There was something seriously wrong with Norway, I concluded. No place on earth had the right to be so cold.
As our little party fought our way along what Thoren claimed was a "road" (i.e. fresh snow on top of slightly less fresh snow on top of trampled snow on top of what might be a dirt path in summer), icy wind lashed at my aching cheeks and drove (what else?) falling snow into my eyes. Reluctantly, I made the agonizing decision to withdraw one gloved hand from the marginally warmer recesses of my cloak, grasp the edges of my hood, and pinch them shut across the bottom half of my face. Maybe the bit of extra protection would save my nose. If it froze solid and fell off, even my brother Tel, one of the most talented Ars Animae mages in Europe, would have trouble regenerating it.
Peeking around the flapping edges of my hood, I caught a glimpse of my little sister Ynez trudging along miserably behind me. As a testament to her weariness, she'd actually relinquished her divine spear and sword to the pack of belongings atop our shaggy little pony. Now she focused her entire being on hiding within an oversized cloak that trailed on the ground behind her. It was the smallest one that the Cistercian monks of Hovedoya Abbey had been able to excavate from their supplies, given that Ynez was abnormally short and Norwegians abnormally tall. I would have hemmed it before we left Oslo, but Thoren and I had been too busy visiting his old haunts in the city while dodging the Catholics' concerted attempts to convert us. If Ynez wanted a cloak that fit, she could just accept that Thoren swore by Odin and that I vaguely believed in the pagan Greek gods (although my faith had taken a blow after learning that they were just ancient, overpowered mages — not to mention my maternal relatives).
My own cloak, at least, was more or less properly sized, even if it flapped about my ankles in this snowstorm. Gritting my teeth, I irritably kicked aside the hem as it tried to trip me yet again. In a rare moment of accord, Zoe bani Quaesitor, the erstwhile head of the Spanish Inquisition who'd forsaken power and prestige to follow Ynez whithersoever she led, cast me a sympathetic glance. The Seville native pulled her own scarlet wool cloak, emblazoned with a massive gold cross on the back, more tightly about herself.
Meanwhile, Thoren, whose fault this expedition was, acted as if we were strolling through a winter wonderland. Confidently striding ahead, expertly leading the pony, he tilted his head up and scanned the dark skies with a beatific expression. "Ah, home at last," his smile said, and I loathed him for not only enduring but enjoying this bleached-white wasteland. I detested him for leaving us southern Europeans to straggle after him, even if he were breaking a path for us, and even if he did turn every few minutes to check on us. (Although he could just as easily have used Ars Essentiae to blow aside the snow, or Ars Conjunctionis to track our locations, his distaste for unnecessary magic drove him to live life almost like a Sleeper.)
"It's not much further!" he shouted back encouragingly through the piercing wind. "We're almost home!"
"Oh g-g-g-g-good," Ynez chattered back, and promptly stumbled over her own hem.
Zoe swooped in immediately, catching her before she could fall. "Soror Ynez!" she exclaimed anxiously, her hands lingering just a little longer than necessary on my sister's shoulders. "Soror Ynez, are you all right?"
Completely missing the subtext, Ynez smoothed out her rumpled cloak with all the dignity she could muster (i.e., not much) and nodded a gracious thanks. For just a split second, her pride manifested as a gorgeous, iridescent peacock, but the spirit took one look at the blizzard, screeched in dismay, and vanished with a pop. Pretending she hadn't noticed, Ynez commanded Thoren, "Lead on, Magister."
He nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and forged onwards.
For a couple years after we rescued him from Hades, Thoren had tolerated Ynez's barely veiled hostility, but his patience had long since worn out. To me, he'd fumed that he had no intention of wasting any more time explaining himself to someone who clearly refused to listen. He and the Bonisagi had built the Obscura to conceal Athens from the rest of the world because the hordes of refugees were straining the city's resources to the breaking point. Despite House Bjornaer's best efforts, we stared famine in the face every single day. We simply couldn't accept any more immigrants, and that was a fact — whether Ynez liked it or not.
Ynez, who was then entering a most unattractive rebellious teenage phase, obviously did not. She'd regale him with graphic descriptions of how her family fled a Plague outbreak in Seville and traveled all the way to Greece, dying off one by one from disease and exhaustion until only she and her uncle were to left wander the Athenian countryside, starving and freezing just outside the city walls. The trauma of his death was what triggered her Awakening as a mage.
