Shield of the Vanir

By William R. Humble

As the drums of war sound through Vanaheim, sixteen-year-old Arna severs her relationship with Maeve, resulting in heartache--and the loss of royal protection.

 

Soon after, Arna's brother Ragni is conscripted, and she loses her best friend, emotional support, and yet another layer of protection.

 

Left alone to care for her younger siblings, Arna flounders, and flees with the children to Yggdrasil to evade Queen Mab's wrath.

 

Provisions are scarce and new dangers lurk around every turn.

 

Arna must face her darkest fears and delve into her own burgeoning powers if the children are to have any chance of survival. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fawkes Press
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781957529189

Book preview

1

H ey, Ash-for-Brains, I call, stopping in front of the raging forge fire just a few steps from our family’s longhouse. Wake up. We’ve got work to do.

Flames writhe over Ragni like crazed dancers. My eldest brother lies sprawled out on the coals, his long legs stretched out so his feet rest on the anvil. He sits up and stretches. The rising heat makes his long blonde hair float in waves that bring to mind some distant sea I’ve never seen and probably never will. His eyes glow a radiant red-orange but, once the fire leaves him, they’ll fade to grey.

Hey, little sister. What ya need?

Mama’s finally back.

Good. His lips curl into a humorless smile. "You can finally stop being mother to the littles. Spend some time just being their big sister. So, what do you need?"

Hands on hips, I give him my best withering look. Less attitude. Also, help bringing in and butchering one of the cows. Mama wants to feast.

It doesn’t help that he’s right.

Ragni hops out of the fire, smooths back his hair, and ties it back with a strip of dragon hide from his belt. Sure thing. Speaking of awkward topics…

"No. We were not and definitely are not talking about it."

He grins as we stroll out of the forge and towards the east pasture. It’s been a few months now. Did you have a chance to talk to Maeve? Ask if she’ll take you back?

I’m halfway turned to punch his shoulder when my common sense kicks in. Punching him now will only leave me with burned knuckles.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself he’s my best friend.

So that’s a ‘no,’ he says, studying me. Oh wait… You dumped her? Really? Why?

Oh, by the endless mists of Niflheim, I don’t want to talk about this now.

Or ever.

Come on, Arna. She’s Maeve Mabsdottir. Heir to the Light Throne. And, if rumor’s true, she might also be heir to Oberon’s Day Throne.

A choking noise escapes me. It’s finally soaked in that Maeve and I are bad for one another. So, no, I won’t try and win her back.

Yet, the desire lingers.

Yes, Ragni agrees, as though I actually said something. "She is cute. Perky and firm in all the right places. Cheerful expression evaporating, his eyes, which have dimmed maybe halfway back to gray, lock onto mine. But, you still broke up with her. Why?"

I’m again reminded that annoying as he can be, Ragnvaldr is, like me, a child of the goddess Gullveig. Underestimate us at your peril.

That’s gotta be close to being our family motto.

We hop over the fence and walk across the greenest of our pastures towards the distant herd.

I like Maeve, I admit. Love her. But… I don’t like the me I’m becoming when I’m around her.

Tell me about it.

Could we not? Let’s just focus on— I wave my hand vaguely towards the distant cattle.

Not a chance, Ragni replies, his expression becoming hard to read even as his tone tells me clearly he’s not going to let this go. How often do we get to talk these days without being interrupted by at least one of the littles? Talk, Arna Gullveigsdottir.

I mutter an expletive, then sigh. Maeve likes to gossip about the courts. I suspect it’s all part of her training for gathering information and spreading rumor and innuendo.

Ragni nods. I’m with you, so far.

You’re with me forever. We’re immortals, Coal Breath.

The fire in him continues fading. Your distraction isn’t going to work. Back to you ditching the equally immortal young goddess.

I remain silent as we angle towards one of the young bulls that’s standing apart from the herd. Quietly, I admit, "There’s a vicious, wicked glee that comes from talking down about someone—especially to their face. A feeling of power from listing out their failings. Their weaknesses. A sense of superiority because you don’t have those problems. Verily, a delight in using fear you’ve created to control someone."

