A Flame in the North

Book 1: Black Land's Bane

by Lilith Saintcrow

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy; Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

Synopsis

An elemental witch and her shieldmaiden journey into a world of ancient myth and unexpected destiny in this sweeping Norse-inspired epic fantasy from New York Times bestselling author Lilith Saintcrow.

The Black Land is spent myth. Centuries have passed since the Great Enemy was slain. Yet old fears linger, and on the longest night of the year, every village still lights a ritual fire to banish the dark.

That is Solveig’s duty. Favored by the gods with powerful magic, Sol calls forth flame to keep her home safe. But when her brother accidentally kills a northern lord’s son, she is sent away as weregild—part hostage, part guest—for a year and a day.

The further north Sol travels, the clearer it becomes the Black Land is no myth. The forests teem with foul beasts. Her travel companions are not what they seem, and their plans for her and her magic are shrouded in secrecy.

With only her loyal shieldmaid and her own wits to reply upon, Sol must master power beyond her imagination to wrest control of her fate. For the Black Land’s army stirs, ready to cover the world in darkness—unless Sol can find the courage to stop it.

They thought the old ways were dead. But now, the Enemy awakens…

Release date: February 13, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 400

Sample

For seidhr is a tree, and some branches wider than others. Those gifted with its touch may bend one of the great forces of nature to their will, and those with any of the weirding may call a spark. The most blessed among them we call elementalist, and they perform not mere kindling but hold actual flame…

—Navros, First Scholar of Naras in the days of King Edresil

By solstice day the great Althing at Dun Rithell was almost over. Our father took Astrid and Bjorn to the last day of the riverside fair but I did not accompany them; I was already thinking upon the fire.

Mother was abed with winter ague and Bjorn her firstborn useless when it came to organizing, both by temperament and upon account of maleness. If you wished something heavy lifted, something bulky heaved a great distance, something stabbed, slashed, or thumped into submission, he was not only willing to oblige but also an expert of such endeavors, but should you wish for aught else disappointment was the result. Astrid had already done her part with the great feast upon the penultimate day; many a toast was drunk to her health and Ithrik the Stout had already gifted our hall with a great gem-crusted plate as a sign of earnest.

My sister liked the sheep-lord’s middle son Edrik well enough; he was a fine fighter and careful with his father’s great flocks. Astrid’s marriage, while not final by any means, at least was assured in some direction. Come spring Bjorn might be married as well, if any of the visiting girls and their kin liked the look of him. Both prospects pleased me like they should any good sister, but did not mean I wished to go a-fairing that day.

Besides, crowds are always… difficult. Though the quality of my cloth and the marks upon my wrists grant me space and there is always Arneior, I did not cherish the thought of being called to render a summary judgment between drunken warriors or perform some small trick to please a wide-eyed child among a press of visitors and jostling neighbors. Arn might have wished to go upon her own account, but I did not think of that until Father had already left with my siblings and my shieldmaid gazed longingly down the road, her ruddy hair a beacon in the strengthening dawn. Twin hornbraids crested on either side of her head, their tails dangling behind her shoulders wrapped into clubs with leather thongs, and the stripe of blue woad down the left side of her face shouted One of the Black-Wingéd’s own, do not touch.

If she had not the woad, her very carriage and steady glare would serve as warning enough. It is known the battlefield maidens of Odynn’s elect choose those of quick tempers, not to mention swift spears.

“Oh, fishguts,” I said, spreading my hands; the last band upon my left wrist—ink forced under skin with a sharp point—twitched. The scab was almost off, but I had to refrain from scratching or drawing the pain aside to heal it more quickly. One does not use seidhr upon such marks. “I did not think, small one.”

One coppery eyebrow shot up, and Arn scowled at me. Which is usually a cheerful sign; I have called her small one since she was sworn to me at Fryja’s great festival during my sixth springtime—and my shieldmaid’s ninth, for she is older, though I am supposed to be the wiser of our partnership.

“I do not wish to go,” my shieldmaid said, her generous mouth pulled tight. The scales and rings sewn onto her daily hauberk glittered fiercely as the sun’s first limb reached above the horizon, frost and thin metal both gilding the roof of our home. When the sun rises, Eril’s hall echoes it, our men said, and one or two might even lift a drinking horn to the eldest daughter when they did.