"I am truly sorry for what happened to your family," Thoren responded more than once (until he opted to ignore her instead). "But it was a terrible time, and House Bonisagus did the best we could to save as many people as we could."
To which Ynez would retort sarcastically, "Yeah, like when you invaded the orphanage to take over the Hearth for your little experiments, right?"
After months of fruitless debate, Thoren surprised no one when he gave up trying to reconcile with her.
All my attempts to coax Ynez into at least attempting to understand his logic only provoked screaming fights, the last one of which resulted in her losing control of her emotions entirely and summoning her wrath right in our living room. Bellowing a challenge, the wretched bear exploded into existence, hurled me against a wall, and raked ferocious claws across my chest and face before I could reach my Focus pocketknife. Bleeding all over the already-stained floor, I'd hacked a flame shape directly into the floorboards and flung a fireball at the bear, setting all the furniture ablaze in the process. When the bear burst through a wall of fire and raised a massive paw to rip off my head, I'd lost my temper and shrieked out a string of Enochian to blast Ynez's Pattern. Bad decision. She'd howled in agony and fainted — leaving the bear to maul me half to death and then rampage through the orphanage before Thoren, Zoe, and the rest of our cabal could corner and banish it. Tel and Ghallim, another of our brother-orphans, had both expended so much magic healing Ynez and me that both had suffered terrible Paradox backlashes afterwards. From their hospital beds, they'd compelled Ynez and me to swear formal oaths never ever ever to discuss the Obscura again.
Bedridden and in horrible pain ourselves, we hadn't protested too hard.
I still hadn't decided whether this episode counted towards the Tytalan "Growth through conflict" motto, since as far as I could tell, none of us had experienced any emotional growth from the affair. Normally I might have debated it with Ynez, but we were resolutely Not Talking about That Time We Nearly Killed Each Other. (And yes, our branch of House Tytalus was renowned for level-headed maturity.)
When Thoren invited us to visit his old home for the winter holidays, I'd rather hoped that Ynez would consider it an olive branch — but this horrendous weather could only deepen her resentment. Lovely.
After an eternity on the "road," dark wooden houses began to appear in the distance, emerging and then fading back into the whirling snow. "That's it! We're home!" Thoren called back to us, his face bright with the sort of happiness he projected when he was hunched over his desk, scribbling out calculations for his latest magical engineering project.
I struggled to smile back, but my frozen lips refused to move, and I clutched the edges of my hood even harder, fighting the urge to create a bubble of Ars-Essentiae-warmed air around all of us. We're almost there, I chanted to myself with each step. Almost there, almost there, almost there.
At last we reached the edge of town, and cheery yellow squares of light from the windows fell upon the ground before us. Surreptitiously, I dropped back from Thoren a few steps and released my hood. Instantly the wind whipped it back and hammered at my exposed cheeks, but I gritted my teeth and pulled out my pocketknife and a small piece of wood. Concealing my motions under my cloak, I clumsily carved a small candle, casting a minor Ars Essentiae Effect to thaw my lips. When I could speak again, I stumbled forward to tug at Thoren's arm. "Whe-whe-whe-where d-d-d-does your m-m-m-mother live?"
Even if he and his new avatar hadn't yet developed his magical abilities back up to his former Magister Mundi level, Thoren had decades of experience with Ars Vis scans and noted at a glance that I'd indulged in semi-necessary magic. For once, he chose to overlook it. Mostly. Taking my arm to help me through the snow, he warned, "Try not to accumulate too much more Paradox, my heart." Unspoken between us hung all the disastrous backlashes I'd triggered with my willful, rampant use of magic. "There aren't any mages among the townsfolk here…."
Right, and unlike in Athens, where the Sleepers were perfectly blase about mages inadvertently setting marketplaces on fire, the inhabitants of this little rural town might actually panic. (The correct response, of course, was to put out the fire and then bill the offending House for reparations.)
In that context, Thoren's warning made sense. I had used an awful lot of magic lately and was well overdue for a spectacular backlash. "Okay," I agreed. "I'll try."
And I really did mean it. Even though I drew on magic as naturally (and, Thoren would argue, as frequently) as I breathed, he hadn't seen his family in nine years. If it were within my power, I wouldn't complicate his homecoming by destroying his ancestral stead or transforming his mother into a purple three-headed dragon.
In thanks, Thoren gave my arm a quick squeeze and then shouted over the wind to the others, "My mother's house is on the next street!"
"R-r-r-really?" Ynez chattered from behind us.
