Mist

Curious. He had not expected such prudery from a Valkyrie, who saw bodies of every shape and state on the battlefield when she rode out to collect “heroes” to serve Odin in Valhalla. According to custom the Choosers of the Slain were supposed to be virgins, but Dainn knew that custom had been more honored in the breach than in the observance. Some of the Valkyrie had even married.

Mist herself had kept a lover, unaware though she had been of his true identity. Doubtless she had had others before Loki.

The image of bodies entwined filled Dainn’s imagination, reminding him how close to the brink he stood. He steadied himself and deliberately released the tension from his body. The best defense against such emotions was not to pretend they didn’t exist but to rob them of their power.

“I was not aware that Valkyrie were so modest,” he said to Mist’s back, examining the gaping waist of the jeans in his hands.

Her shoulders stiffened, and she turned around. “I thought you might like a little privacy,” she said. “But since you don’t—” She looked him up and down boldly. “Not bad for an elf.”

“You have seen many Alfar unclothed?”

“Wouldn’t touch one with a ten-foot staff.”

Dainn tugged the jeans on with some force. “And Loki? Did his body please you?”

“His body wasn’t—” She took a deep breath. “Loki’s body isn’t Eric’s.”

“Loki clearly found yours more than acceptable.”

The remark was stupid, childish, and entirely born of the very emotions Dainn was attempting to disarm, but Mist didn’t rise to the bait.

“Loki finds just about anyone pleasing,” she said with bitter self- mockery, “or anything.”

She had no idea, of course, how effectively she struck at Dainn’s own shame. Finding his balance again, he shrugged into the shirt. It was a size too big in breadth, but Mist had provided a belt to cinch the pants at the waist. The length of both was nearly perfect. He let the shirttail hang loose to cover the flaws in fit.

Mist looked him up and down again. “Acceptable,” she said, “if a little working-class for an elf.” She nudged the boots toward him with her toe. “Try these.”

He knelt to put on the work boots. They, too, were a size too big, but they were better than the scraps he had worn on his feet for the past two days.

“Good,” Mist said. “Now all we have to do is cut your hair.”

Dainn winced. Little as she knew of elves, Mist had to be aware how much the Alfar valued their hair. His had been the only vanity he had permitted himself over the years, and he had stubbornly kept it long even when it made him more conspicuous, as it had in various places and times in the centuries following the Last Battle.

“I believe hair of this length is acceptable in the current decade,” he said, getting to his feet.

She looked very much as if she wanted to argue, but she knew he was right. Long hair hid the particular feature that marked the Alfar apart from mortals, even if it also tended to attract attention.

“You can keep it,” she conceded, “but don’t let it get in the way.” She glanced around the room, her gaze briefly settling on Vali. Odin’s son had ‘barely moved, his arms hanging loose at his side and his stubbled cheek resting flat on the tabletop.

“You put him to sleep?” she asked.

“It seemed prudent under the circumstances.”

“Then I guess we’d better get these Jotunar out of here.” She licked her lips, briefly revealing her unease. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Only let me guide you.”

“Only,” she muttered.

Dainn sat, and Mist followed suit. She faced him with legs crossed and hands resting on her knees. Dainn gave himself up to one of the many rituals he had developed to quiet his mind.

What he was about to do would require greater discipline than he had ever asked of himself—not because he might not reach deep enough into Mist’s mind, but because he might reach too far and enable her to understand, beyond any doubt, what he truly was and why he was here.

“We will begin as we did before,” he said. “But as you form the Runes in your mind, let your other thoughts drift like leaves on the wind.”

“Skip the poetry,” Mist said. “You want me to let my mind go blank, is that it?”

“As the Eastern masters do it.”

“Should I meditate on clapping with one hand?”

“Think only of the Runes. But do not concentrate too hard on the process, or you will fail.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said. She inhaled, slowly expelled the air, and closed her eyes. Dainn felt her agitation like a false note in a spell-song as she fought down her lingering suspicion and fear.

He touched her mind gently. She flinched. He reassured her by remaining on the surface, making no attempt to push, watching and waiting. Only when she had finally relaxed did he begin cautiously probing under the skin of the thoughts she could not quite suppress.

“Breathe deeply,” he said. “When you are ready, shape the Runes as you did before.”

She didn’t respond, but soon enough the staves began to appear, each one flaring bright—far brighter than before—as if it were constructed of Thor’s lightning, dazzling fire as quick as Mist’s temper. Dainn reached for the Runes, touching one after another, and Mist began to tremble.

“Be easy,” he said silently. “There is no danger here.”

Mist could not yet make her thoughts coherent as words, but Dainn sensed the substance of her answer. Get on with it.

He slid a little further in, probing under the Runes and touching what lay beneath.

It was as if he had set a lit match to brittle grass in a droughtparched meadow. Mist’s unconscious will to protect her mind— which he had felt only briefly before, when she had abruptly broken their joining at the loft— burst into a conflagration, a searing barrier that stopped him in his tracks. A violent wind hurled him back, and a great wall of seamless, ice-rimed metal thrust up through the seething flames.

Stunned by the attack, Dainn began to grasp what Mist had done. All unaware, and after only two encounters with his mind, she had learned how to create mental wards stronger than Dainn had believed possible for one without experience or training.

But there was far more to this than the building of mental defenses. Mist had created hers from a perfect joining of the elements. Some of the Aesir, like Thor, could control aspects of Air. The Muspellsmegir, the giants of Muspelheim, could wield fire and never be burned. The frost giants, like Hrimgrimir, commanded the forces of snow and ice. The Alfar and Vanir were the tamers of growing things, and the Dvergar masters of metal and earth. None, save the All-father himself, laid claim to power over all, and even he could join the elements only at great cost to himself.

The cost Mist might pay was as yet unknown, but Dainn knew he might not survive to find out. He fought to hold his ground and threw up a shield against the whirlwind, singing it into retreat with melodies of the hush of dawn and still summer days. But he could do nothing about the ice and flame and metal cutting him off from light, from air, from life itself.

He changed tactics, seeking under the wood and cement beneath him for uncontaminated earth, creating from Rune and elfsong a gauntlet of densely woven vines under a skin of air only thick enough to keep it alive. He eased his spectral hand through the maelstrom, barely brushing Mist’s barriers with gentle fingertips, searching for even the smallest gap. He sang again, as all Alfar did when they made use of the Galdr.

Perthro, of Heimdall’s Aett: the mystery of hidden things, initiation, destiny. Tiwaz, of Tyr’s Aett: willingness to self- sacrifice. Kenaz, from Freya’s Aett: the torch, symbol of revelation, transformation, opening to new strength and power. Uruz, the wild ox, the Rune of transformation, the shaping of power, the discovery of the self.

But the final Rune didn’t obey his will. Mist took hold of the stave and turned it against him. Its angular, simple strokes quivered and rotated counterclockwise, Uruz reversed: lust, brutality, violence. Then the stave straightened, forming a single line with a needle point, and plunged through Dainn’s magic-born gauntlet.