Chapter 25
Ylvin blows out a long stream of air, sated pleasure on her face.
“That was amazing,” she shouts across the woods. “Let’s cheer to that.”
She holds up her cup. The rest of us raise our own, clashing them together so ale spills on our arms. I can’t even keep a stupid grin off my face, proud to have made something properly edible for the first time. My previous attempts were… dubious at best.
“Glory to the chefs,” says Elof before emptying his cup.
The man isn’t tall, but extremely stocky.
Built strong. His arms hang out from his body because his muscles won’t let them rest at his sides.
I had wondered how the Volva had moved both lavvus, all their equipment, as well as a barrel of ale, up the mountain.
Elof is the answer. Still, he only has two arms. He must have made several journeys up and down.
He doesn’t say much—but glory to the chefs, that he did say. Glory indeed.
“You must learn to cook like this, Elof,” says Ylvin.
“She can teach me,” he says gruffly as he digs further into his fourth bowl of stew.
I laugh—I can’t possibly take the honor for the meal.
“Ari can teach you,” I say, eyes twinkling at the cook. “He taught me tonight.”
My tone is lifted. I’ve been drinking fast, excited by the food and Ylvin’s good mood.
“You’re a great student,” says Ari with an unbelievably smug grin.
I shake my head. The man is unbearable. Hard to read. One second, he’s tender and passionate. The next, he’s cocky as, well… as a cock.
“I’m happy to hear it,” says Ylvin. “That will make my job so much easier.”
Ylvin’s slurring her words. She’s drunk—more than me, even. She tosses her head back and empties her cup down her gullet, releasing a delighted sigh.
I was hoping for a wise older woman to teach me the ways of Freya. Instead, I got a horny lady with a love for food and drink. Still, even in her current state, she exudes a mystical power. It tingles every time she lays eyes on me.
“So, Kilda,” says Ylvin. “The reason we are all here. Jarl Sigurd tells me you’ve received training earlier?”
“Yes.” I nod. “It was interru—”
“How did she perform her Seidr?” she asks.
“How? Uh… what do you mean?”
“Oh my. I mean did she sacrifice? Animals? Folk?”
“By the gods no, not that I know of.”
A chill runs down my spine. There are stories of Volvas taking life to lay or lift curses.
Sacrificing dozens, even, to summon storms. Groa had warned me about such magic—for every drop of blood spilled, a Volva has to sacrifice a piece of herself too.
Some bridges do not allow return after being crossed.
I hope Ylvin isn’t one of those. The Volva cocks her head at me.
“Was it sex she used perhaps?”
“She never said that, no, but she had a son.”
Ylvin throws her head back, howling in laughter. Elof joins in a second after. Either because it took him a second to understand what was funny, or just to support his wife. I, for one, don’t understand what was funny.
“A son, indeed. So how did she tell you to channel magic, girl? How did she perform the art? What did she teach you?”
“She talked of intent—ritual combined with intent.”
“I see.” Ylvin holds her chin as she gazes into the air. “Quite rare.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What’s rare?”
“A Volva unwilling to go the extra mile. If she actually is touched, of course.”
Groa? Not touched? Fucking ridicu—
“Ritual needs a little more than intent. It can go very wrong, you know. Intent is of course necessary with any magic, but alone, it is the weakest.” Ylvin grins, showing strangely sharp teeth.
“It’s like just serving us water with raw carrots in it, instead of this beautiful stew you made with Ari. ”
My cheeks heat up as I catch what she is implying. That I could amplify my magic by sharing a bed with Ari. I’m happy the orange light of the fire hides my blush. Glancing at him, I’m expecting a bastard grin, but he is watching the Volva intently. Ylvin’s grin widens.
“Don’t worry, girl. A Volva never does something she doesn’t want,” says Ylvin. “We just make the best of what we have. You can always say no.”
“Okay, but I don’t under—”
“Do you sing?”
I snort.
