Welcome to CHAPTER 41 of the Kinsmen Die podcast, home of fantasy fiction based on Norse mythology that’s written and read by me, Matt Bishop. In this podcast I read my first novel, Kinsmen Die, one chapter at a time. And, with each episode, when it makes sense, I provide some commentary about the source materials I’ve referenced in the text. Today, we’re back with Odin, husband of Frigg, father of Baldr, Hodr, Hermod, Thor and Vidar. We’ve been bouncing between the points of view of Odin and Frigg, first as Odin spoke the Norns and then fought with the spirit from the well. We were in Frigg’s POV for some of that fight and then again with Frigg for the aftermath as she met with some of the jarls and, with Idunn’s apples, tended to Odin’s wounds. In this chapter we’re with Odin for the council of the Aesir jarls. So, let’s get to it. Chapter Forty-One Odin Leaning more heavily on the table than he’d admit if asked, Odin gestured with his chin toward Idunn. “If you would, Priestess, please pass Aegir’s Gifts around the table and let us begin. I remain in more than usual need of Yggdrasil’s fruit.” “Of course, Alfather.” Idunn flipped hair the color of fresh-turned soil from her face and removed one large golden fruit from the basket, set it before her and slid the basket to Freyr. He stood, took one for himself, and passed the basket to his sister Freyja. When the basket came to Odin, he took a second fruit. With Frigg’s help, he dropped that fruit into a sack and handed it down to Geri. The wolf took it in his jaws and trotted off into the mists. Freki watched her brother go and then lay beside Odin’s chair. Frigg then took her own fruit and passed the basket on to Thor. From there, it went to Heimdall, then Tyr, and then back to Idunn. With a graceful nod, Idunn thanked Tyr, glanced around the table, and raised her own fruit to shoulder height on an open palm. Everyone around the table stood and then did the same. Odin’s already cut fruit waited for him on his palm, ripe and golden. It smelled of honey, fresh from the hive. Of clean sea air. Of a winter’s crisp dawn. Of apples mulled in wine. Anticipatory juices flowed in his mouth. In a clear, cool voice Idunn spoke. “With each bite and swallow of this apple we renew our pledge to Aegir, keeping ourselves yet another night, another day, another winter, from Rán’s chill home. Aegir’s Gift brings renewed life, just as the waters from the Roaring Cauldron swept life into the realms. And yet those same waters may also bring death. Should we fall in the dance of spears, should Rán’s weeping nets clutch us tight, we will go proudly, joyously, remembering that what we do in life outlasts our death.” Along with everyone else, Odin spoke the response. “Cattle die. Kinsmen die. But our names will never die, if we win good renown.” Idunn bit deep into the golden fruit, its juices flooded down her chin. One fine hand darted up to catch those juices, she slurped them up and sucked at the fruit. Though his wounds burned and throbbed, and his hand trembled, Odin resisted for one thunderous heartbeat, then a second, as he watched his family—through blood and alliance—tear into their own golden fruit just as Idunn had done. He couldn’t resist any longer. He bit deep into the fruit’s sweet, crisp flesh. The golden skin parted with a pop that sent a shiver through him. He devoured mouthful after mouthful, trying to slow down, to chew and savor, but instead he gulped them down. Each bite of the fruit was like a hammer blow on a spike of fire driven through him, but this spike brought relief from pain. Heat grew in his belly and his limbs shook. He felt caught between twin spirits. One nuzzled his ear and stroked his hair, whispering that it was all right to be tired, that she would comfort him. The second agreed with the first, saying that surrender was success, and failure was success. And both would feel good. Just take another bite. He nearly listened. Nearly. He fought the spirits as if they were real. He kicked like a child learning to swim, wild to stay at the surface but sinking all the same. Another bite. Finish the fruit. He nearly screamed with the effort of resisting. Nearly. He forced his right hand to his satchel. The spirits pleaded, sweet as the fruit, hot as his loins, but he fought them. He tore his satchel open and drove the hand holding the fruit down and away from his mouth. The whispering spirits became beasts that roared and clawed worse then Fenrir had when he’d realized Gleipnir wouldn’t snap. Sweat poured from his face, but his hands obeyed. He shoved the half-eaten fruit into his satchel, ripped his hand out, and sagged forward, hands flat on the cool wood of the table. The twin spirits flailed and roared, mouths frothing as Fenrir’s had—and still did—then, having failed, they slipped back into the depths