Chapter 6

As Irene had suspected, there were no Vanir books in the library. There were histories of Asgardian conquests over them, the dark elves, the giants, the dwarfs, and even Midgard in ancient times, all colorfully illustrated in the tomes she had pulled from the dusty shelves. Of course, since she couldn't read the runes, she had no idea whether they were all fact. She could have been examining fiction, and she would never know it. Asgardians didn't seem to be big on reading at all, let alone for enjoyment.

"Not many come to the library," Sif said from the great doorway. Irene jumped, then masked her surprise. Obviously the queen would find her, it was hard to miss her with her mortal proportions and language.

"Your Majesty. I thought you would be with your warriors, celebrating Loki's capture."

"I know him too well to celebrate when he has nothing to lose. He's plotting something." Then Irene knew that since Loki was currently locked up in a cell, she was the queen's prime suspect. And for all she knew, he might very well be plotting. She could not explore his mind as he could hers.

"Well, I suppose he is the trickster god…" she said diplomatically. "I wouldn't doubt he has some dastardly plan up ahead." Sif was somewhat satisfied by this answer, but she wasn't done.

"How do you know him?" Irene began to weave her lie from half-truths.

"We are both enemies of Midgard, one way or another. Fury put us together." She scowled, laying out the bait. The warrior queen took it eagerly. She must have been looking for something to incriminate her alien guest.

"You are not pleased with the arrangement?"

She laughed bitterly, throwing herself into the act. "Who would be? He's a lying, lecherous murderer with no respect for anything but himself. We were in honest battle and he slew an enemy that was rightfully mine, just to keep the glory for himself," she fumed. This way, if she asks Heimdall why we're both here, it will sound like the truth, she thought at Loki. Hopefully he was listening in, but if he was, there was no indication of it.

"And truer words were never spoken," Sif agreed solemnly. Then she shifted her attention to the books, now that she thought she had Irene in her grip. "What are you looking for? You have far more books out than anyone could have read in this past hour." She approached the gigantic reading table where Irene had set out the various books and scrolls.

Each book was turned to one illustration or another of battles or births or deaths. "I have been looking for your written histories, but of course I can't read your language…" She gave a melodramatic sigh. "And I must have something to do. As your prisoner, I cannot leave."

Sif raised one golden eyebrow. "You are practically free here in Asgard. I have given you garb and shelter. You consider yourself imprisoned?"

"I consider myself honest enough to follow the laws of a world not my own. If I was innocent, Heimdall would not have brought me." Hopefully she thinks me stupid and docile. Thankfully, her true reason for staying remained hidden, for the queen found her reply amusing. Her full mouth quirked upwards in half a chuckle.

"You make a fair point, mortal. If you wish, I can send you an interpreter tomorrow before I gather the jury for Loki's trial." Irene masked her alarm. If they executed Loki or sent him to whatever barren world they deemed fit, how would she return to Earth?

As much as the people of her world disliked her, Earth was her home. Earth was where she would rebuild her life, eventually.

"Thank you very much, your Majesty!" she said as enthusiastically as she dared. Her act had to sound real. Then she could think her way out of this mess and return to her world.

…

After a round of feasting with Queen Sif (she didn't touch the liquor, or it would have made her blackout drunk with one swallow), Irene was shown to her rooms by a rather nervous-looking palace maid. She rather pitied the mousy girl, always cringing when someone called to her, always afraid. Then she frowned. There had to be some reason for her fear. With a start, Irene realized she must have been afraid of her own mortal self. She had adopted the typical warrior boasting, regaling the enamored males with tales of her battles with soldiers, leaders, and even Thor's pet bilgesnipe. They had gobbled her stories even more greedily than they gobbled the giant roast boar and tubers. The only female among them was the queen.

It seems not everyone is as stupid as the warriors. She knows I am dangerous.

She almost- almost- sighed with relief as another voice sounded in her mind. She does, but she will not reveal anything to your disadvantage. No one will listen to her. Before she could stop herself, she smiled.

You're not angry with me? she asked, telling herself she only cared because he was her ride home.

On the contrary, my vixen, he crooned. If he had been there in person, she was quite certain her knees would have gone weak. I admire how you've played all of Asgard's notables into your hands. I doubt Sif will question your honor. She may even call you as a witness against me.

Then Irene remembered something more significant to their situation as she undid her high braid and languidly rolled her shoulders. I heard you were locked in a magic-proof cell. How, then, can you communicate with me?

