Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement between Yggdrasil’s branches. At first, he thought that Ahti and Vellamo had returned, but then he noticed billowing fog and a shadow lurking behind it. Had no one else sensed the change? Njord cradled the infant a little more securely in the crook of his left arm, ready to draw his ax with his right hand.
“Is something the matter?”
Frigga had appeared by his side. He hadn’t sensed her coming. Again. Goddess of home and hearth she may be, but she was as stealthy as an owl in the night. Njord’s focus shifted toward her for only a heartbeat, but when he looked into the undergrowth again, the fog was gone and only the shadows of the summer night remained.
“I thought I saw something,” Njord said hesitantly.
“Something or someone?”
He only shrugged.
“The High Priestess,” Njord changed the subject. “Who is she?”
Frigga chuckled and gestured to him that she was ready to take her little princeling back. Relieved, Njord handed him over, but the boy held on to Njord’s hair, pulling out a few strands.
His grunt of pain seemed to amuse Frigga.
“He likes you, Shipbreaker. And as you know, it’s a well-kept secret who the person behind the birch bark mask really is.”
Njord thought about the rune in his pouch.
“Be careful,” he said, although Frigga played the game of deception and intrigue better than he did.
She smiled at him slyly.
Njord would have loved to know what was going on in her head, but the Queen of Asgard had already turned around and headed back to the well, leaving Njord to stare after her.
The ceremony of the runes unfolded like a strange dream. The moon hung low above Yggdrasil’s crown, bathing everything in its silver light and casting deep shadows. As Frigga stepped into the water of the well, her son cradled in her arms, a shudder passed through the crowd. Rumor had it that she derived herpower from an even older goddess, that Asgard’s golden queen commanded the power of the earth itself. Njord could believe it. No wonder ambitious Odin had been so keen to marry her, even though he usually liked to ridicule the power of fertility and abundance.
Asgard’s High Priestess splashed into the water next to Frigga. The pale white ceremonial garb and the birch bark mask lent her an ethereal and unsettling appearance.
“We come together tonight under the roof of Yggdrasil to celebrate a new life,” Frigga said. “Thori Odinsson. Prince of Asgard and my son. Cast the runes now, High Priestess, so we will know his fate, the great deeds he’s destined to do, and the glory he will earn.”
Inclining her head, the priestess began to chant. Her voice was pleasant, melodic. Something about it irked Njord. He narrowed his eyes, studying her more carefully as she moved through the ancient ritual. There was a subtle hesitation in her gestures, barely perceptible but present nonetheless. Was she doubtful about the ritual?
Soon herseiðrflowed through the air like a sentient being. It was powerful, although not as powerful as Njord would have expected from a High Priestess of Asgard. He’d witnessed Perhonen chant, and herseiðrfelt like it could move worlds, while this one felt like it could slither through your ear and smother your heart.
The sacred words echoed across the gathered assembly as the masked woman raised her staff. She sang her verses like a skald, beautiful and sweet, but with something bitter underneath. Like sugared poison.
Odin stood tall and proud at the well’s edge, his single eye gleaming with anticipation. In front of him, Frigga watched with careful scrutiny, her gaze never leaving the priestess.
The climax of the ceremony was near.
Hesitating only for a heartbeat, the priestess put her staff back on her belt and pulled a ceremonial dagger and a wooden stick from her pouch. The stick was made of the finest oak wood, symbolizing strength, and the priestess carved three runes into it. She carved quickly, almost frantically, but Njord couldn’t make out the runes she had chosen from a distance.
Seiðrcharged the air as the High Priestess held the oaken stick above the little Odinsson’s head.
Her hands trembled.
Something was wrong, and Frigga seemed to notice it too. Her brow furrowed in momentary concern.
But the priestess pressed on despite the disturbance Njord could sense in her sloppily woven spell. Chanting the words of blessing, she sounded both convinced of herself and halting like a mummer impersonating a king.
“I see the prince’s fate clearly,” the High Priestess announced. “Thori Odinsson shall be blessed! He shall find a worthy bride, rule a great kingdom, and bring further glory to the house of Odin!”
She dipped the oaken stick into the water of the well.
The crowd held its breath.