"Soror Ynez!" exclaimed Zoe in an appalled voice. "Your lips are turning blue! Keep your scarf up!" And the Inquisitor paused in the middle of the street to fuss with Ynez's winter accessories.
As usual, my sister remained perplexingly oblivious to Zoe's feelings. "Th-th-thanks, Soror Zoe."
"We should keep moving," Thoren reminded them. "It's only a little further."
Rounding the next corner, he stopped before a narrow two-story house. All the windows on the ground floor blazed with candlelight, and before we could even approach the front door, a few small, blond heads popped up in the windows with shrieks that pierced the glass. "Grandma! Grandma! Mommy! Uncle Thoren's here!"
Uncle Thoren? Ynez and I exchanged dumbfounded looks.
"You have nieces and nephews?" Ynez asked for both of us.
Unlatching the gate, Thoren coaxed the pony into the front yard. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "I'm one of five children."
One of five children? Ynez tilted her head at me inquiringly, but I could only shrug helplessly. Thoren spoke so rarely of his years in Norway that it was almost as if his life had begun in Athens. All I knew was that he'd grown up in a rural town and that he'd been sent as a child to Oslo for his education in House Bonisagus. Why did he speak so rarely of his family? Was it because he was ashamed of us — of me — and didn't want his two worlds to collide?
What had he told his relatives about me? Did they even know I existed?
And here I'd thought that meeting just his mother would be stressful enough. Ambushed by an entire houseful of Thoren's kin, I felt a rush of gratitude for Ynez's and Zoe's solid presence at my back.
Even if Ynez had mauled me with her bear.
While I angsted and Ynez and Zoe froze, the front door flew open and a smiling woman in her late thirties called to us (in accented Latin), "Welcome! Come in! You must be tired!" Her long hair, coiled in elegant braids around her head, was the exact same shade of red-tinted gold as Thoren's.
At the same time, a servant rushed around from the back of the house. Before he could lead the pony away, Ynez scurried over to our packs and fumbled at the straps. As she reverently reclaimed her spear, the emblem of her authority over Hades, and the bone sword forged by Hestia, the Goddess of the Hearth, the servant's eyes widened. On his lips formed the words, nearly carried away by the wind and snow, "Ynez bani Tytalus. Odin help us all."
Clutching her divine arsenal like a security blanket, Ynez either didn't or (more likely) pretended that she didn't hear him. Ever since her bear massacred a gaggle of mages during our rather tumultuous coming-of-age, she'd gotten plenty of practice at ignoring terrified looks. Luckily, the blonde woman's entire attention was focused on Thoren, so she didn't even notice the way her servant fled our presence, dragging the stoic little pony behind him.
Thoren didn't notice either. He actually bounded up the steps to hug her hard. "Kari!" he exclaimed. "Mother didn't tell me you'd be here!"
"Ingolf had to go on a trip with the Primus," she said, smiling up at him, eyes glistening with tears. "He's Tertius of House Bjornaer now, did Mother tell you? And I thought that since he was away, and you were coming home, then I'd bring the children so they can meet you — "
Kari, whoever she was, finally saw — really saw — the rest of us. Even though Zoe had protectively arranged herself so that her body partially shielded Ynez from the wind, and Ynez was hunched into as tiny a ball as possible while still standing up, that spear rose tall and proud beside her. You couldn't miss it. It vibrated with unsung dirges and practically demanded homage.
The woman's smile slipped perceptibly in a way that was all too familiar.
Remembering at last that his traveling companions hailed from much more temperate climes, Thoren hastily suggested, "Let's go inside, and then I'll introduce you properly."
"Of — of course." With significantly less enthusiasm than before, Thoren's kinswoman stepped back from the doorway and beckoned us into the house.
In the entryway, we found a row of cloak hooks — plus a weapons rack bearing a couple of swords. Now that was not standard furniture in Athenian homes. Standing on tiptoe, I whispered into Thoren's ear, "Is this normal?"
He'd been staring around his childhood home with an expression I couldn't read. "Hmmm?" he asked absently, glancing away from a walking stick that leaned in the corner by the door. Carved into the dark wood, elegant plaited patterns swirled their way up the staff. A handful of runes around the top spelled out the owner's name, but I'd only just begun to learn Old Norse. "E-I-R-I-K" I managed to piece out at last. Was this Eirik another kinsman he'd never bothered to mention?
"Never mind," I said, feeling a little forlorn.
