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Sefi flies away.

* * *

—

A feast is thrown in Freihild’s honor in Sefi’s newly appointed Griffinhold. It is a dour, ugly little affair held under the stupid faces of griffins carved by Olympian artisans. More than anything, the Obsidians are confused by my tale. They knew the outcast tribes of Mars and Earth were pirates. Like the Republic, they called them Ascomanni after the old legends. But now they must take my word and Ozgard’s that the myth is true. That there’s another breed out there. That Volsung Fá is as real as a heart attack. It is a tough pill to swallow. Especially to Valdir and his male warriors. They liked Freihild. They don’t like me. And they like Ozgard even less. How convenient it is for us to blame her death on myths from deep space.

I sit amongst the skuggi at a low table in silence, nursing a cup of hard liquor. Gudkind is missing. Sefi selected him and several other pathfinders to assess the scene and check the story Ozgard and I gave her.

At the high table with Sefi, the children, and the highest-ranking female jarls, the tribal leaders, Valdir drowns his agony in endless horns of azag. His rage ferments like the berry liquor that stains his lips purple. Not even the old rough bastards with the long valor tails dare speak to him. He stares across Sefi to Ozgard, the only other man at the high table. The shaman, his eye patched, his hand in a cast, withers under that hard gaze. Neither man listens to the braves who stand one by one to toast Freihild’s memory with trite little expressions of respect.

Deft in all things, but not dying, it seems.

Some deaths make all feel terribly mortal.

Xenophon, who stands by the cupbearers of the high table, seems as unimpressed by the funeral toasts as I am. The White spares me a grim nod. Of Sefi’s council, the logos was not the only one skeptical about the tale of Ascomanni but he was the most vocal. From the far end of the table, Pax watches Valdir with narrowed eyes. Sefi stands and lifts her horn.

“Freihild was born in bondage, but made herself free.

Her worth, if weighed, would make a mountain light as air. She drinks now beside Ragnar, and feasts in the halls of Valhalla. I swear on my brother’s blood, the creature known as Volsung Fá will hang upon Griffinhold by his entrails. His skin will be fed to mice. His heart to fish. His balls to dogs. He and his Ascomanni are nomen. I declare ashvar upon them. Forevermore, they stand enemy of Alltribe.”

“Skol!” the room grumbles. She sits, and as Xenophon brings her a message, she fails to see the choleric rage corrupting Valdir’s face.

“Lies,” the champion mouths. He stands, draws his axe, and slams it through the table, breaking it nearly in half. Cups of spirits and plates of meat tumble to the floor. Sefi’s jaw flexes as, to the horror of the host, he repeats his accusation. “Lies.”

She whispers something to Valdir, and reaches for his shoulder. He rips away from her. “Ascomanni?” He spits on the broken table. “Ascomanni are scavengers. Flea-bitten raiders too weak for our warbands. They have no king. There is no Volsung Fá.” He thrusts a finger at Ozgard. “You spun him from rumor. Like you spin all your shit.” He flings a hand at Xenophon. “The White does not believe your lie. When has the White been wrong?”

Sefi remains seated, and turns to look out at the host instead of her fuming mate. Maybe she thinks if she ignores him, she can let this insult slide, and that Valdir will not go too far in his accusations.

Big fool just might. “I saw the tracks myself. I saw no hunt signs. No traces of evil Obsidian from the dark. Freihild would never be taken unaware, even by myths. She is not blind.” He looks at Sefi, then back to the shaman. “She was shot from the front by a bow at no more than twenty paces. How would Freihild, skuggi, Minetaker, Drakeslayer, be so stupid? How could she die when two weaklings did not?”

“Did I take my own eye?” Ozgard says in protest.

“Odin did. What is an eye to a fool? Your only weapon is your tongue.”

“I saw Volsung Fá. A creature from the blackness! From the edge of the Ink itself. He spoke in the lost tongue! He challenged our Queen! Grarnir saw what I saw.” Great. Thanks, oldboy.

Valdir nearly tips over as he turns to glare at me. “The Gray is a whore, who will do anything for money. Did you pay him to lie, Ozgard? To pretend it was Ascomanni? Or did you, my Queen?”

The room goes dead quiet.

If duels were allowed, any brave could call him out for challenging their honor like that. But to challenge the Queen’s…shit. I don’t know. She could probably just kill him here. An insult to her honor is an insult to the tribe. Punishable by death. Still she does not move. Valdir is the heart of the male braves. Their pride, their Big Brother. Gods, I feel for her.

“Sefi the Quiet,” Valdir crows, stumbling as he waves his arms about. “No need to use that cold tongue. Your eyes sang your jealousy. I saw. We all saw. Did you decide to kill her because she took the mines? Or because she killed the drake? Or because she held my heart in her hands? Or because she is young? And you are old?”

“Your cock is yours,” Sefi says out to the host. “Fuck a goat for all I care. But your valor is your tribe’s. Do not sully it by wagging your tongue like stupid heatlander.”

“You feel nothing,” he hisses into her face. “It is not you who is quiet. It is your andi.” He grabs the flagon from his cupbearer and shoves his way out of the room. Pax lifts his eyebrows to me and Electra takes the azag from the neighboring jarl and downs the whole horn.

Sefi sighs and eats a grape from a spilled dish. She waves to the open doors, where light snow drifts down. “It is foul weather outside. Much thunder.” She admires the high walls and vaulted ceiling. “Stone echoes loudly, but it remains stone. Strong, with no memory.” She smiles at her host, her message clear and clever. “Minstrels! Drown out the thunder, please.”

Many laugh as the minstrels pour into the hall. But not all. Not Valdir’s cadre of male braves. Not the skuggi. Not me.

As the minstrels sing, I feel the need for fresh air. I stand in the archway between the Bellona doors to watch snow fall on Olympia. Even in the night, the construction does not pause. Skyscrapers rise anew.

“Seems your myths have a nasty bite,” I say. Familiar soft footsteps approach from the hall. Pax extends a hand out into the snow.

“I told you they weren’t myths. I just said they were far away.”