Mist (28 page)

Dainn attacked.

He threw everything he had into the assault, every Merkstave he had avoided so assiduously, every particle of anger and hatred he had nurtured since the fall of Asgard. He remembered the laughter in Loki’s eyes when he had revealed his hideous deception . . . remembered each humiliation, each betrayal, the contempt on the faces of the Aesir and Alfar as they pronounced his punishment.

With rage and black Galdr he constructed a Rune- etched blade sharper than anything made by god or man, swinging it mercilessly at the wards Mist denied, aiming for the very heart of her being.

Still she resisted him, utterly oblivious to her own power, shattering the blade and casting him off as easily as a hound sheds water from its coat. The fierce icefire gale she had thrown at him so unwittingly in Asbrew—the terrible weapon that could have destroyed him had its owner understood what she possessed— remained quiescent behind the gates.

This was the trial Dainn knew would come when his mind touched Mist’s again. She hadn’t known what she’d done in Asbrew; she couldn’t drop her instinctive barriers unless she accepted that they were there. He would have to rouse those frigid fires once more, hoping that Mist could control them when she understood that they, and the wards that bound them, were equally a part of her nature.

One more weapon remained to him. He would never have considered it if he believed Mist was incapable of protecting herself. If Mist had failed to recognize the true nature of the beast before, now she would see it for what it was. She would
know.
And there would be nothing he could do to call that knowledge back.

Nor could he be sure he could ever again defeat the thing he had fought so long. The cage had already been weakened by his use of magic, by Freya, by Mist herself. If he was lucky, he would keep enough control to avoid causing damage. He would have to.

Pushing himself beyond the restraints of rational thought, Dainn unleashed the beast. The creature, fed by his rage, was as strong as it had ever been. It slammed its bulk against the bars and burst through, roaring in triumph, slashing through Dainn’s defenses as if they were built of ancient, crumbling parchment. Dainn had just enough will left to send it outward, leaping for the enemy walls.

Mist screamed.

Dainn had no time to brace himself. Mist’s counterattack came hard and fast, slamming against the beast, driving it back with ice and flame and air and stone. It scrambled for purchase on formless ground, snarling and slavering and howling defiance.

Wracked by indescribable pain, Dainn tried to call it back. He had achieved what he had intended. Mist had broken through her own wards, her resistance purged like pus from a festering wound. He could not enter her mind yet; that would be impossible until Mist ceased her furious assault. But as long as the beast resisted . . .

Come back,
he sang in a language he had not heard spoken by anyone else in centuries.
You will have what you desire. We will be one.

The creature was far from stupid. It knew Dainn might deceive it for his own protection. But the temptation was great, and Mist’s unrelenting onslaught was telling on its strength, burning the black fur from its massive body, blinding it with slivers of ice and rock.

In the end it had no choice. It began to retreat, edging back toward the relative safety of Dainn’s mind. Dainn felt it come and cried out in agony, his own breached defenses attempting to rise against it, instinctive rejection he could not afford to permit.

So he embraced it, endured the searing pain of its invasion as he had done so long ago. When it was safely within him again, he soothed it with promises until, exhausted, it fell into a momentary stupor.

But Mist was not finished. She drove after it, sweeping through the raw wound it had left in its wake, carving out a void in Dainn’s mind and controlling his body with all the ease of a mortal child manipulating a puppet. Runes and Merkstaves, their true shapes barely distinguishable—scythe-wheeled chariot, driving hail, seething flood, needles of yew—plunged like flame-tipped arrows into his heart, his belly, every vulnerable part of his body. The icy-hot wind picked him up and flung him across the room while her will stabbed at every nerve, flaying him alive. His throat was too raw for screams, even as every bone shattered when he hit the floor.

He had failed. In the fury of her attack, Mist had lost herself.

An ebony veil fell over Dainn’s eyes, and he began to let himself go. He had feared death, and longed for it; so many times he had tried to take his own life and had been prevented by the instincts of the beast. But if he had driven Mist mad by forcing her to confront her own vast power, his existence was meaningless.

And the beast would die with him. He would never have to pay Freya’s price for its destruction, abandoning the last traces of decency he had clung to since his fall.

Mist would never know how he had planned to betray her.

He closed his eyes and released his life.

“Dainn!”

At first all he knew was that the pain was gone. Hands fluttered over him, strong, long-fingered woman’s hands, touching him here and there as if their owner could not keep them still.

“Dainn! Can you hear me?”

Mist’s voice. A little rough, and urgent with fear. He felt Mist’s hands cup his face, Mist’s breath on his lips. She pulled his mouth open and covered it with hers, blew air into his lungs, turned her head away for a count of two and shared her breath again.

It was sweet, this revival, and it almost made him forget the agony of living. He opened his eyes. Mist pulled back, whispering a prayer even the White Christ might have approved.

“You’re alive,” she said. “I thought—” She bent her face to his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Dainn was incapable of responding, though he knew he had suffered no lasting harm. He didn’t feel broken anymore. His lungs functioned. His heart beat as it should.

Had it all been illusion, then, the shattering of bones and the tearing of flesh?

Perhaps that part had been. But not her magic. Yew needles were scattered on the carpet around him, and melting water soaked his clothing. Lingering manifestations that accompanied only the most powerful magic.

