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Oddly enough (or perhaps not so oddly), Eir is the first to notice. She is in the library when she picks up on the first clues.
“Erik, where is Chelson’s Intermediate Book on the Healing Arts? It has been missing for two weeks.”
“The Allfather has it, Mistress Eir.”
“The Allfather?”
“Yes, Mistress. Shall I send a note to his staff that you would like it returned?”
“Yes, please. The third year apprentices need it for their exams.”
Erik clicked quickly on his communications device, “Done.”
“Thank you, Erik. Did His majesty mention why he wanted it?”
“No, Mistress, but he seems to have a bit of an obsession lately. He requested a whole stack of books from the medical library.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Eir furrowed her brow. That’s a new. She pursed her lips as she turned away, perhaps I should ask about this sudden interest.
After she finished setting the duty assignments for her journeymen, Eir made her way to the palace’s administrative wing, knowing the Allfather used the late afternoon to check the steward’s accounts—something he never seemed to take much interest in before the queen’s passing.
She nodded at the guards, was granted entry, and waited for a pause in the conversation.
“—But you do see, Tor, how the balance here in the kitchens does not add up?”
Tor shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he looked at the columns of numbers Odin had spread before him, “I do see, Your Majesty.”
“I would very much appreciate it, then, if you would investigate the disparity. I do not doubt the skill of the staff, nor the need to pay well for their expertise, but the overage does not appear to be channeled into salary. It seems to just melt like so much butter.”
“I understand Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. Let me know what you discover in a couple of days,” and Eir noticed a nearly imperceptible smile curling the corner of his mouth—rather uncharacteristicly.
“Yes, sir.”
And as the king began to gather the records together, wincing almost imperceptively, Eir gently cleared her throat. Tor rose from his stiff chair and stood awaitig orders.
Odin’s attention immediately shifted, “Mistress Eir, good afternoon, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence.”
Odd phrasing, that, she thought to herself.
“Your Majesty,” she bobbed a quick half curtsey, “I wondered if I might be of any assistance.”
Odin’s brow contracted slightly at this before he waved a quick dismissal at Tor, who still hovered nervously by the massive desk.
“Assistance, Madam? I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”
Eir waited until Tor scurried his way past her and drew the heavy door shut once more before she moved closer to the desk.
“I happened to discover that Your Majesty had borrowed a few books on the healing arts from the library, and wondered if perhaps there might be something specific you were searching for.”
Odin pulled himself slowly from his chair, “No, Mistress Eir, simply the indulgence of an old man, being sentimental, I suppose, investigating studies that seemed to fascinate my wife.”
She nodded, but also noticed once again a bit of strain on his face as he moved, and the formal title, he had never called her “Mistress” before. Instinct drew her closer, and she held out a hand, “Are you quite all right, Your Majesty? You seem to be in some discomfort.”
“No, no, I am fine,” and he backed away slightly from her approach, but for a moment she caught a faint rattle in his breath that worried her. She relented, however, knowing full well his stubbornness.
“As you say, Allfather. If you at all change your mind, however, please let me know. I could at the very least, draw up a reading list for you.”
“Thank you, I will certainly let you know.” He stood stiff for a half moment before nodding, “Good afternoon,” the dismissal clear.
She bobbed another curtsey, “And to you, Your Majesty.”
And though she left the receiving room, she was not entirely finished with this conversation. Her sharp mind turned over her list of observations.
Odin retired to his study, warding the doors and sighing deeply into the silence, before moving to a side wall, pushing open a panel close to the hearth, and slipping through the doorway it revealed. Once inside, he rested Gungir against the wall and a shimmering green light cascaded down his form revealing the imposter beneath. After shedding his skin, Loki’s exhaustion was clear as he slowly moved across the room to Odin’s bed. Reaching for a thick white cloth Loki covered a large chair before he slumped down into it, then turned to the sleeping hulk of a being next to him. His eyes roamed over his father’s face, his lax hands, the golden glow of the force shields that guarded him during the Odinsleep, and he frowned.
