They take them away, Knut the pleading old man and Hakon the cursing woman, and I remain alone with the seiðmaðr.

He is afraid, I can sense his fear. I want to feel it, to stir it in him, the shameless fraud. His profile outlined in the lamplight, I see the skin around eyes tensing, showing wrinkles I had not noticed before, wrinkles that suddenly show his age. I lay my hands on his shoulders, forcefully, heavily. I hear his cloak of raven feathers rustling under my grip.

“How dare you deceive the people? The very people you pretend to help? These people who lay down at your feet the finest goods in their households, only to please you! How dare you play with their lives when in truth all you seek is to extort money from the unfortunate? And how...” I feel anger bubble, so that my voice becomes a grunt, “...how dare you defile the gods!”

“I give the people what they want – a spectacle, a miracle.” His voice is still proud, his chin still high in arrogance. “There's always a curse they want dispelled – they are always poorer, sicker, less interesting, less loved, less famed, more disappointing in their eyes and the eyes of the others than they wish to be. And they want me to pray that away! And I do, I give them hope – and what is hope, if not an illusion? Isn't seiðr all about twisting the mind?”

Without a word, I squeeze his shoulders harder, and I feel the thin bone of the feathers rip and snap in my grasp.

“Careful, you brute, my cape...” he whines.

He gestures to brush my hand off him, but I seize his wrist and twist his arm to the back:

“You mock me, you charlatan? You mock me? I took you with me because I considered you a symbol of our faith... to show the people of this kingdom that our gods have taught us true, that our ancestral traditions are not to be given up under political pressure! And you shatter it all... senselessly!”

He winces and crouches in pain, but still he chortles sarcastically:

“And now you want the truth out: the best seiðmaðr in the kingdom is a fraud, and you never saw it until now – a fine way to promote our ancestral faith in these times of strife, is it not? Remarkable rhetoric, King Yngvar, admirable backbone! To give up your campaign in the name of truth!”

A handful of feathers fall to the floor as I crush his shoulder even harder. Oh, that it were his wrist cracking under my pressure, the bone shooting out through cracked and bloodied skin! Oh, how easily his neck would break in my hands!

“I will not risk the future of my kingdom for one... despicable cheat... like you.”

He suddenly jerks, and his free hand flicks behind him. Instinctively, I jolt aside and block his arm: there's something gleaming in his fist – a knife. He shoots to his feet, to release himself from my grasp thinking his trick has thrown me off focus. But as he lunges at me flat-out to stab, I grasp his wrist and forcefully pull him towards me, pushing him to the ground with my other arm. His body thuds on the floor and I pounce atop to immobilize him, to twist the weapon out of his hand, while my left elbow in his throat pins him down.

The knife rolls down beside him, small, thin, subtle enough to be hidden among the charms at his waist. Poisoned, is it not?

I grasp his knife and hold it before his left eye.

“No, Yngvar,” he grunts in despair, his sharp steel-blue eyes magnified. “I took you with me! I've put my entire career in support of your campaign. This is my itinerary around the country, my connections, my devotees, my plan! You're only trying to become king at my expense!” he grunts, like a caged animal. “Yes, I wanted to be on the winner's side, but I believed you deserved to be the winner... Kill me, if you must. After all, what am I? - only an ergi* juggler of tricks!”

“Or...” my hand slides down between his ribs, “I could give you a taste of your own poison... see if you truly have healing powers!”

“Do it!” he cries out, not in plain fear but rather daringly. “I've survived before against all odds! You don't know what I've been through... and yet here I am now! You've no idea how many lives I've saved, how many people I've healed. Those people would still adore me - tricks or no tricks - because I changed their lives. So stab me, Yngvar Eindride... stab me, and I will heal myself...”

I see it – I feel my hand drive the knife in his stomach, the skin burst under the thrust, I see blood redden his bright yellow robes, I see him writhe in anguish. Maybe he'd die... maybe he'd heal himself. My hand flinches not, nor my eyes as they are glaring in his.

