“I’d be willing to fight you on that,” I say. Can I believe him? “What can I do?” I ask him. “Why me? I’m just trying to find my sister. She’s the one you need.”
He sighs. “I know Katla’s secrets because I’ve been watching and listening. I know she covets the moonstone. And I know there is something about you that worries her. It unsettles her enough that she let me go. She fears you in some way, and that’s reason enough for me to help you get to moonwater to stop her.”
“But I’m no one,” I say. “I’m not even a real runecaster.”
Einar shrugs. “I just know that I need your help. My clan needs your help. And I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
I look at Oski, who nods. “I’ve seen inside his mind. He tells the truth.”
“I’m sorry,” Einar says. “I had no other choice but to mix the dust. Nothing else would have worked. And everyone would have been killed. I didn’t know this would happen.”
“About this dust,” I ask. “Can my people be restored?”
He looks uneasy. “I’ve never made it before. It’s a complicated potion. If it hadn’t been enchanted, then I could have made a cure for it. But now nothing will work unless the witch is defeated. If we kill her maybe we can set everyone free.”
We stare at each other in silence before Oksi interjects. “Fine. No cure unless we kill the witch. I am all for killing. Now how do we do it?”
Einar looks at me, his gaze intense and hopeful. “I think a runecaster can kill her. Like you.”
“I like him,” says Oski in their cheerful way, earning a dark glance from me. “What?” they ask. “I do like him. And he can help.”
“If you’re so powerful with your potions,” I ask Einar, “then why haven’t you killed the witch or poisoned her?”
“You don’t understand,” Einar says, his voice grave. “She isn’t mortal. She is immune to my potions. I have tried, even casting henbane seeds into the fire so that the whole clan has visions and nightmares, myself included. But not her. She never breaks. She eats the hearts of the animals we kill. She moves in total silence and fast too, like a fox.”
“Or something like a fox,” I say, remembering the creature in the field that made me so uneasy.
Einar looks at me. “You’ve seen it?”
I nod. “I think it was a skoffin.”
Oski gasps. “Vile creature. Hard to kill.”
I am confused and exhausted, and this information is hard to take in. I have fantasized that I would find Einar Ymirsson and make him suffer on behalf of my people, but now that he’s here I cannot do it. I believe him. Damn it.
He turns to me. “I saw you up on the clifftop when Katla took your sister. I saw that you took a dagger to the chest. And here you are still. I’ve never seen anyone withstand her magic. I thought if anyone could help me, it’s you.”
I laugh, and the sound is more bitter than joyful. “You thought wrong.”
Einar stares at me, his gaze so intense that I want to look away. “If Katla can harness the power of the moonstone through Sýr, then everything we know will be gone. My people, your people. Everything.”
“What can I do?” I ask at last. “I’m not powerful like Katla is.”
“But you are a runecaster,” Einar says, pointing to my runes. “You’ll have to try to beat her.”
“I can’t do that.” I shake my head. “I’m an apprentice. A bad one. I’m not even allowed to battle at moonwater.”
“Then we are all doomed,” says Oski with finality.
“Maybe someone else,” I begin, but I know there is no one else.
“It must be you,” says Einar. “Sometimes I have feelings about people. My mother had that gift. She always knew when someone was good. When they could be trusted. And you love your sister enough to risk this journey on your own.”
“Not alone,” Oski interjects.
“My point is,” says Einar, ignoring Oksi, “I think you are brave enough to take her on. It’s our one chance.”
I stare at the dark sky, the red moon glowing like the red heart of the gods. I feel a surge of anger as I imagine Sýr being being forced to do unspeakable things by the evil Katla.
“This is crazy,” I say. “But I will fight her. It will be me. In the name of my sister and my clan, I will have revenge.”
I look at Einar, whose face has taken on a hopeful expression, and at Oski, who grins their maniacal grin.
“I will help you avenge your mother and the Jötnar,” I say to Einar. “In exchange for your vow to help me defeat Katla and release my people from their cursed sleep.”
