Chapter 12 #2
While the music and revelry continued in full splendor, Sigurd’s exuberant guests enjoyed the sumptuous fare.
úlvhild barely tasted the final dessert course of oatcakes with apples and cinnamon, pears poached in honey, and blackberry compote with hazelnuts and cloves.
She watched, detached form the gaiety around her, as Elfi and Njord chatted brightly at her side.
She noted how Luna and Njáll were obviously smitten with each other, for their heads touched as they spoke in soft whispers.
Bodo’s gaze often found Sif, who as a thrall was seated at a table further back in the hall, amongst other female servants who attended elegant ladies at the feast.
When Sigurd rose to his feet, the musicians stopped playing and a hushed silence swept across the hall.
Silver armbands gleaming against the dark red tunic and black bear fur of his elegant cloak, the jarl’s deep voice resonated like a heavy bronze bell.
"My daughter, Svanhild, whose hands weave beauty into song, will now grace us with the music of her harp.
Let her strings shine bright as the northern lights which soar above Siguresholl! "
At the jarl’s gesture, two thralls carried a large harp which was covered in the same deep red wool as Svanhild’s gown and Sigurd’s embroidered tunic.
The servants carefully mounted the three steps at the edge of the wooden dais, strode across the elevated platform, and unveiled the magnificent harp before the jarl’s beguiling daughter.
Carved with swans and swirling waves, the ashwood frame of the harp was inlaid with glittering red garnets and inscribed with scrolls and runes.
As úlvhild observed in silent awe, she remarked that the swans which evoked Svanhild’s name and the garnets which symbolized her noble blood were the same graceful birds and precious gems which adorned úlvhild’s own dagger, Freyja’s Whisper.
Once again, an icy chill shivered up her spine, as if the Norns tightly tugged the threads of her fate on their otherworldly loom.
Svanhild’s slender fingers strummed the nine strings, the limpid notes flowing like waves of an icy fjord which inundated úlvhild, the crystalline voice floating like an ominous whisper from the gods:
“O'er the sea, the winds will call,
Fate unfolds for one and all.
What the Norns have spun in darkest night,
Shall come to pass in brilliant light."
Svanhild’s unnerving song evoked the images from úlvhild’s seier vision.
Dokkálfar darkness.
The brilliance of sólrún.
The Ljósálfar light of ísland.
When Svanhild finished her stellar performance, the guests in the hall sat in reverent silence, equally awed by the haunting melody and prophetic lyrics.
The jarl’s daughter nodded to the pair of awaiting thralls, who wrapped the glorious harp in the deep red wool and carried it devoutly to a dark corner of the Great Hall.
After a few moments, a visibly proud Sigurd rose and proposed another toast. “To the beauty of a daughter’s song and the grace it bestows upon this hall. Skál!”
Cheers echoed off the wooden walls.
The resplendent jarl, still standing before the awestruck crowd, directed his attention to úlvhild.
“Now, with the strings of fate struck by Svanhild’s hand, I call upon the one who sees beyond.
” With a swoop of a bejeweled arm, Sigurd invited her to join him at the high table.
“Wise volva, cast your runes and reveal what fate the Norns have woven for my beloved daughter.”
Of course Sigurd wanted her to cast the runes. With a volva among his honored guests, it was expected. Especially since Sigurd wished to arrange a political marriage between Svanhild and Haldor.
Njord arose from his seat, to honor úlvhild by escorting her to the high table. He helped her stand and fetched her moonstone staff, which he reverently handed to her with a formal nod.
Shoulders back, crowned head held high, she gripped her wand, the moonstone enclosed in the bronze filigree tip glowing in the golden firelight.
The falcon feathers in her midnight cloak rustled, the attached gems glittering like stars, as she strode confidently toward the elevated dais, her carskin-gloved hand resting upon Njord’s steady arm, He was magnificent in his white wolfskin cloak and gleaming chain mail armor, his dark brown hair and thick beard braided with sparkling blue beads.
From the high table, Sigurd and Svanhild watched with bated breath, their eyes wide with a warring blend of elation and trepidation.
Njord escorted úlvhild up the three wooden steps which led to Sigurd’s table. With a slight bow, he left her side and returned to the table of honor.
