The Red Tower—the War Council's Tower—is located at the southwest end of Bor's Courtyard. Possibly this coveted spot is more evidence that Bor belonged to the War Council in his early centuries rather than the High Council—but that far back, who remembers? Regardless, the result is view over Asgard that encompasses most of the Eternal City's prime real estate. The endlessly dull blue sky and near-at-hand cliffs are kept at bay with sparkling towers, flowing spires, myriad labyrinthine walkways, hair-thin bridges, arches, weightless domes, and picaresque gold-plate statues that offer a hundred thousand things to look at should running an empire's martial arm become too droll.

Tyr Hymirson, the Chief War Councilor, is Odin's military adviser and also head of the Court of Justice. He is missing his right hand and, unfortunately, this absence is the most interesting thing about his otherwise stamped-for-approval personality.

He and Odin go way back. Odin's policies are Tyr's policies. I expect they thought they'd be wiping each others' backside even unto their death beds. At this point they are practically the same person: grizzled, gray-bearded old warriors with a shared vision for the cosmos that includes mightily swinging mighty weapons and spouting honor from their arses. People like me don't figure into this vision. Had I been a low-born criminal I would have been tried and probably beheaded under Tyr's command. As it is, Tyr stands up to clap a proud fist to his heart in salute when I sweep into his amphitheater.

All right, when I who am Odin-King sweep into his amphitheater.

"The War Council is honored by Odin Allfather," announces the Red Scribe without missing a beat, from her post by the marble-benched inner circle. "Son of Bor; grandson of Buri; bearer of the True Spear, Gungnir; ruler of Asgard the Eternal, high king of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil."

Yes, yes, yes. Father of the Year and Gloating Schemer. I take my seat in the over-engraved opulence that is the Red Throne, on Tyr's right, while the rest of the War Council salutes. My invisible bag goes under the armrest farthest from him while I pretend to take my time getting comfortable. An old man's bones, after all.

"We are pleased to have you with us, Allfather," Tyr tells me, without a glance in my direction. You micromanaging bastard. "I had thought his majesty would take the day for mourning and reflection. You were not seen at breakfast, nor in the Royal Tower for our meeting with the Vanir."

Yes, and I'm famished.

"My mourning is done," I say aloud in Odin's most intractable I'm-too-important-for-questions voice. I've heard Tyr wield one just like it. Maybe they practiced being obstinate fools together. "Please, continue. Councilor Svaldir told me that we had lost contact with a strategically important outpost. What is the situation on Vorsgard?"

Odin's symbiote gives up the over-embossed floor to his war leader with a grudging, "Lord Aumdyn?" His war leader steps back into the high circle's pool of sunlight from his deferential retreat at my magnificent presence. His black hair comes alive with bright flashes—he's wearing gold. Gold? Like a woman. His red cape is also clasped with the stuff, molded into an eagle holding a club. All right, this makes him marginally more fascinating than anyone else in the stifling, self-important room.

"Allfather." Lord Aumdyn thumps his ribs with a meaty fist. "Chieftain Tyr. We the council concur with his majesty's decree: if there has been sabotage, any persons responsible for interfering with the outpost on Vorsgard are henceforth traitors and subject to punishment as public spectacle. If, however, evidence comes forth that points toward the existence of a colony on that world, I move to recommend that execution is delayed in favor of thorough interrogation."

"Agreed," I say. Obviously. Why, has Odin forgone questioning in favor of punishment this past century? This is going to be fun, reigning high-chieftain over his mockery of a court—

A dizzy rush sweeps up my spine, making the blood pound in my temples. Not century. Four years. Only four years have passed on Asgard since my fall.

The Red Tower tries to pitch me back into eternal darkness. I clench the throne's decorated armrests. The knotted reliefs swim under me.

I am older now than Thor is. Not by much, but my older brother is not older anymore. And nor is he my brother. Nor is the king my father.

All the cosmos has shifted. I am a ghost.

I am . . . nothing.

Aumdyn inclines his sparkly head in somber thanks. Through the numb ache under my skin, the war leader's voice echoes dully—no more than another ghost in a vast unending wasteland. I am not reining over his left-behind court—I am a smug intruder in a realm I no longer have any claim to.

Aumdyn says, "I cannot overemphasize the gravity we may face should the outpost be compromised, sir. Technology likely still exists on that world and in fair enough repair that enemies of Asgard could use the planet as an offensive stronghold from which to attack the city."

How much has changed in four years? It's hard to remember what things were like before.