While Zoe slipped off her Inquisitorial cloak and draped it lovingly on a hook, arranging the luxurious folds of crimson wool so that the golden cross blazed out at us, Ynez hesitated by the rack. On the one hand, local custom obviously required her to surrender her weapons before she entered the living room. On the other hand, the Hadean spear was both the symbol and source of her power over the underworld, and as such an extension of her very being. Did normal etiquette apply to queens of Hades? Reverting to old habits, she cast a pleading look in my direction.
Time to consult the expert then. "Hey, Cly," I said silently, mentally poking my avatar, the Muse of History.
An image formed in my mind of a young woman wearing a laurel crown, seated at a desk and frowning down at a humongous, illuminated codex. At my prod, she jerked up in shock. "Marina!" she scolded. "You know better than to bother me when I'm studying! I just lost my train of thought! I had a marvelous insight about Herodotus' depiction of the Persians, and now it's gone!"
"Herodotus?" I asked, momentarily distracted from Ynez's distress. "I thought you hated him." In fact, during one Paradox backlash, Cly had insisted that his Historia was full of lies and that every extant copy must be burned. That had caused me no end of problems.
Closing the tome with a slightly sheepish air, she muttered, "Yes, but he's familiar. He reminds me of home."
Poor Cly! She didn't like the cold any more than I did.
"Er, well, I just have a quick question."
Instantly, hundreds of bookcases popped up like mushrooms behind Cly. "Yes?" she asked alertly, ready to leap up and run to the appropriate section.
"So, you see that weapons rack by the door? Would we cause mortal offense if Ynez didn't leave her spear there?"
"How should I know?" Cly retorted, mortally offended that I'd ask her a question she couldn't answer. "What do I look like, the Muse of Etiquette?"
Apparently her historical knowledge didn't extend to northern cultural practices. Giving Ynez an apologetic grimace, I shrugged slightly. Her Majesty would just have to figure this one out herself.
Playing for time, Ynez shifted the spear to the crook of her arm while she respectfully laid the sword across the rack, arranging the scabbard just so. The woman's eyes, however, remained fixed on the spear, and her lips tightened in the same way that Thoren's did when he was displeased.
Though he'd surely registered his kinswoman's reaction, Thoren chose to ignore it and instead performed the introductions with perfect equanimity. "Karina," he said formally, "this is Prima Ynez Murillo bani Tytalus."
The woman gaped.
Her growth stunted by trauma and poor nutrition, Ynez looked much younger than her eighteen years. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," the tiny Prima proclaimed grandly, overcompensating for her stature with her demeanor.
The woman made a clumsy gesture that looked like a cross between a curtsy, a bow, and a salute. She probably didn't know what the proper etiquette here was either.
Putting an arm around my waist and giving me an affectionate squeeze, Thoren continued, "This is Secunda Marina Cimon bani Tytalus."
Maybe I was over-sensitive, but I could have sworn that the woman's expression sharpened as she observed the position of his arm. Again I wondered just what Thoren had told his family about our relationship — and how many of the rumors about me they believed. Fervently I hoped that they hadn't heard the vicious Athenian one that I'd seduced and then betrayed him to his death. Forcing a nervous smile, I mumbled, "Nice to meet you."
"And you." This time, she didn't attempt to curtsy, bow, or salute.
Half-turning, Thoren gestured at the Inquisitor. "And this is Adepta Maior Zoe Medina bani Quaesitor."
Drawing herself up to full height (which was still half a head shorter than the Norwegian's), Zoe automatically checked the woman's neckline, noted the absence of a crucifix, and exchanged a cool nod with her.
Finally Thoren concluded, "Ynez, Marina, Zoe, this is my younger sister, Karina Eiriksdottir. She's married to Ingolf bani Bjornaer, who's — Tertius now, you said?"
The proud wife nodded vigorously. "Yes, he made Adeptus Maior last year," she boasted. "He's the second-youngest ever in their House."
Off to the side, Ynez and I very studiously made the appropriate awed congratulatory sounds, and very pointedly did not mention that I'd been an Adepta Maior for the past four years, or that Ynez had passed those exams at age fourteen — and had long since achieved the next level of Magistra Scholae. Not in House Bjornaer, true, but still. The Order of Hermes maintained strict standardizations across the Houses.
Appreciating our self-restraint, Thoren gave us a quick, grateful smile.
