Many Words

Sif approached the bar, Lilja and Einar following in her wake. The lodgekeeper circled the stove to meet her. “Get something for you?”

Sif produced her letter from the sleeve of her robe. “I have something for the föraningsmagiker Falthejn Arnarsson.”

“Right,” said the lodgekeeper. “I’ll just be a moment.” He wiped his hands on his apron, ducked behind the bar, and disappeared.

Sif blinked, then hopped up onto a stool and looked over the bar. A trapdoor stood open over a stairway down. “He went down to the— I guess it wouldn’t be a cellar, would it?”

“Storeroom?” Lilja suggested.

“That’s what I call it,” the lodgekeeper said, grunting as he swung the trapdoor closed with his foot. “You’d be Sif Hrothgarsdottir?”

“That’s me,” Sif said guardedly. “How did you know?”

The lodgekeeper set a folded sheet of paper on the bar and slid it to her. On it was written, “Sif Hrothgarsdottir: luftsmagiker student, first visit”.

Sif read it and looked up to the lodgekeeper.

“He doesn’t wait for you to write before he answers,” the lodgekeeper explained. “Says it saves him having to bother some other magiker to zap his letters back here. You a friend of his, then?”

“I am,” Sif said. “Are you?”

The lodgekeeper chuckled. “As much as he’s friends with anyone. Name’s Georg Tyrssen.”

“Who’s Yngvar, then?” said Einar.

“My brother,” Tyrssen replied. “He died in the war with the dweorgr. I named the place after him.”

“It says ‘first visit’,” Sif said, looking down at the letter. “Are there others? Can I read those, too?”

Tyrssen looked aghast. “You’d tear the whole world right apart,” he said.

It was Sif’s turn to look uneasy. “Is this one safe?”

“You’d better give me your letter for him, just in case,” Tyrssen said.

Sif passed it to him. Tyrssen tucked it into his belt and set a knife on the bar next to her. She turned the letter over, slipped the knife under the seal, and unfolded the paper.


Sif Hrothgarsdottir,

At the time you receive this letter, I will be inescapably detained in the far south. I looked into the matter you described and elected to lodge this sealed letter with Georg Tyrssen for delivery to you.

Unfortunately, my efforts reveal a deeply unsettled situation. I do not believe I am able to provide you detailed guidance. The only direction I can give is that you must not sit on your heels. Cautious action is the safest course. That said, I can offer you three pieces of general advice without putting you in any further danger.

First, remain anonymous. You face a foe with wide reach, and very likely with my particular talents near at hand. If you are able, find a conjurer you trust and purchase tokens against divination. Whether or not you do, avoid writing down your plans, holding to them when the situation changes, or discussing them in specific terms. In doing so, you will make it difficult for förangenmagiker opposing you to track your actions to their source.

Second, be careful with your trust. Your foe is larger than you realize. Tell no magiker unless you are comfortable placing your life in his hands. (You may tell your parents according to your own judgment. Ansgar Leifsson can be trusted. I foresee he may attempt to mislead you. If so, I believe he does so only with your best interests in mind. Be forewarned that it would not be wise to involve the mundane authorities until you know the extent of your foe.)

Third, remember that it is impossible to attain great power in the weave without great cost. Your adversaries will pay. Do not repeat their mistakes.

I wish I could be of more help, but conspiracies cannot be easily untangled at a distance. Watch for my return to den Holm. We will speak then.

Be cautious, and be safe!
Falthejn Arnarsson

Sif forced herself to relax as a pair of city guardsmen passed them. Even though she was on the right side of the law for the first time in her life, they still made her nervous.

They came to a corner. She looked up, got her bearings, and turned down a side street.

“Are we nearly there?” Lilja wondered.

Sif nodded. “We should be. Right around here…”

They turned another corner and found themselves back on a major avenue. Kvarnstrasse, Mill Street, if Sif was remembering her city geography. They crossed it, running between a pair of wagons, and found themselves before a singular building.

Unlike most of the structures in the Riverfronts, it was not wholly made from wood. The first three floors, about ten yards on a side, were built of stone blocks. Slit windows flanked a heavy wooden door facing Kvarnstrasse, set deep into the wall. Once, it had been a guard house.