of his hugr and merged with the darkness. He dragged in a deep breath and looked at Frigg. Her chest heaved with the aftermath of the same struggle. But the deep bruises around her neck were gone, as were the scratches on her arm. She was younger, healthier, the movements of her head sharp and quick. Her smile was as warm as her deep brown eyes. His own wounds were gone, dried up and vanished like puddles in the hot sun. Frigg dropped her own uneaten half of fruit into his satchel. Their shared sacrifice, given each winter, powered the magic that protected their son. All around the table, the jarls were recovering—some trembled, some rubbed their faces, some smiled and licked their fingers clean—but returned youth and strength sang in their every breath and movement. If these fruits had tough, bitter brown-black seeds, the jarls—and himself—would have eaten them too. But only once in all the hundreds of winters they’d eaten these fruits had he seen a seed—a pale, frail thing that not even Idunn’s tender care could coax into life. All the jarls stood straighter now, age’s weight shed. Thor’s beard and hair were again forge fire red. Freyja’s bronze skin glowed golden now, as did Freyr’s. For once, Heimdall didn’t look drunk, though as Odin watched, the pale Aesir grimaced, his large gold teeth glinting, and he groped for the wineskin before him. He would have to deal with that when he had time. Unbidden, the memory returned of the time Thiazi had captured Loki and forced him to steal Idunn and her fruits from Gladsheim. Like snow on a mountain, age had piled its weight on these faces around him—and his own. If not for Loki, they might all have perished. If not for Loki, they would not have aged like that at all. *** Odin remained standing as his jarls sat down. “When I left Gladsheim twenty winters ago to not only seek my brothers but find new lands for the Aesir, I did so without fully appreciating what I’d left behind. You have all thrived in my absence. Our city is greater than it was, and it’s all thanks to your efforts.” He looked down at Frigg and invited her to rise. “I must thank my wife in particular. Her leadership during my wanderings has surpassed even my wildest imaginings. I knew she was more than capable, mind you,” he said, grinning, “so thank you, Almother, for your care of our realm. Gladsheim couldn’t have a better mother—or a more absent father.” Frigg took his hand and stood, the surprise on her tawny face deepening to a blush. He pulled her to him and hugged her tight. When they separated, he tenderly kissed her on the lips. The jarls thumped the table and called their approval. Raising a hand for silence, he spoke again. “When I was attacked this morning—an encounter I’ll relate presently—I was gravely wounded, and I succumbed to the battle fury as I fought this spirit. To my shame, I attacked Frigg and nearly killed her. I truly and deeply regret those actions. I can only say that I was not myself.” Into the silence that followed, and with a mischievous grin, Frigg said, “I forgive you, Odin. And don’t worry, I won’t divorce you. Not this time.” After a moment of surprise and some mild laughter from the jarls, he inclined his head. “Thank you, Frigg.” She squeezed his hand and smiled. “Why not begin with your encounter with the spirit? Then we’ll discuss the rest—but quickly, for time presses.” *** Odin spread his hands. “So, questions?” Freyja leaned forward and spoke. “Why did the waters burn you, Alfather? All here have drunk from the well, and we’ve never experienced anything similar.” If he knew that, then he’d be a step closer to knowing what the thing was. Amazing how he could explore for twenty winters and still be surprised by something beneath his feet. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suspect that what I fought has a body—a hamr—and lives below the well. Perhaps it animated the water with magic, or sent its spirit to do the same. You and I are capable of that, Freyja, so why not another?” Freyja’s green eyes narrowed like one of the long-toothed cats that roamed Vanaheim’s plains. She played idly with the gem-crusted torc that lay heavy on her chest. “But that begs the question. Is there a place—” The slither of leather upon the smooth table interrupted her as Heimdall dragged his wineskin to him. Odin banged a fist on the table. Heimdall looked up, startled. Odin jabbed a finger at him. “Were I to rip your spirit from your body, Heimdall, it would sever the link between it and your body. Not only would this kill you, but if I were strong enough—and I am—I could wear your corpse like a shirt. Not that I would, since you’ve befouled your body with so much drink.” Thor chuckled. Heimdall glared at him, but Thor just stared back, a bored expression settling on his face. Freyja cleared her throat. “As I was saying, is