Amid these introductions, a slender, silver-haired woman emerged from the back of the house and floated across the living room to us, petting the children's heads affectionately in passing. One of the little boys threw his arms around her leg, but she disentangled herself effortlessly with a gentle, reproving smile.
"Mother!" Thoren's entire face lit up the way it had when he first saw his sister, and he released my waist so quickly that I stumbled a little.
Stopping in front of him, Thoren's mother scrutinized first his face and then the rest of him. I saw her clear blue eyes — so much like his — note that he no longer wore the insignia of a Primus of House Bonisagus, although the elaborate knots embroidered on his robes still proclaimed him a Magister Mundi. (Which, at the rate he was relearning magic, would be true again within a year.) With a grin, Thoren held his arms out to the side for inspection. "Would you like me to turn around, Mother?" he teased.
She arched an eyebrow at him. "No," she replied tartly. "I assume the rest of you is just as dirty. Please, all of you, come and sit. You must be exhausted." Casting a faintly amused glance at Ynez, Zoe, and me — and deliberately ignoring the spear — she added, "And cold as well. Come sit by the fire."
Behind us, Karina taunted Thoren, "And you, brother? Are you cold as well? Has Greece made a weakling of you?"
"Hoping you're no longer the weakest one, Kari?" he retorted.
Once Ynez and Zoe were ensconced on the loveseat by the fireplace and I in the armchair next to them, Thoren's mother sat down in a rocking chair facing us and looked at her son expectantly. Glancing around the room, he declined the chair that his sister offered him and instead perched on the side of my armchair. He repeated the introductions, finishing with, "And this is my mother, Signy Ulfsdottir."
I thought her eyes lingered on the pair of us consideringly — we were quite obviously more than just colleagues despite the formality of Thoren's language — but I couldn't decipher her expression. Long ago, Thoren had dated a childhood friend named Inga (now Ynez's lieutenant in Hades), and it had been her death that had driven him to Athens to fight the Plague. By all accounts, Inga was brilliant and loyal, and Ynez trusted her implicitly, and I knew that she and Thoren were just friends now — but I'd declined to meet her anyway.
Now I wondered whether Signy were comparing the two of us and finding me wanting.
Karina broke the awkward silence by pointing out her giggling, half-concealed children. "That's Helga," she said, waving at a girl of about twelve, who blushed and hid behind a book.
Thoren looked astounded. "Helga? But she was — " And he gestured helplessly, holding a hand at knee height. "She was tiny the last time I saw her."
"It's been nine years, Thoren," Karina reminded him. "Margrete is married already and living in Trondheim."
"Married?"
"Yes, she turned sixteen in June."
And, I supplied silently, she's probably not a mage. We tended to marry late thanks to years of rigorous training.
Thoren, of course, knew all that, but he still looked stunned. "Sixteen," he repeated blankly. "Married."
"The young man in the doorway is Alf," Karina said affectionately, pointing out a chubby four-year-old clinging to the doorframe and sucking his thumb. "That rascal sneaking around behind the sofas is Harald — " a seven-year-old boy's impish face flashed briefly over Ynez's shoulder — "and here's Birgit. You left just after she was born. Remember?"
"I remember," Thoren said, looking dazed still. "I — I just — " He stopped, as if he didn't know how to continue.
"You've been gone for a very long time, Thoren," Signy said quietly, impaling him with her steady gaze.
He actually flushed a little. "Yes."
Thoren — discomfited? What kind of formidable creature could humble the Magister Mundi who had led a small group of mages into Athens, evicted the prominent locals who lived on the Acropolis, and then imposed his vision on the city with no regard for the protests of the democratically elected Assembly? Nervously, I twisted my fingers in my lap, and Ynez darted an incredulous glance at me. Zoe quickly dropped her eyes and bit her lip, probably to hide a smirk. On behalf of Ynez, she too bore a grudge against Thoren.
All the children, however, looked entirely unsurprised that their grandma could quell one of the most famous mages in the world with a single, calm sentence.
Rushing to her brother's defense, Karina dove into what she must have deemed harmless small talk. "So...where were all of you before coming here? Thoren wrote that you'd been delayed?"
