A Cloak of Feathers

Chapter One

Wild was Thor the Hurler when he awoke,

And when his mighty hammer he missed;

He shook his beard, his hair was bristling,

As the son of Jorth about him sought.

-Thrymskvitha, stave 1

Asgard. The Realm Eternal . . .

There is a chamber, deep within the towering central spire of Odin's House. Its walls are gently curved, like the prow of a ship, and thickly gilded; they whisper of ancient majesty and old secrets. The furnishings are sparse, with two chairs perched sentinel-like along each wall, a rich tapestry hung over the door, and, in the room's center, a plinth, crafted of honey-hued stone. Atop it rests a single object, a helmet so battered that its dents and crevices swallow the room's light rather than reflect it. The cheekpieces were once etched with swirling lines and angular runes, but only faint traces remain, their ghostly, half-heard voices chanting a forgotten tune. The nose-guard is missing, broken off in some distant battle, but the horns still sweep forward in bony rings, the horns of a bull, although surely no creature this formidable has ever peacefully grazed the pastures of Asgard.

It's not a beautiful relic, and its obvious antiquity alone does not explain the reverence of its setting here. Below it, a line of runes is inscribed deeply into the plinth's pale stone. If you possessed the knowledge of the runespeech, and you dared to step near, you could read them:

The Helm of Buri, Father of Bor, Father of Odin, King of Asgard.

Standing closer, now, bending your neck to inspect its timeworn surface, you realize that it still makes one claim to beauty. There, imbedded in the dull steel, above the broken nose-guard, you see . . . a jewel, darkest blue, almost black, and yet glowing with a cold fire at its heart, a fire that the uncounted years have failed to quench. It's not a raw stone: you can see that it's been carefully carved. In fact, those facets form some sort of pattern, don't they? You lean in, nearer still, frowning, and then pull back with a startled gasp, a faint chill spidering across your shoulders. You've peered directly into the past, and it's staring back at you, because the jewel is carved in the likeness of an eye, and even sunk in its recess, there on the brow of the helmet, you can see that it is not an Asgardian eye. Not a human eye.

You swallow uneasily.

Still, it's a lovely, lovely thing. Its fire is hypnotic. And, standing there, gazing into it, you catch the whisper of its siren song, and you perceive, dimly, that this is possibly the sort of gem that inspires envy, and greed, and murder . . .

Possibly.

In a half-timbered tavern, built hard against the city's massive wall, Lady Sif, warrior of Asgard, leaned an elbow on the planked table, and a strong-boned chin upon her hand, and considered her fellow warriors. Or, to be truthful, one of her fellow warriors.

It had become a point of pride, she realized, to dismiss his charm. Though, of course, she had known him long and she well understood that under his rakehell grin and his extravagant courtesies lay a steadiness of heart and a kind of unthinking courage, and these imbued his easy address with a gravity that drew the maidens of Asgard like comets in orbit around a deep-massed star. An irresistible weight. Fandral the Dashing.

But she had resisted his magnetic pull. Because Lady Sif, forged in battle, did not orbit any man.

In her heart of hearts, where her own steady gravity crushed any foolish self-deception, she knew also this truth: that there is no great triumph in resisting when the man in question has not offered any overt invitations. When instead of bowing over a lady's hand and pressing his lips to the sensitive skin between the knuckles, he claps her on the shoulder, and praises the strength of her arm with a spear, and offers her an overflowing tankard of mead in comradely good-fellowship.

She watched him, now, over the rim of the tankard, as he reclined against the tavern's far wall, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, one arm draped over the shoulders of a dark-haired maid, the other stretched along the bench's back, fingers resting gently against another maiden's bare upper arm.

He was chuckling at some jest offered by yet a third while she leaned against a chair, eyes flashing with the electricity that he seemed able to generate in the hearts of his admirers without making any more effort than merely being himself.

Charming Fandral.

