"Why would the Elves betray us?" Lord Gymmod says, once Odin's evacuated privy council is crammed into a sweltering chamber that smells like sweat, dirt, rock, blood. We brought these smells with us. Vanaheim, as a whole, smells like wet fields.

The Vanir palace smells like cinders.

The wing Princess Freya has given us to use as a court smells like fear.

"Queen Daina has always been loyal to the King," Svaldir agrees.

"She has not always been loyal," I say. "The Elves fought against Bor's empire. Along with the Fire Giants."

"She gave an oath." Gymmod's pink face darkens. "She signed a treaty."

"And she revoked it." Odin would sit at this table's head, spreading his weight in as resolute a manner as he can while glaring accusation at those assembled—so I do, too.

"Sir—"

I say, "Please tell me the High King's privy councilors are not so blind to the empire at large that they cannot see what has befallen us. Bor won seven realms through blood and death. Bor's rule is done. We are not what we once were. There are many who would side with our enemy simply for the joy of siding against us."

"Not with Thanos."

I squeeze my fists together. I'm tired of banging my head against this same argument. They are making the same mistake every fascist party does: they do not understand the enemy, and so they simultaneously both overestimate and underestimate their ability.

"This was a grave miscalculation," Lord Aumdyn says. He's filling in as Cheiftain while Tyr and our whole army to the last man is stranded on Vorsgard. "It will not happen again. Our victory was stolen by cheating cowards who are unfit to draw breath. The other realms must be made aware what happens to they who are fit only to join the Nameless Monster's ranks. Alfheim must feel our wrath. No other realm would dare betray us after we destroy the Elves."

There's angry shouting as every council member tries to agree louder than his neighbors.

What bothers me more than the Alliance's impending disintegration, or that these fools can't see it coming, is that the real Odin Allfather has not returned. I thought he might when the Chitauri entered our atmosphere. Surely he sensed Asgard fall under attack? If he had to return to catch me playing king before I had my chance to escape with the Tesseract, I wanted him to find me swimming in Chitauri blood with rescued civilians at my back. Look, O King. Return to find Nameless the Hero. Look, look. I'm glorying in battle. I've put his favorite, noble Thor, in charge. How mighty and honorable.

It was calculated to precision. I did my part. Where is he?

Another worry eats its tail in my head. True, the Elves had motive to stick us in the back. Something doesn't add up. I don't see a good angle. Sure, the Elves may have despised us, but to cast their lot in with Thanos? Trading the children of Bor the Bloody's empire for a soulless fiend who makes Bor look like a holiday clown?

Either Smirna knows something I don't, or Smirna's planning to betray Thanos just as I did. Those are the only options. If she knows something, I need to find out what it is. If she's planning to betray him, I need to find an opening and exploit it. Maybe with the Elves back on our side, I can save myself as part of a new empire headed by Alfheim.

Smirna, Queen Daina had said, was always rather fond of me. I could be king in truth.

If I could just talk to Smirna . . .

. . . that would mean coming out of hiding, finding where she's gone because her people know better than to stay on Alfhiem without assurances that Asgard's not going to come smash them up in revenge . . . and potentially exposing myself to Thanos.

No thank you.

A shudder runs all the way from my scalp to my heels.

That's not a task I can accomplish on my own. I'd need a crowd of people to hide in, and only then if the crowd had a vested interest in keeping me alive. I haven't got a crowd of people with a vested interest in keeping me alive. Not me-Nameless, at any rate.

And I don't think Smirna is behind that business with the weapons vault, anyway. She's a political, not a military strategist. She curries favor from important people and leaves the tedious hows and whys to subordinates. Someone came up with a brilliant plan to separate two men from my investigation force, corrupt them, and have them preform a delicate pantomime—urinating on a slain Chitauri, for Fates' sakes, to make the ruse absolutely believable—but it wasn't Smirna.

Someone opened a world-gate into and out from the weapons vault—that wasn't Smirna either. It does beg the question: why would that Someone bother with a whole charade if they could get into the vault any time they wanted? What the hell am I looking at?

I used the Tesseract to pull open a gate to Midgard from afar. Possibly my adversary has done the same thing. Two world-gates in less than an hour is beyond my ability to conjure; whether my adversary has opened two world-gates or triggered the Tesseract twice in ten minutes, I am dealing with a sorcerer who is far more powerful than I.

