Chapter 25 #2
Skjold’s hand tightened around hers. “This is Skadi. She has fought at my side through shadow and storm.” He flashed her a proud, reassuring smile.
When his gaze returned to Bjarke, Skjold noted a garish slash on the knight’s right cheek. The skin was still pink and taut, the beard unable to grow over the torn flesh. “That’s quite a scar. A Frankish blade?”
“Já. Same bastard who killed Dag and stole his Elven sword—the bloody Count of Soissons. He attacked a second time. Took my face, but not the castle. And now Elfi’s got Galadir back.
” He nodded toward the servants, scurrying about with decorations.
“They’re holding the celebration tonight.
You’ve arrived just in time.” Bjarke dipped his head respectfully to Skadi, then turned to Skjold.
“Come, let me take you inside. Your parents are with Lord Thorfinn, Elfi, and Njord.”
* * * *
The threads of silver in her golden hair shimmered in the morning light which poured through the eastern windows of the Great Hall. Skjold spotted his mother arranging flowers with Elfi and Sif.
When she looked up, Ylva didn’t recognize him at first. But then her lovely face broke into a radiant smile, her brilliant blue eyes crinkling with surprise and joy.
“Skjold!”
She dropped the boughs of heather onto the trestle table and flew across the pinewood floor, emerald green gown trailing behind her.
Breathless with elation, overcome with emotion, she threw her arms around his neck and covered his bearded cheek with fervent, grateful kisses. “Praise the gods, you’ve come home!”
“It’s good to see you, Maman.”
Skjold had always called her by the French name, just as Ylva had done with her own mother Lova. “I’ve missed you very much. Tu me manquais beaucoup.”
He hugged her tight, lifted her off the floor, and spun her in a swooping circle.
She laughed in sheer delight.
When he set her down, Ylva withdrew her arms and stepped back. She smiled warmly at Skadi, then spoke to Skjold. “You brought her.”
Skjold blinked in surprise. “You know her name?”
Ylva searched Skadi’s ice blue eyes, as if sensing the frostfire magic coiling beneath the pearlescent skin.
“No, but I know her wings. Shimmery, silver… stretched wide across the sky.” Her ethereal voice was distant and haunting.
“I saw them in a vision. You were at her side, blood on your blade, snow in your hair.” His mother’s gaze, clear as a crystalline spring, softened as she touched Skadi’s cheek.
“You are the frostdragon,” Ylva whispered with reverent awe.
“Healer through water. Wielder of flame.”
Skadi bowed her luminous, humble head.
Ylva’s far-seeing eyes turned to Skjold.
“I saw you both battle the Dokkálfar. Your shield was ablaze with frostfire. I glimpsed Haldor’s birds…
Njord’s wolves… the crimson-eyed witch…” Her voice caught.
“úlvhild…” she breathed, panic flashing across her stricken face.
“She fell… I saw her fall. Skjold—does she live?”
Skjold wrapped his arms around her, cradling Ylva inside his bearskin cloak. “She lives, Maman. Haldor summoned Freyja in the Dragon’s Leap cave.”
Relief flooded Ylva’s face, her eyes brimming with grateful tears.
A young girl with long blonde hair came up to Ylva’s side. Hesitant and unsure, she looked up at Skjold with wide, inquisitive eyes.
“Vivi? Is that you?” Skjold beheld his little sister.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been only four winters old.
And now, she was a beauty, just like Maman.
As he took hold of Vivi’s hand and lifted it to his bristled lips, liquid magic flowed up the runes tattooed in waves upon his forearm.
“You don’t remember me, but I’m your brother, Skjold.
You were but a babe when my mentor Haldor Falk took me to train in the Faroe Islands. ”
A shy smile illuminated her pretty face. “I knew you were coming. I saw you in the freshwater pool near the sacred grove.” She glanced at Skadi. “With a Ljósálfar who flies as a frostdragon. And unleashes ice blue flame.”
Skjold grinned at his sister. “It seems we both share Maman’s gift of sight through water.” He turned to Ylva. “Does Tryggvi have it as well?”
Ylva chuckled and pulled Vivi close to kiss her shining hair. “Non, he takes after your father. A battle-hardened warrior through and through.”
Skjold laughed, then turned to his glowing mate. “This is Skadi. We fought together in ísland.” He kissed Skadi’s pale fingers, reassuring her with a confident smile. “I’m hoping Faeir will give us his blessing. I’ve asked for her hand.”
Ylva smiled, a knowing light in her seeress eyes.
“Then let me borrow her for a moment,” she said gently, hooking her arm through Skadi’s.
“The women are preparing for the feast, and Elfi will want to braid her hair with silver ribbon to please your father and grandfather Rikard.” She paused, her gaze soft with maternal affection.
