The Lost Sun (25 page)

Troll sign.

Here in Cheyenne, we’re bunched up next to the Rock Mountains and the Bitterroots that stretch into the Canadia Territories. I’ve never been so near Trollhome. These are plains around us, but with the troll advisory, even if Vinland is far to the east of here, we’re in clear danger.

And I forgot.

In all the intensity of the past twenty-four hours, I forgot to keep on guard against trolls. I stare north, and then turn slowly all around. The nearest trees are on the other side of the creek, and to the northwest where the water curves. There’s no flash of paint that might be warning runes. We’ve been completely vulnerable.

Vider says, “These must have been caught out at dawn, on their way back to their den.”

“I heard nothing.”

“Neither did I, but I was sleeping pretty soundly.”

“I was awake.” I put one of my boots against a stone troll. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been to not keep aware of my surroundings, to neglect the dangers of being out alone, where there are no ranger patrols or warded trees.

Vider puts a hand on her forehead as a visor, peering north with me. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t make any mischief for us.”

Scraping my sole down the rock, I nod. “At least they’re small ones.” Greater mountain trolls don’t tend to fraternize with their littler cousins, which suggests we don’t have to worry too much. But the small grass-wights can be as dangerous, if they have a large enough pack or a smart troll-mother. Once the sun goes down, these two stones will melt back into flesh—creatures with tooth-filled mouths and spindly arms.

And we can’t pack up and drive away. We need the privacy of this barn and the flowing water for Astrid’s summoning ritual.

I suck a breath in through my teeth. “We have to find their
den and bind them, or appease them. Run back to the car and grab some of the mead, and a handful of the energy bars. We can all manage without until tomorrow’s lunch. Be sure to leave some mead for Astrid to use tonight if she needs it.”

Vider runs off, and I go collect Father’s sword. I strap it on, to my left shoulder while my right continues to heal. I’m less skilled at left-hand draw, but still better than most. I make it back to the troll-stones first, and carefully pick them up. Hopefully, returning them to their den will be step one of soothing any disgruntled troll-mother.

They’re heavy, but I tuck one under each arm. Vider’s eyes widen when she sees them, but she sets off first. There isn’t a path, but it seems the grass is bent just enough for her to track them. I’m impressed. The caravans usually have well-established routes, and their territory is marked by warded trees and ribbons braided into leaves or grass. But still, it’s the children’s task in the caravans to do a sweep every morning for troll sign.

Vider’s sharp eyes catch more catlike paw prints in the dirt, so we know we’re heading in the proper direction. We veer farther away from the highway, which is hidden by a large roll of hill, and closer to the creek and the tall groves of evergreen and birch trees. Through the clicking bare branches, I see the farmhouse.

The trolls, of course, are why our barn was abandoned.

We stand in the yard. Vider’s shoulder brushes my arm. My wrists are tired from carrying the hefty stones, but I don’t put them down yet. The farmhouse is two stories, a single
white rectangle with windows like dark eyes. The front door’s been torn from its hinges and lies in the tangled lawn like a discarded toy. A porch swing hangs by one chain. Most of the structure, including the roof, appears intact. But across the face of the second story is painted a purple rune:
thorn
.

Do not enter here
, it warns,
for I am inhabited by trolls
.

“I don’t think we can bind this whole house,” Vider whispers. “Not without Astrid.”

And we can’t bother Astrid unless we absolutely must. “Bring the mead,” I say. I walk slowly forward, eyes on the doorway. I stop several paces from the shade of the porch to turn in a circle and show any wights peering at me from the interior darkness that I am unarmed but for my sword. Vider walks with her arms out, the mead in one hand, the bundle of bars in the other.

We proceed carefully. There’s a large iron elf-cup right beside the front door. Like an upside-down bowl, with a tiny impression pressed into the top of its dome, the cup is made for offerings to the land-wights and goblins. This cup is bone-dry, and likely has been for years.

Vider knows what to do. She uncaps the mead and goes purposefully to the elf-cup. She drips just enough in to fill it, though one quick drop slips down to the porch floor.

A tapping sound begins, coming from inside the doorway. It echoes through the wood of the porch.

The steps creak mightily under me, but I ignore them to bend down and gently place the troll-stones on the wooden floor, where they’re completely shaded.

Then Vider dashes to me and we back away.

“I am Soren Bearskin, son of Odin,” I call. The
tap-tap-tap
stops immediately.

Vider says, “And here is Vider Lokisdottir.”

“We bring you honey mead and cakes of nuts and berries; we bring you two of your lost, sun-frozen brethren.”

The darkness through the doorway shifts. There’s something—or many somethings—inside. Their claws click against each other, creating a sound like insects flying.

The larger of the stone trolls shivers. The shade cools it, and a thin layer of stone cracks where its head will be. Tiny crumbs tumble away. As it shrugs its shoulder, the smaller troll begins quaking as well.

The stone breaks apart and they wake. The larger has orange eyes as big as apples, thick shoulders, and a ridge of fur down its back. It bares square teeth at us, hulking over onto its fists. But the smaller crouches, looking like nothing so much as a cat with arms and hands instead of forelegs. Its whiskers twitch and it puts one of those hands against its compatriot. The angry troll closes its mouth, while the cat-wight smoothes its whiskers and hisses,
“Cakesss.”

Vider unwraps one of the bars and takes it forward. I want to tell her to toss the thing its cake, but won’t interrupt. She creeps closer on tiptoe, holding out the energy bar. The cat-wight reaches out, too, and Vider must go all the way onto the first porch step so that it has no fear of moving into the sunlight. “Here, little brother,” Vider says gently.

