The Lost Sun (5 page)

“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 wears 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.

I pause between two tall trees, wondering if she wants to be alone, if I’ll only be annoying her if I follow. But then I recall
the expression of loss pressing down her mouth as she stood up from her bench, and I keep going.

It’s cold in the shade. None of the trees have new buds yet, and the ground is dank with fallen leaves left to freeze over the winter. Thin branches clatter together in the wind.

Astrid follows a straight path, and I easily catch up to her where she’s huddled at the bank of the creek. The water barely trickles around flat rocks and exposed roots. Astrid’s head is lowered and she stares at the stream with her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Astrid?”

Her whole body jerks and she stands. “Oh, Soren.” She relaxes.

“I don’t mean to disturb you, but …” I gesture rather helplessly at the path she took. “You were running, and I thought you might need something.”

Leaning back against a gray tree, she says, “I need a lot of things.”

I don’t reply, just study her. The corners of her eyes are red. I take a step closer. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

She smiles. “I’m not that delicate.”

“Everyone has weak days.”

“You?”

“I feel weak every day.”

“I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t fight it so hard if you were weak.”

“I fight it so hard because I am.”

“No.”

I open my mouth to contradict her, but she shakes her head. “Soren, I’m thinking about what Odin is promising, to whomever returns the Light to Asgard.”

“A boon from the Alfather is a great thing,” I say quietly.

She’s staring at my eyes and I want to look away. She expects me to ask,
Do you think he would take away my berserking?
Instead I say, “He could tell you certainly about your mother.”

A hiss presses out through her teeth and she turns away from me.

“You’re going to try, aren’t you?”

There’s no answer. Her shoulders shake as a cold breeze flows around us.

“Will you start in the desert?” I ask. “As you saw last night when you seethed?”

After a drawn-out breath, she asks in return, “Do you love the gods, Soren?”

“Love them?”

“You don’t wear Odin’s symbols, or a hammer charm for Thor. You don’t light candles in the chapel.”

“What does that have to do with love?”

She turns back as a quick smile appears and vanishes on her mouth. But her upset is so clear in the rigid posture of her hands. “Faith, then. Do you believe in them? My mom used to tell me all I needed was faith. ‘Believe in them, little cat.’ It was the last thing she said to me, you know.” Astrid’s eyes are big, as though if she holds them wide open enough she will only see me, not her memories. “But I thought having faith in our gods was like having faith that the grass will be green or that gravity
will hold me to the ground. There isn’t anything to have faith in. They simply
are
. They’re real. Their power is real, even if they choose not to use it sometimes.” Her voice lowers and I’m not certain she’s talking to me anymore. “And then one morning, the sun doesn’t rise. Baldur the Beautiful does not do what he’s done for a thousand years! I feel it like a hollow wound right here.” Astrid jabs her fingers against her diaphragm.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you take it seriously. Every day you live with the consequences of the gods in our lives. So many people ignore the gods’ influence until it’s convenient to pay attention. Until they need goblins evicted from their basement or can’t decide what cancer treatment to accept. Taffy just wants me to toss the bones and weave prophecy to tell her if she’ll pass her history exam, and all the girls look at me as if they expect my mother. Expect prophecy to fall out of my mouth every time I open it. You know it’s work. You know it isn’t a game.”

I stare at her eyes, where her passion burns hotly enough that for a moment I am glad I can’t feel it. If I were like her, my berserking would have awakened long ago. But if I were like her, I might not mind—and what would that be like? To embrace the wild battle-fury the way she embraces her spinning magic? For a moment I consider it, my eyes dragging down to her lips as I imagine kissing her, imagine putting my arms around her and drinking her passion up, and her courage, too.

“Soren, what are you thinking?”

I hear her only because I see her lips move. “I am thinking that if anyone can find him, it’s you.”

“Because of who my mother was.” Her brow lowers, her eyes narrow.

“No.” I step away. Otherwise I’ll kneel before her. “Because you’ll be the only one doing it for the right reason.”

Her face opens back up, but she remains silent.

I leave her alone in the forest.

While the rest of the academy’s students are forced to spend the afternoon in club activities and sports, to keep their minds off the outside troubles, I work out in the combat arena with Master Pirro.

Today he’s grumpy and distracted, and I don’t have to ask why. Nothing like this, like a missing god, has happened in anyone’s memory. He wants to be out there, with the war bands, searching. Doing. It’s what he’s meant for, but instead he’s babysitting a kid berserker who refuses to let the fury come.

I heft my ax between two stances, both defensive, while Pirro barks at me to shift my left foot back or roll one of my shoulders. It’s rare enough for a berserker to live into old age, and while he’s a great instructor, the years have cooled his battle-fire enough to make his bones creak and keep us from sparring often.

Out of nowhere, Pirro calls a halt and says, “Soren, I’ve talked with my old friend Karlson at the Hangadrottin. He might have a place for you after Disir Day.”

I don’t move; I stand holding the heavy ax stuck halfway through a swing. Most of the best generals of our time attended
the war college, as did the president himself. If I wanted to be a berserker, it would be my obvious choice. I have the credentials: recommendation and family tradition. Dad graduated from there, but in the end it wasn’t enough to teach him control.

Pirro grimaces so broadly it pushes all his wrinkles up over his eyes and I don’t know how he can see through them. He lays a hand on my wrist, gently pressing down so that I lower the ax to the holmring ground. “You need to study with them, Bearskin, to prepare to join a commit and serve your god and country.”

He speaks as if my berserking is inevitable.

Because I won’t answer him, Pirro continues gruffly, “You need their … training. The kind I can’t give you.”

Conditioning, he means. The exercises they put you through to teach you how to kill not just trolls or goblins, but other men. For us it isn’t only about learning to pull the trigger, but about coping afterward, when you come back to yourself and are surrounded by bodies of whatever it is you’ve murdered while you went berserk.

The thought of it sets the fever spinning, making my stomach turn over until I clench my jaw and press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I take a deep breath through my nose and turn away from Pirro.

I want it gone. I want so badly to be free; it’s like a magnet pulling at my heart. What if Odin could take it away? What if Astrid could really find Baldur, and win us the Alfather’s boon?