Sunday's Child
Grace Draven
Prologue
Were it something more meaningful or noble, Andor Hjalmarson wouldn’t think twice about choosing execution over such humiliation, but to willingly die because he coaxed the wrong woman to his bed made him one idiotic martyr. He was neither an idiot nor a martyr.
His aunt, the Supremely Divine, Majestically Beautiful, and Eternally Sublime Dagrun of Ljósálfheimr pinned him with a glare colder than sharpened icicles. “You are an idiot,” she declared.
Andor stiffened but held his tongue. He balanced on the thin edge of Dagrun’s mercurial mercy. A glib remark, or even a rebellious one, and she might well rescind her offer that allowed him to keep his head attached to his shoulders.
The sainted, immortal Nicholas of Myra stood beside him, not at all pleased to find himself dragged into such an awkward situation but still willing to help the ljósálfar queen’s troublesome nephew. “I can keep him busy for the length of his exile, but his skills will be wasted with me. You’ll lose a capable warrior, Your Majesty.”
“And you’ll gain one, Nicholas.” A black scowl marred Dagrun’s perfect features. “And keeping him busy is exactly what he needs. He obviously has too much time on his hands if he’s running about Ljósálfheimr seducing all of Algr’s concubines.”
“I seduced one,” Andor protested. “The least of the king’s favorites.”
“Silence.” Dagrun rose from her throne. Her graceful strides carried her across the length of the throne room until she stood almost nose-to-nose with Andor. He lowered his eyes before her glacial stare. “The only reason your head isn’t mounted on the gates of Niflheimr is because of Algr’s affections for me and his recognition of my affection for you—which is fast souring.”
The queen swept back to her chair, her gown’s long train shimmering with the ethereal light cast by far off Asbrú. Andor’s eyebrows rose as Dagrun’s gaze found the venerable saint once more, and her features softened. Had there once been more than friendship between the ljósálfar queen and this Christian bishop made immortal?
“I place Andor in your capable hands, Nicholas. Surely, a thousand years under your tutelage will teach him respect and caution.”
Andor almost blurted out such exile would likely only teach him boredom. He kept the words behind his teeth as Dagrun’s eyes narrowed.
Nicholas tucked his vestments around him and smoothed his beard. He bowed to the queen. “I will do my best, Your Majesty.” He glanced at Andor, the expression in his eyes both resigned and wary. “Ready, son?”
Before Andor could answer or protest, the saint tapped the end of his crosier twice on the marble floor, and the realm of Ljósálfheimr disappeared. His exile had begun.
1
Nicholas wondered if he’d fallen from favor with the elf queen. What other explanation could there be for her sending him the most prideful, stubborn creature to walk any plane of existence? If he weren’t already a saint, dealing with Andor Hjalmarson for a thousand years–and a day–without killing him would guarantee Nicholas canonization. As it was, he braced himself for another of the countless arguments he’d had with the elf over the centuries.
Andor scowled, arms crossed. “Every house celebrating Christmas in Philadelphia now has a few unique gifts under the tree, as you requested.”
Nicholas rubbed his temples. Andor’s interpretation of help during Christmas delivery often involved unexpected chaos. “Would you care to explain your actions at the Wilmington household?”
“Not really.”
“Andor, you stripped a man down to his underwear, tied him to the banister with tree garland–which I’m certain you strengthened–and set off the house alarm on purpose!”
“What was I supposed to do? He was robbing them! Don’t you think there’s something a little pointless to delivering gifts to people just so others can steal them?”
The saint began to pace, his once stately bishop’s robes now filthy from a long night of world travel. His back hurt; he was hungry, bone-weary, and desperately needed sleep. Having a small crowd of his gnomes meet him at the gates when he returned with yet another tale of Andor’s escapades wasn’t exactly how he wanted to end the Season.
“If you felt the need to interfere, you could have done so in a less obvious manner.”
Andor refused to budge in his defense. “I left him without a single bruise.” He smiled. “Though he cried as if I’d broken every bone in his body.”
Nicholas groaned. “Son, I can see why your people thought you strange. You have a sense of justice and compassion they don’t possess, and it’s been honed over the years. But you have a clumsy way of going about it. I have a reputation to uphold—kindly, giving, jolly and all that. Children won’t want to stay up and catch a glimpse of me if it becomes known Santa travels with a vigilante elf.”
Andor’s hands curled into fists. Like Nicholas, he began to pace, his long legs eating up the space in the cozy parlor.
“Why not a vigilante? A protector? Have you kept track of how many times we’ve been shot at, fired upon and attacked over the years? I took a crossbow bolt in the leg from John Peasant in 1343 while leaving a gift at the end of his child’s bed. Remember that?”