One born with seidhr is considered lucky, even if ’tis best to be cautious of a volva’s temper. What is the sun but the largest bonfire of all, and if I could produce flame to hold back the night who knew what I could darken? It was a logical enough assumption, though the trepidation somewhat misplaced.

I did not think it wise to dispel such caution wholesale, though. Nor had my teacher Idra.

“You do not wish to attend the fair?” I mimicked astonishment, letting my eyes widen and the words lilt. There was a snapping, growling, baying explosion in the direction of the kennels; the houndmaster Yvin would be taking his shaggy, nose-drunk charges upon their traditional run through the South Moor soon. When they returned there would be scraps for both dogs and pigs, and both groups might be exhausted into reasonable behavior for the rest of the day. “Not even after the bonfire is laid?”

“It will take all day to stack,” Arneior replied stiffly, and I laughed, taking her left arm. The other, of course, was not to be touched even by her charge. Her longhead spear—well upon its way to earning a name in its own way—occupied her right hand, its butt resting easily upon swept cobbles.

Soon the tables would be brought out for the Fools’ Feast before the great evening celebration to mark the Althing’s ending—though not the end of legal cases and other matters to be decided—and I would be very busy indeed.

For the moment, though, I could tease my Arn. “Not if I hurry things along. A volva is hard to please.” The proverb used to pain me; I watched as Father’s golden head sank into the crowd passing down the road, just outside our courtyard’s great timbered gates—ajar to show hospitality during the Althing, as was the custom. Astrid, as she only reached Bjorn’s shoulder, was already lost to view; my brother, though he had his final growth upon him, would not quite match our father’s height. Still, both of them were well-named, a big good-natured bear and a shimmering star.

I oft considered my own naming a great jest, for I am dark-haired as my mother and my father’s mother. For all that, I have my mother’s eyes; they said there was some of the Elder in Gwendelint of Dun Rithell’s line, but I know not the truth of such a tale.

Despite a dark head my temper is much like Eril the Battle-Mad’s, and those who see us together are unable to think me anything but his get. I have his nose, and my chin, while rather more pointed, is also shaped just as his, though my mouth and cheekbones belong to Gwendelint. More than that, Father and I share the same quality of gaze—the word is piercing, as an awl will go through thick leather, and when applied to a pair of eyes it means we see much more than we wish to, though Father’s are dark and mine clear pale blue.

A steady stream of freedmen, bondsmen, servants, and thralls carted wood from every household and camp to the great green across the ancient stone-paved trade-road; the large flat outcropping of greyish rock in the midst of vast grassy space was black-topped from other burnings and bore a stubby crown of stacked logs already. Hopfoot my mother’s steward, his reedy tenor aquiver with age, had been fussily directing the laying of the base since the grey mist before a winter dawn. The wicker cages along one side of the Stone would be quiet at this hour, though—they were small and relatively few, holding only promised sacrifices of fowl and rabbits.

There had been no war or raiding to bring excess livestock lately. Perhaps that accounted for my unease. I could even say I sensed somewhat amiss, but it would be a lie. That morning neither the blessèd gods—Aesyr, Vanyr, foreign—nor any other passing spirit gave no indication of the future, not even to me.

I was merely nervous in anticipation of what I had to do that evening.

My skirts touched Arn’s knee as we slipped back through the gate; the green-and-white winter festival dress was last year’s, true, but I had grown no more and would not reach even Astrid’s height. Small am I, little Solveig like a paring knife, Father had crowed more than once, lifting child-me in his brawny arms.

As I grew older he became uneasy with my strangeness, but that was only to be expected.

“Hastily done is ill done.” Arneior rolled her shoulders precisely once, a sign she was ready for the day’s labors, whatever they might be. “And where is your mantle, my weirdling? Your mother will scold.”

I shrugged in return. Mother would not glimpse me from her bedroom window; I had mixed her morning medicine with a sedative so she could not fret overmuch at being unable to oversee the feasts. My great fur-hooded green mantle was warm, yes, but I had merely stepped into the courtyard to bid Astrid good hunting in the market and also bring Bjorn the blundering his new beard-pin, forgotten at table. The night’s frost was already turning to steam, lifting from our greathall’s gilded roof just as the weary sun hauled itself above the black-timbered breast of white-hooded Tarnarya for the last time that year.

Our great mother-mountain would be renewed with dawn, like the entire world.

Tonight was the Long Dark; the bonfire would burn throughout, holding vigil. I would not sleep much either, making certain the flame kept steady, but at least it was dry weather. I did not taste much snow or ice upon the wind. Our river kept much of winter’s worst excesses away, and we thanked her each spring for the blessing.

