Runa said nothing. She barely knew her half-brother Raynar, but a part of her still hoped that he was all right. Her few interactions with him had been pleasant, and she didn’t wish him ill.
The High Aesir stared at her for a long moment, her eyebrows knitting ever so slightly. “You don’t seem pleased with this appointment.”
Runa forced a smile and was immediately self-conscious of the scar warping the left side of her face. “Forgive me. This is all so… unexpected. Of course, I’m honored to be your ward and an acolyte to the rest of the Aesir. I just… don’t feel worthy of such a high position.”
Sigrun’s frown vanished and her expression warmed, becoming almost motherly. She reached out with a bejeweled hand and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Make no mistake, this is a grave responsibility from the gods. But know that if you serve well, you will likely be welcomed into the ranks of the Aesir when the time is right. Perhaps, one day, you will even become High Aesir like me. Based on what I’ve heard from the Vanir, and what I’ve already observed, you’ll be a great asset to the Temple and to the clanhold. I don’t make such decisions lightly.”
Runa’s smile widened, and this time, it wasn’t entirely forced. “Thank you, High Aesir. I will not fail you.”
“Good,” Sigrun replied, removing her hand. Her expression returned to its customary coldness as she drew herself to her full height, which was considerable with her antler headpiece. “Take the day to get your affairs in order. Tomorrow, we will begin your lessons and explain your responsibilities. Embers and glory, acolyte.”
“Embers and glory,” Runa returned.
By the time Runa made it to her room, she was on the verge of collapse. The excitement she felt at her new appointment, combined with the exhaustion from her training, threatened to overwhelm her, reducing her to a quivering bundle of frayed nerves.
Frosts, she thought as she dropped heavily onto her sleeping pallet. This changes everything! The chance to learn at the feet of the Aesir... I never thought this sort of thing was possible. At least not for me.
And yet, it was.
Runa had always been an outcast. Even growing up in the halls of her natural father, Ivar Haig, she’d been seen as little more than a thrall. Bastards were often shunned in Norvaask, and daughters were no exception. She’d been practically raised by the servants of her father’s highborn, men and women who were often as hard and cynical as the battleborn they despised. She’d been expected to perform menial chores from a very young age. When it was discovered that she carried the Flame Within, Runa had been thrilled, thinking her station in life would vastly improve when she became a true fireborn.
As with most things, this hope became a sore disappointment.
The fireborn treated her with contempt, just like everyone else. They viewed her as an aberration, a person who fell outside of the rigid caste system. She wasn’t highborn, despite her blood ties to the Clan Lord, nor was she middleborn or lowborn, who typically gathered in tight-knit groups of their own. She was a bastard, and that’s all she’d ever be, regardless of her abilities.
Now—for the first time in years—she felt a very real hope that things would be different.
Sighing, she stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows play on the rough-cut stone. She was too tired to draft, and so hadn’t bothered lighting a candle, but enough illumination filtered in from beneath the door flap. Her room was bare and sparsely furnished, more like a cave than a home. Still, it was more luxurious than anything she’d had growing up.
“Perhaps my fortunes are changing,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips. Friends, fame, recognition... maybe even a lover. Everything that had ever been denied her could soon be within reach.
Runa’s smile faded as she reached up and touched her cheek, fingertips brushing the puckered flesh of her scar. People had always called her ugly because of her deformity, and most days, she truly felt that way. But the memory of what had given her that scar was more painful than even the mockery. She pushed the thoughts out of her mind, desperately clinging to her newfound feeling of hope.
“One day, I’ll be an Aesir,” she vowed. “And then, finally, I’ll have the respect of the clanhold. And my father, gods curse him, will have to acknowledge me.”
With that, she rolled over and closed her eyes, ignoring the hunger gnawing at her stomach. Her exhaustion was too pressing, and she wanted to end the day on a positive note.
Tomorrow would begin an entirely new chapter of her life.
