Chapter Nine
Loki had been right. It took an inordinate amount of time for the scholars in the Halls of Knowledge to find the book Klara had asked for. She paced the large empty hall, wrapped in silence broken only by the whisper of feet against the stones, her hands knotting together anxiously over and over. What if the name was incorrect? Worse, what if the book didn't exist? What if this was nothing more than one of Loki's manipulative games, a test to see if she would fall for his trickery? She felt herself growing angrier and angrier as the minutes ticked by.
She was a fool, she was a child, she was...
And then the scholars' assistant emerged from the back of the Halls, covered in a thin film of dust and looking disgruntled, a book laid carefully across his white gloved hands. Klara's pacing ceased. The cover was dry, cracked, brown leather, the bindings fragile threads that had worn free of the spine in many places, and what bits of the pages Klara could see were frayed and ragged, looking as if one touch might crumble them into useless dust. The assistant approached her, but stopped well out of her reach.
"You understand that we cannot allow you to leave with this..." He glanced down at the book with something almost like a sneer, "...volume. We have done our best to preserve it, but it is resistant to all the usual methods and so must be kept within the safety and environmentally compatible atmosphere of the Halls."
Klara swallowed and nodded. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. It was there. It was right there. The answer to the question she had been searching for her entire life. Just there... tantalizingly out of reach.
"You may study it here in the halls, of course, under proper supervision."
Klara swallowed again, trying to make her tongue form words.
"Yes, thank you," she said, "Whatever I must do."
The assistant nodded, seeming marginally pleased by her cooperation, and led her back into the depths of the hall, the book still laid gently across his outstretched palms. Klara followed him through the quiet halls, passing other Asgardians of both noble and common descent, occupying the many tables and chairs scattered among the endless rows of bookshelves. The assistant led her through a small doorway into a cramped, cool corridor. Lanterns on the wall provided a dim golden hue that did not flicker as they passed several blank wooden doors, stopping finally before a door much like all the others, which the assistant indicated, merely through his pointed glances, that Klara should open. She did so and he stepped through, leaving her to follow in his wake.
The room beyond was small, and contained only a table and two chairs facing each other across it. There was another of the golden lanterns on the table, but it did not burn brightly, the light barely strong enough to reach the open doorway. A blotter was placed in the center of the table and the assistant indicated this blotter with a nod.
"If you please."
It took Klara a moment to realize what it was he wanted of her. She shut the door behind her, blinking as she tried to force her eyes to acclimate to the dimness, and hurried forward, ripping the top paper from the blotter cleanly. The assistant placed the fragile book precisely in the center of the new page, and then took a seat in the far chair. Klara took the other chair, her hands folded in her lap, staring down at the faded, peeling, gold embossing that swirled the title across the cracks in the book's cover.
The Lost Origins of Ancient Seidr:
A Collection of the Many Dying Forms of the Arts of our Ancestors.
"You will not touch the book," the assistant said sharply and Klara jerked her hand back, which she had not even realized had emerged from under the table, reaching toward the faded golden letters, "I will turn the pages and you will indicate by word or gesture when you are ready for me to proceed. This room is climate controlled and maximized for optimum preservation of the text. You have..."
He glanced at a thin timepiece on his wrist.
"...one hour, and then the book must be returned to storage."
Klara balked, panic welling up in her throat.
"One hour?" she squeaked, staring down at the thick volume before her.
"You may schedule time for further perusal on later dates, but one hour is the maximum time books of such a delicate nature can be out of storage in a single day," the assistant rattled the words off as if reading them out of an instruction manual, which Klara supposed he might be, "Scheduling can be done at the main desk. Shall we?"
He raised an eyebrow and Klara swallowed, then nodded. He readjusted his thin white gloves, and then carefully pulled back the cover of the ancient text. Klara leaned forward, hands clasped firmly beneath the table, and began to read.
She only managed to make it through the introduction of the book by the time her (considerably shortened) hour was up. It was written in a very old dialect, so different from current vernacular it was almost a different language, but still familiar enough that after a few lines she found she could muddle through. The first few pages were mostly names and acknowledgments of one kind or another, but Klara had still read the words carefully, taking mental note of any names that stuck out to her. When her time was up, she left the small room and immediately went to the front desk to schedule her next study session. The soonest possible opportunity was tomorrow, after the evening feast. Klara left the Halls of Knowledge feeling anxious. She had learned nothing new, except that Loki had, so far, been telling the truth. And a part of her felt that she should do something in return, make some sort of gesture...