Even if it did include cold mud to the knee, and more than one shoe lost in quagmire.

“My lady! My lady Solveig!” Albeig, holding her cheerful blue festival skirt high so the embroidered hem did not touch the ground, waved from the top of the great stairs. She did not like to leave the inner fastness; our housekeeper hated disorder and there would be naught else in every corner, begging to be set aright. “The tables? Shall we?”

And thus it begins. There was no use in sighing; Albeig knew I wished to order the household myself, if only to show Mother she need not worry. “Make it so, then,” I called up the stairs. “But do not set out the meat just yet.”

She knew that as well, but Albeig’s fair round face eased at proof that I was thinking with more than one finger, as the saying goes. She bobbed gently, a tiny wooden boat upon a disturbed puddle, and hurried back inside through the big black carven doors.

“They have not brought the pillars yet.” Arn did not move. No doubt she would prefer chivvying those building the bonfire to the thankless work of setting out board for fortunate beggars and any of my father’s men who wished a mouthful before going to the fair’s colorful, hurrying sprawl.

Each oiled wooden pillar upon the Stone in the green bore a great rune-carving and would sink into prepared holes, ready to keep the lower mass of the bonfire from tipping. Come morning, having done their duty, whatever survived of their guard-watch would be given to the flames as well.

The old must be sacrificed before the new is brought in. So my people believed, and I have not found them wrong. “Then make certain they are placed properly for my first lighting, and return for the nooning.” I rose upon my slippered tiptoes, pressing my lips to her cheek as if we were sisters; she gave an aggrieved sigh. “What? I promise not to stir a step past the gate without my Arn. Go.”

Even a year before she would have refused, but the bands upon my left wrist were seven in number just as the ones upon my right were five, thin dark double-lines of ink and ash forced under the skin, angular runes dancing within their confines. Not only that, but my hair was braided in the complex fashion of a full volva by Astrid just that morn, red coral beads at special junctures, and Father himself had gifted me his mother’s silver torc, the bees of her house and lineage resting heavy and comforting below my collarbone.

In short, none would dare offer violence, jostling, or even a light word to a woman so attired inside a riverlord’s walls. Why risk exile, or a curse taking the flavor from your mead as the old saying warns? There are stories of weirdlings running hot lead into a warrior’s marrow to answer an insult, too.

Every child knows those tales, and is taught to keep a civil tongue when speaking to those with even the weakest seidhr.

Arn gave in after a few moments of token resistance, and glared at me afresh from her relatively imposing height. Even her freckles glowed in thin golden winterlight, and her breath was a fine silver plume. “Not a single step past the gate, Sol.”

“Then don’t be late. Or I might find myself walking alone, riverside-bound to find Astrid.” It was an empty threat delivered only to make her bristle, since I would not willingly stir from the hall’s safety until sunset. “And mind you don’t make Hopfoot stammer; he is very afraid of you.”

“As well he should be.” She hefted her spear, its long bright blade winking conspiratorially. “I go, then. Put your mantle on, daughter of Gwendelint.”

I dropped her arm and stuck my tongue out, making a battle-face; she laughed and set off with springing steps. I climbed my father’s great wide stairs, their grain worn to satin smoothness by many visiting feet, and plunged into the dimness of the entryway, an explosion of hurry and babble enveloping me from slipper-toe to the top of my braided head. The tables were to be dragged out into the courtyard and hung with roughcloth; the feeding of fortunate fools should always begin at midmorn.

Questions leapt for me from every side—where should this be settled, how many dishes should be taken forth, where were the extra trenchers, Father’s huntsman Yngold was drunk among the pigs and who should drag him forth—oh, I did not mind even that occurrence, for I could set his friends Tar and Jittl upon his track and they would take him to the fair for a sobering fight or summat else. There was Mother’s noontide medicine to mix in the stillroom while I was interrupted every few moments for another decision, and the kitchen’s smoky clangor to brave for shouted conference with Nisman and Ilveig, the latter furiously calm while the former wielded knife, ladle, or whisk with a warrior’s grim determination. There were the great casks to order tapped or set aside, yet more tankards and trenchers to be found, children to be collared and sent to their duties with a tug upon their ear to remind them a volva’s request is not a negotiable matter.

