Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(66)

Ceolwen flexed her shoulders and winced. “You wanted to see volcanoes, wild girl. I hope this will cure you of that madness.”

Aelfhild watched the fell glow of lightning flicker within the whorls of ash overhead. Not even the pinkest Cynestead dawn or shadiest Ealdorscir meadow could compete with the furious, primal beauty of this skyline. It was glorious.

Not cured yet, was the only response she could think of.





The further they sailed from the fuming peaks, the higher the ash cloud rose above them. Color began to return to their grey world as they passed from its clutches in the afternoon. Blue water and bright sun greeted them.

Aelfhild pulled down her mask and savored clean air. Looking back, she caught sight of Ceolwen’s face and snorted laughter. A straight line across the cheekbones split her face—and all their faces—in two; half caked grey, half clean and dripping with sweat. Washing the jagged grains of dust from their hands and faces left the skin raw and flushed.

Embla emerged from her covers and shook indignantly. She sniffed at the dark slurry left on the deck before marking it as her own.

“The ash got into all these barrels, here,” Kolbrun called over her shoulder. Cupping a palmful from their water supply, she took a sip, then spat it out onto the deck immediately. “What filth! Tastes of charcoal and old eggs.”

Meanwhile, Vidar was fussing with the sail. He pressed a finger through the cloth in some of the burned patches. His frown did not promise good tidings.

“Can you patch it?” asked Eyvind from the steering oar.

“Not in the wind. If we make land, I can. And we must check that nothing burned into the hull.”

“Geir! What do you see?”

Geir, straining up over the prow, shook his head.

The wave-battered cliffs that marked the western bounds of the Grimbergs were not welcoming to travelers. It was the edge of civilized lands, and the mountains seemed keen to keep any that strayed outside those borders from returning.

So Unn-marr continued southward, and they kept watch for a cove or bay.

Ceolwen plopped down beside Aelfhild and yawned. “I would pay my weight in gold and silver to sleep in a real bed again,” she said. “Beneath a roof, snuggled into furs after a hot meal. Imagine it, Aela!”

Aelfhild scrambled for a reply, but her mistress was already rolling onward.

“Once we are back home I shall bathe and sleep for a whole fortnight. We will feast and ride horses wherever we wish to go. If I never walk anywhere on my own two feet after this, I would be well satisfied. Streets to walk on and walls and curtains to keep the men from staring at us every minute.”

“What do you miss most about home, Aela?”

Tell her the truth. Tell her you miss none of it. Tell her you will not stay.

It was a sore temptation, but the pleading look in those eyes told her this might not be the time and place for that argument. Ceolwen needed support; she needed a friend, and happier memories. So instead, Aelfhild replied, “Walking in the market like we used to.”

It was not a lie. But neither was it the whole truth. Evasions and half-truths were a time-honored tool for all servants, but that did not mean Aelfhild’s conscience would not jab at her as she tried to fall asleep that evening. Ceolwen’s smile was payment enough to cover that inconvenience.

“Yes! And we will, we will!” She leaned back against the hull, her eyes unfocused as she pictured distant futures. After a long silence, there was another question. “What do you think we shall find out west?”

“What do you mean?” Aelfhild asked.

“Do you believe in all this?” Ceolwen waved a hand vaguely around them. “Sigurd and Breki, the Smith at his anvil, the Oath-stone, Aettirheim. Will we find anything, when we get there?”

Aelfhild fidgeted for a moment. “They seem to believe it all very—”

“—I am asking you, Aela.”

“I think…” Aelfhild bought herself time.

I think what? She thought of the conversation with Eyvind at her bedside. She thought of Harald and his hunger for devotion. She thought of Bercthun’s tales beneath the moons, and Onund’s stories, and how they stirred her heart. She thought of the northern lights and the flaming calderas and all of the world’s wonders she could never explain. And oddly enough, she thought of dried fish and how no skald ever thought to mention it.

“I think that there is some truth buried inside it. All the stories start with something true, and that gets buried a little deeper and twisted all around each time someone tells the story again. So I suppose I believe in the heart of the story but not all the little bits…if you can make any sense of that.”

Ceolwen gaped back at her.

Aelfhild backpedaled. “It was foolish, do not listen to me.”

“No, no, I just never knew you were so…wise.”

Unsure if she should take that as a compliment, Aelfhild nodded.

“Do you believe in the Gods? Just one last question, Aela, I swear!”

“Yes.” And that was the truth; the question had not been if she loved the Gods, though.

Ceolwen rubbed her palms into her eyes. “As do I. The Gods are toying with us for their own sport, I think. If we find nothing in the west, then this can all be over. If there is something to it all, though…” She left those words dangling. “Harald said it was fated, and that is what frightens me the most.”