The top three floors were log-built, obviously a later addition, and jutted out over the lower floors by a yard. A covered wooden staircase spiraled around the lower floors, worn smooth over the years by heavy use.

“It looks taller from this close,” Lilja observed.

Sif shrugged. “It’s only twenty yards. My window is higher up.”

“You don’t have to climb the outside of the tower to get to your window, though,” said Einar.

Sif tilted her head and nodded, conceding the point.

The three magiker wound their way up the stairs to the fifth floor. Over the door was a sign, swinging from a chain. The runes carved into it read, “Yngvar’s,” above an engraved picture of a bed and a cauldron.

Sif opened the door and went inside.

The room she stepped into filled the whole twelve-yard square of the tower. Enormous, many-paned windows centered in each wall gave an unparalleled view of the Riverfronts, at least on clear days. Today, Sif saw nothing but gray through them. Surrounding the windows was a collection of trophies from wars past. A large club, Sif suspected, had once belonged to one of the jötnar, in the golden age of the Norrmannrike. Scaled-down shields bearing an insignia of crossed, double-headed hammers featured around the room, the standard of the dweorgr kings. There were even a few of the white-on-red tribal banners of the ontr, which she still found unsettling.

Tables were scattered around the outside of the room, largely unoccupied at this time of day. A square bar, four yards on a side, took up the middle. In turn, in the center of the bar was an enormous brick chimney, rising through the roof. Kettles bubbled on flat surfaces at its base, and iron doors covered ovens built into its sides. Warmth rolled off it in waves.


She saw the purpose of it. If pressed, she would even admit it was good for her. That didn’t mean she had to like it.

There was a well in the courtyard, up against the outer wall. Her fellows gathered around it, not just those students at her level but those more and less advanced as well. There were almost three dozen, in little clusters of three and four. As usual, Leifsson had roped in some other full members of the Akademi to share the load of teaching. Now, they returned to the tower. Baltasar Rasmussen was among them. He caught Sif’s eye, waggled his eyebrows, and went on his way.

She managed a smile. The boy manning the crank at the well stopped as the bucket rose above the masonry. Sif took a cup from the stack nearby and filled it, then wound her way through the little crowd to an empty patch of wall. She leaned against it and sipped from her cup. Before her, the tower of the guild hall rose into the fog, quickly hidden from view by the enveloping gray.

Lilja and Einar, already chatting happily, wandered in her direction. She gave them a little wave as they neared.

“Good morning,” Lilja said. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Sif said. “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Neither did we,” Einar said. He flushed. “I mean, we were just talking about that now. We didn’t— what are we going to do next?”

Sif coughed into her hand to hide a smile. It hadn’t taken much of a push to get the two of them together. “Well, I have a letter to send before the afternoon lesson. Walk with me to Yngvar’s?”


Yngvar’s was a name of some renown in den Holm. Sif, Lilja, and Einar left the Akademi and headed south, to the Heimdal Gate. They crossed the Heimdal bridge, an imposing stone edifice resting on two dozen piles over its span of two hundred yards. The thunder of the falls sounded to their left, then faded as they made their way deeper into the Riverfronts. Tall log-framed buildings crowded the street on both sides. Several times, the young magiker had to press up against the encroaching walls to allow wagons to pass.

Sif had never been to Yngvar’s lodge, but she knew how to find it. South of the Heimdal, a stone curtain wall dating back to the reign of Halfdan, first king of the Norrmanne, stayed the growth of the Riverfronts. As the district grew, it grew upward. Yngvar’s lodge was on the top floors of wood-and-stone tower which had six levels; it was the tallest building south of the river. It was visible from almost any street corner in the southern Riverfronts.

Sif woke to a pounding on her door. She opened her eyes, groggy, and flipped her blankets off to the side. It was cold. She swung her legs out of bed, stood, and felt the chill of the stone floor through her socks. Her cloak hung on the bedpost. She swung it over her shoulders, went to the door, and cracked it open.

Lilja stood outside. “Sif! Ansgar Leifsson’s waiting.”