Chapter 8
Premonitions
“Njordrassil is a harsh place, with brutal winters and equally brutal customs. But they say the hardest places breed the hardest warriors.”
—Memoir, Rune Plate 3
“Hark—O people of Njordrassil, and take heed! The time of reckoning soon comes! Remember that life is but a storm wind, fierce and fleeting. If we do not live with valor then we cannot enter the Immortal Halls.”
More than a hundred people packed the Hall of Gathering, listening with varying levels of interest as High Aesir Sigrun recited the Canticle of the Fireborn. Men and women, young and old, sat on stone benches in a wide semi-circle, facing the mammoth skull altar and the woman standing before it. She wore white robes embroidered with red knots, her graying hair woven into a braid and a wreath of antlers resting atop her head.
“For each man is given a charge,” she continued, “a sacred responsibility to his kith and clanhold. To some, it is given to toil, to till this harsh world that food may grow. To others, it is given to hold the Life-giving Flame, that all might bask in the warmth of the gods. And to the most favored, it is given to fight; for it is by strength that all men live, and it is by war that all men are made free.”
As if on cue, everyone bowed their heads and repeated the words, “It is by war that all men are made free.”
Freya had heard this address dozens of times over the years. In truth, she found the content quite dull. However, she gazed up at the High Aesir with undisguised admiration. The woman commanded the entire room, her absolute authority over the fireborn unquestioned.
“Remember, my fire brothers and sisters,” Sigrun said, breaking away from the Canticle, “we have a vital part to play in this, the war of life. From the dawn of time, both man and beast has had to struggle to survive. The white winds kill as surely as tooth and claw, and the cold can be more dangerous than the blade. The gods knew this, and so they made us strong, that the hardiest of our kind might survive like the dire wolf and the bear—by the shedding of blood.” She held out both hands and drafted, filling her palms with fire. “But unlike the beasts of the tundra, the gods have gifted us with the Life-giving Flame. This is our greatest weapon—against living enemies and nature itself.”
She must have been holding a small amount of flame spirits, Freya thought. Enough to cast the spell but not so much that her mouth leaked smoke. Nice trick.
Sigrun let the flames smolder for a long moment before extinguishing them. Freya could feel the heat even from the back of the room. When it was gone, she saw after-images whenever she blinked.
“Don’t forget to nurture the Flame Within,” the High Aesir admonished in closing. “It is the spark of divinity within us all. When the day comes for us to enter the Immortal Halls, the gods will judge us based on what we accomplished with this gift. Don’t let it go to waste. Embers and glory, fireborn of Norvaask.”
“Embers and glory,” the room repeated.
As the sermon concluded, everyone in the Hall of Gathering stood. A buzzing chatter filled the room as conversations sparked to life like dormant embers. Outside, thrall scurried about preparing for the feast that was about to commence, while at the altar, the other Aesir gathered around Sigrun, heaping praise after praise upon her.
Freya watched enviously for a minute while her fire brothers and sisters stood and began blathering. Aside from the Clan Lord, who was the most influential battleborn in the clanhold, the Aesir held the most po
wer. They enacted laws and sat in judgment from the Temple—and the High Aesir was the most powerful of them all. Freya had always dreamed of one day joining their ranks. Sigrun was an immensely talented fireborn, and the fact that she was the first woman in centuries to become High Aesir made her a personal hero of Freya’s.
She wanted more than anything to become her ward.
"What do you think, Freya?" The question came from Brimir.
"Hmm?" Freya tore her gaze away from the Aesir to stare blankly at her friends.
Brimir grinned at her. "Daydreaming again, were you?"
She made a face at him, then looked to the others. "What were you talking about?"
"We were trying to decide if we should go to the upper balconies," Solveig said, giving her golden braid a sultry tug. "I have no desire to feast with a bunch of dusty old men."
"Careful, Sol," Oster chided. "Those dusty old men are our elders. Perhaps if you knew them a little better, you'd be given more desirable duties." He gave her a lecherous wink.
