“May I approach the hammer, my lord?”
“Granted. Vidar, take the shackle off her neck.”
Vidar bows, but Thyra reacts in surprise.
“But Father, how can we trust?—”
The jarl holds up his hand. She obeys her father. What jarl would let his daughter rule, at least in public? Thyra knows the laws of respect. She has none for me, yet. But she will, soon.
Vidar removes the shackle from my neck. Instant relief. A weight off my shoulders, literally. I had already gotten used to it, which is terrifying in itself. One day, two days, three days—how long does it take before a person loses their identity and starts viewing themselves as property?
I stretch my neck from side to side, wincing as the tender flesh beneath complains. Still a slave, but closer to freedom. No more tugging. A step in the right direction.
The hammer glitters like it truly is Mjolnir, oiled and shining. Even though I am new to runic magic, I know the basics of reading. Groa hammered it into my skull, claiming the strings of fate had placed us together, that I was destined to learn the magic arts. Now, more than ever, I believe her.
I read the runes cut into the hammer.
“This is Thurisaz,” I say to the wide-eyed skald. My eyes flick to Vidar, who stands mouth agape.
“Keep going,” the skald whispers.
“This is Othalan, and this is Raido. It says Thor,” I say awkwardly. “No surprise there, I guess.”
Everyone laughs, even Thyra. Reading is rare. Many are impressed by it. Some view it as magical in itself. My people never cared much. Here, it’s appreciated.
“Impressive,” says the jarl.
“My lord,” begins the skald, “perhaps we could?—”
“Wait,” I say. “There’s another rune on the side.”
I look closer and check the other side. I pause. I have to touch it. Feel. The metal’s frost breathes against my fingertip before it bites. I pull it back. A strange sensation spreads in my head—dark nails scraping inside. It settles behind my eyes.
“Tell us,” says the jarl, standing from his throne. “Tell us their meaning.”
No way. Though I’m a beginner, Groa has taught me this binding set. Runic magic needs intention to work, like any other enchantment or ritual. Just inscribing or carving runes has little to no effect. I hope whoever did these was just decorating the hammer.
“It’s…” I hesitate. “There is another Thurisaz on each side.”
The combination is so blatant. This can’t be good.
“Speak, girl!” shouts the jarl. I can’t refuse his command. This is how he must speak to his warriors in battle.
“Who gave you this?” I ask. They might get angry with me if I insult a friend of the hall. Hate me. Chain me again.
“A friend, long ago,” he barks. “Tell me its meaning and power. Speak, by Odin!”
The skald approaches me, placing a hand on my shoulder and staring deep into my eyes. Instinctively, I yank my shoulder back. My dress is filthy enough without his greasy skald fingers.
His smile shows teeth, entertained by my disgust.
“Speak freely, Kilda,” he says in a honeyed voice.
I nod, remembering my new status. Best to play it safe. I turn to the jarl.
“My lord,” I say, “triple Thurisaz is a curse. A deadly curse. A rose has beauty. The thorn, when alone, only draws blood.”
“So, what does it mean? What does it do?” asks Vidar.
