Chapter 19
The next week passes in a blur of small talk and stress dreams. By the fourth or fifth day, Frigga has ceased coming to fetch you herself, electing instead to entrust you directly to Gna and Fulla. They bring you to the gardens for breakfast and then back to your room, and then to the gardens for noonmeal and then back to your room, and then rather than returning to the gardens for dinner they simply bring a plate to your room, so effectively you are leaving your room twice a day for a cumulative two, perhaps three hours...and you’re not protesting any of it.
You’re reckless, Loki said.
No wandering around unaccompanied, Sigyn had insisted.
And most chilling of all, Fulla’s thinly veiled warning of how very, very easily you could be made to disappear.
So you sit in your room for hours each day, each sleepless night, bored out of your mind. Worse than the boredom, of course, is the dreams. The helplessness. It becomes something of a game, after a while, listing ways Odin might try to have you taken out.
Poison in my soup.
It’s a morbid pastime, yes, but it seems the only way you can keep yourself from being entirely paralyzed with fear is to laugh at the threat.
An assassin for hire.
By the end of the second week, you’ve done it so many times that you can rattle off twenty or so different methods of death at the drop of a hat. Not that anyone’s asking.
Pushing me off a turret.
The wall behind your bed still glows every so often. At least once a day the frosty golden energy illuminates the room, casting strange shadows on the walls. You’ve yet to figure out what it means.
A sniper. Do they have guns here? An arrow sniper, then. Maybe. Are arrow snipers a thing?
Loki would know. About the gold wall, not the arrow snipers.
You’ve given up on crying yourself to sleep, but not a night goes by that you don’t smooth your cheek against the pillow and wish that it was his chest instead. Or tug the blankets more tightly around you and pretend it’s his embrace.
Throw me in the palace moat. Or that cute little pond by the garden.
You take some small, small piece of comfort in knowing he is alive. Even if you will never see him. Even if the bonds between you are severed for good. Even if the last conversation you ever had was about two steps from a full-fledged fight.
You hope it brings him peace, too, knowing you are safe.
Set fire to my room and lock me inside.
Of course, that’s the problem: you aren’t safe. Not anywhere. Odin has just as much power over you inside this room as he does in the rest of the palace, and it’s futile to pretend otherwise. All the small talk and reassuring glances in the world from Gna and Fulla can’t make you forget that fact.
Wait for me to die.
Also a very real possibility. Because hey, what’s one mortal lifetime? Why go through the trouble of murdering you when time will take care of that soon enough?
But…you sit up. Am I really going to just lie down and let that happen?
You’re not going to be rash. You’re not going to do something like run away. Who knows what they would do to you, if they caught you? Who knows what they would do to Loki?
Or at least, you think, slipping out of bed and pulling a cloak over your shoulders, I’m not going to run away today.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t start to plan.
The first step, you decide, is to get a better sense of the palace layout. However, that’s going to be a bit of a challenge, considering you’re still locked into your room.
You yank on the knob. You consider trying to pick the lock…but there’s no lock to pick, so that’s a bust. The hinges are on the opposite side, so taking those out won’t work. You kick the door, pound on it with your fists; nothing. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.
“Come on!” You go back and sit on the bed, panting. Obviously you don’t think you’re strong enough to knock the door down, but what with the lack of a lock and the weird on-again-off-again glowing of the walls, you know there must be magic in this room. If you could just figure it out…
Speaking of the glowing, as you flop onto your back, you notice it’s returned.
“Hey,” you say dryly.
It pulses in response. You sit straight up and scramble to the end of the bed.
“Hello?”
Nothing this time; it just beats on, steadily as before. But you know what you saw. You crawl back towards it, slowly, tentatively.
“Is there somebody there?”
Nothing.
“Pulse once if you can hear me.”
One pulse. Your own heart speeds up.
“Can you...see me?” The idea makes your skin crawl. “One pulse for yes, two for no.”
Two pulses. You sigh, relieved. This whole experience has been enough of an invasion of your privacy without adding magical hidden cameras in the one place you have to yourself.