Our little bond is stronger than the insulating spells. She could feel he was pleased with her quarters, that she would be comfortable with the lavish bed and other furnishings. She could also feel that he was smug that she accepted her shackles now (she hadn't, really- she was biding her time until she could free herself). She set her solid gold hairpins down on what she assumed was a vanity, with an enormous mirror and candles waiting to be lit. Moonlight and a rose-scented breeze poured in from the arched, ceiling-length windows and open balcony.

And what of that mirage you sent to greet the queen and I?

I have my ways, he said, oozing charm. By the by, I enjoyed that little show you put on for everyone in the feasting hall. I never placed you as the sort to bellow and tear into meat like a beast.

An act, I assure you. Her fingers toyed with the straps of her dress. If she undressed now, would it matter? He had already seen her in the nude. How much power did he have over her? He could not force himself over her with her own mind.

She closed her eyes and felt her way to the drawer handles on the vanity and pulled one open. It felt like the softest cotton shift. What are you doing?

Irene ignored him, and, keeping her eyes tightly shut, slipped out of her golden gown into the shift. She opened her eyes. It covered her from her collarbone to her wrists and all the way to her ankles. On an Asgardian woman, it would have been calf-length, but she was content enough with its fit to close the drawer and leave her dress on a nearby table. Ah, Loki realized. Now that you've an objective, you wish to preserve your modesty.

Nudity would not serve me well in this situation, she explained coolly. Surely you understand the importance of dressing for the occasion.

And what occasion is that?

She pulled back the impossibly cushy sheets and blankets and wedged herself underneath them. Sleep.

Just before she drifted off, she felt, rather than heard him sigh.

…

Loki could not sleep. He was chained in such a position that left him hanging, unable to lie down or even sit. It was a tiring position, with his wrists pulled away from his body and his legs unable to touch. Still, he had endured far worse before, and one night in a cell was child's play, magic-proof or no.

He could see the spells woven into the walls and into his bonds, glimmering in many colors. As a half-giant, he could detect these things. And as a half-Vanir, he had command over them. After all, his predecessors had built Asgard and all its magic. A few insulating spells did little to interfere with his abilities. Because they were Vanir spells, he could bend them to his will.

Still, he could not let the guards know that he could have escaped at any time, so he reverted to his deep blue, scarred, true form, and played like the shackles, hunger, and sleeplessness hurt him. He still had to retrieve Ms. Irene Adler from her house arrest. I could flee now, to Helheim. I'm not an outlaw there, and the weather is good. My daughter Hel will welcome me. Then he frowned. He did not want to live out the millennia shepherding the dead into their respective afterlives. His half-corpse daughter would not appreciate his standard mischief when he became bored.

He ran his mind over his options. Jotunheim was out of the question, as was Svartalfheim, for both peoples would hunt him like an animal for his crimes. Muspelheim was far too hot for his liking, and likely for Irene's. Since when did you care about her comfort? a voice inside asked, but he ignored it. Niflheim was practically a deserted world, with nothing to subsist on but ice. Ljossalfheim was a close ally of Asgard, and they would return him to his captors. That left only Vanaheim, the world most of the Vanir had travelled to after the Aesir conquered Asgard. As a half-breed, he would be tolerated, but not welcomed.

He had been there, once, searching for his Vanir sorceress mother Laufey. His father Fárbauti, the king of the ice giants, was a cruel individual, more so than himself. He was an abuser, a line that Loki had never crossed and never would. This was why, when he discovered his true heritage, he was ashamed.

As a giant among the Aesir, he believed himself privileged. After all, Odin himself had taken him in. He was allowed any and all liberties, the best teachers of magic and combat, even a common law marriage to the giantess Angrboda. All that ended when his children were born. With each one born, Odin, Thor, and every other Aesir grew more and more estranged. After the third one, Angrboda left him, frustrated and tired of bearing mutant children. He knew then that he must have Vanir blood in him, for no true giant produced beasts for spawn.

From then on he suffered derision and abuse for his offspring. They were locked away and banished to other worlds. He did his best to assist those of Asgard in his peculiar ways, tangling with dwarfs and giants to attain great beauty and prestige for his adoptive people, even going so far as publicly humiliating himself at his most desperate. His only reward was to have the child of his own body ridden away as a beast of burden.

At last, when Odin could stand his antics no longer, he gave Loki a wife: Sigyn. She was a demure, shy creature who loved him beyond her own life. As a despairing, depraved, disowned man, he loved her for her grace and gentility, and most of all for her forgiveness. But his own restless nature ruined that for him even after the birth of their beautiful, ordinary Aesir sons. He tricked Hod into killing the golden boy Baldur, and in order to give his daughter Hel some small measure of happiness and love, prevented him from rising from her domain.