By the ever-burning fields of Muspelheim, this is hard to talk about.

We stop near a young bull. With an absent nod, Ragni reaches out and touches my arm. I’ve noticed you slowly changing over the last couple of years. At my wince, he says, And how you’ve not-so-slowly switched back. Mostly. His expression turns thoughtful. Arna, what’s the true heart of the problem?

In a near whisper, I admit, In theory, I’m drawing ever closer to erupting.

"Ah. You and Maeve have… had… embraced an aspect of darkness. You’ve been worried it will warp your powers. Turn them from something amazing into something twisted. Turn you into someone to be feared."

Yes.

Being feared has its own attraction. An attraction I’m fighting not to further embrace. I look to my brother who can melt metal with his bare hands. Ragni understands being feared.

Did you talk about it with her?

We fought about it, I whisper.

Expression solemn, Ragni frowns. Difficult though it may be, I believe you’ve made the right choice.

I sigh and nod.

He looks at my arm and grins. Since my hand didn’t burn you, it most likely won’t burn dinner either. He steps over and punches the young bull between the eyes. Bone cracks. The beast staggers, not yet realizing he’s dead. Without pausing, my brother slings the animal over his shoulders before it collapses.

"You fulminating dog pizzle! I am not a platform for burn testing."

Since you’ve brought up pizzles, now that you’re not seeing Maeve anymore, think I might have a chance? He’s grinning so big it would take me half the day to slap the smile off his face.

I throw my arms up. Didn’t I just say that I still love her?

Sure. You also said she’s a conniving viper.

Pulling aside the top rail in the fence so Ragni can step over it, I sigh. "I suppose I did. Still, I miss her. She was my conniving viper. Smart, funny, and as you said, delightfully perky. I snort out a little laugh. One time, we argued because she’s got something of a crush on you."

That’s totally understandable. Who wouldn’t? His footsteps sink ankle deep under the bull’s added weight.

Looking to the sky, I groan. If your ego grows much larger, Lord Njord’s gonna have to expand Vanaheim to keep the rest of us from being crushed.

A sly grin crosses his lips. If we put your vanity next to my ego, which would weigh more?

My hand pauses on the way to brush a stray strand of red hair back behind my ear. I replace the fence rail. Ahem. Anyway, Maeve and I argued. She wanted to jump your bones but didn’t understand how that would lead to her being incinerated.

Ah, Ragni says, his amusement sliding away. That. Truly, it’s hard to find goddesses with a primary affinity for fire.

Exactly.

Not for the first time, my thoughts turn to my eldest brother’s birth. Mama is a goddess of trade and seidr. She does not have a primary affinity for fire. Yet, not only did she survive conception with who or whatever his father was, she somehow managed to carry and birth Ragni. Mama’s an extraordinary goddess, but from the occasional burn she’s picked up over the years from a much younger Ragni, her talents simply don’t run in that direction.

Yet—

Per usual, this line of thought’s going to get me exactly nothing.

Don’t worry, brother. Somewhere, there’s a perfect woman waiting for you. You may have to go search the volcanoes of Muspelheim to find her, but she’s out there.

So, Arna. Who do you think will be invited to the feast?

Very smooth change of subject, I lie with a twisted grin. "Anyway… I hope Mama invites the seidr crowd and not the trade team. Magic’s so much more interesting than trade."

Ragni snorts. "And you were complaining about my ego."

What? How has my preference somehow become a feat of ego?

That’s just how it is. Same for all the other peons who aren’t the center of the universe. He fake coughs. Unlike me.

I groan for having to hear yet another iteration of his dumb joke. Then, I groan again. "Hel’s frost. If it’s the trade crowd, he’s gonna be there."

Tiny pinpricks of fire appear in Ragni’s eyes. Stian’s a jackass. Fortunately, I have an idea for how to deal with him.

I gift him a skeptical look.

Ragni grins.

Uh oh.