Ha. Yes. "Delayed" was certainly one way of putting it. After Ynez informed the Tytalans last spring that we were joining their House whether they liked it or not, their secretary had reluctantly invited us (in miniscule, exaggeratedly messy handwriting) to their autumn conference at the Domus Magna in Normandy. Entirely optional, of course, he hastened to add in much more legible script. In fact, the Tytalan leadership placed the highest value on our efforts to prevent Eurasia from disintegrating into warring fiefdoms ruled by mages who'd amassed such power that the Tapestry itself treated them as gods. No one else in the entire world could fight them on equal footing. Save us, O unconquered ones, from these troubles — and spare us your attendance! (His blandishments, while amusing, even held a kernel of truth. The Queen of Hades was the only person who could imprison the gods in the underworld and so contain their damage.)
Since we'd just routed Poseidon off the Cote d'Azur and earned a little vacation, we ignored the Tytalans' un-invitation and headed for Normandy. As thanks for saving her realm, Queen Aphrodite (yes, the Goddess of Love ruled France) even guaranteed us safe passage to and from the conference and swore not to attack it. So really, with us there, the Domus Magna was the safest stronghold in Europe — not that the Tytalans appreciated it. Their — no, our — meeting over in record time, the four of us split off from the rest of our cabal and set out for Norway, only to receive desperate pleas from Russia en route.
"We had a little trouble along the way," Thoren hedged, as though uncertain how much to tell his Sleeper family.
No stranger to magical shenanigans after years of marriage to a Bjornaer, Thoren's sister raised her eyebrows very meaningfully at the Hadean spear. Ynez had propped it up against the back of the loveseat, and its black point hovered ominously over her head, absorbing all the firelight in its vicinity. "Trouble?" Karina prodded. "We've been hearing the wildest stories from Eastern Europe…."
At that, Birgit squeezed onto the armchair next to her mother, swung her legs vigorously, and proclaimed, "Thyri says that her cousin heard that you were fighting Zeus himself! He burned down Poland, and then you locked him in a tower, and then he flew away on the back of a white swan!"
Uh….and that was how rumors spread.
"Well, not exactly," said Ynez, leaning forward a little and switching into didactic mode. As part of her Prima training, she'd occasionally played schoolmistress to the other orphans. "My predecessor — " she suddenly remembered that a nine-year-old probably didn't know what that meant — "I mean, the mage who ruled Hades before me, locked Zeus up long ago so he can't hurt anyone. He's still locked up," she added quickly before anyone could ask. "We were actually in Russia to talk to Dionysus. He's a spirit of wine."
Which was not how either Tel or I would have described his father, the god of not only wine and grape harvests, but also theater and fertility and religious ecstasy and ritualized insanity.
On a second thought, maybe Ynez's explanation was more age appropriate.
Birgit nodded sagely. "I know who Dionysus is," she pronounced. "Mother has been reading the Greek myths to us."
At that, Cly leaped up so violently from her morose contemplation of Herodotus that I winced. "In which language?" she demanded. "Ancient Greek? Modern Greek? Latin? Old Norse? Marina, you have to find out! I've never seen an Old Norse translation of the Greek myths!"
"Later, Cly," I sighed, massaging my temples. "Let's not scare the nice people."
While I dealt with the overwrought historian, Ynez was explaining, "Because Dionysus is a spirit of wine, and because he's the Tsar of Russia right now, he was making his subjects drink too much. That's bad for them."
Yes, well, that was one way to describe the drunken orgies that disrupted all agriculture, commerce, and manufacturing to the point of causing widespread famine throughout Russia. I rolled my eyes and smirked — and promptly felt Thoren's warning hand clamp down on my shoulder. As if I planned to traumatize his niece!
"So we went to Russia and we talked to him."
Yeah, sure, we talked to Dionysus. If by "talking" Ynez meant flying — yes, literally flying; Ars Essentiae was practically tailor-made for rapid, dramatic transportation — up to the Palace of Facets in Moscow, blasting off the front gate, and charging into the throne room. Unfortunately for us, Ars Conjunctionis wards had long since detected our advance, so as soon as we approached his throne, Dionysus unleashed an army of raving lunatic maenads on us. After we finally subdued them via judicious use of fireballs (Thoren and me) and mind control (Ynez and Zoe), plus not a little savage mauling (the bear), the god of drunken revelry surveyed his scorched hall, philosophically noted the fire damage — and smiled winningly at us. In the most reasonable tone imaginable, he pointed out that Tel would surely wish to discuss unresolved issues with his biological father one day. Was Ynez really so cruel as to deprive him of this opportunity by imprisoning aforementioned biological father in the land of the dead?
At the mention of Tel, Ynez's will crumbled and the portal she was opening to Hades shattered. In the end, she contented herself with extracting an oath that he'd permit more temperate drinking among his subjects.
