There are no statues in this room. It’s only colored lights and layered shadows. The walls and ceiling are sharper and rougher than others, with crags and stalactites like chandeliers. Sune stands still, studying everything. I crane my neck up, Amon at my side. The points of colored light dazzle me, and I wince but don’t look away.
Sune says very quietly, “There,” and points at one of the deeper shadows in the corner. I look, but see only glowing pink stars staring out of the darkness.
Staring. Oh my.
The shadow moves, and the two pink eyes blink. I gasp and Amon curses.
It drops down to the ground, all spindly limbs and darkness. The pink glint of its—his?—eyes is mirrored by the rubies cutting up in sweeping lines along his cheekbones and the shine of pink in the silver filaments of hair. His face is narrow and sharp, eyes huge in proportion, and when he smiles, his teeth are as sharp as a cat’s. He wears skin-tight gray clothes, a suit of some kind that shifts as he moves the way shadows move. Ruby and gold rings sparkle on each of his long fingers. The goblin—elf?—lifts one hand and beckons to us, then turns and scampers off barefoot; his toes are long, too. The soles of his feet flash as moon-white as the troll-mother’s.
We hurry after.
The goblin leads us on a merry chase through several more chambers and dark hallways. I clumsily sheathe Soren’s sword and pick up my skirts to stop them tangling with my knees. Sune goes silently, and Amon pounds along.
We slide to a halt at the lip of a jagged gorge. I grab Sune’s coat as if my strength could keep him from tumbling off the edge, and Amon grunts in surprise.
The passage ends here in a cave as gaping as the Great Canyon.
Stairs descend in a double-helix from our position, carved into the rock of the mountain itself and lit with flower-shaped quartz and amethyst. Paths spread in either direction around the rim of the cavern. The walls are shaped into massive statues like the Covenant Mount in Lakota kingstate: faces with eyes taller than me watching us with patience and wisdom, a hundred of them, with gemstones in their irises but no other color, like the memories of all etinfolk captured here forever.
A river winds its way through the canyon below, edged with more violet light, and crystal trees grow from the floor as if the valley is a living forest. Their leaves shimmer gold in an unnatural breeze. Like the crystal trees of my dream. The bright river runs slow and smooth, glistening with rainbow colors in the faceted light. Toward the far end of the gorge, the water splits into two streams, and upon a tear-shaped island is a meadow of jeweled flowers surrounding what seems to be a maypole. Ribbons dangle from the top—red, pink, purple, and yellow, fluttering gently. Narrow bridges span the river, and to the left of the island, a white and silver checkered stone floor spreads flat toward the cliffs. A castle is built into the wall, of marble and granite and pink quartzite, with sleek turrets, arched windows, broad balconies.
It’s an Alfheim from fairy stories, here under the mountain.
As I stare, overwhelmed, I start to make out movement. Tiny figures move across the gorge, with more at the bottom of these spiral stairs, and some even tucked against the necks and noses and shoulders of the wall-statues. Watching us. Our guide has vanished.
I start down the stairs. Sune says my name, but by the time I’ve taken five steps, both of them come behind me. I go quickly, one hand against the cool marble rail that twists along with the spiral staircase. Down and down I go, head spinning. The delicate scent of autumn and flowers I recognized earlier grows more pronounced. My boots tap-tap-tap against the perfect stairs, unworn with time, though they must be old. Some magic, perhaps, maintains their shape and cut.
At the base of the stairway, two goblins stand, one white as marble, one black as obsidian, both with red rubies cutting up their cheeks. Or are they elves? Does it matter anymore if the two races married themselves together? These two are perfectly formed, like gods or men, glorious and shining as the elves in old illustrations and stories but for those rubies. They hold tall halberds in the crooks of their arms and wear white-shining leather clothes and silver corselets as fine as woven light. Both settle charcoal black gazes on me, their eyes pools of darkness with no iris or white, nothing but pits beneath their curling lashes. Neither moves, and I hurry past.