Located a short way outside Center, the cleverly named central town within the realm of Vanaheim, our longhouse is packed for tonight’s feast. Home would have felt more crowded if Mama hadn’t used seidr to expand both the main hall and the table. Making a place bigger on the inside than on the outside is seidrwerk far beyond my ability, but she did it quickly and easily. Rather than cooking the young bull in the kitchen, the beast now turns on a spit in the huge fireplace at the back of the hall. Mama didn’t need to increase the size of the fireplace—it’s always been over-sized.

Admit it, Arna, Ragni whispers. "As soon as we said it, you knew it was gonna be the trading crowd."

I throw him a sour look before bolstering the seidr that keeps the spit turning. The spit glows with a blue flare, then lumbers around a bit faster—enough to keep the meat from scorching.A glowing ember pops out of the fire. It veers away from my dress towards Ragni, vanishing before reaching his dragon-hide boots.

Fires always react strangely to him. Which, at least for tonight, is nice, because this is my best, and only, blue dress.

To the right of the fire, Hermes delivers a message to Horus, who thankfully looks like a normal man right now. I’ve never cared for the aesthetics of mixing animals and people together, regardless of the symbolism. The two foreign gods laugh, which rings out through the hall, bringing out smiles in almost everyone. A fellow with greying hair held back from his dark brown eyes by an ornate snake-dragon circlet joins them. He leans close and whispers.

Beyond them stands a good-looking goddess I’d guess to be about Mama’s age. Kali. She has dark skin and hair, and a pair of crescent swords upon her hips. I’ve seen her before, and on two of those times, she had four arms. I prefer the two. Though she seldom visits, I’m pretty sure she’s one of Mama’s few actual friends.

Hmm, Ragni murmurs. With a nod, he draws my attention back towards the head of the table where Mama and our younger sibs stand talking with a group of trade advisors from the lesser courts. I’m wondering if we should rescue the littles…

Sten, our youngest brother, accidentally knocks over someone’s wine cup. A woman in a brilliant white and gold dress leaps backwards to avoid the spill. Mama steps up. With her left hand she deftly twists out a whirl of cleansing seidr and the mess vanishes in a flare of golden light. At the same time, she kisses Sten’s temple.

It’s nice to see her being their mother again.

Ragni’s grin widens. Or, perhaps we should save the trade folks from the littles?

I laugh. Quite the conundrum.

Conundrum? Stian asks with a slightly too-wide smile, walking up with a near-empty cup of mead. Please Lady Arna, tell me about it so that I might render assistance.

Stian’s rather plain for a god. Brown hair and a slightly darker beard in need of trimming. His eyes are blue, which as a fellow blue-eyed person, offends me on a deep, personal level. His trousers and tunic feature elaborate gold stitching, and he’s wearing arm torcs and bracelets inset with gems. Strutting peacocks have nothing on him.

Ragni nods towards the fireplace. The fire’s running a bit low. Care to throw yourself in?

Speaking of fire, while there’s no sign of it in my brother’s eyes, there’s suddenly a lot of heat coming off him. For that to happen, he’s gotta concentrate. What’s he up to?

What? And deprive the fairer sex of my presence in the world? Certainly not. Stian looks to me. Now, in regards to the fairest lady in all of Vanaheim, how are you this lovely evening, Lady Arna?

Keeping my expression strictly polite, I reply, Fine. Thank you.

Good. You should know, I’ve just concluded a marvelous new trade deal. Lord Njord is most pleased. He sets his cup on the table edge, and it tips over and clatters to the floor.

Sigh. This game again? He’s probably hoping to look down my dress.

I’ll get it, I say, kneeling because this dress was made to reveal nothing.

Stian also kneels. As I pick up the cup by the stem, his hand closes over mine. Goodness, how clumsy of me. His other hand clutches my posterior.

My other hand balls into a fist in preparation for punching him. I knew something like this would⁠—

There’s a peculiar hissing sound, then Stian lets out a rather girlish shriek. Leaping to his feet and away from me, he spins around several times, clutching at his bottom.

About the time I smell something’s burnt, I notice a large handprint beneath his hands, scorched through the seat of his pants.

Ahh. Nicely done, brother!

What’s going on, here? Mama asks, approaching with an imposing, older fellow clad in black and wearing a crown of black metal. A woman in a like-colored dress and crown looks on with amusement before turning to speak with the oldest of my little sisters, Halla. Goodness, Mama says. That looks like a nasty burn, Stian.

