They returned to Kráka with great fanfare.

Lookouts had been placed a half-mile outside of town, and upon sighting their return party raced back home. By the time the patched-up Raven’s Gate hove into sight, the whole town was gathered before it, and their cheers were thin but vibrant in the morning air.

Despite being footsore and aching from the falls and beating she had received, Skadi’s spirits lifted when she recognized Begga, Kofri, and Ulfarr hurrying up the trail toward them along with the other villagers who couldn’t stand to wait by the gate.

“You’re alive!” Begga’s cry rose up with numerous others. She seized Skadi by both arms and shook her gently, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. “Praise the goddess, praise the Honorable Lady, we all made offerings daily, prayed for your return.”

“Never doubted,” beamed Kofri, thumbs in his belt and eyes twinkling. “I just pretended to be concerned so that Begga here wouldn’t feel a fool.”

“It’s you that’s the fool, with your nonsense plans for Stóllborg if she fell,” said Begga, elbowing him sharply in the gut.

Ulfarr was gauging Skadi, his brows lowered, his mouth pursed. “We’d best get them all home. They are in need of rest. Damian. Aurnir. It’s good to see you both.”

“And it’s good to be back,” smiled Damian. “I would give just about anything for a hot bath and meal.”

“That we can do,” said Begga happily. “And new clothes! Just look at these rags you’re wearing.” They all began moving down the trail toward the gate. “I know you’re partial to your priestly garb, but it’s high time we turned these old scraps into washcloths and got you proper woolens. With your color skin, I think some red, perhaps yellow. Maybe a bit of tablet weave at the hems?”

“You spoil me,” laughed Damian. “A bowl of hot stew, a horn of ale, and I’ll dress however you like.”

“Aurnir hungry,” rumbled the half-giant happily, plodding along behind them all with a huge sack over his shoulder that Kvedulf had asked he carry.

“Are you now?” Begga looked askance up at the half-giant. “And grown chattier while you were away. Isn’t that a wonder. Well, we’ve plenty of food. Rannveyg has had us all preparing for tonight’s feast since you left. Never doubted, she did, that Kvedulf would return.”

“She knows her husband,” said Skadi softly. “It wasn’t his wyrd to fall in battle yet.”

“How was it, the fighting?” asked Kofri, frowning as if considering the whole business of it. “Hard? Must have been hard. Would that I could have joined you. I felt no end of frustration, trapped in that house while you all did the real work.”

“Hard enough,” said Glámr. His arm was still bound in a sling, but he’d been able to drink enough water and down enough food to limp his way down the mountain. “By the time Anarr the skald is done, you will know the tale better than your own names.”

Ulfarr walked to one side, gaze on the path, his frown pensive. “Grýla?”

“Dead,” said Skadi.

“Good.”

They reached the gate. Work had continued on it while they were gone, but Skadi had no illusion that it would have withstood a troll’s attack. Still, the villagers watched Kvedulf anxiously as he stopped before it and made a show of examining the broad planks that had been nailed into place.

“Fine work,” he said at last, and smiles appeared on old faces, white-haired men nodding to each other as if Kvedulf had personally praised them. “Fine work. Kráka was in good hands while I was gone.”

“Husband.” Rannveyg had awaited Kvedulf by the gate, and stepped forth now, clad in a beautiful crimson dress that hugged her figure, with gold at her wrists, her neck, and at her belt. Her hair was intricately braided and pinned back, and she looked striking, her mature beauty amplified by subtly applied make-up, her allure as strong perhaps now as ever. “You are returned to us. Praise Odin.”

“Rannveyg.” Kvedulf stepped up to her and inclined his head. Filthy and blood-spattered as he was, Skadi could tell the jarl didn’t want to begrime the vision that was his wife. “I am returned, and with the ice queen’s head. Aurnir?”

The half-giant unshouldered the large sack and set it before the jarl, who reached inside and drew forth the queen’s head by a fistful of her white hair.

The crowd hissed and drew back, alarmed by the jotunn’s half-lidded stare, but it was milky and indistinct, her features already waxen, her beauty and striking power reduced to a mockery of its former self.

Skadi stared at that powerful visage, and felt a strange sadness at how low the proud queen had fallen.

“She dared our wrath!” bellowed Kvedulf, straining to lift the head high as he turned in a circle. “She besieged our city! She sought to conquer us, and has paid the final price! Odin vouchsafed us this victory, and now she shall gaze out over the wilds till the meat sloughs off her skull. The eagle shall feast on her eyes, and all shall know that the people of Kráka are to be feared!”

A great roar tore itself from hundreds of throats. Skadi didn’t join in, and nor did her companions, she saw.

But a stake was brought forth, the head mounted as promised, and only then did Kvedulf pass into the village proper.

The crowd fragmented into a score of lesser streams, warriors heading home, others to the great hall to boast, some calling already for ale, others fending off admirers.

Skadi allowed Begga to usher them all back to their humble house. The sight of it cheered her to no end; it exuded that homely charm of a cherished place, and had been freshly whitewashed, new flowers planted along the walls, and the old crabapple tree that grew up along one side had burst into red blossoms.

