Part 17 (2/2)
Ah, well, thought Grimnir. I've been a dead man for centuries anyway. And, hey, he'd killed Modi, who was supposed to have survived Ragnarok. So much for the prophecy, then.
He regretted only that he wouldn't be able to tell Mist about it. She would have found it encouraging.
THERE WAS NOISE and there was pain. The noise was the ringing buzz of a misshapen gong that wouldn't let the little bones in Mist's ears stop vibrating. The pain was a deep bone ache, as though she'd been beaten with pillows stuffed with lead shot. Both were courtesy of the shock wave from the grenade she'd tossed through the seam before it had sealed, with her and Hermod on one side of it and Vidar on the other.
Most of Vidar, anyway. His singed hand and forearm lay a few feet away, fingers still gripping his sword. Mist made a point of not looking in that direction. The severed arm was a grisly sight, but the weird blade was downright objectionable.
Mist and Hermod and Winston had fetched up on a sharp knuckle of rock in a small bay ringed by crumbled masonry. Lightning flashed in the indigo sky, but no report of thunder followed. The scent of warm bread hung on the air.
A mild wind rustled Sleipnir's mane. Mist cautiously patted the horse's neck, grateful for his help in the timely evacuation from the Hollywood Bowl. Now she just needed to figure out how to hoist Hermod onto Sleipnir's back so they could get out of here before Vidar came after them. Hermod's wound didn't look too gruesome, just a clean slit in his shoulder a few inches long, but he was in bad shape. Mist drew a healing rune around the wound in Sharpie pen, but it didn't seem to help. Hermod murmured feverishly. The words Mist could pick out were limited to wolves and eye and coffee.
Rhythmic splas.h.i.+ng wafted through the fog, accompanied by the hollow drumming of wood b.u.mping against wood: a rowboat.
Hermod continued to babble. Would he suffocate if she stuffed his jacket in his mouth to shut him up?
”Put the eye in the hole,” Hermod groaned. ”Oh, the hole in me is so big.”
The sounds of rowing paused. Mist held her breath, but it was useless. Hermod moaned softly, Winston panted wetly, and Sleipnir rumbled with a distinctly unhorselike growl.
Mist pried Vidar's fingers from his sword, kicked his arm into the water, and struggled against nausea while she stowed the sword in Hermod's duffel. She drew her own sword and crouched low as the graceful prow of a boat approached the rock.
Long white oars rose out of the water to be stowed aboard the boat, and then a figure gracefully lifted itself over the gunwales and settled on the ground. Mist found herself huddling before a woman dressed in a swan-white gown, her golden hair gleaming even in the dim light. Splattered with muck and blood, Mist said, ”This man is under my protection.”
The woman raised a slender hand in a gesture of placation. ”Be at ease, Lady Valkyrie. I have no intent to harm him. He is, after all, the son of Frigg.”
Hermod groaned.
Mist kept her sword drawn as she watched the woman kneel to examine Hermod's wound. ”This is more than an injury of the flesh,” she said. ”What caused it?”
”Something sharp,” Mist snapped. She took a breath to calm herself. ”Can you help him?”
”He needs Frigg's medicine, and soon, or I think he will die.”
Mist managed to hide her surprise. She'd thought this woman was Frigg, but evidently not, unless Aesir G.o.ddesses referred to themselves in the third person, like professional athletes.
Hermod was deadweight, and with Mist taking him by the armpits and Frigg's lady taking his legs, they struggled to lower him into the boat.
”The waters are shallow,” the lady said, eyeing Sleipnir. ”You can follow me on the All-Father's horse, and we will make best speed.”
Mist despised the idea of leaving Hermod in this stranger's care, but Hermod was no longer moving, and his breathing had become labored.
”Lady, if you hurt him, I will kill you. Under stand?”
The woman nodded serenely.
