“Your source is individual,” continued Harpa. “It generates the magic, yes, but also gives it a shape and signature. My source gives my galdur the shape of aWeaver’s; Rey’s gives him his Ashbringer skill. But even amongst classes of Galdra, there is diversity. Rey’s Ashbringer skill, for example, presents as smoke, while other Ashbringers produce flames.”
Silla nodded along.
“Each being in this kingdom carrying Sunnvald’s gift has a different source.”
Silla’s brows drew together. “Sunnvald’s gift?”
Harpa’s amber eyes grew steely. “Tell me Tómas was not so cod-brained as to forget the old ways.”
“He taught me of the old gods,” Silla said defensively. “We left offerings for the gods and the spirits?—”
“And did he teach you of Sunnvald’s blessings?” Harpa cut in. “The origin of the Ashen?”
Silla shook her head slowly.
“The Ashen,” began Harpa, “are all things in this kingdom blessed by Sunnvald.” The older woman scowled at whatever Silla’s expression revealed. “You doubt this? They are as real as you and me. The proof is in your very body. Can you not feel it?”
Silla pressed her lips together, trying to tamp down on her irritation. “I thought you were going to teach me how to express my galdur.”
“Impatience is your enemy in this.” Harpa’s head cocked to the side. “It is a thing that must be taken one step at a time. First, you must understand the nature of your galdur. The origin of the Ashen and the gift you carry inside you.”
Silla remained silent. She would let Harpa speak her piece. Then Harpa would teach her how to use her galdur. And then, on with retrieving Saga.
“It is a tale of darkness and light—of the balance between chaos and order,” said Harpa. “The thread begins with Sunnvald—the Father of Light, and his wife, Stjarna—the Mother Star. You know, of course, of their moon goddess daughters, Malla and Marra. All beings of light, of order and protection of Íseldur. But Sunnvald had also a brother—Myrkur, god of chaos and darkness.”
“Unlike the Father of Light, Myrkur thirsts for disorder and unrest, and he loves most of all to play tricks on his brother. One day, Myrkur stole Stjarna, Malla and Marra, pulling them into the night and binding them with unbreakable magic. And so it became that the stars and moons were separated from Sunnvald, shining only in the darkness of night.”
“When Sunnvald discovered his beloved kin had been stolen, he grew so angry that he shook the skies, causing stars to crash to the land. As the stars fell, they burned into motes of ash, magic sprouting wherever it fell. Where it landed on plants, they became the hjarta trees, the moonflowers andsnowcap mushrooms. Where it landed on rocks and soil, halda deposits were formed. Where it landed on animals, they became the frost foxes, the flíta, the skarplings, and so on.”
Harpa paused for a moment. “And where the stardust fell on the people, they were gifted with galdur. This is why the Galdra are sometimes called the Ashen. Each of these beings, plant or animal, has a heart of galdur distinct to only them, their own flavor of magic. And that is how these weavings began.”
Silla nodded absently.
“And the Volsiks,” continued Harpa, rubbing her chin. “That, I’m afraid, is a tale frayed through, too many details lost through the centuries. But it is said the Volsiks contain an additional blessing from Sunnvald. The Volsik gift is not understood, but it is thought to be a formidable weapon to be used against Myrkur.”
“A weapon?”
Harpa nodded. “That means, child, Sunnvald selected amongst all of mankindyourbloodline to keep order in the kingdom. A Volsik must always sit on the throne, lest the kingdom fall into turmoil.”
Silla’s throat tightened, her skin itching. Too much; it was too much. She just wanted to learn her galdur and get on with rescuing Saga...
“Long has there been a single Volsik in this kingdom, imprisoned though she is. But now”—Harpa allowed herself a small smile—“now there is another.”
With those words, Silla felt a kingdom full of expectations heaped onto her, and she looked away. Even so, Harpa’s gaze lingered, studying her far more closely than Silla would have liked.
“I wonder sometimes,” said Harpa, almost to herself, “if I had trained them better—if I had done something differently—perhaps things might have turned out differently.”
Silla’s gaze snapped back to Harpa. “Were you sent north as well?” she could not help herself from asking. Why had Harpa not died with the rest of her kin? Why had she gone north?
Harpa ignored her question. “I fear I have wandered too far off today’s path. It is time you try priming yourself, Volsik.”
“Silla,” she snapped.
Harpa scowled. “You must accept it sooner or later.”
“You sound like your grandson.”
The faintest of smiles touched Harpa’s lips. “Close your eyes and reach for your source. Get used to the shape and feel of it, then pull the galdur from it into your blood.”
