Skadi and Damian ate at the far end of the longhouse tables, devouring bowl after bowl of vegetable soup, dried mutton, freshly baked bread, and hard cheese. Stuffed, exhausted, she parted ways with the priest, bought a set of clean clothing and some black soap from an old lady in town with a tiny fleck of hacksilver, and then trudged back out the Raven Gate.

She moved hard right to follow the palisade wall, the old trunks tightly bound together, their tops sharped to wicked stakes, and then up a sharp slope to a broad expanse of snowy meadow. It rose up to a raw cliff face, down which she’d espied a waterfall cascading.

She strode through the snow, legs weary beyond measure, giving thanks that she didn’t have to carry shields. Reaching the top of the snow meadow, she there found a morass of large, broken rocks at the base of the cliff that cupped a small goblet pool into which the narrow waterfall fell.

The water was black, the fall noisy, the air damp with spray. Brilliantly colored lichen grew against the rocks, and for a while she simply stood there, staring glumly at the endlessly changing patterns that shot out across the pool’s rippling, choppy surface.

She didn’t particularly want to get in the water, but she wanted to remain in her muddy, sweat-soaked clothing even less.

With a sigh, she sat, undid her braids, tugged off her boots, paused to massage her soles, then hurried to tug off her belt. Setting Natthrafn against a rock close to the water’s edge, she shucked her tunic, pants, and the linen wrap around her chest.

For a moment she stood there, flesh goosepimpling, and then she let out a cry and leaped feet first straight into the deepest end.

The shock was tremendous, the cold savage, but she made sure to duck her head under, and for a moment all was thunder and movement, the water a storm of bubbles with the rock sides intimated, and then she rose and gasped.

Her stupor was gone. The aches in her muscles washed away by her body’s panicked reawakening. She reached down and found the rock bed, too deep to stand on, so remained in the small pool’s center, swimming confidently, forcing herself to come to terms with the ice-cold water.

She rubbed at her face. Scratched at her scalp, then waded close to the shore to take up her bar of new soap. Shivering violently, she lathered herself clean then dunked herself back into the water, and was about to climb out when she sensed that she was not alone.

Yri stood at the edge of the pool glowering at her, fresh clothing and a linen towel over one arm. She looked exhausted, but her eyes shone fever bright.

“You shouldn’t be here alone. It’s not safe.”

Skadi frowned up at her. “You’re here alone.”

“I know how to handle myself.”

“So do I.”

Yri made no response.

“I was finished anyway. The pool is all yours.” And Skadi climbed out, hunched and shivering, to wrap her towel around herself and begin to dry off the icy water.

Yri stripped and leaped in.

Skadi got dressed in the clean woolen garments: a pair of white braies that were loose around the waist and thighs but tight below the knee, leg wrappings from knee to ankle, a thick, faded blue tunic with a round neckline, heavy socks, boots, and finally her large woolen cloak, which she pulled about herself after pinning it tight with her copper broach.

She sat on a dry rock and began to work on her hair, the weak afternoon sunshine welcome, the thunder of the falls making it so that there was no need to shout at Yri.

Who bathed with her own bar of soap, then emerged quickly to dry and dress in turn.

For a moment they simply sat there, combing their long hair, pretending to ignore each other, and then as one they stood, gathered their belongings, and began to walk back to the Raven Gate.

Yri walked stiffly but didn’t pull ahead nor fall behind.

“Why isn’t it safe? The pool. It’s so close to Kráka.”

“It’s actually not that dangerous during the day. But there is much troll activity here. Queen Grýla hates us. Each winter she sends her trolls to attack our walls, and every night the mountains become treacherous even for bands of warriors to wander. But people outside the walls by themselves have disappeared, even during the day.”

“Why hasn’t my uncle defeated Grýla? Ended the raids?”

Yri smirked. “You make it sound as if it is the obvious thing to do. Grýla’s castle is very high up the mountains, beyond the treeline, amidst the highest peaks. Nobody is sure where it is located, because it moves from place to place. Worse, her realm is protected by spells, so that you get turned around or lost. If you can find her castle, you must fight terrible beasts, and then deal with Grýla herself, who is a powerful sorceress.”

