Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(20)

“Long ago, years beyond reckoning,” Bercthun began, “when the gods created the world from the Void, they were lonely. They yearned for children to share in the beauty of their creation, children who could help them shape the newborn lands. So Ivar, the Smith, went to his starry forge and stoked the fires high, hammering and bending the raw ether to his will. Two new creatures he made there, one giant and one little. The giant one they called Rymr, first of the Jotnir, Giantkind, and the small one they named Valr, first of the humans, Mankind.

“The gods were greatly pleased by their new children, and each one gave gifts. Ivar gave them the gift of fire and the art of smithing, that Man and Jotunn might shape the world alongside their creators. Solveig, the Weaver, gave to them the gift of speech and song, that the halls of Man and Jotunn alike might never fall silent. Halla, the Huntress, gave to them the gift of mastery over beasts, that Man and Jotunn alike be ever nourished and clothed. And Hakon, the Skald, gave them the gift of runes and rune-magic, that Man and Jotunn alike might mark the deeds of their ancestors and cast the lots of fate.

“Rymr and Valr, first of their kind, led the two peoples as they labored side by side with the gods, setting the newly formed world to order. The Jotnir made a home for their race, and called it Jotunheim; the humans likewise made a home for themselves, and it was called Mannaheim. Both thrived and multiplied, and there was peace between their realms.

“Over time, envy grew between them. The Jotnir were tall and mighty, longer in life but fewer in number. Humans were small and weak and short-lived, but they were many. Humans saw the long lives and the boundless strength of the Jotnir, while Jotnir saw the joy humans took from their many children and their great clans. Envy turned to anger, and blood was spilled.

“Rymr and Valr, the first-made, tried to turn back the rage of their peoples, but blood called for blood, and the vengeance wreaked by Man and Jotunn upon one another was terrible to behold. Rymr and Valr, reluctant foes, met in battle at the front of their great armies, but neither could overcome the other. Valr’s speed and guile was even match for Rymr’s size and might, and both were unshakeable of courage and of will unbreakable. They battled until the gods could stand to see it no more.

“Sickened by the sight of their children spilling one another’s blood, the Gods turned away from their young world, but not before they lifted Valr and Rymr, first and favored, up into the heavens. There they circle eternally, the light glinting off their shields—Rymr’s larger and pale blue, Valr’s smaller and bone white. Twice in every month, just as now, they come together in the sky to fight anew, and the tides rise high and fall low with the fury of their blows.”

The story took Aelfhild back to bonfires beneath dark skies, to the whispers and laughter of two young girls. They had lain there beneath the blanket of stars, just as now, and watched Valr and Rymr in the throes of that endless battle.

Ceolwen spoke. “Well told, Bercthun. Thank you.”

“It is my honor, lady.” Ceolwen sighed at this, but the young boy seemed determined to keep hold of propriety. He continued, “I will sit watch, while you two sleep. We should make Haernmuth tomorrow if we get underway early enough.”

“Wake me when it is my turn for watching,” Ceolwen ordered. Aelfhild and Bercthun glanced at one another. It was kind of her to offer, but they all knew that it was not going to happen.





10

The river grew busier as they drew nearer to the mouth of the Swiftea, closer to the sea and the port-town of Haernmuth.

Aelfhild yawned. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, and they were already afloat.

A hamlet drifted by on the northern bank; a few thatch-roofed houses crowded together in a clearing amongst the oaks. Cows called out for the first milking of the day while sheep bleated in the paddocks, eager to be sent out to graze. Smoke sprouted up from a few roofs as the day’s fires were lit within.

Further down the river, she watched farmers walking along a path on the riverbank, headed out into the fields with their rakes and scythes perched on sturdy shoulders. Their feet were wrapped in tattered linen, and their tunics were rough thread mended and resewn countless times. But they joked, shoved, and called out merrily on the way to their day of back-breaking work.

Watching them go, Aelfhild thought of how little of the kingdom she had seen. Her mistress would be queen of these lands one day—she refused to believe otherwise—and yet neither of them had ever been amongst such people. Would they even know the woman in the boat? She doubted it. And would they care? More doubtful still.

Then she spotted a horse along the bank, far downriver. Its tar-black coat glimmered in the morning light. No farmer kept his draft horse that clean. She looked closer, marking the elegant legs and proud, sweeping lines. It was a courser. The whole village together was worth less than a single courser. Only the rich kept them. And the King.

Osric.

“Ceolwen, I think you ought to get down,” Aelfhild whispered over her shoulder. Ceolwen did not seem to hear her the first time.

Bercthun spotted it too. “Down, lady, now! Get beneath the blankets.”

Ceolwen did not argue. She wriggled down between the benches, pressing her thin body against the hull. Aelfhild pushed what supplies they had down into the gaps and spread a blanket overtop, but the rowboat gave precious little cover.

“Keep to the center of the water,” Aelfhild hissed, pulling her hood up over her face. She cursed herself. The warm sun, the fields, the bobbing of the river, all had lulled her into a pleasant mood. She had forgotten what they were up against, and now they were exposed.