there a place beneath Ithavoll? There must be, right?” He blew out a hard breath. How much had they missed because of Heimdall’s drunkenness? Deprived of his cousin’s watchfulness, he could now see how greatly they had leaned upon it. Curse Loki and his pranks. “Just as normal trees tap deep, fertile soil, so too does this one.” Odin gestured with one hand toward Yggdrasil’s looming bulk. “When last I looked—and that was a very long time ago—my sight could not pierce the darkness beneath us.” “What about when you...” She too gestured toward the giant tree. Drove a spear through his side and hung himself up among its branches for nine windy nights? He gave a quick shake of the head. “My attention was elsewhere.” Thor thumped the table with one beefy fist and looked around the table. “Why don’t I just swim down there and kill it? When I come back with its head, I’ll tell you what’s down there. Mystery solved. Can we now—” Freyr laughed. “I don’t think it’s that simple, cousin. You can’t just swim down the Urdarbrunnr.” “Why not? If I want to cross a river, I either fly over it in my cart or walk through it. If there’s a boulder in my way, I break it.” “Refreshingly direct, but whatever this thing is, how can a realm exist literally beneath our feet?” Freyr leaned forward, a light smile brightening his golden features. “The Alfather just said there’s nothing beneath Yggdrasil.” Thor frowned, his red brows meeting in the middle. “That’s not what I heard him say. Besides, we ride down Yggdrasil from a tunnel atop Gladsheim, and yet there’s a star-filled sky above us. If we ride down to here, then maybe there’s more below. Or maybe up and down don’t always mean what we think they do. I think Vidar’s said something like that before, right?” Odin grunted to himself. Vidar had said that. And he himself had thought much the same thing when he’d hung from Yggdrasil’s upper limbs and stared into the Ginnungagap’s roaring heart. “Ah, well...” Freyr sat back, pursed his lips, and considered. “You have me there, I admit.” Satisfied, Thor folded his arms over his chest. Chuckles ran around the table. Odin couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t often that his plodding son wrong-footed those quicker of wit. He rapped the table. “It’s clear we need to know more before we act. I see only one course before us: I will sit upon my High Seat and when I pierce the shadows beneath us, we will ride into that darkness astride Skidbladnir’s sturdy planks.” He caught Frigg’s frown, cleared his throat and said, “But that would take more time than we have now, so let us set this particular mystery aside, frustrating though that is, and focus on the one that caused Frigg to summon me back.” For a moment, he considered asking Frigg to tell what she’d seen in her visions. She had to know more of what was going on than she let on. How many threats to the Aesir could he quash if he could only see half as much as she did—or if she would confide in him? Instead, he invited Baldr to speak. “If you would, son, please tell everyone what you’ve been experiencing.” Baldr quirked his lips but sat forward, addressing everyone. “Several of you know this already, but since early summer I’ve been having dreams—increasingly vivid, disturbing dreams.” “They cause his body to grow corpse-cold,” Nanna said, tears leaping into her eyes. “And the only thing that wakes him is Sól’s light falling on him.” Baldr reached out and took her hand, and their fingers twined together. “I don’t remember that, but of course I take Nanna’s word for it—and mother’s. Freyja has seen my…dreams, too. All I do remember are glimpses. I’m sitting in a chair astride a ship, the sail bellied before the wind. The ship creaks and flexes upon the waves. Then I’m cold, colder than the cellars beneath Heimdall’s tower. Then I wake, shivering and shaking—thanks, apparently, to having been dragged to wherever dawn’s light would fall on me.” “It’s the only thing that rouses him,” Nanna said again. Baldr smiled reassuringly, patted her hand and kissed her brow. Odin glanced sideways at Frigg. Her face was drawn and tight, her hands clasped in her lap, knuckles white. She knew something more. What else had she seen in her visions? He pressed on. “And how often do you have the dreams, Baldr?” “At least once a week. Sometimes more frequently.” He glanced at Nanna, who nodded agreement. “But no dreams at all when we rode to Háls and back again?” “None. Nor last night.” He grunted. “Grim though it sounds, it would be useful for me to see one.” He looked across the table at Freyja. “What did you think of them?” “I’ve only seen a few of them,” Freyja said, with a solemn nod. “We did try to solve the mystery without you, Alfather.” Another weak barb about his absence. Weren’t any of them the least curious about what waited for them in