“Do I know you?”
Nothing. Whether that’s an admission or a denial, you don’t know.
“Did Odin assign you to watch me?”
Two pulses. Hm. Maybe it’s true; maybe it’s a lie. But you don’t have very many other allies in this place, and it turns out you just might be desperate enough to rely on a pulsing wall of light for help, because you find yourself blurting out:
“Do you know how I can get out of here?” You hold your breath as you wait for a response.
One pulse.
Yes.
“Can you show me?” A long, long minute passes without a response, before you add, “Please?”
The light fades entirely. Shit. But not ten seconds later, you hear a creaking noise behind you. Sure enough, when you turn to look, the door has swung open, revealing the dark, empty hallway beyond.
You slide off the bed, and glance back at the wall. Still dark. This might be a trap. A test. Or is this a bargain?
Will the magic, glowing wall want something in return for unlocking my door? You squeeze your eyes shut. I sound ridiculous.
Ridiculous. Bold.
Reckless.
You can’t help it. You can’t sit here one moment longer. You grab a bit of paper and charcoal off the nightstand. You pull the cloak more tightly around your shoulders.
You tiptoe out the door
As it turns out, making a map of the palace in the dark is harder than you’d think.
You aren’t doing too badly, all things considered. At the very least, you think the system of lines you’ve scrawled across the paper is clear enough that you’ll be able to make it back to your rooms without being lost. But having seen the palace from the outside, you know it’s incredibly, impossibly larger than what you’ve covered already—and you’ve covered a decent amount of ground. You must have been wandering around for at least an hour or two, at this point.
You reach the end of the second longest hallway. If your map is correct, you could draw a near perfect diagonal from your room to here. Perhaps you should go back. Already the sky is beginning to pale, and the last thing you need is to get caught—
“Going somewhere?”
Your hand curls around the paper—slowly, so as to avoid drawing attention to the motion—as you turn to face the speaker. Both of them. So the guards have a night shift, you mentally note. Good to know. “Hi! Hello.”
The taller of the two—Colleth, you remember, and the other is Rinca—crosses her arms. “Unusual to see you, out and about on your lonesome.”
“Just stretching my legs.”
They look at the ceiling, and the hallway, empty and dark save for the moon overhead, then at each other, and then at you. “At this hour?” Rinca asks.
You offer up a sheepish smile. “Always have been a bit of an insomniac.”
“You’ve wandered quite far. This isn’t anywhere near your quarters.”
“Well, I…” You wring your hands, then hug your waist, searching for a suitable response. “I was just...I mean, I just thought that…”
“Alright, alright.” Rinca shakes his head. “I see what’s goin’ on here.”
“You do?”
They approach you, Rinca reaching out a hand. It closes over yours—the hand with the map—and you’re about to make a run for it when:
“You were looking for the kitchens, eh?” He gives your hand a pat, and pulls away. “My cousin was with child last year. Had the most terrible cravings, at all hours of the day, all hours of the night. Nasty stuff, too—codroil with fried linnet, frannel dipped in cream—if you ask me, that’s what had her bent over the chamber pot all day, not any morning sickness—”
“Rinca!” his partner hisses.
“Ah—sorry.” He gives you an apologetic little nod. “Don’t mean to be indelicate. But anyway, there’s no shame in it. No need to go skulking about in secret. Better to ask someone for help than risk getting lost.”
“Ay. You’re close, though.” Colleth nods up the hall to your right. “We can walk you the rest of the way.”
You go along with it, if only to avoid being caught. Though, to be honest, a midnight—dawn—snack doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. Poison, the paranoid part of your brain whispers; but they lead you to a pantry and give you free rein. Surely the food will be safe if you’re picking it out yourself?
It brings you no comfort to hear them muttering to each other as you look over the food.
You fill a small basket with an assortment of baked goods quick as you can, and, sure enough, when you approach them, they fall silent.
Now it’s your turn to ask, “What?”
