The Lost Sun

  Vider and I are taken into the heliplane with Baldur and Odin, and one of the berserkers to fly it. We’re given headsets, but Odin ignores us, talking instead with Baldur the whole ride, in Old Scandan. I can understand maybe one in twenty words. Vider presses her face to the window, and I lean back in the hard leather seat with my eyes closed and hold the image of Astrid in my mind. I believe in Odin’s word this once, because of all the witnesses, but as we lift off the valley floor and soar over the Cascades, I can’t help the crawling fear that it was a lie. That I’ll forget her. I whisper her name to myself.

  Our ride lasts less than an hour, not enough time to fly to Bright Home, and yet that’s where we are.

  The helipad is halfway up the mountainside, and as I disembark I see the black roof glinting in the sunlight at the peak. Bright Home perches among snow-capped cliffs, its golden pillars and silver doors brighter than the ice.

  Here, tucked back into the evergreens, is a network of old-fashioned longhouses, looking like luxurious halls out of an epic romance, with carved double doors, and round shields decorating the roofs. Torches burn with silver light, paved red paths connect the halls, and a lake shimmers in the center. The air is cold and thin, yet somehow I feel safe.

  And I continue to remember Astrid’s name.

  I’m separated from Vider and put into the hands of a host of women who lead me into one of the halls. The inside is divided into a lobby and guest rooms, making me think of the kind of resort vacations they advertise on television. The women hardly talk, but give me no choice about being bathed and dressed. They trim my hair and present me with a tunic-like white shirt to wear under the bearskin coat Henry Halson gave me. I pull on leather pants softer than cotton, and new boots that match the coat. Finally, the women fit golden and copper bracelets around my wrists and shove rings onto my fingers. I’m being made into a proper-looking warrior, and when they belt Sleipnir’s Tooth across my back, I stare at myself in the mirror. No one from Sanctus Sigurd’s would recognize me if not for my distinctly non-Asgardian skin and eyes, and the tattoo gouging down my face.

  I can’t tell how much time has passed before I’m thrown back together with Vider in the lobby. She’s been cleaned up, too, and put into a berserker’s uniform of black so that she will fit beside Idun’s Bears. Her silver-blond hair is braided in a crown. Her eyes are reddened with pain.

  Because of the tattoo.

  It’s harsh and black against her left cheek, the delicate skin around it inflamed just enough to turn pink.

  I reach out and brush my fingers down her temple, not too close to the fresh ink. Vider raises her chin and forces a tight smile. “This is what I want.”

  Her hand slips into mine, and we wait in the center of the marble floor while attendants and Valkyrie rush around us.

  Baldur’s Feast.

  I’ve watched it on television; I’ve skipped it to practice with myself in the holmring. I never thought to find myself a guest.

  The Bright Home feast hall where it takes place is nine times larger than the Great Hall at Sanctus Sigurd’s, and at the high table are nine thrones, each for one of the most powerful gods of Asgard. Stretching out from it like multiple legs are long tables where the rest of us sit: minor gods and the president of New Asgard, the lawspeaker I saw so recently address the country, along with other blessed members of the Congress and specially chosen representatives from local assemblies. There are Valkyrie serving everyone honey mead in golden cups, and Lonely Warriors bring forth roasted boar. Berserkers chat with a handful of Thor’s generals, and high priests of every Asgardian temple have assigned seats. There are film stars and that telepreacher, the prince of Mizizibi, we listened to on the road. I’m overwhelmed by the press of people, both famous and obscure, and by the presence of so many gods. TV cameras and flashbulbs crowd in the corners, and there’s a constant stream of reporters tapping the guests’ shoulders for attention and in hopes of an interview.

  I whisper Astrid’s name.

  The roof arcs up into an illusion of the afternoon sky, with a false sun moving slowly across it. The torches here are silver, too, and everything is gilded or carved in intricate detail with the histories of our greatest heroes. When the attendants lead us in, I concentrate on breathing, on keeping my mouth closed. Thinking of Astrid. Gundrun Graycloak herself greets us and shows us to our seats just below the high table. Many eyes turn to us, though they don’t know who we are. I hunt for Astrid or Baldur and find neither—Odin is not yet here himself, nor any of the leading gods.

