It’s clear to us and the commentators that nobody knows much of anything. They speculate about Baldur’s ashes being elsewhere, wonder if he’s alive but lost or hurt. They wonder what we might have done wrong, or what our gods did, to cause this. They ask what fate could possibly have in store. They regurgitate rumors of anxious pilgrims at the gates of Bright Home and discuss the last time the federal militia was activated.
Lady Serena, the festival seethkona, tells anyone who will listen of the dream she had last night full of burning apple trees.
Anxiety is pervasive. It pokes at my heart, and my breath comes faster and faster. I see trembling in the hands that take drink from me; I see tears reddening Peachtree’s eyes even when I squeeze her arm and whisper that the Sun will return to us. I see mothers crushing their children’s fingers with worry and fathers not letting their family members out of sight. Even Jesca and Lady Serena speak in tight whispers.
All I can think is that I’m doing not enough good here. I have to go.
NINE
THIN CLOUDS STRETCH across the sky, ruffling like the scales of a giant salmon. Nature unaffected by the turmoil below.
I pick my way over the gravelly yard toward the ocean and our holmgang ring, where Unferth drives himself hard, shirtless and sweating. Both of our packed bags slump against a boulder, ready to go.
His back is to me, troll scars giving his skin jagged stripes, and his braids are in a double row, held together with rubber bands into a club at the nape of his neck. There’s a heavy troll-spear in his hands; he swings it smoothly around, slams the butt into the ground, and sees me. Relief flashes across his face before he hides it and snarls, “You’re late.”
“I’ve been busy.” All the anger from last night floods back with a vengeance.
His face pinches and he drops the spear. “You aren’t in your travel clothes,” he says, bending down with a grimace to swipe up his T-shirt. His hands are dark with sweaty dirt.
“I’ve had more important things to do this morning,” I snap.
Instead of answering, he pulls his shirt over his head. The collar catches on the knot of his braids and I take some malicious pleasure in his sudden awkwardness.
He sees it and sneers. “More important than going after your stone heart?”
I say, “Baldur is missing. The god of light didn’t rise this morning.”
The change in him is instant. “Odd-eye,” he whispers, and takes my elbows, but not to steady me. His neck is rigid, his fingers hard. There’s ice in his colorless eyes. Suddenly he pushes away and pounds the side of his fist against the nearest boulder. His back hunches and I hurry forward. He’s whispering in Old Scandan but cuts off when I touch him. “Go, Signy,” he says. “Go inside and … I don’t know. I have to … to think.”
I take a backward step, then another, until I spin and rush for the tower, because even Ned Unferth is scared.
I strip and bathe in the warm but low-pressure shower on my level, scrub my hair, and comb it wet. Because the afternoon is cold, I put on wool leggings and a thick wool dress, my boots, and a coat before I gather up a blanket, hairpins, and an extra calligraphy set to head up to the bell balcony. Unferth will join me when he’s ready, and we’ll talk about leaving in the morning. This is just a minor setback, I tell myself, as I sit against the curved wall where the late afternoon sun can shine on my back. It’s cold up here, but the wind is gentle, and when I pad the floor with a blanket it’s not so bad. I lean a shoulder against the wall and let the low sun dry my hair, let my eyes glaze as I stare through the rail at the shivering gray ocean.
Everyone is upset, afraid. But I never thought to see fear in Ned’s eyes.
To distract myself I open the calligraphy set Jesca gave me at Yule and pull out the ink, the brush, and a tiny oval mirror I pried from a foundation compact. I angle it to reflect my right eye. My irises are green and gray in jagged chunks, with a darker gray ring at the edge. In them this evening I see only death and there, ever-so-tiny, between a blink and the next, chaos. I long for my excitement yesterday, instead of this pervasive dread.
To remain calm, I recite the first six verses of “Brynhild’s Lament.” As the sun turns the tips of the icebergs into pink fire, I draw runes up my arm and across my palm. Death Chooser, Strange Maid, the binding rune scar says. I trace the lines, tickling myself, and then mark a long rune poem against the salt-seared wood of the balcony, half prayer, half invocation. I try to summon my Valkyrie ancestors and the ravens Thought and Memory. At least this poem will remain, staining the tower for months. Whatever happens when I go hunting tomorrow, this was real.
When my hair is dry enough I slowly weave my fingers through it. Its color is bland like ashes and driftwood, though afternoon sun can tease out darker honey-brown strands to set alight. Separating it into sections, I put it back into a braided crown and am near finished when I hear the uneven creak of Unferth on the stairs. He pushes through the thin door out onto the balcony and I keep braiding, my back to him. My fingers slow as he sets things down, and my arms burn from effort by the time he kneels behind me. His fingers slide into my hair and he undoes the braids, gently slapping my hands away. I lift my chin, but silently he pushes my head back down.
While the sun sets, Unferth braids an intricate pattern into my hair that requires me to lend him the use of my hands to hold different sections at different times. When I try to speak, he grunts at me to be quiet and let him concentrate or my hair will be lopsided.
The moment he’s finished, having stuck in the final pin, I move around behind him to return the favor. As I begin separating sections, his shoulders slump in a sigh. Pink blotches his cheeks and I know he’s already been drinking.
An arrow of gulls flies past us; to the north I hear the rustle of the cormorants spilling out of their breeding ground. I want to talk, but resist it, though I playfully tweak a strand of his long blond hair between my fingers. He reaches up and skims his hand against mine for the barest moment of comfort.
We at last both have intricate braids like the poets and queens of old, and I don’t know what to do next that won’t shatter this temporary peace. I sit back against the round wall and glance at what Unferth brought: a bearskin blanket and ham sandwiches and a nearly full bottle of lavender mead labeled with masking tape.
I work the stopper free and pour a mouthful down my throat. The sweet alcohol brightens my insides. Unferth pulls my blanket aside and spreads the bearskin down instead. He sits and he drinks, too, before tipping the bottle over the edge of the balcony to splash some down to the faraway ground.
“To the Glorified Dead,” he says, “all who are and those to come.”
“Are you worried about Baldur?”
“No.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
He’s quiet and won’t look at me.
I tip my head back to study the paling sky, a gradation of blue and violet, and accept the bottle when he offers it. For a while we pass it back and forth. I grow warm with the bearskin beneath us and with Unferth so close and the alcohol filling in the cracks.
Without looking at him, I say, “It doesn’t matter that Baldur is missing. Or maybe it matters even more. In the morning, I go hunting.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I want you to come.”
Still nothing.
“And if fear is what made you stop last night, then … well. I guess I’m glad. I don’t want to kiss a coward.” At that last, I turn and he’s right there, face very near and shadowed in the evening light.