“So how are you enjoying your stay in Asgard thus far, Lionel?” Queen Frigga asks from her seat at the head of the table. The hairs on the back of Tara’s neck rise. The woman says it like she might say, “I would like to stab you in the eye with this butter knife.”

At her right side, Hannah goes very still.

Tara’s eyes slide to Lionel, seated at her left, food virtually untouched. “It has been most agreeable, Your Majesty,” Lionel says, his voice much more deferential than Tara thinks she could manage.

Tara hadn’t wanted to think of tiny, sweet Tavende as Odin’s piece on the side, but according to the myths, Odin and Frigga have been together since the Vikings sailed. Lionel is only a few hundred years old … Frigga has every right to be angry. Her fingers tighten on her fork. Still, it isn’t Lionel’s fault.

“Hmmm …” says the queen. “Might I ask where you are headed?”

Lionel bows his head over his gilded plate. “His Highness suggested that we investigate a house that has recently come into his possession. It is off the Lake Trail.”

“Ah …” says the queen. “Angrboða’s Hall … Loki’s house.”

Lionel’s head snaps up. Tara’s eyes go wide.

“Pardon?” says Lionel, and Tara’s amazed that his voice still sounds normal. She’s pretty sure she’d squeak.

The queen smiles thinly. “It is Loki’s house. Odin didn’t tell you?”

Her ladies-in-waiting erupt into whispers.

“Such a dreadful place.”

“Odin gave him that hall to keep him and his mischief away from the palace.”

“Thank the Norns we’re rid of him and his children.”

Queen Frigga’s voice rises above the din. “Angrboða’s Hall—oh, really, it is a cottage. I don’t know why Loki insisted on putting on airs—has an interesting history. Technically, it belonged to his wife, Angrboða. That … woman. Loki won the house in a bet, but then he lost it in a card game … or was it dice, or maybe chess? No matter. Loki won it back and then sold the cottage to his wife for a song so that he could never legally gamble it away again. The owner, previous to Loki, was the All Father himself. He kept it for … special guests … usually from Midgard.”

One of the ladies drops her fork. The ting sounds as loud as a thunderclap. Lionel’s lip curls, and Tara feels a wave of cold emanating from him. She’s not sure what she’s missed in Frigga’s comment, but Lionel’s glass is frosting over. Afraid he’ll freeze it solid, she lightly brushes his arm. Lionel jerks at her touch, but the wave of frost abates. The ladies start eating again. Tara’s arms remain locked at her side. The queen must notice because she says, “Oh, do not be distressed, Tara Gibson. My husband does not prefer strong women.”

Tara’s still unpacking that comment when soft crackles rise all along the table.

The ladies gasp. Tara glances at her glass. It’s frosted over, and her water has partially frozen. The other guests’ glasses are the same.

Across the table from her, Eir puts her fingers on her glass, and the ice melts away. All the other ladies except Hannah do likewise and smile wickedly at Lionel.

From her position at the end of the table, Frigga says, “Thank you, my drink was a little warm.”

Tara feels heat rising in her chest. This whole lunch is just a game to toy with Lionel.

Her finger taps rapidly on her lap, remembering the tiny elf woman swaying in Benedal’s thrall. Maybe Tavende is weak magically, but so is Tara. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, Tara says, “Tavende stood up to Lady Benedal of the Light Elves when she tried to enslave me.”

One of Frigga’s ladies puts down her glass. In a tittering voice, she says, “I’m sure ‘enslave’ is too strong a word.”

Tara smiles tightly. “Benedal didn’t call it that, but that was what it was. She used magic to control me, to try to make me her attendant out of some sort of weird …” Tara remembers Benedal saying she would look like Tara if she was human. “… vanity. If you have no choice, you are a slave.”

“That is so,” says Hannah, and some of the ladies at the table look to her almost fearfully.

Keeping her chin high, Tara looks to the head of the table, expecting to find fury in the queen’s eyes. Instead, Queen Frigga’s eyes are downcast. She looks almost ashamed, but then the queen’s back stiffens and she looks at Lionel rather than Tara. In a cold voice, she says, “Your mother is a silly elf who was careless with her name.”

Lionel’s nostrils flare, and there is the slight sheen of sweat on his skin. She sees his Adam’s Apple bob.

