Three seeds. One for each of the Norns. That they may reveal my fate.
Úlvhild dropped the tiny black henbane seeds into the simmering pot. She would need the entire day to recuperate from the poisonous herb, which was why she’d told Njörd that she was not to be disturbed until after sunset.
She retrieved a smooth piece of ash wood from her satchel. The small sprig was from the sacred grove of Étretat, where Elfi’s brother Dag lay buried near the castle ofle Château Blanc.With the sharp tip ofFreyja’s Whisper,she carved a trio of overlapping runes—abindrune—into the twig which she’d brought from thePays de Caux.
Three runes, to bind the vision to me.
Ansuz, for divine insight.
Algiz,for protection.
Nauthiz,to control the deadly power of henbane.
With a pair of metal tongs hanging on a hook near the stone hearth, Úlvhild carefully removed the simmering pot and placedit on a flat stone to cool. She fetched her gemstone studded silver chalice from the wooden trunk on the floor and brought it to the table. Wrapping her hands with the linen cloth, she lifted the pot and poured the contents into the ornate goblet, which she set upon the table near the bed.
Three henbane seeds for the Norns. Three runes to bind the vision. And now, the final trio, forming the sacred number nine.
Three drops of my blood. A divine offering to Freyja, the Norse Goddess of Seiðr.
Úlvhild pricked the tip of her finger with the sharp point of her dagger and let three droplets of blood spill into the silver chalice. She stirred the contents with the tip ofFreyja’s Whisper.
And downed the bitter brew.
She crossed the earthen floor of the hut and fetched her staff, thumping it on the wooden floor of the hut and chanting avardlokkurto summon benevolent spirits. As her head began to swoon from the herbs, she rested her staff against the wall and invoked the three Norns, imploring them to reveal the impending battle in Ísland.
"Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld I call,
Weavers of fate, who bind us all.
Unravel the threads, show what will be.
Unveil the future that waits for me."
Úlvhild’s legs gave out, and she plopped onto the bed as swarms of visions engulfed her.
A luminous female with long pale blonde hair and a flowing white ephemeral gown. Njörd, in his white wolfskin cloak over gleaming chain mail armor, wielding a magnificent sword. A beaming Elfi, wearing her blue silk wedding gown, Rán’s three-tiered necklace at her throat, her brown hair streaked with gold swept up in intricate, elaborate braids. Njáll and Luna…Bodo and Sif…a joyousLjósálfarwedding. But the waves of bliss washing over Úlvhild swirled into oppressive, ominous shadows.
Warships with Varangian raiders storming a black beach.Dökkálfarwielding deadly weapons, clad in cloaks of dark shadows.An enormous warrior with a savagely scarred face, braided black hair and black fox fur cloak wielding a sinister sword with the head of snake.
As Úlvhild watched in helpless horror, the Snake Warrior strode swiftly toward Haldor, malevolent blade raised, ready to strike. Without hesitation, she directed the blinding force of her magic—thesólrúnpower granted to her by the Sun Goddess Sól—away from the attackingDökkálfar,toward the Snake Warrior, to stop the descent of his deadly sword.
Baring herself to the crimson-eyed witch who waited for the moment to strike.
It would cost Úlvhild her life. But Haldor would live. And that was all that mattered.
As swirls of darkness overtook her like smothering smoke, Úlvhild sent every last trace of herself—her magic, her essence, her soul—to Haldor through theseiðrfjádrmark which bound them as one.
And succumbed to the devouring void.
* * * *
Sunlight crept through the corners of the shuttered western window when Úlvhild stirred in her bed. She must have slept, for she lay sprawled across the furs, as if she had collapsed during the vision. Stretching her limbs, she sat up slowly and waited until she felt able to stand. She stoked the fire with the iron rod, then fetched the small pot she’d used to brew the bitter potion. She washed it thoroughly with the chamomile soap, along with her sacred silver chalice andFreyja’s Whisper, rinsing them in the basin of water while whispering a spell of purification. Drying her goblet, she stored it safely inside her wooden trunk and laid her sheathed dagger on the bedside table, for would wear it tonight to the feast. She filled the clean pot with fresh water, adding curative herbs to restore her.
Angelica, for spiritual protection.
Yarrow, to cleanse her blood.
Meadowsweet, to settle her sour belly and soothe her aching head.
