“No,” he says immediately. “Though it sounds familiar.”
“It’s also the name of a character in The Song of Beowulf.”
“Ah!” He claps his hands together, and just as he’s about to continue, Soren enters, saying, “Baldur, you’re here!”
The men embrace, clapping each other’s backs and grinning in the way of brothers. I take a moment to release my shaky breath, to right the world that’s tilting under my feet.
They’ve put Soren in a white uniform that mirrors the berserkers’ usual attire: double-breasted jacket with two rows of golden sunburst buttons and a narrow, high collar. The tails of his jacket are almost as full as a skirt and will look amazing if he dances. A thin stripe of yellow lines the outside of his white slacks, and his shoes are so shiny the chandelier reflects back on the toes.
He stretches his neck uncomfortably.
“You look more than worthy of being the Sun’s first Berserk,” Baldur laughs, throwing an arm around Soren again and turning them both to face me.
Focused on Soren’s familiarity, I purse my lips as if shopping. “How can I choose only one?”
“No need for that, pretty thing,” interrupts a young woman in a gown that sparkles like it’s made of a thousand shards of green glass. She slinks into the room. “I’m here for the Bearstar’s escort.”
Something in her vivid green eyes reminds me I haven’t eaten in hours. My stomach pinches with that hunger, and when the newcomer winds her arm possessively through Soren’s, I ungraciously think she must be wearing contacts like Rathi.
Soren lets her hold his arm and doesn’t appear surprised, but shifts slightly so he’s more between her and Baldur. The woman laughs, revealing strong teeth. “I’m not here to eat him, boy.”
“I invited her,” the god of light reassures us. “Glory, meet Signy Valborn, of the New World Tree.”
Glory’s lips never lower down over those teeth as she studies me.
I hold myself still. She’s only taller because she’s wearing heels. “Glory,” I say. “Have you no epithet?”
She leans in. The hairs on my arms rise as her face envelops my entire vision. I don’t know what stands in front of me, except that she is no real woman. Do not quail before predators, little raven, hisses Unferth.
“I need no epithet,” she murmurs.
“Signy.” Soren is there beside me, glowering at Glory hard enough she wrinkles her nose at him. “This is Lady Fenris.”
Fenris Wolf, daughter of Loki, destined to swallow the sun at the end of the world.
My eyes drop to her neck, where a collar woven from nine silver chains rests. The stories say those chains bind her with all the magic of the goddess Freya and the elves and goblins into this girl’s form so that she can be no danger to Baldur. He, at least, must believe it’s true.
I force myself to look past her to the god of light. As delicately as I can, I ask, “Shall I ready myself for any more divine surprises tonight?”
Glory barks a laugh, and Baldur bows apologetically as he offers his hand to lead me out. Soren catches my eye and nods once.
But then Soren always prepares for the worst.
Pretending it’s little deal to sit in a limousine whiter than ivory with two immortal beings strains even my skills at performance. I perch with my knees together and Unferth’s sword pressed across my thighs. The housekeeper handed it to me as Baldur swept me out the front door. The sheath is new, made of mirrored silver, with a chain-mail baldric I should easily buckle into.
Glory rubs her bare ankle against Soren’s calf to see him squirm and speaks to him in a rough language I suspect is the berserker wolf-tongue. Soren, when he answers at all, does so in Anglish. Based on his answers, she’s grilling him on our hunt, occasionally sliding me a wicked glance.
I peer out the tinted window at the passing Port Orleans, relishing the tingle of Baldur’s gaze. He hasn’t said anything, only sprawls in his corner with a pleasant smile.
The streets are narrow, full of people celebrating the holiday. Light seeps from every window, from the long iron balconies and streetlamps. The limo slowly curves toward the river, which is only a black void between the hotels and convention center. We turn alongside a massive green park. It’s Sanctus Louis, and in the center is the crooked hanging tree and statue of Frigg. A brilliant spotlight shines onto her face, making it glow.
I twist to point her out to Soren, but Baldur is staring at my lap with slightly narrowed eyes. Protectively, I grip Unferth’s sword and the god looks up at me. “Is there a tiny boar etched into that garnet?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Hringmæl swords are rare these days.” Baldur holds out his hand and I give the sword over eagerly. He inspects the raw garnet, flicks his finger over the ring dangling from the pommel, then caresses the narrow wooden grip and flat crosspiece.
“Do you know it?” Soren asks.
“It looks like Hrunting.” Delight peppers his voice. “Is this why you were asking about Unferth and Beowulf?”
“You know its name?” I whisper.
But the limo stops and everyone but me looks outside. Our driver opens the doors and Baldur steps out with the blade. He holds his hand in for me.
Glorious light blinds me and I blink to adjust. We’re surrounded by guests and the media, and before us is a mansion. The veranda is lined with massive white pillars and crystal chandeliers hanging between them like fixed galaxies. Taxis and hired cars and another limo fill the circle driveway, and photographers wait in the garden, snapping pictures of the guests in their gala gowns and tuxedos. We aren’t the only ones fashionably late, and we’re nearly lost in the noise of the crowd and cameras and jazz.
Baldur faces me and gently settles Unferth’s sword over my shoulder. His fingers skillfully find the buckle of my baldric and snap it around my ribs. They designed it to act as a belt around the high waist of this red dress and to cut up between my breasts like a necklace. The cold silver pinches but holds the iron weight of the sword firmly against me. I feel as though Baldur is fixing my armor in place before battle.
Beside us, Soren slings his own sword on and touches the small of Glory’s bare back. I’ve no idea how her dress stays on. Divine will? The four of us go together, and Baldur only pulls me ahead of the others at the last moment. We climb the broad steps up into the house.
The foyer would fit the entire Shipworm under its nine-meter ceiling held up by dark wooden beams, and a green marble floor spreads out like a meadow toward the high arch leading down into the ballroom itself. Standing here is like standing in a time-frozen forest cathedral.
It’s hot despite the low rush of air-conditioning and crushed with people in every manner of gown and suit, clashing and vying for attention. Here’s Precia of the South striding toward us with her wolf-guards behind, in an elegant white gown that seems to be made of spiderweb, diamonds, and soft gray feathers. Her makeup is impeccable, her hair styled beneath a net of silver. She holds her hand to me and I take it, then she kisses Baldur’s cheek.
A yell goes up and suddenly we’re surrounded by a line of berserk warriors in black long-vest uniforms, hard black tattoos cutting down each left cheek.
They step up and bow to Baldur, but then one smiles at me, turning the attention of the entire line my way. It’s Sharkman, grinning, and when he bows to me, it’s deeper than to the god. With a happy cry, I release Baldur and go forward, pulling the berserker up and kissing his cheek just where the tattoo cuts. “Sharkman,” I say.
“Lady Signy.” His voice is inappropriately low.
I glance down the line of berserkers. It’s perhaps half of them in full dress uniform. My chest expands and some tension rolls off my shoulders because they are at my side. “Welcome, Mad Eagles.”