Tara remembers him wondering aloud if Odin knew everyone’s names. The elves have power of compulsion over anyone whose full name they know. Would other magical creatures have such power over an elf? And is the queen implying that Odin would use that power against Tavende? Or had he already? Tara’s heart beats fast. With her left hand, she searches for Lionel’s hand under the table. She finds it and squeezes, but he doesn’t respond.

In English, Hannah mutters, “That is enough.” Her accent sounds a bit like Tara’s friends from Ghana. In Asgardian she says, “So, Tara is a minor magician at a university on Midgard’s northwestern continent.” She turns to Tara. “I’d so love to hear about your education.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Tara says through gritted teeth, not wanting to talk at all.

“At the beginning,” Hannah replies, tone becoming sharp. “How old were you when you first went to school?”

Tara almost doesn’t answer, but then Hannah elbows her sharply.

“I was four when I began preschool,” Tara replies.

There are exclamations from around the table, and Hannah begins peppering her with extremely detailed questions. Soon, Tara is so bored with herself, she thinks she might cry. But Frigga doesn’t interrupt, so Tara supposes it’s for a good cause.

This could be her life—magic, viciousness, and tedium. She supposes Dean Kowalski’s last faculty party wasn’t that much different.

Tara breathes out a sigh of relief when dessert is over, but then the queen says, “Lionel, you will attend me now,” and her relief pops like a soap bubble.

Lionel rises and so do the queen’s ladies. Tara almost does, too, but Hannah puts a hand on her arm and holds her back with surprising strength. “He’ll be all right,” Hannah whispers as Lionel, the queen, and her ladies leave the table. “The queen does not like the taint of murder in her court.”

Tara blinks. “That isn’t precisely reassuring.” Maybe court politics are a little bit more vicious than faculty turf wars? She follows Lionel with her eyes. He and the queen are disappearing into the fog that has mysteriously rolled off the lake. The ladies follow at a discreet distance.

Hannah says, “Nor would she do such a thing around Asgard’s youngest child, and only infant.”

“Only infant?” Tara asks. As if on cue, she hears a baby cry, and a maid out on the grass with Hannah’s little girl brings a tiny bundle to the table.

“Ah,” says Hannah. “He’s hungry.”

As the maid draws closer, Tara sees the tiny smushed nose, wrinkled skin, and overall wizened appearance of the child. “He’s a newborn!” she exclaims. She wouldn’t think him more than a day or two old.

Hannah shakes her head. “He’s two years old.”

At Tara’s look of surprise, Hannah holds up a hand. “But don’t worry, he’s not ill. It’s just that things here …” The other woman frowns. “Things here aren’t changing, and our children aren’t growing at a normal rate.” Her eyes slide to Tara. “Some of the ladies think my magical talent is fertility because I’m the only woman to have borne a child in …” She looks to the side. “Oh … fifty years.”

Tara’s jaw drops.

Hannah gives her a tight smile. “But I think it is that I am human. Oh, so are some of the Valkyries, but they’re too busy to give birth during the first decades of training, and there hasn’t been one recruited since the last World War.” She shakes her head. The maid hands her the tiny infant. Rocking him gently, Hannah continues, “Asgard, I think, needs humans. We are the youngest of the races, we are change, and Asgard needs change … I’m so glad that you’ll be taking the loyalty oath and joining us.”

Tara squeaks, “Loyalty oath?”

“Do you think you can take my son Baldur’s place? That you can so easily become the next Golden Prince?” Queen Frigga hisses, staring out at the lake. Her magic whips around her, creating the fog.

“It is not my desire to take the place of Prince Baldur,” Lionel says, his fists clenching at his side. “But for Tara’s sake, I must stay.” If he doesn’t make this work out, she will die. He knows the implications of Odin having “mortal guests” at Angrboða’s Hall—he kept his mortal mistresses there. Odin is famous for being the ancestor of the royal families of Midgard’s Northern Europe. Is that Odin’s intention for his mother? Lionel doesn’t think she’d be receptive to it … she has never spoken of Odin.

He feels like he is being cleaved in two by a very tiny sharp blade and stretched in very different directions. He doesn’t believe his mother will want to be here … but he doesn’t believe she’d want him to endanger Tara’s chance at immortality, either. For Tara, anywhere but Asgard is death.

The queen turns to him, and for a moment, he thinks he sees pity, or … something, but then her eyes become unfocused. “You are a liar, and a poor one. You came here to steal my Golden Son’s legacy. I will fight you every step of the way, and your whore mother.”

