Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(51)

I am fine, she strained to say one last time.

She fell backwards into silken oblivion.





26

Aelfhild opened her eyes, and she was back in the Leifing’s hall. People hurried around her.

She could hear Embla whimpering.

Pain lanced through her side as hands pressed against the wound.

She slept again.

“They have done as much as is able. But if the wound festers, or she bleeds within…” It was Eyrun’s voice, pulling her back to consciousness.

“Tell me that the men who planned this will pay with their lives.” There was Ceolwen. “They were hunting me in that crowd. If not for Aela, I would be dead. He must pay!”

Harald spoke next. He sounded unmoved. “Who?”

“Sindri! You know it was his men!”

“It does have Sindri’s scent about it, true enough. And he always has, what is your phrase, many irons in the forge? You may think he was behind it. I may even think he was behind it. But can you prove this, cousin?”

“What?” Ceolwen was screaming again.

“Those men were not Ulfings. I think Sindri had one of his men slip coins into the right hands, but it is our word against his. Nothing will happen.”

“Find the other man, then! There were two, she only killed the one. The second escaped through your men!”

“I can promise you one thing with the Ulfings—the other man will be floating in the harbor with a knife in his back by morning.”

“So you will do nothing?”

The Jarl thought the question over. “Welcome to Thrymgard, cousin.”

The assembled Thrym laughed as Ceolwen stomped off into the recesses of the hall. Each footfall shook the boards beneath Aelfhild, sending out fresh bursts of fire through her side.

“You, boy, did you know the girl was a berserkr? Some might think it rude not to tell a man he was sheltering a madwoman.”

“Forgive me, lord, I did not know,” said Bercthun. “One of the slavers said something about her going wild in Haernmuth, but I did not see it myself.”

Harald grunted.

Off to one side, Eyvind was shouting at Kolbrun and Geir, who mumbled their replies toward the floor.

A new set of feet stomped past, and the pain dragged Aelfhild back under.





This time, when she opened her eyes, there was silence. Not silence—embers of a fire crackled and snores rose from nearby benches. Nighttime, then.

Her side throbbed. Furs and blankets were piled around her, and the heat was stifling.

Gingerly, she pulled a blanket aside. It took more than one attempt, but she found that if she moved with only her right side and slowly, the pain from her ribs was tolerable.

“You are a hard one to kill.”

A hand pulled away a roll of fur beside her face, revealing Eyvind seated alongside her bower. Embla’s nose snuffled its way into the gap from the floor below.

“We did not know if you would wake.”

Aelfhild’s tongue was bone dry. “How long?” was all she could manage.

“Two days, now. Stay flat, just lift your head.”

He lowered a bowl to her lips, some sort of broth that stank of rotting grass and barn stalls and tasted no better.

“Sip,” he chided.

She could have downed the whole reeking bowl, but did as ordered.

“Your mistress was here with you for a long time, until we sent her away. My sister and Kolbrun, too, and Jarngrim and Bercthun both. You made some friends here.”

Embla licked Aelfhild’s cheek as she lay back to take a breath.

“And my hound wanted to sit with you, so I joined her.” He seemed pleased with his little jest and chuckled.

The broth had helped. She had enough strength for more questions.

“Who won?”

Eyvind raised an eyebrow. “I should say you won, but the thing of it is not to be stabbed. Try for that the next time.”

“No,” she rasped. “Olaf.”

“That fight. I held my own. It did not count much when the Aettir all went wild. Sindri seemed calm about it. And father is never happy, so no harm there.” After a pause, he added, “He is very not happy with you, though.”

“Why?”

“A berserkr is ill fortune wherever he is found. And a woman berserkr, too.” Eyvind whistled through his teeth in mock amazement.

Aelfhild felt a tear run down her cheek. Now they all knew her shame. “The Gods cursed me,” she whispered.

The webwork of compresses and bandages that swathed her midsection shifted as her shoulders shook, sending forth fresh pangs from her wound. She focused on the pain as she tried to wrestle back composure.

At the sight of tears, Eyvind became engrossed with his thumbnail. He fiddled with the ragged edge in silence.

“Maybe,” he said as she calmed, “maybe. But it kept Ceolwen alive, and it got you here. What if it is no curse?”

Through gritted teeth, she replied, “You do not even believe.”

“Fah!” He swatted the accusation away with a hand, oath-rings jangling. “So my father says. The old men here say not to take stones from the shore, because elf spirits live in them. Could be, but I have not seen one.”

Elves? Aelfhild still felt woozy, and he was rambling now.