Peaceweaver (30 page)

Just then, Mord looked in. He didn’t have to say a word before Hild was across the room, through the door, and striding toward the hall, Mord beside her, Hadding falling into step behind them. The farther they went toward the hall, the more people she saw heading in that direction: mail-clad warriors, women of the stronghold wearing well-made gowns, farmers and their wives in brown wool, and everywhere, children running, shrieking, laughing, the sun reflecting off their blond heads. The smell of food cooking and the noise of the excited crowd—mothers calling
to their children, a baby wailing, horses’ bridles jingling—made the place seem like a real stronghold in a real kingdom, nothing like the ramshackle place it had been the day before.

Mord was right. With all this commotion, it would be easy for them to slip away unnoticed.

At the hall doors, guards stepped forward to clear space for Hild and her men. A white-haired woman moved back, smiling at Hild as she did and dipping her head in the only kind of obeisance the crush of people allowed.

Mord and Hadding pressed to her sides, guiding her through the antechamber, where the closeness made her wrinkle her nose at the odor of dirty wool and unwashed bodies. Once they were in the hall, where there was more room, Mord kept his hand on Hild’s arm. She shook it off and quickened her pace, moving past farmers, town dwellers, and warriors alike.

She found a spot where they could see, close enough to the door that they would be able to get out easily, and stood silently while the men caught up with her. Mord came alongside her, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she watched the crowd as she let her eyes adjust from the bright outdoors to the shadowy interior.

Fires blazed. In front of the dais, Hild could see a figure in a magnificently embroidered green cloak that fell to his feet, his head down as he adjusted the golden torque he wore around his neck. Rune. He raised his head, and as
Hild watched, he looked into the crowd as if he was searching for someone.

He tugged at the torque again, the movement making his cloak ripple, reminding her of a woman’s skirt. Not just any woman, but a woman with a baby in her arms running toward a boat.

Hild caught her breath. She studied Rune’s face, his dark eyes framed by dark hair in this land of fair-haired people. The solemnity she had seen in his expression this morning was still there, and now she saw something else, too: steadfastness, she thought. Resolve. When he closed his eyes briefly, she recalled that he was the one who had wanted to bring an end to the long-simmering feud between Geat and Shylfing. He might have killed a dragon, but what he desired for his people was peace.

He turned, his eyes coming to rest on hers. She looked back at him for a long moment, until his eyes dropped.

She swallowed. She had to stay focused.

The sound of drumming began, startling her. Along one side of the hall, men were beating on hollow logs. The ceremony must be about to start. Hild glanced at Mord, who gave her a single nod.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. Just a little while longer now and the journey would begin. Just a little while longer and she would be on her way home.

THIRTY-ONE

H
ILD WANTED TO LOOK BEHIND HER AT THE DOOR, TO SEE
how difficult it would be to get through the crowd, but it was too late. Everyone was turned toward the dais, and if she looked back now, she would only draw attention to herself.

The smell of smoke made her nose twitch. It wasn’t the clean smoke of hearth fires, but an unpleasant odor that she recognized from her dreams. Where was it coming from?

The drumming faded. A richly dressed man, the one with a single eye, walked toward Rune, a crown in his hands. The chief skald, she assumed, as he invoked Thor’s name in a voice that carried throughout the hall.

A log on one of the fires shifted and the leaping flames reflected on the cheek guards of the warrior standing nearest it.

Hild tried to keep her attention on the skald’s words and on Rune’s answers, but she couldn’t help thinking about the guards. Would they really be as easy to bypass as Mord seemed to think?

The skald stepped toward Rune, holding out the golden circlet.

Rune lowered his head.

“Stop!” a man called out, and the hall fell silent. Hild turned with the rest of the crowd, but there were too many people blocking her view. What was happening? She looked at Mord, but from the way he was craning his neck, she could tell he couldn’t see, either.

“Dayraven!” someone else called out in a glad voice. “We thought you were dead!”

Dayraven?
She’d heard the name before, in a story Thialfi had told that she couldn’t quite remember.

People began talking all at once; there were too many voices for Hild to distinguish their words. What was going on? She stood on her tiptoes, but she still couldn’t see over the crowd. When she glanced at Hadding, he shook his head to indicate that he didn’t know, either.

She thought she heard somebody saying something about the ceremony. Then a voice snarled loudly enough to be heard throughout the hall, “There will be no ceremony.”

No one answered.

Hild sucked in her breath. She didn’t recognize the voice, but she thought it must be Dayraven’s. It chilled her.

The snarl came again: “That boy, that cursed whelp, he tried to kill King Beowulf.”

The words unlocked Hild’s memory. Dayraven was the warrior who had run away when Rune had stayed to fight the dragon. Rune hadn’t tried to kill the king! He’d tried to save his life! Why wasn’t anyone saying anything?

She looked back at Rune. He was staring into the crowd, at Dayraven, she assumed.

“I will be your next king,” Dayraven said, and as he did, Hild heard the unmistakable sound of swords being pulled from sheaths.

Mord gripped her arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“No, wait,” she said, struggling to free herself, but Mord had already turned.

Dayraven barked, “Tie his hands. Take the cursed wretch away.”

Over her shoulder, Hild took one last look at Rune. His face was pale, but he didn’t look afraid.

“Hurry,” Mord said, pulling her through the crowd. People paid them no attention; their eyes were caught by the scene unfolding before them. A man and a woman parted, moving out of the way without looking at Hild when she neared them.

Behind her, she could hear another man speaking in a loud, clear voice. “I heard King Beowulf name Rune his heir. I saw Rune save the king’s life. And I saw Dayraven running—”

Good
, she thought with relief. Finally, somebody was defending Rune. She wanted to hear the rest, to know what they’d do with the traitorous Dayraven, but she and Mord were through the wide doors and into the antechamber.

