Loki Page 3

  A third voice—Karnilla’s—had joined those of their parents. “—not weapons. They are amplifiers of strength. You can’t think his power, even amplified, would be enough to end your realm.”

  “I do not know what he is capable of,” Odin replied. “That is what frightens me.”

  “Stop breathing so loud,” Loki hissed to Thor. His brother was huffing like he was trying to put out a fire.

  “This is how I breathe,” Thor replied.

  “Then stop breathing,” Loki said through gritted teeth. “They can hear us too, you know.”

  “Then stop talking,” Thor scolded, loud enough that Loki threw a hand over the mouth of the goblet. He glanced behind him to his father’s chamber door, waiting to see if it would open, if one of the Einherjar would be sent to investigate the source of the mysterious goblet arguing with itself.

  Nothing happened.

  Loki raised the goblet again, and Thor made a show of taking a deep breath without chuffing, and they both leaned in.

  “Perhaps the Mirror was wrong,” Frigga was saying. “You said it yourself in the Great Hall—there is no certainty in any vision of the future, even one offered by powerful magic.”

  “It has never been wrong, in the history of our people,” Odin replied. “Perhaps it could be, or perhaps that is simply something the kings have always said to protect their choices, but it never has been wrong. Everything a king of Asgard has seen in the Godseye Mirror has come to pass. It alerted me to the impending war with the Frost Giants. We survived that conflict only because of the increased fortifications we built in preparation. It’s a tool of warning, not of flighty predictions that might perhaps come to pass. If the Mirror shows him leading an army of the living dead against our people, then that is the threat we must prepare for.”

  “You do not need to raise your voice to me,” Frigga said, and Loki realized his father must have been shouting. It was hard to tell through the mead. “How do you propose we prepare for this threat? Would you have him punished because of something he may do wrong in the future? You’d have to lock up your whole court if that were the standard for imprisonment.”

  There was a pause, so long that Loki was concerned his spell had fallen apart, but then he heard Karnilla say, “We will increase the protections around the Norn Stones.”

  “That’s not enough,” Odin replied.

  “The loss of the Stones would not—” Frigga began, but his father interrupted.

  “The Norn Stones in the wrong hands could mean the end of Asgard.”

  “And you think those wrong hands belong to our son?” Frigga asked.

  Silence. Loki felt his pulse throbbing, so loud he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear his father over it when he spoke again. His chest suddenly felt corked and impossible to breathe through. Beside him, Thor stiffened, his shoulders rising into a stance that Loki knew from facing him in the sparring ring. Thor was ready to fight, though what for, he wasn’t sure yet.

  Say it, Loki thought. Say which of your sons will lead an army against Asgard. Which of us will be the one on the wrong side of Ragnarok.

  “We should return to the feast,” Frigga said at last. “Your people will be looking to their king for guidance. And an explanation for your abrupt exit. Not for news of the end of the world.”

  Loki felt Thor grab him by the back of the tunic and tug him down the hallway, away from their father’s chambers and through an open doorway, out of sight. The goblet fell from his hand, clattering to the tile.

  Thor had dragged them into a chapel dedicated to the All-Mothers, the one Odin used to offer prayers alone before battle. It was small, and the golden light spilling through the windows made the wooden vaults look syrupy and warm. Along the beams were carved scenes of the serpent’s rampage and the All-Mothers ascending to their thrones, the varnish old and seeping so that the edges looked dewy.

  Thor sank down on one of the carved benches, in front of a mural of Gaea the Compassionate with her arms at her sides, hands turned out. Loki took the spot across the aisle from him, the hard angle of the bench making his back ache almost instantly. Thor sank into a slump, hands pressed into his forehead, but Loki sat rigid, staring at Gaea, the tip of her chin, the lowered eyes, her thin lips parted in supplication.

  Thor spoke first. “Father saw one of us leading an army against Asgard.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Loki replied, still staring at Gaea. “I was there, you know.”

  “One of us—”

  “I believe the phrase was one of his sons, so perhaps the real question is does Odin have a secret family hidden in a palace tower plotting to slit our throats?”

  Thor sat up, crossing his arms as he swiveled to face Loki across the aisle. “You wish to argue semantics with me, brother?”

  “Only if you can spell semantics.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Loki replied, still staring at Gaea’s hands. Penitent. Submissive. Weak. “It might bring on the end of the world.”

  Thor slammed his fist against the back of the bench in front of him, and it jumped, clattering against the stone floor. “Is this all a jest to you?”

  Loki flicked his eyes across the aisle to Thor. “I think the very fact that you’re so concerned proves that you’re not the one who will be leading the army.”

  “What do you mean?” Thor asked.

  “I think that if you were to take a poll of random Asgardians and ask them which of us was more likely to rebel against his father, I’d win with flying colors.” Loki laughed hollowly, brushing a splinter from the pew off his trousers. “Perhaps the first contest I’ll ever best you in.”

  “And that doesn’t concern you?” Thor asked.

  Loki shrugged. “Well, now that I know what father’s seen, if I ever find myself standing at the head of an army, I will stop, reconsider, and, oh, you know, not do that.”