Of such things were the last festival I spent with my family made. I would like to think I remember everything about that busy day.

But if I am to be honest, I do not.

Even the Sun must be renewed each year. All that is given must be paid for, and all fires need fuel.

—Idra the Farsighted, of Dun Rithell

My lady Solveig?” Albeig swiped at her forehead with the back of one almost-limp hand; her hazel eyes were very bright. The great feasting hall was all a-clamor, from its rush-strewn floor to its great roof-timbers. “The sun is going down.”

I knew as much, of course—three people had told me in the last few moments, each anxiously expecting praise for the reminder. It was enough to make me almost regret being presented for Idra’s training so many years ago.

Almost, but not quite. Uncontrolled weirding is worse than none at all, and though the elder volva of Dun Rithell was a harsh teacher she had also been scrupulously just, as any with the burden of seidhr are expected to be.

It is an expectation not many fulfill, to hear the songs and sagas tell. But Idra did, and demanded as much from me as well. What I once considered her cruelty was in fact merely discipline, and I am glad I learned the distinction before she breathed her last.

I gave a nod, gesturing directions at the two thralls wrestling the last table—its legs knocked free of mud outside, a chore nobody likes but which saves a great deal of future trouble—into position. More of the household were bearing away the roughcloth from the Fools’ Feast and bringing fresh hangings and tapestries; very soon the mighty among Father’s warriors and any important guests would begin arriving. Naturally the hall would be ready well before the first merrymaker stamped through the door for wassail, and the great iron cauldron with leaping figures upon its sides was bubbling already.

But the preparation of a great feast is filled with small disasters those who partake of its bounty rarely recognize; the only ones aware of such things are those who must smooth, tidy, and arrange so a great revel seems effortless.

“Settle it there,” I said, rubbing my damp palms upon a scrap of wastecloth before folding and tucking it back into a small house-pouch at my belt. “Many thanks; now go swallow summat, both of you. Hurry.” With that done and the thralls hastening kitchenward before the evening’s work I could turn my attention to our housekeeper, who leaned against the returned table to give me a wan smile, a roughcloth apron shielding her festival gown. “And you should have a mouthful too, Albeig. Don’t argue.”

“Indeed, I would never.” She glanced nervously at the great timbered arch through which Father was due any moment. Bjorn and Astrid would greet guests in the entry amid the carvings of gods and ancestors while Father took his place upon the dais, under the large beam with names of battles and other achievements carved into its length and breadth, but they were not returned just yet.

At the time I felt only weary unsurprise. Of course the crowning achievement of my training would pass unremarked by my family; it was the way of such things.

“Solveig!” Arneior appeared in the arch’s throat, her hauberk glittering; her left arm was full of heavy green wool and her woad was freshly applied. “Sunset.”

Fryja grant me patience; I need a triple measure today. “Yes, my shieldmaid. I know.” A stray strand of dark hair was attempting to work free of my braids; I tucked it back in and made another gesture, shooing Albeig upon her way. My feet ached, but that was to be expected; I had doubled socks from Astrid’s needles, slid my heaviest slippers over them, and stolen a few moments after luncheon to lace up my winter buskins. Albeig could send my overboots up to the Stone as night’s cold began to mount, if I did not falter at the lighting. “Albeig, I go, the house is yours.”

“My lady.” The housekeeper nodded, her shoulders stiffening; perhaps Nisman would send her a cup of batter, knowing her likely to drive herself into foundering under the responsibility of arranging Dun Rithell’s hospitality upon this busiest of days. Mother would rest comfortably tonight, though, double-sedated and free of any worry.

I hurried past my shieldmaid, who rolled her eyes and caught my arm. “What did I tell you? Wear your mantle.” She settled a thin undercloak and then the deep green woolen prize-mantle over me, the pelt at its shoulders tickling as it brushed my nape and cheeks. Astrid’s needlework at the cloak’s hem was bright and fine, and Arn herself had hunted the wolf. “There. Now my weirdling will not catch the ague.”

“I would not anyway.” I settled the wide heavy sleeves, and though my lower back immediately prickled with sweat I was glad of both cloakweights after Arn hurried me through the hall and into the courtyard, sweeping her own dun overmantle across mailed shoulders.

