The rumbles and crackling of thunder still sounded from the north when Skadi returned to the Giant’s Rest. Dawn was but hours away; Freyja had set her down a good ten or more miles north of their meeting place.

Still, Skadi’s emotions alternated between morose and exultant, pensive and awed. Had she truly ridden with a goddess through a storm of their own making? Had she chosen the right course of action? On the face of it, delaying or shipwrecking Afastr was an obvious win; but Ásfríðr’s warning rang loud: only select spells that will serve you for the duration of your life.

Spells chosen to remedy an acute problem might prove dead weight in the long run.

But the ability to rouse and quiet storms was a formidable power, was it not? One that would have utility for as long as Skadi breathed? Even if the size of the storms that she could rouse right now were small and of limited power.

But oh, to fly through the air, a goddess laughing at her side, to dance between thunderbolts—such madness was almost too much for her mortal mind to bear. Especially when she was then forced to plod back, mile after mile through the dark to reach her companions.

To have tasted such wonder only to fall back to mundanity was especially harsh.

When she reached the edge of the Giant’s Rest she turned to gaze back north. The dark plain extended away to merge with the base of the distant storm, which drove itself ever north, rolling up the coast. It was so far away now that the rumbles of thunder reached her many seconds after the frequent flash of lighting; it was a distant tapestry that hung across the sky, fierce and unnatural, refusing to expend itself as it tore at the coast.

The guards stood watching the storm, and at her approach roused themselves and raised their spears, only to laugh weakly with relief when she emerged from the gloom.

“It’s a wild night,” said one. “And the darkness has been swarming with shapes.”

“Any trouble?” she asked.

“None.”

Skadi went directly to her uncle’s tent. A single lantern yet burned within, and the men who sat outside the tent were half-sunken in sleep. They roused themselves enough to nod politely, and then she stepped inside.

“You’re soaked,” said her uncle, his expression pulling into a suspicious frown. “Tell me you weren’t cavorting with mermaids.”

“Not tonight. I rode the sky instead with Freyja, and together we summoned the storm that washes Afastr back to Kaldrborg.” She tried to say this with nonchalant ease, but was unable to suppress a thrill; she grinned at her uncle, her exhaustion washing away.

Kvedulf had been in the act of pouring her a drink; he froze, raised the bottle’s neck, and stared at her. “You rode in Freyja’s chariot?”

“And learned a spell to summon or quell storms.” Skadi moved forward, afire again and wanting to dance, to laugh, to spin for the sheer fun of it. “Uncle, it was like nothing I could have imagined. Lightning flashed beside us, winds roared all around, the waves distant and thrashed to madness far below. My power was limited, I was only able to summon a gale, but then Freyja lent me her strength, and the whole sky was filled with dark fury.”

“Hmm,” said Kvedulf, sitting back with his own cup in hand.

Skadi paused, cup half lifted to her lips. “Hmm? That’s all you have to say?”

Kvedulf shifted his weight in his chair, its leather seat creaking beneath him. His expression was dour, his gaze focused sharply on her, his blond brows lowered. “Beware, Skadi, of becoming too dear to the gods.”

Skadi set her cup down. “But she helped us, Uncle. Because of her interest in me, Afastr won’t arrive tomorrow, if his ships aren’t splintered and sinking into the ocean depths already.”

“I appreciate that. I truly do. But sit, Niece, and learn some wisdom from your old uncle.”

Skadi scoffed. Kvedulf was younger than her father, his blond beard and hair without a gray thread, his frame vigorous, his vitality as bright as a flame when he was roused from his moroseness. “Wisdom.”

“Wisdom. Though if it had been said to me when I was young, I’d have looked much as you do. Somewhere between impatient and skeptical, resentful and frustrated. I doubt you’ll pay my words heed, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

Skadi leaned back in her chair and sipped the mead. “I can imagine what you’re going to say. ‘Don’t get close to the gods.’ But how are we to effect our victories without them? You yourself went to Odin before our assault on Grýla.”

Kvedulf scowled. “Let me tell you a tale. I was your age, once, and confident that I would change the world. None could stand against me in combat, and my raids on the Isern coast were rapidly becoming the stuff of legends. When Odin appeared to me and offered me his blessing, I not only took it but thought it overdue.”

Skadi smirked. “We young folk are aggravating, I’ll give you that.”

“And for many years I relished Odin’s patronage. I honored him, sacrificed to him, attributed my victories to his wisdom and power. I grew mighty. The valkyries followed me like crows, and I grew enamored with one of their number.” Kvedulf frowned into his cup. “Odin appeared to me and offered a horn of mead that would make her love me for a night. In my stupidity I took it, thinking his blessing made it right.”

Skadi leaned forward, eyes wide.

“One day after a large battle, I saw her moving amongst the dead, and hailed her. She scorned me, but I made a toast to her beauty, and dared her not to drink. She laughed at me and drained the horn, and I saw the feverish hunger for death in her gaze abate as she considered me with new interest.”

Skadi tried to imagine Hjörþrimul gazing so at anybody, and failed.

“We spent the night in conversation. Oh, she was willing enough to do more, but my intentions weren’t so base. In my folly, I thought I could make her truly love me, so that when the mead wore off she would choose to stay of her own accord.”

