Obediently, Silla closed her eyes and found her source in an instant.Reaching for the luminescence, she drew it into her veins, that familiar cold tension swirling through her. Opening her eyes, she found the white light glowing from her arms.
“Good,” said Harpa. “Now you will express. Clear your mind, then relax into your galdur. Trust the knowing feeling inside you, and let it do what it will.”
Squaring her feet, Silla took a deep breath, then exhaled as though that would release her galdur—ridiculous, of course. After several long moments of absolutely nothing, she shook herself out, then tried visualizing white light bursting from her palms—imagined that irritating tension releasing—still, not a cursed thing.
A distant bang from the cabin reminded Silla that Rey was here. What was he doing in there while she and Harpa were out in the cold?
“Center yourself.”
Silla breathed in deeply.Expression, she told herself.Fire. Poof. White light.
But her father’s face flashed in her mind’s eye.
Your fault. It’s all your fault.
“Ay! Girl! Back on track!” Silla jumped at the sound of Harpa’s clapping hands, birds chittering wildly in response.
“How do I express?” asked Silla. “I cannot seem tomakeit.”
“Your impatience,” said Harpa, watching her quietly, “clouds your path. Until you master it, you will never succeed.”
Truly, that was so helpful. She shook out her body. Tried counting by twos, then backward from one hundred. Tried focusing on an imaginary dot on the back of her eyelids. Tried focusing on long, deep breaths.
Yet nothing could drive the thoughts from her mind—impatience at how long this was taking, irritation that she was faring so poorly. Her thoughts bounced to her father, and then she was stuck in the trap, the endless blame and self-loathing and why couldn’t she do this one thing and make something good come from it all?
“Clear your mind,” barked Harpa.
“Icannot!” Silla’s eyes snapped open, irritation and impatience prickling her skin. She didn’t have time to waste. Right now, Saga was in that castle, surrounded by murderers…by the same vile humans who had slaughtered her parents and a child they’d thought was Eisa.
Harpa watched her in that studious way of hers, and Silla turned away, trying to gather herself.
“You are not ready,” said Harpa in a flat voice. “You must take a step back before you can move forward. You must learn how to surrender.”
“Surrender?” Silla blinked back tears.
“Let us first take some róa and warm ourselves.”
Silla trudged after her to the cabin.
Rey’sback ached as he bent low, scrubbing another layer of grime from Harpa’s walls. The pain seemed to grow each morning he awoke on that damned bench, despite his attempts to ignore it. He was used to making do with what he had—had spent years sleeping on the rock-riddled ground and dusty floors. But somehow that bench had knotted his spine. Hábrók’s arse. He was an old man at twenty-six winters.
“Hello, Reynir,” cooed Rykka, a cloud of black smoke churning into the form of a miniature woman. Charcoal hair spilled around her face; her wings as delicately veined as a dragonfly’s.
“Rykka,” he grunted, scouring at a stubborn spot.
“Harpa is so fortunate to have you as a grandson,” said Rykka, strolling along the patch he’d just cleaned, ash sprinkling in her wake.
“I’m certain she’d disagree with you on that.” He scowled.
“Oh no,” smiled Rykka, running a tiny hand through her smoky tresses. “She’s missed you, as have I. Will you stay for long?”
Rey shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”
The smoke spirit pouted. “A shame.”
“Rykka,” grumbled Rey. “You’re dropping ash on my clean walls.”
With a laugh, the spirit zipped away, entwining herself with the hearthfire’s smoke and leaving Rey in peace.
