The Apple Throne

  He started to turn away, and I flung myself at him. “I love you more than anything,” I said.

  “And I love you,” he said, voice wavering, “because I know that’s not true. I figured it out forever ago: you love the world and the gods, and all you’ve ever wanted was to serve them, serve the world. You’re doing that here. It’s just…different than we expected.”

  I kissed him because he was half-wrong. I love everything about him, even his slow-moving uncertainty, for when he does decide on a course, nothing can drive him off it. When he chooses, he chooses completely. I’ve never had that. He finds one right path and never falters. I’ve always been plagued by multiple roads, by either-ors and possibilities. It’s the core of my trouble now: confusion and this mess of a situation, letting myself be pulled and pushed, forgetting who I’m supposed to be depending on who’s beside me. It isn’t Soren’s fault I’m torn in so many directions.

  He picked me up and carried me back to the chair, sitting with me cradled in his lap. “I’m sorry,” I said against his face. “I don’t want you to leave and never come back.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s only so hard.”

  “I know. Or rather, I don’t know. I don’t know how you manage it, Astrid.”

  “You help me. You’re my mountain, Soren, my anchor, even if I no longer fly into the sky with my dreams.”

  “You’re in my dreams sometimes,” he said tentatively. I smiled, and then I laughed. I molded myself against him, laughter against his collar and chest.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. He kissed my hair as I ran my fingers down his arm to the necklace still in his hand. “This is beautiful.”

  “It made me think of your old life, and this new one, too. A necklace for who you are now.”

  I lifted the mass of my dark curls and let him hook it around my throat. Freya told me I had to be Idun, that the girl I’d been was lost. But Soren believes my past is part of my present. That I can be many things. I want it to be true.

  I put the necklace on again now and walk outside to wait as the horn beads warm to my flesh.

  Purple evening darkens the cords of the wizened old apple tree.

  Something is infinitely, impossibly wrong.

  It’s the night after the Yule sacrifice, three months and one day since I’ve seen Soren Bearstar, the Sun’s Berserk.

  And he is not here.

  TWO

  I’m leaving the orchard.

  The knowledge hits swift and cold, like the hand of fate knocking on my skull.

  All other options are too full of uncertainty. Freya won’t help; she barely tolerates my association with Soren as it is. If I ask her to tell me where Soren is, she’ll likely say I must stop picking at the wound. And once I’ve asked, I’ll never be able to leave on my own because she’ll expect it. The same goes for any other of the gods. They won’t let me leave the orchard because it’s my spark, my presence that completes the spell, keeps the apples thriving. Even Lofn, sympathetic to the unique plight of my love life, wouldn’t go against Freya.

  It’s possible I could get a hold of one of Soren’s mortal friends with the phone in the Bears’ office. But I cannot shake this cold feeling something terrible is wrong, and what if they know nothing? Would I just return here to wait? I’ll reach out to them, but after I leave this orchard.

  I could call Loki on the cell phone he gave me because he owes me for that last nasty trick of his, but his favor can’t be wasted. I might need him more after I find out what’s happened to Soren.

  Anything could have happened.

  Trolls. Holmgang. A car accident. Sweet swans, any of the adventures he’s gotten up to in the past two years might’ve killed him. Soren will always throw himself into danger for others.

  He’s out there, outside the orchard. Injured, hurting, dead.

  You might die, and I wouldn’t know for weeks until you didn’t arrive on our day.

  I have to find him.

  Always before, I’ve left the orchard with a god or the disir, flying on the rainbow winds. But for my own way now, I’ll have to leave as I arrived almost two years ago. Through the iron gate, through the valley and Bears.

  I rush inside for my coat. It’s the white bearskin coat Skathi the goddess of winter gave me, with a flared hem and large pockets. I find my tall boots, the ones that are soft and fitted up my leg that I can walk a thousand miles in. I put on the rings various gods have given me and two silver and gold arm cuffs in case I need to trade, as I have no money.

  Neither do I have ID, and into the pockets of my coat go that cell phone Loki Changer gave me, which only calls his number; thick gloves; two of the valley-finding charms; and the large iron key to the orchard gates.