Her vision slipped inward, and another laughing face, full of life, presented itself, a flash of white teeth bared in a wide grin, warm brown eyes narrowed in jest. She allowed her mind's eye to contemplate it, for a taut, stretched moment, and then she carefully pushed it down and away, back into the vaults of memory. Because Haldor belonged to Valhalla, and had for many years, and Lady Sif dwelt in Asgard.

She lifted her drink a spare inch further, and sipped, grimacing. At her elbow, a young warrior of the Guard said, a trifle anxiously, "Does the mead not please you, Lady Sif? Would you rather have wine?"

"I would, yes," she smiled, absently, setting the tankard down, and glancing over at him. Her gaze sharpened, then, at the worshipful adoration in his face.

"I will fetch some to you," he said fervently, and leaped to this task before she could assure him that there was no real need.

She frowned. In that deep honest place in her heart, she knew that she had no desire for the worship of an eager young pup, however handsome he may be. She would rather, she knew, run with a wolf.

Her gaze returned to Fandral, and then her fingers tightened along the tankard's slippery handle as she discovered his eyes resting on her, the faintest of scowls marring his fine brow.

It disappeared at once, and he gave her instead an impudent, friendly wink, the salute of one warrior to another, and then bent his head toward the dark-haired maiden, smile broadening at something she said.

Ah yes. We are friends and comrades of old, you and I, she thought. But if that is all that we are, why would you frown to see me smile upon another?

She looked away, and her gaze snared on another's, gleaming green, as Loki, Prince of Asgard, glanced up in the act of reaching for his own tankard. He was elegantly sprawled in a leather-padded chair tucked in the corner; a small table near to hand held a ragged-covered book, propped open with a dagger's hilt, and a trencher laden with crusty bread, several slices of cured meat piled against a wedge of cheese, and a cluster of scarlet berries.

He arched a brow and saluted her, briefly, with the rim of his cup. She nodded in return, and then allowed a tiny, cynical smile to touch her lips, as a flurry of tavern maids hid the prince from view. No doubt they'd been watching like hungry ravens, waiting for him to lay a finger on his cup and thus give them the excuse to flock near and refill it. Every tavern in the city aspired to the honor of the royal family's patronage, and this particular one was not at all willing to give up its place as a favorite of both Loki and his brother.

And, as if that thought had summoned him, the tavern's front door burst open with a crash that echoed among the mead barrels, and Thor, son of Odin, crown prince of Asgard, stumbled through the portal and half-fell against the nearest table, causing the burly shopkeeper seated there to choke on his ale with a gasp and a sputter.

For a startled instant, Sif thought Thor was too deep in his cups, a circumstance rare indeed. But she saw then that his cloak was disheveled, streaked with dirt and the sickly green of crushed moss, and a network of dried blood trailed down his forearm, seeping from an angry, welted scrape along his elbow. The lining of his vambrace was dark with it.

"Helfrost," she cursed, under her breath, and leaped to her feet. Around her, the tavern's cacophony skipped a beat, as Thor levered himself upward with both hands, shook his head as if to clear it, and roared out, "Ale!"

A barmaid came scuttling past, tray held high, honey-scented liquid slopping over a tankard's rim. She swung it down before him, and he seized it, raised it to his lips and gulped it down. By the time he'd lowered it, Sif had reached his side and stood contemplating him, both brows raised.

"Disagreement with your horse?" she murmured. It certainly looked as if he'd been thrown. And yet . . . Thor was a masterful rider, and had been since boyhood.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and shook his head. He lifted the cup for another swallow; she saw that his knuckles were bruised and scuffed, and one fingernail was torn and bleeding.

"What happened?" she exclaimed. Fandral materialized, just then. He stared at Thor, for a moment, and then drawled, slowly, "Do we need to bury a few sundry bodies? Shall I fetch a spade?"

Around them, the clamor had risen back to its customary deafening roar, but Sif could feel the sidelong glances of many eyes.

"Can't speak of it here." Thor tossed the empty tankard onto the tray of a passing maid. "I require Loki. Is he about?"