Tarnarya’s snow-hood was dyed with brief scarlet sunset. Her timbered bulk was black beneath; I shivered as my father’s hall caught the last hint of sunlight and flamed. I would have thought it an intimation of doom, but it was simply that I never liked when the grand peak dipped her head in blood. She is sacred to a crow-goddess, our mother-mountain of Dun Rithell, and when that lady is in sanguinary mood even seasoned warriors might well flinch before turning to the business of battle.

Arn kept her left hand upon my elbow, steady and comforting; I was glad of her foresight, as usual. A clot of the curious or those wishing for a change in their luck lingered at the great gate, and the two warriors upon guard duty set up the cry as soon as they noticed Arn’s ruddiness upon the great steps.

I pulled my great furred hood into position, settling it with a twitch and dropping my gaze. Everything splashed upon the paving had frozen, and the press of bodies in the space where our house’s gate-apron met the road might have buffeted me from my feet if not for Arn’s care.

“Back, back,” the gate-guards shouted, their axes crossed with staves of office. There should have been another double handful of men to take me to the Stone, but perhaps Father had thought Arn and me well capable without such a luxury. “Back, for the burning cometh!”

Arn’s grasp upon my elbow did not gentle. Surefoot is a shieldmaid, as the saying goes, and I walked where she placed me. My breath was a cloud, drifting to catch in the mantle’s wolf-fur, and it was the first time since I rolled from our bed before dawn that I could catch a full lung-draft.

I had deliberately done all I could for the last and greatest feast of the old year myself, to keep hands and head occupied before this moment. Now I had to face the fire.

The thought that it might have been better had I spent some time in quiet meditation was unhelpful indeed.

I watched frozen mud veining across old, worn stone laid well before our people had settled this riverbank, Arn’s boots keeping time with my smaller but no less well-wrapped feet, and when we stepped onto the green at the far end it might as well have been more rock beneath us, for the ground was icebound indeed. Winter-yellowed grass crunched uneasily, and there was singing in the distance with a glimmer of lamps and torches.

They were coming uphill from the riverside fair to see the wonder of the longest night. My heart beat thin and fast within my wrists, thumping in my ribcage and generally making a fool of itself.

It was a fair way to the tabletop Stone, but two greens-marshals with curved ram horns hurried to wind them and the crowd parted before those deep sonorous cries. There should have been yet another cadre of warriors from our house to manage the crowd as well, but none had returned from the fair as yet; it was the first real wrongness in a festival day that had, so far, passed like any other. A few warriors of other folds, halls, or steadings hurried to take the place of an honor-guard, a fortunate accident for them.

Accompanying a full-made volva upon this duty would grant them luck and strength for an entire year. Whoever among Eril’s men had not returned when they should would miss the blessing, but that was not my concern. More warriors joined the cortege, keeping the curious at bay with their size, but Arn did not greet any of them as she would those of my father’s hall. Instead, she observed a cold silence, and I exhaled shakily as a faint trace of green showed through dried clumps of grass.

A good omen, clinging to life in the midst of ice. Or so I hoped.

Cart tracks, a drover’s trail, and two footpaths bisected our route; Arn all but lifted me across the last. She still said nothing, and I slowed. The fury of a shieldmaid is almost a living thing, pressing invisibly against heart and lungs; I did not wish to feel it scraping my nerves all night.

“Please,” I murmured. “Don’t brood upon it.”

She leaned close as if I were prophesying. A shieldmaid with a weirdling charge is to weigh every utterance, plumbing for the will of the gods; those without some measure of faith do not last upon their particular path.

Or upon mine.

“The least he could do,” Arn muttered in reply, and shook her head. “And your very first.”

Perhaps Father knows I would be nervous, were he looming here to watch me. “Hopfoot built it, I shall have no trouble lighting it.”

“What says the volva?” someone wished to know, calling from outside a hard knot of tall, crest-haired warriors in hauberks not nearly so fine as my Arn’s. A few of the guards would no doubt ask Father for a place at his board now, granted a fine opportunity by this protective deed.

“Naught you need worry for,” a harsh male voice replied, a traditionalist scolding the irreligious, and there was a shout of laughter. Upon the far edge of the green, coming from the river, the misty line of bobbing lights doubled back and forth, a snake with gemmed sides. Faint singing rode the cold wind; we were not a moment too soon.

“Mayhap she asks for flint and steel,” someone else called, and my jaw tightened. There was the sound of a blow; it was ill luck to jape so even when a volva in question had not lit her first bonfire.