While Stian’s job is helping Mama by being some sort of public figure for the realm’s trade deals, I have never figured out how he keeps that job. I suppose he’s competent, but I’ve never noticed anything extraordinary about him.

With something between a forced smile and restrained anger, he says, It would appear the young lord felt it humorous to burn me.

Mama and the crowned fellow look to Ragni.

Projecting innocence, my brother opens his arms wide. I thought we were playing a game of grab the bum. He turns to Stian. Did you not start such a game when you took hold of Arna’s arse?

Though he sputters, Stian doesn’t otherwise reply.

Well, Mama begins, her expression neutral, it would appear you got what you gave: unwanted attention. Minor infractions to hosting and guesting rights cancel each other out. So, unless you’d like to issue a challenge, let’s call the matter settled.

Ragni smiles a dark, hard smile I’ve never seen before. Please, he says, a strange, deep reverberation from his voice filling and silencing the hall, challenge me.

Stian’s anger drains away, along with the blood in his face. His smile becomes even more strained and fails to reach his eyes. It was simply an accident of balance. Unfortunately, these clothes need mending, so I must bid you all a good evening.

Dignity as scorched as his trousers, he turns and quickly leaves.

Conversations around the hall resume.

Once the door’s closed behind Stian, Mama’s expression brightens. Children, this is Herla, King of the Dark Court. Herla, my eldest son, Ragnvaldr, and my eldest daughter, Arna.

The two men clasp arms.

The like-dressed woman must be Jorth, his queen. I’ve heard their son is amazing. Handsome, strong, and almost disturbingly good with weapons. Unfortunately, the name escapes me. Was it Tor? Moore? Err… probably best not to mention him.

I give his majesty a nod. It’s a pleasure to meet you, King Herla.

Just Herla, he replies, his voice deep and gruff. Your mother’s done us a great service. Arranged a trade agreement that will benefit all four courts. And, the High Court, too. As we muster our armies to war, it’s good that we’re leaving something solid behind.

War? With who?

That’s wonderful news, I reply with a practiced smile.

King Herla has the gift of sight, Mama says. He’s been of great assistance during our negotiations.

The trade deal Stian mentioned? I ask.

Mama’s smile fills with amusement. Hardly.

Ragni frowns. What does ‘gift of sight’ mean? You can see things on the other side of Vanaheim?

Herla laughs, a pleasant sound that shakes the hall. Oh, aye. I can see afar. But, I can also see the future.

Ooh! I begin excitedly, can you tell us something of what’s to come?

His expression turns serious. I can. His gaze encompasses both me and Ragni. Life is about change. Both of you are about to get a lot more life than you ever expected. When the High King’s daughter calls, you’ll begin. You first, lad.

As I’m trying to absorb this, Herla adds, Fear not, lass. You won’t be far behind. Also, a word of advice. Next time you see Queen Mab, be sure to give her a good, deep bow. Maybe two.

Mama and Herla walk away as Ragni and I exchange puzzled looks.

2

Roughly two weeks later, I open the front door and my plans for the rest of the day vanish like ashes in a gale. A goddess stands before me. But this isn’t just any goddess. Like most goddesses, she’s beautiful. Her long, blonde hair is darker than Mama’s, but not by a lot. She projects strength in ways I have a hard time defining. Maybe something about her soul-reading eyes or her attention-commanding presence. Unlike Mama, this goddess’s aura of power raises the hair on the back of my neck.

Though my mouth’s gone dry, I manage to say, You must be Aunt Freya. Freya’s really her title, but they say she doesn’t like people speaking her actual name—Frigg.

If Herla was right, our lives are about to change.

A peculiar dread sweeps through me as I try not to stare. This is Freya Njordsdottir, First Daughter of Vanaheim. And with great Njord stepping down from the throne, she and her twin brother are about to become the rulers of the Vanir, my people. Our people.

Change. How could I be so blind? Everyone’s preparing for war, and before this week is out, Freya and Frey will be our new rulers. How can everything not change?

