Ásfríðr rose and filled a wooden cup with mulled wine then handed it to Skadi. She drank, trying to absorb the völva’s words, the promise, the threat.

“Finish your tale.”

Skadi took another sip. There was a strange bitterness to the wine, a taste she couldn’t identify. But she spoke on, telling of how she was brought onto the Skrímslaeyjan ship, how she broke free, killed the crew. The times her wyrd saved her from death. How they sailed north, their encounter with Tryggr Ramundrson and the salmon that leaped from the ocean’s depths to save her life. The salt hag. The mermaids.

By the time she was finished her head was swimming. The edges of her vision were blurred, but she felt relaxed, at ease, and capable of focusing with utmost intensity on Ásfríðr.

“You have much to learn,” said the völva. “But first. What do we mean when we say ‘wyrd’?”

“Our fate. Our destiny. What the norns weave for us, the day we will die.”

“But you are able to avoid death with the power of your wyrd.”

Skadi frowned. “One of the norns named me a wyrd weaver.”

“Yes. Wyrd is nothing more than a measure of how much attention you have garnered from the gods. Most are like ants to them: crushed underfoot without a thought, without hope for succor or intervention. Their wyrd is set by the norns, and unless they rise above the common ruck they will die like beasts when their hour arrives.

“Others, few, attract the attention of the gods. Their lives become gilded. Charmed. It can be a slight favor, that helps them evade a careless axe swing or survive a dangerous fall, but little more, or it can swell into a great destiny, that of a king, an emperor.”

Skadi nodded, thinking of her uncle’s blazing threads.

“But just as favor can be given, so can it be retracted. The gods want us to earn our fates, to strive and fight and show valor and honor. Those who depend on their wyrd to save them will find it failing in their hour of need.”

Skadi frowned. “Like how I dared Tryggr to spear me with my eyes closed?”

“Just so. You pull the god’s favor before everyone’s eye, and in doing so, court their ire.”

“Or how I defeated Garmr,” mused Skadi. “Forcing the gods to send sparks and raven.”

“If you rely on such brute methods, you will fail.” Ásfríðr’s tone was grim. “Far better to win battles through strength of arms and talent with the blade. Your wyrd will still see you through, but it will not be so brazenly displayed.”

Skadi blinked in alarm. “Have I upset Freyja?”

To which Ásfríðr smiled. “I doubt it. You are young, but newly set on your course. You have no training. How else were you to survive? But now you must become a shieldmaiden in truth. Train with the axe and shield, the sword and spear. Learn to defeat your foes with the strength of your arm and not the vitality of your wyrd. Do so, and your wyrd shall grow.”

Skadi sat back, musing. “At the docks. In Kalbaek. I pronounced a curse on Jarl Leifr. I said he would lose everything he loved, but death would not come for him till he begged for it on bended knees.”

“A powerful curse,” whispered Ásfríðr.

“And I saw a brown thread attach itself to him. Was that… did I curse him true?”

“You did. You had righteous cause, and are beloved of Freyja. Any can cast a curse if their heart is righteously wounded and their fate thwarted. Curses can lay even the greatest of kings low.”

Skadi thought of Leifr, wherever he might be. Her curse affixed to him like a remora to the underside of a shark. Sapping his wyrd, twisting his fate, corrupting his destiny. She felt no gratification, but no remorse, either.

“What of the salt hag? She cut my threads, could see them.”

Ásfríðr sighed. “The troll folk are alien to us, their powers mysterious. They can cast spells, can weave fate, and as you saw, sever its threads. I understand their powers little, but it is one reason we must always be wary of them. Even their slightest members are tightly bound to the weft of destiny, and capable of changing the course of a mortal’s life.”

Skadi thought on Glámr and Aurnir, both already with golden threads when she met them. “I see.”

“I shall guide you as best I can. Through ritual and ceremony I can keep your wyrd cleansed and vibrant, and ensure that your path is in accordance with Freyja’s wishes. This I do for Jarl Kvedulf, and for many of his men.”

“Thank you.” Skadi paused. “How can I repay you?”

“We shall talk of that later. For now, finish your wine. It is steeped in herbs and mushrooms that will open you to Freyja’s influence. Then we shall honor her and ask of a vision to guide your path.”

Skadi did as she was bid, right down to the silty dregs at the bottom of the cup. Set it aside. The fire wavered strangely, elongated and slow. Everything was covered in a patina of gold. Freyja’s statue rose tall against the back of the room, her necklace glimmering, the carved cats about her feet writhing as if real, swarming about her feet.

“I feel the vision coming,” said Skadi, pressing a hand to her heel.

Ásfríðr smiled her secretive smile and took up a hand drum, began to beat a slow and insistent rhythm, one which echoed, grew layered, so that it soon sounded as if a dozen völva’s were playing within the room.

The columns of gold became trees with metal trunks, the rafters their branches. Leaves of silver rustled, and then the canopy parted and Skadi stared up at the moon, full and bright as a silver coin from Palió Oneiro.

Skadi blinked.

The walls of the temple were gone. She stood in a golden forest. Flames leaped and spiraled about her but touched not the metal trees.

Skadi walked forth in wonder. The forest opened to reveal a great meadow, ringed on all sides by the endless woods, but broad and glorious beneath the light of the moon. The grass was silvered, and a host was gathered upon the meadow. Women and men without number, clad in armor and bearing arms, so that they formed their own forest of spears and axes and great gleaming blades.