"I am always present when required. One of my many talents," came the cool voice, and Sif turned to find Loki at her shoulder, tucking his dagger into his belt, where the battered book was already secured. Now he lifted his chin, eyeing Thor dubiously. "Busy day, brother?"

"Not as busy as it's going to be," Thor muttered. His eyes were blazing with barely-suppressed rage. "Come, somewhere where we can speak. At once."

Loki's mouth quirked into its half-smile. "The kitchen? The privy? Or . . . yes. Of course! The library?"

Thor turned to glare at him, and as he did the light from the tavern's flickering lanterns glistened on the wet darkness soaking the hair behind his ear. Loki's face hardened. He tilted his head, brow furrowing, and then grasped Thor's shoulder.

"Someone struck you, brother?" His voice had lost the hint of wry amusement.

"What?" Fandral's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. "Who in Asgard harbors such a desire for certain destruction?"

"Aye," Thor grunted. "Come, we must speak. All of us."

He pulled them out through the tavern's entryway and around the corner into the narrow passageway along the tavern's side wall. Then, his eyes glittering with fury in the star-lit darkness, he rasped, "Someone's taken Mjolnir."

For several long breaths, the night air around them contained only the muffled roar of the tavern.

Then, Fandral cleared his throat. "What was that?"

"You heard me rightly."

"Taken Mjolnir? Mjolnir? Hammer-shaped object, useless to anyone but you?" Fandral's voice was incredulous.

"Yes! Mjolnir! And clearly is it's useful to someone," Thor growled, "since it's been taken!"

"Who?" Sif asked.

Loki was shaking his head. "More importantly, how?"

"I'd be more than pleased to tell you, if I knew."

All three stared at him. Finally, Loki said, with the air of someone reaching out toward sanity, "You were struck from behind."

Thor's hand lifted to gingerly finger the wound on his scalp. "Yes," he muttered. Small as it was, the one word contained a raging conflagration of humiliation and dismay.

Fandral slapped a fist into his open palm. "Still impossible, though, my friend! Who possesses that sort of strength? Or stealth? You are no innocent cub to be bagged so easily!"

"Perhaps it wasn't an enemy," Loki said, studying Thor's face. "Or didn't seem to be."

SIf could feel the anger radiating off Thor's shoulders. Quietly, she said, "Will you tell us what happened, Thor?"

A moment of tense silence. Then Thor straightened, and gathered himself. "Come before dawn tomorrow, to the Stables," he said. " We'll ride out of the city. And I'll show you."

Thor drew rein as they plunged out of the forest's shadow into a clearing, hoofbeats suddenly muffled by a carpet of dew-laden grass.

"Here," he said, the corner of one lip lifted in a disgusted sneer. He swung out of the saddle and strode to the far edge, wrapped in a cloak of cooling rage and warming uncertainty.

The others followed suit, an uneasy silence descending over them as their practiced eyes swept the clearing and its pretense of quiet beauty withered. To one side, several areas of blackened earth were laid out in a haphazard circle, piled with the gray remnants of dead fire and bound with stones; a crude rack for smoking meat lay toppled nearby. The grass around them was tangled and crushed; a number of heavy bodies had walked and lain there. The trees along the clearing's edges were shorn of their lower limbs, and long strips of bark had been stripped away, leaving gaping wounds. The faint, piney scent of oozing sap hung in the air, mixing queasily with a coppery sweet odor that could only be spilled and drying blood. Fandral had drawn his sword; after a moment he pointed with its tip toward a crumpled pile of fur and bones: the remains of several creatures, quickly and callously butchered.

"This looks like a troll camp," Sif said, slowly. "A small one, but still . . . "

Her voice drained away as her eye caught a glint of white, near one toe. She drew a dagger from her boot and sank to a knee, prying an object out of the damp soil. Her lips thinned in distaste as she lifted it for all of them to see: the small skull of some unfortunate rodent, a neat hole drilled front and back, with a leather thong still threaded through.

A troll ornament.