  “But what if in trying to stop it you make it come to pass?” Thor asked.

  Loki frowned. “You think what father saw is inevitable?”

  “The Godseye Mirror has never been wrong in the history of Asgard,” Thor replied. “It warns of dangers to come. They always come.” He turned abruptly forward again, pressing his fist to his forehead, then pivoted back to Loki. “Perhaps father doesn’t know which of us it is.”

  “We are so very easy to mistake for each other,” Loki said. “Perhaps I’m wrong—leading an army does sound much more like you. I prefer to be on the sidelines with a snack.” He tapped his heel against the floor of the aisle. “And I would never risk these boots in battle.”

  Thor pressed his elbows to his knees, his head dropping against his clenched hands. “Does this truly matter so little to you?” His voice was softer than Loki was accustomed to hearing it, and it stilled him.

  “Nothing is little to me,” Loki replied, then stood, his heel catching in a rut between two stones.

  “Where are you going?” Thor called after him as he righted himself and started down the aisle.

  “I need to talk to Amora.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea right now?” Thor asked.

  Loki paused, nearly at the door, and considered pretending he hadn’t heard. Thor was trying to provoke him. To get him to turn back. And he always tried his best not to give his brother what he wanted.

  But he turned. Thor had stood too, one hand resting on the end of the pew.

  “What do you mean by that?” Loki demanded.

  Thor’s gaze flicked down to the stone, then back to Loki. “I don’t think she’s a good influence upon you.”

  “Say that again, but this time cover one eye, and I’d swear you were Father.”

  “I’m not jesting.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re not.” He tried to keep his voice even, but the sting gave his words a hard edge. It wasn’t like he had many options for friends. Thor and his fellow warriors-in-training had made it clear they didn’t want anything to do with Loki, like his lac
k of muscle mass might be catching if they stood too close. “You’re just jealous,” he countered, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew how silly they sounded. How desperate.

  “Jealous of what?” Thor asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.” He should have left then, but instead he took a step back into the chapel, toward Thor. “It’s none of your concern whom I pass my days with.”

  “Of course it is,” Thor replied. “You’re my brother.”

  “Then should I be concerned about all your long nights in the sparring ring with Sif?” Loki challenged.

  Thor’s cheeks colored. “That’s different. She’s helping me with my...”

  “Your what?” Loki cocked his eyebrow, a gesture he would never admit to Thor that he had practiced in front of the mirror in his chambers for hours to ensure he could execute it perfectly when needed. “Flexibility?”

  “And what is Amora helping you with?” Thor snapped. “Teaching you how to be a witch like she is?”

  “She’s not a witch,” Loki snapped. “She’s a sorceress. She’ll be the royal sorceress someday.”

  Thor snorted. “When I’m king, she’ll never be allowed anywhere near the court.”

  Loki crossed his arms. “When you’re king, is it?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “But it’s what you said.”

  “Fine, perhaps I did mean it,” Thor said, his voice taking on a growl. “If you continue to keep company with her, perhaps there won’t be a spot for you either.”

  “Is that meant to be a threat?” Loki asked. “If so, you might try and make it a little less tantalizing. Who says I want a place in the court of a king who hits himself in the face with his own hammer?”

  “That was one time!”

  “And yet it’s burned in our hearts forever.”

  “At least I’ll be on the right side when Ragnarok comes!” Thor burst out. “At least I’ll fight for Asgard and not against it.”

  Loki sucked in his cheeks, trying not to let his sinking heart make itself known upon his face. They had both suspected it was him, but he hadn’t thought Thor would say it. He felt himself darken when he looked at Thor, like something cooking on a high heat. His brother’s face was set, but his eyes brimmed with regret.

  “Perhaps the Mirror was wrong,” Loki said quietly.

  “It’s never wrong,” Thor replied.

  “You say that like the future is an inevitable, unchangeable thing. What if you stabbed me right now and killed me before the end of the world? Couldn’t fulfill my traitorous destiny then, could I?”

  “Please don’t be angry at me.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “You’re shouting.”

  “I’m not...” Loki stopped, realizing suddenly that his voice had echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the chapel. He turned back to the door, fumbling for the latch. “Happy feast day, brother.”

  “Loki, wait—”

  He heard Thor’s heavy footsteps, felt him reach for his arm, but Loki twisted from his grasp. His heart was pounding, but he managed to keep his voice steady and less biting than he wanted it to be. “Best stay away from me. We’re going to be enemies at the end of the world.”

  He had expected Thor to protest. Make the same excuses he always did. But Thor stayed silent, and Loki felt something dark and cold begin to curl inside him.

  Of course Thor assumed he would be the one on the right side at the end of the world. Of course he would lead the forces of good for Asgard. Loki’s brother was born to be a king—the whole court knew it. Anyone who looked at him knew it. The gods could not have handcrafted a more obvious model of kingship than Thor—blond and broad and fast and strong without trying. Loki was the scraps of his silhouette, the part that was discarded on the workshop floor to be swept up and tossed into the fire—thin and pale, with a hooked nose and black hair that hung flat to the nape of his neck, where it flipped into an unflattering curl. While Thor’s skin bronzed in the sun so that he seemed made of armor, Loki was pale as milk, and soured just as easily.