  I’m too nervous to eat. I sip the mead Gundrun offers, sharing most of it with Vider. The boar smells of cloves and pepper, and makes my mouth water. I don’t know where Astrid is—the loss twists my stomach. But at least I know her name.

  When the gods arrive, they each carry in a massive plate of food: candied fruits and apple dumplings, roasted potatoes, buttery rolls, and whole cooked crows and swans with their wings spread. There is Odin, of course, and his wife Frigg the Cloud-Spinner. Freya in her half-death mask hand in hand with her brother Freyr, who is the god of wealth and plenty. They laugh together, though I don’t see what’s funny. After them Thor in a shining corselet with his fiery hair blazing, and Tyr the Just, missing his right hand because Fenris Wolf devoured it. There is Loki, looking fifteen and glowering.

  Baldur enters, and a roar of approval lifts the roof of the hall. So many cameras go off I’m blinded, but I’m smiling, too, because Baldur is here and alive, and this is what I’ve seen through the lenses of those cameras for my entire life, only now I’m here. And I was part of what made it happen.

  A hush falls. I look to the high table.

  Astrid.

  I remember her name.

  She stands in a white dress, still with her black plastic pearls about her throat and her dark curls tumbling down over her shoulders. She carries a basket of large, beautiful golden apples, and suddenly I realize a secret: the gods never show their believers what the real apples of immortality are. We aren’t supposed to know they are wizened little things; we’re meant to believe they are these brilliant, round fruits that Astrid hands now to the gods: one to each, ending with Baldur. The god of light kisses her hand and takes a bite of the apple.

  Another rousing cheer lifts through the hall, and Astrid herself quiets us with an open palm. She says, “Welcome to life, Baldur the Beautiful.”

  I am light and alive, laughing with happiness because she is so beautiful there with the table of gods. She glances out into the crowd. She finds me, and smiles.

  The Alfather brings Vider and me to the high table and weaves a story of heroism that is so false with Astrid’s absence that I can hardly keep my expression even. But I glance at Vider, and she shows no sign of doubt.

  This is the version she remembers. How will I ever speak to her again?

  We’re inundated by hands held out to shake. Microphones are thrust into our faces. I don’t trust myself to answer in a way the Alfather would like—I can’t strip Astrid from my story even for show. Fortunately, the reporters know of me and prefer to focus on the so-named redemption of Styrr Bearskin’s son. They’re more than willing to fill in blanks for me. And here is Vider, the first female berserker in decades, sucking their attention as well.

  Baldur himself saves me with a charming smile that slides half off his face, and extracts me from the welter of attention.

  When we’re a little ways off, Baldur tucks closer so that I can feel the sunlight radiating from his face. “Soren?” he says, uncertainty pulling up the end of my name.

  I cross my arms so that I don’t forget he’s changed, so that I don’t offer him a spar or tell him to leave off flirting with Vider. When he pauses and looks up at the false sky, I take the opportunity to look at his eyes. It must be a crystal evening outside, with not a hint of clouds. The blueness deepens the longer I stare into it, and Baldur’s hand is suddenly on my shoulder.

  “In my dream, it was you who reminded me who I am,” h
e says.

  Startled, I blink at him. I remember what it felt like to watch him die, to believe he would never again hold the sun inside him. I rush to say, “I promised you I would serve you. You didn’t know if I would want to, and I do. If you …” I shake my head. “Not that you need it.”

  Baldur laughs, and the entire hall gets brighter. The flashes are like miniature sunbursts, the golden pillars glare, and the snap of the pennants hanging from the ceiling is like applause. “Soren, you know how, when you dream, sometimes you don’t remember anything but what kind of dream it was? Frightening or hilarious or just strange? How there’s only the feeling of it like a ghost in your mind?”

  I nod once. We’ve had this conversation before.

  “Good. Because you’ll understand this, then.” He puts his other hand on my other shoulder. We face each other. “I don’t remember everything that happened, and I’m looking forward to the tale. But I know, I feel, that it was good. Even if I did die. It was a damn excellent dream.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says, “I need you.”

