It took two weeks to finish the Raven’s Gate, as that was deemed Kráka’s greatest priority. Ásfríðr spent three days carving the new waring runes into the broad planks and filling the grooves with silvered ash which the rain and wind failed to dislodge. When at last it was done, the town celebrated with a midday meal in the open, and then the townspeople moved on to their other projects and obligations.

But for Skadi that celebration was momentous. She’d been doing her best not to think of Ásfríðr’s offer ever since the great feast, and had instead devoted herself to Marbjörn’s training, to the runs and glima, the stone work and sparring.

But all the while she’d waited for the day when Ásfríðr was no longer behold to the jarl for his gate, and could begin teaching her as promised.

The day following the gate’s feast was a rest day, so that afternoon Skadi climbed to the völva’s temple by herself. With Thyrnir in her hand and Natthrafn at her hip, she felt confident in dealing with whatever menace might present itself. Especially since she now had sixteen golden threads of wyrd with which to weather any encounter.

Sixteen threads.

Her mind yet reeled at his vertiginous climb.

Kvedulf easily possessed the greatest wyrd; Skadi had set herself the challenge of counting them all during one evening’s dinner, and was pretty certain he possessed forty-eight. Marbjörn himself had a little over twenty.

Which meant she was the third most fated person in Kráka.

Ásfríðr had twelve, Auðun six, and Nǫkkvi, Glámr and Aurnir each had four. Damian had but two.

Marveling at her fate, Skadi climbed the mountain meadows, crossed through the copses of trees, worked her way ever higher, until at last she scaled the short cliff to the temple clearing.

The troll and Snærún corpses had been reclaimed by the grass and dirt so that there was no sign of them. The gods’ gate was but a creaky old construction. The temple itself was grand and tall, but nothing about it spoke to the power she now knew thrummed through its bones.

Smiling, she unshouldered the sack she’d carried all this way and moved to the front door.

Which was open of course. Just as she reached it Ásfríðr emerged, clad in sensible woolen clothing with a stout apron tied around her waist, a cutting board in one hand, a bowl of fresh vegetables in the other.

“You’re late,” said the völva, moving past her.

“Late? We never agreed to a time.”

The völva moved to a trestle table that she’d erected to one side under the spread of an old linden tree’s branches, and set her board and bowl down. “I expected you at dawn. This is the first day in which you could have learned seiðr.”

Skadi grinned ruefully. “I run every morning. Then if I don’t eat I’ll faint.”

“Hmm.” Ásfríðr studied her, then smiled. “I can believe it. You’ve put on muscle.”

“Some.” Skadi rubbed at her arms. “Can I help with the chopping?”

“Yes. We’ve much to discuss, and there’s no sense in sitting idle. Here’s your knife.”

For a spell, they simply cut the carrots and tubers. The breeze was pleasant, the shade cool, and the view from the clearing out over the fjord was beautiful.

It was the völva who broke the silence. “Your wyrd remains powerful.”

It wasn’t a question, but Skadi took it as such. “It has grown. I can now see sixteen threads connecting me to the norns’ loom. Five of which stem from this, Thyrnir.” And she lifted the half-spear from where she’d propped it against the stump on which she sat.

“A fine weapon,” said Ásfríðr, nodding in approval. “Powerful. You shall weave many tales together before you part ways.”

“You see this?”

“Sense it, yes. The more one practices seiðr, the greater one’s intuition becomes. Not everything need be learned through official ceremony.”

Skadi studied the old spear, ran her thumb lightly over one of the notched edges, then set it back down. “Glámr believes my uncle is wielding me unjustly as a weapon against his foes.”

“That he is, but is it unjust?” Ásfríðr paused long enough to raise a brow at her. “He is a jarl. His responsibility is to Kráka. He recognizes in you a potent weapon, a gift from the gods. He holds Dawn Reaver in one hand. In the other, he wields you against his enemies.”

