Chosen By Freya Book 1: Mantle of A God
When a Goddess shows up at your work place, you know something big is about to happen.
Mantle of a God –
The goddess of beauty stood at the edge of the realm of the gods and watched for decay.
The goddess of fertility stood on an outer branch of the world-tree and saw its tapered leaves shiver and crumble as ash turned to ash.
The goddess of prophecy stood at the edge of the world and feared for the future.
Freya the Giver, Freya Flaxen-Haired, Freya Sow-Queen picked up her pole and flicked the feathered lure across the ears of Bygul and Trjegul.
“Up, darlings.” The goddess rolled her tongue. “We’ve a brisk walk ahead.”
The two great cats, each as big as a stallion, lifted their heads and blinked their yellow eyes. The chariot rumbled beneath Freya’s feet as they shook off the last of their nap and stretched their spines.
“’Tis a long run to Hlidskjalf, my pets.” She flicked the pole again, making Bygul’s head jerk into the pouch and take one of the sweets.
***
“Forgive me for not having anything better to offer you,” Leif stated wretchedly. “Technically, we’re not supposed to bring any food or drink into the library.”
“Be at peace, Leif Freyason. I’d have come to visit you at your apartment if I wanted a sample of your cooking.”
Leif tried not to look horrified. He could not remember the last time he had cleaned out his living quarters above the butcher’s shop. Also, he knew to his bones that if Freya Njörðrsdatter came a-knocking on the door unannounced, his roommate Sven would trip over himself trying to ascertain the goddess’ opinion on the new cycling fad sweeping across Asgard.
Freya glanced down and sat in the empty chair on the other side of the librarian’s desk. Leif hastily swept his notes and rubbish into one of the drawers and settled in across from her. “You honor me, Godmother. I, uh, didn’t realize you knew where I lived.” Or worked.
Freya arched one shapely eyebrow. “I will admit I do not keep close tabs on all my great-grandchildren, Leif. Then again, few of them forsake our tradition by claiming mine for a surname instead of that of their own father.”
“Great-great-great-great-great-great grandchild,” Leif clarified before stopping to think the goddess might not take kindly to the correction. He blushed. “Most of the others are fools. You are the root and foundation of our family line, Godmother. They say I’m arrogant for calling myself Freyason, but I say they’re all disrespecting your legacy by choosing any other surname. At any rate, tradition would style me Leif Knudson.” He shifted his weight, suddenly surly with memory. The smashed mead bottles. The black eyes and bruises. Mother, crying into her knitting.
“And Knud was a right bastard,” Leif grumbled. He saw the goddess watching him. He knew that look of slightly strained patience.
“Never mind all that,” he declared, whipping the mostly-empty bottle of bourbon from his desk. “You are a balm for sore eyes, Mistress. I haven’t seen you since the feast of the Hunt two years back. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
Belatedly, Leif realized he had no cups. One did not smuggle a bottle of gnomish rotgut into the workplace with the intention of sharing it.
Freya watched as Leif cast about for something in which to serve the liquor. Amusement flickered across her thick lips. “This afternoon, I fancied a visit to the city and the halls of Hlidskjalf. The queen invited me to supper. I thought I might check in on some of my family while her servants prepare the meal.”
She reached forward, brushing her fingertips against two of the half-dozen runestones scattered across Leif’s desk. At a whispered word from the goddess, the pebbles shifted and grew, transforming into thumb-sized cups.
Leif watched the magic with undisguised envy. Despite his family heritage, he had never developed a knack for spellwork. He offered his matriarch a sheepish smile as he split the bottle dregs between the two cups. “It is a bad brew,” he confessed. “I should be ashamed to offer it to you.”
“You should be more ashamed not to offer it. I am a war goddess, too, boy. I know the taste of swill.”
Leif grinned crookedly. “So be it. Which would you rather, Godmother? Sun or wild ox?”
Freya took the cup, which had until a moment ago been the rune for wild ox. She lifted it to her lips but paused, watching as Leif threw back his drink. “I will confess,” she remarked as Leif shuddered. “I was disappointed to find Odin gone from his hall when I arrived.”
