They were engaged in stone work the following morning when Sif came running, shouting wildly for Skadi.

Alarmed, Skadi unhitched the yoke from her shoulders, allowed both large buckets of rocks to drop, and strode forward as the young girl came pelting around the corner.

“Skadi! Skadi! Come! Your man, Kofri, he’s been badly hurt!”

Alarm punched into her gut like a knife. “Where?”

“Your home, in the back, hurry!”

Wild thoughts. Panic. How badly hurt? “Glámr, run to Ásfríðr, tell her we need her in Kráka—quick!”

The half-troll nodded and took off at a sprint.

But even as Skadi ran in the opposite direction, she knew the völva would be too late.

With Damian racing behind her, she tore through the village, down to their home, where a crowd had gathered in the back around Begga’s new garden.

Skadi pushed her way through and saw Kofri laying in the dirt, his head on Begga’s lap, Aurnir moaning and pulling at his own face in dismay.

One of the rafters that they’d been lifting onto the frame to create a pergola had slipped and fallen and crushed Kofri’s hips. His tunic was dark with blood, his face as pale as his beard, and he was staring with fear up at Begga, who was smoothing his frizzy hair down, over and over.

“Kofri,” said Skadi, moving forward and dropping to her knees. The wound was mortal. A younger man might survive it, might learn to live without the use of their legs, but Kofri was old, so old, and never had he looked so frail as now.

Aurnir let out a wail. “Dropped! Dropped!” And began to punch his own head.

“No! Aurnir! Stop! It was an accident!” shouted Skadi, but the half-giant continued to beat himself in anguish.

If only she was already a völva. If only she already knew her healing spell. She could mend this, make it better—

Damian dropped to his knees beside them and raised his hands. Looked up at the morning sun, bright and hot as the very last day of Sólmánuður, and cried out in his native tongue.

Kofri looked over at the priest with great effort, his whole body shivering, his hand rising to find Begga’s and squeeze it tight.

Damian spoke with great passion and joined his hands together, thumb touching thumb, fingers spread like the rays of the sun. His voice rose and fell in a liquid cadence, and then to her joy his hands caught fire.

Golden light enveloped them, rose like flames, and then streamed down to sink into Kofri’s shattered hips. The old man groaned and closed his eyes, and all the while Damian continued to whisper his prayer.

A murmur of amazement went up from the gathered crowd, but no one dared disturb the priest. For long, aching moments the light streamed, flooding into Kofri, and Skadi saw with her sharpened vision how one of Damian’s golden threads flowed from his heart into his palms and from there extended down to the wound.

With a gasp the priest sat back on his heels, the glow leaving his hands, and Kofri sighed and closed his eyes, slipping into a slumber.

“Is he well? Will he live?” demanded Begga, desperate.

“I think so,” said Damian, his face wan, his smile weary. “Best get him inside.”

“Aurnir,” snapped Begga. “Cease your wailing and help carry Kofri inside. Aurnir! He is healed! The priest has healed him! Do you understand?”

Aurnir lowered his hands hesitantly, eyes wide, broad cheeks tear-stained, and blinked first at Damian, then at Kofri, then finally looked to Skadi.

Who nodded and smiled, the heart unlocking with happiness as her terror sluiced away.

Aurnir smiled tentatively, shuffled closer, then bent down and picked up the old man with ease. Begga climbed to her feet and hurried forward, parting the crowd. “This way, hurry! We’ll lay him on blankets, change him out of those bloodied rags, I’ll make him a hearty soup—”

Aurnir followed meekly.

Everybody turned to stare at Damian, who was considering his hands.

“How about we go inside, too?” suggested Skadi, rising to her feet.

“Yes,” said Damian. “Let’s.”

“Well done!” shouted someone from the crowd.

“That’s ergi,” said another, voice rich with disgust. “Men don’t do seiðr.”

“That wasn’t seiðr, you idiot, that’s his heathen sun magic. Got nothing to do with our gods.”

“Men don’t do magic either,” replied the first, but Skadi ignored them and shepherded Damian around the house and inside.

Begga was busy bustling around their home, laying a number of blankets by the fire for Aurnir to place Kofri on, but it was clear the old man was better. His color had returned, and the way he moved, the way his legs connected and articulated showed that the joints were healed.