The goddess’s stormy, sea-blue eyes meet mine, and I know she’s not just looking at me, she’s seeing me.

Arna Gullveigsdottir. Sixteen years of age, yet the deep powers of your birthright elude you. Perhaps we can talk about this later. As though remembering her manners, a small but apparently sincere smile graces her lips. It’s a pleasure to see you again, my dear.

Her eyes lose much of their intensity but remain just as striking.

Speaking of striking, she just pointed out my greatest fear.

While I’m strong and quick enough that I’m not likely to be mistaken for a mortal, I’m beginning to wonder if my powers will ever develop beyond this.

So, too, have most of those who study the runic arts with me. This loss of my social standing marked yet another consequence of breaking up with Maeve… and the actions that led up to it. What my classmates once dared only whisper, they now boldly spoke.

And this turnaround is the source of my greatest frustration—just like Mama warned would happen.

Struggling to keep the burgeoning aggravation off my face, I lie, It’s a pleasure to see you again. Would you like to come in?

I would.

Stepping aside, I open our large, heavy front door wide. Our hall is nice. It features polished wood floors inset with small carved stones of deep gray. The vaulted ceiling has a dozen windows of thick but clear glass, and the furniture is sturdy and hand-carved. We keep everything clean and tidy. Mama insists, and it’s become a small matter of pride for our family.

I frown at one of my little brother’s socks under a side table and one of my little sister’s old wooden play knives.

Granted, clearly not the whole family, but definitely for me.

Freya stops beside me and looks around. Your mother has made quite a home. She’s done well for herself.

Unsure how to respond, I nod.

So, is Gullveig here? There’s a look in the goddess’s eyes, as though she’s testing me.

I glance around, but it’s less what my eyes see and more the absence of Mama that I pick up. There’s a certain feel to the hall when she’s around. I believe she had some business to attend to.

Your brother?

This catches me totally by surprise. My brother? Which one?

Freya kneels and examines a small handprint burned into one of the chairs many years ago. Ragnvaldr.

I… I think he’s outside. Maybe in the forge?

Probably curled up in the coals.

Has he burned you?

She knows. I wave my hand dismissively. A couple of times, by accident.

He can control fire? Freya looks to me and stands. More specifically, he can control the fires within?

You should be talking to him. Or Mama.

Again, Freya surprises me, this time by smiling. You’re protective of your family. That’s good. Tell me Arna, do you know what the Game of Ages is?

I shake my head as she walks over to stand with me in the bright glow from the window above. The light gives her and her hair in particular an amazing luminescence. I’ve heard Mama mention it. I’ve heard it’s both extremely complex and not truly a game—which, honestly, clarified nothing.

That’s to be expected. Some gods know it, but few truly understand it. As you heard, the Game of Ages is not a game at all. It’s how gods move through time and maintain their domains across the centuries.

I’m sorry, I still don’t understand.

All the worlds change. Sometimes it’s mountains exploding, and sometimes it’s the slow erosion of river basins and hills. When people of any flavor are part of the mix, the speed of those slower changes typically increases dramatically. Turning those changes to your favor is what the game’s all about.

I ponder this. Could I trouble you for an example?

No trouble at all. Two centuries ago, this valley was naught but a hill surrounded by grasslands with a few dozen streams. I wanted more people here, so I sent nixies to dam up some of the streams, thus creating ponds and lakes. Dryads and brownies came to plant trees because people need resources. Later, I tasked sprites and pixies with ushering additional animals into the region. Thus, by the time settlers arrived, this had become a place in which they could thrive.

I nod slowly. And then you asked Mama to come so trade would grow.

Exactly. I improved this area with the goal that two-hundred years later, I could draw resources from it. That is a very simple move in the Game of Ages.

The very idea of planning two centuries in advance strikes awe through me. I have trouble just keeping up with the littles, my studies, and household chores.

Hmm. The hill which Center was built around is also the exact middle point of Vanaheim. As such, it’s a natural meeting place for the lesser courts. I’d bet one of Ragni’s boots that fact played no small part in her decision to populate this area.