Leif nodded and thumbed a tear from the corner of his watering eye. “Oh, yes. Of course. We living here in Hlidskjalf’s shadow have grown used to watching the queen hold court and preside over all the ceremonies, but it must be unsettling to the folk who live on the fringes of the realm. The Allfather has been abroad for some time now. He departed for distant lands…” He pursed his lips, thinking back. “Oh, it would have been shortly after the feast where I last saw you.”
Freya shook her head with a sigh. “How very like him,” she muttered. “To fly off on a secret quest and leave the rest of us awaiting his pleasure.”
“Not utterly secret, I don’t think,” Leif pondered.
A sly look spread across the goddess’ face. “You’ve heard rumors?”
Leif leaned forward. His belly suddenly warmed with courage. He wasn’t often invited to share gossip. Great Freya was here, sitting at his desk. “Norðri and Suðri wander into the library every now and then,” he told her. “They bring word of their travels through Midgard. If I had to bet on where the Allfather is wandering these days, I would say it’s there. They told me they’ve smelled his magic on the wind for the first time in nearly a thousand years.”
“In Midgard?” Freya lifted one perfectly-shaped eyebrow. She sipped from her little cup and evidently decided the rest wasn’t worth savoring. She tossed back the shot and snapped the empty cup onto the desk.
Leif beamed. “I know, right? Odin hasn’t walked the realm of Midgard since Olaf Tryggvason revolted and burned down his temple in Njardarheimr.”
“That spat left a sour taste in the Allfather’s mouth if I recall.” Freya folded her arms, her expression turning thoughtful as she pondered history from a time before Leif’s birth. “It was a long time coming. Mortals had been burning our shrines and outlawing our worship for generations, favoring their new god from the south.”
“And as the Vikings of Midgard turned their back on Odin, Odin turned his back on them,” Leif agreed. “Withdrawing to turn his eye on the other realms.”
“But the northern and southern winds say he has returned to Midgard. Do they say why?”
Leif sat back, grinning from ear to ear. He knew now why he had kept this bit of gossip to himself, though the dour old dwarves had first mentioned it to him months ago. He was saving it for this moment. He wanted to be the one to shock the goddess with something new, and so he was. “They’ve smelled a Valkyrie on the wind.”
Freya slapped her palm against the table, bolting upright as if she had heard the rough bray of Fenrir coming to sack the city of the gods. “A Valkyrie riding the winds of Midgard once more? You’re certain?”
Leif shrugged. “I’m certain that’s what they told me, Godmother. They came to visit the library at different times, of course. Norðri and Suðri still won’t be caught dead in the same room since that spat during the Hunt of 1803. They both said it independently, though. Suðri claimed he caught the scent of ash and brimstone and Odin’s blood in a region of Midgard called Mexico nearly half a year back.
“Norðri was even more certain. He swore up and down that Odin called a Valkyrie out of the firmament to spite him personally.” Leif smirked. He didn’t know of a bad history between Norðri and any particular Valkyrie, but the bad blood wouldn’t have surprised him. The old dwarf’s list of enemies was longer than his list of friends.
Freya’s eyes danced with keen interest as she took this in. Leif felt the warm glow of pride and whiskey reach all the way to his cheeks.
“He calls a Valkyrie into Midgard.” Slowly, the goddess picked up Leif’s bottle and sloshed the last of the liquor into her cup.
“The first one to awaken in a thousand years,” Leif agreed, giddy. “Oh, I’ve heard stories about the hell they raised when Odin called them out of Midgard for the last time. It was a period of relative peace with Jötunheim, and so without giants to fight or mortal warriors to cull, they turned on one another.”
Freya tilted her hand in a so-so gesture. “They were…rowdy,” she admitted dryly. “And restless. I believe they meant no harm, but there’s nothing more dangerous to a city, even this city, than a flock of bored Valkyrie.
