Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(54)
“How?” whispered Ceolwen.
Everyone in the hall leaned closer to hear the answer.
Harald, however, seemed to be less certain of this. “We do not know, but the stories say clearly—”
“It is a myth!” Sindri cut in.
“It is truth!” Harald thundered, rising to face his rival. Hafdis put a hand on the man’s quivering chest to calm him. “It is truth,” repeated Harald, veins bulging as he struggled to reign in his temper.
Hafdis explained the Jarls’ intent. “The Thrym are not eager to fight for an outlander, and Osric has a claim to the throne as good as yours. This is not a strong fight for you. But if you were marked as a queen—if there was maybe some sign—they might believe and follow.”
Hearing this, Ceolwen stood with jaw dangling. Aelfhild felt much the same. This was their plan? To chase ghosts and half-remembered legends while the Oescans marched an army most real into the heart of her homeland seemed the height of foolishness.
Ceolwen stammered to find the right words.
Seeing her reluctance, Jarl Harald stood and motioned for her to follow. “Come, I will show you.”
Harald led the procession through the streets to the high walls of the building that had so fascinated Aelfhild upon their arrival to Jarlstad.
Gilded carvings of coiled serpents and lunging wolves adorned the walls, and Aelfhild could see upon closer viewing that the jutting roof beams were engraved with ravens. The peak of the uppermost roof, curved like a pair of bull’s horns, strained to pierce the clouds.
The other Jarls remained outside with their warriors as Harald kindled a torch and led the Earnfoldings in. Eyvind lingered in the arched doorway, watching from afar.
The interior of the great hall was murky, lit only by the torchlight and what little sun spilled in through narrow windows above. Motes of dust danced through the reedy light before disappearing back into shadow. Slabs of grey stone, taller than a man and twice as wide, stood in rows that ran the length of the hall. The lines Aelfhild had been unable to make out from a distance were runes; hundreds upon hundreds of spidery runes covered the surface of each stone. Here was found the history of the Aettir, stretching back into ages long forgotten by most, cut into the bones of the world.
Time lay heavy over this place, and she understood the reverence with which the Thrym treated it. It was a holy site, not out of some connection to the Gods, but from the sheer, overwhelming presence of collected memory.
Holding his torch aloft, Harald led them to one specific stone at the furthest end of the hall. It was ancient, pitted by exposure to rain and wind and ice, presumably in the long years before it had been carried to Jarlstad. A deep crack ran down the center of the slab. There were pictures carved amongst the runes, faint and faded, but just visible beneath the torch’s glow. One image was a man, sword in one hand, the other held overhead. A circle was carved around the raised fist, with thin lines extending outward from it.
“Sigurd,” Harald whispered, voice brimming with wonder. “In his hand was carried the light of the sun.” He searched through the runes for a particular section. “Here.”
None of them could read, not even Ceolwen and Aelfhild with their more privileged childhoods, so the gesture was somewhat wasted. The best they could do was to stare at the graven lines, twisting and indistinct.
“Eieursteinn, it says. Oath-Stone, the old word.” Harald’s finger hovered over the tablet. “And here is written Aettirheim. It is no myth.”
It felt hard to deny the force of the past, so strong was it here. And Aelfhild had to admit there was a twinge in her breast, something primal that stirred at the sight of the carvings. But it did little to allay her doubts.
“Let us go out, my lord,” Ceolwen said to Harald, “I have much to think on.”
Harald led them back out into the sun, where they stood blinking in the light. He turned to face them. “I am sure it was the Four that brought you to us. Think of it—had my son left from Fornhofn one day, one moment later, he would have missed your ship in the sea and you would be lost to us forever. We are meant to walk this path together, you and I, by the Gods themselves.” The old man’s eyes gleamed as he stared at Ceolwen. “I will wait for your answer. Do not take overlong.” With those words, the Jarl gathered up his warriors and set off uphill with the other lords, cloaks swirling in the breeze.
Eyvind stayed behind, his shoulder propped against the doorway. There was a long silence before he spoke.
“If you go to Aettirheim, I would go with you.”
Aelfhild raised an eyebrow. “I heard you scoff at the Gods. Do you believe in such stories now?”
Eyvind shrugged, and pointed toward the sinking orb of the sun. “Since I was a boy, I wanted to sail west, to see where we come from. Stone or no Stone. To go where there are no maps, that is what I want.” With that, he set off after his father.
Throughout the walk back, Ceolwen was silent, seemingly lost in thought. Aelfhild fell in next to Bercthun and asked him for his thoughts.
“I know the stories, and I am of the same mind as Eyvind. I would see it all for myself.” There was a dreamy quality to Bercthun’s voice, but that soon faded. The young man shook the fanciful visions from his head. “But taking the queen is too dangerous. Better to head south, back to Eorl Cuthbert.”
In her mind was the same answer, and Aelfhild knew that the wiser path, or at the very least the safer path, lay to the south. But her heart spoke otherwise. The stirring in her chest told her to turn westwards. It was a fool’s fancy, she knew, but the desire for such an undertaking nagged at her.