"Old mechanical-chemical bifrosts—" the war leader is saying— "laughable though they may seem could still transport insurgents to us. With over a hundred thousand square miles of accessible surface topography, trying to pinpoint a location for retaliatory attack would be near-impossible. A network of tunnels through the ruins could provide perfect cover for these anarchists."

I have slumped into a comfortable poise in which to hear this doomsday laundrylist, and remember too late that I need to sit like Odin Allfather. I unlace my fingers. I drop my hands to my knees. I plant my feet on the marble floor and try to keep my toes, shins, and thighs at ninety-degree angles to each other. I try to do all this without looking like I'm trying to do all this . . . or itchy.

"Lord Aumdyn," I say when this awkward re-shuffling is done. "Your concern is unbefitting a warrior of your rank." This is what Odin would say. "My grandfather Buri faced an uprising from Vorsgard when he declared himself king, and I do not intend to suffer the same insult. Any survivors from that first colony—" here I hesitate, although I know what Odin should say. He'd say the same thing I made him say last night to Svaldir: There will be no second colony on Vorsgard. However . . .

However.

That's a bad damned order.

Anyway, what's the point of being king if you can't give your own orders? I'll be gone as soon as this meeting is adjured. I want to give one command while I'm sitting the throne. A real command. Let the War Council choke on it.

"—Any survivors from the first colony," I finish, slowly, "or any recent defectors who have formed a new colony . . . will be treated with as an independent kingdom."

Silence from the war council.

No, they never did like my ideas.

I continue, fighting a smile: "Negotiations will commence immediately. I will personally send an ambassador to the surface of Vorsgard to meet with an ambassador from the colony—should one exist—and our ambassador will proudly welcome the new kingdom to our side in the face of our recent 'grievous suffering' at the hands of the Dark Elves. Meanwhile, my ambassador will carry a spell which will be placed on the colonists' ambassador so we can track him back to his point of origin. This will show us where the colony is so that if they turn out to be hostile we can easily destroy them.

"Or," I add, "if it so happens that all they wish for is acceptance as loving sons and daughters of Asgard—even better! Now, rather than a second war with a civilization that probably just wants to be left alone, we have a built-in planet-wide outpost made up of a people who know the world's intimate secrets. This so-called independent kingdom will act as our eyes and ears if hostile forces ever do invade Vorsgard, and in exchange for their unwitting fealty they will earn a place as part of our trade empire. Trade, you know, cements bonds more deeply than fear."

I conclude: "Vorsgard will began exporting raw materials scavenged from their lost world to production facilities in Niflheim and Alfheim within the year, and in return be granted access to modern goods and military aid. A few millennia from now their efforts may well have rendered Vorsgard habitable again! We can then utilize the planet for our own needs—wouldn't that be something? Instead of burning it to a crisp—again—the planet could find new life as an asset for all of us. Population restrictions could be lifted on Asgard. Imagine having the right to bear three, or even four, children.

"Or," I say, dropping my genteel tone for open sarcasm, "I can give the order to open the bifrost on Vorsgard as my late son did to Jotunheim, and rid us of this problem once and for all. One hour's effort could save us a prolonged military campaign. Something tells me, however, that incinerating our own homeworld will be an unpopular move among my subjects. Just a hunch.

"In conclusion, Chieftain Tyr," I say with an offhand smirk that probably raises his hackles as much as it raised Odin's, "while not one single thing I just proposed is honorable, you must admit it has a certain . . . elegance?"

Ha. Perfect.

No, not really.

I lied.

That isn't what happened.

That's what I would say if I wanted a fast trip off the rimfall for real, this time without being dead first.

I am a prisoner. My survival depends upon my ability to play this role to perfection. As soon as I give an order that is not an Odin-order I will be outed, tortured, and killed.

That's a bit much for a good-bye present.

I stare at the ceiling so I don't have to face the room.

Here is Odin-King's command: "Any survivors from the first colony . . . will be generously offered the chance to swear eternal fealty to me. Should they refuse, they will be eliminated. There will be no traitors to my crown building their own empire on our homeworld."

This speech gets a cheer. Tyr mashes his hands together.

I really, really, really, really hate Asgard.

Afterwards, Odin's sycophantic rabble falls into discussion about the completely insane possibility that our outpost has been attacked—not by traitors—but Frost Giants. Frost Giants? How Jotunheim was supposed to have found Vorsgard is apparently besides the point, as is how Jotunheim was supposed to have landed there.