  For a moment, I long for my destroyed seething kit, to strap it across my back like a sword.

  I return outside to the apple tree. In the darkness, these apples of immortality are deflated marbles. I kneel, touching bare hands against the sandpapery trunk. I truly have no idea how long it can last without me. A few days or a week, I expect, before the magic begins to fade. It lasted years with only my mother, a shadow of an Idun, only half-here. Surely this tree can manage without me for a little while. Freya will find me before it withers too far, of that I am certain. No matter what she chooses once she realizes I’ve abandoned my charge, she won’t risk the tree itself.

  After the third time Loki tried to deceive me into giving him an extra apple, I angrily asked why he didn’t just walk up and snatch one himself. I could hardly stop him, powerless as I am.

  He smiled a flirting smile and said I was hardly powerless, being so lovely and sharp. I did not smile. The god of orphans let his face melt into an ageless shape, line-free and bland as an ancient and worn marble statue. He said, I am old, Idun of Youth. I am old and what makes life worth living are the rules and breaking them. It is a game, all of this. The only rule is: an apple freely given by a girl who will die.

  They are my best—my only—currency.

  “I will return, apple tree,” I murmur. “Don’t be lonely or afraid. I’m coming back to you when I finish this. Be strong for me.”

  With that, I pluck three apples and drop them into my pocket.

  The moon is bare sliver, a platter for the stars. It hangs over the western mountains, and I follow it, my boots crunching through the frosty grass. The nearer I come to the gate, the colder it is. My curls rustle like dry apple leaves.

  There’s a space of three meters between the last line of trees and the iron fence. I cross it with my head high, my stride smooth. The Bears mustn’t know I’m desperate, mustn’t perceive danger, or they will lock down the valley looking for the cause. Slipping out then would be nearly impossible. I wish I could simply commandeer one of their trucks or make them drive me. They are Idun’s Bears, after all, and sworn to protect me and this valley. But I don’t know where exactly they draw the line between loyalty to me and loyalty to Odin Alfather, the god of the berserkers. It is possible by swearing to protect me, they’ve sworn to keep me here against my will, and I would not know until I ordered otherwise.

  The iron bars burn my fingers with the cold, and I look out at the dark valley.

  The feast hall of Idun’s Bears is alight, but the gym, hanger, and barn all rest shadowed for the night. I hear a low bass tempo and wonder if they’re still celebrating Yule twenty-four hours later. It would be like berserkers to go all out for the Alfather’s holiday.

  “My lady?”

  A figure emerges from my right, black uniform like gathered shadows. It’s Justice, one of the youngest new Bears. Most of the previous company were reassigned on my request after I burned my seething kit. Not because they remembered my mother, Idun before me; the magic is too strong for that. It’s because I must trust my Bears, or grow to trust them, and I’d watched too many of the former band stand by as their warleader threw a spear into Baldur the Beautiful’s chest, thinking he was Idun’s enemy.

  “Justic
e,” I say.

  He pushes dark hair behind his ear as he ducks his head. “Can I get the captain for you?”

  “No.” I draw my key from my pocket, and Justice helps me pull the heavy gate open, avoiding my eyes deferentially. He’s taller than me by a full head, which is not unusual. As the gate swings silently closed, I touch his elbow and he freezes. He treats me like a god because he has no reason to believe I’m not.

  But then again, what makes a god? Agelessness and immortality and power? Or only belief?

  Justice has not moved a muscle. Belief is enough to make me Idun for him. I gently ask, “Are your brothers still carousing, Justice?”

  In the moment he hesitates, I lean slightly into the warmth of his comforting frenzy. He says, “We’ve a visit from Amon Thorson, lady, who brings, ah, difficult to obtain items.”

  I know the name—a bastard godling would be able to find the valley, even if he’s due no apple. “And you’ve watch tonight, so are missing out on his items.”

  “I volunteered,” he says quickly.

  “You disapprove?”

  Justice’s nod is as quick as his answer.

