The Strange Maid (15 page)

Signy Valborn was never here.

Refreshed, I head for the tower to see if Unferth is still coming with me. I take the longer circuit past town, a gravel road that meanders around sinkholes of water and high tufts of grass, with a dozen small bridges spanning the creeks. The sky is cold blue, painfully so, and I tuck my chin against a wind that chaps my ears.

Usually the Cove is a scatter of white block buildings with flat red roofs tucked against the slate-gray beaches and choppy water. But for the holiday the town, too, has exploded with streamers and rainbow elf-lights, dazzling layers of color. Purple and blue paper flowers decorate the windows. A yellow sunburst has been painted against the cobbled courtyard in front of the militia station. Coins are strung between roofs, drawing the eye to the sun. Even the boats in the harbor shine with elf-lights.

Except there are only half the boats I expect on such a tourist-heavy day. At least two of the sea-buses from New Scotland are gone already. And despite the festive colors, the town is as quiet as a rock cathedral. I falter in the crunchy mud.

We must’ve had five hundred guests yesterday, not to mention the Coveys, who should be bustling around, and instead the streets are empty but for one or two tiny figures hurrying toward the Shipworm in the center of town.

A sudden foreboding and the whisper of
chaos
urge me to change direction and head quickly into town. My boots hit the cobblestones hard, the noise jarring loudly against the deadened peace of waves and wind and distant-calling gulls.

At the Shipworm all the ground-level windows and doors have been thrown open, unheard-of on a cold morning like this. I step across the threshold into the lobby to find it crushed full with strangers grouped together, hands held, praying hard. They stand in concentric circles across the wooden floor, some seated on the wide staircase, some pressed to the walls, some perched on tables and armchairs. Those not tucked into prayer all look to the front desk where Rome Summerling stands, his arms open but his eyes closed. Praying, too. The kitchen TV’s been wheeled in on a portable bookshelf, and though the sound is muted, I see a blaring red ticker exclaiming:
 … FURTHER ADDRESS THE NATION IN THIS TIME OF CRISIS, FIRST VALKYRIE GUNDRUN GRAYCLOAK …

“Signy!”

It’s Jesca, grabbing my elbow. She throws herself around me, enveloping me in the smell of toutons—hot grease and dough and jam. I return the hug as talking explodes around me and the crowd shifts away from us. There’s Rome, too, his height and presence creating space. He puts both hands on my face and kisses my temple. The charms tied into his beard knock my chin. “You’re here,” he says, and then louder, “Our Valkyrie is here.”

I shake my head.

Jesca smiles but touches the corner of her mouth with one finger: there’s something very wrong. She did that when I insisted on hanging a live cat instead of an effigy at the island’s Yule sacrifice. She did it when lecturing me on impropriety and the student-teacher relationship when she couldn’t talk me into moving out of the tower. Here she is again pointing out that her smile is armor, not gladness.

Her worry is mirrored in her husband’s eyes as Rome says quietly, “Are you all right?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

Rome’s frown is like the prow of a ship: heavy, keen. It drags the mood of the crowd behind him in his wake, and they press nearer. “You don’t know what’s happened, daughter,” he says in a wistful tone, as if he wishes he did not know, either. Rome and Jesca shift to block me from the crowd, forming a curtain, and my stomach sinks further. Jesca takes my hand, and Rome puts his atop my shoulder. Rome murmurs, “Baldur the Beautiful did not rise this morning, and even the gods can’t say what’s become of him.”

I feel my mouth open, my breath rush out.

All I can think is that the first sign of the end of the world is the Fenris Wolf devouring the god of light. “Fenris?” I whisper.
Is it the end of the world?

“They don’t know,” Rome says. “At the ritual this morning, when they poured his ashes into the roots of the New World Tree, nothing happened. There will be a formal announcement from the White Hall soon, and we’ll hear from the First Valkyrie what Odin will do.”

I should be there. That’s
my
Tree. My responsibility. Odd-eye, what am I doing so far north and away from my duties? I swallow. Try not to panic, not to tear away and find the first ferry to New Scotland. “What do we do?” I ask as low and calmly as possible.

Rome says, “Pray,” and Jesca says, “Bake.”

I draw away, feeling in my guts there’s better action to take. I should be there; I should have already been there! But the Summerlings need their wish-daughter today. I know it by the tightness in Rome’s hand on my shoulder and the twitch in the edge of Jesca’s shield-smile. I can give them that. I owe them that.

I throw myself into the kitchen, folding dough and chopping apples, listening to orders from Jesca and Sandra Gothing, the Shipworm housekeeper. TVs are on in every room, the commentators circling around and around the same lack of information: nobody knows where Baldur is, it was the Valkyrie of the Rock who took her turn pouring his ashes but of course she must be blameless, there has been no other sign of Ragnarok like the blowing of the Gjallarhorn or flowers blooming among the leaves of the Tree.

My sisters must be beside themselves. Aerin of the Rock will blame herself, will have bruises in her palms from her own fingernails. Elisa’s eyes will be bright with righteous tears, and Myra will be threatening to murder someone. Siri of the Ice must be investigating already, combing through suspects with the ruthless certainty of faith in herself and Odin. The sisters Isabeau and Alanna of the West and East must be organizing the council’s response or a national sacrifice. Gundrun is with the president. Maybe Precia of the South is wondering where I am.

The only thing I can do for them is keep this island calm, then find Unferth and go tonight or first thing in the morning. Find a troll with the right stone heart, take my place to make the council whole.

I rush around, carrying stacks of cups and dragging around pitchers of water and tea, while Rome holds the anxiety as low as he can through prayer and simple conversation. They press me into being a runner, back and forth to the store for bread and escorting the elderly here. I coordinate some children to fetch.

With the emotions in town so frenzied and strange, I’m not sorry there are others in charge. I do as I’m told, barely stopping to eat or drink, until Jesca suddenly catches my shoulders and studies my hair with growing horror. She orders me to shower and change, that everything will be better when I’m clean and my hair is less of a wight’s nest. I promise to take care of it soon.

Around lunchtime we receive the televised message from the president and Council of Valkyrie. There is Gundrun Graycloak, the First Valkyrie, with her soft braids and business suit, the feather cloak of her office clinging like armor to her shoulders. She speaks calmly, explains what she knows: Baldur’s ashes were replaced with those of a boar, Loki Changer has an alibi, the Fenris Wolf, too, is accounted for and innocent, and Freya the Witch herself is searching along the web of fate to find our missing god. The Alfather, Gundrun says, her voice ringing straight to my bones, will offer a boon to any who aid in the Sun’s return.

The president and his lawspeaker address us next, announcing the activation of the federal militia to organize searches and set up crisis centers and a conference of kings. He gives us comforting words about the strength of our character as a nation, and the lawspeaker lifts her replica of the Poet’s Cup and blesses us all.

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 the names of 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.