“But his fate is terribly potent. Why doesn’t he simply march against his foes with his sword and cut them down? A mere settlement like Djúprvik would fall before him alone, Odin willing.”

“Ah, but there’s the rub. Does Odin will it? One can never be sure of the gods’ loyalties. Their blessings are constant for so long as you please them. Recall how I warned you against leaning too heavily on your wyrd? Kvedulf has learned the same lessons. Yes, he might wade into Djúprvik and slaughter every man and woman who came against him, but that would be a blatant use of his wyrd, and one which might displease Odin. Might cause many unforeseen repercussions. No. Far better to use tools that are fitted to the purpose. That is the secret to remaining in the gods’ favor.”

Skadi scowled. “What use having so much power if he doesn’t use it?”

“Your question is its own answer. He has accrued so much power through careful usage. Those who act like berserkers and simply throw themselves against their foes enjoy very brief, very glorious lives.”

“Hmm.” Skadi chopped viciously at a carrot and sent an orange wheel flying. “Very well. Regardless. If I am to have any hope of success, I must, in turn, acquire as many tools as possible.”

“Such as seiðr,” said Ásfríðr.

“Yes.”

Ásfríðr set down her knife and sat back with a sigh. “And so we come to it. It is right that you learn seiðr, Skadi, for Freyja blesses you and you are a wyrd weaver. Did you know that it was Freyja who taught Odin the art, though he soon outstripped her abilities?”

“Freyja was the first?”

“Not the first. She brought the art from the Vanir to the Æsir, of whom Odin is the highest lord. And it is strange and wrong that Odin has learned this art, which belongs by right to women, but who denies Odin?”

Skadi snorted. “Not I.”

Ásfríðr’s expression became troubled. “Though one day you may have to try. Regardless. Seiðr encompasses all sorcery, from the hedge magic of the humblest fjolkyngiskona in the tiniest village to the greatest and most terrible trolldómr cast by the likes of Queen Grýla.”

“Where would I begin?”

“You already have. The question is thus, where is it you wish to go?”

“Not trolldómr.”

“No, that is not an option for you, seeing as you are a mortal woman and not a trollrida. At its root, the most renowned and subtle powers of seiðr are those of augury, divination, imparting blessings, seeking out the hidden both in the mind and the land. If that is what you wished to restrict yourself to, then you would become a spakona, a prophecy-woman. But you yearn for more. You wish to become a völva, and to learn galdr.”

“Spells, yes. Like that which you used against Grýla. That poem that nullified her sorcery.”

“Tried to nullify. She was too powerful, and my weak spell was overwhelmed. I nearly died contesting her will. But yes. Galdr. Spells. A potent art, though you must first become a völva before learning them.”

Skadi tried to keep this all straight. “And how do I do that?”

“All völvas are blessed with strong wyrds. Spakonur are the weakest of our kind, only a step above humble fjolkyngiskonur, have almost no wyrd at all, and cannot earn their staffs. But you, with your potent blessings, are already primed to become a völva and learn your spells. Normally this is a process which occurs over many years, through long apprenticeship and careful deliberation, but—well.” Ásfríðr smiled. “Your wyrd is uniquely potent and impatient. I think within a month we can move directly to the ceremony.”

“And then I’ll be able to learn spells? A month is all I have before I leave. How does one do it? Is it a knack for composing songs?”

Ásfríðr laughed, delighted. “No, that is the province of skalds, though I suppose it can’t hurt. Here, since you speak of songs, let me tell you the basics. Galdralag, the meter of the chanted spell, is set into a formula of power. The form calls to the gods, pleases them, and gains their permission to change the world. In short: any spell must be seven lines long; the first two lines must alliterate with each other, the third with itself, the fourth and fifth with each other, and the sixth and seventh be as identical as possible for maximum power.”

Skadi stared at her blankly.

Ásfríðr set down her knife. “I’ll give you an example. The very spell I cast in Queen Grýla’s hall. This is said, however, without power:

I tear the thread

And stop your throat

With voiceless void,

Your magic fails

Your might falters,

The world is as it was

The world is as it should be.”

