Fate Forgotten (32 page)

The Northlands had fallen to the Christians, one after another. All but the Sami, in the far north, and the peasants and Samogitians of Lithuania, to the east, had converted. The old ways were outlawed along with the worship of the gods who had nurtured them for so long. There were those among the converted lands who still made sacrifice in private, praying to Freyr to protect their crops, or calling upon Odin to give them strength in battle, but every year, they grew fewer in number. Every year, the gods of Asgard spoke of moving on. And every year, Odin refused to be persuaded, his one-eyed gaze falling upon Thor, and grimmer lines forming around his mouth and eyes. Odin had never forgiven him for Loki’s murder, nor was he at all pleased that the Council had sanctioned it. But that was not all that lay between them.

“All these years, and you are still under her spell,” Odin had spat, after Thor had told him he would not go on to the new world that Zeus and his brothers had found, regardless of any decision made by the Aesir.

Hermes and Anubis traveled between the two planes, now and again, bringing news and invitations. The Covenant had forged bonds between pantheons that had not been forgotten, and Zeus had not quite given up on reclaiming his wisest daughter. Most of the Egyptians had left, at Ra’s urging, and a good many of the Persians had followed. There was no longer room for any worship but that of Elohim in those lands.

“I have obligations, people who look to me still for help and protection. Eve is part of it, of course, but she is not all that holds me here.”

“You would abandon your family, your brothers, your children to remain here?” Odin demanded. “Never to know their fates!”

“Unlike you, Father, I do not feel compelled to keep my children leashed. Thrud and Ullr will no doubt follow their mother, and Magni and Modi have yet to decide what path they will take, but I will not argue with them, one way or the other. My daughter knows she will always have my love, as do my sons, and they will know too, where to find me, if they ever wish to return.”

“She does not even know you live, boy!” Odin slammed his fist against the arm of his throne. “You betray everything for nothing more than a child’s fantasy, and you expect me to stand by and watch? To allow it!”

Thor met his father’s gaze, his own eyes burning. “And why is it, Father, that she does not know I live?”

Odin had thrown him out of his chamber after that, cursing him for insolence, and Thor had known even then, he had made a mistake. If Odin had not been certain whether to remain before, he had reason to do so now. Spite, more than anything, kept the Aesir on this earth. And Odin’s stubborn refusal to accept that he had lost his son.

And so Thor waited, and watched Eve from a distance, for Odin had taken to sending Baldur or Freyr to follow him when he walked the earth. Heimdall’s observations, it seemed, were no longer enough. But at least he did not send Sif to haunt his steps. From what Thor had heard, she was much too busy finding comfort in Lugh’s arms, now that Loki was trapped in Hel. He would not have wished her on any Aesir, nor did he truly wish her on the Celt, Trickster or not, but if either one found pleasure in the match, that was their business. Sif was, after all, no longer his wife, and he was well rid of her.

“Have you been to Avignon?” Heimdall asked him one day, when Thor had gone to join him at his post. The cliff’s edge seemed to have crumbled in the last century, but Bifrost still sprung burning from its stones, bending toward the earth in a rainbow of fire and light.

“Not since before the popes settled there.” Thor passed him a horn of mead. Heimdall was not often able to attend the feasts in Odin’s hall, but Thor and his brothers had always taken turns bringing him some refreshment while he stood watch. Even now, Heimdall did not turn his gaze from the distance, staring out across the world, marking the comings and goings of the Aesir and listening to the prayers of their people.

Heimdall accepted the mead, frowning. “It is not possible to watch the earth and not see your Eve, burning more brightly than even our bridge. Odin prefers I not speak of it. Prefers, I think, to pretend she does not live, but he cannot make me blind to her, nor prevent me from seeing.”

“And what have you seen, to speak of that which my father has forbidden?”

“I have seen Avignon,” Heimdall said, slanting him a strange glance. “And were I you, and charged with her keeping, I would find her there.”

France had suffered tremendously in the last centuries—all of the continent had—but Thor had done what he could to ensure the House of Lions had remained untouched, both by plague and war. Athena had helped, and Ra as well. Even Baldur had been lured from Asgard by the promise of good mead and an escape from the cloud of despair which had settled over Odin’s house.

The streets of Paris were not much of an improvement. Between the warring Dukes, the Mad King Charles, and the threat of the English, the city knew no peace. But neither was the country safe, Thor realized, for as he traveled, he passed villages burned to ash and abandoned, ravaged by war and marauders, both.

Avignon, in the south, was fortunate. While the pope resided, the city had swelled, protected by its walls and the gold paid in ransom. Plague had struck, and the population thinned, but it was not as devastated as it might have been, and even without Rome’s presence, trade made Avignon rich. Benedict, true pope or not, had not been gone so long that the people suffered for his absence. In fact, they thrived.

When Thor arrived, the streets buzzed with news of a coming trial, and Thor could not take three steps without running into another monk or priest, hurrying by in some kind of preparation. Whoever the poor girl was, by the way the city talked, she was already condemned.