“This way,” Mord said into her ear, and they walked unchallenged into the daylight, away from the commotion in the hall.

Mord was beside her, Hadding just behind her, and both of them were grinning. “They couldn’t have made this easier for us,” Mord said. “The gods are with us.”

“Where’s Gizzur?” Hadding said.

“Getting the horses.” He looked at Hild, shaking his head and showing his teeth. “I told you the Geats had no honor.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, her words exploding into the winter air in white puffs, their vehemence surprising her. “They do have honor.” Maybe Dayraven lacked honor, but Rune didn’t. Nor did Thialfi or any of the other Geats she’d met. Her own people, on the other hand, and Hild herself—

She lowered her head. All she wanted was to go home. But what she wanted and what was right warred against each other inside her. Now was her chance for escape, and she should take it—of course she should. Shouldn’t she?

She thought about Amma—the woman who had raised Rune—a failed peaceweaver who had refused to take vengeance for her son’s death. Who had found a new way to weave peace.
Am I really willing to let two kingdoms keep
fighting?
she asked herself.
To allow people to be killed and enslaved, just so I can go home?
With her uncle being guided by Bragi, there was no hope of peace. But if she stayed here, she would be killed along with the Geats.

“I thought Gizzur would be here by now,” Hadding said, his voice startling her from her thoughts.

“He’ll be here,” Mord said. “He doesn’t know about the excitement in the hall—he won’t expect us yet.”

She looked at Mord, her eyes settling on the scar above his lip. She wondered how he’d gotten it—she’d never heard the story. She remembered how she’d thought he was a man with little honor, and how she’d bypassed him with the drinking horn in her uncle’s hall. Yet now she was willing to set all that aside to get what she wanted?

She shook her head. She needed to think. She needed to be alone.

A shower of snow caught her eye as it sifted off a rooftop, falling to the ground. For a brief moment, a ray of sunlight glinted off it before the snow melted into the mud. She shivered, wishing she had her cloak. Gizzur was nowhere in sight. She turned to Mord. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

She didn’t bother to answer as she started for the lane that led to the cottage.

“My lady!” Mord said.

“I’ll be back,” she said over her shoulder. She hurried, hoping he wouldn’t follow.

There was no one to block her way; everyone was in the hall. She heard someone call out, but instead of Mord, it was just a raven cawing at its mate. The snow had been trampled by the crowds, and mud spattered onto the hem of her gown as she ran toward the cottage. As she turned into the narrow lane and out of the mud, her way grew clear.

She had been pledged to Rune. Her uncle meant to break his word, but she wasn’t her uncle. Rune wanted to stop the feud. He wanted to keep women from having to send their babies to unknown shores to save their lives. So did she.

And now that she had earned the men’s allegiance, their trust, couldn’t they help her convince her uncle not to attack? On their journey, the Geats and the Shylfings had put aside their habit of hating each other to escape the monster. Surely they could work together again. Both sides would be stronger if they were allies, not enemies. If she stayed here, she could send messages with the men for Ari Frothi and Arinbjörn. And if her mother tried hard enough, acting on the knowledge that Hild’s life lay in the balance, maybe she could help sway the king, too. Wasn’t it worth a try?

At the cottage, Hild paused in the doorway, blinded by the gloom inside. A slave must have banked the fire after she’d left for the hall. Coals glowed red, but there was no other light. Leaving the door wide open, she felt her way forward, reaching out to find her cloak. It had been hanging on a peg on the far wall beside the altar to Freyja.

Careful not to stub her toes, she inched across the room, her fingers reaching into the shadows and touching wood. She paused. It was the altar. Standing before it, Hild knew the goddess would approve of her decision. She would stay in the land of the Geats. She would marry Rune. And together, they would find a way to end the long feud between their tribes.

“Lady of the Vanir,” she whispered, reaching for the statue. As her fingertips brushed the stone head, Hild gasped. Fury filled her, anger such as she’d never felt.

She whirled, ready to run, not knowing where or why—and stopped herself.

She breathed in, then out, then in again, taking control of her senses. What was happening? She hadn’t felt like this since the Brondings had been about to attack her cousin. That time, she’d reacted without thinking. This time, she wouldn’t.

Tentatively, she stretched out her hand again, touching the statue. Again fury filled her. She tamed it, lifting her hand from the stone, calming her mind. “Freyja,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

Closing her eyes, steeling herself, she reached out her fingers a third time. Deadly anger surged into her mind and she fought to keep it from overwhelming her. As she did, an image took shape: a warrior’s face, his features hidden behind his helmet’s mask, his eyes glinting with malice through the holes.

She gripped the stone. Fire flared; swords clashed.

Her sword! She needed her sword!

No
. She forced herself to focus. She had to act with knowledge, not blind anger.

The image came again and comprehension followed. The masked figure stepped forward and someone else backed up, almost tripping as a heavy cloak tangled around his legs. Rune.

The masked figure was Dayraven, she realized as she watched him raise his sword and bring it down heavily.

Rune parried, and as he did, pain surged through Hild’s hand. She clutched it to her chest, gasping in surprise and stepping back. In her mind, Rune took a step back as well.

Dayraven’s blade rose again. As it came down, Rune stopped it with his sword. Hild was ready for the pain this time, but not for whatever it was that tripped her, sending her down on one knee.

No, she was still standing. It was Rune who had tripped, and she was watching as Dayraven advanced on him, sword held high. Her view shifted and she saw the warrior’s back—and the hole in his mail shirt.