“Did you know your steward has been skimming funds from the household budgets?” He scoffed, “Of course you didn’t. All that was beneath your notice, I’m sure—too busy crushing your enemies to keep track of petty theft in your own accounts. What did you do all day? The only department head worth her pay is Eir. Everything in her purview is accounted for—down to the tiniest glass vial.”
Gingerly, Loki pulled his tunic over his head to reveal a chest swathed in bandages. “She notices everything—and apparently some things I would frankly rather she not.”
He poked at the bandages, then hissed as he pulled them away from an ugly wound in his chest, grabbing a second cloth from the table to dab gingerly at the fluid weeping from the gash. He shook his head, still speaking as though he half expected Odin to answer. “It’s still not healing properly. I can’t find an explanation for it in any of that great pile of books I brought back from the library. You would say I should be grateful. I should be dead. I half think I was. But now I’ve been brought back to life only to live in this nether state between—not dead, not healed. Norns, it hurts like Hel.”
He poured some vile-smelling liquid onto the cloth and cleaned the wound with it, hissing once more with the pain, doing his best to repeat the process on his back, then wrapped his torso in clean bandages, tossing the old ones to the floor. “I suppose I shall have to burn these. I can hardly send them down with the laundry.”
Loki leaned back into the cushions and closed his eyes. “I feel I could sleep for a month.” He snorted, “Ironic, I know, forcing you into your much overdue rest while I hover in these halls like a wraith.”
Loki reluctantly pulled his tunic back over his head, and leaned back once again, his head lolling over so he could keep his eyes on Odin as he spoke. “This is a terrible job. I hate ruling. How can you stand it? So many people, so many petty details, everyone trying to squeeze every copper piece out of the treasury that they possibly can. I’m leaving, you know. As soon as I can figure out some other way to keep hidden, then you can get back to your petty warmongering—though at least by then your accounts will balance, and maybe your soldiers will actually get paid on time every month. You know if I thought for half a second that you would treat me with a modicum of respect I’d stay and help. Good luck with that, you old bastard.”
Loki lifted his head to glare at Odin properly before leaning back once more and closing his eyes. “Damn. Here I am still hungry for your approval even when I know you’ll throw my carcass right back in prison regardless of what I do. I can’t even hate you properly.”
Odin slept on perfectly serene next to his son, neither offering advice, praise, nor censure.
Loki closed his eyes again. “Maybe I can just take a quick nap before they insist on bringing the meal.”
An hour later Loki jerked awake as someone pounded on the door to the study. “Damn damn damn.” He rushed to restore the glamour, rushed to grab the spear, rushed to ensconce himself in the study once more, affecting nonchalance in its great chair before the fireplace as the knock came once more.
He dropped the wards on the door as he spoke, “Enter.”
The long arm of his honor guard briefly appeared in the door before it was quickly eclipsed by Eir as she bustled in carrying a heavy satchel.
She turned to the guard—a mountain easily twice her size, “That will be all, young man.”
The Einherjahr looked pleadingly at the man he thought to be his king, who nodded and waved his hand reassuringly. Loki knew full well that Eir was not a force to be denied when she felt she had a purpose.
Once the door shut, “Odin” turned to his chief healer and raised an eyebrow in query.
That gesture was all the confirmation her suspicions required. Her mouth drew into a tight line.
“You highness is not well and you require assistance.”
Loki noticed the shift in title immediately. “Mistress Eir, I have never known you to mistake someone’s proper address.”
Her face remained stern, “Nor do I now.”
Loki sat paralyzed with fear, his countenance going stone cold. The fire crackled in the background. A clash of weapons sounded through the window as soldiers spared in the training grounds. The rattle in his chest sounded like marbles rolling around in a metal pipe.
“You know.”
“Of course I do.”
“Who have you told?”
Her frown deepened, “If you have to ask, Your Highness, then you do not know me nearly as well I thought you did.” His shoulders relaxed fractionally, and her features softened as she stepped closer. “You need assistance,” she repeated. “Let me help you.”
“I am not sure you can.”
“We won’t know that until I look.”
“Not here,” he sighed, and led her to his sanctuary, presided over by his slumbering father.