Larson screaming. Gently, the dream-reader withdrew. She stepped away from her subject to face Silme and Gaelinar.

Silme waited expectantly, her life aura dulled by effort. "Within the week, expect a visit from an aged wizard of amber rank. He has agreed to lift your curse of nature."

Excitement plied the dream-reader like a faery dance, but she resisted response for the sake of dignity. "Bless you, mistress," she managed at length. "And the elf's dream is clear. Some divine being bid him on a quest to fling his sword into the spring of Hel at the tip of the deepest root of the World Tree."

In the silence which followed her explanation, the dream-reader continued. "You must realize, I can only interpret the dream. I can't guess who inspired it, nor the motive behind the quest. Loki's realm is unfit for any but the dead, and a journey even to its borders unsafe for man or elf or god. Legend says any object which falls into Hvergelmir is utterly destroyed. Unless the sword contains the essence of a most unholy creature, I can't fathom why the gods would send the elf on such a task."

Larson seemed about to speak, then went still. "How do we find this Helspring?" asked Silme softly.

The dream-reader tugged her hood against the wind. "North of town find the river Svip. Followed seven days it widens to Sylg which will bring you, in several more days, to the valleys of darkness which lead to the underworld. Eleven rivers coalesce before the golden bridge the dead must cross to enter Hel. They join at Hvergelmir." Pity rose for the four companions saddled with a quest envied by no man. "Something strikes me odd about pure gods sending minions to Loki's realm. If you'll forgive the advice of an elderly woman who has experienced more than most, the oracle of Hargatyr lies less than a day trip off your course. She can tell you whether destroying the sword will serve Midgard well or ill."