Only a few days earlier, Freya’s garden it had been a place drenched in sunlight, filled with birdsong, the scent of wild roses, and the incomparable fragrance of the golden fruit. Now Loki would scarcely have known it for the same place. Flowers lay withered and brown on the garden walks, and the dry stalks of plants quivered under the mournful rain. The leaves of the apple tree had fallen; only a few withered apples remained, high on the topmost branches. But the change in the Aesir was even more profound.

  Freyr stood leaning against the wall in the rain, his arms crossed. His face was lined and sallow, his hair graying at the temples, and he blinked bleary eyes against the rain. Under the tree stood Odin, gazing up into its branches. He leaned heavily on his spear, and his hair had grown gray. He seemed bent under a great burden of weariness. Frigga seemed to have fared the best. She stood in the gateway, sheltering from the drops, with a shawl drawn over her white hair. She had aged to a taut dignity; the line of her bones was still lovely under the fragile skin.

  The branches quivered, and Loki saw that someone was clambering about in the tree. He gathered that it was Thor, and settled himself with amusement to watch. “More to your right,” Odin called up, and Thor’s voice replied, “That one will not bear my weight.”

  There was more shifting and rustling, then Thor’s hand reached up toward one of the shrunken apples on the bough. He almost touched it, but the branch straightened, swinging the apple just beyond his reach. “It is no use,” he called. “I cannot reach any of them.”

  “Well, come down,” said Odin with a sigh. “I knew it was probably hopeless.”

  Frigga glanced across at the lord of harvests and rain, and said, “Freyr, I wish you would stop this drizzle. It is dreary enough without it.”

  “I am in a mood for rain,” answered Freyr.

  Thor climbed down from the tree with a great creaking and grumbling, amid a shower of leaves. He was still vigorous, but his red beard and hair were streaked with gray, and he bent to rub his knees as if they pained him.

  “You are amazingly spry, considering your age,” said Loki from the wall.

  Startled, they all looked up. Odin lifted his spear. “Loki, I warned you not to return without an answer. Woe betide you if you have ignored my warning.”

  “So you did,” said Loki. “And I have returned. Does that suggest anything to your mind, or has senility overtaken you already?”

  Odin drew a deep breath, controlling his irritation, and Loki relaxed. He knew that one day he might push Odin too far, but the temptation to bait him was irresistible. “What have you discovered?” asked Odin.

  “I met a dwarf,” said Loki, crossing his legs. “A cunning little fellow who calls himself Albric. He lives in that hole called Svartalfheim, I gathered. In fact he is the ruler of it, for what that is worth.”

  “And what has that to do with us?” asked Odin.

  “Why, simply that he owns a curious piece of jewelry: a ring. It was fashioned from Aegir’s gold; you remember the sea nymphs were bemoaning its theft not long ago. He is the one who stole it, and he intends to put it to good use. But it occurred to me that the Aesir might have a better use for it.”

  “I have heard of Aegir’s enchanted gold,” said Freyr. “It was his greatest treasure. He was bitterly angry over its loss.”

  Loki shrugged. “His loss, our gain.”

  Odin was frowning. “You think we should offer it to the giants?”

  “It is a ring of power,” said Loki. “How much power, I cannot say. Albric the dwarf renounced love to gain it, which must speak something of its worth. But it is the one thing that the giants may accept, and there is this also: the dark elves are masters of a great hoard of treasure. The giants say they will take no less a prize than Freya, but should they see a hoard of gold and gems as tall as she, their minds might be overwhelmed by greed.”

  “So,” said Odin heavily, “we must attempt to recover Aegir’s gold.”

  “But if you recover it,” said Frigga, “should you not return it to Aegir? It was his to begin with.”

  “It was not his to begin with,” said Odin. “It belonged to a mortal king, who buried it in the sea to save it from his enemies, and where he came by it in the dim mists of antiquity, no one knows. It belongs to whoever can seize it.”

  “Then it is by right the dwarf’s,” said Frigga.

  “Do not quibble, woman!” said Odin sharply. “We have need of it to ransom Freya, if the giants will accept it. It is no time to split hairs over ownership with a dwarf!”