That's a scary thought.

—Which begs the question again: Why did this sorcerer not swipe the Tesseract themself? What are they hiding from? Or what were they doing while Od and Ilofn did their dirty work?

I have no idea. Possibly Smirna would know, but that puts me back to finding Smirna. And while I'm making a great big list of all the things Nameless doesn't know, might as well add: "Is this powerful sorcerer also my clever adversary? Or is my clever adversary Smirna's subordinate?

Now I've got a nice splitting headache. What else do I need to think about, besides getting away from this pointless Council meeting? Asgard is—

There is a hole in my chest I didn't expect to find.

I teeter on the edge of a deep dark ocean, suddenly empty inside except for the magnitude of this shape that is hostile and poisonous. I close that path down before I fall in. There's been too much of that shape already. I'm going to be sick if I let myself feel it.

Frigga, too, is on edge. When I can divorce myself from the High King's sycophantic band I find her haunting Vanaheim's airy palace in mourning white.

She looks at me strange, now.

She doesn't speak to me and I don't know what to say to her.

The survivors are even worse. Our refugee encampment occupies Prince Frey's easternmost courtyard, where the red Vanir mountains shadow all that's left of Asgard. The entire city's surviving population fits the Vanir palace and surrounding gardens with room to spare. The Eternal City is thirty-seven hundred strong, most of them women and old men. Thirty-seven hundred plus almost fifty thousand on Vorsgard. Most of the casualties were children.

Frigga has been to see our people many time since out escape. I can't bear to look at them. I hate their shocked-dumb faces. If I go to see them, I'll have to share their grief. Commiserate with the empty places at their makeshift tables. I don't want to grieve for any more children. There isn't anything I can say or do for them to make it better. I've had my life ripped apart so many times that this new tragedy is almost a relief. The lots are drawn and I've made it on top without being kicked into the dirt. Win.

"I'm certain Thor is all right," I tell Frigga two evenings after our evacuation to her homeworld, when I catch her escaping our shared suite to spend the night with her sister Freya.

But Frigga doesn't smile.

I say, "Knowing Thor, he's probably leading a search to find a usable bifrost. If the Chitauri got one to work as quickly as they did, with the Alfr sorceresses' help," I realize now, "it shouldn't be too difficult."

"Thank you, Loki." Her voice is hollow. She doesn't reach for me. I want her to hug me, but she won't. She leaves me to close the door in her wake.

An alien sun stripes my right arm and face through the open curtains. I cross the room to stand behind the curtains, where the Aesir camp can't see me without my Odin Mask.

We've effectively lost two realms, now: Alfheim and Nithavellir. The Dwarves will abandon our alliance like rats from a sinking ship. That leaves Asgard and Vanaheim against everyone else. What assets have we left? We have no arsenal except for what Thor and Tyr have with them. We have no great weapons thanks to Od and Ilofn—except for the Casket which I can't use without slitting my own throat or the Gauntlet which doesn't work.

Why the hell doesn't the Gauntlet work?

This question rescues me from my spiraling thoughts. I conjure the Gauntlet from my Place of Holding and turn it over in my hands. The weapon isn't cracked, or blighted. All six glittering stone wink from their sockets in the metal. I can't see anything wrong with it. Unfortunately, I can't exactly take it to the smithies and ask—I can just see that going splendidly.

And possibly—come to think of it, possibly—if there is to be war with Thanos and his Chitauri . . . I should start carrying a failsafe. A small dagger that doesn't rely on conjuring. A phial of fast-acting poison. I will not be captured a second time.

I don the stupid Gauntlet and try to turn the wall into a wine fountain. I can do with a wine fountain, after chasing questions round in circles and planning to axe myself.

A wine fountain does not happen.

Nothing at all happens.

I give the Gauntlet a good shake, but that doesn't work either. I pull it off to cast a diagnostics spell. The readings . . . look normal. Granted, technical magic isn't my strong suit, but I don't see any snarled charge points. According to my feeble skills, everything should be in optimal condition.

I'm certain it doesn't work like Mjolnir, where to use it you have to be a pure noble warrior with a heart seven times larger than his brain and an unslakable thirst for combat in his worthy king's worthy name.

