“Don’t fight it, Thori. We’re going home.”
twenty-eight
The Prince of Asgard
Njord
He stood on his balcony, looking out across the ocean at the storm clouds gathering in the distance. For a month, the weather around Nóatún had been abysmal. Usually, the climate on the coast stayed mild even during the winter months, but this year the snow kept hammering down on Nóatún’s black cliffs and the ocean threatened to freeze. Gylfa had chastised him for the weatherly escapades several times already, demanding he make it stop. As if it were so simple. As if Njord could bring himself to care.
The Bog Mother was asleep again in her eternal tomb, Sveinn dead, and Svanhild running. Ahti and Vellamo were back in Saeborg, much to Talvi’s delight, who’d just won the throne of the Frostland realm for his belovedJotunnhusband.
A month had passed since the Bog Mother’s defeat, since Thori had fled along with Frigga and Odin, and Njord’s first impulse had been to sail to Asgard and demand the return of the god of thunder. But he’d restrained his anger, because as much ashe wanted him back, he couldn’t bring himself to force Thori to return to Vanaheim against his will.
But oh, how Nóatún felt hollow without him.
The fortress was his again, peaceful and orderly, exactly as it should be. Exactly as he’d wanted it before Thori of the thunder had stumbled into his life, prideful even in chains.
Another storm was building with black clouds on the horizon, the third this week, and he hadn’t summoned a single one of them. His powers were acting up, beyond his control, responding to emotions he refused to examine too closely.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
Njord didn’t turn.
“My lord,” Gylfa said gently. “A delegation from Asgard has arrived. They’re waiting in the great hall.”
Njord glared at the raven banners of the three longships anchored in the harbor. As far as Ahti’s spies could fathom, Frigga sat on Asgard’s throne, but Odin was still ill, and the power of theÆsirdiminished. No wonder they wanted to negotiate.
“Tell them I’m occupied,” Njord growled.
“I’ve already told them that. Twice. But they’re insistent.”
“I don’t care how persistent they are. I want to be alone.” As if anything mattered when Thori was gone. “Send them away.”
“My Lord Njord—”
“I said send them away!”
Thunder rumbled overhead. The storm clouds darkened, and heavy snowflakes began to fall. Gylfa sighed deeply.
“They brought gifts,” she said placatingly. “Many crates and boxes. They say it’s a tribute from Asgard, compensation for—”
“I don’t want their tribute. I don’t want anything from them.”
Not true. But what he wanted was impossible. Thori had chosen duty and freedom over him, and why shouldn’t he? Whyshould he choose the captor who’d collared him? Why should he choose the enemy who’d made him a thrall?
“Tell them to take their tribute and leave. I’m done with Asgard.”
“Very well, my lord.”
He listened to Gylfa’s retreating footsteps, staying on the balcony for another few minutes. But he couldn’t hide up here forever. Grumbling, he made his way back to his chambers. He slammed the door shut with more force than necessary and stopped short.
His living chamber was filled with boxes. Dozens of them, stacked carefully in front of his fireplace. Andora and several servants were still arranging them, handling the gifts with reverent care.
“Andora, what’s this supposed to mean?” Njord snarled.
Andora blushed but stood her ground.
“The Asgardians brought gifts for you, my lord. Lady Freyja herself had them selected.”
