Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(46)
Following a switchback path from the highest terraces of town, they came at last to a great ironbound gate; doors thicker than Aelfhild’s body and thrice as high were flung wide to allow the people in. These were the walls of the Klettirborg, the fortress of the Northmen, set atop the cliffs. Within was a broad courtyard set into the stone, dotted with longhouses for the guards and with ramparts that overlooked the harbor. Any view of the harbor below was obscured by the fog, but Aelfhild reckoned it to be spectacular on a clear day.
They followed behind Harald. He led them through the mouth of a tunnel and down into the very mountain itself. These were the veins where the volcano’s molten lifeblood once had flowed, that the Thrym had taken and carved for their own purposes, building upon and reinforcing what nature had left them whilst digging a few new tunnels of their own. Wooden beams and pillars rose to support the curved ceiling as it snaked through the rock, and torches burned in sconces along the way.
They entered an echoing cavern, a globe with high vaulted walls of black and pitted stone. A large piece of the rock that made up the ceiling was gone, leaving a jagged hole that allowed light from outside to illuminate the chamber. The trickle of dew from the opening resounded from the curved walls. In the globe’s center was a broad stone dais with five seats, and there were lines of benches radiating out in every direction from that central point.
The Landsthing. Aelfhild was no Thrym, but she felt a touch of awe at the weight of history in the sacred place. All the Aettir, the jarls and huskarls and thanes, had gathered here for generations untold to hold court, making laws and settling disputes.
The Leifings staked their claim to the rows of benches on the far side of the cavern, and the room sorted itself by Aett as the crowd streamed in. The Ulfings, looking dour in their grey tunics, sat opposite; other clans in green, white, and blue spread out in between. The mood between the other Aettir seemed friendly enough, men in different colors mixing together to greet and converse with friends and acquaintances. Red and grey were the only two colors that remained starkly divided.
There were few women at the assembly, Aelfhild noticed, and they were mostly relegated to the benches furthest in the rear. A man’s station could be told from his nearness to the center of the room—huskarls sat on the front benches, the thanes behind them, with freemen and women at the outer edge. Eyrun and Kolbrun sat along the outer ring beside Ceolwen and Aelfhild, explaining the customs and goings-on of the day, and pointing out important persons.
As the flood of people into the chamber slowed to a trickle, a lone, ancient man limped onto the central stone platform, leaning heavily on a wooden staff. His robes were as snowy white as his beard, and his skin bore the constellations of veins and liver spots that came with a burden of years. Straightening himself, the elder rapped the end of his staff thrice upon the stone. Conversations stopped, and men took their seats.
“The Lawspeaker,” Eyrun whispered, “recites the law of our Aettir.”
The old man’s voice rang out in the silent chamber, swelling with the echoes. He started from a drawl, chanting the laws of Thrymgard, but his voice increased in pitch as he rocked from side to side in a sort of rhythmic trance. Eyrun did not translate, and Aelfhild was inwardly glad. She understood it to be a key part of this seasonal ritual, but the Thrym seemed to have many, many laws.
After the Lawspeaker finished his recitation, he called forth the Jarls. Three men stood, Harald included, but Aelfhild was stunned to see them joined on the dais by a woman. She stood a head taller than many of the men, with a mirthless face beneath white-gold hair. Armor shone in the torchlight beneath her blue cloak, and a short sword hung in a gilded scabbard at her side.
Eyrun must have anticipated their surprise, for she said, “Hafdis, Jarl of Rifstrond. Her husband died, and she became Jarl.” Her voice hinted that there was another story waiting to be told.
“Jarl Runar of Nordeyjar is the one in green,” Eyrun continued, pointing to a bald man in a padded vest, which Aelfhild suspected was chosen to mask a spreading midsection. The flab around the cheeks and chin was harder to hide.
Coming to the last man, Eyrun spat the words to clear them from her mouth as quick as could be. “And Sindri of Ulfseyjar.”
With a wolf’s hide wrapped about his shoulders, Sindri cut an impressive figure. He wore a tunic of silver brushed chain; he was the only one of the Jarls that wore no gold, for it would have spoiled his colors. The pommel of his sword was carved into the maw of a howling wolf, as was the broach that secured his tunic. He was younger than his peers and, enemy or no, Aelfhild found him quite handsome.
The Jarls spoke out when called upon by the Lawspeaker, listing their grievances and what cases they brought before the Landsthing. The exchange was civil and measured, any animosity between the men and woman on the platform buried beneath layers of ceremony.
Aelfhild then learned that fishing rights were of the utmost importance to the Thrym. The entire morning was devoted to the question of who could fish in which waters, and punishments for men who had fished where they had no permission. It was agony—torture by tedium. A thane or freeman would stand before the assembly to seek justice, and the Lawspeaker would keep order between the Jarls as they passed judgment. Eyrun translated only when Ceolwen or Aelfhild requested, which was seldom.
The sun had already reached its zenith, scalding the dark walls of the cavern with its rays, when Jarl Harald at long last rose to bring the matter of Ceolwen and Earnfold before his people. Harald waved for Eyrun to bring Ceolwen to his side. The chamber filled with expectant silence as men strained for a glimpse of the outlander.