the world beyond their current borders—a world so vast that his brothers had vanished into it? “He’s my son, Freyja. I’d set the heavens ablaze for him. For any of you. What have you learned so far?” Freyja shrugged. “Very little, Alfather. I looked within Baldr’s dreaming mind. When his dream came, I watched it unfold. All was as he said except more detailed. Lengthier. I looked for witchthread leading into his mind but found nothing.” “So it’s not a sending,” he said. “I don’t think so,” she replied. “But you might have more success than I.” “I doubt that,” he said with a quick grin. Freyja had taught him much about seidr, both when they’d fought each other during the Vanir War and then afterward when their two peoples had become one. “I’ll say further that it both looked and felt similar to the ritual you Aesir conduct when you send your dead off in a burning ship, but without the fire.” “And that’s when you sent for me,” he said, glancing at Frigg. Her expression was guarded. She was absolutely keeping something to herself. She shrugged. “There was nothing else we could try.” He had other options. The Norns had failed him, but he could still speak with his uncle. And if that conversation produced no answers, the dead knew much. The difficulty lay in finding the right questions to ask them. “Calling me back made perfect sense.” Thor impatiently slid his hands forward on the table. “I’m not sure I see the problem. They’re just dreams, right? They can’t hurt him, and he’s dreaming about something that’s not possible. If killing Baldr were possible, then I alone would have done it a hundred times over.” In their younger days, Thor had often made a game of hurling Mjolnir at Baldr. All the hammer had ever done was knock Baldr down—or through a wall—before returning to Thor’s hand. Baldr would then stand up from the wreckage, dust himself off, and grin. Over time, the amusement had faded, particularly once pelting Baldr with weapons had become an integral part of the main Midwinter ritual. “But dreaming of the impossible is exactly what’s worrisome, Thor,” Frigg said. “Why would he dream of that? And why does his body become corpse-cold?” “And the dream itself suggests that I can die,” Baldr said, voice steady. “So maybe it is possible.” That wasn’t necessarily true. Dreams didn’t always make sense, nor were the confusing ones always visions. Odin pushed back in his chair and exchanged a quick glance with Frigg. After she’d nodded in agreement he said, “The magic we used at his birth makes it impossible for him to be killed.” “But when Thiazi forced Loki to steal Yggdrasil’s fruits, I aged just as everyone did,” Baldr said. “Could I have died from old age then?” Was that possible? Frigg had used an old Jotunn magic to place Baldr’s spirit—his hugr—into a living sprig of mistletoe. They’d set that mistletoe in a young oak growing in the glade atop Gladsheim’s central hill. So long as tree and mistletoe lived and the magic was fed like a fire, nothing could harm Baldr—no weapon, poison, stone, venom, or magic. That’s what the Norns had promised. Thor had even blasted him with lightning. It had burned his clothes off and scorched the ground, but Baldr had been unharmed. Freyja cleared her throat. “Perhaps, Alfather, if you shared the nature of the magic that was used, we could provide some—” He shook his head. “Not possible.” Her smile was like a summer breeze. “Everything’s possible, Alfather. All here would take that secret to our graves.” “I know that, believe me. But secrets have a way of getting out, which is why only Frigg and I keep this one. If three or more know a thing, well”—he spread his hands—“so dies the secret.” In the silence that followed, the white moths flitted and the mists flowed around their feet. Yggdrasil’s bulk was weighter than the loom of an unseen shore. He broke the silence by saying, “I’ve already asked the Norns about these dreams. They ignored me, just as they’d begun doing long before I left. There is another I can consult. Beyond that, I know another, more dangerous way of getting at the truth, which I will gladly hazard should it prove necessary.” He looked directly at Baldr. “I will find out what’s happening, son. I promise you that.” *** “So, our last piece of business. The attack on Háls,” Odin said. “Does anyone have any ideas on how the Jotunn might have gotten into Asgard in the first place?” Tyr spoke first. “With respect, Alfather, I doubt they slipped through the Breach. Even the outposts along the mountain’s shoulders have overlapping sight lines, and any passable slope is regularly patrolled.” “They couldn’t have crossed even in ones and twos?” he asked. “It’s not impossible, but I think it very unlikely. Some of our best warriors stand watch upon the Breach’s walls.” From across the table, Freyr asked, “What about by ship?” Frigg