Solveig gasped in outrage and tried to punch his shoulder, but he dodged and pulled her close, kissing her repeatedly on the neck. She cursed but couldn’t help but giggle. Then, she began kissing him back in earnest.
"Like rabbits, those two," Brimir said, rolling his eyes. He turned his attention back to Freya. "Sol has a point, though. Feasting down here would be rather dull. I say we take our party upstairs."
Freya glanced back over at the Aesir. They had left the altar and were making their way to the exits, mingling with fireborn along the way. "Sure—yes. That sounds good. I’ll meet you there."
A disappointed note entered Brimir's voice. "You're not coming with us?"
"There's something I need to take care of first." She gave him a sidelong glance and smiled mischievously. "Don't worry, I won't keep you waiting too long."
His brilliant grin returned when she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “If you say so.” He nudged Oster, who grudgingly disengaged himself from Solveig, then nodded toward the feast hall. "Come on. Let's find some thrall to carry our food and wine up to the balconies. Freya will meet us there."
The two grumbled but ultimately fell in beside him, giving Freya a chance to approach the High Aesir alone. She’d been planning for this moment for some time now. The Aesir were rarely so accessible, most often being preoccupied by important matters of the clanhold.
She followed the stream of people out of the Hall of Gathering and into the feasting area. There, several long tables had been set up, all laden with a wide variety of food and drink. Whole pigs rested on metal platters, their reddened hides drizzled with peppery sauce. They were surrounded by other sliced meats: thick, juicy sausages, skewered lamb chops, filleted chickens smothered in gravy. Piles of hvet cakes and flat breads gave off fragrant aromas, while various stews filled the air with savory clouds of steam. There were fruits and vegetables in the mix as well—onions, tubers, mushrooms, berries, leeks, scallions, and lentils—some steamed, some charred, and others caramelized, but all equally rich and delicious.
When Freya had first come to the Temple as a girl, she’d been amazed and disgusted by the abundance of food. Growing up, there’d never been enough to go around. Most of her meals had consisted of thin broth and hard biscuits, ordinary lowborn fare, only consuming meat on very special occasions. Fireborn and battleborn, on the other hand, feasted frequently, eating meals so large that many grew fat in their old age. The leftovers were never distributed to the lower classes, but were instead given to the hog farmers to help fatten up their swine. Freya had hated the indulgence at first, but as with most things, she’d eventually grown accustomed to the excess. She even indulged herself. It was simply the way things were. One could either bemoan the injustices of the world, as her brother often did, or one could embrace their station in life and do their best to please the gods.
Strolling past the heaping piles of food, Freya kept a close eye on the High Aesir. She casually hailed other fireborn but made certain to keep herself from being pulled into conversation. With a Reputation level of 7, Freya was generally well-liked by those of her order, and so the risk of being pulled into the political machinations of others was great. She also abstained from eating because she didn’t want anything getting caught in her teeth. Instead, she sipped from a goblet of mulled wine and wound her way slowly through the crowd, waiting for an opportunity to speak with the elder woman.
Runa approached one of the nearby tables, quiet and sullen as always. She picked up a slice of pork and began to nibble at it, eyes downcast. Freya raised her nose and passed by without comment, choosing to ignore the irksome wench rather than offer a forced greeting.
She'd probably spoil my appetite, Freya reasoned with a huff. I won’t allow the likes of her to ruin a perfectly good feast.
Finally, High Aesir Sigrun left her contemporaries and stood alone, observing the festivities from an empty stone alcove. She appeared to be pondering something, her finger tapping her chin as she stared off into the distance.
Freya immediately set down her goblet and went to her, bowing her gaze in deference and smiling warmly. "It’s an honor to meet you, High Aesir. Your words today were so inspiring."
Sigrun blinked as if a deep thought had been interrupted, then offered a perfunctory smile. "Thank you, child. The Life-giving Flame grants me utterance."