Listening to them bicker, shout, threaten, swear oath upon oath for vengeance, I at least wait for someone to say, 'Thank the Nine that our beloved Prince Loki slew the evil Laufey-King', but this posthumous consolation never comes. No one—not one among them—mentions my most noble accomplishment. Not even Tyr, who echoes the sentiment that Asgard has let Jotunheim fester under our noses for far to long and now that Laufey is dead—somehow—after attempting to murder Odin Allfather, this is the time to settle affairs. No one says anything about my thwarted attempt on the Jotun homeworld.

A cold finger of doubt worms into my head and then, an hour after the discussion slumps off to Dark Elves, full disbelief. Hot, constrictive, boiling fumes hit a flashpoint in my stomach. I sit motionless in Odin-King's glorious chair, burning alive while they busy themselves with the idea that—if not Jotunheim—Svartalfheim could have manifested a two-pronged attack.

When the Warrior's Council adjourns, I postpone making my escape. Rather than oblige Odin Allfather by vanishing into nothing, I break into his private study to usurp his Nine-damned name. A king has afternoon duties to attend. There is a quartermaster's report to sign, after all, and repairs to the city that need evaluating, delegating, and my royal seal—oh, and numbers have been dredged up for our losses both Aesir and financial that must meet my utmost concern. A king is a busy person!

How does this figure into your plans, All-Father?

He wanted them to forget me. That knowledge burrows into my stomach like a family of rats. He wanted me locked away and forgotten.

Tonight, I am Asgard.

I send my staff to fetch a late lunch so that I may eat on the balcony outside Odin's suite while I sift through his documents. Damage to the armory will sap funds—oh, look, the Einherjar want a pay increase. Granted. He can afford it.

The commoner school took a blast that reduced its left quadrant to ashes? That one's a priority; we need to rebuild morale!

Vanaheim's produce shipment took a hit also, so we have to order a new . . . everything. Damn. That will further deplete our funds. We can recover, but with the costs adding up from reparations we will need to raise port tax. Possibly recruiting the now-jobless or now-homeless quarter following the attack for a mass employment in manual rebuilding will circulate our economy enough to help offset that tax.

Weapons restock? Yes.

A proposal to improve shield deployment time? Hindsight is expensive, isn't it.

Ooh, looky. Six separate councilors request investigators be sent to Jotunheim. Nope.

Much of our livestock survived a second blast, thank goodness, but goats are now running free through the river district. Huh. Oh, that's funny. I wish I saw a few during my funeral.

Lord Gafal wants to give Niflheim the right to plunder Svartalfheim for any marketable resources? Nuh-uh. Also, Svaldir should keep an eye on him. With a request like that, Gafal might be dancing to some else's coin.

Oh, this one's good: There is widespread popular appeal for Asgard to grant Thor his own statue, and/ or a holiday in his honor, and/ or a public commendation. Yes, yes, and yes—but the last one might be kind of hard now that he has abandoned all of you, you dull-eyed witless swine.

I think I should put the statue in the courtyard in front of his suite's window, facing away from the palace, so that every time he looks outside he's looking up his own behind.

Frigga finds me at the balcony table with my feet on the chair across from me and supply lists spread out in between what has become a kind of luncheon-dinner civil war. I remember to sit like Odin only after I hear her say, in a very quiet voice, "Seeing you out here, working through dinner . . ." Reminds me of Loki.

A cold churning pulses down my spine. I kick my invisible bag under my chair, where she can't step on it. "I did not hear you come in," I say, rearranging myself. Odin is itchy today.

Frigga wraps her arms around my shoulders. Some of the poison in my chest siphons away into a dim ache. I can't help but remember sitting on this balcony with her a long, long time ago. She used to read to me out here, before everything got bad.

The man who pretended to be my father worked in his study, and Thor was off running around the tower with his friends—but Mother and I had the afternoons to ourselves. Those were . . . good days. Very good days. Once my studies were finished we read An Histories and the great philosophers, the Book of War and Friafeist's Accounts of Past Kings. We took turns reading aloud the best parts, or she'd help me with the written languages I didn't know yet. I always had a special fondness for Myths and Legends of the Nine Realms, although that wasn't—Stick me with a flaming sword, I think I understand now why she read to me so much about Jotunheim.

Huh.

Hindsight is expensive, isn't it?

Frigga shifts behind me, drawing me back from distant musing.

She says, "Did you know that Thor meant to abdicate?"

I snap my teeth together to keep from saying something foul. Thor. Of course Thor. Everybody loves Thor. Loki is dead and Thor bounced away to be with his mortal love, so of course it's Thor that Mother is thinking about, worrying after, missing. Did I know he meant to overshadow my funeral? Well, considering that the last time I saw him—before he started trying to kill me—was the night he threw a tantrum because he wasn't king yet, so. . . no. No, I did not.

