Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(53)

Kolbrun sniffed. “There are worse things. Eyvind is cleverer than he looks.”

She stood and brushed the grass off her back.

“Up you get. We have a ways to go yet.”

They gathered up Ceolwen, and continued their slow journey.

Rows of turnips and cabbages stretched out along either side of the gravel road. Sheep bleated in a paddock up the hill. The elfin horses cantered along beside the intruders.

But Aelfhild could focus on nothing but the thought of Runild and Sola. She hoped they were alive and sailing homeward. Hope was all she had, though the dour Thrym were working hard to take that small comfort, too.





28

Eyrun took them aside at breakfast the next morning.

“I have word from my father. The Jarls will gather today to make plans for your return to Earnfold,” she told Ceolwen, “and would speak to you.”

“And we are, what, expected to smile and swoon for Sindri when he comes to our aid?” Ceolwen asked.

“You know the way of things by now, cousin. Bite your tongue and take your place. But never forget. Your chance will come one day.” And there was a glimpse of the spider plucking at the strings of her web. Eyrun was no mere ornament, and woe to any who thought of her as such.

The Jarls arrived with their guards soon after.

Harald was first. He swept his cousin up in the crook of his arm as he strode over the threshold. “Ceolwen, my dear, we speak of you and your future kingdom today. Happy tidings!”

Aelfhild locked eyes with Harald as he passed. Though the Jarl said nothing, the twinge at the corners of his mouth hinted that she was spoiling the view. She had noticed many of the other men seemed tense around her, as well, particularly the greybeards.

Eyvind’s attitude was unchanged, though. He motioned for her and Bercthun to join him behind his father.

Jarl Hafdis arrived, flanked by her bluecloaks. Aelfhild’s estimation of her only increased on closer viewing. Hafdis made no attempt to hide the streaks of grey in her hair nor the wrinkles that radiated from her eyes with dyes and powders, as some aging women did. She wore her age with honest grace.

The remaining Jarls arrived together. Runar sagged and sweated his way in, making Sindri look even more elegant in the process. It was hard to imagine that the Ulfing had not chosen his companion for that very effect.

Sindri took a bow in Eyvind’s direction.

“Eyvind,” he said, “you look pretty as ever.” He spoke in Earnfolding, and clearly for the whole audience’s benefit.

Aelfhild’s eyes darted to the scar that puckered on her rescuer’s cheek. From the sound of it, that was Sindri’s work. She and her mistress were not the only ones with cause to curse the man, then.

But without hint of anger, Eyvind replied. “Many thanks, my lord. And how is the Jarl’s hand this morning?”

The grin remained plastered on Sindri’s face, but his stare was pure, molten hatred. He spun away and strutted off to join his peers.

Aelfhild strained for a glimpse of the man’s hands, but both were hidden beneath gloves.

The others would know, but that was a question for later.

The Jarls gathered around a cloth map of the eastern lands unfurled across a tabletop.

“The Oescans send a legion north from Hibernum, most likely toward Cynestead,” Harald told Ceolwen, drawing a line with his finger atop the map. “We have word also that Eorl Cuthbert raises his warriors in Wynnthwait to keep enemies from his borders.”

“Cuthbert lives?” Ceolwen’s breath caught as she spoke.

Bercthun flashed Aelfhild a triumphant grin as she squeezed the young warrior’s arm.

“So we hear,” continued Harald. “But he can only hold his ground against an Oescan legion, not fight through them to take back your throne. He would need many more warriors.”

“And the other Eorls, where do they stand?” asked Ceolwen, pointing to the various pieces of Earnfold.

Jarl Hafdis spoke haltingly in the southern tongue. “We know little, but the others do not look to be fighting Osric, not in open.”

In her native language, she spoke at length to Harald, who shook his head. Jarl Sindri broke in angrily, and a heated argument ensued, ended only by Runar pounding a fist into the table.

Silent in her confusion, Ceolwen stood by and waited for some explanation. At last, Harald turned to her and spoke.

“What do you know of Aettirheim, the city of our forefathers?” Harald asked, his voice hushed, each word endowed with a somber weight.

Aelfhild had heard the name before in old tales, an ancient place whence had come the people that settled first in the lands of Thrymgard and Earnfold. Orn, the first king to rule from Cynestead, was said to have been born in Aettirheim.

“Only stories,” said Ceolwen, looking confused by the sudden change in topic.

“It is the old home of both our people. The brothers Vignir and Orn, the sons of mighty Sigurd, came here and made their kingdoms. In these very lands.” Harald’s eyes were focused on a place far, far away as he spoke.

Nodding, Ceolwen opened her mouth to ask further questions, but was interrupted by Jarl Hafdis.

“Do you know of the Oath-Stone? Eid-Stein, we call it.” The golden-haired Jarl sounded less awed than Harald.

Ceolwen shook her head.

With an indignant glance at Hafdis, Harald resumed his fervent explanation. “The kings in Aettirheim swore on the Oath-Stone before they could rule. It chose the ones who were worthy and marked them as king.”