The crisp November wind bit at Skjöld’s face as he glided down the steep slope from theDragon’s Leapcave, his birchwood skis carving clean lines through the powdery snow. He’d shared meal and mead with Úlvhild and Haldor, rejoicing in the wondrous news. He’d bid them farewell, with the promise to return in five days, and was now headed back to Vågan.
Strapped across his shoulders was a sturdy leather harness, its reins trailing behind him and tethered to the smallpulkahe’d bought from Knút in the village longhouse. With plans to make frequent trips delivering firewood and supplies to Úlvhild and Haldor throughout the long winter, he’d chosen the compact sled to haul loads without slowing his pace.
He was swathed in layers against the frozen mist and stinging wind, his white bearskinnoaidicloak hanging heavy over his shoulders, a woolen scarf wound around his neck and lower face. Woolen breeches wrapped his long legs, his heavy leather boots lined and covered with soft reindeer hide. Thick gloves of tanned leather covered his hands, supple yet durable enough to grip the ski poles which propelled him forward.
Or his sheathed weapons, should he need them.
Skjöld paused to rest after relieving himself—too much mead, shared in good cheer with Úlvhild and Haldor. Though they’d eaten well, his stomach gnawed again with hunger. Indeed, he was nearly always famished.
The pale sun warmed a flat rock near the bank of the fjord, where he decided to rest and eat a few oatcakes he’d saved in his pack. It felt good to stretch out, for the haul up the mountain had strained the muscles in his legs. He uncorked his waterskin and quenched his thirst. A cool, briny breeze drifted in from the fjord,catching the fur of his bearskin cloak and the beard on his face. The sun was low, but he’d make it back to Vågan before nightfall. He’d rest a few moments, then continue on.
As he ate three oatcakes, washing them down with cold water Úlvhild had melted from snow, he reflected on her reaction to the news about Tryggvi. Like Haldor, she’d been overjoyed.
But sorrow had haunted her amber eyes.
The new offer for Svanhild’s hand would reach Sigurd by the winter solstice. There was no longer the dire concern about enraging or insulting the Jarl of Orkney with Haldor’s rejection of his daughter. Their uncle Sweyn would be even more delighted to have Tryggvi—his Danish warlord and trusted chieftain as well as nephew—marry Svanhild, securing a political alliance.
Skjöld chuckled to himself.Perhaps Tryggvi will even help our uncle conquer Aengaland. My broðir might even become a king himself!
While he pondered why Úlvhild would seem saddened by such joyful news, a glimmering image emerged on the surface of the fjord, where sunlight rippled across the gentle waves.
As he had done among theLáhpitribe during his trial to become anoaidi,Skjöld welcomed the water’s cool, inviting embrace.
And sent his spirit into the icy fjord.
A dark green vine swirled in the water before him, its verdant leaves threaded with veins of shimmering silver. Nestled among the curling tendrils, a trio of white moonflowers with deep violet hearts glowed with otherworldly radiance.
Skjöld glimpsed Úlvhild lying on the bed of furs inside the cave. Her eyes were closed, her skin pallid, like when they had first carried her up the steep slope and settled her near the roaring fire. Haldor was huddled over the hearth, chanting as he imbued a trio of glittering gems, which he placed around Úlvhild’s still form. Returning to the fire, Haldor cast herbs into the flames, wispy tendrils of smoke curling upward as he poured golden mead into a silver chalice etched with runes and sparkling stones. With thepointed tip of an ornate dagger, he sliced his finger, letting three droplets of blood fall into the brew. Placing the chalice near her feet, he knelt at Úlvhild’s side, continuing his invocation.
As the vision unfolded, Skjöld saw moonlight bathe the cave in otherworldly radiance. A sliver of silver light shone upon Úlvhild’s serene face, and an ethereal feminine form descended upon the moonbeam to hover over the strickenvölva.Úlvhild glimmered brightly, as if illuminated from within.
Skjöld watched in awestruck wonder as the deep green vine he’d seen on the surface of the fjord unfurled over Úlvhild’s luminous belly. The three white moonflowers blossomed, their amethyst hearts pulsing at the goddess’ divine touch,
An ephemeral voice floated through the water into the depths of Skjöld’snoaidimind.
“Úlvhild shall bear her Falcon a trinity of healthy babes—one for each moonflower on the vine which swirls upon her skin. The blossom above hernafliis the daughter she carries now. The other two, cradled within the curve of each hip, are the sons yet to come. I have restored my devotedvölvaand renewed the seiðrthat flows in her veins. And with my gift ofFreyja’s Bloom, I have made her fertile once more, mending the broken womb that once could not hold.”
Skjöld’s senses returned slowly as theVeil of Visionreceded.
The tang of the fjord, the salty scent of the sea.
The bite of the icy wind on his bearded cheek.
The sweet spice of oatcakes and hazelnuts on his tongue.
The thunderous splash as a white gannet plunged into the liquid mirror of Skjöld’s vision, seeking prey.
As realization dawned with divine clarity, Skjöld whooped with joy, his heart soaring on the wings of the sea bird back to the pale, frosty sky.
Though he had already traveled half the distance back to Vågan and had hoped to arrive in time fornáttmál, this profound revelation simply could not wait.
He rose to his feet.
Dusted crumbs from his lap.
And—hoisting the reins of thepulkaacross his broad back—returned to theDragon’s Leapcave.
* * * *
