A flame suddenly ignited in Tryg's heart and radiated through his body, driving away even the cold of the queen's magic. He quickly opened his mouth, but the fox once again raised her paw, interrupting him.
"Do not ask questions and do not get excited. It is only a possibility."
"Lady Sinmara..." he began, but stopped.
He wanted so badly to ask why... Why was she doing so much for him? Even so, he swallowed the question before it escaped. Perhaps it was not the right moment yet. Perhaps she would not even answer.
So, in the end, he simply said:
"Thank you."
Sinmara remained frozen for an instant, one paw suspended in the air. Then she looked away.
"Stop thanking me."
A moment later, the misty tornado dissipated. It did not take Tryg long to realize that, as he had imagined, the queen had teleported them far from Týr's Temple. Now, they stood before a tree unlike those rooted throughout Niflheim's frozen landscapes; unlike even the Tree of Idunn.
It was surrounded by thick gray roots, which broke through the earth here and there. Ripples of light-blue ice climbed the trunk and dry branches like frozen waves. Dry, but not lifeless. For, upon its branches, there were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of golden birds, shining with an ethereal glow similar to the foliage of the labyrinth's plants. Some beat their wings and cawed, excited; others pecked at and cleaned their own feathers; others flew and played above their companions.
However, upon noticing the imminent arrival of Tryg and Sinmara, the birds landed, fell still, and stared at the two with luminous, sharp eyes.
Tryg felt more than uncomfortable beneath their stares. First, because of the sheer number of pairs. But also because of how deep... and clever they seemed. Even so, he continued following the confident and calm fox.
"This is the Raven Tree," she said. "It is where Odin's spies rest after days of bothering and snooping through the realms." Sinmara sat and looked up at Tryg from below. "Unfortunately, they cannot take you to Midgard. But I think one or another might send a message to your mother, as long as it is short... and as long as they cooperate."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"
The queen stared at the flock, a touch of disgust mixed with her coldness. "You will see."
She returned to approaching the Raven Tree, and Tryg followed her. A few steps later, however, he faltered upon hearing a chorus of sharp, reverberating voices, as if echoes of echoes existed behind them.
"Ancient daughter/
New son/
Free are we/
And bound by none."
Sinmara tilted her head to the side. "I think there are more of them than the last time I was here..."
Tryg, on the other hand, frowned, apprehensive. However, the queen's calm soon reassured him, and he placed himself at her side.
"Queen of cold/
Mother's heir/
What seek you with us?/
Nothing with you we share."
The fox exhaled and pointed a paw at Tryg. "This young man wants you to send a message to his mother."
Irritated, the ravens cawed in unison and beat their wings, making golden feathers rain down.
"Forever free/
We shall remain/
From divine bonds/
No chains again.
We obey no one/
No more commands/
Not even the queen/
Of winter's vanished lands."
"How can they refuse a request from you?" Tryg asked, astonished. "You control the realm they live in."
"Indeed. But I cannot do anything against them. If there is one thing these pests know how to do, it is flee. Especially now that they are free from Odin's control."
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
"The All-Father controlled them?"
"'Enslaved' would be a more accurate word. Odin imprisoned their spirits, tortured them, and thus forced them to be his cunning spies."
"Ah." Much of what the ravens had said now made sense.
The flock laughed.
"Hahaha/
The queen cannot catch us/
Hahaha/
The queen cannot command us."
Sinmara growled low, grinding her white, razor-sharp fox teeth. "Wretched chickens... I hope the day comes when I pluck every last one of you."
"Hahahaha/
Haha/
Hahahaha/
Haha."
Tryg knew that if the queen wanted to, she could certainly find a way to end the birds. She was powerful enough, clever enough, experienced enough. And, because of that, it was funny to see her so angry.
He chuckled. "You're not going to convince them like that."
Sinmara stared at him. For the first time since he had met her, Tryg did not mind being beneath her frozen gaze in the slightest.
"And I do not want to," she stated. "That is your job."
"I know." He nodded. "But it'll be a little difficult to do that with you attacking them like this... no offense. Could you, if possible, stop with the insults?"