shook her head. “That’s also unlikely. We’ve a dozen longships patrolling the open sea east of Ifington and another dozen in the Thund to the west. And there are probably hundreds of fishing craft and trading vessels plying those same waters. Even if they found a harbor along Utgard’s shores, then they probably would have been seen crossing.” Odin threw a glance at the still-snoring Heimdall. Obviously she meant seen by the fisherfolk. “Improbable, then, but not impossible?” Freyr said, keeping his tone light. She shrugged. “Let’s assume they found a place to beach their ship on our shores—there are probably many such places that we don’t know about—they’d still have to cross leagues of harsh lands where there’s little to forage or hunt. They’d need a small fleet just to carry the necessary supplies.” Tyr leaned forward. “With respect, Almother, the sympathizers could have helped—even just stowing supplies along an out-of-the-way route. It would have taken considerable planning, of course, nor would it have been easy, but...” “Sympathizers?” Odin raised an eyebrow at Frigg. She nodded. “They call themselves the Sons of Muspell. We’re not quite sure when it started, but they have been petitioning for us to aid the Jotunn.” Odd name. Muspellheim was the fiery counterpart to frigid Niflheim. His father had said that one had poured fire and the other ice into the Ginnungagap. From that resulting clash—that storm—had sprung Hvergelmir and, eventually, all that was. Baldr cleared his throat. “We think that some of those I brought with me into Utgard started the group. They’re the only ones who’ve seen firsthand how the Jotunn live—” “How the Skrymir lets them be seen to live,” Odin said. He’d known a dozen Skrymir during his long life, including the one for whom they were all named. Most had been clever, intelligent, and quite willing to strike without warning. He’d respected them. “I’m not so sure of that, Father. Maybe that was the case many winters back. But now?” Baldr shook his head sadly. “In any event,” Frigg interjected, sitting forward, “we’re straying from the topic at hand. While sympathizers could have aided the Jotunn in crossing Asgard—maybe supplying weapons, food and clothing—their possible involvement doesn’t explain how the Jotunn got into Asgard to begin with.” “Unless the Sons are far better organized than we suspect,” Tyr said. Nanna coughed, smiled hesitantly, and asked, “Have we considered the trade route? I know the Einherjar count those going through the Breach—or they’re supposed to—but do those counts balance out?” “If they don’t, I’ll know the reason why,” Frigg said, her voice steelier than he’d ever heard. “But that’s a question we can’t answer now. You and I, Nanna, will look into it. Good idea.” Nanna blushed. “Yes, Almother. Thank you.” Tyr spoke again. “If Hár Nanna is right—and even if she isn’t, I suppose—even a few complicit traders with ships could transport the Jotunn along the coast to a point near Háls. No one would question small ships that appear to be fishing.” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The Jotunn inexplicably grown strong enough again—it’d only been forty winters since the Last War—to destroy one of their cities? If they could do that, what else might they have done? Maybe they had leveled some subtle magic against his son, as well. If that was the case, Loki would answer for what he’d done to Heimdall. “So despite our best efforts to keep the Jotunn contained in Utgard, it is possible that they’ve found a way out, either due to their own ingenuity or by playing on the sympathies of our people,” Odin said. “Or both,” Frigg said. “Either way, we need to look into it further—Ullr at the Breach, Nanna and I here. And if this ends up being the precursor to a larger attack, then I take full responsibility for trusting them too much.” He nodded sharply in acknowledgment. He wasn’t about to berate his wife in front of everyone. Whatever the reason for the attack, there would be time enough to cast blame. Not that he’d need to. Frigg wouldn’t be tricked a second time. He withdrew the smooth, cold ironwood device from his satchel. It clunked when he set it on the table. Vidar had spent so much fruitless time working on it. “Since we cannot figure out the how, I can at least present a possible reason for the attack.” About the length of his forearm, the device was made from hollowed-out ironwood the width of a sword’s grip. One end held a dark ruby in a gold setting. From the other end, broken and scorched, dangled a melted length of gold. “Even from where I sit I’d say that was crafted by the Svartalvar,” Freyr said, his voice a mixture of curiosity and the first wisps of hot anger. “And you’d be right,” Odin said with a nod. “Since the Last War, Vidar has been studying this device. He gave up just this