The larger troll quivers, but does not move, as the cat-wight
nibbles at the bar. Vider remains at the foot of the porch steps. When the cat-wight has eaten half the bar, it offers the rest to the other and then holds out its hand. It curls its claws in a gesture for
more, more
. I gather up the rest of the bars and bring them. Holding them carefully, I crouch down and let the two trolls pick them out of my hands. The orange-eyed troll stuffs them under its arms and trundles inside with them. It chants something guttural that sounds like
“Shiny-shiny-shiny.”

I say to the cat-wight, “We ask you to allow us the use of your barn for one more night. We have magic to attend to that requires this sort of earthly privacy.”

It twitches one ear, and holds all its attention on Vider. She smiles and nods, affirming my statement. When the cat-wight holds out its hand, Vider does as well, and the troll wraps its thin fingers around her thumb.
“Come, come,”
it says in its sandpaper voice.

“Vider,” I say, concerned she’ll agree.

She ignores me just as the cat-wight did, and stands, bent over enough not to strain the little troll’s arm as it clasps her finger. “I will bargain with your mother,” she agrees.

“Vider,” I say again, taking her other hand.

“I’m a daughter of Loki,” she tells me. “And kin to such creatures. They will eat our cakes and drink our mead, and we will bargain. Wait here.” The last she says slowly and firmly.

I glance at the dark doorway. I don’t know if there are five more inside, or a hundred. I likely can’t kill them all, and it would be insulting to the land here to try. We came to their
territory, oblivious and rude as crows. I clench my jaw and glare at her. But Vider shrugs. She disengages from me and says to the cat-wight, “I accept the hospitality.”

It leads her across the porch and she vanishes into the house.

For a moment, I don’t know what to do. I hear nothing but the wind against the eaves and through the barren tree limbs. I grind one foot against the ground, hands on my waist. My fingers itch for a spear, or at least to draw my sword.

If there’s a problem, Vider will scream. She’s fast and smart and spindly. Even if she can’t fight free, she will at least find a way to warn me.

I settle with my feet wide, my hands folded in front of me. Ready. Waiting.

I wait a long time.

The sun moves far enough in the sky that the shadow of the house comes noticeably nearer to me. I recite to myself the first seethkona’s prophecy of the creation of the world, from Ymir’s death to the naming of Ash and Elm.

Just as building anxiety threatens to crack my calm, and I can feel the frenzy spin faster, Vider’s voice calls out to me, “Soren, would you come to the doorway, please?”

I’m there in two leaps, one hand pressed against the torn hinges. I blink to adjust my eyes. It is dim in the house, but not dark. Gray light filters through threadbare curtains. I smell mildew, wet rock, and the thick, musty odor of rotten wood. The door opens into what was a living room, though the sofa
has been hollowed out, wallpaper hangs off the wall in long strips, and there are the remains of a fire just in front of the actual fireplace.

Trolls crouch and sit in every corner. They bunch up in the destroyed sofa cushions, staring at me with lidless eyes. Some pick their teeth with tiny bone-needles; some wear scraps of clothing. They are tiny beasts, many with the features of a cat in face or fur or long curling tail.

And Vider sits cross-legged among them, with the original cat-wight on one side of her, and a three-foot-tall and nearly-as-wide troll-mother on the other. The troll-mother is mottled green and gray like a dead fish, and her cat eyes are silver as Vider’s hair. She wears what used to be an apron, and her flaccid breasts droop over a round stomach. But she smiles, and pats Vider’s knee with one thick hand.
“Stay,”
she says, and the trolls clap.

Before I can protest, a troll near a stack of rotting books rolls a red rubber ball at Vider. Vider catches it and rolls it back. A bent Slinky shines, strung between two of the trolls, and there are other toys scattered all around. Vider catches the rubber ball again, and rolls it toward another troll. Vider says, “It’s all right, Soren. I’ll stay here with them tonight, and they will not bother you and Astrid.”

My teeth are on edge. The trolls are small and childlike, but they have claws that could rip through Vider’s stomach, and teeth that might crush her bones. Any moment they might change their tiny minds. Any moment the troll-mother might take that thick hand and cover Vider’s mouth and nose so she
can’t breathe. Then they will still have Vider to play with, and I will return in the morning to find her bones charred in the fire, and her intestines—instead of that Slinky—strung between two of the trolls.

The choice is between fighting our way out and losing the location for summoning my father, or allowing Vider to do as the trolls wish. I remind myself she’s a daughter of Loki. She’s as close to trollkin as a person gets.

And I remember the look in her eyes when she first saw my tattoo. When she homed in on it and never let go.

I clasp my hands in front of me again, and bow. I hold my eyes upon the troll-mother’s. “Very well, little mother. Our friend Vider Lokisdottir will stay the night in your den. At dawn, when the sun turns the world into stone, you’ll send her back to us whole and unharmed, and we will abandon your barn.”

She inclines her feline head and says,
“Yesss.”

Vider, not moving from her seat on the carpet, says, “Please ask the others not to worry.”

“I will. Be safe.”

Her smile is shallow and her expression too still as she says, “I am in no danger. The trollkin are my kin.”

I back out of the doorway and touch my hand over my heart for her bravery.

FIFTEEN

WHEN I TELL Baldur of Vider’s decision, he looks past me toward the trolls’ house. “Are you certain, Soren?”

His eyes darken and I expect the sky to follow suit, but it remains sharply blue. I move so my head blocks his view, and say, “It was her choice. She’s Lokiskin, and the trolls will honor that for one night. We must have time to perform the ritual, and you—”

“Me,” he says with a heavy sigh. His eyelids shut and his shoulders droop. “When the sun sets, I will be useless.”

“We will do this for you. You’re not yourself without the apple.”

“I wish we could do it now.” The almost-god twists to glance south after Astrid, and bitterness flavors his words.

“We can’t.”

When he looks back to me, his eyes are sad. “Nothing is worth doing that cannot be done under the sun.”