We all dress with haste, keeping our backs to the hot spring, as it still calls to us, its waters as alluring as ever. As we leave I glance back at it, and I swear it looks more like a mouth than a pool. I shudder.
“Are you okay?” Einar asks. “Don’t look back.”
I nod and lead on.
The day brightens as we walk, and we begin to see smaller geysers springing up around us. Before long we come to a large crater in the earth. A deep rumble forms, and then a huge column of water shoots skyward, reflecting the red hue of the sky.
As it rages I see a reflection, an image, in the water. It looks like a statue. When the water recedes back into the earth, so does the image.
“There,” I say, pointing beyond the geyser.
“Where?” asks Oski. “I don’t see anything.”
I walk over to a barren spot in the land. It looks as if nothing is here, but the ground in this spot is smooth while the rest of it is craggy with volcanic rock. Whatever lies in this spot, it’s invisible.
“What are you doing?” Einar asks. “What do you see?”
“Her,” I say. “A woman made of stone.”
I cast my runes onto the barren spot in the ground. “Show yourself,” I command.
The earth rumbles again as if the geyser will spew, but instead a large stone woman appears from the ground. She is beautiful. Her carved robes are flowing, and her hair curves away from her face in gentle swirls. Her gaze is cast toward the sky, and she has a wide-open face and a full mouth.
Oski falls to their knees at the statue’s feet, kissing it.
“My love,” they say. “Oh, my love.”
I feel an odd sensation in my head, like something crumbling. I have flashes of glaciers moving, of great eruptions, of the slow passing of time. More than that, I feel the stone lady’s aching loneliness.
Tell me this, says a sweet voice in my mind. What do I desire?
I have a flash of Oski’s face, gazing in love at the statue. Then a flash of Frigg’s face, the way she looked at Sýr.
“To be seen,” I answer.
Einar casts a quick look at me, surprised by my words.
Oski stares at the stone lady, tears in their eyes.
“To be loved as if you’re not made from stone but of flesh,” I say, echoing the thoughts of the statue as they appear in my mind.
“To be mortal,” says Oski. They must be reading my thoughts. In this case, I don’t mind them listening in. I think about that single, sad feather.
Can you release me? the lady asks.
I see ancient runes appear in the rock, some older than what I can understand. Bindrunes.
“I don’t have anything powerful enough to open these,” I say to Oski.
“What do you need?” they ask.
“I need…love,” I say.
“Then you’re in luck,” says Oski, “because I have loved her all this time.”
“Then a sacrifice from you,” I say.
Oski takes the feather from their cloak and touches it to the stone lady’s hand. “I gave up my wings for her. I knew the consequences of my defiance, but I did it anyway.”
The stone lady begins to crack and split and crumble, shaking, and then a woman of flesh appears.
“Wyrd!” Oski exclaims, wrapping the woman in their long arms.
“My Valkyrie,” says Wyrd. She tries to embrace Oski, but her arms are still made of rock.
“Your arms,” says Oski.
Wyrd tries again to lift them, but they fall heavily at her sides. She shakes her head.
“Runecaster,” Oski says. “She isn’t whole.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what else to do.”
I look at Einar, and he takes one of Wyrd’s stone hands in his, turning it over. “I wish I could help,” he says, “but I don’t have a potion for this. Maybe we can find something at moonwater?”
“No,” Wyrd says. “I’m grateful to you all the same.” She looks at Oski. “You gave up your wings. It’s fair that I give up my weavers.”
“I will find you a cure,” says Oski. “We will travel to moonwater together.”
Wyrd looks sad. She nods at her feet. They also are still made of stone and are melded together in one solid block held fast to the earth. “I will remain here, as I always have.”
“Then I will too,” says Oski.
“No, love,” says Wyrd. “I have seen that you have important work yet to do. After all, I spent much of my existence weaving destinies. When you are done with this part of your journey, then you can come to me. We’ve waited this long. We can wait a little longer.”
Oski is crying, and it’s hard to watch.
“Einar,” I say. “Can we make a fire? Give them some time?”
“We don’t have much time, Runa,” he says, nodding at the red moon overhead.
“I know,” I whisper. “But if we can’t stop for love…” I don’t complete the thought. I don’t even know what I was going to say. Is it all worthwhile? Would Sýr want to be saved at any cost? Or would she stop? I think she would stop.
Einar looks at me for a long moment and then nods.
“Okay,” he says and sets about making camp for the evening. “We will stay until Oski is ready to say goodbye.” His last word is almost inaudible. He’s afraid Oski won’t be able to leave, but I know they will. If there’s one thing a Valkyrie takes to heart, it’s a quest bound by a blood oath. They have reminded me of it often enough.
We give the two lovers some privacy to get reacquainted, building them a small fire and then one for ourselves that’s a little farther away and out of the path of any geysers that want to shoot us skyward.