The path is gravel of raw-cut crystal, and I crunch hurriedly along the river, focused on the faraway bridge that will take me across to the castle. The gazes of the giant mountain statues weigh down my shoulders. The river runs so clear I only see the surface because of light reflecting against the wave-tips. It draws me, dazzling my eyes, to dip my fingers into it, make a cup in my palm, and drink the pristine water. I fist my right hand with the elf gold ring against the hard bodice of my dress and go faster.
Tiny flecks of dust appear all around me, colored silver, blue, and pink, bobbing and dancing on the currents of air. I glance up—and up and up, for the roof of this cavern rises nearly too high to see, but seems entirely of glass or clear crystal. The blue bright sky winks through. It must be illusion, but I sway with vertigo from the vast space. And here is Amon at my shoulder and Sune at the other. Amon’s eyes are alight with cracking electricity, and Sune is pale to the edges of his lips, looking at everything. The two of them together are like human versions of the black and white guardians from the base of the spiral stairway.
The golden-leafed trees rise around us, trunks slim and pale and flaking like aspen as their thin leaves shudder and shake. No one would believe this if I tried to put it into a tale.
How could Soren be suffering in such a perfect, magical place?
Here and there tiny creatures perch in the trees: crystal birds and glossy, diamond-crusted cats; crouching goblins with no hint of elf in them, all limbs and extra joints, sharp teeth and twisted smiles. But even they seem beautiful here because they belong.
I take the first step up the curve of marble bridge, and butterflies swarm around me, blinding light flashing off their wings. I close my eyes and let them taste my cheeks and alight upon my hair, not moving to bat them away though they tickle and sting. I whisper, “Hello,” and they flitter off toward Sune and Amon. I continue up the arch of the bridge. Its surface is carved with images of elves and giants, enough to give my boots grip as I go.
In the time it took us to cross the bridge, the checkerboard castle yard has filled with elves and goblins. Tens of them, standing or crouching, in perfect armor or nearly naked, in elaborate costumes with wire and silk wings, in crowns of gold and covered in golden chains, every one of them open-mouthed so I can see the prick of their teeth, as if they taste the air and what I bring. Some stare with chunks of obsidian for eyes; others are humanlike with irises of every gemstone color. Here is one with skin sparkling dark like granite whose amethyst cheek-crystals are as long as my finger, five of them curving up from each cheek like a fan. He must witness the world as if from a cage. There is another with quartz horns cutting back in a jagged row from her temples like a crown. Here a tiny one, like a child but oh-so-slender and proportioned like an adult, gold covering her neck and arms and fingers and hips and no clothing. Another with nubs of topaz growing from her knuckles and her collarbone, too. One seems as human as me, in a torn peasant-skirt from thirty years ago, though her eyes shift like fire-opals.
They all stare at me, parting as I head for the castle gate.
One hisses at Amon behind me. The godling smiles back meanly, hefting his hammer. Sune comes with his hands empty, axes sheathed and gun holstered. He sticks to my heels.
I pause and say to the crowd, “I am Idun the Young.” I lift my voice and say it again to the high stone statues, to the faraway ceiling of the mountain. “I am Idun the Young, and I seek Eirfinna.”
The creatures’ attention shifts toward the castle gate, which trembles and then pushes out toward us. It is heavy stone, growing out of the castle, and moves somehow like water, smooth and seamlessly.
I take a long breath and try to slow my heartbeat. My palms ti
ngle. I feel adrenaline burning in my ears, in my veins.
From the shadows beyond the gate, a figure emerges.
She comes light on her feet, in pants and a shirt of pale silk, white boots with no heel, and an array of gold rings on her fingers. Gold binds back her white hair, and ribbons of gentle violet bring out the flecks of amethyst in her solid black eyes. Those black diamonds that spread up her cheekbones are exactly as Amon described, as they appeared in the photo, short and sharp, and they seem to reflect her long curve of a smile, to make it wider and more ferocious. She has them on her knuckles, too, and her fingernails are just as black. Her teeth, when she parts her lips to breathe us in glint like obsidian.
“Gentles,” she rasps, “we have a holy guest.”
