For a moment Skadi felt light-headed. “I can choose any power?”

Ásfríðr smiled and sipped from her cup. Her amusement and lack of urgency were bewildering to Skadi. “Not quite. Galdr is a potent form of seiðr, yes, but its expression is dependent on the strength of your wyrd. Say you desired to calm storms while at sea. Useful, correct? You could earn much gold standing at the prow of the greatest ships, warding away the storms that might sink them low. But a weak völva, one with precious little wyrd, would be overwhelmed by a mighty tempest. She might lessen the winds around the sail for a while, but it takes a great völva to quiet an entire storm that stretches from horizon to horizon.”

“So… a spell that would be useful even while my wyrd is weak?”

“Compared to kings, emperors, the greatest of trolls, and the gods themselves, yes, your wyrd is pitifully weak. But to everybody else? You are already a being of great power, Skadi. Your wyrd is potent, and to call it otherwise is to insult Freyja.”

Skadi’s face flushed and she sat upright. “Never. That was never my intent.”

“I know.” Ásfríðr took a sip of her wine. “But be careful with such statements. Remember always that the favor of the gods can be fickle, and doubly so if you… mischaracterize their blessings.”

“Yes. Understood.” Skadi nodded emphatically. Was Hjörþrimul listening? Was she hastening to Sessrúmnir at this very moment to whisper in Freyja’s ear? “So, to rephrase it, I should choose a spell whose utility is great even if it can’t overwhelm great forces?”

“Yes. And given your proclivities, I imagine you would wish to focus on magic that can affect the outcome of battles.”

Skadi didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Ásfríðr laughed. “Of course. And there are many spells that can do so. There are spells to instill fear and confusion on one’s foes, or confer courage and clarity of mind on your friends. Instill physical weakness or confer great strength. Hinder the movement of your enemies or free your friends from fetters, both mental and physical. Break or strength weapons and armor, provide invulnerability in battle, kill people, resurrect dead warriors to fight again—”

Skadi was desperately trying to interrupt, but Ásfríðr spoke over her.

“—provide protection from sorcerers or means to fight and kill sorcerers in turn.”

“Wait. Provide invulnerability in battle? Are you serious?”

Ásfríðr swirled her wine about within her cup, her expression innocent. “Oh, did that one catch your attention?”

“Yes!” Skadi laughed in disbelief. “To myself? To others?”

“To others. Don’t look so crestfallen. Think: how many fights have you survived where were it not for your wyrd you would have fallen?”

Skadi hesitated. “All of them?”

“Because you are not a mad berserker, or a member of a famed hird who has trained at combat nearly from birth. What has seen you through these mortal moments, what has made you invulnerable, is your wyrd. In that sense, you are already invulnerable.”

“But no—my wyrd has protected me, yes, but only for so long as it lasts. I have seen the threads disappear, one by one, as axes have been turned away from me, arrows missed me, and so on. I am far from invulnerable!”

“Would your enemies have said the same?”

Skadi slumped back in her chair. “They were bewildered, I suppose.”

“And your friends who follow you with such confidence and faith, what would they say?”

“My friends? They know I have a strong wyrd.”

“That has made you invulnerable thus far in battle.”

“Fine. I see what you’re saying. So I could learn a spell that would make a friend or many friends invulnerable, too?”

“All is a matter of degrees. Myrkrakonungur might be able to make his army invulnerable for the duration of an entire battle, but you? In effect, you would be lending a friend your wyrd, or part of it. Would be twining their thread with yours, so that while you stand they will not fall, and while the wyrd you have lent them lasts, they shall enjoy the same fortune and invulnerability that has blessed you thus far.”

“Huh.” Skadi tapped the rim of her cup to her lips. That would mean, from her point of view, gifting another with threads of fate. She had sixteen. She could perhaps cast a spell so that—what—eight threads might be gifted to Aurnir? Or two each to her companions?

“Fascinating,” she whispered. “But you said something about killing people? That sounds… efficient.”

“And dark. That path leads to your becoming a fordæða, feared and hated and followed by those with a liking for such evil arts. Not that it must be so, but seiðr is at its heart the mentality and practices with which the mechanisms of supernatural powers are set in motion, no more, no less. A tool. And if you use it to kill, to blight, to curse, to weaken, to enchant, to force others to love you—then you will become as monstrous as Queen Grýla, if not more so, for she acted according to her nature, while you would be perverting yours.”

Skadi tried to take this all in. “But one can kill evil people.”

“True. A sword cuts whomever it is swung against. But again, it is a question of degree. If I had known this spell, do you think I would have been able to kill the cursed jarl when he attacked us in bear form?”

“I’m guessing not.”

“No.” Ásfríðr snorted. “Not at all. My wyrd would have been insufficient for the task. I might have damaged his wyrd, weakened it, but probably not by much. That is why the great heroes and leaders of the world are not toppled by even potent völvas from afar. It would take a truly powerful völva, such as the fordæða Skuld, to kill a great hero from a distance.”

“Skuld?”

Ásfríðr waved her hand. “A nightmare of a woman, a witch queen that is, fortunately, the problem of the Skaberi, and not ours. But you understand my point?”

“Yes. One can kill those whose wyrd is as strong or weaker than your own.”

“And in so doing leave yourself vulnerable to attack; many are the tales where a wronged völva uses this terrible spell to punish a terrible injustice, only to be cut down by a common soldier immediately thereafter.”

Skadi nodded. If you used up all your threads to kill a great foe, then you would be left without protection.

“Interesting. And you said I could resurrect the dead?” The meaning of the words suddenly unfolded in her mind. “Truly? Bring the fallen back to life?”