  “This Amon brings illegal things here? Not…not women.”

  The berserker nearly leaps away from me. “No! Mostly he peddles holy items and takes requests for exotic food and drink. But he also carries, ah, bearbane.”

  “Bearbane!” It’s an illegal drug that can instigate or drown the berserkers’ frenzy, depending on when and how they take it. “Surely my Bears are not partaking of such a thing!”

  Justice sucks in a fast breath; obviously, they are. My heart rages suddenly, and I turn to march into the feasting hall and fire each and every one of them. But I stop. This I can deal with when I return. Soren is my priority now. And I can use Amon Thorson for a ride out of the valley.

  I spin back. “Justice, I must go on an errand of great importance, and it is best if no one suspects my absence from the orchard. Can you do this?” I ready myself to run or steal his sword if he tries to call the alarm. He won’t let himself hurt me, and that will be my advantage.

  The berserker opens his mouth, discomfort tightening his face. I interrupt, “I don’t expect you to lie. If asked, say what you’ve seen. I only wish that you leave it alone unless asked.”

  He almost smiles. “Yes, lady. That will be easier.”

  “If I haven’t returned…” I hesitate. Nine days is how long it took Soren and I to find and return Baldur to his home. “…in nine days, tell Captain Bersi to call the Alfather.”

  “Do you—do you need me?” his voice heated.

  How much simpler it would be to take him up on the offer. I reach up and touch his face, spreading my hand over the dark slash of tattoo. He flinches but holds firm. The pit of my stomach feels hollow. Justice is afraid of me, of Idun. He would obey me only until he decided his duty to me meant protecting me from myself.

  “No,” I say quietly, but firmly.

  I take off at a sharp pace, but don’t allow myself to run while his gaze is on my back. I focus my own eyes ahead, ignoring the yard around me—where Baldur died, where Soren fought his first holmgang, where we burned my mother’s body and I thought I’d lost my heart forever.

  Bypassing the loud, bright feast hall, I duck into the courtyard. High overhead the triangle pennant with Idun’s insignia snaps in the cold wind. A spotlight at the base of the pole shines onto the golden apple so it glints like a tiny sun. My chest pinches; maybe Justice is right to be nervous. I’m abandoning my charge, breaking the rules.

  I have no idea what the consequences will be for me, the gods, or the world. Will Freya take it away from me when she finds out? I am under no delusion that I can keep this adventure from the goddess of dreams. I’m not certain I even wish to. I’ve never hidden from her before; I’ve prayed to her and trusted her and loved her. But I have to go, even if it costs me the orchard and the short life I have left. I have to do this for Soren, or I’m not worth anything.

  Noise erupts as the hall door swings open, and two berserkers stumble out, arms entangled. Eldun and Jersy. I hold still. They don’t even glance my way, laughing and thumping each other. I watch them weave toward the barracks with my breath held, slinking further into the shadows to hide the glare of my white coat.

  On the flat stone parking lot beside the heliplane hanger is a pale van, full-sized and windowless in the back. I dash toward it. The driver’s door is unlocked, and I climb up to perch on the edge of the tall, cloth seat. The wheel is huge, and I guess the van is at least twenty years old. There’s no key, and I can’t find one under the visor or in the pockets or glove compartment. I have no idea how to hotwire anything.

  Closing the door, I sigh into the cold cab. I’ll have to wait for Amon Thorson to come out.

  An iron cross and a neon orange plastic lightning charm dangle from the rearview mirror. A row of bobbleheads sticks to the dash like a silent audience. They’re all some version of his father Thor Thunderer.

  Amon Thorson must be the type who makes light of the gods and their role in this world, despite being the son of one, but he and his van can at least get me to the nearest town. Leavenworth will have local news, in case there was an accident, and national if Soren’s predicament is worse. His name is attached to the USA’s golden god, and anything gossip-worthy will be on the interweave. If I have to, I can find contact information for the Valkyrie Signy or the preacher Soren’s mentioned; at least he’ll have a church number. It was Bliss Church, I think.