“Do you think you can drink?” Mist asked. She left him for a moment and returned with a glass of water. “Tell me if anything hurts.” She positioned herself behind his head and lifted it with utmost care, wedging her knees under his shoulders.

“There,” she murmured, helping him take a swallow of the water. “You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right.”

Dainn closed his eyes again, relishing the feel of her strong thighs supporting him, her loose hair caressing his face as she leaned over him.

She was sane again. But she was not blind. She knew that something incredible had happened and that she was responsible for it. Perhaps he had not failed after all.

But neither had the beast. It had not been badly damaged by the assault, only driven back for a time. He felt it sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion, but it was far from sated. When it woke it would remember his promise. A promise he must continue to resist as he resisted the emotional weakness that threatened to consume him all over again.

“Mist,” he croaked.

“Don’t try to talk,” she said.

“Are you . . . well?”

“Me?” She hissed through her teeth. “Everyone keeps asking me that when I’m the healthiest one around. Aside from wondering what in Hel just happened, I’m fine.”

“What . . . do you remember?”

“Rest now. We’ll talk la—”

“What do you remember?” he repeated more urgently.

“Power,” she said. “Inside me. Something . . . breaking through, wanting to hurt. Fighting . . . fighting you.”

He gathered up the tattered rags of his courage. “Do you understand . . . what I did?” he asked.

The bewilderment in her eyes cleared. “You attacked me.”

Now. Now it would come.

He tried to sit up, and this time she didn’t prevent him. He braced himself on his elbows. “You asked that I . . . show you the barriers you have created within your mind. The only way to make you aware of them, and what lay behind them, was to force you to defend yourself.”

“But I . . .” She moved from behind him and knelt facing him, her expression tight with worry. “There was fire, and ice, and . . . such anger—” She shook her head. “I think I wanted to kill you. I remember thinking of the Runes, the way you showed me. But the rest of it . . . it wasn’t from Freya. It couldn’t have been. And it wasn’t the Jotunn magic I used in Asbrew, either. I never felt anything like this before.” She glanced at the carpet, at the yew needles, at the melting hail on his shoulders. “You said you expected me to become what I was meant to be. What
am
I?”

“You are remarkable,” he whispered.

She rejected his answer with a jerk of her head. “Maybe you should start by telling me exactly what
you
did.”

A painful shiver wracked Dainn’s body. Was it possible that Mist had been too absorbed in her counterstrike to understand what she was fighting, the terrible truth of his dual nature?

“That is not important,” he said. “What matters is what
you
did. I recognized at Asbrew that you had great potential. Now I believe you may have . . . talents even your mother does not possess.” Mist looked at him as if he were mad. “How can I be more powerful than a goddess?”

Dainn knew it would be better to say nothing at all. This was far beyond his skill.

But she needed—deserved—to understand.

“Do you remember when I spoke of an ancient, almost forgotten magic?” he asked.

“Are you saying that’s what I was doing?”

“You may be drawing on abilities that reach back to the very source of Vanir power.”

She ran her fingers through her loose hair. “But the way you talked about it—”

The way he had talked of it had suggested that no living being could wield that magic. Freya had not suspected, or she surely would have prepared him to anticipate greater obstacles. She had admitted that Mist was more than she expected, but could she ever have imagined this?

“I have no explanation,” he said. “Yet the facts are clear. You were capable of driving me out of your mind, and you used both the power of thought and Runic elements to do it, imagery that came as instinctively as the glamour. Even at my full strength, you would have overcome my defenses.”

Mist stood, backing away until the couch prevented her from moving any farther. “And these are the ‘talents’ you expect me to develop?”

“Freya expects me to help you use all your abilities.”

“The glamour is bad enough. I’m not going to do anything that can destroy someone the way I almost destroyed you.”

“As you see, I am not damaged.”

“Don’t give me that, Dainn. I threw you against that wall. With my mind. And water, and pine needles, and spears of flame. Loki’s piss, I could have
killed
you.” She raised her hands, turning them forward and back. “Fighting with these, or a sword, is one thing. Even getting rid of Jotunar with magic is acceptable, because sometimes there’s no other choice. But there’s evil in this other way, just like there is in making people come to me. Even if I don’t know I’m doing it.”

“It is like any other tool, like the Runes. It is even more essential that you understand how to use it.”

“And how do you know I’ll choose the right path?” She stared down at him, fists clenched and jaw set. “You talked about the danger of misusing the Runes. They shape the magic, right? Did I use Merkstaves against you, Dainn?”

He couldn’t deny it, and Mist clearly saw the answer in his face. “If I’m so cursed powerful, what makes you so sure I won’t use this . . . force inside me to attack anyone who threatens me?”

“There is no wickedness in you, Lady,” he said, meaning it with all his heart.

“But there
is
something dark, isn’t there? Just like there is in you.”

Dainn laughed silently at his own naïveté. He hadn’t escaped after all.

“When you attacked me,” Mist said, “something came after me. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it, either. When you helped me shape the Rune- staves the first time, it was there in the shadows.” She crouched where she was and stared at him, grim and implacable. “At first I thought it was just something my thoughts invented, some kind of image I made up because I was scared and needed something solid to be afraid of. I didn’t want to believe it was really part of you.

“But it is. And it hates me, Dainn. It hates the whole world.”

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