Lionel feels himself vibrate with rage. Is that why she taunted him with the implication that she knows his mother’s real name? The fog around them turns to flakes of ice.

Frigga rolls her eyes, and he feels her magic hum around them. The ice turns to mist again. The queen smiles sharply. “I know all your tricks, Lionel Whatever Your Name Is.”

The words sting with their truth. He doesn’t know his name anymore. Is it the one his mother gave him? Or is he, as Cyo suggested, Odinson? If Cyo had spoken his full name, would Lionel have bent to his whim? Odinson is Thor’s surname, and he is a bastard. Lionel’s stomach curls. Releasing a breath, he tries to reason with Frigga. “I want Tara to have a chance to live, that is all. My mother entrusted me with her welfare, and I must see it through. I’m sure I’ll never replace Baldur in the hearts of the people or your husband’s.”

He hears her swallow. “Of course you won’t. No one could.”

Lionel bows. “As you say.” He is so tired, weary down to his bones. Not just of her, but royalty in general.

The queen spins on her heel and walks back through the mist. Lionel remains. Frigga’s accusation that his mother had been careless with her name is ringing in his mind. Had Odin known it when he’d visited Alfheim … Lionel feels like his body has morphed into lead. Odin couldn’t have known it. If the All Father had compelled his mother, she never would have had Lionel … but perhaps she thought he was the son of Sol? He swallows, remembering emerging from the Dark Lands and his mother throwing herself into his arms as all of his neighbors had hung back. He closes his eyes. There couldn’t have been any compulsion in his conception. There couldn’t have been.

He blinks at the lake, slate gray and still. Could his mother brush off a king who knew her name? Could she brush off one that didn’t?

But what option is there for Tara if they don’t stay here? Or even for his mother? The Dark Lands, or death in the land of the Light Elves. He is stronger now … he might be able to hire himself out to King Sutr of the Fire Giants, or King Utgard of the Frost Giants, but a life in a realm of Fire or Ice would be even less safe than here.

The fog begins to dissipate, but its chill seems to have sunk deep into his chest. He feels like he can’t breathe.

Lionel isn’t sure how long he stands staring at the motionless waters, but he doesn’t turn around until he hears the rattle of the pavilion being dismantled. The fog has completely lifted, and he sees some servants wrestling with the silks and others wrapping up the food.

Tara is standing next to Hannah. Lionel hears Hannah say, “Are you sure you won’t return with us to the palace?”

“Yes,” says Tara. “We need to see Loki’s house.”

Hannah leans toward her. “I’m sure Lionel can use his influence to get his mother better accommodations.”

Lionel stands a little straighter. Hannah is right. He is Odin’s son. Surely, if he presses Odin, he could get someplace more appropriate. He lets out a breath. He is so unused to being in a position of power among royalty. He can make this work, for Tara, his mother, and himself.

“We still have to see it,” Tara says. “I wish … I wish I could have spoken to you longer.”

“We’ll have all the time in the world to talk,” Hannah replies with a smile.

Lionel has begun moving unconsciously toward them, and now he’s close enough to see Tara’s brows gathering together, and the downturn of her mouth.

“We don’t have to go there, Tara,” Lionel interjects.

Spinning toward him, but not meeting his eyes, Tara exclaims, “Yes, yes, we do.”

“You should take a picnic basket,” Hannah says. “Lionel must be hungry.” She gestures to a servant, who comes forward with a basket.

The servant bows. “I’ll accompany you, sir.”

“We’d rather be alone,” Tara says too quickly.

To be alone with Tara for a few hours before facing the king … Lionel reaches for the basket. “I’ll take it,” he says, not caring if it is right or proper by the standards of Asgardian or Alfheim royalty.

Turning back to Hannah, Tara says, “I wish you all the best.”

Hannah smiles brightly. “I have all the best.”

Tara nods and smiles.

Lionel holds up his arm and she takes it. They don’t speak until they round a bend, and are out of sight of the last of the luncheon party.

Tara draws to a halt and drops his arm.

Turning to her, he finds her looking up at him with wide, distressed eyes. He hears the buzz of insects, the flap of wings, and the beat of his own heart. “What is it?” he whispers. “You can tell me. We are in this together.”