past summer.” He paused, expecting someone to ask just how he knew that. Clearly they remembered some things after his absence. “You may recall that this device was seized toward the end of the Last War. An Einherjar patrol surprised a small group of Jotunn in the deep forests north of Gladsheim. The Einherjar attacked the Jotunn and destroyed them. Based on what the Einherjar patrol leader said afterward, the Jotunn were uncharacteristically frantic. The shaman with them used seidr to drive a small fire hotter and higher, then she smashed something and began throwing the pieces into the fire. Only this and a few other useless fragments remain.” “I remember,” Freyja said, leaning forward. “So this is…what?” “The fruit of Vidar’s labors. He succeeded in rebuilding some of what the fire destroyed.” He picked it up and handed it to Baldr. “Please pass it down to Freyja.” He continued, “When that piece and the other fragments were first brought to me, I knew it wasn’t Jotunn-made. Long ago they were capable of producing such fine work, but not during the time up to and after the Last War. That said, I was curious enough to inspect the place where it was found in case there were some clues regarding its function. I found nothing out of the ordinary, aside from a few never-explained oddities.” “Like what?” Freyr asked, glancing up from watching his sister examine the device. “Climbing gear—ropes, rope anchors, iron wedges, harnesses.” “What were they climbing?” Freyr asked, with a puzzled frown. He shrugged. “I don’t know. There was a sizeable outcropping near their camp, but I climbed it without gear. Nothing up there but tree roots. Their camp was northeast of Gladsheim, so maybe their plan was to scale the city’s northern cliff. At the time, we were busy finishing the war, so I didn’t give these fragments further thought. Jotunn shamans do use staffs and wands just as we do.” Freyja handed the device to her brother. “Assuming Vidar didn’t radically alter the materials used, I agree with you and him. This device was made by the Svartalvar.” “Any idea what it does?” Odin asked. The Vanir were even more familiar with what the Svartalvar smiths could accomplish than the Aesir were. She shook her head. “Not a clue. Did Vidar?” “No. All he said was that the device ‘clicked’ when he turned that setting on the end.” Freyr immediately turned the setting. The click was audible, even across the table. Freyr grinned and shrugged. “Worth a try. Should we expect Gladsheim to be attacked now?” “They could try,” he said. “But yes, Vidar and I both suspect that the original click led to the attack at Háls. The problem, of course, is that Vidar worked on the device in Vithi, not Háls. And he didn’t sense any magic when the device clicked.” “Nor did I just now,” Freyja said. “So maybe it was coincidental?” “But there could be other reasons Háls was attacked, Alfather,” Tyr said. “Maybe they sought the ore mined there, or it was a diversion—a prelude to another attack.” The thought had occurred to him—and to Baldr—when he’d shared the secret of the device on the last leg of their trip back from Háls. If another attack was coming, the Jotunn would face a much more prepared opponent no matter where they struck. Baldr repeated the same argument he’d voiced last night. “But how does any attack help them? All they’ve done is break the treaty and anger us.” “And given that we’ll muster our reserves to scour the countryside looking for other hidden warbands,” Tyr added, “we’re more prepared for another attack than we would otherwise have been.” Baldr shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Our standing army alone dwarfs whatever few warbands they can muster. And we’re better armed and better fed. They couldn’t hope to defeat us in a direct battle.” “Which is why they attacked by surprise,” Tyr said. Frigg spoke. “When you returned from Jotunheim in late summer, Baldr, you told me they’d grown desperate. Not enough food, few children in sight, everyone thin and haunted-looking. Perhaps this attack is just that—a desperate last stroke.” “I don’t believe the Skrymir would risk compromising what we’ve been negotiating with him,” Baldr said. “And this attack failed. Surprises only work against the unsuspecting.” “And what exactly have you been negotiating with the Jotunn?” Odin asked. “Now’s not really the time—” Frigg began. “Oh, now I’m curious.” Her smile looked forced. “We can discuss it later.” “If it’s relevant to why they attacked, shouldn’t we address it now?” “It argues against their attacking, Father,” Baldr said, “even though they obviously did. My guess is that one of the tribes disagrees with the Skrymir’s proposal.” He tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for the answer. “Why not tell me—tell us all, assuming they don’t already know. What negotiations