“Sing?”
“Yes, girl, sing. Do you sing?”
“I know some songs, but I can’t sing.”
“Pity.” She shrugs. “Galdr is very powerful Seidr.”
“True,” says Elof, mouth full of elk. “Very powerful.”
“But don’t worry, I can’t sing either,” continues Ylvin.
“True, can’t sing,” confirms Elof.
My new teacher stares at her man, releasing a chuckle. Her eyes return to mine.
“Are you willing to sacrifice animals to the gods for power?”
I frown. Sacrifice to honor the gods is normal in ceremony or ritual—followed by eating it during a shared feast. Even we travelers perform Blot. To honor the Aesir and bring fortune to our people. But killing for personal gain? That’s different.
“Blood magic? I didn’t think that would be necessary.”
“Everybody makes sacrifices, darling, both in worship and in daily life.”
I nod, processing her words.
“You would know that,” continues Ylvin, “being captured as a slave. I hope they treat you well.”
“They do, thank you.” My eyes dart to Ari, whose expression is somber as he stares into the fire, avoiding my eyes.
“Come to think of it,” says Ylvin, “I have never heard of a thrall Volva. You may be the first.”
“Not the greatest compliment,” I say with a curt laugh.
Serving Freya while also being under a man’s heel. Contradictory, perhaps. I hadn’t considered it before now.
“Come now, darling,” says Ylvin. “It’s not your fault you are chained. Or is it? I don’t know. In any case, it’s not something shameful, even if they want you to feel that way. How else would they control you? By keeping you proud and strong?”
“They aren’t that bad actua—”
“Many free women are kept in bondage, you know. Pitiful slaves for spiteful husbands. Others have loving, dedicated men in their life, like me. Isn’t that right, Elof?”
“That’s right,” he confirms as he fills another bowl from the pot.
Is that his fifth or his sixth? I stopped at two. Ari stopped at three. Ylvin strokes her man’s arm with a tender affection.
“We will see, my dear Kilda, what magic appeals to you. Jarl Sigurd has a lot of faith in you—it wasn’t cheap getting Elof to carry all of our belongings so far up the mountain.”
Who is this woman? When does wisdom come into the picture? She seems like a rambling drunk to me. She stretches out her long legs.
“What do I see in you? You ask?” she says, even if I haven’t asked. “I’m not sure yet. Are you a Volva? Remains to be seen. But you are doubting if I am. You are skeptical, rebellious. You’re independent. And that, my little bird, is always a good starting point for Seidr magic.”
My jaw tightens—I’m at a loss for words. She seems to be enjoying her monologue anyway. Ylvin stretches to stand before throwing a glance into the air.
“Unless you’re a large group performing Seidr rituals together, of course. Then skeptical rebellion based on radical independence is useless. But you get what I mean.”
Ari shuffles next to me. I turn to him. He’s smiling, apparently convinced. Perhaps he heard something I didn’t. Perhaps he heard more than the drunken ramblings of a madwoman. I’m not sure I did.
“How are you feeling, Elof?” exclaims Ylvin.
“Good, my dear,” he responds.
“Are you finished with your food?”
“In a second.”
“Very good.” Ylvin stands, swaying slightly. “I was planning on sharing a tent with you, Kilda, but I get so cranky when I don’t get to snuggle with my loving Elof. Right, Elof?”
“That’s right, my dear,” he responds as he stands, slamming his empty bowl on the ground.
“So, you two can share the smaller lavvu,” she states with a broad grin. “Oh, and do the dishes in the morning, will you?”
I stand, offended by the suggestion of sharing a tent with Ari alone. Is she implying I am easy? Loose? My head boils at the woman’s proposal.
“Relax, Kilda, surely each of you brought your own blanket,” she says as she glides toward her own tent with Elof at her heels.
“But I—”
“It will be fine, Kilda,” says Ylvin without turning around. “Besides, you two seem to be getting along just fine.”