That sounds like more than I want. “Uh … transformation into what?”
“Into a free human. But also into a defeat for Loki.” Odin displays the briefest of smiles, but he isn’t properly keeping score, in my view. Loki didn’t just brand me down in that pit outside Thanjavur—he took two very powerful magical weapons with him: the Lost Arrows of Vayu, and Fuilteach, my whirling blade crafted by the yeti. To even the score, someone would have to steal them back.
Odin hands the stone chop to Fjalar, who places it in the grip of a pair of iron tongs and thrusts it into the coals burning in Odin’s hearth. Scenes from several movies flash through my head, where the bad guy does something similar to stimulate dread in the restrained protagonist, but I am looking forward to it. I would endure any pain to get rid of Loki’s mark. Pain fades, but freedom is an enduring joy. Admittedly, the freedom I’m seeking is a mental thing—I mostly want my privacy back. Knowing you’re being watched by a creep isn’t like any physical restraint, but it is a shackle on your conscience.
We stare at the fire together for perhaps ten seconds and then become aware that waiting in silence for the entire time it takes to heat the chop would be uncomfortable. Frigg clears her throat and says to Fjalar, “Do you leave for Svartálfheim soon?”
“Very soon,” he says, but before I can inquire why he might be going to visit the dark elves, Odin chimes in with the perceptible air of one who wishes desperately to talk of something else.
“Tell me, Granuaile, did Loki reveal anything else that might allow us to guess when he will act?” he asks.
“No, I did most of the talking. Told him I would kill him the next time I saw him. He didn’t reply, but I assume the reverse is true.”
I shift my eyes back to the dwarf, considering. The last time I saw him, the Runeskald was working on axes that would cut dark elves in their smoke forms and force them to take physical shape again. If he is going to visit Svartálfheim, it might not be an innocuous trip.
Fjalar forestalls any more conversation by saying, “It’s ready.” The stone is glowing faintly red when he plucks it out of the fire. It’s not bright orange like Loki’s was, but I have no doubt I’ll feel the heat just fine. “Your arm, please, quickly.”
Orlaith, I’m going to be in pain and yell a bit, but don’t get upset. I need this.
<Okay, if you say so.>
I roll up my left sleeve, exposing my biceps where Loki branded me. Fjalar’s gloved left hand reaches out and guides my hand under his left armpit, bracing me there and using his palm to lock my elbow and keep the arm straight.
“Do your best not to move. Fight the instinct.”
“I will,” I say, nodding to him and tucking my tongue firmly behind my teeth. I don’t want to bite it off when the pain hits—and I’m quite sure it will hit regardless of what I do to block it. I’d been blocking all the pain I could when Loki branded me and I still felt it; his chop did more than burn the skin—it seared the aura, if I understood Odin correctly, marked me on a level beyond mere flesh. Fjalar’s Rune of Ashes will presumably do the same. At least I hope it will; multiple tries at this would not be fun.
I can feel the heat radiating from the stone on my cheeks and arm as Fjalar positions the chop above my biceps.
“Do it,” I tell him through clenched teeth, and he doesn’t hesitate. He clutches my elbow tightly and brings down the chop directly on top of Loki’s mark, and the sizzling pain is nothing I could have prepared for. It burns everywhere, not just on my arm, and my muscles seize up and even my throat is unable to scream past an initial cry of shock. But that first, quick gasp opens my mouth and then, despite trying to prepare for it, I bite my tongue anyway. I taste coppery blood in my mouth, and sweat pops out on my skin all over.
“Gah!” Blood spurts out of my mouth and sprays Fjalar in the face. He’s keeping the rune on my arm much longer than Loki did. Or maybe it only seems that way.
Orlaith’s voice cries out in my mind. <Hey! Granuaile, that’s blood! He should stop! He’s hurting too much!>
I agree heartily but tell her, It won’t be much longer. I’ll heal.
“We have to make sure we burn it all away,” Fjalar says.
“It’s through … my skin!”
“Ah! So it is.”