Chapter 63
Alight drizzle descends from the heavens, bringing forth the scent of the living forest. I have trained all day. Dusk is at hand. I understand now what Ylvin meant by magic costing energy, for with every Thrust, my bones felt heavier to carry. Even so, my chest is lifted. My mind is clear.
The sapling stands, still untouched. The trees around it, however, are peppered with small holes. Small rocks will be embedded in their flesh until they fall or are chopped down.
I can almost smell the cold—the nearing of the harvest. My hands still tingle from the residual energies of what I have unleashed.
A quiet laugh of disbelief escapes my lips.
I did it. I really did. I now have three spells under my belt, even if none have been mastered.
For the first time since I tried healing Ari, I feel myself unwind.
Even if exhausted after the training, my shoulders are allowed to relax.
Running my tingling hand through a fir tree, its needles prickle my skin, reminding me that this is my hand. It’s me doing this. No story, no myth—just Kilda. The world feels brighter somehow, lighter.
The warmth of purpose swells in my chest as my robe sticks to my body, wet from the rain. I am more than they say. More than a slave. A scheming viper? No.
A vessel for justice.
I am Kilda the Wild. The Volva. I have learned. I have grown. The laws of nature are channeled by my will. Even the Norns have heard my word.
A woodpecker strikes a trunk nearby. I watch it, enjoying its bright red fleck and its rhythmic pecking. How long has it been since I did this? Since I took the time to observe. Since I just… breathed.
Only the loving may give me advice.
Those who shackle others, they cannot guide me. They will not breathe. Suffer. I will stand. I will die. I will live. As who I am. Even if the gods mock me.
A thought strikes me. The fresh scent of wet plants and stones pairs with my rejuvenated mind. Ari. I must tell him. Ari will be proud of my accomplishment today. He will laugh at my clumsy first Thrust. Bless him who forced me out of bed. Him who made me eat.
My smile widens until it almost hurts. I want him to know. What will a little boasting hurt? He is a skald, by Thor, those bastards live off of bragging. Maybe he will write a poem about me, one that isn’t about seeing up my skirts—or at least not only that.
I will go to the house. Braid my hair properly. Clean my body, scrape the snot from my robe. Ari views me as a runt, a fumbling fool. I want him to view me as a woman. A woman of power, power like his.
The setting sun’s rays carve sharp golden corridors through the skies above.
Gazing beyond the longhouse, I see the possibilities of what is coming.
A rainbow. From edge to edge, weightless, bright.
Its softer twin soars above it, barely visible.
The bridge between who I was, or was made to be, and who I might become.
Ari will praise me. I’ll do my best not to tease him. Not too much, at least. I know not what the gods have in store for tomorrow.
But tonight—tonight is filled with promise.