Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Elara
Now alone and dressed, her mind adapted to the silence, and the toll of the impending day weighed heavily on her.
Fingers traced the valley between her breasts, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular in the distance.
Today, she was to meet with the Volva to begin her own training. Mist swirled around the dew-covered grass, ominous grey cloud cover threatening overhead.
She couldn’t continue to sit alone in Brielle and Leif’s home, overthinking. She needed something to keep her busy.
Leif had suggested she return to Hlif, the Volva, and start working with her. He kissed the top of her head, assuring and easing her worries. That once she had a better handle on her magic, she would feel more complete.
So now, Elara found herself walking a deserted trail she’d only taken once before with Njáll.
Rocks rolled under her boots, the village eerily quiet as she tugged her fur hood tighter to her face. She followed the narrow path through the trees, pausing when she reached the home carved into the hillside.
Hlif waited for her, the short woman more imposing than any of the towering warriors on the training field.
Weathered, sun-drenched skin clung to her gnarled hands while her eyes assessed Elara, clear as winter’s ice despite her many seasons.
Silently, Hlif beckoned her with a crook of two fingers. Something sharp and intrusive dug into her temple, demanding Elara fall to her knees. She hissed, shaking her head and pressing her palms to her brow.
Elara blinked through the haze muddling her vision. The Volva muttered under her breath, her eyes twitching as the breeze intensified, sending leaves swirling around the ancient woman’s feet.
Bile crawled up her throat, the taste lingering on her tongue.
Elara closed her eyes, trying to pull away from whatever Hlif was doing to manipulate her thoughts.
Teeth pierced her lower lip, a coppery tang coating Elara’s tongue.
She sucked in a slow breath, her lips twitching at a vision of Njáll. One of him coated in sweat and staring at her like she was the reason for the sun.
Soon, the pain in her head receded, her vision clearing to reveal the world as it had been moments ago.
A slow, serene smile revealed Hlif’s herb-stained teeth as she bowed her head. The woman extended a palm toward her door.
“Well done, Seiekona. Let us begin, the spirits do not wait.”
Still on unsteady feet, Elara stepped into the home on high alert, expecting Hlif to attempt again to invade her mind. Knowing what the woman was capable of made a vise clamp around her heart.
Smoke tinged with lavender cast a purple haze throughout the space. Elara sat on a stool by the fire, her hands cupped in her lap.
A tattered shawl clung to Hlif’s shoulders as she tapped a finger on the wooden bowl of dried herbs beside the fire.
“You are dangerous, Seiekona. Unskilled and untrained,” she said, her voice a gravelly whisper. “Most gifted with seier possess a singular talent. But you, my child, have many. If not all.”
Elara swayed, the truth sinking like a leaden weight in her stomach.
Indistinct voices scratched in the shadows as if to punctuate the Volva’s point. A roughened sound hummed from the woman.
Purple stained her fingers as she rubbed herbs between them.
“For now, we must focus on your ability to walk the veil,” she said, tossing the herbs into the fire, making the flames roar before dying down. “Without training, emotions have controlled your seier, like wind commanding a wildfire. When you fear, you draw them. When you grieve, you nourish them.”
Her stomach clenched, guilt tasting bitter in her mouth.
It was her fault.
All the sorrow that followed her mother’s death breathed life into the gift from Freyja lay dormant within her.
Tears leaked from her eyes. Her mother died because of her.
Angry spirits closed in on her—threatened Njáll and everyone—because of her own weakness.
“You failed. You’ll always fail. We are close. So close. It is cold and you are so warm, little priestess. Your debt will be paid with blood.”
Heat sparked at her fingertips, Elara shaking as she tried to conjure Alruna by sheer will.
“Stop,” Hlif said, her raspy voice demanding. “You must learn to control your emotions. If you do not, you will allow the draugar to feast. Now light blooms in your soul once more, they have grown envious, more insistent to claim what they want.”
Cold dread seeped into her limbs, an unnatural shiver crawling down her spine. Elara blinked as she met Hlif’s unrelenting gaze.
It went unspoken, but Elara knew what they wanted.
Her.
Hlif twirled a rod in her fingers with surprising grace, making the flames flicker gold. Warmth flared in Elara’s belly, sweat slicking her palms.
“Now they know you are here. They will not relent until you have proven yourself capable of binding them. The draugar will not stay in the shadows for much longer. They are starving hounds and you smell of lifeblood. Hel has given them the strength to cross the veil, all they need is a path. And if you don’t master your veil-walking, you will lead them to all of us. ”
Static pulsed in her veins, the hum ringing in her ears as unease curdled in her belly. Elara shifted, her neck cracking.