The elves and goblins around us shift and whisper like the tide against rocks. I shiver, wishing Sleipnir’s Tooth were in my hand. I remind myself this is a crowd, and I know how to address them. “I am Idun the Young, of Bright Home and the apples of immortality. I seek Eirfinna Grimlakinder for a conversation. My companions are Amon Thorson and Sune Rask, hunter of Thor.”
It’s hard to tell, but I think, as her gaze slides past me to Amon and Sune, her smile grows feral. “Amon, you do not seem to come in peace, and I know the soldier does not.”
Amon doesn’t lower his hammer. “We come at Idun’s side, not for peace or battle, but to meet whatever you have to throw. My actions are up to you.”
“Your actions,” she says, slinking nearer him, “cracked our mountain.”
The gathered elves hiss.
“I will answer for that,” I say.
The elf steps to me and puts her long hand onto my shoulder. “I am Eirfinna, and I will speak with you, Lady of Apples. Come.”
She beckons us as she turns gracefully around.
We follow her into the darkness of the castle.
SEVENTEEN
The great doors flow shut behind us, and the sudden darkness nearly blinds me. Sune takes my hand, and we follow the pale shadow that is Eirfinna forward through the empty blackness. Amon overtakes us, striding behind the elf. Veins of crystal glow dimly in the ceiling. My eyes adjust as we pass through a wide arch and into a long hall, turn right down another passage, then into a tightly spiraled turret stairway. The walls are perfectly smooth marble, and Sune murmurs, “It’s the same texture as the melted edges of the militia prison.”
Eirfinna leads us up at least three flights, faster as we near the top, and into a cave-like room full of computers and television screens that I have no time to study before the elf spins and launches herself at Amon.
I gasp. Sune has his gun out and aimed.
But she only leaps into his arms and kisses him.
Amon’s eyes close, and Eirfinna tilts her head, deepening her kiss. His hammer lowers, and his other arm slowly moves around to support her as she lifts onto her tiptoes and winds her arms around his neck.
Sune makes a soft sound of disbelief. I tear my gaze away from the strange beauty of their embrace and look around at the room.
The ceiling angles sharply down, with stalactites that glow from some internal magic, casting silver-blue light just like the glow of a computer screen. Shelves carved into the walls hold all manner of technology: computers, yes, in pieces and alive with blinking lights; wires and copper tubing; a toy train set and a pile of CDs; three old-fashioned radios a meter tall; the metal shell of an old Model-T; televisions ranging from tiny black-and-whites to massive monitors to thin flatscreens wired together in a corner. A wide wooden worktable spreads between two stalagmites that have been magically melted flat at waist-height to support the tabletop, and tools scatter across it, many that I recognize, like pliers and a welding torch, and some I couldn’t begin to name.
There are mannequins, too, dressed in human finery from across ages: fringed flapper dresses and velvet mantles, military uniforms, business suits, miniskirts and bodices and bustled gowns. They cluster to the side, near a messy mattress set on the cave floor and tossed with a dozen fluffy pillows like a nest.
Amon grunts softly as he sets Eirfinna down. He frowns at her, though I know him well enough now to see the amusement in his face. Eirfinna strokes his forehead, fingering the steel in his eyebrow, and then says, “I did miss you, godling.”
It’s Sune who responds. “You shouldn’t have betrayed him, then,” he says harshly. He shoves his gun away in the holster.
She says to Amon, “Still slumming, I see.”
“Your teeth are sharp without the mask,” is Amon’s only comment. He wipes a dot of blood from the corner of his mouth.
Eirfinna smiles, and her teeth grow slightly dull, her eyes brighten with white at the edges until she watches us through human-seeming eyes colored a vivid purple. She does nothing to shift the shape of her face or the black diamonds along her cheekbones. Half-girl, half-elf-goblin, she bows to Amon, spreading her arms extravagantly.
He offers her a half-smile in return.
“How are you doing that without the mask?” Sune demands.
She tosses a look at him over her shoulder as she goes toward the far end of the cave and opens a cabinet formed of thin marble and glass. “This is my home, hunter. You would do better to help me forget you put a bullet in my gut.”