The fox huffed and turned her snout away. "I promise nothing, but do what you must. Oh, and do not get too close to the tree."
"Understood." Tryg nodded again and took two more steps toward the gray trunk.
The ravens stared at him with their gleaming eyes, and some even tilted their heads to the side.
"Son of the fallen guardian/
Heir blind to your blood/
For you we hold no gratitude/
We do not trust your blood."
This again...
"But could you help me anyway? I need to speak with my mother and know how she is."
"Your blood is vile/
Your eyes can sear/
Be gone now, Aesir/
We do not trust you here."
He exhaled. "I'm not Aesir. I'm a Midgardian, born and raised by a Midgardian mother. And, just like you, I also suffered at the hands of the All-Father."
"Eyes on all sides/
We have much, and more/
But trusting your blood/
Is a fool's chore."
"Insufferable, are they not?" Sinmara remarked, disdainful.
He did not answer her; he still needed to convince the ravens. Then he remembered that they had spent their entire lives having their freedom restricted, never chasing what they truly wanted, and an idea came to his mind.
"Let's make a trade, then," he tried. "I give you something, and in exchange, you tell me how my mother is and send my message. What do you think?"
Some members of the flock hopped. They looked at one another, shaking their heads from side to side, up and down, silent, as if discussing the matter telepathically. A moment later, all at once, they nodded and looked back at him.
"The trade we accept/
But half now we shall do/
When your part is fulfilled/
Ours shall be done too."
Good enough. Which should he choose first? Knowing how his mother was mattered. But, in the end, the information would do nothing but soothe his own conscience. Sending a message to Frida, however, would be more useful, and not only because the news that he was alive would calm her.
She could send help. Hildisvíni, Sif, and other important people had been involved in rescuing the locals of New Midgard and could still be helping the survivors. At least, the advisor had assured him, on Asgard's shore, that his allies would look after his mother. If his current situation and location reached the ears of a man like him...
"I would like you to send my message first."
The ravens laughed.
"We are not blind, boy/
Nor are we fools/
If we deliver the message/
You'll flee and leave our dues."
Tryg pinched the bridge of his nose. Sinmara was right: they were unbearably irritating. He could still try to convince them that he would fulfill his part of the agreement even if rewarded in advance, but something told him nothing he said would convince the birds of that.
"We shall tell what your heart desires first/
With no trick, no lie, no deception/
And once your mission is fulfilled/
We shall deliver the message to perfection.
But do not be angry with us/
We do not mean to provoke/
For what we shall say next/
Will matter to you most."
Tryg went still, a terrifying premonition taking hold of him.
"What do you mean?"
"First you shall hear our request/
To judge it for yourself/
Once the price is known/
We shall reveal what you—"
"All right, fine," he interrupted them. Even his patience was already running out, especially after they revealed that the information they had was valuable. And, of course, because of the rhymes too. "Tell me what you want."
The ravens cawed and beat their wings, pleased.
"To the labyrinth you left/
You soon shall return/
And a fallen feathered friend/
Your hands must save in turn."
Tryg raised his eyebrows. "That's all? You want me to help a friend of yours? That's a pretty simple request."
"Simple indeed, O son of the one who failed/
But appearances can deceive/
Abandonment is a child's task/
To save is a burden to receive."
He nodded, paying little mind to the warning. He would already spend quite some time in the labyrinth anyway. If he did not find the Workshop, but found that friend and returned, his message would be sent. If he found the workshop, but not their friend, then, with luck, he could go home and tell his mother himself that he had survived. And if he did both... Well, at least he would have helped their friend. Perhaps he could even convince them to reward him with something else.
"Very well. I accept the task," he answered readily. "Now, tell me what you know about my mother."
Some ravens exchanged glances again, this time mentally whispering for longer. A minute or two later, some of them nodded, and a few others shook their heads. The delay and the gestures sent a shiver up Tryg's neck. If they were hesitating so much to tell him... He clenched his fists.
Then the flock stared at him and declared in a shrill chorus, making his world tremble and his legs stagger:
"Your love is safe/
With that, you need not fear/
But her illness has worsened/
And little time remains here."