I keep my silence. Sigurd is a wealthy man, a man of power. He should represent his community, its strength and ability. Losing a wife or husband is horrible, but sinking to the point of living worse than slaves…
“I know what you think.” He turns to me. “I am a chieftain, a jarl. How could I let the loss of a woman affect me in this way?”
I bow my head to avoid making eye contact. It’s expected by decorum, but I also don’t want him to see the truth in my eyes. He’s right. That’s exactly what I think.
“My lord, I?—”
“She was special, my wife, strong. You can see her in Thyra. Or you could, before her half was ripped away. The throne room—that’s where our might is displayed for all.”
“It impressed me.”
“I bet it did,” he says with a grin. “But this room is my space, my choice. Only Thyra and Vidar come in here, and now, you.”
“I am honored, my jarl.”
“I appreciate that, Kilda, but please, in here, you will call me Sigurd. In front of others, however, you will use my title.”
A slave, calling her jarl by his first name? Unheard of. This man can point at anything and have it. He shouts at men like Vidar and Ari. They heed his orders. Yet here he is, in his poor man’s room, wanting me to treat him as my equal.
“Yes, uh, Sigurd.”
“Better.”
Sigurd’s eyes soften. He relaxes, shoulders dropping. Perhaps he respects me as his Volva. Or perhaps powerful men need someone who doesn’t treat them as jarl with every word. A smile grows on his face.
“I’m proud of you, Kilda. I knew, when I laid eyes on you, that you had a spark. I did not hesitate to invest in your talents.”
Not quite true. Sigurd has always shown me respect, but I remember him focusing on my theft, not saying I had a spark. I hold my tongue as he continues.
“I was surprised by your enchantment yesterday. Thyra—that woman is hard to impress—but even she had to admit it. You are a Volva.”
“Thank you, my… Sigurd. Thank you, Sigurd.”
I laugh at my own fumbling of words, nervous about the whole situation. A fledgling Volva, alone with the jarl. He has a task I am to perform. What if I fail?
“Calm yourself, my Volva,” he says as he opens the door. “Wait here.”
He enters the dark chamber beyond, returning seconds later with the cursed hammer. I had hoped Sigurd had gotten rid of it. Melted it down, tossed it in the woods, buried it. Anything but keep it. That thing makes my skin crawl. He lays it on the table, then goes back into the locked room.
I know I’m supposed to stand still, wait for the jarl to give me orders. Like a good thrall girl. But my curiosity gets the better of me. I step to the table, leaning over for a closer look at the object.
Its bright shine should fascinate, but a dark cloud lingers around it. Such a large silver hammer—it’s hard for me to guess its value. More than my robe, more than my new house, more than my price as a slave. When I had read its runes in the hall, I had felt its licking cold, but now, I sense another layer. It pulsates some unseen, starving energy. Someone has charged it with ill intent. Someone with the ability to imprint items with power, an enchantress or wizard.
A shiver runs down my spine. Knowing experiences transfer intent, I can only imagine the terror whoever enchanted this must have gone through. The traumatic memory they have to draw from to feed such a spell. Poor soul.
“Curious, I see,” says the jarl as he returns.
I’m startled, straightening up and turning to Sigurd.
“Yes… yes I am.”
“A sign of a healthy Volva,” he says with a grin as he lays more items on the table. “Please inspect these as well.”
My eyes are instantly drawn to a golden necklace, studded with gleaming rubies. As its focal point, a golden lynx head holds an enormous red jewel in its jaws. The gold shines, like it’s new. Like it’s untouched. It waits. For what is a mystery, but it’s patient. It almost whispers. Tells secrets. I feel like I should… like I should put it on.
Sigurd coughs behind me, pulling me back to reality. I shake my head and switch my focus to the other objects.
A simple ring, made of silver, with a small sapphire set within. It doesn’t speak to me like the necklace. My eyes drift to the golden lynx, and I pull them back lest I get punished. By the jarl or the lynx itself.