"Trolls." Fandral crouched beside her, studying it. He looked up at Thor. "This near at hand to the city? Hardly a cheerful thought."

"Indeed," Sif murmured. She tossed the skull away and stood, wiping her fingertips against her cloak. She turned to Thor, as well. "And this is where you were attacked? By trolls?"

Loki was crouched beside on of the firepits, sifting the cold ash through his fingers. He shook his head, his face abstracted and intent. "No troll yet lives who possesses that sort of lightness of foot. Thor would have heard it approaching, long before it struck." He glanced over at his brother, brows lifted. "Yes?"

"Yes." Thor kicked moodily at the bent grass under his feet. "It was not a troll."

Fandral straightened. He sheathed his sword, darting a swift, troubled frown at Sif. "What, then? Can you not tell us the tale of your adventures here? So far you've given us little with which to surmise."

Thor shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, glared fiercely at the trees lining the clearing's borders. Finally, after a moment, he spoke. "I was here . . . I came here after the trolls were gone. The ashes were still warm, though, and I was disturbed. As you said, Fandral, so near to the city! Such insolence on their part is not to be borne! I vowed to follow them, and dismounted to search for tracks. And then . . . "

His voice trailed off as his jaw tightened and lips stretched into a grimace.

Loki looked up from his examination of the firepit, and prompted, "Then?"

Thor shrugged, spreading both hands, a muscle working in one cheek. "Then . . . nothing. Nothing but blackness. I woke later, sprawled upon the ground like a benighted fool. My head was ringing more loudly than the last day of a three-day feast. And when I'd stumbled to my feet, I reached for the Hammer, and it was gone. Not to be found. Stolen."

He repeated the word, grinding both syllables out wrathfully. "Stolen!"

"But . . . your other injuries?" Loki pointed. "Your arm. Your hands . . ." Then his shoulders drew back as he stood, eyes brightening. A chuckle rumbled up through his throat. "You did not merely stumble upon this camp, did you? You've been hunting trolls!"

Thor scowled at him. "They have no business this far down from the mountains! I was merely encouraging them to take themselves off."

"By engaging them in battle?"

"What of it!"

Fandral's brow creased. "Yes. What of it?" He turned to Loki, rocking back on to one heel. "It's not as if hunting trolls were so very unusual an entertainment for Thor to pursue."

Loki glanced over at him. "It is since Father has forbidden it." He looked back at his brother, eyes alight with mischief. "Or, at least, it should have been. What say you, brother?"

Sif cocked her head to one side, staring at Thor. "The Allfather has forbidden the hunting of trolls? Since when?"

"Since the clan leader left a trussed stag outside the city gates, several moons past." Loki answered. "As a request of truce, you see, and an event unprecedented in the history of Asgard, I assure you. And the exigencies of politics demand that we, and especially you, brother, rein in our natural response to trolls, which is, in fact, to usher them to the cold plains of Hel as speedily as possible."

Thor growled. "If they truly desired a truce, why send a battle party this close to the city? They are foul creatures. They have no honor! It's some sort of treachery on their part, to prey upon our people."

Loki pursed his lips, nodding. "All true, no doubt, and yet Father must do what he must. This is why he is King, and you are not." The warm light cooled in his eyes, then, and he said, slowly, "He will not be pleased to find that you have broken the truce, brother."

Thor looked away.

Fandral blew out a breath, shaking his head. "Political intrigue aside, the fact remains that someone struck Thor down. Someone was able to strike Thor down. Surely that is the issue that demands our attention?"

After a moment, Thor nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on Loki until the younger prince smiled, briefly, and nodded as well, and the tension that had suddenly arisen between them melted away. Sif found, to her slight puzzlement, that she'd been holding her breath.

Thor turned, sweeping a hand toward the dead fire. "I was kneeling there when the coward struck."

As their faces lifted to follow his gesture, the rising sun crested the trees lining that edge of the clearing, silhouetting the tall slim boles and arching branches, and gleaming, a subtle, glowing iridescence, off the fine black feathers of two large ravens perched motionless on a low-slung limb, staring at them.

