ages to serve him in Asgard. They train constantly in the fields outside the Valhol to fight at his side when the end of the world comes. They eat with him and drink from the Poet’s Cup to retain their memories even in death; they are his spies in the Middle World, his brothers-in-arms. Perhaps he learned to call me
little raven
from Odin’s own lips.

But Ned Unferth laughs dismissively.