Chapter 41 #2
“Haldor said that she would ready to sail south to Normandy in the spring.” Skjold squeezed Elfi’s hand reassuringly. “We’re all sailing home together. I’ll make sure we arrive in time.”
Elfi blinked back tears and nodded bravely, her lower lip trembling. “Thank you, Skjold. I cannot wait until she is here.”
“I plan to go with Njáll to Noyon.”
Luna’s quiet announcement stunned Skjold. Though Light Elven warriors such as Lugh, Olvir, and Ildris did fight alongside Jarl Rikard to defend the Pays de Caux. Ljósálfar healers did not wage war. Their pristine magic was meant for curing and protecting, not inflicting harm.
He turned to her, raising an incredulous brow. “You are going into battle?”
Luna’s emerald eyes held Njáll’s. “There will be Dokkálfar— wielding cursed, deadly weapons. I must heal the injured with nen glir to cleanse the darkness from their wounds. Without a Ljósálfar healer, all will die within three days.”
“Then I shall shield you—just as I shall defend Hugh Capet.” Skjold locked eyes with Njáll. Fear for his mate flared in the úlfhéeinn’s desperate gaze. “With my Dwarven shield, as I protected úlvhild in ísland.”
Profound gratitude and implicit trust eased the strain on Njáll’s harrowed face.
Clad in glimmering chain mail, flanked by four massive Danes in equally impressive armor, Tryggvi suddenly appeared at their table, challenge glinting in his warrior gaze.
“Broeir,” he grinned. “The mock battles are about to begin. Come—show me what eight winters of training with the Blóesmier have taught you.” Behind Tryggvi, massive arms folded across his burly chest, King Sweyn watched Skjold, his stern gaze and unnerving presence sharp as a steel blade.
Skjold glanced at Skadi. He couldn’t refuse Tryggvi’s challenge—especially not in front of their uncle, the king—but he didn’t want to leave her side.
Dragonfire blazed in her icy gaze. “Go,” she urged him, pushing Skjold toward his younger brother as she grinned at Tryggvi. “You cannot ignore such a challenge.”
Just as Skjold was about to rise from his seat, a burly úlfhéeinn lumbered toward their table.
Russet wolfskin draped over his braided red hair, set aflame by the flickering firelight, Hrólf Redbeard growled at Njord and Njáll.
“The úlfhéenar are doing the Blade Dance.” A feral grin split his scarred, bearded face as he thumped Njord’s shoulder.
“úlf and Njáll against me and you. Come on—I want to win the Blood Pelt.”
* * * *
Danish warriors and Norman knights poured out of the Great Hall, eager to watch or participate in the mock battles, axe throwing, and dagger hurling events, Ylva, Oda, Vilde, and Sif led Queen íssla to join Elfi, Luna, and Skadi. The women settled onto the benches on opposite sides of the table.
“They’re still boys at heart, aren’t they?” Queen íssla chuckled, nodding as a servant refilled her elaborate horn with golden mead. She winked at Elfi. “Tough warriors who love to fight, but they’ll want you to fuss over their wounds and coddle them when you’re alone.”
Elfi blushed at the thought of coddling Njord. She knew quite a few ways to do just that. But not one was a topic she could discuss with his moeir.
“We were talking about Elfi’s babe being born on the vernal equinox—just as our men will go into battle,” Luna informed the Ljósálfar queen. “But her midwife úlvhild will be here by then. Skjold assured us he would sail home from Norway with her and Haldor in time for the birth.”
“I met úlvhild in ísland, where she was critically injured,” the queen replied, compassion and concern etched across her luminous face.
“I was enormously pleased to hear she has fully recovered.” Her eyes widened in wonder.
“And that Haldor summoned Freyja to heal her in the Dragon’s Leap cave.
Njord says that úlvhild is with child as well—a divine gift from the Goddess of Fertility, for the volva who had been infertile for nearly twenty winters. Freyja be praised!”
“úlvhild and Haldor are naming their daughter Freyja, in honor of the goddess.” Elfi lifted her silver goblet high. “To Freyja, the goddess—and the babe! Skál!”
Everyone clinked goblets and horns, drinking to both Freyjas.
“Tomorrow, we can visit your Miralir castle,” íssla said to Elfi.
She smiled at Skadi. “And your moonstone cottage on Lyrian Lake. The frosted starfruit is plentiful now.” The queen turned to Luna.
“Are you hosting a winter solstice celebration in álfheim? Njord mentioned that he and Elfi were visiting you and Lugh.”
“Yes, tomorrow evening in our cottage. We are meeting in the sacred grove at sunset. We would be honored if you joined us, Queen íssla.” Luna graced the queen with a radiant smile.
“I would be delighted to accept. Thank you for the invitation. I shall meet you in the sacred grove at sunset tomorrow.” íssla sipped from her silver goblet, contentment aglow on her luminous face.
Luna’s expression dimmed. Agitation flickered across her delicate features as anguish glimmered in her emerald eyes. She seemed torn, as though a heavy burden weighed upon her gentle heart. “My queen…” she stammered, her frail voice faltering. “I wish to make a request.”