“The fourth time their carousing brought down Valhalla’s rooftop, Queen Frigg, Baldur, and I put our foot down. We convinced the Allfather he needed to put his goddaughters on a leash.” She tossed back the last dregs of the liquor and snapped her cup upside-down against the desk. “His solution was to send them to sleep in the firmament until their services were required once more, though I believe it pained him. He was always fond of those girls.”
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “As far as I am aware, the ranks of the Einherjar have remained steady ever since, for there have been no Valkyrie to harvest the souls of the slain.”
“Meanwhile, the mortals in Midgard have multiplied like maggots on rotting meat. It’s been a few years since anybody took a census over at Valhalla.” Leif scrounged around his desk for a spare sheet of vellum and a pen. “If you will it, Godmother, I would be happy to go over there and count heads. See if Odin has been slipping a few extra soldiers into the barracks. Say the word, and I would be honored to be of service.”
Perhaps it was the excitement of the moment or the liquor getting to his head, but the thought never occurred to Leif to wonder why the Allfather might want to bolster his army of warrior souls.
“Perhaps.” Freya folded her hands in front of her. “But not yet. Godson, fetch me an obsidian bowl and a ewer of sweet water.”
Leif rose to his feet. “A bowl and water?” His mind churned slowly. “Old Birger the senior librarian keeps a cask of fresh water from the Bauldr’s well in the cellar for emergencies, but I’m not sure where I’d find obsidian at this hour. I can nip down to the Emporium—”
“A mirror will suffice.” Freya sighed. “That little one hanging by the front door should be good enough.”
Leif’s eyes widened as he made the mental connections. Mirrors and obsidian were both common foci for spellwork, and they shared one major function. “Do you mean to scry, mistress? On the Allfather?”
Freya looked bemused at the suggestion. “If Odin does not wish to be found, I doubt I’d be able to hone in on him with a mirror from the lobby of a public library. Yet the Valkyrie never were great students of magic. I should be able to locate the woman, and from her, perhaps I can glean more clues about Odin’s whereabouts.” A little smile touched her lips. “Would you like to catch a glimpse of Odin’s secret protégé?” She glanced at the empty hourglass at the edge of his desk. “Or do you have somewhere else to be?”
Technically Leif had a kind-of-but-not-really-date-like-appointment to go stargazing with Olga Tyrsdatter that evening. It would mark their third attempt to get together outside Thorsday’s flying club, and Leif had the vague sense Olga was growing tired of being stood up every time he had to nurse his roommate out of a hangover.
On the other hand, Olga was a sweet and sensible girl. She understood that when Freya came knocking, you hit pause on the rest of the world.
At least, Leif hoped she did.
“There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be, Godmother.” Leif bowed and ran to fetch the water.
Freya watched the water pool across the mirror’s surface and lamented the fact that the one descendant in generations to claim her patronage had all the magical aptitude of a ball of wet twine.
The old goddess did not meddle overmuch in the early lives of her great-great-et-cetera grandchildren, but she recalled young Leif being a sweet and clever boy. Rather long-winded, but appropriately stubborn and with a subtle courage appropriate for a scion of her name. His was the strength not of the sea but of the mountain. Still and quiet and implacable.
He got that from his mother’s side of the family.
Freya was vaguely aware that, as a child, Leif had fought mightily to learn magic at his mothers’ knee. Though all the great tutors and teachers in Asgard agreed that Leif had a sharp mind, whichever cruel Norn had spun his fate had woven within him a love for magic, but not the spark. Such frustration often drove men to madness and cruelty. Freya was glad to see that, rather than scheme to steal power beyond his capabilities, her godson had contented himself in the role of scholar and librarian.
Though she would always find it passing strange that this skinny, single, distinctly unmagical academic had chosen the goddess of magic, war, and fertility for his patron.
Perhaps he would grow into it.
After Leif had brought Freya the supplies she required, locked the library doors, and snuffed out the lamps, he came to sit cross-legged beside her on a cleared section of the floor. The wall mirror lay flat on the floorboards between them, shimmering by the light of the one candle burning at Freya’s side.
