Runes and Red Sails (Queenmaker Book 1)(90)

The lich had sat on the edge of the stone platform, whether left to stand unending watch by the fleeing lords of Aettirheim or merely drawn by some fell will to haunt a place of power.

Aelfhild knew, in her heart, that this was what they had set out to find.

Vidar. Geir. Bercthun. And now Rolf—she pictured each one. Good men had died for them to come this far and now the journey was at an end, but what should have been a great triumph rang hollow.

Atop the platform were more carvings, and these were similar to runes that they had seen before. In the center was fitted a chunk of black, volcanic glass, larger than any piece Aelfhild had ever seen. The facets were chipped smooth, but curved inward in a way that twisted the light, making the crystal seem to shimmer from within.

The Oath-Stone, she marveled.

Onund bent close to peer at the marks on the platform, but took care not to lay a hand upon it. The others held up their torches at a cautious distance.

Ceolwen made as if to come over as well, but Eyvind waved her back, shaking his head. “We do not know what will happen,” he said.

She swallowed hard, and remained by the doorway.

Muttering to himself, Onund pursed his lips. “Here is the word for Jarl, here is oath and fire. This is all old and beyond my ken.” He straightened. “The girl should touch the stone. That is how it must be.”

“Wait,” Kolbrun spoke, “I saw the draug myself. There is some dark magic in this stone. A curse. Leave it be, I say, while some of us still have our lives.”

Jarngrim nodded and muttered his support for the shield-maiden.

Eyvind looked from face to face in the torchlight. “Much has been lost on the way here. If we walk away from this it has all been for nothing. I say let her try—”

At that point, Ceolwen snapped. “Do not speak of me as if I am not here!” she thundered.

The Thrym were taken aback.

Aelfhild felt her face flush, for even she had for a moment forgotten that her mistress stood nearby.

“I am the Aethling and the heir to the throne of Earnfold,” Ceolwen roared with every bit of authority she could muster, “and for once I will choose my own fate.”

Eyes cast to the floor, Eyvind began, “Cousin, I—”

“Step aside, cousin.” She twisted the last word. “It is my choice. I do not belong to your father or to you or to anyone. No longer will I be a slave to the Thrym.” Stepping forward, Ceolwen extended a hand to her servant. “Aela, will you stand beside me?”

Aelfhild hesitated only briefly before taking the outstretched hand.

I have been with her at every step, she thought. I cannot falter now.

The Thrym all moved away from the dais, and Aelfhild could feel the expectant stares. She followed Ceolwen to the center of the room, and stood one step back and to the side.

Ceolwen’s newfound confidence faltered when she reached the Oath-Stone, for there was no clear ritual, no chant or spell or gesture. Gingerly, she reached out to touch the carvings on the table.

Nothing changed.

She knelt on the dais, reaching out for the crystal set within. In the palm of her right hand Ceolwen cupped the black gem, but without result. Placing her left palm on the other side, she bent to look into the murky glass.

A twinge of shame, for herself and for her mistress, ran through Aelfhild’s body. Her ears burned under the steady gaze of the crew.

Then the Oath-Stone began to glow.

At first Aelfhild thought it was just a glint of torchlight off the glassy surface, a trick of the eye, but steadily it grew into a bright, pulsing orange light.

Ceolwen gasped in wonder. Slowly she stood and extended a trembling hand as ethereal tendrils, flickering thin flames, reached out from the stone to caress, embrace her.

Without warning a shriek split the hushed air in the courtyard, an ear-splitting scream that came from everywhere at once. Ceolwen seemed momentarily to float in the air, before a searing pillar of light erupted from the dais and lanced into the night sky.

Aelfhild was thrown backwards by a wall of heat and thundering sound; blinded and deafened she flew. Her back struck the distant wall, driving all the air from her chest. Her ears rang and her vision went pure white.





For some time she lay in the sand, senseless, fading in and out of wakefulness. Her head and limbs seemed impossibly weightless, yet would not move. Shimmering white light filled her vision. There was no pain, just a sense of distance, as though mind and body were separated by an immeasurable rift.

Floating in that void, Aelfhild began to hear voices. Quiet at first, they rose gradually in strength as the ringing faded into the background.

“Eyvind! Jarngrim! Onund!” Kolbrun was shouting, calling desperately for her companions.

Jarngrim spoke up first, sounding frightened: “I cannot see anything.”

“Keep blinking, it will fade,” the shield-maiden said. “Eyvind! Answer me!”

A groan came from somewhere to Aelfhild’s left. “Here,” wheezed their captain.

“Still alive,” croaked Onund from across the room.

“Aelfhild! Ceolwen!” cried Kolbrun.

Aelfhild stirred as the whiteness burned into the back of her eyes faded into swirling spots of vivid color, and tried to straighten her body which was wedged up against the hard stone of the wall. Pain shot up and down her back and raced along her ribs when she moved. Coughing, she answered. “I am alive.”