She looks down at the ground and closes her eyes. Stepping closer, he kisses her brow. It’s a chaste kiss. But he swears he can feel the warmth of her, even through the armor he wears, and he can’t step away. His free hand goes to the back of her head, and threads with the hair at the nape of her neck. He’s just being comforting. When he bends lower, it’s only to reassure her and whisper, “You can tell me, Tara,” against her lips. But then their lips are so close … he feels like he’s being dragged by a pull more ancient than either of their races. His lips meet hers, and she doesn’t pull away. She steps forward, and it feels like she is stepping into him. The basket slides from his arm, and lands with the sound of breaking porcelain. But Lionel’s hands, arms, and heart is full of Tara. His body is ready to be full with her, too.

Her nails trail down his neck, and his hand slides down her back, trying to get her closer. Their lips crush together and come apart again and again, until they’re both breathless and panting. She tastes like … salt.

He pulls back, and her cheeks are shining with tears.

He cups her cheek. She doesn’t pull away from him, but her eyes are downcast.

He inclines his head in question.

Looking up at him with warm brown eyes glossy with tears, she whispers, “Lionel, you have to take me home.”

Lionel pulls back as though Tara has struck him. “What?”

The distance between them makes her ache. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, afraid if she opens them, she’ll lose her nerve, Tara says, “I have to go home.”

“No, Tara,” he whispers, his hands coming to her shoulders. “I know this place is strange, and the politics …” He sucks in a breath. “But Tara, we can manage. You’re sensitive and smart, you’ll pick up their games fast and play better than any of them.”

Tara sniffs, lifts her head, but can’t look him in the eye.

“I know I haven’t been very princely. I was raised a peasant, but I learned to be a steward—I became very good at managing royalty and their whims—I can be a good prince.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Your prince.”

Those words catch her heart. “Your prince.” She thinks of him fighting Rogier and the each-uisge. More tears fall from her eyes. “You’ve already been very princely.”

His fingers ghost beneath her chin and he wipes a few of her tears away. She opens her eyes. His expression is still uncomprehending.

The afternoon sun is dazzling. The forest is vibrant and alive. The woods are magical … and so is he and what she feels, but … “The loyalty oath, Lionel. I can’t take it.” Odin had mentioned it, almost as an afterthought, he hadn’t explained it to her. Hannah had. “I’d have to pledge my obedience to Odin, and I can’t do that.”

Hannah had been untroubled by the idea. “Pledging obedience to a king is like pledging obedience to your husband,” the other woman had said with a shrug. “It is part of the natural order.”

“Doesn’t every subject owe allegiance to a monarch?” Lionel asks, rocking back on his heels.

And Tara is briefly shocked, just as she had been with Hannah. They’re both from very different cultures. Recovering, Tara says, “Allegiance is not obedience.”

Lionel’s mouth gets very tight. He looks away. “Is the distinction so important?”

“Of course it’s important!” Tara retorts. “Allegiance leaves you with free will and judgment. Allegiance is open to interpretation. Obedience to a man is slavery!” She doesn’t mean to shout, but she does.

Beginning to pace, Lionel says, “With royalty, you have to be clever and indirect, but you can still get your way.” He meets her gaze. “You’re subtle, Tara. You will be fine.”

Tara shakes her head. “No, I won’t. Lionel, none of Odin’s Einherjar disobey him. None.” Hannah had said it was because Odin is just and good. Her husband had risen from an illiterate foot soldier to an officer. Hannah had been so delighted that not just Abraham, but she had been given an education, and so had all her children. They all ate the Apples of Idunn, and had all the rights of citizens of Asgard. Tara sees why she would be loyal for that. This place is wonderful compared to anything Hannah knew in the Carolinas in the 1800s.

However …

“There is always some idiot who defies even the best orders eventually,” Tara says. “But Hannah said none of Odin’s Einherjar ever do. Can you tell me your father doesn’t use compulsion in some way? That magic isn’t part of the oath?”

Lionel takes a step back.

Tara’s shoulders fall. “You can’t, can you?”

Lionel’s lips part, but he says nothing.

“There’s more,” Tara says, dropping her eyes. “I think that Odin may be considering war against my world.”

“Not war,” says Lionel. “Influence.”

She looks up at him, shocked that he would say it so easily.