Sif stepped back, half a stride, biting back a startled oath. One of the birds shifted along the branch, and its black eye reflected the sun's rays like a tiny, bottomless pool. Then its head swiveled slowly, as its inscrutable gaze touched each of them. After a moment, its companion clicked its beak and stretched out its wings, and, uttering a loud caw that shattered the clearing's still air, it glided out and down and landed with a graceful hop on the far side of the fire circle.

It bobbed its head, eyeing them silently, and then dipped and pecked, deliberately, at the ground: once, twice, thrice. When it lifted its head, and found them staring with varying degrees of bafflement, it snapped its beak and emitted a harsh squawk. The raven still in the tree let fly with an echoing cry, and ruffled all its feathers, twisting its head to glare at them, impatience clear in every movement. It flapped its wings disgustedly and then, placing its feet with care, turned round completely on its perch and presented them with its back, tail flicking meaningfully.

"What . . .?" Fandral's hands were on his hips. "Does anyone else feel that this bird is a bit rude?"

The raven on the ground chittered; its companion took wing and swept around and down, directly toward them, eyes glittering. Thor grimaced and ducked, Fandral spun to one side and Loki slid to the other, a puzzled frown lowering his brow. Sif stood her ground, and found she had drawn her dagger.

The sun's rays slipped higher, flowing down the trees' trunks to pool softly on the ground. Suddenly, Loki leaned forward and pointed; there, on the ground at the first raven's clawed toes, something was glittering in the light.

The raven blinked both eyes as Loki came swiftly around the firepit, and stabbed down at the shining thing, one final time, with its strong black beak.

"What is it?" Thor asked as Loki crouched. The raven had hopped to the side, and then flapped upward to perch once more in the tree. It let out another caw as Loki held up a tiny metal object. Its faceted edges winked malevolently as it caught the sunlight.

"A leaf of scale mail," he said, voice thoughtful. "From some richly-crafted armor, I would think."

He straightened, holding it higher so that they could see, and at that moment, in a flash of stiff black feathers, the other raven, who'd been gliding in noiseless circles overhead, swooped down and plucked it from his fingers.

Loki whirled. As the raven alighted on its perch, its fellow chirruped and bobbed its head.

"Come now," Loki said, raising one hand to shield his eyes against the sun. "Give it back, if you please."

The others came to stand beside him, squinting upward. The birds stared down at them, unblinking, and then the thief delicately shifted the leaf of mail from its beak to one of its claws. The other bent and tapped its beak against the metal: tik, tik, tik.

Thor snorted, a huff of pure impatience. Loki said, slowly, "This is . . . interesting."

Sif slanted a glance at him. "Is it? Ravens are always fond of glittering objects."

"Yes, but not usually in quite so . . . pointed a way."

Fandral gestured toward the thieves with his chin, "And not with so evident a desire to be impertinent."

"Pert or no, we must examine that piece of mail. It wasn't weathered. It hadn't lain there long. Surely it was dropped by Thor's attacker."

Thor glowered upward. "Right."

He ran forward, and with a single leap, caught hold of the bough on which the ravens were perched with one hand, swinging the other hand forward.

"No. Brother!" Loki snapped. "They'll only . . . "

With an enraged screech, the ravens exploded upward in a flurry of wings and tail feathers.

" . . . fly away." Loki finished.

They lighted high in another tree, on the clearing's opposite edge. Sif sighed, and exchanged a glance with Fandral, who shrugged.

"Perhaps we could offer them something in exchange," he said.

Loki looked over at him, shoulders straightening. "That's an excellent idea."

"Naturally," Fandral said. "Although I must say, you needn't sound so very surprised."

"Something in exchange . . . ," Sif murmured, and a sudden memory struck her. She ran back into the center of the clearing, her back bent, eyes sweeping the ground. Then, with a tight smile of triumph, she bent and plucked a small knot of white bone out of the grass: the discarded troll ornament.