Rinca rubs the back of his neck, looking guilty. “Ah, we were just…”
“What?” you repeat. You cock your head. You’re somewhat relieved by the fact that they look less like they were plotting ways to assassinate you, and more like you caught them engaged in some petty gossip. “I don’t offend easily, you know.”
“I don’t know how much you’ve heard about recent news since you’ve gotten here.”
“I’ve been in my room ninety percent of the time. I haven’t heard much.”
“Well…” He hesitates. “It’s nothing official. But there’s been some murmurings—”
“—more than murmurings—”
“Whispers, then, there have been whispers of some difficulty with the line of succession.” He and Colleth exchange a look, and he hurriedly says, “It’s late, innit? We should get you back to your room, if you’re all finished.” They take off down the hall, leaving you to have to briefly jog to catch up to them.
“Difficulty?”
“Y’see, the crown prince is gone back to Midgard. For good, they’re saying. And the young prince…” He sends you a sideways glance. “‘Pologies, miss.”
Ah. So that’s why they were reluctant to tell you. You bite your lip, and look away. “No, I...I understand. The Allfather can’t exactly name a convicted criminal heir to the throne.”
“Right. He’s sentenced down there for life, and who’s going to pardon him? The Allfather? He doesn’t want to. The Allmother can’t go against his wishes; they are supposed to display a united front to the realm. It would take the support of an entire other realm to get that poor bastard back above ground.”
“An entire other realm? Like…” You hesitate. “Like Jotunheim?”
“What’s left of it. They’re not too fond of him, either.”
Of course, how could you forget: before he met you, Loki spent a solid millennium or two racking up enemies. And smitten and strong-willed as you may be, one lovestruck Midgardian woman doesn’t quite balance out entire realms and races of people who would be more than happy to see your fiancé locked up for good.
“You don’t think he’ll ever pardon him?” Colleth asks.
Rinca shakes his head. “Not in a million years. You didn’t hear this from me, miss, but the Allfather isn’t one to admit he’s been wrong.”
“So…what will he do?”
Colleth shrugs. “Yer guess is as good as ours.”
“Though…” Rinca lifts an eyebrow. Colleth gives him a smack to the shoulder, and he clears his throat, shaking his head. “Ahem. Sorry. Nevermind.”
“What?”
He gives you a tight smile. “Nothing, really.”
“Ah, Rinc, you big lump, you’ve already let the cat out of the bag,” Colleth snaps, pressing two fingers to her temple as though to ward off a headache. “Not much you can do now to shove it back in.”
Rinca sighs. “Don’t mind my saying this, miss, but...well, like I said, the eldest son’s off gallivanting across the galaxy, right?”
“And the younger one is, you know.”
“Yes, and?”
“Well, it seems to me the closest thing the Allfather has to a proper heir is that baby.”
“What?” Instinct brings your hand to your stomach, and you freeze in your tracks, shaking your head. “No. No, Loki and I were never married.”
“I said closest thing, not an exact match.”
“Loki is—was—he’s adopted, and been sentenced to jail for life.”
“The Allfather still seems to have a soft spot for him—he would have just killed him otherwise, not given him a proper fancy cell and all. So ‘he still thinks of him as a son, right? And he was never legally de...er, de-legitimized, either.”
Your stomach churns. You reach out to the side, clutching at something, anything for balance; one of the guards (you’re too dizzy to see which) helps you over to the nearest wall, lets you slide down to a sitting position, the elegant fabric of your gown collecting dust as you try to collect your thoughts.
“You’re telling me—”
Colleth nods. “You may very well be carrying the crown prince or princess of Asgard.”
It makes no sense at all. And yet, as you rack through your mental files—through months and months worth of lessons on Asgardian hierarchy and lines of ascension drilled into you by Lady Amara (gods, what you wouldn’t give to have her here with you now!)—it’s the only logical option.
“But...what does that make me?”
There is a long, long pause before either of them speak.
“That makes you a threat, miss.” You look up to see Rinca kneeling besides you, his brows knit in a mirror image of Colleth’s worried expression behind. “A very big threat, indeed.”