Wrought of Iron and Silk, Book One [2014 Watty Award Winner]

Chapter 11 - Iron on Iron

Chapter 11 – Iron on Iron

Belle and her betrothed returned to their chamber in a torrent of rain, as if a deluge had poured out of all the urns of the Yggdrasil; muddy to their ankles, wet to the skin, and chilled to the bone. Belle, after a hot bath, was sent off to bed by the Vanir, while he sat in the drawing-room, where he tried to solace himself with illustrated manuscripts.

After a time, the Vanir gazed pensively at the straight streaks of rain, which fell like an endless curtain of close steel needles, thrashing the surface of the fjord. He slipped a horn of hot grog, and looked at his shiny slippers.

There were gently gliding footsteps behind him, quiet movements which would have seemed stealthy if they had been a thief's, soft removals of articles from one part of the room to another, delicate brushings, and almost noiseless folding until they had stopped somewhere behind him. Slowly, he turned an untrusting eye at the man who approached. "And what do you desire?" he asked, his words heavy with the cynicism.

"Desire, Njord?" Loki echoed with feigned surprise.

Njord turned to him in some surprise, as if roused from a dream, and then, with a frank laugh, he warned, "Do not be evasive." But though he smiled knowingly, the God of Mischief held fast to his naïve façade. "You've seasoned. You were hardly more than a pretty cub when your mother and I gave you the gift. Now look at you, a sleek wolf. I like it."

"I am not your dog anymore," Loki said with a distinct measure of pride.

"Ah, yes," Njord laugh curtly. "At last, the Would-Be King has acquired the throne. But to what advantage?" he spat back sardonically. "Pray tell, how does ruling beneath the mask of your father suit you?"

Ah, the mighty sorcerer brought low. I like that, too, Loki thought, laughing at the incipient jealousy, and his brow grew clear, for now he was in an optimistic mood. "Says the nameless, homeless adventurer; an elder awaiting death, forgotten and reeking of blood. Hold your tongue, for it will bring you only sadness and strife," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Do you truly desire to quarrel with me after I've given you the hand of the Alfheim Ambassador?"

"For that I am grateful, your Majesty." Njord said, though his expression showed that his doubts remained. "I owe you a great debt."

Tainted by his perverted outlook, Loki recognized personal gain as the primary motivation for any man's actions and suspected treachery in anyone who claimed otherwise. He knew that Njord was lying.

"Yes, you do. Your realm pined for rejuvenation; to return to the proud manifestation that it once was, and I've heeded your world's desperate cries for rebirth," Loki said, smiling wickedly as if a small favor had occurred to him as an afterthought. "For that, I only seek one payment: the map to the City of Magic."

"It shall be done," Njord said. "And more than that, for you certainly deserve it; you shall remain at the palace whilst in Vanaheim, respected as my royal guest."

Loki bowed low, as if honored, though he realized that the invitation was just Njord's way of keeping an eye on him.

The Vanir accepted the bow with an unenthusiastic wave of his hand, indicating that he was through with the False King and the meeting at an end.

❧

Cecilia's eyes had just opened from inside a dream when she stepped through the door to reach her mother. She was dreaming of her piano recital – just before her tenth birthday – when she looked into the audience and saw her mother's face soft in the mist of pride. Do you remember, Mama? Her voice was small and young again.