Perhaps he had expected her to be physically capable; it did take her a great deal of strength to rip away hides, to strip the flesh from them, but she was no warrior. This was, perhaps, an understatement though. Her people were all fighters. They were not a soft bunch and they did not care for weaklings. If she had been attacked, she would have been more than capable of defending herself. Size alone granted her this. Experience was limited, but she had something to live for—and her daughter was worth dying for, as far as Siv was concerned.
She smiled mysteriously at his question, that same black fire flickering in her eyes. “I am völva; it is what The Dark Lady called a witch. She, too, is völva. I saw that when I first came.” There was no doubt in her about this. Eris had projected an image that Siv could not ignore. She had sensed it before, even, when she had scouted the borders and tried to spot the orange-eyed girl that had alluded her. Behind Sirius, the gray mare snorted at the younger, paler horse, and stamped one hoof loudly.
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