“
State your price.”
“
I do not wish to anger the gods with my price. Will you swear that I am safe here?”
Odin was nonplussed. “None will attack you.” His gaze alone carried the weight of his authority.
“
Very well.” The mason once again looked around the room quickly before straightening up to his full height. He was a large, powerful man, but still an insect compared to the might of any one of the gods, much less their assembled personage. “For rebuilding your wall, I want Freyja.”
Tyr had predicted the price correctly, but the mason’s gall in saying it out loud incensed him. He noted that Freyja, however, did not seem angry or repulsed. There was even a hint of mild amusement on her face. She probably thought the bargain laughable, as if the High One would ever use her as payment for a service. While she was almost certainly correct, Tyr’s anger rose from the presumptions this mortal made. Perhaps this insult would pull Odin from his complacency.
Instead, Odin simply stared. Tyr wondered if he was pondering the offer, or if he was simply lost in some other place, as he often seemed to be.
“
How long would you require to rebuild the wall?” Odin asked.
Freyja’s previous amusement turned to revulsion, or so Tyr guessed from the look spreading across her face. It was odd to see so lovely a face contort in such an unappealing way. As Tyr glanced around the room he could see anger rising on the faces of the gods, while others plainly registered shock. They all attempted to mask their reactions, however. Odin was the Allfather, the High One, and it was not the way of the Aesir to openly question his judgment.
“
I would need six seasons.”
Tyr narrowed his eyes. It was a short period of time for one mason to repair a wall that encircled the entirety of Asgard, and a likely impossible feat. What game was this fool playing at?
Until this point, Tyr had noticed that Loki sat silently near Odin, undoubtedly observing and taking in details that the rest of them might miss. Loki leaned over and whispered something to Odin, his hands subtly emphasizing his points. Tyr wondered what mischief he might be up to. Finally, he settled back into his chair, and Odin returned his attention to the mason.
“
You have two seasons to complete the wall.”
Tyr heard a thud, the clear sound of a fist slamming down onto wood, and he saw Balder shoot to his feet, his chair scooting backwards across the stone floor.
“
Father, you cannot bargain with Freyja as if she were a piece of livestock!”
Odin fixed him with his one eye and said nothing, but the message was lucid and unequivocal. Balder took his seat quietly, although not without a sullen look of displeasure.
Nor did the mason look pleased.
“
I cannot rebuild the wall in so short a time. It is impossible.”
“
The wall must be completed before the first day of summer. That is the offer.”
The mason knit his brow as he considered first Odin, then Freyja. He turned back to the Allfather. Tyr could not imagine that he would accept the offer. Six seasons was far too short a time to complete such a monumental task, but to have the wall complete by the first day of summer was impossible, and the mason knew it as well. Could his lust for Freyja be great enough to cloud his judgment so severely? He would spend two seasons reconstructing a wall for nothing. Would this mortal be so foolish?
“
I will accept the offer if I can use my horse to help me haul stone.”
Odin looked as if he were about to say no, but Loki once again leaned over and whispered to him. After a moment, he returned his gaze to the mason. Tyr could not help but notice the smug smile crossing the Sly One’s features.
“
It will be as you say. You will rebuild the wall with no assistance save for your horse. You will have it completed by the first day of summer else you will forfeit your wages.” Odin paused for a second to note acknowledgment from the mason. “If you do this,” he paused briefly. “Freyja will be yours.”
The mason smiled wide, and Odin rose from his chair, dismissing all the assembled gods with a nod of his gray head. He turned and strode from the hall, ancient and venerable, the high authority of his person evident with every step. There was no sound in the hall to drown out the faint report of Freyja’s golden tears striking the table.
* * *
Loki had been asleep when he first received the Allfather's message. One of Odin’s servants was at his door summoning him for an audience with the Allfather.
Sigyn's side of the bed was empty, and he was alone in his bed chambers. He dressed, although not hurriedly, and girded his waist with his sword belt. He did not care for the feel of it clanking on his leg, nor did he need it, but it was part of the normal dress of an Asgardian. Appearances were important, and it was always easier to give in to expectations than fight them.
He knew that he was viewed suspiciously. He heard the furious whisperings, often enough not even concealed, and even the complaints to Odin's own ear. He could feel their looks of contempt, their disgust for him. And why? Because he dared to contemplate a solution rather than instantly loose his blade from sheath? Because he did not live up to their vision of what an Asgardian should be?
He shook the thought from his head. It would not do to enter a chamber of surly Asgardians with anger on his face. As always, it was his role to quietly examine the problem from all sides and offer advice to the Allfather, he who had been a father to him—in deed if not in name—for as long as he could remember. He knew that his value to Asgard lie in his wits rather than in his blade, and he fulfilled that role well, even if the other gods did not value it. Above all, despite the derision of the others, he owed a duty to Odin.
Not that he couldn't fight if need be. He was not fool enough to think himself the equal of Thor or Tyr, but he knew how to use a blade. He had dispatched many of the Vanir himself, long before there was even talk of peace between the two. He had even faced Frey himself once, although circumstances intervened and the battle was ended before it could begin.
Now there was peace, and it pleased him to a degree. The Vanir dog Frey, and his bitch sister Freyja, could not be trusted, of course. But it was good that they were here in Asgard, nestled amongst them rather than far away in Vanaheim plotting. Their treachery was inevitable, and he would be the first to see that they paid with their lives.
He could see the duplicity in every action they took, in every word that eased itself from their silver tongues. They had been sent as a war bond to end the fighting, but he knew it was a ruse, that they merely lay in wait for the most opportune time to strike. And the Aesir were easy prey for this type of strategy. Both Frey and Freyja held qualities that the Aesir respected, and none but he could see beyond the surface of their actions to the guile beneath.