A dark intuition takes hold and I turn suspicious eyes to Freya. Are you looking at Ragni as a resource to be harvested?

The goddess smiles in delight, which throws my thoughts into chaos. Slowly, her delight fades, replaced with… I’m not sure what. But, whatever it is, it’s serious. No, dear. Your mother and I struck a deal eighteen years ago last week. Your brother is no resource to be harvested… he’s payment for that deal.

I’m faintly aware of the blood leaving my face. P… payment? For what?

Not what, dear girl.

I don’t understand.

"That is clear. I’ll speak plainly. Your brother isn’t payment for something, rather someone."

Someone?

Yes.

Who?

"Dear girl, he’s payment for you."

There’s a rushing in my ears, and I sit down hard. When my senses stop reeling, I find myself in a chair which had been across the front room.

There’s no sign of the goddess.

Halla walks in, sees me, and stops. Two years my junior, she’s several shades darker of skin than me, with wide-set eyes that our sister Sylvi has dubbed forest-brown. Her hair is a dark brown pushing towards black, and she keeps it short. You’re paler than usual and look like you just threw up. Are you well?

I…

Though she’s become pretty good at pretending not to care, that’s suddenly gone. She rushes over to me. What’s wrong?

Freya’s here.

Just starting to look around the front hall to see if the source of whatever’s wrong with me might be visible, Halla freezes. The First Daughter? She’s here?

Not trusting my voice, I nod.

Halla glances around again. Where? Why would she come here?

I… I think she’s gonna take Ragni away.

Though her expression’s filled with questions, she pulls me to my feet. Seeing I’m still unsteady, Halla asks, She hit you or something?

No.

When I don’t explain, she throws me a frown then runs for the back door.

Still struggling with Freya’s revelation, I follow.

Outside, the day is bright with a few spotty little clouds. Halla races straight to the forge building.

Inside, Ragni’s talking to Freya. He throws us a puzzled look as we rush in but goes back to squeezing a glob of glowing metal with his bare hands. Blistering heat radiates off both my brother and the metal. You’d think it had the consistency of wet clay from the way he’s pulling it apart and pushing it back together.

Freya turns to Halla and smiles. Greetings, Halla Gullveigsdottir.

Halla freezes. Lady Freya.

Aunt Freya, please.

Eyes wide, Halla nods.

Freya turns back to Ragni. Have you ever made a weapon?

Made an axe once, he says with a little lift of the shoulder. A few knives. Why?

I’m curious. The dvargar have turned weaponsmithing into an art. But, for all their talent and skill, they cannot work with metal as closely as you can.

Ragni lifts that shoulder again. It’s just a hobby.

A sly look enters Freya’s eyes. I’ve heard the smiths of Muspell can create blades of solid flame.

His gaze immediately locks onto hers. Solid flame? He paces around in small circles, but his eyes don’t leave hers. If you could make a sword of solid flame, you could make almost anything from flame.

Correct, Freya purrs. Would you like to learn this art?

Yes! A thousand times, yes.

Freya opens her mouth to speak, but at that moment Mama walks in. Her golden eyes flick around the forge, then settle on the First Daughter of Vanaheim. Despite Mama wearing one of her work dresses, she’s still every bit as regal as Freya.

Relief surges through me. She’ll put an end to this, and everything will go back to normal.

High Princess Freya, Mama says coolly. It’s a pleasure to host you.

Not a true hosting. No guest-right has been invoked. Merely a visit.

Mama glances to Ragni. So you won’t…?

Freya’s smile is full of compassion. Oh, yes, I will.

My heart races, and there’s that strange rushing in my ears again. I grasp desperately for hope, but it turns thin, growing ever more elusive.

Ragni’s gaze flits from the goddesses to me and back again. What’s going on?

Mama says quietly, You’ll be leaving with Freya.

For how long? He frowns. My tutor’s finally talking about some truly interesting lore concerning alfar sigils. Also, I need to get the south fields ready for planting.

A tear slides down Mama’s face. Forever. Or until Freya releases you from service.

The hope I grasped for vanishes, and my vision begins to fade.