“Sk?rde is in Lord Thorfinn’s solar with Jarl Rikard, Njord, and Lugh.
Go to them, son. They’ll be overjoyed to see you… and anxious to hear the Dragon Herald.”
Skjold watched as Ylva and Vivi led Skadi toward the trestle table, where Elfi and Sif greeted her with flowers and wide smiles.
His mother glanced back once, her eyes bright with quiet understanding.
At her nod of encouragement, Skjold left the Great Hall, strode across the vast foyer, and climbed the stone stairs.
The setting sun gilded the private solar with golden light through the western window overlooking the Narrow Sea.
In the distance, sheltered by the white chalk cliffs of the Pays de Caux, its glimmering rays danced on rolling waves.
Along the northern wall at the end of the large room, a roaring fire flickered in the stone hearth.
As he approached the chamber, Skjold spotted the familiar blond hair and braided beard of his broad-shouldered father.
Seated beside him at the oak table was his grandfather Rikard, whose once-golden hair and beard had now faded to silver.
They conversed with Lord Thorfinn, chatelain of the castle, along with Njord, Bjarke, and úlf.
Three Ljósálfar who had fought beside him in ísland—Lugh, Olvir, and Ildris—sat at the table as well.
When Skjold entered the room, cloaked in white bearskin and carved with runes, all eyes fixed upon him, bearded faces registering respect, recognition, astonishment, and awe.
Sk?rde shot to his feet, crossed the room in a stride, and wrapped Skjold in a fierce bear hug.
“The Son of the Dragon returns,” he choked, his voice rough and raw.
“Welcome home, Skjold.” He stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked up at his son.
“You’re twice the size you once were. Taller than me now.
” He thumped Skjold’s shoulders with both hands, a beastly grin stretching across his scarred, bearded face. “Broader and bigger, too.”
His grandfather Rikard wrapped brawny arms around Skjold’s shoulders and hugged him tight. Paternal love gleamed in his proud eyes. “We’ve heard of the battle in ísland. Njord says frost and flame danced at your side.”
Skjold smiled. “Indeed they did.” He bowed his head to Elfi’s father. “Lord Thorfinn. I am pleased to see you have returned to Chateau Blanc.”
Thorfinn inclined his silver-streaked dark head, a twinkle of pride in his fierce eyes.
“Do you bring news of úlvhild?” Worry furrowed Njord’s brow, his deep voice thick with concern.
“Thank the gods, she is hale and whole.”
At the sound of a collective breath of relief, Skjold continued.
“Haldor summoned Freyja to heal her—in the Drekafjall cave, on V?gakallen mountain in northern Norway. The goddess appeared… and blessed úlvhild with Freyja’s Bloom.
She told Haldor that he must nurture úlvhild throughout the winter, and that she would emerge in the spring, full of life. ”
Skjold accepted a mug of mead from Bjarke and nodded in thanks.
After downing a hearty gulp, he swiped his mouth with the sleeve of his woolen tunic and glanced at the men gathered around him.
“I’ll return to Norway soon, for I’ve promised to bring supplies to Haldor and úlvhild.
When spring comes, they’ll return here with me to the Pays de Caux. ”
Jarl Rikard refilled everyone’s mug of mead and raised his goblet. “To Freyja, who healed our beloved volva. All hail Freyja’s Bloom. Skál!”
As the men settled back at the table, Skjold approached his father and spoke quietly into his ear. “Faeir… before we go down to the Great Hall. I’ve brought someone to meet you. Her name is Skadi. I would ask your permission to wed her.”
Skarde studied him for a long breath. “After eight winters of brutal training, you return as warrior, vitki, noaidi…and bring a bride with you?” The corner of his mouth twitched with mirth. “You’ve been busy, my son.”
Skjold resolutely held his father’s scrutinizing gaze.
“She’s half Ljósálfar, half jótunn. A healer who shifts into a frostdragon.
She fought at my side in ísland against Franks, Rus, and Dokkálfar.
” He turned his left palm upward, revealing the droplet of frostfire flame.
In the golden sunlight, the purple fire blazed inside the blue water, the fjórún mark encased in shimmering silver.
“We are soulbound. And I wish to make Skadi my wife.”
Skarde nodded once, firmly. “Then I’ll meet her when we go below.
But not yet.” His gaze hardened as it shifted back to Rikard.
“Sigurd's shadow stretches from Norway to Normandy, and Haldor must answer by the winter solstice. We must speak plainly now, here in this solar, before the feast clouds our minds and dulls our tongues.” He wrapped a sinewy arm around Skjold’s shoulder and led him toward the assembled group.
“Come, sit with us. Your voice belongs at this table.”