That would be ridiculous.

Although . . . could the Gauntlet be enchanted to work only for the right sort? How could one even define the right sort for a weapon of infinite power? There is no right sort! That's the whole point! That would just be too convenient, making an ultimate weapon that can only be wielded by someone too noble to wield it. Who the hell would ever do—?

All right. Me. I would make a supreme ultimate weapon and then enchant it so that only someone who doesn't want to use it can use it. That would be hilarious. But we're not talking about me, we're talking about the Gauntlet's maker. This glittery toy wasn't designed to thumb its nose at the universe, it was designed to make its wearer a god.

When Lord Aumdyn pays me a visit early the next morning he sets a document mountain on the table by my elbow, by my untouched breakfast. It's a not-so-subtle hint. Odin-King is being pried from the hole he's burrowed into, that he may put on a good stoic face and lead the Aesir like he's supposed to. Hiding-time is over.

Trouble is, Frigga hasn't returned yet to give me the push and I'm not feeling up to impersonations today.

Aumdyn scowls and says, "Will you give consent that I am His Majesty's chief military adviser, for the duration of Tyr Hymirson's absence?"

Fates below. The universe has imploded but he's doing a valiant job of not noticing.

I incline my head. "Granted."

He says, "With all due respect, Your Majesty, it is time to plan a counterstrike. The councils need to prepare for our next move and the people need to know that we are going to wring blood from every last Chitauri man, woman, and child. They want to hear how we will make them pay for their insults."

"What does the council propose?"

Aumdyn slaps his heels together. "They want to know whether our king can use his magic to return to Asgard with a small team from the Black Tower. The dark energy generators were damaged in evacuation, but if the bifrost remains intact we can reopen a connection to Vanaheim. Our warriors will return from Vorsgard's bifrost at any time. We need to be ready for their arrival. Asgard's bifrost is not a complete solution, but it will allow us to move from Vanaheim to Asgard without relying on Vanir spacecraft. So many weeks wasted in hyperspace puts us at disadvantage."

We are already at disadvantage. Hyperspace or bifrost, neither compares to the Tesseract. Whichever one of our many enemies has the Tesseract—Smirna, Thanos, the Other Sorcerer, or my clever adversary—has already won the war. Whether they know that or not is a matter of observation. And politics. I'm betting that neither Smirna nor my clever adversary would give up that prize to Thanos, if either has maneuvered to snag the thing before he could. I'm not so certain about the Other Sorcerer, but I can't worry about her . . . or him. There are too many unknowns.

I say to Aumdyn, "Let's play a game! What does my new Chief Military Adviser think of our foe?"

Aumdyn clears his throat, evidently surprised. He shakes his head. "They are many but they are weak. Our warriors could—"

He's still on about Asgard. "Oh, come now. I'm not talking about the Chitauri. Does the son of a farmer have any insight to offer me about our foe? We were betrayed by someone who stood to gain an empire if they went along with us. Granted, Smirna and Thor hate each other . . . I suppose it may well be known that marriages have been built on less. The Elves had cause, Chieftain. This wasn't revenge. Or would you bite off the hand trying to free you?"

He does not respond.

I roll my eyes. "Thanos offered them something. What was it? All they needed to do was not betray us, and they would have adverted a war and gained the High King's favor. Instead they chose the hard route. I'd be tempted to say the worse route. Why?"

Aumdyn says, "Odin. What do you think of the Council's plan?"

"I think they're fools."

His eyebrows raise.

I say, "The enemy's two steps ahead and Asgard's finest wants to play catch-up. I don't want to play catch-up, I want to get ahead."

He declares, "Yes, we must marshal our forces to Asgard—"

"Who cares about Asgard? Think! What's next?" I've gone too far. I know I have as soon as the words leave my mouth, but once I've said them I can't take them back. I grimace.

"Who cares?" Aumdyn hisses. His fists clench.

"I didn't mean that. I only meant that the Chitauri are not our true enemy."

Aumdyn's pretty face is a murderous. If I weren't his king he would break my teeth.

I slump in my chair. "I am sorry. But while our Council is plotting to retake Asgard, our foe has moved on to the next battlefield. This is not war between the Chitauri and Asgard, Chieftain. This is war between someone terrible and the entire cosmos. Asgard was the first casualty. So, think. What will our foe do now?"

