voice.’
She could do it. She had to.
In a fluid motion, Rika stood. She lifted one arm in a gesture that suggested she had tapped into a power ful source from above. The other she outstretched to ward the crowded hall. She waited. She knew she was just a thrall in a shabby, ill-fitting garment, but in her mind, she saw herself robed in silk and gorgeously ar rayed in a fabulous multihued cape.
The skaldic gift—Magnus had always assured her she had it. Being a skald was more than possessing a prodigious memory and a pleasant voice for recitation with skill. The best of the Nordic bards were also blessed with the ability to crystallize an image and send it to their listeners so that it formed in their minds as well. If she could only trust herself enough, open herself enough, her audience would see what she saw and she would feel what they feel. It was time, she decided, to see if the mantle of Magnus Silver-Throat had indeed passed to her.
Whether the men in the hall saw her as she imag ined herself, she couldn’t say, but one by one the rau cous voices fell silent.
“Hear, O People of Sogna!” Her voice, low and mu sical, filled the great hall with a power that surprised even her. She inhaled deeply and went on. “I know an ash tree, whose outstretched limbs and deep roots pass through all the nine worlds, and Yggdrasil is its name.”
A low murmur rippled through the hall. She’d struck a chord by starting with the unifying Life of the World Tree, the life that binds all the spheres together.
“Come with me, and we will journey along the mighty branches of the World Tree to far-off lands,” she urged. Almost to a man, her audience leaned forward.
“ We start in Asgard, that holiest place, home of the gods and of Valhalla, hope of every valiant heart, where the brave may ever live in joy.” She caressed the words and thought she sensed the pulse of her audi ence ticking upward. “The All-Father joins us there. Odin, the One-Eyed, the wisest of all. He marches be side us, desirous of bearing us company on our journey through the nine worlds, for he has an appointment, a grim task ahead of him.”
Brilliant as a lightning bolt and sharp as a blade, she felt the connection. Beyond the bond of a performer and her audience, the mystic umbilical bridged be tween them. Rika felt a delicious shiver tickle down their spines, and if any in the hall were still eating, they laid their knives on the benches, the better to listen.
“Next we fare to Aelfham, where all manner of plea sure abounds and the Fair Folk who dwell there are gilded with light. But human hearts can only bear so much exquisite joy. Our stay must be brief, but as we leave that enchanted world, the ethereal music of the Light Elves echoes in our ears.” Rika's voice floated over the hall, dulcet-toned and airy. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gunnar’s jaw sag with desire.
“ Odin urges us to haste as we stop in Vanaheim, home of the All-Father’s brother-god, Frey. Mighty god of strangled sacrifice, Frey, the Horned One, knows that all life springs from death, just as a seed must die before the abundance of harvest can ever be.”
Solemn nods greeted this pronouncement.
“ The branches of Yggdrasil take us to the fiery edge of Muspel, first of all worlds, but we dare not enter that bright, hot place. The border is guarded by one with a flaming sword, who waits for the dreadful day when he is loosed to burn the whole world with fire unending.”
Rika scanned the sea of rapt faces. Did they feel the heat and smell the sulfur belching from that white-hot sphere of molten rock?
“ The thick trunk of Yggdrasil runs through the beautiful realm of Midgard, this very Middle Earth, the homely land of all the races of men,” Rika said simply, as her audience relaxed a bit with the familiar. “ Midgard, where the lives of mortals run their course and each man’s mettle is tried by his fate.”
She could do it. She had to.
In a fluid motion, Rika stood. She lifted one arm in a gesture that suggested she had tapped into a power ful source from above. The other she outstretched to ward the crowded hall. She waited. She knew she was just a thrall in a shabby, ill-fitting garment, but in her mind, she saw herself robed in silk and gorgeously ar rayed in a fabulous multihued cape.
The skaldic gift—Magnus had always assured her she had it. Being a skald was more than possessing a prodigious memory and a pleasant voice for recitation with skill. The best of the Nordic bards were also blessed with the ability to crystallize an image and send it to their listeners so that it formed in their minds as well. If she could only trust herself enough, open herself enough, her audience would see what she saw and she would feel what they feel. It was time, she decided, to see if the mantle of Magnus Silver-Throat had indeed passed to her.
Whether the men in the hall saw her as she imag ined herself, she couldn’t say, but one by one the rau cous voices fell silent.
“Hear, O People of Sogna!” Her voice, low and mu sical, filled the great hall with a power that surprised even her. She inhaled deeply and went on. “I know an ash tree, whose outstretched limbs and deep roots pass through all the nine worlds, and Yggdrasil is its name.”
A low murmur rippled through the hall. She’d struck a chord by starting with the unifying Life of the World Tree, the life that binds all the spheres together.
“Come with me, and we will journey along the mighty branches of the World Tree to far-off lands,” she urged. Almost to a man, her audience leaned forward.
“ We start in Asgard, that holiest place, home of the gods and of Valhalla, hope of every valiant heart, where the brave may ever live in joy.” She caressed the words and thought she sensed the pulse of her audi ence ticking upward. “The All-Father joins us there. Odin, the One-Eyed, the wisest of all. He marches be side us, desirous of bearing us company on our journey through the nine worlds, for he has an appointment, a grim task ahead of him.”
Brilliant as a lightning bolt and sharp as a blade, she felt the connection. Beyond the bond of a performer and her audience, the mystic umbilical bridged be tween them. Rika felt a delicious shiver tickle down their spines, and if any in the hall were still eating, they laid their knives on the benches, the better to listen.
“Next we fare to Aelfham, where all manner of plea sure abounds and the Fair Folk who dwell there are gilded with light. But human hearts can only bear so much exquisite joy. Our stay must be brief, but as we leave that enchanted world, the ethereal music of the Light Elves echoes in our ears.” Rika's voice floated over the hall, dulcet-toned and airy. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gunnar’s jaw sag with desire.
“ Odin urges us to haste as we stop in Vanaheim, home of the All-Father’s brother-god, Frey. Mighty god of strangled sacrifice, Frey, the Horned One, knows that all life springs from death, just as a seed must die before the abundance of harvest can ever be.”
Solemn nods greeted this pronouncement.
“ The branches of Yggdrasil take us to the fiery edge of Muspel, first of all worlds, but we dare not enter that bright, hot place. The border is guarded by one with a flaming sword, who waits for the dreadful day when he is loosed to burn the whole world with fire unending.”
Rika scanned the sea of rapt faces. Did they feel the heat and smell the sulfur belching from that white-hot sphere of molten rock?
“ The thick trunk of Yggdrasil runs through the beautiful realm of Midgard, this very Middle Earth, the homely land of all the races of men,” Rika said simply, as her audience relaxed a bit with the familiar. “ Midgard, where the lives of mortals run their course and each man’s mettle is tried by his fate.”
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