Pulse pounding, mouth parched, a bewildered Brynhildr tried to make sense of Freyja’s incomprehensible words.
Her mother, Queen Helga, had died giving birth to Brynhildr.
Freyja’s claim could not possibly be true.
Could it?
“MymóðirwasQueen Helga,” Brynhildr stammered, her mind racing as fast as her heart. “She died giving birth to me, eighteen summers past.”
Yrsa quietly fetched the silver goblet from the hearth and placed it on the ashwood table. Her voice, soft as a summer breeze, floated through the stunned silence. “Come… sit together and share this chalice of mead.”
Golden eyes locked on Brynhildr, Freyja gestured for her to be seated before sliding into the opposite chair. The floral fragrance of meadowsweet and the heady aroma of honey mingled with the scent of myrrh from the silver dish near the hearth.
“It is true that Queen Helga died giving birth to adóttir,” Freyja murmured, raising the silver chalice to her lips and taking a small sip. “But her babe had already perished in the womb, which also caused Helga’s tragic death.” Freyja passed the chalice to Brynhildr and nodded, encouraging her to drink.
Brynhildr stared into the amber liquid where a trio of tiny white meadowsweet blossoms and three droplets of her own blood glistened in the golden brew. Heart thumping against the golden corslet, legs shaking inside the amber leather, she lifted the silver chalice with a trembling hand and swallowed a mouthful of mead.
“Yrsa was the midwife who wrapped the stillborn babe in clean white linens, buried her quietly in the sacred grove, and presented you as the surviving child to the grieving king.” Freyja took another slow sip from the silver chalice. “I had foreseen that Queen Helga would succumb in childbirth…and that herdóttir’slife would end while still in the womb.”
The goddess passed the elaborate goblet back to Brynhildr, the amber beads in the etched silver glowing like golden suns. “Aseiðrvision had revealed that I would bear a king’sdóttir, destined to become a Valkyrie. My child would impact the lives of humans and therefore needed to be raised as a mortal within the realm of Midgard. When the Norns showed me that the queen of Hrafnfjall would die in childbirth along with her babe, I foresaw the chance to conceive mydóttirand have her raised by a noble human king.”
Sorrow warred with splendor in Freyja’s golden gaze. “When I visited King Budli in the guise of a lovely human concubine, I enchanted him so that he would not remember me—or the intimate encounter. You were born three weeks before Queen Helga gave birth. I had the heartbreaking joy of nursing you at my own breast and cradling you in my own arms… until the inevitable moment when I had to give you up.”
Tears glimmering on her luminous face, Freyja tenderly caressed Brynhildr’s cheek. “Yrsa found a wetnurse in the village. From my hall inFólkvangr,I watched you grow, waiting for the turn of your eighteenth summer to bestow the triad of enchanted gifts. Now that I have made you invincible in battle, you will draw theAllfather’sgaze…and rise to ride as a Valkyrie.”
Brynhildr’s pulse thundered in her ears. Astonishment, exhilaration, grief, and awe tumbled through her all at once.
Freyja is my móðir!
Theseiðrgoddess whom Brynhildr and Yrsa both worshipped had given birth to her, nurtured her, and watchedover her from the divine realm ofFólkvangr. She now sat in Brynhildr’s private chambers of herfaðir’sclifftop fortress, revealing the incredulous truth of her divine heritage—and the incredible destiny of her foretold fate.
I shall ride as a Valkyrie!
Freyja’s ethereal voice floated to Brynhildr on the salty spring breeze. “You are born of two realms,dóttir min. And your deeds shall ripple across both.”
The golden goddess lifted the silver chalice, where the tiny blooms in the amber mead circled the droplets of Brynhildr’s blood like pale stars around a trio of glimmering suns. Brilliant light shimmered as she rose from her chair, her mellow voice resonant with otherworldly power.
“To blood and destiny intertwined, and to the fateful path that shall mark both mortal and divine.” Freyja brought the chalice to her lips and took a small, reverent sip, savoring and sealing the sacred bond between the goddessmóðirand her Sun Falcondóttir.She offered the ornate goblet to Brynhildr with outstretched hands.
Legs trembling inside the bronze leather, Brynhildr arose on unsteady feet. Her golden corslet glittered in the sunlight as she accepted the amber-adorned silver chalice etched with ancient runes. Breathless with anticipation, she stared into the swirling blossoms and blood in the meadowsweet mead. Inhaling deeply, she lifted the shining vessel and drank from the rim touched by hermóðir’slips.
As Brynhildr swallowed the sip of sacred mead, Yrsa gripped hervölvastaff, pointed it at the silver chalice, and murmured a blessing under her breath. “So it is fulfilled,” she whispered with a knowing smile. “Móðiranddóttir, bound by blood and fate.”
Freyja’s gaze softened. She clasped Brynhildr’s hand with warm, luminous fingers. “Dóttir min… you shall triumph as the invincibleSun Falconat theSólhjartaTournament, and theAllfather’sgaze will fall upon you. When he calls you to rise as a Valkyrie, I shall stand beside him.” The piney scent of juniper and the exotic spice of myrrh wafted in the golden mist which shimmered around the iridescent goddess. “And when he does, I shall return to you once again.”
With a radiant smile and a whoosh of wings from her shimmering falcon cloak, Freyja floated from the sunlit chamber on a wisp of salty wind.
The silver chalice glimmered in Brynhildr’s trembling hands, the promise of destiny and divine heritage burning bright in herSun Falconheart.
Yrsa’s voice interrupted Brynhildr’s reverie. “Let us return to your chamber so I can help you out of the enchanted armor. We’ll wrap the corslet and leather pieces in linen, and tuck them safely inside your wooden trunk.”
Brynhildr followed her mentor up the stairs, back to her private quarters on the third level of the tower overlooking the turbulent fjord.
Yrsa leaned her ashwood staff against the wall, retrieved a large swathe of cream-colored cloth, and returned to unfasten the clasps at Brynhildr’s shoulders and back.
As her arms slipped from the golden corslet, Brynhildr seethed with a contradictory blend of anger, awe, and anguish. How could Yrsa have withheld such an important truth? “You have known since my birth that Freyja is mymóðir—and yet you never told me?” Limbs shaking, heart thundering, her voice quavered with overwhelming emotion.
Yrsa’s deep blue gaze was as profound as the icy fjord. “Freyja forbade me from revealing the truth of your birth. It was essential that you be raised in the realm of humans, and that you knew nothing of your divine heritage.” She took hold of Brynhildr’s cold hands, the soothing warmth a welcome comfort. “The goddess showed me your future as theSunFalconshieldmaiden. A Valkyrie clad in golden armor, wielding enchanted weapons, and deciding who will triumph on the fields of battle.” She meticulously wrapped the golden corslet in the pale linen, then folded the amber leather leggings, vambraces, gloves, and boots in separate swathes of soft cloth.