“Will the water suffice?” Leif asked, nervously eying the ewer beside the mirror. “It was still sealed when I pulled it from storage, but I have no idea how long Birger has kept it there. I’m sure the florist up the street must have something better. I can run up there—”
“Peace, Leif.” Freya touched her finger to the mirror and swirled the beads of moisture across the glass. “Valkyrie are not known for their subtlety. If there is one moving in Midgard, this will suffice to locate her. Now be still and watch.”
She stared into the hazy reflection and allowed her vision to fall out of focus. Under her breath, she whispered the words of scrying magic she had devised eons ago from the movement of the stars and the flow of the rivers.
Show me what I seek, she silently commanded of the water and the mirror. Show me the mortal woman worthy of a great god’s favor.
The mirror’s reflection faded and blurred. Across from Freya, Leif drew in a sharp breath. He leaned over the glass, betraying the wide-eyed awe all ungifted displayed when given a glimpse of the arcane.
Swirling gray clouds formed within the glass, obscuring all light. The clouds parted, and Freya saw a crash of boulders crusting the rim of a glacier beneath a bright midday sky. In the distance, made hazy through scrying, a network of poles stood planted into the ice beside an exposed cliff face. Small flags of all different colors flapped atop the poles. Beside one was a four-wheeled vehicle not unlike the dwarven steam contraption she had passed in the market earlier. Scattered mortals dressed in long, fur-lined coats passed between different cave mouths sunk into the rock, carrying sacks and shovels and long, fine-bristled brooms.
“Oh!” Leif bounced with excitement. “Oh, I recognize those tools. It’s an archaeological dig, Godmother. These Midgardians are on a quest for historical secrets. Judging by the ice and the trees, it does look like the land of the Vikings.”
Freya frowned. Her gut told her this was indeed some valley in Iceland, though she had not set foot in Midgard in a thousand years. “These are all scholars, then? You are certain?”
Leif stared into the glass, taking in the hazy images of men and women as they moved through the ice caves, consulting their books and electronic tablets. “Yes, I’m certain. Those are ancient Nordic runes carved into the rock there. They are looking for the lost history of their ancestors.”
“We will not find our quarry here, then. Midgard is a busy, violent place. I have never met the Valkyrie who would spend her time dusting off relics when there are boars to hunt and wars to fight.”
“But this is what the glass showed you.” Leif looked up, his face full of earnest curiosity. “What does it mean?”
“It is possible Odin has shrouded his champion.” Freya nibbled her lip. “If that is the case, I will need to work something more powerful in order to find her.”
“Shall I hunt down an obsidian bowl for you?”
“Not yet. I will attempt the spell one more time.” Freya swept her fingertips across the wet glass, causing the image to shatter and fade. She focused all her considerable will on the mirror and repeated the words.
Now show me, she thought ferociously, the mortal woman worthy of a great Asgardian’s favor!
The clouds swirled and crashed like waves against a rocky shore. When they parted once more, they revealed the same sea of blue-green ice swaddling a rocky cliff.
Leif groaned like he was watching his preferred Stickball team fail the final pitch of a tied match. “Travesty and disappointment!”
“Hush,” Freya ordered crossly. “This is magic, not some dwarf’s clockwork tool. It has a mind of its own.” She squinted at the image, trying to pick significance out of the jagged horizon above the cliffs or the sea of ice as blue as a giant’s eye. Clearly, this mirror was not sufficient to track down their Valkyrie, but it was showing her something.
Something.
She floated a finger above one corner of the mirror, where a tiny human figure sat huddled on a log beside a dark cave mouth. At the goddess’ silent command, that corner of the image expanded, filling the entire mirror until Freya recognized the markings carved into the stone above the tunnel.
Understanding dawned, and she gasped.
Freya certainly seems disappointed that a mere mortal from Midgard could be the one she is searching for. However, it seems like she is someone important. Find out on August 21st when Chosen By Freya Book 1: Mantle of A God is released.