"Something like this, perhaps?" She tossed it toward Loki, who caught it with a grin. He eased his way along the clearing's border, his eyes on the birds' new perch. As he moved out of the trees' shadow, he lifted a hand; the tiny skull dangled from his fingers, bright in the sunlight.

The ravens watched him come, their heads tilting in fascination, eyes blinking in perfect unison. When Loki paused, near the foot of their tree, they fluttered to a lower branch, their black gaze held captive by the little ornament as it swayed back and forth. Along the other edge of the clearing, Fandral was slipping silently forward, shrugging his cloak from his shoulders and gathering it up in both hands.

Loki's gaze flickered to the side, measuring his progress, and then he swung the tempting prize closer. With a whirr of wings the ravens swooped at it, and Fandral sprang forward and flung his cloak over them.

For a moment, the clearing was a cauldron of indignant screeching; there was a boiling froth of woolen fabric and glossy black feathers, and then a whirl of snatching claws and a snapping beak. When silence blossomed once more, Fandral's cloak had settled in gentle folds on the ground, and the two birds were secure in the topmost branches of a clump of thorny brambles, glaring at them all with magisterial fury. From one of the beaks, the link of scale mail still gleamed, out of reach; from the other, the tiny skull hung twisting back and forth, eyeholes winking, as if the spirit of its long-dead occupant were joining the ravens in mocking them.

At Sif's side, Thor drew a frustrated breath and roared, "By all the Hels!"

"We do realize that we are being forced to play the fool by a couple of simple birds, do we not?" Sif said.

Loki's gaze remained fixed on the creatures, but his lips pressed together into a thoughtful smirk.

"Are they, though?"

Thor strode forward to stand beside him, raking the birds with a fearful glower. "What is your meaning, brother?"

"Perhaps these birds are more than merely chance onlookers." He raised his voice, the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement. "I think we've met before. In a much more formal setting."

There was a chuffing caw. The ravens peered at him expectantly. Then, together, they both tilted their heads and slowly, both of them, closed one eye.

Sif felt a shiver of unease skitter down her spine. "Do you mean . . . are you saying that you believe these creatures to be the Allfather's birds?"

Loki's eyes slid over to her face, and he winked.

"But that cannot be. Father's ravens never leave the House." Thor's voice was gruff, but Sif heard the same uneasiness swirling in its lower registers, and she understood well what he was feeling. Odin's ravens were ever-present at the Allfather's side, and, although they seemed to be simple birds, the suggestion that they were also something more always lingered about them.

"'Never' is too strong a term, brother," Loki said. "Say rather, 'rarely'."

"I will say neither." Thor crossed his arms over his chest, and then winced as the movement pulled on the wound across his forearm. "These are not they. We would have recognized Father's ravens at once."

One of them took flight, at that. It dropped the troll ornament at Loki's feet, and then skimmed through the air like a thrown dagger, directly at Thor's face. He grunted in alarm and backpedaled several steps, but the bird settled on his shoulder and clicked its beak meaningfully. Thor's eyes blazed; his chest expanded to let out a bellow.

"Don't move!" Sif cried, in the same moment that Fandral hissed, "Don't frighten it." Loki had raised a hand, urging caution, stifled laughter tightening his jaw.

Thor stiffened, motionless though his mouth pressed into a wrathfully stern line. With delicate precision, the raven reached up and pulled several of his golden locks forward, tugging and arranging, and then cocking its head to one side to study its work, until one of Thor's eyes was completely obscured, and he stood glaring out of the other, in a passing likeness to Odin One-Eye himself.

Sif only barely managed to swallow a snort of amusement; a glance at Fandral showed him hurriedly palming a grin from his face.

"There now," Loki murmured. "Are you absolutely certain that you don't recognize these ravens?"

"Enough!" Thor roared, and the bird flapped away, hurriedly. Thor pushed his hair from his face with an impatient hand. "Fine, then! If these are truly Father's birds, what in all the Nine are they about?"