And yet... I cast the knife aside.

He is right: beyond his deceit, he has served my purpose until now. His influence, his public support of my campaign. Which makes me now irrevocably caught up in his lies...

I release him and let him get up.

He rubs his wrist, still reddened, and asks, voice low and almost choked:

“What now?”

“I'll let you finish your circuit around Norway. But then you're done: no more of your so-called magic, no more ripping off the innocent. You retreat on your island in glory, but in silence.”

The tenseness in his body weakens – not like one who is calm, but like one defeated. In silence, he unties his raven cape. Picking the fallen feathers from the floor, he arranges them back with listless moves. I can't help but ask, head shaking:

“Why, Eyolf...? why...? For the money? For the fame? For the gifts? For the... orgies?”

“Orgies?” That smile, vain and brazen, forms again on his lips. “I merely lie between man and wife to bring harmony to their marriage – isn't this what the god Heimdallr* himself used to do when he walked through Miðgarðr*?”

He is relentless. That smirk vexes me beyond measure, so all I want is to extinguish it:

“Heimdallr, the begetter, Freyr, the potent one, Loki, the many-faced god, lover of all creatures – that's how you describe yourself to simple-minded admirers, they believe you are divine and do everything you tell them,” I spit out the words. “Taking advantage of vulnerable women, corrupting men, training naïve peasants into whores, slaves to the lust of vicious power-abusers like yourself. Man, woman, beast, nothing is too filthy for you! I know what you do, and it disgusts me...”

His eyelids tense, nostrils widen:

“You know? You... know? Is that all you understand, you pathetic creature? I teach them love, balance and communion. Knowing and embracing themselves. I don't corrupt but liberate them - from the likes of you who want to fetter their spirit, force them to hide it behind that artificial and corrupt mask that we call society!”

I won't let him win. I push him further:

“You speak of embracing yourself, and yet... yet you're the one who hides his past!” I pace closer. “You aren't a renegade nobleman, are you? It's only one more of your lies. I don't know you long, Eyolf Sólhrafn, but I need no proof of your origins because I've been watching you closely: yes, your words may be eloquent, but your gestures... your vulgar brags... your tacky preferences...” I glare up and down in distaste at his smallish figure. “You're but a lump of coal painted in dazzling gold. Behind that overly-precious facade, there's nothing but a shallow, vainglorious man - a pauper who's caught the taste of gold and flashes it to finally feel important!”

At last! that conceited smile is wiped away.

He breathes out and in, out and in, the corners of his lips downturned. Like a scolded child who is about to weep. No, no... he isn't about to weep; not at all. He is about to break. Squeezing his fist until his knuckles turn sallow, he closes his eyes a few moments to expel smouldering anger, to repel an access of hysteria. I am right, then, my assessment of him is correct...! I hit a heartstring!

The door creaks open and we both turn abruptly. It's Hakon. He whispers to me that the hosts are waiting for Eyolf to hold a speech. We have to keep up appearances.

I swallow and nod.

The seiðmaðr hesitates a moment, swallowing his own retort, and then stands up to smooth and dust the folds on his robe. His composure is commendable, I must admit - as he passes by me, his chin raised and his brow proudly arched but without laying eyes upon me, he speaks:

“Impressive. I heard you read minds like a true vǫlva, yet this exceeds my expectations. But know this, Yngvar: for all your insight, you are blinded by prejudice. A pity... This is why you could've never been a vǫlva*. Nor a just king.”

___________________

ergi - unmanly (Old Norse); a very serious insult in the Viking Age

Heimdallr - watchman of the gods and guardian of Bifrost, the bridge between the realm of humans and that of the gods. Some myths present him as the creator of society, after he sleeps with a noble couple, a peasant couple and a slave couple.

Miðgarðr - the realm of humans in Norse mythology

vǫlva - seeress (Old Norse)