The words were haunting, and even spoken casually they resonated in the air, like the passing of a blade beside one’s ear; thrilling and terrifying both, despite the miss.

“Alliteration is the pleasing repetition of first letters and sounds. The first two lines have the following: ‘tear’ and ‘thread,’ ‘stop’ and ‘throat.’ These call to each other. The third line has ‘voiceless void.’ The fourth and fifth has the pairings of ‘magic fails’ and ‘might falters.’ The final two lines echo and insist upon what the spell desires, mirror images to each other.”

Skadi listened with fierce intent. “I think I see. And it always has to be seven lines?”

“It always has to be pleasing to either Odin or Freyja, who are the gods of magic and seiðr. But historically they have been pleased by that meter and pattern.”

“And if you follow it, you can cast any spell?”

Ásfríðr considered and moved her head from side to side. “Yes and no. There are spells that stop storms at sea, that dull blades if one’s need is dire, that cause men and women to love you, that turn away arrows, that dispel ghosts, that cause corpses to speak, and more.”

“Do you know these spells?”

“I have chosen not to learn them.”

Skadi sat up straight. “Not to learn them? But why not?”

“Now this is a truth jealously guarded by völvas. I speak it to you in confidence and trust. Do not share this with lover or husband, with wife or child, with brother or sister, with hird companion or parent. Yes?”

Skadi leaned forward. “Yes.”

“A völva may only learn nine spells over the course of her whole life. Once learned, they are forever carved into your wyrd. And the needs of today may not match those of tomorrow. And as one’s wyrd grows, spells that required too much power become… manageable, and thus a wise choice where before they were impractical.”

“Oh…” breathed Skadi. “So the most powerful spells…?”

“Require the greatest wyrds. That’s why a fresh-faced völva in her sixteenth year can’t stride into Trollheim and contest Myrkrakonungur in his hall.”

“I see. And so you are biding your time to learn more potent spells when you need them?”

Ásfríðr’s gaze became troubled. “I might say so, and it would sound wise. But in truth, power is a double-edged sword, Skadi. Those who seek it often achieve it, to their ultimate dismay.”

“How so?”

“Learning seiðr brings you to the attention of the gods. Even a fjolkyngiskona is more notable than your common farmer or fishwife. A spakona is treated with caution and fear, invited to halls so that she may speak prophecy and give blessings. A völva?” Ásfríðr’s smile became pained. “Why do you think I live out here by myself?”

Skadi blinked. “Because you want to?”

“Because I am not welcome in Kráka. Not to live, to walk the streets, to sit in the sun with the other women at work, to gossip, to help with their children, and so on. I am a seiðrkona, and traffic with spirits and the gods, with troll folk and the hidden people. I am feared. When my prophecy predicts a foul future, I am even hated. So it is best that I live apart, where I can both commune with my powers in isolation and avoid arousing the ire of the locals when they are in need of a scapegoat.”

Skadi gaped. “But you’re the völva. You helped defeat Grýla. You tell their fortunes, you protect their gates—”

“And for that reason I am allowed to live here, at a safe distance, out of sight and out of mind.” Ásfríðr’s smile became gentle. “None of which surprises me. I knew the bargain when I first began teasing the weft of the norns apart with my fingers. But if I were to learn more spells, I would become more… important. To the world, to Kvedulf, to greater jarls, to the gods. And my life would change accordingly.”

“And you do not wish to become important?”

“No.” Ásfríðr laughed as if surprised by her own admission, or amused by it. “I enjoy peace. I enjoy tending my beehives, knowing what the day holds, weaving my tapestries, and collecting my herbs. Tending to Kráka when called for, and otherwise being one with this mountain, with the seasons, the ebb and flow of nature and its infinite mysteries. Were I to learn how to dull the weapons of Kvedulf’s foes, or to control the weather, or summon spirits, or turn into a dragon, I would be pried forth and carted from battle to throne room to battle until a greater seiðrkona struck me dead. That is not the life I desire.”

