He laughs, a noise that sets my teeth sideways. “Nothing so primitive, or wasteful. Mimir is simply righting the wrong she made so long ago. She’ll restore you to your original form, and then I can be restored to mine.” He believes what he is saying, eyes sparking with the flare from the lantern.
“And Mary is going to do this?” I try to keep the incredulity from my tone, because the last thing I want to do is piss him off, but I’m having difficulty seeing my no-nonsense, clean-up-your-act-and-keep-your-fists-to-yourself-boy caseworker in a cave, with this madman. “Ms Wallman is going to turn us into, what? Crows?”
“Not turn you, return you. Your true shape, power restored. You will be the raven children of the gods, once again.”
“And you? What’s your true form?”
“I am Yvengvr,” he says, voice echoing off the rocks. “Son of Odin, who refused to share his throne, and betrayed by a witch, who chose the wrong god.”
Alrighty then.
We cross the cave to an opening that tunnels off into the dark. I want to deck him a good one, take the lantern and go find the others, but I hold back. He’s like a demented preacher caught up in a sermon, volatile, out of control.
“Then what?” I ask, as he pauses at the entrance. “You’re a god, and we’re birds, flying around forever?”
“Ah. And this brings us to your next test, Tyr.” He turns, appraises me with the long look of a warden sizing up a new inmate. “This is where I have to make a decision. Or at least you do. Once I have acquired your gifts, you no longer exist—as crow or human.”
“You’re planning to kill us.” I should be more surprised, and less amused.
“Yes. Unless you would like to consider an alternative.”
“An alternative to death.” My voice cracks with a dry laugh. “Sure. I’ll consider living.”
“I need a raven at my side, in order to traverse the barriers between these worlds. The powers of Huginn and Muninn I must reap; their mind and vision, and Magic, of course. Wisdom is my final revenge. But you are the embodiment of War. Physically, Mentally. You’ve weathered a life of hardships, and come out strong.” He eyes my fists, my beaten face.
I fight the warmth of pride in my chest. Flattering words should mean nothing from this asshole. “Are you saying you want me to join you?”
“When I confront my father, I want a warrior beside me. A commander to wield the power of the gods. You’ve done it before, at the dawn of time, but for me you will be free, in whatever shape you choose, to wreak chaos over the world.”
“Free?” The word cuts through all the others in his crazy speech. I am never free. Not me, trouble with a capital T, bound by society, rules, law, and bars. That is the one lie I cannot pretend, even with a madman. For me there is no—
“Freedom,” he says. “I am offering you freedom. Nothing shall cage you. No prison shall lock you away from anything you want, any battle you choose to fight. It’s where you are headed, Tyr. You cannot escape your nature. Why not choose it, revel in it, and be true to who you are, rather than confine it in a cage?”
I stare at him, at his maniacal eyes that are regarding me as an equal, offering me the only thing I have ever wanted, needed. No sane person has ever spoken to me like this. So openly, honestly, knowing me.
“Freedom,” I whisper. The flame in the lantern flickers with the word that slides over my skin and settles onto my shoulders like invincibility; armor.
“And the girl? You’ve seen how she uses and tosses away men.”
I think of Marcus and the bitterness he held for a year and the desperation on Jeremy’s face when he confronted me. The boys that are nothing but pawns in her hand, discarded when she is done.
Anders holds out the light.
I take it, and ask the only logical question still left in my spinning brain. “What do you want me to do?”
*
“After you,” he says.
As we enter the tunnel, Anders stays three paces behind on the uneven path cut through the rock wall. I want to ask endless questions, like a little kid, but I keep my mouth shut.
The light swings, despite my trying to keep it level, and our shadows wobble around us. The walk is short, three bends in the path, and we end up in a smaller cave that opens into another at the other end. I’ve seen the haphazard brick and mortar walls in the flash of Memory’s dream. Now I see that the masonry is there to hold iron rings, and the shackles hold Anders’ victims.
Julian is fighting a set of handcuffs, his stretching fingers inches from Faye, who is bound in a huddle on the ground, both ankles in one cuff, both wrists in the other. She has blood on her hands, and a smear of it on her face. Another girl shivers against the bricks, her eyes closed. Memory stands tall, hands behind her back, face pale and furious.
“Your friends did not pass their final test,” Anders tells me. He leans down, rubs his thumb over the blood on Faye’s cheek. She snaps her teeth at him, and he backhands her, slamming her head on the stones. Julian screams swear words.
Tennineeightsevensixfivefourthree—