Sif blinked against the cobwebs in her head. “Why? What time is it?”

Pointing past Sif’s shoulder, Lilja said, “Morning.”

Sif looked back. There was a fog over the city, but nevertheless, it was light outside. Fuzzily, she said, “I’ll be right down.”


“Take your stance, Sif Hrothgarsdottir.”

A dozen students formed a ragged circle in the guild’s courtyard, in the shadow of a line of poles with small platforms at their tops. The wind carried a chill with it, and the fog muffled the sounds of the city from beyond the walls.

Inside the circle, Ansgar Leifsson paced its perimeter, staff in hand, and Sif faced another student across a gap of a few yards. She settled into an open-handed fighter’s pose, weight balanced and feet placed so as to make sidestepping a possibility.

She appreciated that much about the luftsmagiker’s way of fighting. Never had she been one to stand in and take a blow. She did, however, object to the idea of fighting with her fists in the first place. Her opposite number—Gyr Didriksson, if she remembered right—advanced on her. She had seen him in the ring earlier. He was much better than she was.

Was that the test? She took a half-step back, straightened, touched the weave—

Leifsson’s staff caught her in the back of the ankles. She fell. A blast of air cushioned her landing.

“No weave-working,” Leifsson said. “Get up. Again.”

Sheepishly, Gyr offered her a hand. She took it. He mouthed, “Sorry.”

Sif smiled to say it wasn’t his fault, and stepped back to the far side of the circle. Gyr waited for her to get into her stance, then moved forward again.

By the midday break, Sif had some new bruises on top of her collection from the night before. It was always that way after hand-to-hand practice. She knew very well she was, among Herre Leifsson’s pupils, the worst at it. Herre Leifsson did, too, which was why he kept her in the ring longer than he did anyone else. He didn’t expect her to win, as such; he expected her to keep away from her opponents’ attacks, stay on her feet, and find enough breathing room so that, in a real fight, she could lean on her talent with the weave.

Sif swallowed. That was bad news. Outwardly, though, she smiled. The elder magiker could have walked by without saying anything. Sif appreciated the effort to make her feel better, and she hadn’t missed Annike’s switch to the informal voice just now. “Thank you, Annike Sigvardsdottir. That makes me feel much better.”

“Of course. It’s our duty to help those who need it,” Annike replied. “Enjoy your book, Sif Hrothgarsdottir, and I do hope you find your way back to sleep soon. I’m told Herre Leifsson has something special in store for you tomorrow.”

Sif kept the smile on her face. “I look forward to it. Good night, Kvinna.”

Annike returned Sif’s smile and dipped her head in farewell.

Sif returned to her book. Something was bothering her, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. She tried to read, but the words stacked up on themselves as she turned the problem over in her mind.

It came to her suddenly. What was Annike Sigvardsdottir doing wandering the halls of the Akademi at this hour? Dispensing advice to students seemed somehow beneath her station. Sif had never seen her during the day. Come to think of it, the only one of the Seven Sif ever saw in the halls of the Akademi was Baltasar Rasmussen. Why now?

She came up with a few answers. Annike Sigvardsdottir was just a night owl. She felt a tugging through the weave and let it carry her along—Herre Leifsson talked about that all the time. She was fighting the Shining Hand, and knew to warn Sif of their tactics. She was part of the Shining Hand, and aimed to scare Sif away.

Sif had no evidence one way or another, but her dream still weighed heavily on her mind. Her thoughts whirled, a storm building on itself. Had it been Annike Sigvardsdottir speaking to her then? No, the woman in her dream had a high voice with a creak, and Annike spoke in a lower register.

Nor could she say for sure that the Shining Hand was something to worry about, though she doubted her suspicions were misplaced. Her mind jumped to the letter under her pillow. Falthejn would know what to do, and help her know who to trust. Tomorrow, too, she could ask Baltasar Rasmussen about Annike Sigvardsdottir’s habits.

She could do no more tonight. She glanced at her candle, and was surprised to find it had burned halfway down. Lost in thought, she had lost track of time. Her eyelids finally began to feel heavy, and it felt to her as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She snuffed the candle, took her book, and returned to her room.

Soon after, she slept.