Especially when she was held to have more than average power, being capable of calling flame instead of mere spark. Most with seidhr may touch only one of the great natural elements—water, air, earth, wood, metal, and the like—their entire lives. Those who may summon and befriend them all are rare, and their mark is fire itself.

I had lit Idra’s cottage-fire many a time, even with wet fuel. This would be no different, except for the weight of expectation standing ready to crush me. Arn said nothing, simply waited until I moved again. The Stone loomed nearer, nearer; she turned us along its stack-lined face so we could properly climb the stairs cut into its westron side.

All jesting ceased, and everyone who owed a god some service or thanksgiving fell silent as I put my foot to the first step. I did glance at Arn then; I could not help myself.

My shieldmaid’s head was proudly lifted, her spear-tip catching a last bloody sungleam; she did not look to me, her attention upon the crowd wending from the river’s far, slow glitter. A muscle in her pale cheek flickered. Smoke from the trading palisade rose, and normally upon a winter’s eve that pall would be underlit with lamp- and torchlight, not to mention the glow of cooking fires.

Yet while I had been sunk in feast preparations, too busy to think about what awaited me past dark, the houses clinging to the riverside had extinguished hearth, lamp, and candle. Soon my father’s house would quench its fires, too.

The rekindling of Dun Rithell’s heat—and life itself—would be mine alone.

Hush deepened, enfolding both Stone and green as Arn’s fingers loosened. Her dark gaze roved far afield, searching for physical danger and leaving me to handle aught else, from weirding to negotiation—that is the compact between shieldmaid and volva, and well have we come to know it. Though I did not need her strength at that particular moment, it was pleasant to see her certainty.

She, at least, did not doubt me.

My shieldmaid’s fingers gave a last squeeze; I gathered my skirts and the mantle. Slipping upon the steps would be a bad omen, but they had been brushed and sanded well. I climbed one at a time, Arn following close, and as I mounted the Stone, the silence became absolute except for far singing upon the cold breeze.

A bulk of oiled wood crouched over me, a wave frozen by Lokji’s kenning or Hel’s amused glance, and the wicker sacrifice-cages were now part of its towering. The mountain’s snowy head paled as I pushed my hood slightly back, and yet a third procession approached from the ancient standing stones at the eastron edge of safe pasturage, their ring full of chill murmuring even during midsummer. Frestis led that cortege, the flint knife at his belt unsheathed and still damp-smeared.

The wind freshened, tugging at my skirts, threatening to slip a blade-edge through the mantle’s folds. I settled my chin in wolf-fur and watched Mother Tarnarya fall under night’s shadow, stars glimmering through veils both of cloud and dusk. The last dregs of the old sun swirled in the west; the air bore an entire smithy’s worth of iron-taste to my tongue, now clearly speaking since the sun had ceased to pull at its laces.

Snow within a fiveday. Anyone raised near Dun Rithell could tell as much; we know the winter as one of our own families. Sheltered by the two mothers of peak and shore, we were blessèd children even in hard years. What our own efforts could not wring from field or flock the river brought to us in trade or fish, news or coin.

A shape swelled in the failing dusk, climbing the stairs I had used. Frestis’s white robe glowed; his grey head nodded. His stave tapped at the Stone’s floor, for his right leg dragged worse each winter. Still, his beard was full and apprentices reported his grasp was iron yet. And he wielded the flint knife so adroitly as to cause no pain at the standing stones.

Corag—the most senior of his apprentices—carried the yellow lantern. His dark eyebrows were raised and he studied me curiously in its swinging, fitful glow. I turned my chin slightly, counting the stars as they strengthened.

Idra should have been here, but she had loosened her grasp upon life at the dark of the first harvest moon. When I am no longer here, she said often enough, but I had not truly thought such a time would come any more than I could compass Mother’s illness or that soon Bjorn would be married and leave the hall.

Or even that Astrid would bring a husband in to take up Father’s greataxe, if he could.

There were other shapes in unbleached robes over their winter festival dresses and bulky undercloaks—Molveig, Isolca, Kolle, and Yannei, all crowned with glossy green spike-leaf holly and their lips reddened as blood-fed spirits’. Kolle, her matron-hipped solidity comforting, carried the other lantern, the one said to be of Elder make. It was a fine, beautiful thing, its decorative metal so thin and well-wrought it seemed spring vines had been dipped in steel to make it.

Kolle was the senior seidhr now, carrying the ancient distaff, but she did not have much of the weirding. Her bandings were only three upon her right wrist and the one upon