The thought of another sea voyage made Úlvhild shudder with dread. But she would soon be reunited with Haldor, and that was worth the inevitable illness which would overtake her. In three days, I’ll be with my Falcon again. It’s been eight long winters since we shared love.An intense wave of desire floodedÚlvhild’s entire body at the thought of their passionate reunion, theseiðrfjaðrmark sizzling above her heart.They would reunite—body, magic, and soul—but she would say nothing to him about the fateful vision.
For if he knew the outcome of her battle with the crimson-eyed witch, he would insist that she remain atFálkhöll, his clifftop fortress in Tórshavn, where he'd established a stronghold in the Faroe Islands.
He would never risk her life.
Yet it was imperative that Úlvhild accompany Njörd and Elfi to Ísland. She would need to wield her new magic ofsólrún.
To destroy the shadow cloaks of theDökkálfar.
To save Ildris, theLjósálfarLord of Starlight.
And Haldor.
The man she loved enough to die for.
While the music and revelry continued in full splendor, Sigurd’s exuberant guests enjoyed the sumptuous fare. Úlvhild barely tasted the final dessert course of oatcakes with apples and cinnamon, pears poached in honey, and blackberry compote with hazelnuts and cloves. She watched, detached form the gaiety around her, as Elfi and Njörd chatted brightly at her side. She noted how Luna and Njáll were obviously smitten with each other, for their heads touched as they spoke in soft whispers. Bodo’s gazeoften found Sif, who as a thrall was seated at a table further back in the hall, amongst other female servants who attended elegant ladies at the feast.
When Sigurd rose to his feet, the musicians stopped playing and a hushed silence swept across the hall. Silver armbands gleaming against the dark red tunic and black bear fur of his elegant cloak, the jarl’s deep voice resonated like a heavy bronze bell. "My daughter, Svanhild, whose hands weave beauty into song, will now grace us with the music of her harp. Let her strings shine bright as the northern lights which soar aboveSigurðshöll!"
At the jarl’s gesture, two thralls carried a large harp which was covered in the same deep red wool as Svanhild’s gown and Sigurd’s embroidered tunic. The servants carefully mounted the three steps at the edge of the wooden dais, strode across the elevated platform, and unveiled the magnificent harp before the jarl’s beguiling daughter.
Carved with swans and swirling waves, the ashwood frame of the harp was inlaid with glittering red garnets and inscribed with scrolls and runes. As Úlvhild observed in silent awe, she remarked that the swans which evoked Svanhild’s name and the garnets which symbolized her noble blood were the same graceful birds and precious gems which adorned Úlvhild’s own dagger,Freyja’s Whisper. Once again, an icy chill shivered up her spine, as if the Norns tightly tugged the threads of her fate on their otherworldly loom.
Svanhild’s slender fingers strummed the nine strings, the limpid notes flowing like waves of an icy fjord which inundated Úlvhild, the crystalline voice floating like an ominous whisper from the gods:
“O'er the sea, the winds will call,
Fate unfolds for one and all.
What the Norns have spun in darkest night,
Shall come to pass in brilliant light."
Svanhild’s unnerving song evoked the images from Úlvhild’sseiðrvision.
Dökkálfardarkness.
The brilliance ofsólrún.
TheLjósálfarlight ofÍsland.
When Svanhild finished her stellar performance, the guests in the hall sat in reverent silence, equally awed by the haunting melody and prophetic lyrics. The jarl’s daughter nodded to the pair of awaiting thralls, who wrapped the glorious harp in the deep red wool and carried it devoutly to a dark corner of the Great Hall.
After a few moments, a visibly proud Sigurd rose and proposed another toast. “To the beauty of a daughter’s song and the grace it bestows upon this hall.Skál!”
Cheers echoed off the wooden walls.
The resplendent jarl, still standing before the awestruck crowd, directed his attention to Úlvhild. “Now, with the strings of fate struck by Svanhild’s hand, I call upon the one who sees beyond.” With a swoop of a bejeweled arm, Sigurd invited her to join him at the high table. “Wisevölva, cast your runes and reveal what fate the Norns have woven for my beloved daughter.”
Of course Sigurd wanted her to cast the runes. With avölvaamong his honored guests, it was expected. Especially since Sigurd wished to arrange a political marriage between Svanhild and Haldor.
Njörd arose from his seat, to honor Úlvhild by escorting her to the high table. He helped her stand and fetched her moonstone staff, which he reverently handed to her with a formal nod.
Shoulders back, crowned head held high, she gripped her wand, the moonstone enclosed in the bronze filigree tip glowing in the golden firelight. The falcon feathers in her midnight cloak rustled, the attached gems glittering like stars, as she strode confidently toward the elevated dais, her carskin-gloved hand resting upon Njörd’s steady arm, He was magnificent in his white wolfskin cloak and gleaming chain mail armor, his dark brown hair and thick beard braided with sparkling blue beads. From the high table, Sigurd and Svanhild watched with bated breath, their eyes widewith a warring blend of elation and trepidation.
Njörd escorted Úlvhild up the three wooden steps which led to Sigurd’s table. With a slight bow, he left her side and returned to the table of honor.
Úlvhild inclined her diadem-adorned head to Sigurd first as the generous host, then to Svanhild, whose future she would reveal by casting the runes. With a velvety voice both haunting and silken, she addressed the powerful jarl. “Your hall is warm, Sigurd, and your hospitality generous and true. I will cast the runes to foresee your daughter’s fate. May the Norns reveal their interwoven threads.”