  “As you will,” said Frigga coolly.

  Odin paced the garden path, then turned to Loki. “But if this dwarf wears the ring, how can we capture him? He will not let us near enough to seize it.”

  “As for that,” said Loki, “I may be able to think of a stratagem or two. But I suggest that you bring along Gleipnir.”

  Freyr gave a dry chuckle. “Ironic. Capture a dwarf with a dwarf-made fetter.”

  Thor wrinkled his bristling brows. “You mean that string the dwarves made for us out of bears’ sinews? I thought we used it all to bind Fenris Ulf.”

  “It was made,” said Freyr, “if I recall rightly, out of the roots of stones, the breath of a fish, the beards of women, the noise of a cat’s footfall, the sinews of bears, and the spittle of a bird. I think there is a length or two of it left. But I do not see how any of us can get close enough to drop it over the dwarf’s head.”

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  “Leave that to me,” said Loki, dropping lightly from the wall.

  “Just as we left Freya’s safety to you?” asked Freyr.

  “Enough,” growled Odin. “Come, Loki. You and I shall go to Svartalfheim.”

  They went first to Gladsheim, where Odin changed his gray cloak for a darker one, the color of shadows, then they made their way out of the gate to the Rainbow Bridge. The edge of Bifrost shone faintly through the dripping trees on the mountainside. As they approached it Odin saw that someone stood waiting beneath the boughs. It was a maiden clad in helm and byrnie of fine chain mail, an ashwood spear in one hand and the reins of a gray steed in the other. Waves of redgold hair fell from beneath the helm, and in the gloomy shade her green eyes seemed gray as the sea beneath a clouded sky.

  “Father Odin!” she said. “What is amiss? I have never seen such despair in Asgard, not since the wolf ran wild in the streets.” Her eyes widened in dismay as they fell on his face, seamed and wrinkled with age.

  He paused to catch his breath, leaning on his spear. At sight of his daughter his heart lifted. He was relieved to see that as she was only half Aesir, the loss of Freya’s apples had not affected her. Her distress moved him more than his own anxiety. “Do not be alarmed, child,” he said with affection. “All will be well, once Loki and I return.”

  At his words her dismay melted; her chin lifted, and her eyes grew warm with confidence. The trust in her face dazzled him. “Very well. But tell me if there is any way I or my shieldmaidens can be of use.”

  “I do have a task for you,” he said. “Go to the wastes of Jotunheim where Fafnir and Fasolt live, and bid them bring Freya to the foot of Bifrost. We will meet them there, with a prize well worth their while.”

  “It will be done, my lord. Is there aught else?”

  Odin hesitated. But she was a battlemaiden, hardened in war; there was no sense in softening the truth. “When that is done, Brynhild, summon the Valkyries. Bid them make ready for war— for if I should fail, we will face a battle more terrible than any you have known.”

  Her shoulders straightened and an eager light flashed into her face; she lifted her spear in salute. “It shall be done, lord!” She swung into the saddle and urged her horse to a gallop, tugging at the reins until he mounted into the air.

  Odin stood and watched her climb spiraling into the heights, until horse and rider were lost in the lowering gray clouds.

  “There rides one warrior undaunted at the prospect of battle,” observed Loki.

  “She is the best of my Valkyries,” said Odin with pride; “valiant and true-hearted. Battle and danger are her lifeblood. Someday she will face the last battle at my side— yet I hope, for her sake, it will not be soon,” he ended heavily.

  “Then let us see what can be done in Svartalfheim to postpone it,” said Loki, and started down the bridge to Middle-earth.

  Underground, in the smithy of the dark elves, Mimir laid down his hammer. The thing he had created lay on the anvil before him, perfect in every link, a shimmering silver helm of finest chain mail: the tarnhelm. It had been forged by a meshing of his skill and the enchantment of the ring; he was not sure even yet what powers lay hidden in it.

  “It is finished,” he said, leaning on the anvil, his eyes glazing. He felt weary to death; exhaustion lay on him like a sickness. He paid small heed to the pale face that started up beside him, licking its lips and gloating.

