Baldur wore an expression of pure innocence, like a victimized child. Deep sympathy welled up in Larson. Attentively, he waited, but Baldur remained silent, his visage pleading.
Gaelinar's voice shattered the enveloping hush. "Talk to him, hero. By Hel's law, he cannot speak first."
There was an aura about Baldur which unsettled Larson. He had faced gods before. But while Loki had simply seemed an unusually handsome and evil man, Hel a hideously deformed lady, and Vidarr a mere presence in a sword, Baldur conjured images of stained glass windows, cushioned pews, and hymnals. Larson felt intimidated, and his voice revealed his trepidation. "Hello." he said uncomfortably. "Did you want to say something?"
Baldur flashed a candid smile. "Please," he said, his voice high and musical. He extended an arm and opened his fist. A brooch balanced on his palm, an opaque blue pern on which some artist had painted a miniature scene in gold ink. "Take this to my father. Remind him I am still here, and that I have riot forgotten him."
Larson stared at the jewel in Baldur's hand, but he made no move to retrieve it. "Your father," Larson repeated. He met Baldur's imploring gaze with puzzlement. "Is he some sort of god?"
Baldur's grin widened, and his face went pink with amusement.
Larson backstepped. "I'm sorry. I have no way to contact gods." He realized how ludicrous he must sound after Gaelinar had announced their slaying of Loki while engaged in conversation with Hel. But he also knew he had spoken honestly.
Baldur inched toward Larson, still offering the gem. His tone became insistent. "Anyone can communicate with gods. They need only pray in the proper temple, consult an oracle, make an appropriate sacrifice." He prodded Larson's forearm with the brooch. "Please, try. I will understand if you cannot deliver my message."
The dead remained still and expectant. Baldur's gleaming presence blocked Larson's retreat from the corridor. Toward the outer doorway, beyond the god, Larson spotted a female figure drifting toward Gaelinar. She moved with the lithe grace of a dancer and the confidence of the living. Golden hair fell in waves to the middle of her back. Larson knew Silme at once; her every detail lay fixed in his memory. Death seemed not to have changed her at all. She carried none of Hel's mold. She remained free of any disfiguring wound or condition. She appeared exactly as Larson had last seen her: slim, pale, everything about her so perfectly formed, he could think of no feature even the gods could improve upon. His desire for her returned in an exhilarating rush. All thought of morality fled him. I must win back her life… and her love. Suddenly, no task done for her could be too great, no sacrifice too large. He moved toward her and nearly collided with Baldur who still stood in his path.
Frustration tightened Larson's chest. He seized the painted gem from Baldur's hand and jammed it into a pocket of his cloak. "I'll try," he muttered harshly. "Now step aside."
The instant Baldur relaxed his guard, Larson slipped past. Carefully, he threaded through the gathered corpses, avoiding their icy touches. He reached Silme in three running strides and hurled himself into her arms.
Silme shrank away, avoiding his embrace.
Silme's dodge off-balanced Larson. He careened into Gaelinar, then whirled, and stared at her, incredulous. Her rejection seared him like a hot knife. "W-Why?" he stammered.
"Don't," Silme whispered. "It'll only hurt you. My life aura is gone. I have only the blank chill of the dead to offer you now." Her voice quivered with sorrow. "Allerum, you should never have come."
Grief and outrage warred within Larson. Closer, he noticed Silme's fair skin had grown sallow, her fiercely gray eyes hollowed and dull. "But I love you." He fought the urge to cradle her in his arms. "I need you, Silme. We came to bring you back."
Silme rolled her eyes with resignation. She ran a pallid hand through her hair, and a brief smile graced her features. "And I appreciate your effort. If anyone could accomplish such a thing, it would be you." She addressed Larson, but her gaze played over Gaelinar. "But I'm afraid such a thing is impossible. And I'd rather you remembered me as I was than as I am now." She traced her body with her fingertips.
Larson followed Silme's gesture, still certain he faced the most beautiful woman in existence. "We'll free you," he insisted, though not at all certain he could keep his promise. "Hel told us what we need to do." Sudden doubt rushed down upon him, and he paused to consider. "Do you think Hel might have lied to us?"
Silme shook her head. "Probably not. The gods are intolerant of falsehoods, even among themselves. But she would try to mislead you. Consider her words carefully. What did she tell you to do?"
Larson knew Silme would never allow the slaying of an innocent person in exchange for her life. Quickly, he waved Gaelinar silent. "Never mind." Larson changed the subject with an awkward abruptness. "How long did you know we were here?"
Silme hesitated, shrugged, and followed Larson's tack. "From the time you arrived. But I avoided you. I didn't want you to see me until you had spoken with Hel and grown accustomed to the appearances of the dead."
Larson gnawed his lip, gravely aware of the unspoken concern beneath her explanation. The flashbacks had made him unpredictable, emotionally volatile, and, at times, violent. He knew the control he had gained over his memories would please her and hoped she had seen how well he'd handled himself among the walking corpses after his conversation with Hel.
Silme placed her hand into the folds of her baggy, gray cloak and retrieved a fist-sized, rectangular sapphire, cut and shaped like a diamond. She offered it to Larson.
Larson recognized the stone as the one which had nested between the carven claws of Silme's dragonstaff. He accepted the gem, running his fingers across its smoothed facets. "What should I do with this?"
"Keep it safe," came Silme's soft reply. "It's my rankstone. It symbolized my level of Dragonrank training. But, more importantly, it can store life aura as power." She met Larson's stare with pointed intensity, as if to instill in him the knowledge it had taken her years to master. "Because I had placed energy into the gem before my death, a tiny piece of me remains alive within it. Carry it, and remember me. If, by some miracle, I should be brought to life again, I can track you by it."
Gaelinar, Silme, and Larson exchanged glances as the gawking ring of corpses closed more tightly around them. Gaelinar cleared his throat. "We'd best be on our way. If Hel's threats are any indication, our journey is best undertaken well-rested." He examined the dead. "And I don't want to sleep here."
Larson agreed. Hel's citadel does not seem the safest
or most welcome bedroom. "Fine. But I need to know one thing more." He inclined his head toward Silme and scarcely refrained from catching her hands. "We came to Hel for another reason. Have you seen Brendor?" An image of Silme's bumbling, young apprentice formed in Larson's mind. Time had warped the picture. The simple features of the boy he had planned to accept as his son intermingled inseparably with his recollections of his own baby brother, Timmy. "We came to rescue him, too. Where is the little guy?"
Silme winced, shifting uncomfortably. "Allerum, I'm sorry."
Concern made Larson curt. "What do you mean you're sorry? Where's Brendor?"
"Remember Bramin's spell? The one which allowed Brendor to attack you?"
Larson's chest felt pinched. He recalled the madness which had possessed Brendor's lifeless body; the image remained strong within him. He envisioned Brendor's small form punching, gouging, and wrestling with an inhuman power he had never known in life. In vivid detail, he saw the child's glazed features on a frame bloodied and shattered by Silme's magic. "What about Bramin's spell?" he asked in a strangled whisper.