The smile faded from Loki's eyes. "I'm not sure."

At that, the second bird lifted its head, eyes gleaming above the metal scrap clutched in its beak. Loki eyed it for a moment, and then he extended a hand.

"If you are truly the servant of Odin, will you give up your treasure at my command, since I am his son?" he asked.

With a meek chirp, the bird fluttered forward and dropped its prize into his palm.

At once, they gathered around to study it: a link of scale mail, shaped like a leaf. After a moment, Sif stretched out a finger and touched one edge.

"These are dwarven runes."

"Aye," Thor said. "It has the look of dwarven mail, in any case. See how finely it's detailed."

They looked into each other's faces, the same thought etching itself on each brow. Fandral spoke it, finally.

"Dwarves? Why would Thor have been struck down by a dwarven warrior? And how?"

Thor's voice was grim as he added, "And how could any mere dwarf bear Mjolnir away?"

A sharp cry interrupted their council. They turned to find the ravens on the ground before them, but as soon as their gaze touched the birds, they took wing and glided to the northern edge of the clearing, several spans away. They alighted on a low branch, and one let out another imperious caw.

The four stared, nonplussed. Fandral smoothed a hand along his jaw and said, "Charming. That's an invitation?"

Loki turned to them, and quirked a brow. "They do seem to know where they're going. And that is the right direction for Nidavillr, if we propose to seek out some dwarves."

Thor's expression was resigned. "I suppose we must."

Loki was already striding across the clearing toward their mounts. Thor rolled his eyes, and said, "Come, my friends. Surely this is not the strangest quest we've ever undertaken." He stalked away after his brother.

Fandral slanted a sidelong grin at Sif. "It's not?"

She sighed, and arched both brows, and shrugged.

Fandral nodded. "My sentiments exactly." He extended an arm, with an exaggerated lift of the elbow. "May I escort you to your horse? We're off to Nidavillr, at the behest of two birds. As of now, this promises to be a very long day."

Sif smiled, and laid a hand on his forearm. His grin faded, though, after a few strides, and she asked, curiously, "What is it?"

He shook his head as he gathered her horse's reins and handed them to her with a bow. "I am greatly afeared, my friend. I don't suppose anyone thought to bring along any provisions?"

"I doubt very much."

"Starvation beckons, then." He paused, arrested, and then crossed to his own mount, muttering, "Unless . . . "

He flung open the saddlebag and rummaged through it, until, with a satisfied grunt he drew out from its lowest depths a small, round cake, crumbling around the edges. He offered it toward Sif with a flourish.

"I'm pleased to share, of course."

Sif shook her head, the corners of her mouth bent in a smothered grin. "I think I must decline that offer, kind though it may be." She turned and swung up into the saddle, asking, "Did I not see you pack those very cakes into your bag when the lot of us departed for our last hunt in the southern hills?"

Fandral studied the cake in his hand. "So you did."

She leaned forward, ticking a finger against it. Her nail scratched along its crust. "And that was . . . ten days ago? Twelve, perhaps?"

He sighed. "So it was."

He braced his thumbs along its edges, and, with an effort, snapped it in two. A shower of stale crumbs littered the ground at his feet.

"My condolences," Sif murmured.

"Ah, well. I shall strive to starve with honor." He looked up at her, and she was suddenly aware, again, of his charm, an alchemy of good-natured wit, sound-hearted mind, and finely-made body. "Never let it be said that Fandral of Asgard does not suffer in the service of his prince."

Sif tightened her reins, and said, widening her eyes in mock severity, "I would not."

His eyes laughed at her, full of warmth. "I'm glad to hear it."

He vaulted into the saddle, and whirled his horse about. Thor and Loki had already disappeared into the forest. He tilted his head after them.

"Shall we?"

"After you," she answered, and they plunged out of the clearing in a clatter of hoofbeats, drawn onward by their service to the princes of Asgard and a faint, harsh cry in the distance, the call of a raven.