  “You took your time about it,” said Albric. “Give it to me! Now tell me, what will it do?”

  “Take it.” Mimir stumbled to a bench against the wall with a weary groan. “I do not know all that it will do. It has the ring’s enchantment woven into it, as you ordered.”

  “Yes, yes.” Albric lifted the shining thing, held it over his head, and hesitated, casting him a sharp glance. “You are sure it will obey me?”

  Mimir lifted his heavy head from his hands, feeling a stir of anger. “You are asking me? I who helped forge Gleipnir, the fetter that binds Fenris Ulf? I who designed Skidbladnir, the shrinking ship of the Aesir? I am a master of my craft. And you ask me if it will work!”

  “Well, I suppose it will.” Albric’s face darkened. “The Aesir end by possessing everything of value that we make. But they shall not touch this! This is mine alone.” He pulled it suddenly over his head, and as suddenly vanished.

  Mimir blinked. There was silence in the cavern; from distant shafts came the rhythmic beat of mattock and hammer. Then he heard a shrill explosion of glee, and his hammer leaped into the air and whirled in a circle. A cloud of smoke grew in the cavern; it whirled, and glowing red eyes appeared in it. It grew vast, stretching tendrils into every corner until Mimir began to choke on the reek, then it shrank again. Cloudy shapes appeared in the gloom: a rearing horse with pale mane and tail, a huge claw-winged bat, a woman with a writhing serpent’s tail. Abruptly Albric appeared again, holding the helm and grinning a broad black-toothed grin.

  “It works!” he crowed. “Invisibility and shape-changing as well. I am off below, to see what those maggots of miners are up to. If any of them are disposed to shirk, they will soon learn better.”

  He paused, glared at Mimir, and snapped, “Get back to work!” Then he tugged on the tarnhelm and vanished. But the iron chain rose from the floor, sailed through the air and began cracking about Mimir’s ears, while Albric’s shrill laughter rang in the cavern.

  “Leave me alone!” raged Mimir, covering his head. “I have done enough for one day.”

  But the chain had already floated from the room with its invisible master.

  Mimir slumped on the bench in exhaustion. He could have wept with anger and frustration, if he had not been so bone-weary. For days and nights he had been forced to labor on the tarnhelm in fear of Albric’s whimsical rages, and he had forged a magical gift worth a kingdom. Then the little wretch tweaked it away without as much as a thank you. He ground his teeth in fury, wishing that just once he could get his hands on Albric without the ring. But he was too tired right now. He would just rest for a few minutes. Then maybe he could think of something.

  Odin followed the sound of Loki’s footsteps through the dark torturous tunnels of Svartalfheim. They had entered by a low hidden door in a hillside, which Loki had found by some sixth sense. It had been years since Odin had visited the home of the dark elves. Not since he and Tyr had come to ask them to forge Gleipnir, in those long ago days when the black Wolf ran raging through Asgard. He had received only a surly welcome then, and expected no better now, but he trusted that in his guise as an old wayfarer he would not be recognized. He had pulled the hood of his cloak low to hide his one eye. Under the cloak was coiled what remained of Gleipnir, after the rest had gone to bind the Wolf; no sword could cut it, only his spear could sever it. He trusted that its fragile-seeming strength could hold any dwarf, however wily, but he did not know how they were to draw close enough to cast it.

  He stumbled in the dark, putting out a hand to touch the rough damp stone of the tunnel wall. “Do you need a light?” came Loki’s voice, and a glow appeared in the darkness before him. It grew until Odin saw Loki’s dark form outlined in the shimmer of flames, casting enough light to reveal the uneven floor of the tunnel. They went on down in silence. Somewhere nearby he heard water dripping, but his own breathing was the only other sound.

  Then he began to hear, now soft, now louder, the pulse of the dwarves’ hammering. It had an urgency about it that he did not remember, as if the unseen miners toiled in some great haste.

  They came at last through a narrow cleft into a wide sooty cavern, where an anvil stood before a fire burning on a blackened hearth. A dwarf, black-haired and soot-grimed, naked to the waist, sat huddled against the wall, sunk open-mouthed in a deep sleep.