Free The Black Chalice by Marie Jakober Page B

youth, in the years before all the gods began to seem unworthy of their divinity. He had been raised staunchly Christian, as the children of the aristocracy mostly were. And he had been a bright lad, eager to excel in learning as in everything else; the teachings had gone deep. But all around him the pagan world still lingered and whispered under its breath. Men might cross themselves at the crying of a raven, but they watched its circling path for omens nonetheless. They wore holy medals and heathen charms on the same thongs around their necks. They sang the songs of the old gods, and told their stories, and claimed them as founders of the race.
    Some Christians said it was all foolish superstition. Others called it evil, a dangerous flirting with old, demonic powers. A long time ago he had wondered which opinion was correct. Now both seemed inadequate and self-serving.
    The priestess spoke again.
    “Whatever powers we choose to serve, Karel, those are the powers we unleash in the world. Pagan or Christian alike; it doesn’t matter; if the lords of heaven must always have their own way, and kill and wreak havoc to get it, the lords of earth will do the same. Odin has his place, but it was a small place once, and it should have stayed small. I acknowledge him, because he’s there. But I do not call him All-father, because he isn’t. And I bring my gifts to others. To Iduna of the golden apples, and to Tyr, who was earthmate and high lord of the Germans before Thor and Odin ever came here. They call him Aesir, too, but he’s of a far older breed, and proved it.
    “Do you know the story of Tyr, Karelian? Do you remember what happened when the gods of Asgard went to bind the Fenris wolf, the monster Loki fathered on himself?”
    “Yes,” he said. He knew the story; everyone did. It was Tyr who fed the monster when he was small, because no one else had the courage to go near him. And when Fenrir grew to be evil and dangerous, so was it Tyr who undid his power.
    Loki’s wolf-creature grew mean and strong— so dreadfully strong he might soon destroy the world. The gods brought different kinds of ropes to bind him, teasing him about his strength, wagering he could not break free. He always won. Only the last rope was different, a slender cord, woven from the sound of a cat’s footfall, and the beard of a woman, and the roots of a mountain, and many other things, woven in great secrecy, and with such skill that none of those things was ever seen again within the world. Fenrir was wary, and made them all swear an oath: if he failed to break the cord, they must take his wager and set him free. But even then he did not trust them. Very well, he said, you may bind me. But one of you must first put your hand into my mouth.
    “And not one of them would do it,” Raven said scornfully. “Odin the great fighter and Thor the great boaster and Loki the great liar all stood by, and looked at each other. Someone else could do it, sweet heaven— what would Thor be if he couldn’t pound his mighty hammer, or Odin if he couldn’t wield his sword? And so Tyr put his hand into the beast’s mouth, knowing he would lose it. And they bound Fenrir, and so he will be bound till the end of time. But it hardly made a tale for the drinking halls of Valhalla. No great battle there, no fields of dead. No glory in such a small, precious sacrifice. Tyr walks lonely in the world now.”
    “Some would compare him to Christ, for his sacrifice.”
    “Why should they?” she demanded sharply. “Did Tyr say afterwards: Now the whole world must bow to me, and follow me, and all the other gods must die?”
    Karelian said nothing.
    “Christ was his father’s son,” she went on. “He was never a god of the earth; he wanted no part of it. He tried to break the sacred circles of the world. Maybe his followers talked about peace, but they looked on life as something to conquer, just as the war gods did. Where else would they finish, except in the same