“We’ve got everything ready, come and see, come and see,” said Begga, ushering them all inside.

“She’s not stopped sweeping since you left,” grumbled Kofri. “I told her, stop sweeping, or you’ll hollow out the very floor.”

“Oh, be quiet. Now…” And Begga started bustling around, pouring cups of water, getting people seated, ordering Kofri to go collect pails of water for everyone to wash with, pulling down a dried leg of ham from the rafter, setting Ulfarr to cutting vegetables and more.

“I’ll be back,” said Skadi.

Begga turned around to gape at her. “You just got here.”

“I know. I want to wash. I’ll be back soon.”

And she collected a fresh set of clothing from a chest under a bench, unpinned her cloak, and ignored Begga’s protests to step back outside.

She ached, her back, her shoulder, her muscles. But there was a deeper ache she wanted to contend with in private, so she made her way up the main street, smiling and waving to those who greeted her, and back out the Raven’s Gate.

She paused at the sight of Grýla’s head, and was thankful that it faced the mountains. Turned to follow the narrow path that led along the outside of the wall, so familiar now, and up the broad meadow to the cliff face, where the waterfall fell into a jumble of rocks.

Setting her bundle of clothing down, she sat to remove her boots and unbuckle her belt. Peeled off her tunic, stiff with dried sweat and old blood, and stepped out of her grimy braies. Removed her underclothes, and stepped into the freezing water.

The roar of the waterfall melted into the rushing roar in her ears. The cold was delicious, so intense that it made her bones throb, but she welcomed it, stepped deeper, the water rising, until at last she pushed forward and sank, down under the surface, into that chaotic, thundering world of bubbles and flashing light through clear, green water.

Skadi hung suspended. Her heart ached. Only then did she allow herself to say the name. “Yri.”

Only then did she allow the tears to come.

She moved under the waterfall itself and gave vent to her pain, her shock, her horror. Sobbed as she hadn’t in years.

For Kalbaek.

For her family.

For the injustice and horror of the world.

Sobbed and hugged herself tight as the waterfall washed her tears away, until at last she felt hollow, light, her pain frozen by the water’s icy caress.

Eventually she took up her soap and lathered herself as she shivered. Dunked herself again, and then simply swam in place, stretching her limbs, allowing the cold into her muscles, easing the pain, the soreness.

A sound, and she startled, turned, half-expected to see Yri stepping into view with that wry smile of hers.

But there was nobody there.

Skadi stepped out of the water, dried herself off, and got dressed.

Then simply sat and stared at the waterfall. Didn’t think, even, or remember. Simply existed for a spell on the rock, her wet hair hanging down one side of her face, fingers slowly untangling it, then passing her comb through the brown mass, continuing long after it had been worked into a hundred sharply delineated furrows.

With a sigh, she finally lowered her comb to her lap. Her pain was sharp, but it was…

She hesitated. Should one seek to qualify one’s loss?

It wasn’t the deep ache she felt for her family, for Kalbaek.

It was sharper, like a knife stab, but limited in size. All-consuming while it lasted. But she’d not truly gotten to know Yri. Hadn’t had the time to grow close.

On some level, the grief was over what had been lost. The chance to get to know her. The shock of seeing someone she’d admired and cared for be killed so brutally right before her.

Kvedulf’s words came back: “Laugh and weep and give your passions full vent. Only then will she sit easy in the great hall, and only then will you be healed of your loss.”

She rose to her feet, resolve curling around the pain that girded her heart. She would do exactly that at the feast tonight.

* * *

That evening the whole village celebrated. The rear of the great hall was still open to the elements, but the fire pits down the center blazed like bonfires, and every face was painted in ruddy hues. Twin tables ran the length of the longhouse, at which sat every warrior who had either been revived after ten years’ loss or fought in some way for the future of their town.

The rest of the villagers celebrated outside around countless fires, tables having been set up and laden with good food, while musicians played lively tunes and set people to dancing.

Skadi sat at the end table with Kvedulf, Rannveyg, Marbjörn, and Ásfríðr. The jarl was in a fine mood, smiling and nodding to every toast that was directed his way, drinking deep from his horn but never seeming to lose even an ounce of his self-control. He was clad in his finest garb, his tunic sky-blue, his red cloak edged with gold, gold which caught the fire light and glittered bewitchingly, gold on the many thick rings about his arms, gold on his medallions and wrists.

His was a proprietary pleasure, his eyes half-lidded, his smile self-satisfied. His laughter was stinting but a roar when it finally came, and he ate with a voracious appetite, such that the thralls had to continuously refresh his plate.

Skadi, seated beside him, was aware of the many glances cast her way, the many warriors who smiled with meaning when they managed to catch her eye. She could never manage more than a grimace, and took to speaking with Ásfríðr, who sat beside her.

The völva was wearied and weak from their journey up the mountain, but had insisted on being present. Clad in pure white but without her seiðr regalia, she was a handsome woman, her hair the same golden-red as the gold about Kvedulf’s arms, but her eyes were dark with a quiet pain and private sorrow.

The sheer volume of the clamor in the hall made it easy to hold private conversation, so Skadi leaned in closer to the völva.

