“And now for Sif’s hair, if you don’t mind.”
“And now for Sif’s hair, if you don’t mind.”
At this the Sons of Ivaldi brought out a shapeless piece of gold, and while one of them held it in the forge’s heat, another used a wheel to spin it into the finest thread. Another cast runes; another sang in a voice as sweet as a nightingale’s, cantrips and spells to bring it to life. Finally, it was finished, gleaming and jewelled and fine as spun silk.
“But will it grow?” I asked Dvalin.
“Of course. As soon as she sets it in place, it will become a part of her. More beautiful than ever before, rivalling even Freyja’s.”