“Her poor sister,” he heard one woman flutter as she passed him on the street. “Such an innocent to be so exposed. And the stories she told of the devil! As if he were some old friend! Why Pierre did not remarry when he had the chance, I’ll never understand. A good wife would have put a stop to any witchcraft beneath his roof, and saved him the disgrace.”

“He’ll never find a wife now,” her companion agreed. “And poor Aimee. Who will want a woman so ruined? And she was such a charming little thing. So delicate and beautiful.”

“The only place for her now is the convent,” the first woman said. “And the sooner, the better, before the news spreads any further. Perhaps in a year or two, there might be a lord in England willing to take her, the poor dear. It certainly isn’t her fault, if she was bewitched.”

Thor snorted. There was, of course, a seed of truth to the idea of bewitchment. The Olympians had taken great advantage of the art, certainly, encouraging one or another of their heroes to this or that act. But from all Eve had told him of the Garden, Lucifer was unlikely to be involved in any of it. The Fallen One had gone to ground so thoroughly he had not been seen or heard from for as long as Thor had walked the earth and even Ra was uncertain of his fate. Lucifer had frightened Eve, but only because of his strangeness, and in the end, it was his wisdom which had given her the strength to save her people.

His steps slowed and his chest tightened.
As if he were some old friend.

He’d known for some time the Church might consider Eve a threat, but he had never imagined she would speak of her pasts so carelessly as to bring herself to their attention. Always, she had been cautious. Always, she had protected herself, preferring not to speak of her history at all, from what he had witnessed, unless she believed the person worthy of her trust and love.

But Heimdall had sent him here for a reason. For Eve.

Might Eve have trusted a sister? Told stories to entertain a child?

He closed his eyes, searching for the bright light of her presence, so familiar to him after so many years. Where? Heimdall could not have been wrong, and Thor trusted him not to lie. At worst, Heimdall would only keep his own counsel—

There. Too dim and flickering, but impossible to confuse for any other. He followed his sense of her, and the nearer he went, the more her anxiety wrapped around his heart, thick and bitter. And then he stood upon the gray stone esplanade, before the immense palace built by the popes. There was no reason Eve should have been inside such a fortress. Even if she were a legate’s daughter, or some bastard child of a cardinal, she would have been removed after the siege. And it was not as if there were not enough luxurious apartments within the city walls.

A carriage rolled to a stop before the main entrance, the horses pawing at the stone, nostrils flaring and coats lathered. The man who stepped out was clearly a priest of some kind, a bishop at least, judging by how richly he was dressed. He adjusted his gloves and took the steps two at a time, his expression grim.

But Thor did not wait to see him enter the palace. There was no need, for the man’s intent was more than clear in his thoughts.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Thor reached for the lightning that crackled between the clouds, drawing it down. Liquid light spilled through his veins, and the esplanade with its palace dissolved into mountains and fields as familiar as the touch of Eve’s mind. Perhaps he could not reveal himself to her, but that did not mean he could not send her aid, and what was the House of Lions for, if not this?

He only hoped he would not be too late, for the Church had sent inquisitors, and they meant to judge Eve.

Heretic or witch, it hardly mattered now.

“Thor of the North.” The man looking down on him from the back of a horse had the same dark eyes and dark hair of his Lion predecessors, with a rather larger portion of caution and reserve. Thor could hardly blame him. There were far too many bandits and marauders roaming about the countryside, even in the mountains, and with lands so near France’s border, the Lions faced assault from foreigners as well. But Thor did not have the time to humor his suspicion.

“I come on behalf of your Lady,” Thor said. “Who even now requires your protection.”

Ryam’s eyes narrowed, his horse dancing beneath him, black and glossy. “You come with lightning and thunder and speak of our Lady, but what possible protection might I offer her that you cannot? Thor of the North is said to be a god.”

He let his eyes haze white, the green and gold of the fields leaching to gray in his vision. Thunder rumbled again, overhead. “Even gods have limits. Most especially in lands belonging to another. Your Lady is in Avignon.”

Ryam tightened his grip on the reins, and his horse snorted. “Surely the angels—”

“Will stand by and watch her burn for heresy and witchcraft!” Lightning flashed, betraying his impatience. “I can take you to Avignon with my own power, but I dare not influence their minds. It must be you, Ryam.”

“Marquis DeLeon,” he corrected him stiffly. “Lord DeLeon, at the least.”

His jaw clenched, but he acknowledged the title with the barest of nods. “Lord DeLeon. Will you retrieve your Lady and uphold your oaths, or must I find her another champion? One who is not too proud to protect her?”

Ryam lifted his chin, his lip curling. “If it is as you say, no Lion would refuse. She cannot be left to the justice of the inquisitors, but nor are they likely to bargain with a Marquis. Even kings must submit to the power of the Church.”

“Then appeal to her father,” Thor said. “Give him the opportunity to save his daughter’s life. Even her honor, if a match might be made with such a noble house. But it must be done quickly, whatever it is. Tonight.”

“On my fastest horse, I could not make it to Avignon before nightfall tomorrow.”

He bared his teeth. “Fortunate then, that you need not travel by horse alone. Go and ready yourself and a carriage. Lightning will provide the rest.”