She returned to her room, pondering on the subject as she tidied up her already tidy space. Then she sat at her desk and typed out a report for Lady Frigga, informing her that the prisoner looked much better today, greatly improved just in the short time since the changes to his bedding arrangements. Then, almost as an afterthought, she put in a requisition for a small side table. She had never once seen Loki use his desk, and he had not once requested any pen or paper from her. But should he ever choose to use it, a small table would serve as a much better spot to place his meals, rather than right on top of whatever he would happen to be working on. However, she put the requisition in at the lowest priority, deciding it might be prudent to practice patience rather than risk the notice of the All-Father. She could still hear his stern voice ringing in her ears, though it had been nearly three weeks since she had heard the words.
He is no longer an errant child to be coddled and catered to... You will stop this foolishness...
But really, this requisition was more for her own convenience than that of the prince. Where was she to place his meals if he chose to use the desk? It really was quite necessary... but perhaps not urgent.
Several days passed, perhaps even a few weeks. The routine that Klara's life had fallen into sometimes made it difficult to tell the days apart. She didn't mind. She found the steady rhythm soothing.
She continued to bring Lord Loki his meals and, now that he had decided they were speaking again, he pestered her mercilessly about the book.
Haven't you finished it yet?
What have you learned thus far?
Perhaps I should test you to make certain you are attending to your studies...
He seemed to take especially great pleasure in teasing her with tantalizing hints of things to come (Oh, you've reached the Light Elves... the next bit is very interesting, you should pay attention...) which rarely came of anything in her reading, and did nothing but irk her.
The only reminder she had of time passing was on a day when, carrying Lord Loki's supper down to the dungeons, a loud bang scared her so badly that she nearly dropped the tray. There was a clamor of deep, gruff laughter and Klara stopped for a moment, staring.
The first four cells were completely stuffed full of... something. The creatures went about on two legs, but they resembled something far more primitive than she was accustomed to. Beady black eyes stared out of squashed faces, crooked protruding teeth bared in what might be either grin or grimace. The squat, muscled bodies were covered in long, thick hair, which stuck out everywhere through their primitive cloth and leather coverings. Another of the creatures in the cell closest to her flung himself against the golden barrier with a loud crash, but this time Klara only narrowed her eyes and glared. The creatures all seemed to think this even more amusing and they began to laugh again, mixed with a chorus of rumbling hoots, as they crowded up closer to the prison walls, leering down at her.
Klara straightened primly and got a better grip on her tray before setting off once more down the corridor, head held high, no longer acknowledging the creatures in any way. It had been so long since she had been jeered at by prisoners in the dungeons that she had nearly forgotten it could happen. She was pleased by how easily she slipped back into that place within her that no one could touch, removed from the world and everything in it, focused only on the goal of reaching the deceptively empty cell at the end.
He was waiting for her. He stood with his toes nearly touching the golden wall, his eyes narrowed as he stared down the corridor from whence she had come.
"Rock Trolls," Loki growled, disgusted, "Nasty creatures. And so terribly dull."
Klara glanced back toward the Rock Trolls. They had quite quickly lost interest in her, milling about in their cells like prowling animals in cages.
"I've never seen anything like them," she said, truthfully.
Loki snorted.
"No great loss in that, I can assure you," he said, pacing toward the back wall to allow Klara to engage the biolocks, "How is the book coming along?"
Klara clenched her jaw as she pressed her hand to the golden wall and watched it vanish.
"Well enough," she bit out.
"Still tearing away at it?" he asked, his smirk widening as his eyes followed her about the cell, setting the tray on his desk and straightening his bedclothes as she passed back through, "My, my, at this rate it'll be Yule before you find anything."
Klara did not reply, finishing her tasks and passing stiffly through the golden wall once more. In truth she was beginning to fear that very same thing. The reading itself was progressing with excruciating slowness, and she was not always able to schedule an appointment with the book, due to others needing the rooms, no assistants being available to help her, or her own overwhelming duties. Sometimes she was forced to wait three, even four days for the opportunity to sit in one of the chilly little rooms, an infinitely patient assistant turning the pages as she poured over the faded, scrawling text of the ancient tome, searching desperately for any clues, any names she recognized, anything that might help her in her continued search for herself and others like her. Frequently she came out of these sessions convinced that the prince had lied to her and was even now having a fine laugh at her expense. But even the thought that she might just be playing his fool had not been enough to dampen the small ember of hope that had started to pulse in her chest. Something within her, some deep-rooted instinct that she wasn't entirely sure she could trust, told her that he had not lied. There was something in this book, somewhere, that would help her. She just hadn't found it yet.
"I should be finished with the Dark Elves soon," she said, releasing Loki's biolocks, "There's a section on the Vanir next, but that shouldn't be too long, I don't think. The Vanir don't even have magic, so-"
Loki barked a laugh that cut Klara off mid-sentence.
