She wondered whether the Empress was aware of the irony of having survived an extinction-level event in her own mausoleum.
Odin himself had decreed all dead men should be burned, and their belongings laid with them upon the pile, and for the ashes to be cast into the sea or buried in the earth. Everyone would come to Valhöll with the riches he or she had gathered about them. A woman of consequence like Trumba would have a mound raised to her memory, and for each of her distinguished warriors, a standing stone, a custom older than the Empire itself. Until now, Iðunn reflected. There were so many dead down below, it would take a whole new Stone Age to carve the memorials.
“And the heavens departed as a scroll when it is rolled together. If you look closely, there, do you see? That. That was my Winter Palace.”
Iðunn glanced over at Trumba, mouthing her prayers in the dark. She’d seen the Empress on sightbands before, been lectured by her lawspeakers in the Criminal Courts, but she’d never seen her in the flesh. The volcanic glow of the planet played about her face, the contrast of the veil making a harlequin’s mask, her quizzically arched eyebrows accentuated by the wrinkled material. The effect was of catlike sensuality and slyness.
“Difficult to tell…” the Empress continued. “Every mountain and island moved out of their places. The Board of Ordnance won’t be amused.”
Iðunn’s own body was shapeless and drab by comparison. Her dress looked funereal in the twilight. It was unadorned, with a heavier veil than that which the Empress wore—a handmaiden’s, no doubt. She’d need a new vehicle, given time. This one was a thin disguise, but it had been the only occipital lobe available to hijack onboard. Iðunn was amazed she had gotten so close, so quickly, but in truth it was a mixed blessing. A servant would only see so much. She’d need to follow a Varangian to circumvent security. Come to think of it, where were the guards?
“I could never stand Miklagard, you know. All those stinking Serkir, effete Grikkir, and greedy Gyðingar,” the Empress said, now focused on the fragments of the Imperial capital. “Still, melting pot never seemed a more apt description…” she cackled. She didn’t really seem to care whether her handmaiden was listening or not. Like a child, she should be seen and not heard.
Iðunn didn’t know what was worse, the cataclysm below or the off-hand callousness the Empress displayed. Trumba had never been popular, either as an entitled heir or a savage and brutal ruler. In fact, her reign had been so imperiled, so fraught with difficulty, people openly referred to her as the Mayfly Queen. The rumours of the assassination—the military coup out on Mímisbrunnr, Trumba deposed just months into her reign—had seemed like wish fulfillment to many of her subjects, Iðunn included. But like it or loathe it, the Verðandi had mouths to feed and the Empress was her meal ticket.
The worlds were still full of robber barons and corrupt jarls—the drengskapr set, drunk on plunder and war-stories. And her children were gone, torn from her, scattered, hiding in sooty fens and rimejewelled caves—or else on display in macabre mobile zoos, rolled between townships, jeered at by the very fools they had hoped to save. Iðunn knew the punishment never matched the crime. Her revolution had failed.
She knew she’d got off lightly and she knew exactly why. True, she was the head of her order, but that meant little—Trumba had decapitated the Urðr sisterhood twice before. Being directly related to the great Karl Lind, the Leaf King himself, had provided her with some protection.
But most of all, she was free because she held the secret of the Apples. Iðunn could not only create, shape, and restore life. She could extend it, far beyond a normal mortal span. One sweet, tantalizing bite of her apples was tantamount to immortality. Figuratively, of course. In reality, telomerase was delivered in tablet form, twice daily, but she did at least administer it with Fructone, a synthetic aroma compound with the requisite fruity smell.
Trumba had been all too ready to pardon her crimes, to redeem the Verðandi order, in return for what they knew. It was obvious she had no scruples of any kind. Iðunn stopped feeling sorry for herself, at least long enough check that Trumba was still happily extemporizing.
“The morning dews for meat shall they have, such food shall men then find.… Thence are gendered the generations…” The Empress was getting whimsical. She must have swallowed whole texts from the Ministry of Propagation.
Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. Iðunn imagined she could slip away, unnoticed. Her feet were cold, literally and figuratively—handmaids weren’t given regulation footwear, it seemed. To where? she reminded herself, quickly. Dump the follow and return to her own body in Helheim? What was the point? Months had passed since her sentencing. Her new laboratory was always cold, even though buried deep in the glacier. They’d been set to work on the graving docks, little more than chattel, birthing miracles at the behest of Imperial logisticians. The new biohaven, Elvidnir, wasn’t so much a place as a state of misery. She’d heard depression described as being like viewing the world through a sheet of plate glass; on Helheim, it would be more accurate to say a sheet of thick, semi-opaque ice. The effects were the same. She was irritable, clumsy, prone to accidents. The work was stultifying, demeaning, and every day was a chore. All the promise of mankind distilled into cheap DNA splices and spiteful tortures.
No wonder her mind wandered. Literally, in the case of a Verðandi.
Following had always been her strong suit, leaping behind the mind of some unwitting stooge, nestling behind their consciousness, watching the world through their eyes. The younger Vǫlur had augmented the spell-songs with technology, visors linked to all-seeing machines. Iðunn had forgotten more about the galdrar than she’d care to admit, but she still didn’t need those kinds of crutches. She used the follows to look for her children, scouring the oblasts of Vanaheimr through the eyes of a Gael banjaxer, or swooping through the hoodoos of the Niðavellir Badlands aboard a Langobard air yacht pilot. She couldn’t help them, her children, but it was reassuring to know they were out there. Surviving.
“Líf and Lífthrasir, lurking, hidden, in the wood of Hoddmímir; do you think the ancient seeress meant us? Two survivors, high in the boughs,” the Empress asked. It took a moment before Iðunn realized that Trumba was addressing her directly this time. She turned the body to meet her gaze. Trumba was radiant, arraigned gracefully on the adjacent bulkhead, still looking out on Midgard. Iðunn wanted to stare, to drink in that porcelain skin, to bask in the pale fire of her hair, the taut chains of muscle that coiled under her loose woolen dress.
She checked herself. Clever… an aphrodisiac, the Empress toying with her through chemical signals. Trumba was a woman determined to have her way, and clearly had an arsenal of means to do so. The Verðandi realized that the Norse had come a long way during the war. While her Apples might give them longevity, all the other tinkering and shaping had turned even a simple conversation into a battle. Like an ancient holmgang, a duel to the first blood between rival combatants.
“So, Lector, how long have you been watching me?” Trumba purred, still staring down at the broken planet. Iðunn startled. The truth was, she had no idea. Those pheromones really were the best that money could buy.