The moment Eivor opened her eyes, she jumped out of bed and strode toward the doors.
Again, she had to squint to protect her eyes from the too-bright sun. Again, the drengir raised their tankards in the air with fierce greetings. Again, Eivor completely ignored them. Sigurd had to be here, somewhere. She would find him and drag him back kicking and screaming to Ravensthorpe if she had to.
That is, if she found a way out of here, of course.
Eivor bit down a curse, stopping in her stride. The rows and rows of tables and seats and smirking drengir were making her head spin. Their grins were distorted, disdainful even. How she longed to break those gleaming teeth with a well-placed punch. But this place was more dangerous than she would have first believed; Eivor needed to tell apart friend from foe before she made her move.
That meant she had to act as if she had bought these lies hook, line and sinker.
"Eivor!" a familiar voice called. Brothir was standing, raising his horn of ale in the air. Seated beside him were other friendly figures—Hemming Jarl, Ubba, Hjorr and Soma. Eivor's stomach did a painful somersault at the sight of their beaming faces. "Come, Wolf-Kissed, drink with us! Don't be a stranger!"
Eivor advanced, cautiously, like a wary wolf that had just removed its paw from a trap. Brothir and Ubba laughed in response.
"Why so cagey, Wolf-Kissed?" the latter said. "Where is the warrior who always ran into battle heedless of danger?"
"True enough!" Hemming said, giving a chuckle as well. "I scarcely recognize the reckless child who always kept getting my son into trouble!"
"I…" Eivor began, hesitating at their smiles. "I am simply… ill at ease. Strong bonds of friendship link my heart to Midgard still. I am… grieved to be separated from those who live below on the trunk of great Yggdrasil."
"Time will heal those wounds," Soma said, almost sagely. "For now, let us fulfill your need for companionship."
"Hear, hear!" Brothir exclaimed, lifting his horn once more. He and Ubba drank eagerly, to the great merriment of the other warriors.
"You see, Eivor, all is well," Hjorr said. He motioned to the seat next to him. "Sit, and drink your worries away, my friend!"
Despite her misgivings, Eivor felt a pull at her friend's words; how easy it would be to just let herself fall into that chair and finally rest her aching feet? How comforting it would be to fill her belly with a meal worthy of the gods, pork roasted with sweet-smelling herbs and honey, sausages seasoned with spices from halfway around the world, brined herring that tasted just like how her father used to make it?
How grand it would be, to drink and sing among friends once more, just like she had always done during the feasts in Ravensthorpe—
The faces and smiles of her clansmates flashed in Eivor's mind, as vivid as lightning, and the pull immediately stopped. Eivor stood still, shaking, the blood flushing from her cheeks. Why was she panting as if she'd just had a brush with death? She almost felt a ghostly hand stroking along her spine, an unseen presence that frightened and angered her in turns.
"No," she said harshly, straightening her spine to her full height, "I cannot."
Eivor took a step backward, shaking her head with disgust. Brothir, so cheerful with his horn of ale. Hemming, as kind and fatherly as she remembered him. Soma, nodding from her seat at the table. Ubba and Hjorr, looking so self-satisfied as they stared back at her.
"All of you!" Eivor roared. "Has all this opulence made you blind as well as deaf? The people you've left in Midgard are—"
"Eivor!" someone called out in the distance. "Eivor, finally we found you!"
Eivor froze. Her heart seemed to have stopped as well. That voice. She knew that voice. But it couldn't be right. The lad who had spoken shouldn't have been here, in Valhalla. It was simply impossible. She turned to face him, body rigid with shock.
And yet here he was, a bright smile plastered on his round, pockmarked face. "Eivor!" the youth said happily, rushing to embrace her. Eivor was too stunned to push him away.
"H-Hunwald," she croaked. She raised her own hands gingerly, as if she dared not touch him. He was warm in her arms, a solid presence that anchored her errant, panicked thoughts. She would so rarely let herself be embraced in such a manner; Eivor was almost reluctant to let him go.
"And here I thought we would never see each other again. I am ever so glad I was wrong!"
"That cannot be," she managed. "You are…"
"A Christian?" Hunwald shrugged. "Certainly. But I had a worthy death, don't you remember? You said so yourself."
"But, Hunwald, your father…" Eivor remembered how the lad had been grieved by the man's passing. How he'd confided in her that he was comforted by the idea that his father was watching over him from their Christian heaven. "I thought you would have wanted to be with him once more."
Hunwald waved a hand around. "Oh, that does not matter anymore! He must be ever so proud that I now count among the bravest warriors this earth has ever seen!"