“I see.” Skadi bit her lower lip and considered. “I think I understand. But I don’t wish for quiet. I have things that I must do.”

“I know. Which is why your wyrd hurtles you through life like a twig over a waterfall. And you are suited to it. But hear my words of caution: do not grasp every source of power that is offered you. As you grow more notable, you shall draw beings like a candle flame does moths. Spirits and powers, troll folk and gods, they shall lick their lips and finger the substance of your soul and find you to their liking. And they shall offer you power, at a price. A price that may seem negligible at first, but which always comes back to haunt you when you are least prepared.”

Skadi shivered.

“The day shall come when we must speak, Styrbjörnsdóttir,” Odin had said.

“But my warning was for learning spells too quickly,” said Ásfríðr briskly. “The best approach is to learn slowly, to consecrate galdr spells to your wyrd one by one, and to not overreach. Once consecrated, a spell cannot be unlearned. Many are the foolish seeresses who sought power greedily and found themselves saddled with foolish spells that help them not.”

“How many do you know?”

Ásfríðr inhaled sharply and smiled a brittle smile. “You can ask me this as we are friends and I am your mentor, but such a question is considered incredibly rude otherwise.”

“I’m sorry,” said Skadi hurriedly. “I didn’t know. Please, pretend I didn’t ask.”

“I know three. The one I have taught you, which undoes spells. I know a spell to light one’s home with protective fire, keeping it safe, and a third which makes women beautiful.”

Skadi blinked. “Makes women beautiful?”

Ásfríðr laughed. “Why yes! Being a völva is a trade as much as it is a secret calling. Do you think Rannveyg looks so stunning through make-up alone? No. She is ten years Kvedulf’s senior, yet still she beguiles his eye. This was the spell which bought me safe passage to Kráka years ago, and with which I most reliably earn my keep.”

“Huh.” Skadi considered, then grinned. “She uses your galdr to stay beautiful? I never guessed! Though I knew she was… yes, beguiling. But… does Kvedulf know?”

Ásfríðr raised an eyebrow in askance. “Men are simple creatures. Just like babes, they do not question the breast when it is presented to them.”

Skadi covered her mouth as she laughed, scandalized, and Ásfríðr reached under the table to pull forth a bottle and two cups. “We speak as women, and thus can say what is true but which would make a man turn red. Remember, though, the greatest rule: only speak such things in private. Men fear most of all being laughed at by women.”

Skadi took the bottle and uncorked it. “And what do women fear?”

Ásfríðr’s expression turned sober. “For most? Being killed by men.”

Skadi frowned as she poured liquid gold into cups. “That won’t be my fear.”

“No, I don’t think it will. But most people in this world do not wield the favor of the gods as you do, nor have weapons out of legend at their hip. Most women weave and work, sew and manage the home, and live by their wits and wiles. Few are the shieldmaidens who can go toe-to-toe with a raider and best him with confidence.”

“Then perhaps the world needs to change,” said Skadi.

“The world always needs to change,” agreed Ásfríðr. “But how depends on whom you ask. There are a thousand opinions, like a thousand hands tugging at the threads of fate. And the result? The world barrels on, much the same as always, as each tug cancels out another.”

“Aren’t you the cynical seeress,” said Skadi, raising her cup to her lips.

To which Ásfríðr smiled her secret smile. “See into the hearts of men and women long enough, and cynicism comes of its own accord. But come. We have strayed. We spoke of galdr. Soon we shall perform the ceremony that shall impart upon you the title of völva. In the meantime, I urge you to select one spell, and one spell alone. To craft it with care, and make it yours, so that when you grasp your staff in a month’s time you may consecrate it to your wyrd.”

“A spell,” said Skadi, tapping her cup to her lips. “What do you think I should learn?”

“Ah,” said Ásfríðr. “That is the single greatest question a völva can ask herself. What otherworldly power should you make your own?”