Chapter 6 #2
“I can… uh…” I sniffle. I’m not sure what to answer.
I’ve only cleaned my own clothes, father’s at times, when he vomited on himself or worse.
I haven’t learned to clean a house. The times I tried keeping our carriage, Father would ruin it shortly after.
If I am brutally honest with myself, I’m a horrible cook.
Groa taught me—so I know herbs, I know runes, I know… It dawns on me. Of course.
“Groa was training me as a Volva. I am an enchantress.”
The jarl purses his lips, nodding slowly, his eyes locked onto mine.
“Is that so?”
I nod. A little lie. I am not an enchantress just yet, but I know the basics. I just need to perform. Just once. Then I can keep growing. Freya, bless me now. Let this happen. Please. Light my path.
“She looks more like a slave to me, a bad one at that. Only fit for sacrifice,” says the jarl’s daughter. Her smile is gone. A pit forms in my stomach. I’m not sure she’s joking. Sacrificed. Offered to the gods in some brutal fashion. Why does this living Valkyrie already hold a grudge against me?
“Not surprising, Thyra, that your eyes see a slave. She has a shackle around her neck,” says a deep voice.
A man steps out from the corner behind me. He was there all along, in the shadows. An unusual elegance in how he moves—masculine, not effeminate. His presence commands the room. I can’t look away.
“Even the Golden Giver is of the Vanir, and held prisoner by the Aesir,” he says. “And we all know Fenrir, Chained by Gleipnir, will break his shackles in the final days.”
“We may be like the Aesir,” snorts Thyra, “but surely you don’t claim this… thing before us is Freya?”
“It was a kenning, my lady, a metaphor.”
“Most men I know speak directly,” she responds.
“Most men aren’t skalds,” says the skald. A poet. His dark hair falls down beyond his shoulders, glowing yellow in the torchlight. Small braids with silver beads frame his handsome face. A smile shows in his full but well-kept beard.
He’s a full head taller than me, larger than Narve, but not enormous like Vidar or Asbjorn. Not imposing or threatening.
“If you want it said directly, my lady, I mean that both fair woman and beast can find themselves in chains. But I stand with you. I would not trust a thief to tell the truth.”
He glides to the center of the room without acknowledging me. A poet who speaks ill of me while denying my presence. I’ve heard most skalds were self-absorbed piss buckets. He proves the point. The jarl clears his throat.
“The girl recognized Yggdrasil when she walked in. I heard her whisper the world tree’s name.”
“Who wouldn’t know an image of Yggdrasil?” says Thyra.
“I have to agree with Thyra, my lord. Even slaves know of the World Tree,” says the skald. “Let her prove herself.” My eye twitches. “Answer me this, thrall girl.”
He turns to me, and despite everything I’ve survived, he makes me feel ill-prepared.
I am rugged, dirty, unwashed. My hair is ruffled and messy.
I have sweated from anxiety. I have cried from sorrow.
How many times have I fallen to the ground?
My dress is ruined, at best. My neck is chafed, raw. The worst first impression possible.
By any right, I should not care what this well-preened and charming skald thinks of my appearance. And yet, dignity, pride, respect. They all course through my veins. I am human, even after my freedom has been robbed.
I look into his cold blue eyes, holding his gaze. Thrall girl?
“My name is Kilda,” I say.
Everyone in the room laughs except the skald. Heat floods my face. The jarl shakes his head.
“Are you sure about this gift, Vidar?” says Thyra, “Not all horses can be broken.”
I had wanted this woman to like me. She’s so impressive. Thyra may look like an Aesir, but she is a Jotnar, a troll. At least on the inside. I want to attack her, test her. She may be stronger, larger, but on my grave—I am faster, nimbler. I hold my tongue now, but I will make sure of one thing.
Thyra will learn some manners. Some damned respect.
“Thrall girl Kilda, then,” says the skald with a smile. “Tell me, the runes on Mjolnir—what do they say?” He points at the metal hammer hanging among the shields.
I turn to the jarl. Playing his strings is the best strategy. If he views me highly, I am protected.
“May I approach the hammer, my lord?”
“Granted. Vidar, take the shackle off her neck.”
Vidar bows, but Thyra reacts in surprise.
“But Father, how can we trust—”
The jarl holds up his hand. She obeys her father. What jarl would let his daughter rule, at least in public? Thyra knows the laws of respect. She has none for me, yet. But she will, soon.
Vidar removes the shackle from my neck. Instant relief. A weight off my shoulders, literally. I had already gotten used to it, which is terrifying in itself. One day, two days, three days—how long does it take before a person loses their identity and starts viewing themselves as property?
I stretch my neck from side to side, wincing as the tender flesh beneath complains. Still a slave, but closer to freedom. No more tugging. A step in the right direction.
The hammer glitters like it truly is Mjolnir, oiled and shining. Even though I am new to runic magic, I know the basics of reading. Groa hammered it into my skull, claiming the strings of fate had placed us together, that I was destined to learn the magic arts. Now, more than ever, I believe her.
I read the runes cut into the hammer.
“This is Thurisaz,” I say to the wide-eyed skald. My eyes flick to Vidar, who stands mouth agape.
“Keep going,” the skald whispers.
“This is Othalan, and this is Raido. It says Thor,” I say awkwardly. “No surprise there, I guess.”
Everyone laughs, even Thyra. Reading is rare. Many are impressed by it. Some view it as magical in itself. My people never cared much. Here, it’s appreciated.
“Impressive,” says the jarl.
“My lord,” begins the skald, “perhaps we could—”
“Wait,” I say. “There’s another rune on the side.”
I look closer and check the other side. I pause. I have to touch it. Feel. The metal’s frost breathes against my fingertip before it bites. I pull it back. A strange sensation spreads in my head—dark nails scraping inside. It settles behind my eyes.
“Tell us,” says the jarl, standing from his throne. “Tell us their meaning.”
No way. Though I’m a beginner, Groa has taught me this binding set. Runic magic needs intention to work, like any other enchantment or ritual. Just inscribing or carving runes has little to no effect. I hope whoever did these was just decorating the hammer.
“It’s…” I hesitate. “There is another Thurisaz on each side.”
The combination is so blatant. This can’t be good.
“Speak, girl!” shouts the jarl. I can’t refuse his command. This is how he must speak to his warriors in battle.
“Who gave you this?” I ask. They might get angry with me if I insult a friend of the hall. Hate me. Chain me again.
“A friend, long ago,” he barks. “Tell me its meaning and power. Speak, by Odin!”
The skald approaches me, placing a hand on my shoulder and staring deep into my eyes. Instinctively, I yank my shoulder back. My dress is filthy enough without his greasy skald fingers.
His smile shows teeth, entertained by my disgust.
“Speak freely, Kilda,” he says in a honeyed voice.
I nod, remembering my new status. Best to play it safe. I turn to the jarl.
“My lord,” I say, “triple Thurisaz is a curse. A deadly curse. A rose has beauty. The thorn, when alone, only draws blood.”
“So, what does it mean? What does it do?” asks Vidar.
“It’s an invitation. To the Jotnar.”
“Impossible,” cries Thyra.
“It says what it says,” I snap back.
“So what does it say?” asks the jarl.
Gods protect us. Those who believe—they know. A pulse ripples from the runes, like they are alive. A shimmer the eye can’t capture. My mind wanders briefly. Flickering legends ride by.
The roots dig deep for their grip. Where the wells fill. The Norns, oracles of destiny—they foretold it all. The hammer seems gloomy now, its polished shine only a cover. I know what is coming. The veil is thinning.
An icy finger traces my spine. The cold ones return.
It says “Giant.”