Sleipnir clopped behind the boat, following it down an inlet into a marsh, where the low-hanging fog thinned to reveal an amalgam structure that was part timber hall, part gigantic gingerbread cottage, part modern suburban tract house, and part membranous tent shaped like a uterus. Home. Motherhood.
Long piers of white stone formed a narrow channel that led through arched openings, into the building. Once through the arch, the lady guided the boat to a dock where more ladies in white gently lifted Hermod from the boat and placed him on a stretcher of woven boughs, cus.h.i.+oned with gra.s.s. As they bore him down a walkway bordered on each side by running water, Mist followed, Winston's nails clicking on a floor that was exactly the same linoleum she'd grown up with in her grandmother's kitchen. Was Frigg's house conforming to Mist's expectations of home?
The ladies left Sleipnir behind with more of Frigg's attendants, who argued quietly over who should attempt to feed him.
Pathways and bridges crossed a network of pools and rivulets and waterfalls. Here and there were platforms of stone, little island-rooms, equipped with looms and beds and cauldrons hanging over cooking fires.
”Can we hurry it up?” Mist asked when she could no longer stand the funereal pace of the wordless procession. One of the women turned her head and gave Mist a dignified smile. Everything about Frigg's matrons was calm, controlled, and very Stepford Wife.
They pa.s.sed beneath a timber archway and into a s.p.a.cious, enclosed grotto. Water trickled down rough walls threaded with flower-dotted vines. In the center of the room rose a splendid bed of gnarled wood, dressed with white pillows and piles of fleece, bright as sunlit clouds. Mist concentrated on the bed, because she was terrified of looking directly at the figure dominating the room: Hermod's mother.
Frigg stood before the hearth, stirring an enormous kettle with a paddle. Mist attempted a greeting that caught in her throat, and Frigg smiled gently, her cheeks touched with pink, her blue eyes like a warm bath, and Mist wanted to fall into her abundant bosom and hear lullabies.
”Ma'am,” Mist managed.
”Thank you for bringing my son home,” Frigg said as the ladies transferred him to the bed.
”He's badly hurt,” Mist said. ”It was a special sword. It can cut through-”
”We can talk of this later. First I shall attend to Hermod. You must go with my ladies and rest. They will bathe and feed you and return you to your full strength.”
”I'd rather stay here, ma'am. If that's all right ...”
”I am mother to healing and renewal, daughter. Let me care for Hermod's needs while my ladies care for yours.”
Mist allowed herself to be led off by one of the ladies, stealing a backward glance at Hermod's white, clammy face. Frigg sprinkled something into her cauldron and stirred. The air smelled like earth and spring rain, and Mist couldn't understand why she'd felt any misgivings at having arrived here and leaving Hermod in Frigg's care.
All was well in the house of Frigg.
The lady brought Mist to a room where a clean white robe and furs awaited on a bench, and Mist nearly wept when she saw the wooden tub br.i.m.m.i.n.g with steaming water. Beside it on a small table rested a board stacked with meat and cheeses and fruit.
”Will this do, Lady Valkyrie?”
Oh, sweet Jesus, yes, thought Mist.
The lady withdrew, and Mist shrugged off her coat.
HERMOD AWOKE in a coc.o.o.n of warmth and safety. Soft fur blankets pressed down on him with comforting weight, and the air smelled of cinnamon. He was dimly aware of something wrong with his right shoulder, but he wouldn't have to worry about it as long as he kept his eyes shut. He could deal with it later. Better yet, someone else could deal with it. Nothing could touch him as long as he kept his eyes shut.
”Hermod,” someone said. For some reason, he a.s.sociated the voice with the color green. It was gentle but strong, like a towering pine tree, boughs swaying in the breeze.
”Hermod, wake up.”
And now he was completely and utterly alert, but he kept his eyes shut and listened. His mother's voice was pleasant but deeply frightening.
”Open your eyes, Hermod.”
Hermod obeyed.
His mother's face, leaning over him and smiling, was lovely, of course. Not youthful, but ageless. She put a cool hand on his forehead. ”How are you feeling?”
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