“How do you know this?”

“The jarl led a great warband against her ten years ago. They lost half their number reaching the bridge of ice that crosses the chasm to her castle entrance, and then half again fighting their way to her great hall. The rest of the men were there ensorcelled and frozen, and Kvedulf emerged with only Hwideberg and Marbjörn by his side. It’s said those other warriors yet stand there in Grýla’s hall. One day, another warband will climb to do battle with her, and I will be part of that host.”

Skadi studied the other woman. She spoke with such passionate intensity. “You will? Why? If it is such a doomed venture?”

“Because my father was one who was trapped by the jotunn’s spell,” said Yri. “I have sworn to free him, or die trying.”

Skadi sharpened her vision, and saw the other woman’s golden threads shine brightly in the watery sunlight.

“Something tells me you will.”

Yri glanced sharply at her. “You have seen this?”

“Not a vision. But a sense. Your wyrd is strong. You are determined. I believe you will one day reach the jotunn’s castle, though what will happen there only the norns know.” An impulse, sudden and fey. “And I will help you, if I can.”

Yri stopped, Raven’s Gate just a stone’s throw away. Frowned at her once more. “You are only just arrived. Why should you care for Kráka’s fate, or my own? Don’t you plan to leave as soon as your father returns to rescue you?”

“I’m not waiting for my father.” Skadi drew herself up. “I have my own wyrd, my own oaths. I will grow strong and demand from Kvedulf that he gift me a ship and crew.”

Yri laughed. “A ship and crew? Perhaps Marbjörn or Hwideberg could demand such a thing. Nǫkkvi and Auðun have surely earned the right. But you?”

Skadi drew herself up. “I am his niece, but more, I will earn it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe I will slay Grýla the Ice Jotunn.”

Incredulity. “You can’t stay on your feet for five breaths again Tiarvi. You look like you wish to die after five runs to the Thor Stone. But you say you will slay the sorceress yourself?”

Skadi smiled. “I’ll allow that I don’t have much chance now. But give me a week.”

“A week.” Yri stared at her, then laughed. “You have the fire, if nothing else.”

Skadi stared up the mountain slopes. They rose, and rose, deeply forested and dark with fir trees, which thinned out eventually so that snowy ramparts rose beyond them, gleaming with ice in the sun, higher and higher, sharp ridged with ragged edges, the cliffs raw where the snow failed to grip, to the final distant crags themselves.

The height was vertiginous.

Could she climb so high, Natthrafn in hand, to find this Grýla and slay her in her icy hall?

Everything in her being said no, but a deep, bloody-minded, and iron-willed core of her spirit said yes.

“We shall see. I will do the work. I will grow strong. I will train harder than anybody, and my wyrd shall do the rest.”

“You won’t train harder than me.”

“You think not?”

Yri stepped in close, eyes burning. “I had no golden ring with which to bribe Marbjörn to train me. I had to earn it. A month I followed him with an ale jar so that he could drink at a moment’s notice. Another month I cleaned his home, darned his clothing, spun and wove and cooked. For three months after I followed him as he either yelled or ignored me. Finally, he set my five trials, which took me six months to be able to complete. When I did, he told me it had been jest and that I should cease bothering him. I refused. He struck me down. I got up. Each day thereafter he struck me down, and always I got up and waited for him the next dawn at his door. Finally, after more than a year, he allowed that I could begin running as he directed me.”

Yri stepped in closer so that they were almost nose to nose, her eyes burning. “I haven’t stopped running since. What have you done, other than throw your gold around and vomit on the Thor Stone? Nothing.”

Skadi smiled and met her gaze full on. “I’m just getting started. Watch your back, Yri. You may be strong but I’ll be nipping at your heels. And the day will come when you admit that I’m your better.”

“Never.” Yri clenched her jaw, and Skadi thought she’d lash out. Instead, she turned on her heel and marched toward the Raven’s Gate. “I was starting to get comfortable,” she called back over her shoulder. “Now I’m aflame again.”

Skadi watched the other girl go. Noted her broad shoulders, the thickness of her legs, the litheness of her movements.

Besting Yri would not happen soon.

Not unless she leaned hard on her wyrd and left nothing on the table, each and every day.