“I did my duty,” he says, hand resting on the butt of his gun.
From the cabinet Eirfinna takes a crystal decanter and four thin flutes. She pours pale golden drinks for us and hands the first to me. I accept the cold glass, as does Amon. Sune’s jaw tightens, and Eirfinna holds his glass out farther, nearly enough that she could touch the rim of it to his lips. He keeps his hooded eyes on her, waiting.
With a delighted sigh, she finally says, “I reclaimed ancient secrets from that mask, hunter. I never intended to keep it, only to learn from it things my grandmothers lost.”
I lift my flute in salute, “To our grandmothers and the secrets we never lose.”
Her lips part in what appears to be pleased surprise, and Eirfinna turns finally to me. She raises her flute to match mine, then sips. I follow, unable to keep my eyes from fluttering closed at the tickle of pleasure the delicate honey-liquor imparts. Instead of burning, it draws a fluid line of warmth down my throat, like laughter or a kiss. It’s even more delicious than the elf mead Loki brought me once.
I manage to open my eyes, and Eirfinna smiles. Her teeth have gone sharp again, but remain white as a human’s. Amon takes another drink, finishing his entire glass. Sune sets his flute, barely touched, onto the smooth surface of a flattened stalagmite, beside an open laptop and three matching flip phones with their keypads missing.
I say, “I am here for the berserker named Soren Bearstar.”
Eirfinna’s smile widens. “Who?”
Her tone and the angle of her grin clearly show the lie. I do not repeat his name, but only softly say, “He belongs to me, Eirfinna of the Mountain.”
The humor falls off her face, and the elf says sharply, “He murdered my cousin.”
“Your cousin? Bell was your cousin?” says Amon. “What the rut was your cousin doing in Eureka, masquerading as a man?”
“Practicing.” Her diamond teeth glint meanly.
“For what?” the godling sneers. “Gangster of the month?”
“For emergence, Amon Thorson. For us to take our place in the sun. Three hundred years ago when your gods finally came here, dragging Asgard along, my family established these halls. But the Thunderer did not let us claim what we might have claimed.” Eirfinna fists her hand, digging her own sharp, diamond claws into her palm. A thin stream of purple blood leaks down her wrist. “When we attempted it, the Thunderer led his army against us, again and again, claiming we would ruin this new country, that we were desperate monsters and jealous of men and women and their places in Asgard’s heart.”
Sune says, “The Thunderer must believe it if he claims it.”
Eirfinna shrugs one shoulder and opens her hand. “I did not make the choices of my ancestor
s, three hundred or three thousand years ago, but I am what is left of the elves-under-the-mountain, and I will not allow us to fade into stories.” She wipes her palm on the hip of her white tunic, leaving a long streak of violet.
“I understand,” I murmur.
“Do you?”
“You want to be remembered.”
Her eyes turn to black slits.
I say, “You want to be a part of the world, of the weave of fate. To affect things. Anything.”
Eirfinna Grimlakinder slinks nearer to me. “Yes.”
“And I want Soren Bearstar.” I try not to pinch my flute too tightly.
“What has one to do with the other?”
“Only that we understand each other. I am as determined as you to get what I want.”
“I have him,” the elf says. “But he is guilty of murder and I will have my blood price.”
I have him.
Sune says, “He was imprisoned by the Alta California militia and would have seen justice served for any crimes he was proven guilty of. You had no right to sneak him away. The militia would have recognized Bell’s family’s blood right.”
“I never would have been allowed to make such a claim in human court!”
“I want Soren,” I say. I hand Sune my flute and stare at Eirfinna. As always is the case, she is taller than me. I lift my head and focus on those violet eyes. “He is mine, and I demand you return him to me.”
She breathes through her sharp teeth. I see a flick of pale tongue. “You do not taste like a god,” she whispers.
“Nevertheless, I am Idun. You will give Soren Bearstar to me.”
“He is mine to punish, for his crime was not against the men of Asgard. He acted against me, against the elves-under-the-mountain, and so it is the elves-under-the-mountain who seek blood price.”