Luna smoothed the ivory silk of her ethereal gown and drew a deep breath before meeting íssla’s inquisitive gaze. “I know that gifts of Ljósálfar magic are exceptional and rare… but I would ask your permission to bestow such a boon upon Njáll.”
Imploring the queen with wide, pleading eyes, Luna whispered, “He has asked for my hand, and I long to accept. Yet as a full-blooded Ljósálfar, I must return to álfheim every nine days to renew my Elven light.” She gazed at her trembling hands, then looked up at the resplendent queen.
“If I could grant him a form of our magic, he could come to álfheim with me. We could even live there together.” Hope bloomed like a fragile flower on Luna’s fervent face. “Please, my queen. I love him so…”
íssla’s glorious smile radiated starlight.
“I remember when you requested permission to bestow the gift of nen glir on Jarl Rikard’s dóttir for her summer solstice wedding at Chateaufort.
” She cast a fond glance at Ylva, a knowing light in her regal gaze.
“The Ljósálfar song of water—for the Breton priestess who healed with the sacred springs of the Celtic goddess Divona.”
The queen directed her attention back to Luna.
“Yes, you may grant your úlfhéeinn mate a gift of Ljósálfar magic. And I shall bequeath to you both the sacred forest of ísilskóga, that you may build a home together beneath dark green leaves laced with silver. Live in the Moonlit Forest, beside the ísilwen Spring, where your healing magic may flow through water…” íssla’s voice was soft as moonlight on snow.
“And your beloved wolf may run free beneath the Ljósálfar moon.”
Luna leapt to her feet, raced to the queen’s side, and kissed her pearlescent cheek.
“Thank you, my queen. I shall be forever grateful.” She looked up at the women seated around the table.
“Please, say nothing to Njáll. I want to surprise him tomorrow at sunset in the sacred grove.” Her verdant eyes glimmered with the magic of the forest. “I’ll lead him into la Forêt du Loup…
and bestow my gift in the heart of the Wolf Forest.”
Bruised and bloodied, grinning faces flushed with fresh sweat, Njord, Njáll, and Skjold stumbled back to the table, roaring with laughter.
Draped across both Njáll and úlf’s right shoulders was the coveted Blood Pelt—a wolfskin dyed deep red and fastened with a jagged wolf fang bound in finely wrought silver.
Njord bellowed to Njáll, a wolfish grin curling beneath his braided beard. “You and úlf had the gods’ favor tonight, but next year—it’ll be mine!” With a guttural growl, he helped Elfi to her feet. “Come, wife. I need your healing touch.”
Bleeding from a nasty gash on his right cheek, Skjold nodded to the ladies at the table, bowed his head to the queen, and grinned at Skadi. “Not only did I defeat my braggart broeir,” he smirked, “I impressed my uncle Sweyn. Eight winters with Haldor’s Blóesmier forged me into a bloody brute.”
Skadi rose, grasped a linen cloth from the table, and placed it gently over Skjold’s wound.
“Speaking of bloody,” she quipped, “I need to tend to this.” She smiled at Elfi, Ylva, and Luna.
“I’m a Ljósálfat healer… just like you.” With one hand on the bloodied cloth, and holding Skjold’s with the other, she led him toward the double oak doors which opened to the vestibule and stairwell.
“We’ll see you in the morning for dagmál. Good night, everyone. Sleep well.”
Luna searched Njáll’s scarred face. “No wounds?”
He flashed a feral grin. “Not a scratch. But I still hunger for your healing touch.” He raised Luna’s luminous hand to his darkly bearded lips. “Come, my Ljósálfar love. Heal the hunger that only you can cure.”
When royal attendants appeared to escort the queen to her private chambers, Njord kissed his mother’s hand. “Goodnight, Moeir. See you in the morning.”
Elfi bent to kiss the queen’s cheek. “Thank you again for your generous wedding gifts. I cannot wait to see our Miralir castle. And now, with the Ljósálfar magic of mir glir, I can live there with Njord.” She straightened her back, strained with the weight of carrying her babe Nyssara.
She smiled at íssla. “I look forward to our celebration tomorrow in álfheim. Good night, Moeir.”
Obviously delighted by the affectionate name, the queen’s beaming face made Elfi’s heart soar.
When Bodo arrived to reclaim his bride, Elfi kissed both his cheek and Sif’s. “I won’t see you tomorrow night,” she said to Sif, “for we’ll be in álfheim. But have fun dancing around the bonfire with your handsome wolf.”
“And you must tell me all about your moonstone castle on the Elandrian Sea. A tale worthy of legend!” Hooking her arm through her husband’s, Sif left with Bodo, returning to his cottage in the village.
Guests were dispersing— heading home to huts, longhouses, or private quarters in the castle and its towers. Elfi kissed her amma and faeir goodnight, then departed the Great Hall with Njord.
A delicious thrill shivered up her spine. Tomorrow, she would see her moonstone castle.
And feast on frosted starfruit in álfheim.