Chapter 3
3
Alfheimr
Cyran strode through the front door of the new palace Lamruil and Ailuin had finished not long ago. Becoming co-regents of all Elfkind had not been an easy decision, but he believed the twins would be the only two who could unite the Elven factions, especially with Ailuin’s wife, Raisa. She had a unique quality about her that people responded to, although he had always thought she was a little sharp, but hey, who was he to judge?”
People thought he was flippant and never took anything seriously. His thoughts turned to his childhood and the lack of laughter or fun in their home when his stepfather had been around. His mother loved to laugh and always found beauty in the world. He missed that about her. Hell, he missed her. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, to share with her.
With a quick knock on the gilded door, he pushed the heavy door inward and stepped into the twin’s massive sitting room. As large as a ballroom, it was filled with a mixture of elegant furniture on one end. Rich burgundy tapestry cushions adorned the chairs in a nice contrast with the dark mahogany-turned wood. It reminded him of something he had seen in Europe. Tapered legs and matching tapestry-covered arms and backs, the chairs stood solid against a man’s heavier weight.
The other side of the room was less formal and made for a comfortable lounge where people could relax and talk around the hand-cut stone fireplace. The fire crackled and popped in the open space—large enough for a person to stand in if they were shorter than seven feet—and drew his attention to the fact that he was not alone. Several women were seated on two sofas and a chair, staring at him.
He bent at the waist, and with a wide flourish of one arm across his body, he raised his head with a crooked grin. “Good evening, ladies. Am I interrupting?”
Natalya Abramovich chuckled. “Of course you are, and you know it.”
His grin widened as he stepped forward and draped his hands over the back of an empty chair. Natalya and her sister Lilyann Duquesne sat on a two-seater sofa. To their left, Raisa Vakas sat on a pale green round chair with cream-colored pillows tucked in around her. Aleksandra Matthau and Alva Marchand sat on a matching cream sofa perpendicular to the sisters.
“So, ladies, what’s going on?” Cyran met each of the former Night Witch’s gazes, except for Alva, who had been Freyja’s assistant during the war. He had nothing but admiration for the Russian pilots. Each woman had been in an elite Soviet air squadron during the war on Midgard. Their bravery, in his opinion, was top-notch. Anyone who could fly small biplanes built from plywood and canvas with open cockpits during the brutal Soviet winters earned his admiration.
Unlike their male counterparts, the Night Witches had no aviation equipment other than rulers, pencils, stopwatches, and compasses. Each pilot had to be a bit crazy to do what they did—and did very well. Without the 588th night squadron bombing the German front lines, the Allies might not have won the war as quickly. These women were fearless.
“We’re comparing notes on our charges, trying to figure out how to make it a bit easier for each group,” Lilyann answered.
“What charges?” he asked.
“The draugar and werewolves,” Raisa answered. “The two groups helped us correct Bernard’s almost fatal mistake when he changed past events during the war, erasing the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The draugar were being controlled by someone very powerful, and we helped break the spell they had on them, forcing them to do whatever was demanded of them. To help the draugar and the werewolves, I gave each of us a group, along with a few outsiders like Hel and émilien. Who better than the original cursed werewolf since he understands what they’re going through? There were too many for me alone to control, and they kept picking fights with each other instead of trying to get along.”
Aleksandra nodded. “We’ve all had experience with the werewolves. Jakob and I were the first to work with them. Alva, though, discovered she could talk to the draugr king, and then all of the draugar decided to adopt her as their liaison, so to speak.”
“True,” Alva agreed. “It was a shock, and I’m not quite sure why I can communicate with them, but I think empathy for their pasts and the tragedies that befell each one has something to do with it. Most of us have had at least one devastating moment in our lives. I believe drawing on those emotions is the key to helping the draugar.”
“I haven’t been around them much.” Cyran forced the jovial expression to remain on his face as he met Alva’s gaze. “But, like everyone here, one person lost, one horrible moment, on top of the war on Midgard and in Alfheimr were enough for me to commiserate with them. As soon as I return from wherever the twins need me to go, count me in to help the draugar acclimate to society again.”
“Without getting anyone into trouble?” a familiar male voice said behind him.
He turned to see Lamruil grinning at him, one blond brow arched. “ Bacraut .”