“Well done,” said Skadi, pushing Damian down onto a bench.

“Thank you. But the praise goes to the sun. I… I am but a conduit. And a weak one at that.”

“You healed Glámr up in the mountains. Now you saved Kofri’s life.”

Damian frowned at his hands. “But I couldn’t heal Glámr within the hall.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself. You’ve worked miracles. You are an ágios in truth.”

Damian scowled, looked like he wished to protest, then nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps I am. But my power is strange to me. I feel… so tentative. As if I am groping in the dark.”

“A fitting metaphor,” said Skadi. “Groping toward the light of the sun. Perhaps you should pray more.”

“More?” Damian looked up sharply at her. “I already spend an hour at midday as is right, and never fail to—oh. You’re teasing me.”

“Just a little. I’m going to go after Glámr. There’s no need for Ásfríðr to come running down the mountain now. Stay here and watch over them?”

“Yes,” said Damian. “I…yes.”

“Begga. I’ll be back. Don’t mother Kofri to death, all right?”

“Be gone with you,” snapped Begga, hastily chopping at a hank of cured goat meat. “He’s an old man, and not as strong as he used to be. Mothering. I’m just—”

Laughing, Skadi stepped over to Aurnir, who had retreated to his corner. He looked at her, his eyes still wide, his expression shocked, his lank, blond hair hanging in disarray.

“Accidents happen. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. All is well.”

Aurnir blinked, his mouth moving silently, and then he nodded mutely.

Skadi patted his huge knee. “All is well. It was an accident. Nobody blames you.”

Aurnir’s watery eyes filled with tears, and he gulped audibly. But then he sniffed, the sound akin to wet leather being torn in two, and nodded again. “Kofri well.”

“Kofri well,” said Skadi. “I’ll be back.”

She stepped out into the sunlight. People still stood about in earnest conversation, but she waved off questions and hurried up the road. Went quickly so that her uncle wouldn’t have a chance to pull her aside to interrogate her, and within moments was jogging out the Raven’s Gate.

Her mind was in turmoil.

The answer the night before had been so clear. To learn a healing spell so as to help her friends. But why? Damian could heal. That was his purview. As long as he could see the sun, he would wash away their wounds. Not always, and with only three threads with limited capacity, but was it worth dedicating her first spell to what would amount as a back-up plan?

Mind spinning, hating her sense of uncertainty, Skadi climbed the trail, running easily up the steep slope, then cut away into the woods. Despite her preoccupation, she moved carefully, alert to danger, and when she finally reached the base of the small cliff that led up to the völva’s clearing she saw Glámr and Ásfríðr hurrying toward her.

“All is well,” she called out. “Damian used the power of his sun-god to heal Kofri. All is well.”

“Oh, thank Freyja,” said Ásfríðr, coming to a stop. “I knew that I would be too late.”

“Kofri is healed?” asked Glámr. “That is good. That is very good.”

“He is healed, and now Begga is pretending she never once beat him with a spoon.” Skadi smiled. “Who knows what will come of this accident. But thank you, Ásfríðr, for agreeing to come regardless.”

“Of course.” Ásfríðr let out a sigh of relief and smiled. “Though I much prefer to not be needed. Since you are here, Skadi, we should discuss tonight’s ritual.”

“Again?” Skadi resisted the urge to groan. “We’ve reviewed it a dozen times. I’m ready.”

“So you have chosen your spell?”

Skadi’s expression curdled.

“If you’ll excuse us, Glámr.” Ásfríðr looped her arm through Skadi’s and began to lead her to the way up to her clearing.

“But of course.” Glámr smiled mockingly. “Enjoy your studies, völva-to-be.”

They climbed in silence, and once they reached the clearing passed under the gods’ gate and moved to sit at the trestle table under the great tree.

“The crux of the ceremony is your asking Freyja for your spell.” Ásfríðr set her basket upon the grass and sat. “If you have no spell to ask for, you cannot complete the ceremony.”

“I know, I know. But there’s so much pressure on getting the right one.”

“Tell me your thoughts.”

“At first I wanted the death spell. Simple, to the point, and the way to end battles. But then I realized I already wield death in the form of Thyrnir. With one cast I throw the strength of my wyrd at any foe. What need for a death spell?”