were you engaged in?” Frigg had the look of a woman bracing herself for the crash of a huge wave. “That we let some Jotunn out of Utgard and allow them to settle in specific places within Asgard.” His laugh startled a dozen moths into panicked flight. “Let them out when we spent thousands of Aesir lives penning them up? The goal was to eliminate the Jotunn. We’d nearly done that.” Until now. “Another generation and there won’t be any Jotunn left,” Baldr said, his voice growing hot like a poker too long in the forge. “Baldr, that was the point,” he said. “End their threat to us.” “By killing them all?” Baldr made a cutting motion with one hand. “You couldn’t have intended that. If we let them out, give them a chance to become Aesir as we’ve done with some Jotunn already—or become our allies, as we did with the Vanir—then that, eliminates them as a threat.” “Or it gives the clever ones a new chance to strike at us. As some have clearly done in Háls,” he said, keeping his tone level. “The Jotunn understand strength. We cannot ever show weakness.” “In a night’s time, I can be back over Utgard,” Thor offered. “I’ll show them what it means to kill Aesir.” Odin nodded. “I think that’s exactly what should be done, but only after we speak with the Jotunn envoy. If we get the ‘rogue tribe’ excuse we’ve heard so many times in the past, then a demonstration of strength will absolutely be in order.” And if Thor and his hammer don’t get their attention, then they will weep when I step upon the field. OUTRO Well, folks, that was CHAPTER 41 of Kinsmen Die. I hope you enjoyed it. There’s a lot of talking in this chapter…and it was tough to write and keep interesting — which I hope it was — with so many different people at the table and with so many different topics to cover. It’s in this chapter that many of the different plot threads converge: Baldr’s dreams, which is how the book opened; t he attack on Hals, which is what Vidar’s dealing with currently; the mysterious device. Are they all related? If they are, how? If I’ve done my job, then you as the reader — the listener — probably have some ideas as to how these all tie together…if they do. By the end of the book it’s also my job to subvert your expectations with the inevitable surprise ending. There are two key lines that I wanted to draw attention to. The first is this one: “Cattle die. Kinsmen die. But our names will never die, if we win good renown.” This is directly from the Hovamol, stanza 77, which in Bellows reads: 77. Cattle die, and kinsmen die, And so one dies one's self; But a noble name will never die, If good renown one gets. That stanza, along with 76, are among the most famous from the Havamol. Remember that “cattle” was wealth for the Norse (as it was for many other ancient peoples). It’s where our word “chattel” come from. In Younger Futhark and Elder Futhark, which are two related Norse runic alphabets, the rune Fe means “wealth” … and if you’re a Tolkien fan you might recall that Gandalf sketches his rune for the Hobbits…on Bilbo’s door, in a book and on a rock. The rune Gandalf uses looks like Fe. The second line is: “If three or more know a thing, well”—he spread his hands—“so dies the secret.” That’s my take on Havamol, stanza 63, which in Bellows reads: 63. To question and answer must all be ready Who wish to be known as wise; Tell one thy thoughts, but beware of two, All know what is known to three. That’s just a cool couple of lines that I wanted to work in somehow and it makes particular sense in the context of what Odin was discussing. There’s quite a bit of other stuff in this chapter — Odin’s High Seat, his other sources of knowledge, the magic of sacrifice Frigg and Odin used to protect Baldr, the binding of Fenrir, the allusions to the Svartalvar and the Vanir, Odin’s genocidal intentions toward the Jotunn, Muspellheim and Niflheim…many many things…much of which will be discussed at a later date but hopefully none of it overwhelmed the chapter and you felt, while listening, that the plot was still marching forward. Either way, if you have the time and inclination, please rate and/or review the podcast — that helps boost the show’s visibility. As does sharing it. And if you’re so inclined, shoot me an email at mattbishopwrites@gmail.com. I’d love to hear from you.    As always, I’m going to read from the Havamal, sayings of the High One, Odin himself. As usual, I’ll be reading from Bellows and Larrington. Bellows, Verse 41 Friends shall gladden each other with arms and garments, As each for himself can see; Gift-givers' friendships are longest found, If fair their fates may be. Larrington, Verse 41 With weapons and gifts friends should gladden one another, those which can be seen on them; mutual givers and receivers are friends for longest, if the friendship keeps going well. Thanks for listening.