“Only for the duration of a battle,” said Ásfríðr, raising a warding hand to fend off Skadi’s incredulity. “But that is a terribly potent spell, and far beyond your or my ability to cast.”

“Oh.” Skadi slumped down, thoughts of bringing Riki back from Hel lingering in her mind. “I see.”

“You must ask yourself what your truest goal is for the next span of your life, and then work backwards from that to identify the spell that will most help you achieve it. Do you wish to slay your uncle’s enemies to ensure his power, and that you will not be given away as a bride? Choose a spell for battle. Do you wish to earn coin so as to hire your own ship and crew to search for your father? Choose a spell that others will happily pay good coin for.”

“Once I become a völva, will I be able to give prophecies like a spakona?”

Ásfríðr moved her head from side to side. “You will have the ability, but not the training, the tools, or the rituals. To see the weavings of the norns requires great care—even the slightest of mistakes can result in failure, and too many failures will weaken your own power. There is a reason we dress in formal manners, have our chants, sit high on our seiðhjallr so that like Odin we may peer far into the mysteries. You may one day learn how to do this, but not within the next few months.”

“I see.” Skadi sipped her wine. “What is my true goal? To find my father.”

“That I can do for you.”

Skadi’s eyes opened wide. “You can?”

Ásfríðr laughed. “Of course. I am a völva.”

“Then—but—why haven’t you offered before?”

“You will learn, Skadi. We do not offer our powers lightly. You never asked me before, and I doubt you would have been able to pay if you had. But as of today things between us are different, and I am willing to be more forthcoming and to perform this service for you as a fellow völva. Haven’t I said that at its heart seiðr is about seeking out the hidden, reading the tapestry of fate, and prophesying the future?”

“Yes—it’s just that—never mind. I understand. But you can do this for me? Can you find where my father is?”

“I can but try.”

“It’s not guaranteed?”

“He might be hidden by more potent magics, beyond the range of my seiðr, or…”

“Or?”

Ásfríðr tone remained matter of fact. “Dead.”

“I see. Still, I would appreciate your trying.”

“Then I shall do so.” Ásfríðr finished the last of her wine and rose. “But first we shall cook dinner, and then I shall prepare.”

Skadi stood as well. “Wait. You will perform the ritual tonight?”

“Of course.” The völva took up the cutting board and began striding back to the temple. “I abhor waiting!”

* * *

The evening passed terribly slowly, but Ásfríðr refused to be rushed. They cooked and ate, and then the völva spent an hour teaching Skadi a chant that was a charm to aid her in her art. It would draw the right spirits close, would intrigue them and please them and make them willing to assist Ásfríðr.

“You must sing sweetly,” said the völva as she donned her ceremonial clothing, drawing each item from a richly carved chest. “Your voice will entrance them, the rhythm and meter will persuade them, and when the time comes for me to ask questions they will be open to assisting me.”

“But you normally don’t have someone chant this?”

“Not for lack of desire. There are völur who have dozens of assistants, and their powers are greatly enhanced by their aid. I, being humble and the völva of a backwater town off the Draugr Coast, do not boast such wealth.”

“Well, you’ve got one now.”

“That I do.”

Ásfríðr donned her ceremonial boots with pewter-tipped drawstrings, fastened charms and amulets and objects of power to her belt, pulled her cat-skin hat and gloves on, fastened a heavy black cloak about her shoulders, and finally took up her iron staff.

“Now, I shall take my seat upon the seiðhjallr, and you shall chant until I signal for you to stop.”

Skadi examined the high seat raised nearly to the building’s rafters. “Why do you perform your seiðr from a raised chair?”

“Because,” said the völva as she climbed the rungs to the top, “it is modeled after Odin’s own Hlidskjalf, his high throne from which he can peer out over all the realms. Performing seiðr from a raised platform imbues our own practice with some of his puissance, raising the chances of success. Now.” She sat, smoothed out her richly dyed clothing, adjusted her charms, and finally took up her staff. “Begin.”

For the next hour, Skadi sang the charm, her voice soon falling into the natural cadence of the words. Over and over she sang until the words lost all meaning and all she produced was a lilting series of sounds, her own mind smoothing away all thoughts.

She startled when Ásfríðr tapped the base of her iron staff on the platform, and turned to gaze up at her.

The völva stared straight ahead, and then opened her mouth to yawn massively, almost unnaturally so.

Around her, Skadi felt the passage of a barely-felt wind.

With her mouth still gaping open, the völva spoke, her voice unnaturally deep and rasping.

“The spirits are present and were pleased to listen to your song, who would otherwise have turned away and granted us no homage. Nor are many things clear to me that before were hidden. Your father you seek, Jarl Styrbjörn, source of your blood, source of your flesh. He stands upon a bloodied shore, in ruined Kalbaek, his ships drawn up behind him, his axe in hand. His expression is one of horror and rage, and his men explore the ruins, and call back again and again the word: no.”

“My brother, Svinnr. Is he there, too?”

“I see your brother. He weeps bitter tears and his heart grows dark.”

“How many ships do you see?”

“I see five dragon ships.”

“Where do they go from there?”

“They set their prows to the North. They have ill tidings for King Harald.”

“What tidings?”

Ásfríðr closed her gaping mouth, sagged, and blinked. “That is all I saw.”

Skadi’s mind whirled with thoughts. In Kalbaek. They had returned to find the ruins. Searched, no doubt, for her mother and Riki and herself. And now turned north to King Harald. To Stóllborg.

“I must tell my uncle this news,” she said at last. “I must tell him now.”

“Go,” said Ásfríðr, her voice weary, her expression sad. “But your uncle is a hard man with a terrible wyrd. Speak what I have seen, and prepare yourself for his response.”