“It is a potent weapon,” agreed Ásfríðr. “And with its power to return to you, one that you can use over and over again in time.”

“It’s not as reliable as a death spell,” said Skadi. “I can throw it once in battle, and then must retrieve it, while a spell can be cast as many times as is needed and I have wyrd. But still, overall, it mostly negates the utility. So then I set my heart on healing, so as to keep my companions by my side.”

“But Damian is the Thyrnir to that spell.” Ásfríðr nodded. “Imperfect, but of sufficient use that it makes you question your decision.”

“Yes.” Skadi sank her head into both hands. “So now I am at a loss.”

“The question need not be so complicated. You shall have eight more in time. Perhaps I placed too much pressure on you by emphasizing the permanence of this choice. Let us reduce the scope. You go to Blakkr, where you shall face many foes. What spell would be of greatest use there?”

Skadi sat up reluctantly. “I’ll be facing a powerful fordæða. She sent Uncle and his hird running with a fear spell.”

“And how will you prevent the same from happening to you?”

“I…” Skadi trailed off. She’d been assuming her wyrd would see her through, but her uncle’s was far more potent and still, he’d succumbed to the sorceress’s magic.

“Ah ha,” said Ásfríðr. “It is a thought, is it not? You could learn a spell that instills courage and clarity of mind on yourself and your allies. Thus, if battle be joined, you won’t be routed like your uncle.”

“If battle be joined, we’ll be hard-pressed. Blakkr has enough warriors for two dragon ships and a berserker as well.”

“Whom you’ll never get to fight if you’re fleeing for the hills.”

“True.” Skadi frowned and considered. “True. So a spell for courage?”

“Such a spell is very useful. There are many times when you and your companions will feel overwhelmed, or faced with dark magics, or tempted to give in to feelings of doom and futility. You have Thyrnir at your hip and Damian by your side. Death and healing both. Ensuring courage and clear thinking might be your best choice.”

Skadi bit her lower lip and tried to picture the fordæða. Bare-chested, filthy, bearing a great horned headpiece that hid her eyes. Filling the air with such choking terror that even her uncle fled with Dawn Reaver in hand.

“What if she knows more spells?” she demanded.

“She probably does,” agreed Ásfríðr. “Her ability to veil Djúprvik indicates that she is no novice. But you cannot defend against that which you do not know.”

“But we know she can cast fear.” Skadi tapped her chin. “And will do so when the time comes.”

“Imagine her surprise when her spell fails,” said Ásfríðr. “And Aurnir leads the charge into Jarl Blakkr’s warriors?”

Skadi mulled the suggestion, tried to argue it, to think of a better spell. “Could I cast something that would hide me from all eyes? Allow my companions and I to approach undetected?”

“Yes. Though I doubt you have the power to hide Aurnir.”

“I could learn to instill fear on others myself.”

“True.”

“Enchant weapons? Make them preternaturally sharp?”

Ásfríðr nodded.

“Fly?”

Ásfríðr’s smile grew regretful. “That treads too closely into the domains of the gods. While I am sure there are dwarven artifacts that could allow you to do so, Freyja and Odin do not approve of magics that so flagrantly defy the way of the Middle Realm. It is why spells of death usually rely on fatal hesitations or clouding the enemy’s judgment at a critical moment. At best you might still their heart. But one would never hurl fire or bolts of lightning, for example.”

“I see.” Skadi’s shoulders slumped. No matter to what spell her mind strayed, the fact remained that the fordæða would inflict fear upon them, and all their stratagems would fail. “Then courage it is. With it at least I have a chance of surviving Djúprvik, and finding my way back to my father.”

“Do not feel so dejected. You will change the very weft of the world. We völva’s do not wield spectacular magics like the trolldómr of Queen Grýla. That is not for us. But we may still effect great change, and grow perilously powerful.”

Skadi inhaled deeply. “True. Then I suppose I am ready.”

“Very well.” Ásfríðr smiled. “The hour approaches. Soon you shall wield your staff and enter the world of seiðr. Let us prepare you. All must be perfect if you are to please Freyja further.”

“Very well,” said Skadi, and rose. “I am ready.”