Shef too stirred in his seat, for though this was a story he had heard, it was not the one he had seen.
“He went on, and begged the goddess Hel to release Balder, but she refused, saying that Balder could only leave Hel if everything in the world, alive or dead, would weep for him. If any creature refused, then he must stay.
“So Hermoth rode back, and the gods instructed every creature in the world to weep for what had been lost, and so they did, people and animals and earth and stone and trees. But in the end the gods’ messengers came upon a giantess sitting in a cave, and she said”—Thorvin’s voice turned to the deep chant he reserved for holy song:
“No tears will Thökk trail on her cheeks for
Balder’s burial. Bane alone got she
from the one-eyed one, wise though he be.
Let Hel hold what she has.
“And so the demand of Hel was not fulfilled, and Balder was not released. Instead he was burnt on the pyre, and with him his wife Nanna, who died of sorrow. Most men think that the giantess was Loki Laufeyjarson in another shape.”
“Well and truly told, Thorvin,” said Farman softly, “but there are questions to ask. You know that the spittle that runs from the mouth of Fenris-wolf is called Von, which is to say Hope, and that is to show us that to trust in hope, as the Christians do, and cease to struggle when there is no hope, is below the dignity of a warrior. But what then is the meaning of the giantess’s name, Thökk—which means ‘thanks’ just as Von means ‘hope’?”
Thorvin shook his head.
“Could it not mean that the price of Balder back is no more than thanks?”
“Thanks for what?” rambled Thorvin.
“Thanks for whatever Loki may have done in time past.”
“The stories say that he was a good comrade when Thor went to Utgarth-Loki, to wrestle with Old Age and try to lift the Mithgarth-Serpent,” Hagbarth corroborated.
“Loki was a good comrade against Loki, then,” said Farman. “But when that comradeship was not recognized, and thanks given for it, he became what we have made him. Is the king’s proposal not to thank and recognize the good Loki? To enlist him against the mad one?”
“Hermoth did not get into Hel,” Shef added with the crushing certainty that came from vision. “He was stopped by the gates. He cut a cock’s head off and threw it over Grind-gate, and rode back. But before he rode back he heard the cock crowing on the other side.”
“So there is life even in the place of death,” concluded Farman. “Even where Balder is. So there is a chance… A chance of curing the world’s maim and bringing back beauty to it.” He looked at Shef, aiming his words at him alone. “And that is how the old become young. Not like dragons, by clinging on to what is theirs. Like adders, by shedding their skin. The skin of worn-out belief. Old knowledge gone dead.”
He has shared more than one of my visions, Shef thought, even if I did not know it.
Thorvin looked round the table, conscious that the argument was slipping away from him, seeing faces that ranged from Hardred’s stupor to Skaldfinn’s dawning interest, angry conviction from Svandis.
“It would have to go to the full Council of priests,” he temporized.
“In the end,” Farman agreed.
“But how does this affect our plans? Our plans for here and now?”
“I will tell you that,” said Shef. “It seems to me that there are many things we could do. We could go home, brushing the Greeks out of our way.”
“Perhaps making a little profit as we go,” suggested Guthmund.
“We could sail our ships to the Guadalquivir and march on Cordova. It has no Caliph now, if what we hear is true. Our support might make a difference to the next one. It is in my mind that we might demand the right to preach the Way. It would have been denied by the last Caliph, by any Caliph securely in power. Just now—well, who knows?”