úlvhild inclined her diadem-adorned head to Sigurd first as the generous host, then to Svanhild, whose future she would reveal by casting the runes.
With a velvety voice both haunting and silken, she addressed the powerful jarl.
“Your hall is warm, Sigurd, and your hospitality generous and true. I will cast the runes to foresee your daughter’s fate.
May the Norns reveal their interwoven threads. ”
Positioning herself so that the guests in the Great Hall could observe, úlvhild removed the deep blue linen cloth wrapped around her waist and laid it upon the gleaming oak table before Svanhild.
She closed her eyes and raised her woad-painted face toward the smoke hole in the peaked roof where stars glittered in the midnight sky.
Thumping her moonstone staff on the floor of the wooden dais, she murmured an invocation.
“Three bones for the three who weave. Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld. O Norns, I call upon you. Reveal what was, what is, and what shall come to pass.” úlvhild withdrew the black leather pouch from the intricate belt at her waist and shook the bone runes etched with blood.
With long skeletal fingers clad in white catskin, she selected three runes and placed them side by side upon the dark blue cloth.
She laid a finger upon the first oval shaped ivory bone, interpreting the rune for Svanhild.
“Geibo, the gift of your hand in marriage. Urd reveals your forewritten past. You are born of sea wind and raven’s blood, daughter of spears and storm kings. Already your cradle was shadowed by ships, the threads of your fate spun in flames.”
úlvhild touched the second bone rune. “Verdandi reveals the present with Fehu, symbol of wealth and power. You, Svanhild, stand on the threshold of men’s ambitions. Three Norse rulers shall unite through your wedding vows. A king in the east, a jarl in the west, and a duke across the Narrow Sea.”
When she glimpsed the final rune, úlvhild’s knees nearly buckled beneath her amber gown.
“Skuld reveals your future with Jera, the rune for fertility. You shall bear your husband five strong sons. A raven flies westward, bearing your braid in its beak. The isle of sheep shall receive a new queen. Five flames shall leap from your womb to this world and inspire skaldic songs with mighty swords.”
úlvhild gestured to the three ivory runes on her deep blue divining cloth as she met Sigurd’s enraptured gaze. “The Norns have revealed your daughter’s fate. The gods favor her marriage to Haldor Falk. Prepare Svanhild’s dowry. Her destiny sails with us on the morning tide.”
Bowing her head before the imposing jarl, úlvhild placed the bone runes etched with blood back into the black leather pouch, securing it upon her belt.
She folded the blue linen cloth, tied it around her waist, and looked at Njord, who arose quickly and strode to her side.
When he gallantly offered her his elbow, she placed her gloved hand upon his mail-clad arm, and he escorted her like a queen back to the table of honor.
Once Njord and úlvhild were seated, Sigurd rose to propose yet another toast. “Well spoken, volva. You have stirred the threads of fate, and we drink to what the gods have whispered through your hands. Skál!” Sigurd drank from his ornate elkhorn goblet, and the jubilant revelers leapt to their feet to join the jarl in celebrating úlvhild’s prophecy.
When the cheering subsided, Sigurd motioned for his guests to sit, but he remained standing as he turned to face Njord.
“Wolf of the Nordic Seas, your ships arrived at my hall without warning. But the Norns, it seems, blew the winds of fate in your sails.” He paused, the expectant silence in the Great Hall echoing the weight of his next words.
“You shall carry my message to Haldor Falk, Falcon of the Faroe Islands. I offer him my daughter’s hand in marriage and demand his answer by the winter solstice.
I wish to seal Svanhild’s betrothal during the glorious season of Jól. ”
Njord stood and bowed his head before Sigurd.
In a deep voice strong and clear, his solemn pledge resounded through the hushed hall.
“You have my word, Jarl Sigurd. Haldor Falk will hear your message when I arrive in Tórshavn three days hence. I swear it as the former Jarl of Ribe, and the future Count of étretat.”
Sigurd’s bearded face broke into a hearty grin as he raised his horn again. “Enough of omens and oaths. The feasting is over, the politics done. Now, bring forth the skalds!”