Einar stands and pulls out a dagger, slicing into the meaty part of his palm. The dark blood runs and sizzles as it drips into the fire. “I swear it,” he says. “I pledge myself to you.”
I know this to be a significant gesture, for elf blood carries its own magic and is never spilled on purpose without binding consequences. This vow he makes is the best assurance I can have that his allegiance lies with me, although I will never fully trust him. To do so would be foolish.
I look at Oski. “And you?”
Oski stands, pulling up to full height, and lifts their long, shining sword. “I am Oski, and this is Chooser of the Slain. You will have my sword and whatever is left of my soul.” They run their hand along its razor-sharp length and black blood springs forth, coating it. Oski holds the sword over the fire, and their blood drips into it.
Einar and Oski look at me. I nod and hold out my hand. Einar presses the hilt of his knife into it, and I don’t hesitate. I slice myself as I’ve done several times since my entire life fell apart, the pain nothing compared to what I will feel if we fail on our quest.
My blood flows out of me, carrying with it all my love, all my hate, all my hopes and dreams and fears. It drops onto the dying embers and unites with Einar’s and Oski’s. We are bound together now.
I look at them both and then hold up my runes.
“It’s us now,” I say, my runes aglow in their pouch. “My blood, your blood. You live, I live. I die, you die.”
“Then let’s get to it,” says Einar, holding out his hand.
I place my hand in his, startled by the heat of his skin before I remember that elves run hot. Oski adds their cold hand on top of mine, and we stand together, three unlikely allies under a rising blood-red moon, about to embark on a quest that is destined to kill us all.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a little thrilling. I’m looking forward to finding Katla. I’m going to find a way to make her suffer as we have suffered. It’s going to be fun.
We hike all day, pausing to rest among the boulders and rocks of the great stone valley, and then we continue through the afternoon and deep into the night. We don’t stop until Einar and I are near exhaustion. It’s almost morning, and we’ve made it to the outer edge of the badlands, where the boulders make way for the barrens. Oski is as chipper as ever. I don’t think they ever sleep.
As for me, I haven’t been able to sleep much when we stop to rest, despite Oski’s assurances that they will keep watch, because I do not trust Einar. Having him with me is like carrying a tincture in my mouth and trying not to swallow it in case it turns out to be poison.
I don’t know what to make of him. As we settle to make camp and strike a fire on the border among the last of the large, craggy rocks, I glance at him while I prepare a meager meal of my last supplies of dried fish and moss.
I watch as Einar sparks a fire with some dark granules, getting it stoked and burning hot. I scoot a little closer to take the chill off the early morning. We’ll eat a little, sleep a little, and then walk some more.
Einar is tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes that are an odd shade of glittering golden brown. He is difficult to look at without getting lost in staring. While other girls have mentioned his height, his dark hair and honey skin, and the subtle point to his ears, the thing I notice most about him is the downturned curve of his lips. He has the look of someone who hasn�
�t smiled much, who is familiar with sadness, and it makes me want to understand why.
I imagine that if we were friends, I would feel compelled to try to make him smile, to catch a glimpse of the elven fangs that protrude on either side of his grin. So far I have not seen his face lose that sad look. Though our circumstances are grim and we haven’t had occasion for happiness yet, Oski is always grinning about one thing or another, and even I have managed a smile or two in this last day—over a comment Oski has made or with delight at discovering a berry bush or a fresh bit of spring water bubbling from a rock face.
But Einar has never smiled, not once. The pain of losing his mother to the witch Katla is to blame, and now his father and his clan have been taken from him too. I don’t say anything to him because I don’t need to. His pain is my pain.
I see Oski staring at me with their uncomprehending black eyes. I shrug at them. “What?” I ask.
“Hungry.” They smack their abdomen.
“We’re all hungry,” Einar mutters.
“And we’re out of supplies,” I say with a heavy sigh. I hold out my scraps of moss as proof.