The people of Asgard could not abide this last piece of mischief. They wove spells against his sons, turning one into a wolf to eat the other. He still remembered the stink of blood and gore as Vali, in the form of a mad canine, ripped into Nari's abdomen. He could still feel the squelch of Nari's intestines wrapped about his wrists and ankles, the venom of the snake dripping into his eyes.

Once again, Sigyn was his salvation. She did all she could to make him comfortable. She sacrificed herself, insisted on taking his place by way of irreversible spells. The last time he had truly sobbed with grief, it had been over her as she endured the venom flowing over her immortal skin, torturing her until the world ended and a new cycle began. She had never been reborn, and he knew why: she had been created by Odin and Frigga, not born. She had only been a shell, not part of the world cycle.

Loki shook his head back to the present. He needed to escape, not wallow in sadness. They will not risk keeping me on Asgard. They will not send me to Hel, as she is my daughter. They cannot rightly send me to any world whose people would kill me, and they will not send me to Midgard again because that is where I would choose to go. Vanaheim is too comfortable to be punishment.

They would send him to either Muspelheim or Niflheim- more likely Muspelheim, since giant-blooded individuals like himself preferred cold over heat. I can't have that- the heat would burn the mortal alive. But then, Niflheim was a world of ice and impenetrable mist. It will have to be Niflheim then. To her, it will be uncomfortable but survivable. And what did he care? She was fascinating and intelligent and attractive as he had not felt in centuries.

She could stay in Asgard if she pleased. After all, as a criminal on her home world, there was limited freedom if any. He did not know if she wanted to stay safe. He did know that she wanted to be free. He knew from roving her thoughts that she wanted to return to her home.

As he thought on these things, a plan formed in his mind- one that would leave them all scratching their heads as he disappeared.

…

Irene had washed, dressed, and was quietly breakfasting in the library when a messenger came to her and her translator. The messenger did not deliver his news via Allspeak. In fact, he scowled at the mortal woman and said something to the translator in Norse, refusing to cater to a foreigner. The woman scowled back, chewing slowly on a slice of dense bread and cured meat. She would not be intimidated by anyone, let alone a racist.

When the messenger left, the translator, a tall, bookish-looking man in dark blue, bowed his head to look at her. He was nice enough, she supposed, for a stranger. She swallowed the rest of her roll, wishing she had her makeup kit with her. It put a hitch in her routine to skip makeup.

"My lady, Loki's trial is to begin shortly. Would you care to be present?" His manners were far removed from the brutish handle of a warrior.

Pretending to be meek, she nodded. "I would, if only to see an enemy of Earth punished."

"This way." He strode out with his long steps and she walked quickly after him.

What plan have you in mind? From the feel of his thoughts, she could tell he was thinking hard.

When I signal, you must reveal our link.

What? I thought you said it would be dangerous to do that. They were headed back to the throne room, where she assumed the jury would be assembled.

He seemed to give a long suffering sigh. Do you wish to return to your home? He jolted her with that. She was a criminal on Earth, but she missed it already. She missed the smog, the bustle of cities and vehicles going by, the familiar complications of politics, war, and people. Even if she would never admit it out loud, she was homesick.

I see. Unless I reveal your manacle, they will banish you to some hole in the corner of the universe and I will never be able to go back.

I realize you resent your lack of free will, but at this time, it is your only chance at freedom. More than a little smugly, he added: You had best obey me, mortal.

She thought ahead to after their escape from Asgard. And you had best watch your silver tongue, or I'll thrash you when I get the chance. His mental laugh was quite stimulating. He knew she wouldn't really hurt him when he was her only way home. Irene had to admire how he had maneuvered his way into the dominant position. She would get back at him later.

For the moment, she complied with his plan. Whatever he had in mind, he did not share it with her. Perhaps there were sorcerers present that might reveal their link, but for whichever reason, he closed his mind to her as she entered the throne room and took her place at Queen Sif's side, as her majesty beckoned her.

This had better work, or we're both as good as dead. There was no reply.

The audience, judge, and jury fell silent as a squadron of armed guards dragged Loki into the room. His wrists were still bound, and his ankles were hobbled so that he could do little more than shuffle. The luxurious robes she had seen on him in his mirage were gone, replaced by prison rags. He did not look at her, but down, as if he had been beaten.

When he at last raised his eyes to glare at the queen, Irene shivered. His eyes were the color of fresh blood.