"Not have magic?" he said, still chortling as he pushed himself off the back wall, "Of course they have magic! Or at least, they used to. In the last few thousand years or so there have only been two with Vanir blood known to possess an inherent talent for it, but in days gone by and nearly out of memory? Why, the Vanir taught Asgard everything they knew! Without them, there would be no magic on Asgard."
Klara stared at him, speechless. That... that couldn't be right. Asgard was the center of Yggdrasil, the heart of the World Tree, everyone knew that. How could Asgard have ever existed in a time without magic?
As if he could read her thoughts, Loki's lips twitched up, but he turned away and began to pace his cell.
"There was a time," he said, in a calm tone as if reciting a familiar tale, "When Asgard was cut off from all other realms. Much like the more primitive realms now, Midgard for instance."
He spoke the name so flippantly, but Klara jerked when he said it, harsh whispers flashing through her mind.
...traitor... usurper... murderer... tyrant...
Loki did not seem to notice, his eyes fixed on something in the middle distance only he could see.
"Reaching blindly for the stars always tantalizingly out of reach, just brushing the limits of the possibilities..."
He reached out a hand and swiped it gently through the air, as if clutching for the stars. He turned back to her.
"And then the Vanir came."
Klara continued to stare at him. She had never heard any of this. But she had also never bothered to dig very deeply into the history of the worlds. Servant girls were not expected to know such things.
"They came on a very primitive version of what we now know as the Bifrost," Loki continued, returning to his pacing, "They came and they taught us everything they knew. They helped the early Asgardians establish trade with other realms, even helped build the first iteration of what would eventually become the Rainbow Bridge. The Vanir are a trusting people, gentle, kind, compassionate."
He shot a smirk over his shoulder at her.
"Fools," he said, "Idiots. They were soon beset with conflict and opposition from nearly every other realm, held hostage on their own world by raiders and marauders, some of them the very same races they had helped reach the stars. But the Vanir had done one thing in all their golden era of peace, made one critically successful move in all their foolish blundering. They had made a friend of Asgard. Asgard had pledged ever-lasting gratitude to the Vanir for their part in bringing them out into the stars, and Asgardians have very long memories. So Asgard took up arms and defended Vanaheim from the threats that it faced, and in return the Vanir pledged them their service. That is why there has always been such a close relationship between our realms, even with the decline of the Vanir's power."
Loki's smirk was gone now. He was watching her with a contemplative stillness, and Klara was still staring, hadn't been able to stop really, but somehow she couldn't remember when exactly he had stopped pacing and gone so incredibly still.
"Because even now," he murmured, taking a measured step, "There are those who remember the stories their grandfathers told them. Of reaching out to the stars, but instead of finding empty air…"
He pressed his hand to the golden barrier. It shimmered where he touched it.
"…finding another hand reaching back."
There was a pause. Loki's eyes burned into hers and Klara could feel a tremble starting in the pit of her stomach, somewhere deep and spreading out...
There was a bang and she jumped, the tray in her hands rattling ever so slightly. She was gripping it so hard that her knuckles had turned white and she forced her fingers to relax. Loki's eyes had shot down the corridor, toward the Rock Trolls who were still testing the strength of their imprisonment, his sharp glare easily piercing the distance. He stepped back from the barrier, clasping his hands behind his back once more.
"You should ask Frigga about it sometime," he said, his tone clipped and short, "She could tell you. Her grandmother was Vanir."
Klara gaped at him. Lady Frigga? The queen was...?
Loki's gaze swept back to her when she did not answer, and he rolled his eyes.
"Oh, don't look so shocked. Half the royal court of Asgard have at least a quarter Vanir blood running through their veins. They'd never admit it, of course," he sneered, "But they're out there, sniffing and turning up their noses at everyone else like a bunch of..."
He clamped his mouth shut, his eyes flashing for a moment, but then he closed them and took a breath through his nose.
"But never mind about that," he said, turning away, "I've kept you far too long with this useless history lesson. I'm sure you have things to see to."
He flopped onto his settee and flicked his wrist, a book flying out of the pile in the corner into his hand. That was the end of it. Klara left, her ears ringing and her mind feeling full to bursting, barely noticing the Rock Trolls as they hooted and laughed and threw themselves against their cells as she passed.
And as she moved through the palace halls that day, she looked differently at every noble that she passed, staring out of the corner of her down-turned eyes, wondering...