“Ohh, that didn’t sound very nice,” Lilyann chuckled. “What did you call him? I may need to learn how to say it when Charles pisses me off.”
Cyran caught the laughing, blue-eyed gaze of the blonde sitting next to Natalya. “I called him an asshole in our native tongue.”
She nodded, an appreciative expression on her pretty face. “Good. I’m filing that away for future use.”
Her sister shook her head. “You know, you may be my sister, but I feel more and more sorry for your husband every day.”
“Don’t. He’s ornery and drives me crazy. I love him to death, but do men ever act their age?”
“Not in my experience,” Lamruil said. “Look at my brother. He never acts his age.”
“How can he? Ailuin’s older than Methuselah, and he was a doddering old man who was probably both deaf and blind.” Raisa rolled her eyes. “You two are impossible. I thought twins were supposed to be close to one another and get along—act more like one another.”
Ailuin walked into the room. “Oh, we get along just fine. He has his senile seriousness, and I have my young brashness. It suits us just fine on most days.” He moved over to stand behind his wife’s chair. Leaning over her, he kissed the top of her strawberry-blonde hair. “He just needs a good woman.”
Lamruil rolled his eyes. “Leave off with the woman. If and when I find my mate, it will be no one’s business but my own.”
“And hers,” Aleksandra smiled. Lamruil tilted his head toward her in deference.
“Lamuril, I was just on my way to see you.” Cyran turned to the co-regent, a man he looked up to like a brother. Even though Lamruil was only a few minutes older than Ailuin, his seriousness always made him seem much older.
Lamruil left the room without a word, and Cyran followed as he led him to their new battle room. In the center of the circular space stood a large wooden table—etched scrollwork wound around the thick legs and the table’s edge. A wrought-iron vine curved around the table like a centerpiece, creating a picture-framed effect. It was a magnificent piece.
Five matching high-backed chairs lined the walls on each side of the table, with the same design down their backs. The bookshelves along the entire wall behind the set were equally impressive, mounded with books and rolled maps. There wasn’t a single space left.
Cyran ran his hand across the smooth, brown-stained wood, admiring the craftsmanship of whoever made it. “This is gorgeous. Who made it?”
“Believe it or not, Heimdall carved it all by hand. No magic was involved. He has a similar piece in his home.”
Cyran let out a low whistle. “No magic, huh? Ten chairs...must have taken him a while.” Leaning closer to the table, he frowned as he studied the carved scrollwork and realized they were more like a combination of runes and hieroglyphs. “What does this say?”
Lamruil shrugged. “I’m not sure. Heimdall was evasive when I asked him. He would only say it was a protection spell in a very ancient language—one only he seems to know.”
“Then how does he know it if no one else does? How old is he?”
Lamruil glanced at him. “Older than most gods. I’ve often wondered if he was a primordial god but haven’t been able to prove it. The primordials are hermits and don’t like to be bothered about anything, so my curiosity will be unanswered for the foreseeable future. He pulled a map from the nearest shelf and unrolled it, placing small cubes to hold down the corners. “Have you ever been to Svartálfheimr?”
Cyran shook his head. “Not that I can remember. Haman used to take me to many places when I was much younger, but he wouldn’t always tell me where we were. I was supposed to be seen and not heard.”
Lamruil grimaced. “Sorry, I vaguely recall that about him. My father always said Haman was an amazing healer but a horrible father.” His brilliant blue eyes speared Cyran’s. “He loved you, you know. My father. He always considered you his third son.”
Cyran smiled, a bittersweet emotion filling his chest. “After my mother died, I was at the palace more than my own home.” He cleared his throat, amazed at the tightness now clogging it. “I loved your father, too. I used to dream about what it would be like to be his son. Knowing he was there for me got me through many bad times.”
Lamruil reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “I know. My brother and I tried to shield you. While you may not be blood, you are family—our brother, so don’t ever forget that.”
He pulled back his hand and pointed to a narrow land mass cutting through two large bodies of water. “Here’s the only way you can enter the dwarf kingdom. Freyja has confirmed both Shalendra and Soliana were last seen at the border town here.” He moved his finger to a colorful inn drawn on the map. “It’s the only place where people can get a bed for the night, but there are a few other buildings, like a general store and a blacksmith’s shop. Whenever our father took us on diplomacy trips, we would stop there. Ailuin used to bother the blacksmith, always begging for a sword.”