I cried when you died, she nearly said, shocked that the thought even came to her mind. Eivor never showed such sentimentality, it was unbecoming of a warrior. Yet her usually stoic countenance was now failing her, and the words spilled out of her. "Hunwald, you shouldn't have died, you shouldn't have followed me to battle, you shouldn't even be—"
"It was my decision," Hunwald said. "Don't tell me you still feel guilty over what happened in Hamtunscire? Oh, Eivor! You needn't worry so much! I am where I should be!"
No, you aren't! she wanted to scream, but the shout died in her throat. Instead, she only uttered, "Hunwald, I…"
"Someone else came to see you!" the young man cut her off, a bit too cheerfully. "He's been waiting for you for so long!"
Eivor raised her head, cheeks draining of blood at the sight of her other visitor. It was another lad, his arms primly folded behind his back. Eivor would have recognized that sweet, honest face anywhere. She shook her head, feeling another surge of nausea. "No… no, no, no…"
"Hello, Eivor," Ceolbert said. "It's good to see you."
"No," Eivor said again, "you can't be here, you cannot."
"Whyever not?" Ceolbert tilted his head to the side. "Apparently, your Valkyries thought I died bravely enough to bring me here."
Eivor held the table behind her for support. "You died…" …an ignominious death. You were betrayed, murdered. There was nothing glorious about your end, Ceolbert.
The lad examined her carefully. His expression was so gentle, so full of compassion that she nearly let out a sob.
"I forgive you, Eivor," Ceolbert said. "Let the burden of guilt be released from your shoulders. There is nothing more you could have done to save me. My fate was already decided."
Eivor stumbled back. He was smiling at her, but all she could see was him bleeding in that cave, all she could see was him struggling to say the name of his killer, all she could see was the veil of death clouding his once bright and curious eyes. "No… no…"
Other memories came to her mind: Brothir, laughing along with his brother a mere moment before that axe buried itself into his shoulder. Hemming, so pale and frail and diminished in that bed. Ubba's broken and mangled body, a source of derision for that sneering snake Aelfred. Hjorr's corpse burning as Ljufvina wept beside his pyre. Soma, so shocked as that sword burst from her chest.
None of their ends had been glorious. None.
"I forgive you, Eivor," Ceolbert said once more. "Let it go, Eivor, let it go…"
It was strange, how she had longed to hear these words from this very mouth. Forgiveness was a Christian concept. And yet she welcomed Ceolbert's pardon all the same. Except…
…except these words were a little too good to be true, weren't they?
I am told exactly what I want to hear, Eivor realized with mounting dread. The reunion with her friends. Those glimpses of her father. Sigurd's restored arm. It's bait, to draw us deeper into this dream…
There was one way to make sure her suspicions were true.
"Hunwald, your Swanburrow is pregnant," Eivor said, voice hoarse with renewed grief. "Your child will grow up without ever knowing the father who would have loved them so."
Hunwald's blank, cheerful smile did not waver.
Eivor licked dry lips, turning to Ceolbert. "Lad, your father is but a husk of a man since you were taken from him. I believe he awaits the comfort of death, so that at least he might be reunited with you."
Ceolbert blinked; that was the extent of his reaction.
I knew it, Eivor thought, feeling as if the wounds left behind by their death had opened anew. Those standing before her were not the friends she'd lost—they had never been. They were twisted shades, illusions cast by a foul sorcerer to placate her, to bind her to this fake Valhalla. The bonds that united the dead and the living were as strong as the Bifröst itself, Eivor was sure of it. Her beloved companions would have never forsaken those left behind, never.
Without a word, she turned her back on the smiling faces of her friends. They called her name, some insistent, some puzzled. Yet Eivor forced her feet forward, gritting her teeth, willing the tears away from her eyes.
It was like watching them die for a second time.
But now, she was absolutely sure she would never see them again, not in this life—and not in whatever fate awaited her after death.
The horn was singing its low, mournful call. The warriors, as always, sprang from their seats, eager to do battle at the Allfather's command. In front of the golden gates, Eivor saw a lone figure who stood, unmoving, among the throng of eager drengir. Svala.
"Hello, Eivor," the völva began. "I see you've lost your lust for battle."
"How are the slain brought here?" Eivor said, too tired to pretend anymore.
"The Valkyries know this, only them," Svala answered.
Eivor shook her head. "No, that cannot be true. None of this feels right."
"Do not despair, Eivor," Svala said, motioning to their surroundings. "Everything you could ever want is here, beside you."
"That's a lie," Eivor said, gruffly. "Move aside, Svala. For the love we both share for your daughter, I don't want to hurt you."
Svala's serene composure faltered briefly at the mention of Valka. Then, this is truly her spirit, Eivor thought, and not a counterfeit made to torment me.
"Svala," Eivor declared, "I've tasted the fruits of life, richer and riper than anything this world has to offer. I've shed blood, my own and that of my enemies. I've gained titles and battle names as one collects scars and scabs. I've sailed the whale-roads and felt the sea-spray kissing my face. I've laughed with friends until the whole of my body hurt with joy. I've kissed the mead-sweet lips of a maiden. What else can this twisted simulacrum can offer?"
