7
Aasveigheimr, home of the Huldra
Alva stared at the various women seated around the council table. Each one the same, yet different. The Huldra lineage had grown too narrow over the last millennia. With only a few families left, having the prerequisite one child per woman, their numbers were not there anymore.
She remembered her father telling her stories about the thousands of Huldra—her fifth great-grandmother’s siblings numbered twenty-four—but when Alva’s mother and sisters were young, a sickness hit the humans, and their food stores plummeted. The queen at that time had placed limits on how many children could be born to each Huldra, except for the royal family, thus, keeping the famine from repeating itself. Now, for some reason, a few women on the council had decided to put forth a proposal to nullify this rule.
Alva had never understood her great-grandmother’s edict. If there was going to be such a law, it should have applied to everyone. With a sideways glance at her own sister, she pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t smile, but she was very glad the current queen hadn’t followed the ruling. Alva loved her three sisters.
Glancing at her mother, Alva frowned, noticing a pallor under her normally pink skin. Looking closer, she took in the dark shadows under her pretty light-green eyes, and her pain-pinched lips. She leaned toward Adriana, who was sitting to her left. “What’s wrong with Mother?” Her whisper all but silent in her sister’s ear so no one around the table could overhear her.
Her sister turned her gaze from the ancient Huldra speaking. The woman’s monotone made Alva want to curl up and take a nap. She could only imagine what the others felt and bit back a smile as several women yawned. Now that she thought about it, maybe that was the councilwoman’s ploy...to put everyone to sleep and trick them into believing they had agreed to repeal the rule.
Adriana met her gaze, a worried expression on her face as she shook her head. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen Mother sick...”
“Alva, Adriana, if your private conversation is finished, we need your votes,” Queen Isabel said, giving them both a droll stare. “Do you agree with what councilwoman Iona has put before us? Do you agree with rescinding the moratorium on single births per family?”
Alva swallowed, clenched her clasped hands tighter in her lap, and chewed on her bottom lip as her agitation grew. When she felt Adriana’s soft hand cover hers, some of her angst at speaking in front of the very women who had tried to kill her so many years ago faded, and she stopped gnawing on the now-raw skin.
Even though Iona was her aunt and the eldest of her mother’s younger sisters, Alva had learned soon after her return to the kingdom that she was not welcome. Iona and the youngest sister, Sigrid, had joined forces and planned on killing her the first chance they got.
Thankfully, a couple of her cousins and two of her sisters found out and thwarted their plans. All they’d told her was the death would have been horrific and refused to tell her anything more. Over the years, she had heard rumors that Sigrid had been terrified of Iona and couldn’t refuse her order, but that was neither here nor there. The woman had still tried to kill her.
Straightening, she met her mother’s curious gaze. “I cannot agree to Iona’s request.”
Harsh voices erupted, filling the room with anger and frustration. Alva couldn’t tell who was yelling at her or each other, but it seemed as if every single person around the table had something to scream. At least until an ear-shattering whistle pierced the cacophony, silencing everyone in one fell swoop.
Alva grinned at her sister’s innocent expression. “Remind me to have you teach me how to whistle like that. It could come in handy someday.”
“Yes, be that as it may,” their mother interrupted. “Alva, please explain what you meant to the council.” She glared at the other women around the table, forcing her sisters’ gazes down. “And everyone will listen to her without interruption, is that clear?” Queen Isabel nodded at her daughter. “Go on, Alva. I am very interested in hearing what you have to say.”
“Thank you, my queen.”
“Mom. I am your mother first.”
Alva met her mother’s watery gaze as her own eyes filled with unshed tears. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “Mom,” she whispered, liking how the word felt slipping off her tongue. She had waited so long to feel as if she belonged somewhere.
Clearing her throat, she thought back to all Maya had said and realized her cousin was right. The way things were done in their kingdom was archaic and needed to change. “I know most of you do not believe I belong here as one of you, but I am a Huldra. I am no different from any of you. You were all born to Huldra mothers and men from various species, mostly human, if I correctly remember my history. While I did not grow up here, I think that gives me a greater advantage to see things you cannot. When you are around the same people, the same issues, century after century, you cannot see the forest for the trees, to quote an old Midgard cliché.”
Taking another deep, calming breath, she forced her fingers to unclench, and wiggled them to get the blood flowing once more. “Maya was right. Her method of trying to get her point across was wrong, but her message was important and still is.” She steeled her gaze and stared at each woman sitting at the table, lingering a few seconds longer on her two aunts, before meeting her mother’s gaze. “The Huldra are dying. The older generations have been allowed to hoard the life energy that used to be kept in a central storage area for everyone. Now, no one has enough sustenance, they are trying to get it any way they can, and they are being punished for it—even killed.”
Tilting her head to one side, she continued to hold her mother’s gaze. “Why were people put to death for siphoning life energy from women and other species? Is life energy different? Is a deer not a living being, the same as a human male? We are not succubi. There is no need to kill our hosts. At least, that’s what my father taught me. While it is true, I do not seem to need as much as you all do. I have never had a problem with drawing the small amount necessary to sustain my life from a willing deer or other larger animal.”
“Mother?” Adriana interrupted. “When did we begin to make men fall in love with us? Was it for the life energy or to lose our bark and tails? It has been proven that, after a time, if the love does not continue, the bark and tail return, so why have we continued this practice? Was it a law?”
Their mother’s eyebrows rose as her gaze moved between her daughters, until finally, she shook her head, her shoulders rising slightly. “I honestly have no idea. This has been our way since before I was born.” She glanced to the end of the hand-hewn table to the oldest remaining Huldra. “Gytha, do you have any memories of this?”
The elderly Huldra thought a moment, her wizened face pinched like a withered apple, and her unruly white hair frizzed about her head, giving her a crazy look. Alva knew, though, Gytha was one of the sweetest Huldra she had ever known and would adore the woman who had spoiled her like her own grandchild when Alva returned to her mother’s kingdom. It had been Gytha who had taught her the basics of being a creature of the forest. She had also taught her never to kill her hosts, which she would be forever grateful for.
Finally, after a few minutes of thought, Gytha nodded. “Yes, I do remember something. When I was a very young child, my mother and grandmother were in the sitting room sewing, and I overheard a small bit of their conversation.” Alva realized she was chewing on her lip again and stopped, determined to break the annoying habit and refocused on what Gytha was saying. “Cursed—”
“Wait a minute,” Alva interrupted. “Please repeat what you just said.”
Gytha glared at her, one eyebrow rising. “Get your thoughts together and out of the clouds and pay attention.” She shook her head. “You never could concentrate for very long.”
“Sorry,” Alva muttered.
“As I just said, my grandmother mentioned a curse—something regarding a god, but anything more than that, I cannot recall. Now,” she said, her voice rising above the immediate chatter from several of the annoyed councilwomen. “I do, however, know someone who has excellent clarity about who cursed us and why. She may even know if there is a counter curse.”