“What was it you did, up there, to contest with Grýla’s sorcery?”

Ásfríðr’s smile grew pained, and she sipped ruminatively from her winecup before answering.

“There are many forms of seiðr, Skadi. But all of them involve seeking to change the world that is to the world that could be. Seiðr means a cord, or string, or snare. Seiðr allows a woman to work within the structure of destiny to bring about change, to divine the weave of the norns, and glimpse the future of individuals or entire peoples. That is the form of seiðr I prefer to practice. Augury, fortune-telling, divining the will of the gods. That is where I feel most at home. But there are other… arts.”

Skadi listened intently, and nodded to encourage the woman to go on.

“There is rune magic, as you know. The runes on your seax’s blade imbue it with power, as did the warding runes I carved on the Raven’s Gate. Many are the spells that can be laid down with the aid of runes.”

“Runes are magical, then?”

“No. Not exactly.” Ásfríðr smiled, the expression tired and fond both. “Runes themselves are but a means to convey meaning across time. What I write today you may glean tomorrow, or a hundred years from now. But they can be vehicles for our will, for our wyrd, for our talent with bending the world to our desires. The greatest workers of wonders, the dwarves, are the truest masters of runes. I can accomplish some feats with this form of magic, but it is not my strength.”

“But neither of those reflect what you did up there.”

“No. As völva, I have enough power to use galdr, or the art of singing spells. But Grýla’s trolldómr was far more powerful than anything I could contend with, and even styming her abilities for but a moment near broke me.”

“Her trolldómr. That’s the magic of the troll folk, isn’t it? Their spells? They don’t need to sing it, as you do? It’s another form of magic?”

“You are so filled with questions, Skadi.” Ásfríðr smiled again. “Is this a feasting hall or an apprenticeship room?”

“Both.”

The völva laughed. “But yes. The spirits of the land, the trolls, the elves and dwarves, they all have their own magic. It can conveniently be summarized as ‘trolldómr,’ though the spells of a jotunn queen have as much in common with the charms of a forest spirit as Dawn Reaver has with a butter knife.”

Skadi thought of the little woodling that had taught her its charm. “Each has its place and value.”

“That is true. And there are far more terrible practitioners of trolldómr in this wide world than Grýla.” Ásfríðr’s gaze unfocused as she looked into some inner realm. “It is said that the Lord of Trollheim, Myrkrakonungur, is a power beyond all others. We are fortunate that it does not wish dominion over the lands of men.”

“Grýla spoke of this being—Myrkrakonungur.” Skadi sounded the name out carefully. “What else do you know of it?”

“Nothing that should be shared idly at the table.” Ásfríðr raised an eyebrow. “But in the throne room, as you asked before, I contested the nature of reality with Grýla. Sought to weave with galdr an ever-changing present where her powers did not work as she desired. Think of two weavers contesting at a loom.”

“And… can anybody learn seiðr? Or to sing galdr?”

Ásfríðr laughed. “I suppose, though no man should wish it. It’s a woman’s art.”

“So any woman?”

“Perhaps.” Ásfríðr considered her. “But the act of learning seiðr exposes you to a world of spirits and darkness, of might and magic that few normal women desire to treat with. Seiðr is the realm of elves and goddesses, of völvas and witches. Fishwives and seamstresses, ladies of the hall and shieldmaidens, thralls and servants, merchants and farmers, few of these have the time, inclination, or desire to learn seiðr.”

“And if I did?”

“And so we come to it.” Ásfríðr drained her winecup, and a thrall immediately stepped forward to refill it. “I have been awaiting this question since first I laid eyes on you, Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir.”

“That means you must have already decided on your answer.”

“I have.”

“And it is?”

“Come. Do you think I would have told you all this tonight if I was to turn you away now?”

Skadi sat up straighter. “Thank you, Ásfríðr. You will not regret sharing your wisdom with me.”

“Only the gods know if I shall. But your path is clear, Skadi. Teaching you seiðr will not make your wyrd any darker or more dangerous. It can only give you more options, when the knives are at your throat.”

“When can we begin?”

Again Ásfríðr laughed. “Soon. I will let you know. I am greatly worn and my will exhausted. I will need time to recover, and then will have to bend my efforts to recarving the warding runes on the new gates. But after that. After that, we may begin.”

“Thank you.” Skadi bowed her head. “How may I best pay you for this knowledge?”

“With your time, your services, the work you shall perform me, and the gold I will ask for. But before we set terms, let us see what other surprises this night has for us all.”

“Other surprises?”

Only then did Skadi realize that Kvedulf was rising to his feet, and turned to see him smiling down at her.

His skald, Anarr, ended his tune with a dramatic flourish, and all within the hall fell silent.

“I wish to speak now of the dead,” began the jarl. “Of the heroes who fell in battle. But I also wish to celebrate those who fought like wolves and eluded the valkyries. I wish to speak of the death of Grýla. Of the cursed Jarl Nábjörn. Of the great Hwideberg and how he fell, and of my niece. Skadi Styrbjörnsdóttir. Skadi the Giant-Slayer. And the honors and treasure she has earned many times over.”