TOSKA | Sihtric Kjartansson

𝐈𝐗.

  
LUNDENE, EAST ANGLIA ( 886 )
— modern day London, England

   THE ENGLISH ENVOY HAD BEEN GONE FOR TWO DAYS WHEN NEWS CAME TO LUNDENE; Zvora was preparing everything for the next sacrifice when Aethelwynn appeared in the threshold of the infirmary where Zvora had taken her work to.

    "You are requested," Aethelwynn said, eying the different herbs that Zvora had gathered on a table and the bones that were aimlessly scattered between them. It was a mess, a chaotic assembly of everything that Zvora had taken with her and it took her longer than she had thought to sort it all into her usual manner.

    Most of it was ruined through the weather and others she realised she had no use for.

    "Do you know why?" Zvora searched for a cloth to clean her hands with, the different liquids of herbal juices sticking to her fingers.

    "A spy just left." Athelwynn's voice was pressed and if Zvora had turned her head she would've seen her face twisted in anger. "He came from Wessex," Aethelwynn added, making Zvora haste in her doings and make her feet carry her faster through the stone halls of the building where they had stayed since her arrival.

    Zvora had ceased to admire the architecture and the strange feeling it brought her to walk on the same paths as the Romans had hundreds of years ago, so instead of focusing on that she focused on the things that were not as favourable; the leakages of the roof from which rain drizzled down and the cracks in those ancient walls in which mouses had taken refuge.

    When she reached the main hall Zvora could already hear Sigefrid, Erik and Thore talk, seated on the box chairs that were covered in furs, their conversation drowned in the crackling fire and the blood that rushed through her own ears.

    "Aðísla." Thore turned his head, acknowledging her presence and nodding towards an empty chair to his right. "Sit down."

    She felt the gaze of the brothers cling to her as she moved through the room and took her place at Thore's right, folding her hands in her lap.

    "Our spy in Wessex has brought news to us," he told her, in his eye flickering the spark of an nearing victory. Zvora had seen this spark a few times in Thore's eyes and it had never been dimmed.

    "Are you sure that these news are for the ears of your ... vọlva?" Sigefrid asked warily, raising one of his eyebrows. "Wouldn't she be suited better in the-"

   "She is right where she is supposed to be," Thore replied with a certain harshness in his tone. "And as I recall it is custom to treat a vọlva with respect and listen to the wisdom she has to share."

   Zvora felt how her legs began to tingle, the hairs on her neck slowly rising.

   Sigefrid curled his lips into a careless smile, simply shrugging and leaning back as if Nothing of importance had happened.

    "Excuse my bluntness," he said, reaching for a cup of ale. "But she is still young for a vọlva. What wisdom has she to share in a council of war?"

    Zvora had to silently agree to this; she had never seen a battle before. Her life and wisdom had been restricted to matters of the house, matters of mundane things that wouldn't require anything out of the ordinary.

    Still, if Thore requested her he had to have his own reasons, making Zvora turn her eyes to him.

    "I am used to people doubting her." Thore smiled. "But I am also used to words of forgiveness after she has proven her worth."