Despite her best efforts, her hands trembled in her lap, the full burden of fate threatening to consume her.
“Right now. You walk the veil without realizing it, child. You push your consciousness into the place between life and death. Each time you go, you thin threads between our worlds a little more. I will teach you how to traverse and strengthen the magic protecting our realm from the undead.”
“How?” Elara asked, unable to hide the desperation lacing her words.
“Silence,” Hlif said, her commanding tone cutting through the tension riddling Elara’s muscles. “Silence your mind. Silence your pain. Your fear feeds them. You must harness your seier through your light.”
For the second time, the Volva spoke of her light.
At first, Elara assumed it was some innate thing every person possessed. But in the year after her mother’s passing, Elara felt nothing of light, of warmth, of happiness, only sorrow.
Now, in the weeks since she left with Njáll, emotions she long thought lost bloomed once more.
Genuine smiles touched her cheeks, laughter ached in her belly, and a molten heat soothed the worn edges of her soul.
That was the light Hlif spoke of.
And Elara had foolishly run away from it, fearing she was not strong enough to be the kind of person he needed. The kind of woman to stand beside a man destined to be a king.
Wood creaked as the Volva sat on the stool opposite Elara, her figure inhumanly still.
“You possess two things: the ash of your grief and the flame of Freyja. You must use your light to ignite her flame and incinerate the ash.”
If she was meant to understand Hlif’s riddles, then she was woefully unprepared.
Braids slipped over Elara’s shoulders as she bowed her head, eyes darting back and forth. Sweat trickled off her nape. Elara’s brow furrowed while she tried to decipher what sounded more like a riddle than anything else.
“Breathe and close your eyes, Seiekona. I will guide you to the veil and teach you how to bend it to your will.”
Elara obeyed, the glow of the fire now only visible as red streaks behind her eyelids.
Each breath turned slower than the last, her chest rising and falling steadily.
“Good,” Hlif praised. “We will start with a practice called purification. Focus on the deepest part of your soul, where your light shines strongest.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Elara shuddered, trying to ignore the constant hum of noise distracting her.
“You must learn to draw from it like a wellspring. It is infinite, but you must find it.”
A soft chant in Norse hummed from Hlif, vibrating Elara’s entire body.
The sound mesmerized her, helping to calm some of the chaotic noise ruminating in her mind.
Each note thickened in the room, seeming to weave the air itself.
“Picture the wellspring,” Hlif whispered, her voice layered over the chant. “A pure, golden glow buried within you. Draw from it. Call upon it. You have been feeding the dead. Now, you must feed yourself.”
Over and over, she tried, picturing a vast ocean glimmering like liquid gold. But when she attempted to reach it, it disintegrated in her fingers.
Then, the acrid scent of decaying flesh grew, mingling with an icy chill that made it hard to breathe.
“No, no, no,” Elara murmured, wrapping her arms around her waist. “I can’t… I can’t do it.”
“You can,” Hlif said, her voice a soft and soothing whisper in her ear. “Chase the cold away. Focus on the warmth of your Jarl. Remember his devotion. Allow it to silence the whispers while you wander the veil.”
A powerful jolt zipped through her fingers.
Images of Njáll filled her mind. His lips on her curls, his chest solid against hers, his hands on her hips, the unshakeable promise in his voice.
A golden ocean stretched out to the horizon, its surface glimmering in the sunlight. A tiny, defiant flare pulsed in her palm, coalescing into a sputtering ember.
“Now, breathe that ember into a blaze. Focus on your jarl, not the cold of grief.”
Her fingertips tingled, but Elara focused, fighting past the mental image of the draugar’s grasping, blackened hands.
She drew a slow, deliberate breath, and on the exhale, she poured all her buried joy into that single ember.
Tangible flames engulfed her fingers, and this time, when she reached for the golden water, it pooled in her hand, chasing away the cold and the whispers.
Rocks dug into her knees, and Elara gasped, clutching her chest. She blinked, the cave coming back into focus. Hard dirt rolled under her palms as Elara scratched the floor, kneeling on the ground before Hlif.
Straightening her shoulders, a proud smile curled at the corners of Hlif’s cracked lips.
“Good, Seiekona. Again,” Hlif demanded, all the gentleness leeched from her tone, leaving a relentless taskmaster in place.