Cyran chuckled. “Sounds just like him. Do we have any intel as to where the two women went afterward? They just can’t have disappeared.”
“No, but?—”
“I know where the girls are!” a feminine voice called out.
The two elves turned to see Idunn enter through the heavy wooden door. Her medieval-styled aquamarine dress billowed out behind her as she hurried toward them. Her long, blonde braid swung over her left breast, but her wide, blue eyes held the two men’s attention. Idunn was always cultured and soft-spoken and calmed everything and everyone in her wake. Her love of cooking and creating delicious treats, drinks, and potions soothed even the most agitated souls.
Lamruil met her halfway, holding out his arms as she walked into a quick embrace. She stepped back and held out her hand for Cyran, who, with surprise, clasped it in his. “Idunn, what has you so concerned?” Lamruil asked.
She squeezed Cyran’s hand then let go and smoothed her hands down her dress. “Sorry, it’s been a…hectic day. Anyway, Freyja has been playing detective and discovered that Shalendra and Soliana were at the inn. Someone else, though, knew it too because the building burned to the ground only an hour after they left. She hasn’t figured out who it was yet, but you know Freyja. She?—”
“Won’t stop until she does.” Cyran chuckled. “Like a dog with a bone.”
Idunn raised one elegant blonde brow. “Don’t let her hear you compare her to a dog.” She moved next to the table and stared at the map for a moment, then pointed to the picture of a mountain near the border town. “The last time anyone saw them, they were being taken to this mountain, but no one actually saw them enter, so it’s a guess on our part.” Cyran and Lamruil moved beside her, each staring at where she pointed.
“I know that place…” Cyran muttered and turned to Lamruil. “Why do I know this place?” He pivoted and walked around the room, his thoughts going back through time as he shuffled through memory after memory. A face appeared, leaning over him. It was a stern face. A familiar face. His father screamed at him for embarrassing him in front of the king.
“We were standing in a tunnel...” He searched his memory, trying to remember events from his childhood—events he never wanted to remember.
“What tunnel?” Lamruil asked.
Cyran scrubbed his face. “It was so long ago—when I was maybe ten or eleven. I was with Haman. He was furious with me.”
Lamruil scoffed. “He was always furious with you.”
Cyran waved his hand in the air, dismissing his friend’s words. “Yes, yes. This time, though, he was angrier than I’ve ever seen him. Livid. He accused me of embarrassing him in front of the king.” He faced Lamruil and Idunn. “What king?”
“I am not the most educated person, but isn’t it obvious?” Idunn's gaze moved from him to Lamruil and back, shaking her head in disgust. “Seriously? You call yourselves leaders? Aren’t leaders trained in observation and strategy?” The two males glanced at each other, their expressions blank, as they returned her stare. She threw her arms up in disgust. “While I may be wrong, it seems this has to be the mountain palace of the dwarf king.”
Lamruil’s brows rose. “The dwarves have a king? Since when—and doesn’t that make it treason since they are under the Elven family? My brother and I should be their kings.”
Idunn’s pink lips thinned as she flared her nostrils. “You know my stance on slavery, Lamruil. Even though they are genetically elves and your cousins, the dwarves took their futures into their own hands after the war and created their own realm instead of remaining in a place where they weren’t welcome. Why would they want to swear allegiance to the very people who enslaved them?”
She shook her head in obvious frustration. “Your father was a fair man until the dwarves were mentioned, and then he became a closed-off ass. Nothing Freyja said made a difference in getting him to see reason and release them from servitude. Free them and let them work like regular people, making good wages and affording their own homes. Let them live , Lamruil. As you and your brother do—as all other elves do. Slavery is wrong. No one should own another person.”
“Ailuin and I don’t like it any more than you or Freyja. We have discussed how to free them without creating a vacuum in the workforce, thereby causing the ultimate failure of our world before it even begins. I know my father was torn about the same thing, no matter what you say. Yes, he could be an ass, but there were outside influences. When he was with certain people, it was as if he had a change of heart and hated the dwarves. Later, when he was with my brother and me, he would say he wished he could free them.”