Oski groans. “Hungry.”
“Well, we can take some time to set traps,” I say, motioning to a brushlike area to our west. “We might find wild hare or perhaps weasels. I don’t see any signs of a river yet, so no fish.”
“Bah,” says Oski. They love fish.
“Maybe there are some more berries nearby,” I suggest.
Einar shakes his head. “We still have a long way to go, and we won’t make it without a nourishing meal.” He doesn’t usually speak this much to me. Despite our mutual goal, I’ve made it clear he’s not my favorite person, and he has been keeping his distance.
“Agreed,” I say, my voice brisk. “What do you suggest?”
“We need to find supplies, maybe some better gear.” He looks pointedly at my boots, which are still causing me no end of agony.
“What can I do about it?” I ask, pulling a boot off in anger. “I left with everything I had.”
I toss one of the boots at Einar, and it thumps against him and lands on the ground between us. He grabs it and places it on a nearby rock.
“Let’s have it then,” he says, motioning to my remaining boot.
I remove it with a grunt and hurl it at him, missing his head by a wisp. He doesn’t duck or move at all. Instead he regards me with that same sad and patient look, then retrieves the wayward boot and places it with its mate.
The image of Sýr’s broken-down boots, alone on the rock, is enough to make me start crying again, but this time I do not. I take a deep breath and fold my arms across myself, pushing my emotions down as far as they will go.
Einar and Oski are silent.
“Now what?” I ask, my voice betraying none of the unsteady feelings I have inside.
Einar shrugs. “Rest your feet by the fire. I will make soup with what we have.”
He sets about mixing moss and herbs together with a deftness I admire. He takes his time warming the soup while Oski and I watch.
Even though he is large and strong, Einar carries himself as if he is shy, often shrugging his shoulders in answer instead of speaking, as though he has the words to say but not the nerve to say them. He does this a lot more with me and seems to prefer speaking to Oski, whom he finds fascinating.
I’ve heard rumors about elf women marrying warriors of the Jötnar clan, attracted to the giant descendants’ size and power, their marriage a perfect union of beauty and skill and strength. I overheard Einar telling Oski that his mother was beautiful beyond comprehension. I believe it.
Oski, in their strange way of saying what I’m thinking, even though they are not supposed to be reading my thoughts, makes mention of it.
“You must look like your mother,” they say to Einar, breaking our silence.
Einar stops stirring for a moment and shrugs.
Oski turns to me instead. “Do you look like yours, Runa?” Einar focuses hard on the soup pot. He has the decency not to act too interested, but I can tell he is listening.
Do I look like my mother? “No,” I say at last. “I don’t know who I look like.”
“Well, how is that?” Oski asks. “You must look like someone. With that hair!” They toss a pebble at me.
“At least I have hair!” I shout at them.
I meant it as an insult, but Oski roars with laughter. Einar pours soup into our cups and brings one to me. I take it without looking at him. He doesn’t release it right away, and when I glance up, I see he’s looking at my hair. Studying it. I hate it.
I snatch the cup from him, hot soup sloshing onto the back of my hand and making my vegvisir burn. “Ah!” I cry.
“Careful,” he whispers. He turns to go back to his spot but looks back at me. “Wherever you get your hair from, I think it’s unique.” He averts his eyes again and sits with his back to me.
Oski continues to giggle, and it’s all I can do not to toss the entire cup of hot soup at them. But I’m starving, and I gulp it down, growing sleepier and warmer by the second. I should be more careful about eating things Einar has prepared, but I’m too hungry for caution. Besides, if Einar wants to kill me, he has already had plenty of opportunity. And Oski would know what he was planning.
“What was her name?” Einar asks me.
I look at him.
“Your mother,” he says.
I sigh. “Asta,” I say. I don’t know why I’m telling him this. “My mother’s name was Asta, after the loveliest flower on the whole island.”
