Chapter 41
“Lovely hair,” says Sigurd.
“Thank you, my jarl.”
“And the blue. I noticed it yesterday. An initiation gift from Ylvin?”
“She is a generous woman, a kind teacher and—I am honored to say—a friend.”
Sigurd sits on his throne. It’s just us. Everyone else has been dismissed.
“Ari told me your behavior was impeccable.”
Blessings. My secret is safe. Thank Freya. And Ari, I guess.
“Good to hear, my lord.”
“I am happy, Kilda,” he says, purposefully slow, “to see you grow so much, so fast.”
“My lord.” I bow my head.
“Your entire appearance is…” He waves his hand in circles. “Refined. No longer are you a petulant child. Your time with Ylvin was worth the cost.”
“I hope to be of use to the people of Opdal.”
“You will, I’m sure, but today, you will be of use to me.”
“My lord… before we start…”
“Speak.”
“With fear of being insolent, may I invite the thrall girls to my house this evening?”
“What for?”
“To eat, some light drink, a story or two.”
“A feast for the slaves?”
“Just a stew, and some light ale.”
“What is your goal with this?”
“Since I have arrived in Opdal, I have slept in the same room as them. I hope to prevent any jealousy by having them warm my new house with laughter.”
Sigurd raises his eyebrows, nodding his head slowly.
“Very impressive,” he says. “You have the makings of a leader, Kilda. A true Volva.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“You may invite the girls to your quarters and take the food and drink that you need. But Kilda…”
It’s hard to control my excitement. A large grin splits my face as I meet his eyes. But he is not smiling. He is dead serious as he speaks.
“I expect your loyalty,” he says.
I drop to my knees and bow my head, grateful for this opportunity to bond with the girls. He needs to see submission. Trust is built on gestures like this.
“Until death, my lord.”
Or, at least, until I am released.
“Is this an oath?” he asks with a snort.
“On my honor.”
Sigurd is silent. Unable to resist, I raise my eyes and meet his gaze. A smirk is on his face. The face of a man who rules others. A man who believes a thieving slave’s word.
I wouldn’t betray Sigurd. He is fair. But how can he possibly—
“Your word is bond. I accept. Raise yourself, my Volva.”
He stands, gesturing to the door behind his throne. I take quick steps to catch up, dwarfed behind him. These Opdal men—a special breed. It’s easy to tell where Vidar gets his size from.
“Today,” he says. “You enter where very few have been before.”
The throne room is so plush. I’m expecting Sigurd’s personal quarters to be even more impressive. I’m expecting rare, exotic pelts, amber, gold, tapestries the size of ships. Opdal is wealthy. It’s only right its jarl lives in splendor.
“Come in.”
As I step over the threshold, my jaw drops. I’m… disappointed.
“Not quite what you were expecting, perhaps?” says Sigurd with a chuckle.
The room is practically bare. A bed in the corner, no better or larger than mine, is covered in furs that have aged visibly.
There is nothing along the walls, just a door across the chamber.
The space is dominated by a table, uncarved.
A single wind-eye sits high on the wall, allowing smoke to escape from the humble fireplace under it.
I’m speechless. My own quarters are more lavish than this.
“No, but… my lord—”
“When my wife was alive, Kilda, this room reflected her beauty,” says Sigurd with his back turned. “Now, it’s a reflection of my life without her.”
I keep my silence. Sigurd is a wealthy man, a man of power. He should represent his community, its strength and ability. Losing a wife or husband is horrible, but sinking to the point of living worse than slaves…
“I know what you think.” He turns to me. “I am a chieftain, a jarl. How could I let the loss of a woman affect me in this way?”
I bow my head to avoid making eye contact. It’s expected by decorum, but I also don’t want him to see the truth in my eyes. He’s right. That’s exactly what I think.
“My lord, I—”
“She was special, my wife, strong. You can see her in Thyra. Or you could, before her half was ripped away. The throne room—that’s where our might is displayed for all.”
“It impressed me.”
“I bet it did,” he says with a grin. “But this room is my space, my choice. Only Thyra and Vidar come in here, and now, you.”
“I am honored, my jarl.”
“I appreciate that, Kilda, but please, in here, you will call me Sigurd. In front of others, however, you will use my title.”
A slave, calling her jarl by his first name? Unheard of. This man can point at anything and have it. He shouts at men like Vidar and Ari. They heed his orders. Yet here he is, in his poor man’s room, wanting me to treat him as my equal.
“Yes, uh, Sigurd.”
“Better.”
Sigurd’s eyes soften. He relaxes, shoulders dropping. Perhaps he respects me as his Volva. Or perhaps powerful men need someone who doesn’t treat them as jarl with every word. A smile grows on his face.
“I’m proud of you, Kilda. I knew, when I laid eyes on you, that you had a spark. I did not hesitate to invest in your talents.”
Not quite true. Sigurd has always shown me respect, but I remember him focusing on my theft, not saying I had a spark. I hold my tongue as he continues.
“I was surprised by your enchantment yesterday. Thyra—that woman is hard to impress—but even she had to admit it. You are a Volva.”
“Thank you, my… Sigurd. Thank you, Sigurd.”
I laugh at my own fumbling of words, nervous about the whole situation. A fledgling Volva, alone with the jarl. He has a task I am to perform. What if I fail?
“Calm yourself, my Volva,” he says as he opens the door. “Wait here.”
He enters the dark chamber beyond, returning seconds later with the cursed hammer. I had hoped Sigurd had gotten rid of it. Melted it down, tossed it in the woods, buried it. Anything but keep it. That thing makes my skin crawl. He lays it on the table, then goes back into the locked room.