Lamruil shook his head. “The conundrum is that there is no food if no one is working in the gardens or kitchens. If no one is constructing buildings or repairing the infrastructure, we will not have functioning homes, and the list goes on. There are too few Elfkind remaining to fill all those jobs.”
Idunn stared at the map, deep in thought. After a few more minutes of silence, her gaze rose to meet his. “While I don’t profess to know a lot regarding the intricacies of bureaucracy, why not do what your forefathers did? You can give everyone a day of rest and call a town meeting where you can propose a solid plan that would allow all elves to decide on the next step. Maybe offer the dwarves their regular jobs but with good pay and benefits, giving them a chance at better lives and prosperity. Let them know you want to rectify the wrongs from the past and create unity among all elves—including them. Racism and bullying will not be tolerated, and those who act out will be punished.”
“That is brilliant, Idunn.” Lamruil smiled. “More importantly, it just might work as well.” Turning, his blue gaze met Cyran’s. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “It’s not up to me. I’m just a lowly interim healer while you’re the co-regent. You should be asking your brother.”
Lamruil scowled. “Do you always have to be a pain?”
Cyran nodded with a smug smile. “It’s what I’m best at.”
“Just answer the question.”
“You already know my answer. I never agreed with the slavery law against the dwarves, and knowing Haman was leading the charge makes me ill. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were the reason your father waffled back and forth. I will do whatever you need to stop slavery and reunite our people. I just hope our people want to be reunited. Dwarves, like their Elven cousins, can have a nasty temper and long memories. They aren’t going to easily forgive either, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Idunn agreed. “They won’t, but you must try. They deserve so much better than what they have been given. I know many who are wonderful beings with loving families and adorable children, and they all dream of a better future. Please don’t give up on them before you even try, Lamruil. These people were D?kkálfar, dark elves, and Svartálfar, black elves, before they were dwarves.”
“You speak Elven with a beautiful lilt, and I won’t give up on them, nor will I be able to forget them or what they’ve been through.” Lamruil scrubbed his face, then dropped his hands to his sides, looking wan and tired. “Ailiun and I have been talking about our next move. I will tell him what you said. It is a good plan.”
Idunn’s cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink as she bit back a sweet smile. “Thank you. I believe that’s the first time anyone has liked one of my ideas. I guess most people think I’m not interested in anything but gardening and baking, but I keep my eyes and ears open to things happening in the other worlds around us. Now, what are we going to do about Shalendra and Soliana? They must be found before Hel blasts Svartálfheimr out of existence.”
“That would be terrible and counterproductive to what we’re trying to do. They mine some of the best gemstones in the multiverse. To lose those would be a travesty. Many professions, both magical and nonmagical, use them,” Cyran pulled one of the chairs closer to the table and sat, his gaze glued to the picture of the mountain.
“Cyran, I need you to go to Svartálfheimr and find the two women before Hel and émilien start a war to get their daughter back. Once you have found them, return here, and I will contact Shalendra’s parents.”
“You make it sound like I can just saunter in, locate them, and leave without problems. It won’t be that easy. The dwarves will want to know why I’m there.”
Lamruil stared at the bookcase, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Tell them you wish to restart the liaison between Alfheimr and Svartálfheimr. In the past, a healer for all elves traveled between realms and offered his services to those in need. Tell them the co-regents sent you as a gift to the dwarves of Svartálfheimr.”
Cyran rolled his eyes. “Great, I’ve been relegated to being a pawn in your political games. You know I cheat.”
Lamruil’s grin widened. “Yes, I do, and that is why you are the perfect person for this job. Find the girls, but also investigate what the dwarf king is up to. While I had no idea there was an actual king, we have received a few reports about strange happenings going on in a few of the villages. Tales of ghostly beings have been reported, people are getting sick, and Shalendra and Soliana are not the only ones who have disappeared in the last few months.”
“Fine. Find the women, spy on the king, and debunk a ghost. Sounds like my kind of mission,” Cyran joked. His gaze dropped back to the mountain as the image of the darkened tunnel reappeared in his mind’s eye. A chill settled over him as something nagged at the back of his mind. He couldn't be sure whether it was a memory or a foreboding, but for some reason, he was reluctant to go there.