  He holds his right hand out, and I grasp it. “Under the sun, and to the edges of the world,” I promise.

  “The binding-by-light?”

  “If—if that suits you, Baldur.”

  He nods once, and slowly. “It does. Under the sun, and to the edges of the world.”

  His father calls him then, and he claps my arm before jogging through the throng to Odin’s side.

  I want to leave, but don’t know how or whom to ask, and so I hover at the edges of the feast, finally finding my way outside. The sun sets in a great swath of purple, peering out between the peaks. I walk among the evergreen trees and breathe deeply, planting my feet flat against the earth. I am the mountain.

  “Feeling dangerous?” asks a voice behind me.

  I turn, and there’s Glory, crouched on all fours in a dark bodysuit.

  “I would like to go back to the orchard,” I say, “and wait for Astrid there.”

  “Who?” Glory says with a wicked grin.

  I tighten my jaw and say nothing.

  “I’ll take you,” Fenris Wolf says, her green eyes glowing neon, “and happily cause some panic when they realize you’ve gone.”

  “Did your father steal Baldur’s ashes and hide him in the desert? I was told that it had to have been a god.”

  “That last part is most certainly true.” She rises to her feet and walks closer to me. Even in this dim purple light, the green glitter on her eyelids sparkles. “If he did, it was to repay an old favor.”

  “To Freya.”

  “Probably. That witch plots out strands of fate centuries forward.” Glory’s tricky smile tells me that’s as close to admitting the truth as she’ll get.

  I toy with the stone troll’s eye in the pocket of my coat. “Tell me about Vider.”

  Glory’s mouth curves down and she spits onto the bed of pine needles. “She was Lokiskin, and now is one of you.”

  “And Loki’s upset about it.”

  She puts her lips inches from mine and whispers, “Wouldn’t you be?”

  I can’t even be sure Glory and I are talking about the same things, but I think back over everything she’s said to me and wonder if our meeting was coincidence after all. “Why did Vider make the choice she did?”

  Glory’s breath sighs across my mouth and she leans back. “Here is all I may say: My father prefers to be a boy himself, you must know, and often adopts a playmate from among the caravan children. When she was a young girl, Vider was who he loved best. But one day, Vider grew up. It didn’t suit either of them.”

  It turns my stomach. The worst part of it is, by choosing Odin, Vider has not found a place any more stable. She’s a berserker now, and it’s the most volatile profession in the world.

  “Poor Vider,” I whisper, and Glory laughs.

  All I want now is to be away from here, to be with Astrid.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Glory, seizing her hand.

  Astrid once dreamed of me riding a wolf the size of a bear, but she could not have predicted this.

  I spread across the warm, rough back of Fenris Wolf, half god, half giant, and dig my fingers into her thick fur. My eyes are closed and my cheek presses into her. I feel her massive wolf-muscles work as she leaps across the sky.

  We’re running so fast, with stars barely overhead and the earth far below, and the exhilaration draws my frenzy along with a frantic heartbeat. Glory growls, the sound vibrating against my entire body like a cat’s massive purr. This is better than a heliplane, better than an orange ’84 Volundr Spark with tail fins, and I cannot wait to tell Astrid. To describe the stomach-dropping motion of flight and the rich smell of earth and bubble gum coming off Glory’s fur. The pristine chime of silver chains ringing at her neck.

  In the end, I’m alone in the dark.

  Glory leaves me in the valley beside Jenna Glyn’s pyre. I thank her, and she steals a hair from my head so that, she says, she’ll always be able to find me. I’m both comforted and unsettled by the idea, but I lift a hand in farewell as the giant wolf leaps again into the sky and disappears between the stars.

  The feasting hall of Idun’s Bears is alight with noise and fire. Henry Halson and his berserkers must be watching the festivities at Bright Home and sharing in their own feast. All the country is probably doing the same.

  I take up a vigil, standing or kneeling or pacing slowly around Astrid’s mother’s pyre. The former Idun, Jenna Glyn, the Seether of All Dreams, is sunk into the bed of wood, and when I catch a glance of her out of the corner of my eye, her licorice curls make me think it’s Astrid.