“The All Father’s rule is one of influence,” Lionel says. “Alfheim, Vanaheim, and Asgard, where his rule is most accepted, are the most peaceful places in the Nine Realms. Certainly, more peaceful than Midgard! I’ve heard of your great wars and the weapons your kind created.”

Tara’s jaw falls. Thor had said something about joining Odin being the best thing if it was peace she wanted for the human race. Was peace what she wanted? She thinks of the stifling social order of Alfheim. Asgard’s system seems slightly more meritocratic, but only if you want to be a warrior. That in itself is stifling.

Her lips pinch. Is stifling the populace the way peace has to be maintained?

She narrows her eyes. “Mighty coincidental that the regions that are less enthusiastic are more violent,” she murmurs.

Lionel stiffens, and she can tell she hit a nerve.

“He keeps them destabilized, doesn’t he?” she whispers.

Insects hum. There is a rustling in the undergrowth. She hears the flutter of wings in the trees.

“I want to go home,” she says.

Lionel’s voice rises in a shout. “You’ll die!”

Before she can say a word, he spins and storms down the trail.

Lionel’s gone nearly twenty paces when he realizes that Tara isn’t following him.

He turns around and sees that she’s picked up the basket he dropped. She hasn’t moved otherwise, and is looking at him uncertainly. We’re in this together. The words he’d said earlier churn in his gut.

Why can’t she see this is the only way?

Even from this distance, he can see the flower in her hair is still as fresh as it was hours earlier. Magic, no doubt.

That is the reason for her fear. This world is strange to him, but it’s stranger to her. She is afraid, and she just needs time to find her footing. The oath is unpalatable to her, but he is the prince, he does have leverage, he can convince Odin to change it … with time, and he can change her mind, too … with time.

He needs to stall, and dealing with unreasonable royalty has given him a few centuries of experience. Elves can’t lie, but he can tell a truth. “I need to think of what I will say to my father,” he says.

Tara takes a few steps forward, chin lifted, expression imploring. She’s carrying the basket awkwardly before her with both arms.

“You’ll help me?” she whispers.

“Always.” Without thinking on it, Lionel falls into a bow—just as he would when faced with a member of royalty he’d have to sway with subtlety and tact.

She comes closer, her walk toddling, hampered by the basket. He hadn’t really thought of the weight of it; even with the armor he wears on his chest, his new body’s size and strength made it unremarkable.

Biting her lip, she asks, “When you said I’d die … you didn’t mean right away, did you?” She scans the forest on either side, and adds more softly, “Odin doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you say no to.”

Lionel draws back, remembering his first meeting with Hannah, Abraham, and their son Benjamin, then a newborn. Odin had arrived just as a slave hunter had fired his weapon at Abraham. Odin had stopped the deadly projectile, suspending it in midair and time. He’d immobilized the slave hunters similarly, leaving them angry statues, and then he’d offered Abraham a chance to join his Einherjar. Abraham had said he’d die with his family or live with them. Lionel doesn’t remember any families of Einherjar being allowed to come with their husbands. Odin had glanced at Leenine and Lionel, and then said Abraham’s family would be welcome to come, too. If Leenine and Lionel hadn't been there, would Odin still have offered to take the whole family? Lionel does know that if Abraham had refused they all would have been left to die.

“Lionel?”

Tara’s voice brings him back to the present. He inclines his head. “This is a special case.”

“What does that mean?” There is a hard edge in her voice.

His shoulders fall. “Sometimes when a mortal has wound up mixed up in the affairs of Light Elves, or other magical creatures, they’ve had their memories of the events removed.”

The hard edge in her expression melts. “I don’t want to forget you.”

He feels as though gravity has lifted. “I don’t want that, either.”

A bird calls in the trees.

“So where are we going?” she asks.

Where are they going? He looks down the trail. The best way to give Odin and Tara time is not to be available this evening before Odin leaves for Muspelheim. The best way to do that is to accidentally leave this world, and have an “innocent” diversion in Vanaheim or perhaps even in the regions of Svartalfheim loyal to the All Father.

But using the main World Gates is out of the question. They’ll be guarded by mages and Einherjar.

His eyes narrow, remembering the Asgardian lore he’s picked up from Her Majesty. Somewhere in this realm there is a house with doors to all the worlds, larger on the inside than it is on the outside. “A chaos creation,” Her Majesty had called it.

Scooping the basket from her hands, he says, “I know where we’ll go.”