He would bide his time. This was his greatest skill, to choose the perfect moment to act. He would wait till the moment was right to expose them. The Aesir could no longer speak his name with derision once he proved the two Vanir twins false for all to see. Their skill and beauty would be meaningless. Betrayal was ever the Aesir's most hated crime, and the penalty—the blood eagle—was horrid indeed.
Loki was last to arrive at Gladsheim, and he took the looks of contempt he received with grace and nods to the assembled Aesir who loathed him. A large man, powerfully built and plainly dressed, was led in. Loki could see the man was not as he appeared to be, but he could see no more than that. His mind began to concoct possibilities and motives, reasons for why this strange, weather-beaten visitor stood amongst the gods.
As the visitor addressed them Loki gauged his actions, his speech, his manner of delivery. He was rough and plain, but this was no ordinary mason. There was a shifting as he spoke, like a second skin that clung to him that was visible only for brief moments, and only to one with the skill of seeing. He glanced over at Frey and Freyja, and was amused that neither had detected it.
The mason faced their anger when he named his price, yet stood his ground. Loki detected a slight smile on his face, the sense of satisfaction from infuriating a foe, from using words to drive an opponent to physical anguish. Loki had done this on many occasions, and he felt a sudden, odd kinship with this bold mortal who requested so much of those with so little sense of humor. He leaned in and whispered to the Allfather.
It was not necessary to tell him all of his suspicions. Odin was the only Aesir that Loki held to be his equal in powers of the mind. Surely he saw all—or nearly all—that Loki had observed. It was Loki's role only to point out the advantages to be gained in the situation, to explain how the mason's lust for Freyja could be turned to their advantage. Let her be thrown into the bargain—there was little chance that the mason could succeed. While there was something unseen about him, Loki could foresee no way that this could assist him in the monumental task he had accepted. He would fail, and yet Asgard's wall would be partially rebuilt for nothing but the mason's sweat and tears.
And if by some obscene chance he should complete his task, all the better. The Aesir would have a fully rebuilt wall and would get rid of Freyja in one stroke. The Aesir would never go back on their bargain, of course, but maybe they could be rid of Frey as well, for he would not concede to his sister's bondage so easily. Perhaps he would raise arms against the mason, and the Aesir would be forced to slay Frey, lest he violate the bargain, a principle they would die or kill for.
The mason did not care for the conditions imposed on him, but his lust for Freyja was like a foul stench poisoning the air around him. Loki knew this would be his undoing. His counter—to be able to use his horse—was laughable.
Certainly,
Loki thought,
use your horse. We would not want you to drop dead from your efforts before the task was halfway done.
Odin was reluctant, but Loki's words assured him. He struck the bargain, and the Aesir fell silent, recognizing his authority if still not agreeing with his decision.
As the mason left to begin the impossible task he had accepted, Odin turned to Loki. “If the mason succeeds—“
“
He will not, Allfather. It is an impossible task.”
“
That was true till you allowed him use of his horse.”
“
It will end better for us, my lord. He will get further in the rebuilding. But horse or no, he will not finish. Freyja is safe.”
Odin leaned in close and fixed him with his stare. “If the wall is completed, you will learn why I am called the Terrible One.”
Loki felt his insides tighten as he stared into Odin's eye, but he knew that he would be proven correct. And didn't Odin know the outcome as well? If he truly feared losing the bargain he would never have made it in the first place. He was reassured by Odin's knowledge of the future. The High One would not allow him to enter into a bargain where he would truly be at risk. The threat was for show, to remind all assembled that he was also the Terrible One.
The mason would fail, the wall would be nearly completed, and he would have served the Allfather once more. Odin's false threat to him would even work to his advantage. If the High One would admit to a council of the gods that Loki's advice had proven correct, no others would be able to spurn him openly. Even his naysayers would not be able to claim that he caused only mischief in Asgard.
Chapter Three
Balder and Tyr pulled their horses up short in the tall grass of the fields outside Asgard. They were higher up than the city, and could see the expanse of high towers and vast halls stretching out to the horizon on either side. Once unblemished and shining, the war had damaged many of the structures. Most were repaired, but the work continued. Even for the gods, rebuilding the destruction took time.
The wall surrounding Asgard had been the most heavily damaged structure. It was nearly decimated during the fighting, and had been reduced to rubble in many places. In others, lonely sections were left to stand at a fraction of the wall's previous height. From their vantage point the wall had once looked like a gaping maw of missing and broken teeth.
But now it was nearly summer, and they looked down upon a wall that was, astonishingly, almost completed. Where holes and rubble had once been, there was block upon block of stone towering up to a dizzying height. The gap in the enclosure, once so vast as to leave the entirety of Asgard unprotected, was now reduced to mere leagues. This distance seemed paltry when compared to what the mason had accomplished so far. Neither Balder nor Tyr doubted that he would finish by the first day of summer.
They could see him working from where they sat. He was barely a speck at this distance, but the wake of his progress was unmistakable. A cloud of dust rose up from where he chiseled and placed stone blocks, fitting them in perfect balance with those he had already placed. While any chipping and cutting of stone would cause dust to fly out, the mason worked so quickly and with such furious intensity that he created a whirlwind of dust, making it appear as if smoke was billowing out from an intense fire that could not be seen.
When he hauled stone from the quarry and unloaded it at the base of the wall, his movements were so rapid that he looked like an army of ants constructing their nest. Balder and Tyr marveled and wondered at his strength and endurance. He lifted stone blocks that would have given some of the gods a struggle. And he did not stop working. When they laid their heads down for the night, the mason continued to work. When they rose the next morning, he was still hauling or chiseling stone. None of the gods had seen him rest or even pause to eat.