Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(85)
I suppose that’s the way of it, she mused, the important things seem useless until you need them, and the useless seem so terribly important.
Rolf’s words set her to thinking about old King Osred, Ceolwen’s father, whom she had given little mind since his death. When he passed, people had spoken of him in glowing tones—as a giant amongst men and a benevolent ruler.
Aelfhild could remember a man remarkable only in his blandness, trapped between crown and throne and ringed by an equally forgettable crowd of followers and flatterers. She had grown up in his presence, but meeting him for the first time would likely have been a hollow experience.
I watched a King die, feeble and bed-ridden, she thought. I have seen the future Queen of Earnfold soil herself as a child, and as a grown woman heave her stomach out over the side of a ship. Aelfhild snorted. There is no grandeur left in royalty for me.
But that had only been half of the old Thrym’s point and she knew it.
None of them knew what was to come and tomorrow was uncertain, that was true. But every tomorrow had been since they sailed from Jarlstad, and even long before that.
Lightning flickered and thunder boomed above her, as if to drive home the thought.
If the legends were false, so be it. If the Gods proved as callous and cruel as she suspected them to be, so be it.
Coming this far is a victory, for which we have fought and suffered, and I will not let doubt strip me of that, Aelfhild decided.
47
Embla woke them all with frantic, dripping kisses the next morning. The last watch had fallen to Eyvind, and at dawn he had taken the hound for a stroll along the beach, so Embla returned drenched in saltwater and filled to the very brim with energy.
None were fortunate enough to escape the drool and lashing tongue.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the roof in place of rain—a change most welcome—and Aelfhild could hear gulls crying over the sound of waves.
Every piece of her was soggy and pruned, so she rushed out into the morning air to dry. Off to the east the sun was already well clear of the horizon, meaning they had slept in.
The tide was on the ebb so the seabirds were out in force to scavenge the leavings of the sea. Sandpipers ran up and down the sand, staying just ahead of the surging water. Gulls skimmed the ocean’s surface in raucous, careening flocks.
A tremor of nervous excitement spread through the camp as they bundled up their meager supplies in blankets and shouldered shields and weapons. The long-awaited day had arrived. They set off toward the featureless hills beyond the disused harbor, where they hoped to find the ruins of Aettirheim and an end to their seeking.
Her clothes and assorted worldly possessions dried out as they walked; Aelfhild could only guess at how she, and all the rest, must have reeked, with their dirty bodies in damp and filthy clothes, but luckily there were few passersby to meet in these parts, and they had all grown used to one another. She bent to remove the wrappings from her feet and sighed at the feeling of sand beneath her toes.
They took advantage of the low tide and followed the line of the beach at a more pleasant pace than the forced march of recent days. There were shells of every imaginable shape and size scattered around, some even that sprouted legs and skittered away from the crew’s trampling feet. Embla ran back and forth investigating the countless smells. Eyvind wore a look of serene contentment as he strode bare-foot through the edge of the waves.
Aelfhild watched Ceolwen, not far ahead, as she basked in the sun. If any doubts still festered in her mistress’ mind, she was doing a fine job of hiding them—she walked with eyes closed and face tilted skywards.
Kolbrun could be heard whistling as she rambled along behind and kicked up the sand.
A merry band of castaways out to stretch their legs, thought Aelfhild, picturing the sight. Their thin bodies, tangled hair, and ragged clothes gave one impression, but the axes tucked in the Thrym’s belts, the shields slung over backs and rough spears in hand offered another. If there were any brigands in these lands, they would think twice before tangling with such desperate-looking newcomers.
The sun was straight overhead as they left the beach, crossing over the dune line into the sawgrass beyond after a pause to bind cloth wraps back around sandy feet.
Onund was the first to find signs of the old settlement. Sickly dwarf birch grew in the sandy soil past the dunes, and in a clump of spindly grass and yellowed leaves the Skjoldung saw something the others had missed.
Aelfhild had walked right past, but her brief shame was eased by the fact that Eyvind and Kolbrun had also failed to spot it.
Onund and Jarngrim called them back, as the two men tore away the plants and brushed off the sand that hid an oblong chunk of hewn stone. The sandy soil had swallowed up almost half of the pillar, while wave and wind had chipped and smoothed it down. As the dirt fell away, faint etchings stood out on the stone’s face, calling up a now-distant memory in Aelfhild.
Months ago it seemed, when she and Ceolwen had fled down the Swiftea in their little boat, Cuthbert and Bercthun along with them, and found three stones like this one on the riverbank.
Runestones.
The thought of Bercthun pained her; other things had kept her attention since the shipwreck, but she held out little hope for the young warrior when her mind drifted in that direction. He had been a good friend, to all of them.
Not now. Aelfhild pushed the feeling back forcefully. There will be time for all that later.