I know I’m supposed to stand still, wait for the jarl to give me orders. Like a good thrall girl. But my curiosity gets the better of me. I step to the table, leaning over for a closer look at the object.
Its bright shine should fascinate, but a dark cloud lingers around it.
Such a large silver hammer—it’s hard for me to guess its value.
More than my robe, more than my new house, more than my price as a slave.
When I had read its runes in the hall, I had felt its licking cold, but now, I sense another layer.
It pulsates some unseen, starving energy.
Someone has charged it with ill intent. Someone with the ability to imprint items with power, an enchantress or wizard.
A shiver runs down my spine. Knowing experiences transfer intent, I can only imagine the terror whoever enchanted this must have gone through. The traumatic memory they have to draw from to feed such a spell. Poor soul.
“Curious, I see,” says the jarl as he returns.
I’m startled, straightening up and turning to Sigurd.
“Yes… yes I am.”
“A sign of a healthy Volva,” he says with a grin as he lays more items on the table. “Please inspect these as well.”
My eyes are instantly drawn to a golden necklace, studded with gleaming rubies.
As its focal point, a golden lynx head holds an enormous red jewel in its jaws.
The gold shines, like it’s new. Like it’s untouched.
It waits. For what is a mystery, but it’s patient.
It almost whispers. Tells secrets. I feel like I should… like I should put it on.
Sigurd coughs behind me, pulling me back to reality. I shake my head and switch my focus to the other objects.
A simple ring, made of silver, with a small sapphire set within. It doesn’t speak to me like the necklace. My eyes drift to the golden lynx, and I pull them back lest I get punished. By the jarl or the lynx itself.
Finally, a coin, with, yet again, the same Thurisaz rune pattern as on the hammer. Without touching them, I can sense which items carry magic. This is why Ylvin spoke of learning to mask one’s energy. It isn’t hard to tell if something is—
“Well?” says Sigurd. “What do you think?”
“The coin—take it away, it does nothing but shine.”
“Really? I was sure it was cursed, looking at the inscription.”
“It is safe to let a child play with it, if they keep it out of their mouth. Simply inscribing an object does not make it magical.”
“Are you sure? I had a Volva make it for me.”
“Forgive me, my jarl, but—”
“Sigurd, Kilda, call me Sigurd.”
“Sigurd… you were misled. Whoever made this for you scammed you. For an ungodly amount, I would guess.”
“You would be right. So… I can keep it?”
“Yes, you can do whatever you want with it.”
“And the others?”
“May I?” I ask, reaching for the necklace.
“Of course.”
The collar is heavy. Heavier than I would have imagined. The first time I’ve touched gold, a metal so rare that only the richest lords can claim to own it. Freya’s favorite. I run my finger along the clean-cut gemstones, closing my eyes to perceive its use. To experience its anchor. Who shaped it?
Murky images manifest in my mind. Sensations. Claws, ripping. The visions are fleeting, impossible to grasp. Flesh, sticky blood. The forest. A path.
A crystal-clear picture of a large cat appears in my mind. It persists. Thick fur, yellow eyes, black stripes. The black tufts at the tips of its ears make no secret of what animal it is.
A lynx.
My eyes open. I’m gripping the necklace so hard my knuckles are white. The art of Seidr is still so new to me. I have no idea what these images mean. I just feel my energy being drained. I’m sure it’s because of the visions, not the spell on the necklace.
“This,” I say, “is harsh. Violent, like nature. But it isn’t cursed.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not really… but let me inspect the ring, to compare.”
Sigurd nods, gesturing to the silver band.
I pick it up.
Nothing happens. A cooling sensation runs through my arm. It’s magic. Enchanted. I sense that, but I have no idea what for. It’s missing something. It isn’t complete. The hammer and necklace both carry a magical signature that far outweighs this.
“It’s… it’s doing something. No idea what.”
“Is it dangerous?” he asks.
“I wouldn’t think so,” I guess wildly, hoping I don’t seem completely ignorant.
Sigurd opens his palm and I place it there. He puts it on his finger, looking into the blue gem with a grin.
“So, it won’t kill me then?”
“Not unless you slip on it.”
He laughs, relieved that he can keep his artifacts. Men… Treasure, women, and honor—all that matters to them.
“And the hammer?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” he says.
I grab the handle.
Instantly a shock runs through my body, making me go rigid. So cold. So cold it’s all blue. Icy blue. I’m sucked into the earth. Beneath the mountains. Beyond the borders. My vision goes black.
A woman, crouching on the ground. Black cloth covers her eyes. She doesn’t need them to see the world. Her bloodied arms are rummaging through animal guts, violently shoving around the steaming innards.
She straightens her back, surprised, before turning in my direction. She points straight at me.
“There you are,” she rasps, her smile showing broken teeth.
I try to leave, escape, but my mind is bogged down. Stuck in this tainted vision. The horrid woman laughs, a shrill, cutting sound that invades me from all angles.
“Stupid slut. Do your part. Bring him. It wants him back.”
She splays her fingers, sending a wave of energy crashing over me. Shaking, I fall backward. My head will smash into the floor, but my arms refuse to move.
Sigurd stops my fall.
He speaks but his voice is muffled, distant.
I raise my head, back in reality. A heavy fog is lifted. Surprisingly, I feel fine. I’m not exhausted, not even tired, and I’m not… dead.
“By Odin,” I say as I stand.
“What happened?” says Sigurd worriedly. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I’m fine.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw…”
I hesitate. The lynx necklace was easy to describe. I had no fear of sharing that experience with Sigurd. But now, a seed of doubt is planted. My part? What if I am accused of evil? How will Sigurd understand? What does he know?
“I saw ravens,” I lie, “I saw ravens.”