Skadi sat back in relief. “Did it work?”

Kvedulf laughed bitterly. “It did. When dawn arrived, I saw the potion’s effects wear off. She kissed me and promised to return; she was the guardian of a sacred treasure, it turned out, and wished to discharge it back to Freyja before choosing to walk by my side. I spent the next hour in an ecstasy of triumph and love, awaiting her return. But when she did, it was like a storm, her blade bared and at my throat before I could defend myself.”

Skadi blinked. “She’d changed her mind?”

“She hadn’t.” Kvedulf’s expression was stony. “While she had spent the night with me, Odin had broken into the tower she’d guarded and stolen its treasure, a runestone of great power. She had failed at her duty by spending the night with me, and thought me complicit. When she saw my shock, however, she realized we had both been played for fools. She turned her blade upon herself, preferring to die than face Freyja with her shame.”

Skadi stared at her uncle in shock. “And Odin?”

“He came to me later, jovial and content. When he learned of what had happened, he ordered me to cheer up, and said I’d been a fool for not humping her when I’d had the chance. When I accused him of using me, he seemed genuinely mystified; he could have seduced her himself, he said, or forced himself upon her, but thought he was throwing me a bone by having me enjoy her company instead while he indulged his obsession for acquiring knowledge. Nothing I said could make him understand my feeling of betrayal, and he lost his patience with me, accused me of being unworthy and petulant of his favor. We didn’t speak for ten years after that.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” whispered Skadi.

“Don’t be,” he replied, gaze flicking up to her, fast as a lash. “Odin was right. I was a fool, but it was for trusting him, for being naive. The gods are not like us, Skadi. They are ruled by their passions, their needs. There is little they won’t do to accomplish their goals, which can be as mighty as trying to stave off Ragnarok as acquire a pretty necklace. At times they may seem like little more than tyrannical children, but then they will reveal facets of themselves that stand outside of time, that beggar our minds, and remind one that they are ancient beyond measure. They are too complex for us to comprehend, Skadi, and our greatest mistake is to always think we have grown wise enough to understand them. The moment you think that, you shall be undone. At times they have more in common with a forest fire than with us mortals. They are terrible and petty, powerful beyond comprehension, and twice as proud. Always they act in their own self-interest, and when all is said and done, we are nothing to them but objects of passing fancy.”

Skadi stared, taken aback by her uncle’s fierce passion.

“So you ask me why I don’t laugh and clap my hands at Freyja’s interest in you?” Kvedulf’s smile was grim. “Because it leads nowhere good. One day you will see how you have been used, and a part of you will break, never to heal again. You will realize that ignorance is no excuse, and that you are complicit in their schemes. That blood is on your hands, and in that moment you will grow bitter and cynical and much of the wonder and joy in the world will wash away, never to return.”

Skadi forced herself to swallow. “Yet still you call to Odin.”

“Because now we use each other with our eyes open. He acts surprised when I don’t reverence him, and perhaps he truly is. But the blessings of the gods are the most potent source of power in Midgardr, Skadi. Yes, I call to Odin when I have the need to kill a Grýla. But then I spit when I am done.”

Never had Skadi heard anybody speak of the gods in this way. She thought of Freyja summoning Yri from her hall, seeking to seduce her to lie with them both, and shuddered. The goddess had cared nothing for her grief. Hadn’t understood what calling Yri would do to her—how in fact it had ruined her seduction. She hadn’t understood, nor cared, and only now did Skadi truly understand what Kvedulf was warning her of.

“I think I understand,” she said softly. “And I promise to never take the gifts of the gods lightly. But tonight it was necessary. There were other options that suggested themselves, but those paths led to my becoming a fordæða. This seemed like the best alternative.”

Kvedulf sighed. “And it was. You have worked another deed fit for the legends, Skadi. Maybe one day you will be known as Storm-Caller. Now we can tackle Baugr with confidence, knowing that he’s off balance and without a plan. But thank you for hearing me out. And when the day comes that Freyja makes you an innocent offer, unsolicited and too good to be true, I pray you remember this conversation and seek the thorn amongst the petals.”

“I will, Uncle. Thank you.” Skadi washed down her mead and set the cup on the table. “How do we play this tomorrow?”

“We make no mention of our knowing Baugr’s plans. We had nothing to do with the storm, either. We hold the All-Thing in all innocence, and demand Baugr give us an answer. And if he refuses, well. We press him.”

Skadi rose. “Then I will sleep. I’m exhausted. Good night, Uncle.”

“Good night, Niece.” Kvedulf poured himself another cup of mead. “Beware power. It’s always its own justification, and you will never, ever, have enough.”

Skadi paused at the tent flap. Stared at the linen wall. “When my mother is rescued, my brother avenged, and I stand once more by my father, I will declare myself content.”

Kvedulf snorted into his cup as he raised it to his lips. “No, you won’t. There will always be something more to fight, to achieve, to do. You are like I was, Niece. And one day, if you continue down this path, you will be like I am now.”

Skadi frowned and chose to make no answer. Instead, she parted the tent flap and stepped out into the pre-dawn hours, leaving her uncle alone with his mead.