"You speak with such wisdom," Freya said, trying to sound as sincere as possible. She absently smoothed the front of her robes with sweat-slicked hands. "I hope that one day I can be half as wise as you."
Charisma Check: 4 + Ability Modifier (1).
Unsuccessful.
"I’m sure you will, child. We all learn and grow, grace by grace.” She nodded and made as if to depart, but Freya deftly stepped in front of her, cutting off her escape.
"I was wondering if I might take some of your time," she said in what she hoped wasn’t a desperate tone. "I have a few questions, and there’s so much that I can learn from one of your station."
Sigrun paused and looked Freya over more carefully, her intense gaze lingering on her face. "You're Freya Beckström, are you not?"
Freya brightened. "Yes, High Aesir. I am."
A tight, knowing smile graced the older woman's lips. "I often observe the Vanir as they teach their lessons. The younger generation is the future of our clanhold's Temple, after all. Your Vanir is Kelvar Olgarson, correct?"
"Yes, that’s right."
"He’s a good man," Sigrun noted. "And a very skilled fireborn. You could certainly do worse, as far as teachers go." She paused, seeming to consider something for a moment, then motioned with a slender finger. "Come, walk with me, child. Ask your questions."
Freya followed, her pulse quickening as she accompanied Sigrun. The crowd parted before them, more than a few people whispering upon seeing the two of them together. Some even scowled openly. This will cause quite a stir, Freya thought, feeling giddy. Let them stare. One day, they’ll bow before me when I become the High Aesir.
She tried to adopt a sufficiently humble appearance. “I wanted to know what I must do to truly earn the favor of the gods,” she began. “It’s a question that’s eluded me for some time.”
Sigrun glanced at her curiously. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"And how old were you when you discovered the Flame Within?"
Freya thought back. "Fifteen."
"Then you’ve only been among our ranks nine years," Sigrun said. "Still so young. Even after a lifetime, I find myself struggling to answer the question you just asked. It’s no simple thing, earning the favor of the gods. Some think that simply being born a fireborn or a battleborn is enough, but this isn’t the case. The gods are fickle beings, with shifting values and dubious allegiances. The songs teach us that strength, courage, and sacrifice are the highest virtues we can attain, but I expect you’re searching for a deeper answer. Yes?"
Freya nodded.
"I thought as much." The High Aesir
plucked a piece of flat bread from one of the nearby feast tables. "Tell me, did your parents harvest hvet grain?"
Freya grimaced and shook her head. "My father was a mud farmer."
"Ah," Sigrun replied. "An important calling, but not one I would envy. Still, the principles are the same, I’d imagine. As you know, hvet farmers work mostly underground, utilizing old mining tunnels for planting their seeds. The darker and wetter the tunnels, the better, as the seeds need complete darkness and plenty of moisture to sprout into pods." She took a turn, leading them away from the crowd and toward one of the terraces overlooking the mossy gardens of the inner Temple. "When the pods are ripe," she continued, "they’re harvested from the mud and husked, giving us the thousands of tiny kernels that we need to make bread."
Freya listened quietly, nodding as if in rapt attention. She was familiar with the process of hvet farming, of course. She’d visited the tunnels many times in her youth and had even gathered the discarded husks in order to burn them in her family's hearth. She said nothing, though, as she didn’t want to interrupt the powerful woman’s pontifications.
She speaks to me like I'm an idiot, Freya thought, mildly annoyed. No matter. She can say whatever the Hel she wants at this point. So long as it benefits me.
Sigrun went on. "From there, the grain is crushed, ground into a fine powder, then turned into dough and cooked. Only after immense pressure and heat is applied do the kernels become edible." She stopped before the edge of the terrace and looked at Freya, holding up the flat bread like it was something valuable. "In many ways, we are like the hvet grain. Our early years are spent in darkness, not knowing the power that dwells within us, and even after we’re harvested from the general population, our abilities remain dormant. Simply becoming fireborn is not enough to earn us the favor of the gods."
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