“Njáll. You must prepare. We have waited too long as it is. Your kona is likely having visions of what is to come.”
Blood ran cold in his veins, making his fingers prickle. The force of it almost sent him to his knees as he stumbled, his father’s hand steadying him.
“She may be practicing seiðr.”
A witch, as he thought.
Priestess. Prophetess. Seeress. Völva.
They held many names, each more feared and respected than the last.
Freyja was the mistress of all Völvas.
“Njáll. If what I suspect is true, your kona is in danger. Untrained seiðr is chaotic, and that energy is drawing unwanted attention. She must harness it. And you must help her. Or I fear Hel or Loki may rally the draugar to break their chains and cause chaos in our world.”
The words hung heavy in the air, making his stomach churn until bile burned the back of his throat. Njáll glared at the shining axe on the wall, his fingers throbbing from how hard he clenched his fists.
“How do I help her?”
In the last two years as Jarl, he had never lost a battle, never failed to prepare for every outcome. His warriors trusted him. And he trusted himself. But now he felt lost, like a young boy wobbling with an axe too big for him.
“Consult the Völva, Hlif. She will know if your girl truly carries the gift of seiðr. If so, she can guide her.”
Fingers traced the roughened fabric of the tapestry, tracing the outline of the chariot pulling Freyja. Odin had gifted his father a wolf to challenge Fenrir at Ragnarök, and Freyja chose Njáll to guard her servant on earth.
Sweat slicked his palms. He brushed the evidence away on his trews. While Njáll worried for his flame, he knew of her strength, her unbending will. She would master her gift, and Njáll vowed to shield her from their enemies.
The weight of his silent oath must have shown in his heavily lidded eyes. His father grasped his upper arms, clenching them.
“Have faith, my son. Freyja would not have chosen you for one gifted with seiðr if she did not think you capable.”
No matter what misgivings he had, he had to carry himself with a confidence he did not feel. For his flame.
“Thank you, Pabbi,” he said, using the name he hadn’t uttered since he started training.
“If she is yours, we will protect her as fiercely as we would any member of this family. All will be well.”
Sixteen
Elara
The heavy thud of his heartbeat hummed in her ears. Ashes smoldered in the firepit, early morning sun poking through the smoke hole. The musky scent of cedar and leather clung to the furs as she pressed further into his hold.
He’d returned to her in time for the evening meal, feeding her from his fingers before pulling her back into bed.
“My little flame burns too bright to sleep long,” he rasped, voice thick with slumber.
Soft lips rested atop her messy nest of curls. Puckered skin bounced under her nails as she trailed a long scar bisecting his torso.
A deep, sleep-roughened voice purred above her, his grip tightening around her waist.
“Two years ago. An English merchant captured my sister, planning to make her his bride and force my father’s hand in an alliance.”
Hot breath fanned over her shuddering lips, fogging the taut skin of his sculpted chest. Bile churned in her stomach. She burrowed further into his hold, tracing the scar, imagining the hell he went through to save his sister.
“I earned that mark, fighting with her now soon-to-be husband to steal her back.”
His body pulsed as she nuzzled into his neck. She pressed a sweet kiss to his pulse, smiling when his body tensed. One hand drifted under her shift, stroking her calf. The gentle touch sent a ripple of warmth flooding to her abdomen.