Aumdyn says, "He does not care for war."

"Who?"

My adviser has gone very still. I can hear him weighing each word with excruciating care. Not as if he's afraid of getting a wrong answer—as if he's afraid of making me angry. "Thanos. He does not care for war. He does not attack our army to bend our will to his, he wants to destroy us before we can even muster a fight. I hope you will forgive me for saying this, but . . . he is very like your late son."

I sneer. "Thanos? Don't be absurd."

"Just because you choose not to hear it—"

"Thanos is a . . . never mind. No, I agree with you: our foe does not like war. He thinks in circles rather than straight lines. Thanos is not our foe."

"What does that mean?"

I explain about what shadow-hierarchy I've managed to cobble together. Smirna, the Other Sorcerer, and my clever adversary. I say, "Smirna would seek to destroy our army if it came to that, but I can't see her ordering the Chitauri to destroy us. Which means that Smirna went along with someone else's plan. Someone promised Thanos the Tesseract in exchange for control of the Chitauri, and got Smirna to agree . . ."

Aumdyn says, "This person hopes to win glory under Thanos by leading their war?"

"Possibly. Or possibly he—although it doesn't have to be a he—wants to do what Loki did: trick Thanos into handing over a powerful weapon and then betray him. Now this person has the Tesseract. Will they use it to free Thanos? Or will they keep it for themself? That depends upon who my clever adversary is and what he wants."

"We must find out who he is and what he wants."

Hoorah! Top marks for the class. "Precisely." And I can't do that while I'm stuck playing Odin. And the moment I stop playing Odin, Aumdyn is going to assume command and drag us straight into a doomed march against an enemy who won't play by his rules.

I know Asgard like the back of my hand. The question is, how do I get away from Asgard without leaving them to die under an enemy who also knows them like the back of his hand?

Aloud I say, "He—or she—is clever and dishonest, attacking through betrayal and intellect. Surgical strikes rather than with numbers on a battlefield. He knows us. He knows how we think. And because he knows how we think, he knew what we would do and how to hit us to destroy us. Let's play another game. What would you do if you suddenly found yourself up against Loki?"

Aumdyn exhales slowly. "In this room?"

What. "No! You said yourself our foe is very much like him. He thinks like him. Like Loki thought, I mean." I tap my fingers together, considering. "We've been going about this all wrong. We've been fighting a war against an enemy we don't know. But that's not really true, is it? We're fighting a war against someone who's elegant. Cunning. Manipulative. This isn't a battle of armies, this is a battle of illusions! Od and Ilofn, the Elves pretending to be our allies, getting lured away to Vorsgard when the Tesseract was already gone. You're fighting Loki."

Aumdyn says, "You believe that the Nameless One was working with the Alfr court? They arranged this whole pretense to make us believe Thanos had returned?"

I spin around to face him, dragging the chair with me. "No. That's intriguing, however. What do you mean by pretense that Thanos has returned?"

Aumdyn sighs. "If we were truly up against the Nameless One, I would have to question whether Thanos is a threat at all. The Traitor might have set this plan in motion before his death. Theoretically he could have arranged for his arrest only so that he could give you that name to motivate your alliance with the Elves, to our doom. But—with the utmost of respect, Sire, I would not believe it of him. The Fatherless Wretch had too much pride. He would have wanted to be a part of the war."

I smile. "Pride is a crutch. He learned to discard it."

"Yes. For him, yes. But the Traitor would not have sacrificed himself no matter what the gain. It is what poisoned his soul, I think. He loved nothing and no one except for himself."

I lean back in my chair. "Chieftain, our people suffer. How shall I best help them?"

He can't notice the irony in my question, so he fumbles with what looks like an abrupt change in subject. The answer You should leave your hiding-hole and go see is written all over his face. This is replaced with a stifled frown that tries not to say, They need their King. He finally hedges, perhaps more diplomatically, "They wait for justice."

"As do I. Everything I've ever done has been for Asgard, and tell me: How does Asgard view me?"

Aumdyn bows his head. "You are King, Your Majesty."

"I am king."

Just until Thor comes back, and then I've got a choice to make. Do I want to play it safe and wait for Odin, or try to find Smirna?

There's no point in asking. I know me even better than I know Asgard.