But from what he’d heard, his grandfather had turned it into a place where very little rest occurred. He ruled with an iron fist, turning the lands dark and enslaving the spirits to serve his whims. And for his quest for power, it seemed.
It was cruel to promise a place in Valhalla to the mortals. Ragnvald had no jurisdiction there. Odin was the only one who could grant access to the ethereal realm.
Only those with magical blood who were deemed worthy of the gods could enter Valhalla. Mortals who had lived an exceptional life would be blessed with a position amongst the Valkyrie, or so the legends said. The elite assembly of warriors hadn’t been seen since long before the War of Realms.
“And what proof of that do you have?” Westley asked. What proof did any of them have, short of visiting the realm as a living soul? He doubted Ragnvald had granted the mortal president access.
“We made a deal!”
“With the gods themselves, or with someone claiming to speak for the gods?”
“King Ragnvald ensures the safety of our people by giving us magic!”
So the mortals thought wielding magic would allow them into Valhalla. The worthiness part seemed to have been skipped over.
Westley wondered if perhaps his grandfather really had found a way to get the mortals into Valhalla. And what were the ramifications of Solveig breaking the bloodstone in Vanaheim? That stone had allowed the mortals magic ... He needed more answers.
His mind whirled with questions as he tried to get the mortal president to listen. “And then he turns around and enslaves you in this life and the next.”
Hugo shook his head. “You know not of what you speak.”
“I have lived it. I know what it is like to believe as you do,” Westley insisted.
The president resisted still. “You have been deceived. Loki has ensnared your mind.”
“You watched your daughter die from the dark magic that claimed her. How can you say this?” Easta cried.
“Ragnvald has ensured her spirit enters Valhalla.”
“How can you be certain?” Westley pushed. It was like speaking to a brick wall. A wave of sympathy crashed over him—this was what it must have been like when North had tried to convince him.
The president got to his feet, slamming his fists on the table. “Because I have to believe!”
North made to move towards him, but the guards closed in, pointing their weapons at her.
“I mean him no harm,” she said to no one in particular. They did not relax their stance, but North stepped forward anyway. “Hugo, I assure you, just as much as you believe you are doing what is best for your people, so am I. I love my parents, but they are wrong. When I become queen, you will not want to stand in my way.”
“You threaten me?”
“I am warning you. You have much to lose if you are wrong. We entreat you to think over what we have said, consider our words carefully. Please take the night and grant us another audience tomorrow, one less charged with anger.”
President Langley hung his head, the weight of his responsibilities dragging him down. Westley tensed as the president looked up with hatred in his eyes.
“Take them away,” he ordered.
The guards made to apprehend them, but Westley was prepared.
He drew forth his magic, using the renewed strength Solveig had given him to pull the moisture out of the air. Small droplets hung all over the room as the mortals gasped in surprise. Easta and North took a step behind Westley, knowing what would come next.
“President Langley, you have been lied to,” Westley said, morphing the water droplets into the image of his grandfather’s face. “Ragnvald does not seek your allegiance because he is sympathetic to your race.”
The water changed, this time creating a vision of what he knew Hel to be like—cold and barren, full of mortals.
“He only wants to control you. He has told you that magic is gone.” The water morphed again, swirling around the room, creating a bubble, caging the president and his sisters in with him. Outside the confines, the guards exclaimed and shouted for him to halt, but they were too scared to approach his magic.
“Magic is still within us. You did not steal it. The trinkets you wear”—Westley nodded towards the stone hanging from the president’s neck—“are merely parlour tricks.”
The water closed in on them, tightening their circle, expanding until nothing but the vortex could be seen. “Our magic is buried, but it is awakening. The magic you use is not stolen but dishonestly given for a price. One you should not be willing to pay.”