It was another excruciating day before she was able to return to the library, and another two before she finally finished the section about the Dark Elves and moved on to the Vanir. Despite the unhelpful nature of Loki's hints in the past, Klara found herself spending the next several of her sessions, not scanning the pages for obscure references, but really reading about the Vanir, how they had brought about a golden era of peace on their planet, using their skill and connection with the natural order to create power that would propel them into the stars, to learn from other lands and also to teach the skills they had acquired.
She had nearly finished the section, and nearly given up the seed of hope in her chest, when she found it. Buried within the text regarding the many skills and talents the Vanir cultivated in those who chose to pursue magical tutelage, was a small section, barely more than a few sentences. It was so small that Klara managed to successfully memorize it in the long minutes she sat staring at the yellowed, cracked page.
'Among those who chose to practice the arts contained herein, only a few were chosen to practice the art of Abjuration, the absence of magic. In the face of peril or attack, such brave souls would stand between the People and the threat, a shield which no magic could penetrate. However, this skill was not highly sought, being useless, even detrimental, in times of peace when magic was used frequently to advance the People and their interests, and also as the practice was nearly impossible to master or even impose skillfully. Only a handful of Masters were known to exist and these rarely took pupils, being often reclusive and jealous of their secrets. Thus did the Abjurates diminish until none any more could be found to teach the art, and none existed who still wished to learn it.'
Klara spent the last ten minutes of her hour rereading these few lines over and over. The assistant helping her, a small older woman with white hair and a kind, wrinkled face, glanced at her in concern when she began to close the book and Klara started as if out of a trance.
She finished shutting the book carefully and then said in a soft, slightly raspy voice, "Did you find what you needed, Miss?"
Klara stared at her, her whole world whirling around her. She thought she might be sick. Her stomach rolled. She swallowed and felt the sting of bile on the back of her throat.
"No," she said, the word falling from her tongue like a stone, "No, I didn't."
She got up from the table very carefully and walked out of the door, still feeling as if she were trying to stay upright while the palace rotated around her.
"You knew."
Loki did not look up from his book, only turned another page.
"Knew what?" he asked, sounding bored.
Klara again felt bile rising to the back of her throat and swallowed. The full lunch tray in her hands was trembling.
"About the Abjurates."
"Ah!" Loki said delightedly, snapping his book shut, "So you finally found them, did you? What did you think?"
He sat up from the floor (where he still seemed to sit most frequently, though he was much recovered from his close brush with death a few weeks ago) and stared at her eagerly, alight with curiosity. Klara felt tears burn the backs of her eyes and she blinked them away.
"You knew it was a learned skill," she said, her voice dull and slightly strained, "You knew it was something that had to be taught."
A bit of Loki's enthusiasm dimmed. He sat back slowly, shrugging in a carefully careless gesture.
"I knew the Old Vanir learned the skill, yes," he said, "I thought..."
"I was born like this."
Loki stared at her, all trace of good humor gone.
"You knew," she continued, feeling something building up in her chest, an amalgam of nameless emotion, "You knew I was born this way. I told you, the first day I came to you. And still you..."
Her voice broke and she looked away. Loki said nothing. Klara swallowed again to clear the lump in her throat.
"You gave me hope..." she whispered hoarsely, "...when you knew that none existed."
"That isn't true," Loki said, his voice hard, biting.
A flash of fire flared up inside of her, igniting the emotion that had been building steadily in her chest. She locked eyes with him.
"No?" she snapped, the tray rattling in her grip, "You called me by a false name! You knew I was not Abjurate, and yet you sent me on this wild, fruitless chase! For what? For your amusement? Does it amuse you, Lord Loki, to think of the hours I have wasted, the weeks I have spent, hoping against hope that this time, this time, it would be different, that I would find something, anything to tell me where I come from, what I was meant for, who I am?!"
Something on the tray shifted and clattered, startling Klara and causing the whole tray to slip from her grip. It hit the floor with an echoing crash that sent her stumbling backward. Loki leapt to his feet and took a step toward her, but suddenly stopped, as if only just now aware of himself. He clasped his hands behind him, his face an impenetrable mask of indifference. Klara stared, wondering at how easy it was for him, to just lock away all that he felt behind a solid stone wall. She was suddenly, painfully aware of the tears tracking silently down her cheeks and she scrubbed furiously at her face, then took a deep breath and settled herself, hands clasped behind her, eyes fixed on a point just beyond his head.
"Forgive me," she said in a carefully neutral tone, "That was terribly clumsy. I will have a new tray brought from the kitchens. Good evening, my lord."
And with a sharp curtsy, Klara turned and left the dungeon, feeling Loki's eyes following her down the corridor and up the stairs until she was out of sight.
They didn't see each other again for two weeks.