I can't say any of that. Not if I want to leave here tonight with my head attached.

A barb pricks my heart and swells into a lead weight. I put down my lists and press my fingertips to my forehead. No, I scrub my fist against my eyes, because that is what Odin does when he is tired. I make Odin say: "I suspected he might. Thor has always done things his own way."

"A trait shared by . . ." Frigga's pause is not deliberate. I can hear her regal mask cracking. ". . . the rest of the family."

You, Mother. There is only you, now. Come tomorrow, you will be the last of us.

In a volcanic flash my anger melts away altogether; I get up from my chair so that she may have the dignity of conversing with me directly.

Her eyes are bright as glass.

I should have left. I shouldn't have stayed this late.

Why did I stay this late?

I shouldn't have gone to the Red Tower. I should have ordered Svaldir out and made my escape. Seeing her like this, as a woman instead of my unflappable mother or Asgard's iron queen, fills me with monumental unease.

At the same time: the thought that I might not have come back here; that I might have plundered her husband's vault and simply left, sinks a hook into my throat that I can't dislodge.

I don't know what to tell her. Too much has passed between the present and that time when we shared books on her balcony. Those people are long gone.

"Thor will be well," I say at last. "He may return in a year or two. I don't think he has the patience to live a mortal's life."

Her smile is too soft to be sincere. "I remember when Loki fell in love with a mortal. Do you think that's the reason he agreed to go with Thor—?"

I grab her arm to make her stop.

"Thank you for not punishing Thor for Janefoster," she says, instead. No smile.

Oh. So this was about me, after all. Now that I know what she wanted to say, I think I would rather talk about Thor. "Let us not speak of it."

"I wish—" she closes her mouth. Even she doesn't get to use that word around Odin. Her handsome brows knit together. She turns her face to the city's expanse. She purses her lips. "Thor will come to his senses. You are right. You are always right. Thor doesn't have the patience for milking cows or—" she falters again, tries to smile. She changes her mind, apparently, and the topic, by laying a hand on my cheek. Her touch is cool and soft. Her hand smells like pollen. "You cannot rule forever, my love, however much you might want to try."

"I know." All irony aside.

Frigga smells exactly like a mother should: spiced perfume, clean silks, pollen and dirt from her garden. She has been planting without me. Her face is lined, now, but I remember when she helped me build a trellis fort one balmy summer. She showed me how to encourage a big leafed vine to grow over the top, giving me my own private sanctuary in the green. I used to bring my toys out there and play.

Thor didn't have patience for gardening. Growing things meant taking joy in careful weeding, planting, planning ahead, following procedure. Success meant you got green instead of brown—not nearly exciting enough for his tastes.

This is how I knew he would be a terrible king.

I take Frigga's hands. I still don't have any idea what to say. This is the last time I will speak to her. I don't know if I should say anything, at all. Everything I touch turns to poison; I would rather slip away than destroy this last moment as I have destroyed everything else.

Thank you, I want to say.

Good-bye, I want to say.

Frigga kisses my cheek. I lean into her—one last embrace and I am gone. She puts her hand between my thighs.

Slimy revulsion jolts me backwards. Magic flashes. I flinch as the aurora sears my vision in flickering lights; the Odin-mask evaporates and I scrabble to sink fingernails into my shattered concentration—too late.

I am . . . me again.

Shock turns Frigga still as glass. Her mask remains intact. She won't scream. Her eyes haven't gone wide. She won't recoil. Her mouth creases to a tiny slash, but this is the only chink in a lethal, hollow silence that wells up between us. The silence—the stillness—squeezes my throat so tight I can't breathe. I am left standing exposed, unwelcome, un-dead, in company to the queen whose family I have destroyed. The pressure in my head pushes free. I conjure a grin to hide it, but the mask is brittle and full of holes. Shame seeps down my face.

Her hand lashes out and I cringe to my bones, anticipating the slap that will break sharp across my jaw.

I want her to hit me. She is Queen of Asgard; she won't recoil, she won't fear. She will yell for the guards, but I need her to hit me because if she summons the guards we are nothing, we are strangers, and if she hits me that's something. We are still something. There's something left.

She cups the side of my head, above my left ear. Her fingers curl through my shredded locks, with a hand that still smells like dirt.

"What have you done to your hair?" the Queen demands, as if I've just run in from playing in my trellis fort with summer twigs hitching a ride in my tangles. She cups my shorn scalp in her calloused palms, drags me down so she can press her lips to my forehead. Her chin is warm against the bridge of my nose. She hugs my head without speaking.