I lie back on my heavy cloak, my head on my pack, and stare at the sky. The red moon is higher now, and a flock of birds flies overhead.
“Take me to Sýr,” I whisper to them, and I imagine myself as a bird, flying over everything, far above all this pain and confusion, flying free wherever I wish.
I’m on the verge of sleep, lulled by this daydream, when Einar asks Oski a question I’ve been dying to know the answer to.
“What did happen to your hair, Oski?” he asks.
Oski drains their soup cup and lets out a long belch. “Ah. Boring story.”
“No,” I say. “You ask us everything. Time for you to tell, mindreader.”
“Mindreader?” Einar asks, a startled look on his face.
I wave my hand at him. “Don’t worry. They promised not to, right, Oski?”
Oski shoots me a sharp glance.
“Oh, well, if they promised,” says Einar, slurping his soup.
“The hair, Oski,” I say. “The story.”
Oski sits back against a craggy rock, their black cloak pulled around them. They look like a huge bald bird perched high atop a cliff.
Oski runs a bony hand across the top of their head. “I used to have hair. I used to have a horse. I used to have wings. Now I do not.”
“Why?” asks Einar in his gentle voice.
Oski doesn’t say anything for a long time, and when they do, it’s as if they’re speaking to us from far away. “My own warriors were forced to carry out the punishment on me.”
They snicker, pointing a finger at the sky. “Because I betrayed a god,” Oski says, drawing out the last word as if it were dipped in poison. “I did it to protect a mortal. A mortal I loved.”
I am heartened by this. “Loved?” I ask, noting how Einar, too, seems to be hanging on the Valkyrie’s words.
“One of the Fates,” says Oski. “A Norn named Wyrd. She was gifted with the ability to weave the future, but longed for a simpler life. A mortal life. She chose that over the wishes of a god, who wanted her to create destinies that favored him. He was not pleased.”
“My mother used to tell me tales of the Norns,” Einar says. “Their weavings contain all of our stories.”
Oski chuckles. “Já. Yours. Mine.” Oski looks at me. “And yours, runecaster.”
The memory of standing by the golden lake flashes in my mind, and for a moment it feels as if I am there again. It’s so real I can smell th
e clover growing on the green hill I stand on. Then the memory is gone, and I am back among the stones with Einar and Oski.
“What was that?” Einar asks.
“What was what? What do you mean?” I ask.
“You both flickered. Like flames on the fire,” he says, blinking his eyes, an edge of fear in his voice.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Oski continues speaking, raging at the sky with a quiet anger that chills me.
“Now I quest, and I search for Wyrd in this realm, and I scheme against the very god who punished her and then me. But I will triumph. I managed to keep my closest friend—my sword,” they say, brandishing it in the gleaming daylight. “I snatched Chooser back right before I fell to earth.”
Oski shakes their sword. “Oh, it made him so mad!” they shout, their voice echoing into the sky.
With their weapon held high and their voice raging, I can clearly see Oski destroying enemies on a battlefield. Their true nature is stunning.
Oski looks at me. “I have not been honest with you, runecaster,” they say.
My heart pounds, not knowing what will come next. Einar shifts as though he’s getting ready to stand, and I see one of his hands reaching behind him for his pack. I watch as his long fingers find the handle of his dagger.
“I spoke the truth when I said I will help you on your journey,” Oski says. “But I am also searching for my true love.” Oski sheathes their blade and slumps back.
“Wyrd?” Einar asks, releasing his own dagger. “You can’t find her?”
Oski shakes their head. “I think she is hidden in Alfheim. But I have not found a path to it yet. The elves are secretive.”
Einar looks uneasy. “The elf realm? I know a way,” he says.
Oski stands, a flash of white and black. “You must take me there at once.”
Einar shakes his head. “I’m not supposed to. And I don’t know where Wyrd is, but I know where to find someone who does,” he says and then looks at me. “And I think they can help you too.”
The Stone of Sorrow Page 10