"And then he promised that he won't make people drink so much anymore," Ynez concluded the shortest, most whitewashed historical account ever. Increasingly dismayed by this recital, Cly emitted a pained moan and buried her face in her hands.
Poor Birgit looked equally crushed, albeit by the lack of violence rather than of historical accuracy. "So you didn't use any magic?" she demanded. "There wasn't any fighting at all?" Her Norwegian kinsmen, with their weapons rack in the foyer, looked entirely unsurprised by her crestfallen expression.
"Uh, er," stuttered Ynez, caught off guard by the little girl's bloodthirstiness. "Well, you see…."
Conveniently forgetting her own tendency to lobotomize foes with Ars Mentis, Zoe spoke up. "Combat is the last resort when diplomacy fails," the Inquisitor reproved the child sternly.
Correctly understanding the tone if not the vocabulary, Birgit drooped.
From her seat by the fire, Signy pitched her voice to carry across the room. "Harald, that is not a toy."
My head snapped around in time to see the little boy release Zoe's cloak — right before it slipped off the hook and cascaded over him in a waterfall of scarlet and gold. With a frustrated exclamation, Karina scrambled to yank the cloak off him and scold him. With equal alacrity, Zoe dashed over to reclaim her precious cloak and examine it for any stains or tears. Apparently it was unharmed, because she breathed a prayer of thanksgiving and very, very reverently hung it back up. Meanwhile, giggling uncontrollably, the boy skidded across the rug and flung himself behind Thoren's and my armchair.
"Scamp," Thoren scolded, not bothering to hide an affectionate smile.
With a mischievous, exaggeratedly cautious expression that reminded me heartbreakingly of my little brother Sy, Harald peered out from behind the armchair and then grinned impishly at his uncle. When Thoren only shook his head in mock remonstrance, Harald fearlessly climbed into my lap and bounced up and down a few times. "I know who you are," he piped in a high boyish voice.
"You do? And do you know who you are?" I asked him playfully as he rifled through my pockets.
"I'm Haaaaa-rald," he singsonged.
"Thoren," Karina called. "Can you come over here for a minute?"
Cocking his head to a side, Thoren eyed his nephew with misgiving. "Do you mind if I abandon you to this ruffian, my heart?"
"I'll be fine," I assured him ruefully. "I grew up with Sy, remember?"
Perhaps recalling the time the God of Street Urchins showered him with (freshly laundered) petticoats and sheets, Thoren snorted. "Point taken."
As we smiled rather soppily at each other, a flutter at the edge of my vision caught my attention. Harald had pickpocketed one of my quill pens and was pulling the feather apart.
"No, no," I scolded gently, extracting it from his pudgy fingers and holding it out of reach. "Don't do that to the feather, Harald."
Just like Sy, he giggled unrepentantly and reached back into my pockets.
Seeing that I hadn't devoured her brother yet, the twelve-year-old girl, Helga, perched cautiously on a nearby chair with her book, cast a few sidelong glances at me, and at last gathered up her courage to ask tentatively, "Auntie Marina, when are you and Uncle Thoren getting married?"
Auntie? Did I really look that old? In the names of all the gods, I was only ten years older than she was!
Also, married? Why in the world did everyone keep asking me that? Hadn't Thoren reassured me from the very beginning of our courtship that there was nothing dishonorable about our love for each other, that Norwegians were much more liberal, and that he couldn't understand the conservatism of Athenians? Clearly he should have specified that only he and a select few countrymen felt that way.
"Ummmm," I hedged, looking across the room at Thoren's back and hoping he'd return to rescue me. No such luck. He and his sister had settled down at the dining table and were in the middle of a passionate, whispered conversation in Old Norse. Zoe and Ynez, however, had both overheard The Question and were staring at me intently. Goodness knows they'd asked me often enough when we'd stop living in sin. "Ummm," I muttered, as much to Helga as to them, "maybe someday."
There was no missing the swift, disapproving look that Ynez and Zoe exchanged.
Thoren's mother's face was inscrutable.
"Oh," said Helga, visibly deflating and slouching down in her chair.
I had a sudden memory of my little sister Lil hiding volumes of love poetry behind her Enochian textbooks. Smiling a little at the image, I promised Helga, "If we get married, we'll definitely invite you," and she brightened, just as Lil would have.