Skadi walked forth, the host parting before her, and each face her gaze fell upon was one of stern glory and strength. Each a warrior, each fierce and determined, their raiment glorious, their prowess and ferocity clear.

Most were women, she saw, but not all; most were fair skinned like herself, but again, not all. Each could have been the heroine of a grand tale, each distinctive and striking in their own right.

She reached the hall, and it was larger than any she had ever seen, vast so that Kvedulf’s hall would have fit in one corner easily, and a hundred more been packed within the great building’s cavernous hold. Door upon door stood open down its length, and through the great entrance she saw endless rows of tables dressed in purple cloth and bearing cups and platters of gold. More heroes sat within, feasting, drinking from horns capped with precious metals and studded with jewels, the air fey and flickering with golden glints, the sound of music and merriment coming as from another world, distant and thin.

She wanted to enter that hall. To sit with those warriors. To be one of them, and feast amongst their number.

But she was clad in plain woolen garments and had only Natthrafn by her side. She was without tales of glory, without deeds of heroic accomplishment, and not fit to count herself one of them.

A woman stood in the doorway. A terrifying figure, radiating power and menace. She was tall, towering over Skadi, and the gold wings affixed to the sides of her helm added another foot to her height. Gold her helm, inlaid with patterns of silver and lapis lazuli, and gold the face plate that hid her visage. The face plate was stark, stern, striking, and beautiful beyond measure, but inhuman in its hardness, its fixidity, its statuesque perfection.

Swan feathers burst out from beneath the pauldrons that covered her shoulders, and a cloak of cobalt blue threaded with gold hung to her feet. Her chest was covered by a beautifully wrought cuirass, its patterns impossibly detailed, and more armor hung from her broad belt to cover her thighs. Golden greaves protected her legs, golden vambraces her forearms, and all of it inlaid, each a piece so precious that to strike it with sword or axe would have been a crime.

In one hand this towering figure held a blade that burned with white fire, and when Skadi sharpened her gaze she saw but one thread of gold emerging from the figure’s back to spear back into the hall, a thread so thick it was a rope, thicker than Skadi’s arm.

“You are come early to Sessrúmnir, Styrbjörnsdóttir.” The armored woman’s voice echoed hollowly from all about. “One day your wyrd might bring you to this hall, but not yet.”

Skadi had no words. Her mouth was dry, and she felt weak, mortal, small.

The woman stretched forth her blue gloved hand and gathered Skadi’s six golden threads into her fist, then yanked.

Skadi cried and was jerked to her knees, her shoulders thrown back, helpless as she figure gazed pitilessly down at her, the eyes behind the mask the only sign that a woman was encased within the armor at all.

“I am Hjörþrimul, Valkyrie of Freyja, and I shall be watching you. You are mine to pluck from the middle realm when my lady decrees your death, and on that day I shall sever these pitiful threads and fly you here to Sessrúmnir.”

Skadi couldn’t breathe. It felt as if her lungs, her heart, her very mind were being tugged at, pressing themselves against the confines of her ribs and skull.

“Shame my mistress,” hissed Hjörþrimul, pulling even tighter upon the gathered threads so that they groaned, “and I shall ensure your end is a bad one, even as such things are reckoned. Flaunt her blessings, rely upon her attentions, and I shall cut you down before your time. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” gasped Skadi. “Yes.”

For a moment the Valkyrie considered, and then she released the threads, which immediately sprang back to their previous arrayment, slowly twisting and moving as always.

“Good. One day you might be great, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir, but that day is not guaranteed nor is it soon. Until then, tread warily, and know that I watch you, my blade unsheathed, my ire quick to rouse.”

Skadi inhaled deeply and forced herself to stand. The instinct to abase herself before this cruel glory was strong, but she refused it.

“You are not your mistress,” said Skadi, her voice growing in strength. “It was Freyja that blessed me, and it shall be she that decides when I am to come to her hall. Your threats are empty, Valkyrie. You cannot cut my threads without her consent.”

The eyes behind the face plate narrowed. “You are so ignorant that you do not realize how little you know.”

Skadi raised her chin. “If I’m wrong, cut me down here and now. Otherwise cease your threats. You are a servant of Freyja, just as I am, not my mistress.”

Hjörþrimul hissed and swung her blade, which left a trail of white fire in its wake. Before Skadi could react or even draw Natthrafn, the sword sank into her chest just beside her right shoulder.

The pain was such that Skadi frozen, her mouth gaping, her every muscle taut.

“You shall bear my mark for the rest of your days, foolish girl. Whenever you doubt that I watch for you, touch it, and know that you are mine.”

With a gasp Skadi sat up. She lay upon a bed of blankets in a dark sided chamber and was slick with sweat, her heart racing, her eyes unable to focus on anything in the gloom.

“Skadi?” Ásfríðr pushed aside a hanging curtain and entered the narrow chamber. “You are awake?”

But Skadi made no answer. Instead she tugged the square neck of her tunic over, exposing her shoulder, and there fingered with dread and wonder an old scar that she had never seen before, shaped like a star and as large as a coin.

There was no pain but when she touched it a blade of cold slid into her chest and she felt Hjörþrimul’s gaze upon her, watching from another realm, across time and space, waiting.

Waiting.