  And whoever wasn’t king was the traitor—wasn’t that how it would work? Spurned and rejected by his father, the disfavored son would rise up at the end of Asgard.

  But he was a son of Asgard. A prince. He wasn’t a traitor. He wouldn’t lead an army against his own brother. His own people.

  Would he?

  Amora had already left the feast by the time Loki returned to look for her, and he managed to slip in and out of the Great Hall without attracting the attention of his father, who was now seated dutifully at the head of the feast table like nothing was amiss.

  Loki found Amora in the palace orangery, the plants from each of the Nine Realms pressing their leaves up against glass panes the size of playing cards as they curled their vines around each other. A bitter violet from Alfheim shied from Loki’s shadow as he passed it, its petals the pure blue of the inside of a glacier. Amora was sitting under the wide leaves of a Midgardian fern at the edge of the small pond that bubbled up from the ground. She was brushing her fingers through the grass at the edge of the water like she was petting an animal, and Loki watched as, with each pass, her fingers raised sparks from the reeds.

  “Is that a new spell?” he asked her, and she looked up.

  “No. It’s Svartalfheim fire grass.” She ruffled her fingers through the blades and small sparks puffed around her hand the way most plants would shed their seeds. Amora smiled. “Not magic. Just nature.”

  “Does that make us unnatural?” Loki asked.

  Her eyes flicked up to his, their thin veins of green seeming to take over her whole irises for a moment so that they looked as though they were fashioned from the jungle around her. Then she looked back to the grass, letting a spark linger and bloom into a small flame along her fingertips before she snuffed it. Loki sank down beside her, close enough that their knees pressed together. Even through the hazy gloom lingering from his conversation with Thor, an electric shiver went through him when she didn’t pull away from his touch. No matter how small that touch was.

  “Will you answer me something?” he asked.

  “Depends on the question,” she replied.

  He had already felt fragile and self-conscious, and the flippancy he usually enjoyed in her instead tipped him over the edge. “Never mind.”

  He stood up to go, but Amora caught him by the wrist, pulling him back down beside her. “Sit down, Trickster, and don’t be so dramatic. Of course I’ll answer your question.”

  Trickster. The nickname used to make him blush. Now every time she called him that, it felt intimate and secret, a name only she used for him. If I’m a trickster, you’re an enchantress, he had said the first time, and he was delighted by how caught off guard she looked. Amora was almost never undone, or if she was, she didn’t show it.

  Enchantress, she had said, and he could hear the pleasure in her voice. So much prettier than witch, don’t you think?

  She paused, eyeing him. “Ask me your question,” she said, her hand not on his, but lingering near it. “I’ll answer it as best I can.”

  He did not know exactly what he wanted to ask her. Do I seem the sort of person who would help end the world? Am I destined to turn against Asgard? If I know it, can I stop it, or will trying to stop it make it happen?

  So instead, he asked, “Do you think my father will ever make me king?”

  “Not if you remain devoted to your current hair care regimen,” she replied.

  Loki rolled his eyes. “Amora.”

  “Really, one decent haircut and a bit of oil daily would work wonders on this mop.” She reached out, flicking a lock of dark hair out from behind his ear. “You think your father would have gotten where he is without that lustrous beard?”

  “Please don’t refer to anything about my father as ‘lustrous,’ it’s very upsetting.”

  Her smirk didn’t fade, but her face softened around it. When she looked at him, he
could feel her gaze caress his face. He wished she would touch him again, even just another strand of hair tugged from its place. Let her ruffle him.

  “I think your father would be a fool to name anyone but you his heir,” she said.

  “Do you think my father is a fool?”

  Amora laughed, her lips pursed together so it came out breathily through her nose. “You’re very clever.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “Many of them. You are made of moments.”

  A leaf had stuck to the knee of his trousers, and he attempted to brush it away, only to find it so sticky with some kind of sap that it wouldn’t be parted from the fabric. He flicked his fingers, sending a small gust of wind to blow it off, but it ended up stronger than he intended, pushing both his and Amora’s hair back off their faces. Loki wrinkled his nose. Control was still an elusive thing, and a skill he was certain Odin had denied him to keep his use of magic to a minimum. “You don’t think much of my father,” he said.

  “I don’t think of him at all, if I can help it,” Amora replied, tugging her hair over her shoulder and running her fingers through it. “What’s brought on these questions?”

  “Nothing.” Loki slumped backward against the stone behind him. “I’m just brooding.”

  “I know, and it’s adorable. You get this little crease between your eyebrows.”

  “Stop it.” He batted her hand away as she pressed her finger into the space between his eyes. She laughed. “Have you seen Karnilla since the ceremony?”

  “Not yet. Isn’t she still with your father?”

  “They’ve returned to the feast.”

  She ran a hand over her knees, smoothing her trousers. “Why do you ask? Do you think she has something she wants to say to me?”

  “I know what my father saw in the Godseye Mirror.”

  She raised her head, eyes hungry. “Tell me.” Loki ground his feet into the dirt, watching it halo around his heels until Amora pushed her toe against his. “Tell meeee.”