A hint of grief showed on Svala's face, and suddenly Eivor could see the ghost of old age on her features, the subtle wrinkles at her eyes, the silver streaking her hair. "I understand. You have much to leave behind, while I…"
"You had your daughter. Valka."
"I was an old woman, and a burden. You cannot imagine how it is like, to have your body betray you, to have your mind betray you. Back there, I was a prisoner of my own self. My sweet girl didn't deserve to waste her youth taking care of a feebleminded old crone. She deserved so much more. And the only way to make her realize this was to…"
"Leave her behind," Eivor completed. She offered the woman a gentle smile. "I understand."
Svala reached to touch her arm. "Please, Eivor… once you leave this place, would you… would you tell Valka just how I love her still, just how I am proud of the woman she's become…? Please, Eivor, please."
"Of course, Svala," Eivor promised, holding the woman's hand in a comforting gesture. "Goodbye, wise one."
"Goodbye, Wolf-Kissed. I will try to conceal your escape from the eyes of the master of this place. Hurry, before he notices what you are trying to do!"
Eivor didn't need to be told twice; she ran out of the golden gates, into the clearing. Already the battle was well underway. Still, Eivor spied the bright red of Sigurd rather easily.
"Brother!" she cried. "Brother, come, quickly!"
The tall, broad-shouldered drengr next to Sigurd turned around at the sound of her voice. His kind smile was familiar…
"Eivor!" Sigurd called happily. "Look who I found! You were right!"
"My Eivor!" Varin said, in a booming voice. "Oh my girl, what a warrior you have made of yourself! I am overfilled with pride!"
He never had the time to say another word; Eivor's axe was in her hand, and then the blade was buried deep into his head.
Sigurd cursed loudly. "Eivor, you bacraut! Have you lost your love for life?"
"This was not my father," Eivor answered, taking out her axe from the fake Varin's skull.
"This again! Eivor, your father died a good death, doing what he hoped would save you. He died to protect you. And his clan."
"I know my father deserves Valhalla," Eivor said. Her heart quickened slightly as she said these words. She had said them, and now she could not take them back. And yet she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. "But this is not Valhalla. And so this was not my father."
"You are mad, sister, mad!"
"How can neither of us remember our own deaths, if they were so glorious? If this is Valhalla, why is there no one recounting our battle deeds? No, Sigurd, this place is made to sing the glories of one man and one man only. And this ergi coward is trapping us here for his own twisted desires!"
She came closer to Sigurd, laying a hand on his arm. "We must leave, Sigurd, and soon. We are in grave danger."
The master of this place, Svala had said. This sorcerer must have been powerful indeed to create such an elaborate illusion. And he must have hated Eivor fiercely; why else would he have sabotaged his own trap by tormenting her with Sigurd's repeated suffering and an encounter with Ivarr Ragnarsson?
Sigurd swatted his hand away. "Leave? Leave for where? For the world where I am a… a cripple, the laughing stock of our clan?"
"No. We must leave for the world where you are a renowned explorer, a man who braved Njörd and Thor's furies and came back with tales that would make the most talented skald green with envy. A man who refused to be taken as anything but a prince born of a noble lineage. A man who led our people across an ocean so we could find a new home…"
The spark of life left Sigurd's blue eyes. "That man is gone, Eivor. Let me be… at least I can be someone, here."
Eivor grabbed him by the shoulders. "You are someone, to me. You are my brother. And… and I need you, Sigurd, more than ever."
"You do not mean that, you—"
"I do. You are the one who saved me, that night on the ice. You saved me a thousand times when I was a child and all I could think about was the emptiness, the grief, the anger. You took my hand and held me up, Sigurd." She grabbed his own hand, bringing it to her heart. "Let me do the same for you."
He closed his eyes, letting out a strange, soft sound. "Am I destined to follow you everywhere? 'Til the end of my life?"
Eivor flinched, though she did not let go of his hand. She could not speak either.
"All right," Sigurd said, in a sigh. "We'll go."
NO. I DO NOT GIVE YOU LEAVE TO GO.
"What, Sigurd—" Eivor managed as the ground gave way under her feet. Sigurd shouted as she let go of his hand. Utter darkness surrounded Eivor as she fell—and just as suddenly, she crashed on solid ground.
Panting, she pushed herself to her feet. The clearing and the hundreds of drengir were gone—and so was Sigurd. A dark, empty space met her eyes instead.
And the figure of a tall, hooded man. His black cloak was furnished with raven feathers. His beard was long and coarse and grey. And he looked upon her with one eye filled with fury.
The Allfather. Odin himself had trapped her in this tortuous maze.