Just then I overheard my name from the dining room. Karina and Thoren were discussing me. Listening as hard as I could, I absently carved a small dog (because dogs had good ears) to amplify their voices. "She's so young, Thoren," Karina was saying urgently in Old Norse, and I felt a twinge of smugness that Cly and I had picked up the language so fast. But all self-satisfaction died when I heard more: "They're all so young. And their lifestyle is so...reckless. Are you sure this is what you want?"
Breathlessly I waited for Thoren's response but he, knowing my penchant for abusing Ars Essentiae, replied so softly that I couldn't make out his words. Scowling, I added more detail to the dog's ears and tweaked my Effect to further amplify their conversation. That was as far as I got before Harald snatched the dog from my hands and scuttled out of the room — but it was enough.
"You needn't feel obligated to follow her just because she brought you back from the dead, Brother," Karina was urging.
"I'm not following her because I feel indebted to her or her Prima," Thoren stated calmly. Picking up his mug, he took a sip of mead while framing his reply. "If there were any debts between our Houses, they have long since been cancelled."
She persisted, "You're too old for this! Thoren, you should be settled down in your own home by now. We thought you were just about ready to marry Inga, but then she died and you gallivanted off to Greece. We thought maybe you'd find someone in Athens — " which he had! What about me? — "but now this? Traveling all over Europe and Asia, fighting dangerous gods, with no idea of when it will ever end? Haven't you given enough already? Haven't you sacrificed enough? If she truly loves you, how can she ask this of you?"
In a tight voice, Thoren enunciated, "She didn't have to ask." Immediately I recognized the tense patience that presaged one of his rare outbursts. "It was my choice."
Perhaps, after so many years, his sister had forgotten how to read his tone. "Your choice!" she exclaimed. "What kind of influence have those Athenians had on you? Your choice indeed. This isn't what you want, and I know it, and Mother knows it, and you know it, whether you're willing to admit it to yourself or not. This — this humble nomad isn't you. The Primus of House Bonisagus, the Magister Mundi who commanded dozens of mages and directed magical works for entire city-states — that's the real you! You've forgotten who you are, Thoren."
If I'd hoped for an impassioned defense of me and our entire lifestyle, I was in for disappointment. "Leave it, Sis," was all that Thoren said. "I love her and I'm happy with my life."
From her seat by the fire, their mother stirred, folded her hands in her lap, and didn't utter a single word.
At least I received some small indication that Signy didn't oppose our relationship when her servant showed us to our rooms on the second floor. Thoren's and my luggage had already been unloaded in the same bedroom, which contained a single bed large enough for two. Next door, Ynez and Zoe shared a bedroom with two narrow beds.
Gods, it was cold away from the fireplace! Even with the shutters firmly closed and the heavy curtains drawn, wintry air pervaded every last crevice in the room, and I could swear that my breath practically froze every time I exhaled. Changing out of my travel clothes and into a nightgown in record time, I dove under the blankets and huddled into a ball, teeth clattering.
"Marina?" Thoren lifted a corner of the blanket and peered in at me. "Are you all right?"
Snatching the blanket out of his hand, I emphatically tucked it under me and balled up even tighter. "No!" I snapped. "I'm not all right! I'm freezing! You did not tell me it would be this cold!"
Fabric rustled as he removed his outerwear. "I did warn you to bring warm clothing," he pointed out, sounding slightly muffled.
"I did!" I cried indignantly. I'd even splurged on a second wool dress in Normandy. "This isn't normal cold! This is the cold you get when a god curses the land and all the inhabitants thereof!"
I thought I heard him smother a chuckle. "It's just winter, Marina. It isn't even a particularly bad winter. Here, you'll be warmer if you let me in." Partially unwrapping me from the blankets, he slid under the covers beside me, stretched out, and sighed contentedly. I had no idea why he wasn't also a chattering ball, but at least he was right about the extra body heat.
Eventually I warmed up enough to uncurl myself and snuggle up against him. "Thoren," I started to say, and then stopped short. Even if he'd detected my eavesdropping earlier (and he almost certainly had), there was no need for spontaneous confessions. After all, I wasn't Catholic.
"Hmmm?" he asked, mostly asleep already.
Thinking quickly, I changed directions. "Thoren, is there a bookstore in town?"
"Yes. I'll take you tomorrow."
Horribly, I woke three times in the middle of the night from sheer coldness. Each time, I lifted the blanket very slightly and peeked out to check on Thoren, but he slumbered as soundly as he would on a fine spring night in Athens.
Each time, I hated him.