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With death came a profound change of the concept of this place for her. Siv had known loss, but she had not expected it here. She had fought and not suffered as they now all did. Familiar faces came to her in the haze of her ritual, with eyes full of sorrow or fury. One could not expect her not to see such fire in the King, standing with a wounded beast at his side. Salvia had become the sole surviving Arbiter, and this was only through the grace of whatever gods protected her.
A figure of white and painted in strange sigils joined her. Siv’s purple eyes fell to the woman only momentarily before she bent to strike a flame. This had to be done by the Khalif priestess; she had explained that savagely the night before, when Siv had first approached her. Fire was holy to them, as it was to the völva, but the witch-woman could grant her that right.
Wisteria rose with a torch in hand. It cast sharp light against her face, burning terribly in her orange eyes. The wind turned. It was time.
“I did not call you here to mourn,” Siv began, her voice clear and deep. She spoke with the training of her sisters and it showed. “To die in battle is to die as a hero. Larkspur gave his life for his people, as we all would,” she went on, looking to Salvia even as the girl’s savage eyes burnt out at her. “We are here to honor him and see his passage. We will drink to him this night.”
She lifted one hand and Rowan came forward. Draped in white, her fur gleaming, she hardly looked a slave—though the gold in her face spoke otherwise. “We send to you, our brother, what is yours.”
Her other hand slid from under the cloak of deep purple and raven feathers. A dirk was in her hand, black-handled and gleaming with metallic purpose. She had stolen it from the Hearg a long time ago. “Der ser jeg min fader, og min søster og min broder, der ser jeg linjen av mitt folk” her voice rose into a song, terrible and black. “Tilbake til begynnelsen, de kaller på meg.” The knife in her hand was pulled back, brushed against the torch. Wisteria remained still, speaking under her breath.
“De byr meg ta min plass blandt dem, I Valhalls haller,” Siv went on, and grabbed Rowan by the arm. The slave was not afraid and looked as pacified as a sacred calf. “Hvor den modige vil leve evig,” the witch concluded, and slammed the blade pommel deep into the woman’s side. Rowan let out a singular noise, a high breath, and Siv was already moving her towards the dead man. With grace given to her size, she lowered the red she-wolf to the side of the corpse. A final death rattle escaped the woman before her body shook, trembled, and became still.
Siv withdrew the knife and stepped back. No sooner had she done this then did Wisteria step forward and set the pyre ablaze. It lit quickly—the whale oil helped with this. Hot fire snaked up in a blast of red and orange, brightening to hot yellow-white. The smoke was thick and black, and the völva watched this with careful eyes.
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