  I close my eyes and lean back in the seat. My feet dangle over the pedals. The cab dulls all the music from the feast hall, and wind rocks the van gently. It’s like huddling inside a massive sea shell, floating on the ocean.

  I’m half-asleep when I see Amon Thorson making his slow way across the courtyard to the van. He’s black as a shadow, creeping a step at a time. He sits down on the short stone wall around the flagpoles, and for a moment, I think he won’t stand again. He’s young—my age or no older than twenty—and shaped like a V just as his father is. When he shoves back to his feet, I realize his eyes are closed, he’s that drunk or high. I wonder what terrible drug can affect the son of Thor.

  He holds his dark hand out so it hits the van first, rocking it hard. I hear the sliding door jerk open, and the van shakes again as he collapses inside.

  There’s a moment of silence.

  I throw open my door and scramble down. His feet hang out of the side, and he’s sprawled across a pile of blankets as if he’d prepared himself a drunken bed before leaving. One shovel-wide hand is spread over his stomach, the other flung up and hooked over a small cooler. He’s got on jeans and a silky button-up and a leather jacket covered in buckles. His chest rises slowly.

  Not in the least bit careful, I climb over his legs and dig my hands into his jacket pockets. Tissues, coins, and a couple of nails in one. Nothing in the other. I open the jacket and find an inner pocket. His wallet is tucked inside it. With an annoyed sigh, I roll his hip slightly and try his jeans.

  Amon mutters something, and his hand bats at mine. He sleepily tries to unbuckle his belt. I stop for a moment, flushing, then grab his hand. I toss it away and try his other pocket. The keys are there.

  I hop back onto the ground with the key ring around one finger. Shoving his feet inside, I pull the sliding door closed and then head back for the driver’s seat.

  The van rumbles to life, radio igniting into some vicious drums. I twist the music down as Amon groans again behind me. I can’t find a lever to adjust the chair, so I merely scoot to the edge before putting the van into gear. The headlamps sweep across the courtyard as I take us out of the lot and head for the far mountains. Leavenworth is at least two hours east, once I’m outside Bear Vale.

  Even at night, the valley manages to retain a heavy saturation of color. Golden grass, the dark blue of the creeks, the mountains that cup us in their arms violet against the starry sky. Where the headlamps cut, everything goes pale in a line. Ther
e’s magic here, in this hidden vale. But outside, I’ll just be a girl with no history, no name. No dreams.

  The van slows under my hesitant foot. There’s a narrow cliff road before me that I walked down before with Soren, Baldur, and Vider at my side. Tonight, I’m alone. Vider doesn’t remember me, Baldur is dead for the winter, and Soren is lost.

  I turn the longing strains of rock music louder and start up the mountain.

  THREE

  As the highway threads down the mountain toward Leavenworth, the headlamps seem to pull the van along, hooking into the asphalt and dragging me behind.

  It’s dangerous to let that be the theme of this journey. I need to get ahead and direct.

  In the darkness, the bobbleheads on the dash nod. They’re all the same head—a fire-red-bearded Thor Thunderer—with different outfits on their stocky plastic bodies, though I can’t make out what they are.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” I murmur to them. “To distract myself.”

  I used to tell stories all the time. It was a trick my mother and I used to pass long hours in the car, to teach me patterns and archetypes that would help me seeth, to understand people and their desires. I loved the tales of the gods and their awful or humorous adventures, especially Thor and Loki as they traveled the world making mischief and aiding others. When I drove with Soren to find Baldur, I told him stories. And once we’d collected the god of light, I told more. It was me who had reminded Baldur how he’d become a god, that he’d been born a godling like this one snoring behind me now, half-god and half-man, until he’d proved himself worthy of power and immortality.

  It never was a problem for me to draw a story to mind, appropriate to the situation or mood of my audience, but I can’t think of one now. No story resonates, waiting at the tip of my tongue to be brought to life.

  I suppose it’s because there are no stories like mine.

  Or rather, there are a hundred stories exactly like it: a girl torn out of fate, forgotten by the Nine Worlds. A girl with no history has no story.