  All night long I watch.

  Mostly I stare up at the stars and center myself with long breathing exercises that Master Pirro would be proud of.

  As the eastern sky begins to show traces of dawn light, I walk to the Bears’ feast hall and take one of the torches from its sconce. With it I set Jenna’s pyre aflame.

  The fire consumes her, warming my face and hands. I think of the Berserker’s Prayer, but can’t sing it for Jenna. Instead I say, “May you find the sun, even in death, Jenna Glyn.”

  “Thank you,” Astrid says behind me. She slides her hand into mine.

  “Astrid!” I turn, gathering her up off her feet. I brush my cheek along hers. “How did you get here?”

  “Got a lift from a wolf. She says if you ever change your mind about me, give her a ring.”

  I set Astrid down. She remains in her fancy Idun costume, her curls snaking all around her cheeks. The ankle-length dress leaves her shoulders bare to the cold, and her mother’s plastic pearls cut a line of black across her throat. I kiss her forehead and then her lips. I kiss her closed eyes. In the orange light of her mother’s funeral pyre, her face is shadowed, half-living, half-dying. “You’re mine tonight,” she says. “In the morning I will learn to tend my apples, and count the days until the solstice, when you will come to me again.”

  “It isn’t so bad,” I say, encircling her with my arms. “Only three months between. That’s hardly time to do anything of import or have good adventure to tell you.”

  “Says the man who rescued a god in the course of eight days.”

  I shrug. Astrid traces the line of my spear tattoo. “I love this, have I told you?”

  “I knew.” I kiss her softly, reveling in the freedom of it, of touching her how I want, of kissing her and not being afraid. She slides her hands under the bearskin coat. “Will you do something for me tonight?” I ask.

  “Anything.”

  I skim my hands down her arms until I find her hands. “Dance with me.”

  Astrid laughs, throwing her head back until she’s laughing up at the stars. She weaves her fingers into mine.

  The sun in my chest ignites.

  Her hands tug at me.

  We spin.

  Our feet stomp the cold earth, and the bones of the world stomp back. Neither of us solid, but both wild and dark and yearning.

&nbs
p; Between us is a piece of the sky.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THIS BOOK WOULD not be what it is without the usual suspects: my first readers, Maggie Stiefvater and Brenna Yovanoff; my agent, Laura Rennert; and my editor, Suzy Capozzi. Not to mention everyone at Random House Children’s Books who has supported me through the last year, especially Jim Thomas, Mallory Loehr, Nicole de las Heras, Paul Samuelson, Jenna Lettice, Sonia Nash Gupta, Rachel Feld, Nora McDonald, and Michael Herrod. There are so many more who I haven’t had direct contact with: thank you!

  Thanks as well to Kim Welchons, Myra McEntire, and Victoria Schwab for answering my panic and giving me exactly what I needed at the right time.

  My Web designer, Chris Kennedy, might possibly be more excited about the United States of Asgard websites than I am. Bless you.

  Thanks to La Prima Tazza in Lawrence, Kansas, where I’m sitting right now, drinking all your coffee and taking up an outlet.

  I wouldn’t have imagined this world without Professor William Lasher and his Old English classes at the University of Cincinnati. In 2005, everything about academia and politics was depressing me, but translating my own Beowulf got me through it.

  Will Callahan, thanks for taking those classes with me and passing me notes scrawled in Old English.

  Mom and Dad, Sean and Travis, this book is a love letter to our family road trips: rough with camaraderie and American history. Thank you.

  And always, Natalie Parker.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TESSA GRATTON has wanted to be a paleontologist or a wizard since she was seven. Alas, she turned out to be too impatient to hunt dinosaurs, but is still searching for someone to teach her magic. After traveling the world with her military family, Tessa acquired a BA (and the important parts of an MA) in gender studies. While in school she studied Old English and translated Beowulf—leading her on a wonderful journey through the sagas, which in turn inspired her to create the United States of Asgard. Tessa lives in Kansas with her partner, her cats, and her mutant dog. You can visit her online at tessagratton.com.