3

Iawaken in my bed. Someone set me atop the covers. As I sit up, pains in my back and the back of my legs flare. Annoyed, I pull my dress around. There’s an arm-sized scorched place behind my legs. I twist around. On my shoulder there’s another burned spot in the shape of a large hand.

Oh, Hel’s frost! Ragni must have . . .

Ragni.

My hands cover my mouth before I realize I’m doing it. Freya’s taking away my brother. My best friend. Tears flow as voices in the hall finally draw my attention.

It takes several deep breaths to get myself under control. I’ve always been an ugly crier, so, after wiping my cheeks dry, I use a tiny twist of nature seidr to clear my face.

I push the hide curtains aside and step out into the hall.

Silence falls.

Everyone’s sitting at the great table. Mama’s at one end and Freya sits in Ragni’s place at the other. He’s at her right hand. Sitting between the two goddesses are the rest of my siblings.

Feeling awkward as all eyes fall on me, I take my place at Mama’s right side.

She gives me a bare, distracted smile. The usual sheen in her gold eyes seems faded. Beneath the table, Mama takes my hand and squeezes. I squeeze back, feeling a little better.

I’m not the only one having a hard time with this.

Dark of hair and skin, Birsa sits between me and her twin brother, Kafli. Deep brown eyes worried and lips pressed tight, Birsa touches my dress with a fingertip and the scorch marks fade away. The twins are always twisting out bits of seidr.

I mouth ‘Thank you’ and force a little smile for her.

She pats my leg and frowns across the table at Sylvi.

Sitting directly across from me, our sister looks mostly like a typical dokk alfar. Sylvi’s even paler than me, which is saying something. She has beautiful midnight black hair, pointed ears, and brilliant yellow eyes. Hers are the closest eyes to Mama’s of any of us. Sylvi’s glowering at Freya like she’s thinking of leaping across the table and attacking the goddess with one of the knives she’s always carrying.

To Sylvi’s left sits Sten, our youngest sib.

Between Sten and Ragni is an unused chair.

That gap feels disturbingly symbolic. Like Ragni’s already separated from us.

Freya looks to me. We were just discussing how Ragnvaldr will be traveling with me across Yggdrasil. He shall see things never imagined nor dreamt. Meet some of the most interesting people to ever live. She gives a quick, slightly warped smile. And a few who’ve died.

Yggdrasil—the World Tree from which the Nine Realms hang like fruit.

You… I try again, You’re going to other realms?

We are, indeed, Freya replies. We’ll visit Folkvang, Muspelheim, Alfheim, and Midgard for certain. Any other worlds will depend upon provenance.

Folkvang isn’t one of the Nine Realms. It’s the realm of those Vanir who’ve died in glorious combat. Freya pried it away from her mother, Nerthus—after she went mad and began sacrificing her followers. There’re probably unsung verses to that dark story.

Alfheim, Sylvi says in something very close to a sneer. Nidavellir would be better.

Nidavellir, home of the dvargar. The realm the dokk alfar fled to after their schism with the ljos alfar. Sylvi’s never been there, but we’ve all heard tales.

Freya smiles brightly. As the ruler of Alfheim, I think my brother Frey might disagree. That said, I must concede that the dvargar’s realm holds many wonders. The Great Market is something everyone should see, as are the Crystal Caverns and the Fire Maw Forges.

Sylvi sits back, her expression confused.

Freya has a talent for saying what you least expect.

What will you be doing? I ask Ragni, pleased my voice remains calm and steady.

We’ve talked about me learning from some of the great smiths. Beyond that, I don’t know. He looks to Freya, as does everyone else.

Why, you’ll be training, of course.

Ragni’s expression turns puzzled. Training for what?

Freya meets his gaze. The very thing our enemies are best at. War.

Silence falls.

At Freya’s left, the oldest of my sisters, Halla whispers, We’ve seen the armies marching. Who are you going to war against?

Freya’s perfect lips flatten into a hard line. "There will always be people who wish to rule by the sword. Force their will on others. Snuff out the heart of other, stronger cultures. Against this, there must always be someone to take a stand. Not just someone to pick up a sword to oppose these people—someone who can wield the blade as