Euphrasia comes too, carrying the egg I took, buoyed up by Odin’s presence I suppose, much as I am. But when we reach the ledge in front of their chambers, Freya’s eyes are wide, and she’s not listening to anything anyone says. She’s still chanting, but she’s clearly seeing something we aren’t.
And vanir are flying through her body and disappearing.
That’s not good, Euphrasia says.
Not good at all. Odin calls to her. Freya.
Her head snaps our direction, and her eyes widen. “Gullveig! You came back. I need that egg. Now, before it’s too late.”
But Odin has stepped in front of me. You can’t have any eggs. You can’t save people by destroying others. That’s where we went wrong. We can’t defeat the vanir by killing every last one. It’s as evil as abandoning your children.
Freya’s face is sad. “We could have, together.” She shakes her head. “The problem is that, like Veralden with Jörð, you didn’t truly love me.” She shifts so that she can see me. “I loved you truly too, Gullveig. Always. I hope you can find peace in a world without the vanir.”
Then Freya’s body begins to convulse. “It’s not enough,” she whispers. “I need more magic.” She closes her eyes, and then reopens them, finally seeing us. “Euphrasia.” She cries out then. “My husband. My bonded. And my best friend.” She shakes her head. “You’re the reason none of the water blessed joined me?” Her eyes are pained. “Then you can pay the final price.” She lunges toward Euphrasia and grabs her leg.
Euphrasia screams, dropping the egg.
I barely catch it before it hits the stone ground.
Freya appears to be taking something from Euphrasia, something the water æsir doesn’t want to give. She writhes, and she keens, and then she trembles.
The water blessed down below are keening, too.
And then Euphrasia’s wings shrivel up and shrink, sucking into her back until they’re no longer there.
At the same time, Freya disappears.
The moments after her departure are pure chaos.
Plenty of strike æsir, storm vanir, moon vanir, and even one flame æsir aided Freya in her plan, but not a single water æsir did. They all looked to Euphrasia, and she cautioned them to be careful. After Freya’s departure, every single water æsir was left wingless.
And every single sky child who aided her departure had been changed. Instead of moon vanir, storm vanir, and strike or flame æsir, they had become smaller, and they had no wings. They did gain a sudden affinity for the land around them. Odin started calling them earth blessed, but he didn’t use æsir or vanir to designate them, because none of us could tell which was which anymore.
The first earth-sky children were born that night, and not of their own volition. But Freya was right about one thing. Everything requires some kind of sacrifice. Sadly, we usually don’t get to choose what it is, and our parents almost never show up and clean up our messes.
We’re left to handle those ourselves.
Chapter 25
Liz
When I wake, I’m gripped by the worst pain I’ve ever felt.
A knife is literally slicing my chest open right down the middle, the blade lodged in my breastbone. I don’t have the air in my lungs to scream, but that’s okay, because Azar’s here, and before I can even try to call for him, he snaps his massive jaws around the tiny human version of his father who’s slicing my body open like he’s trying to gut a carp.
The second Odin and his wicked knife move away, I drag in a ragged and gurgly breath and assess the damage. I pull unapologetically on Azar’s magic to try and heal the hole that I assume Odin was creating in order to remove the heart stone from my body. As the gaping wound starts to knit back together, I sit up and gasp.
Odin shifts into his flame dragon form abruptly, shearing an entire wall of our bedroom away from the building and knocking it into the ocean below. Then he lunges at his son, his teeth snapping and his tail whipping back and forth, smashing the bed I just leapt from, and the nightstand I really, really liked into a million bits.
“I guess you changed your mind about our deal?” I rasp.
Odin’s busy trying to rip Azar’s head off, but I’m not as distracted. I pull my swords out from under the bed and hurl one at him. I miss, but when it thwacks into a part of the wall that yet remains, it gets his attention.
He flings a long line of lava in my direction, and I barely manage to create a red shield in time. “Neener, neener,” I say. “Can’t fight fire with fire, idiot.”
And then I remember all the things I learned in the time I was asleep. So many, many things. While I process the things I learned, Azar suffers. He’s much, much smaller than his father, and his claws and teeth are less deadly, too.
Time to get Odin to leave his son alone so poor Azar can heal.