It is both maddening and comforting to spend the evening resting and eating soup. I want to run on into the night, toward the moon, toward Sýr, toward whatever bloody destiny awaits. And I want to stay here, with my friends, in the warmth of this moment.
“Is Sýr like you?” Einar asks, breaking my thoughts.
“Like me? How do you mean?”
“Strong,” he says. “Kind.”
I don’t answer at first. No one has ever called me strong before. I don’t know if I’m kind. I’ve never had much in the way of friends. I don’t say any of this to Einar because I doubt he can relate. He is one of those people that everyone loves. Beautiful, an heir to the leadership of a great clan, powerful in every sense. And even though this journey is changing me with every step, I am still me. Freaky Runa with the broken mind.
“No,” I say at last. “Not like me. Better. Much better.”
“Impossible,” Einar says with a smile, one of the first I’ve seen. It’s slight, and it disappears as fast as it came. I place the image away in my mind. I will try to remember it.
“Well,” I say, “if you want to talk about strength, then we can talk about how Sýr raised me from a babe when she was a child herself. She’s taught me, cared for me, kept me alive, despite my weaknesses. And my sickness.”
Einar nods, listening in silence.
“I have problems with my eyes, as you’ve seen, and sometimes I lose my grip on this realm. I…see things that aren’t there, and I get confused. It happens a lot when I’m scared.”
“You seem okay now,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m not. I miss my sister. Sýr has never made me feel like a freak.”
“How could she?” he asks. “You’re…”
“What?” I glance at him, and he looks away.
“You,” he says at last.
We are quiet for a moment, enjoying the crackle of the fire, the murmurings of Oski and Wyrd’s conversation and the occasional whoosh of geysers going off around us.
“Everyone thinks I missed out, not having my mother,” I say. “But Sýr has been a mother to me.”
Einar stokes the fire and offers me another cup of soup. I wave it off, not sure I can fit any more into my belly.
“I didn’t know my mother at all, because she died when I was bor
n. But it’s odd. Sometimes I feel like I remember her. I know that’s impossible. If anything, I know her because of Sýr. She always told me stories about her. And everyone says that Sýr is the very image of our mother. Still…I wish I had something of her.”
“I can’t help with that,” says Einar. “But I understand it. I keep my mother’s pin with me always.” He unclasps a golden pin from inside his cloak and holds it up. It glints in the firelight.
“Wow,” I whisper. “Elven gold is the prettiest gold.”
He chuckles. “Yes, it is.”
“What is the design?” I ask.
“It’s an arrow” he says, “named after my family line.” He turns it over and over in his hands, the sharp end glinting dangerous as any weapon I’ve seen. He puts it back with care, making sure it is attached and secure.
“Lucky,” I say. “To have that.” I feel myself flush. “I didn’t mean…”
He nods. “I know,” he says.
Einar stokes the fire and then opens his pack, pulling out a small bundle. Wordlessly he holds it out to me.
“What is it?” I ask, thinking it’s more medicinal herbs. He’s always pushing them on me.
“I found it in the forest. After we left the elf realm. It’s not much. “
I unwrap it, and the scent hits me first. Then the soft purple color. It’s an asta flower. My mother’s namesake. I can’t speak. I stare at it and then at him.
He doesn’t look at me and keeps stoking the fire.
I inhale its scent and hold the flower close to me, closing my eyes. I wonder if I try hard enough whether I can conjure my mother’s image. But nothing comes. When I open my eyes, Einar is gazing at me. A slight smile appears across his sad mouth.
We sleep for a few hours, snuggled in our cloaks, back-to-back. Our heads rest on our packs, and we dream next to the glowing embers of the fire.
Oski wakes us, jostling our shoulders.
The cold morning rushes across my face like a rude slap. I groan.
“We must go now,” Oski says. “Before I lose all nerve.”
I nod, gathering my supplies. Einar hurries off to relieve himself and is almost blasted into the sky by a large geyser. He lets out a whoop, and I can’t help but chuckle. I look at Oski, whose face is a mixture of sadness and something else. Anger? It’s so hard to tell.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Wyrd knows the entrance to a root of Yggdrasil,” they say.
“The world tree?” I ask. I’ve never thought of it as a literal place. Amma used to tell me tales of Yggdrasil, and how its branches hold all the realms of the world. I could never understand how a tree can hold such a vast area, heavens and earth and underworld, within its roots and branches.
We walk over to Wyrd, still stuck to the ground. It seems as if she could walk away at any moment, but there she rests, a permanent outcropping.
“Runa,” Wyrd says, “when you find the root, you will find the library. And in the library, you will find answers.”
“But how do I find the root?” I ask. I feel a glint of hope again. If we can get to this library, perhaps we can find something with which to defeat Katla. Perhaps I can learn more about how to battle her with runes. My education is still so incomplete.
“I know the way,” says Wyrd.
“Okay,” says Einar, walking up behind us. “Tell us.”
Wyrd shakes her head. “I know it in my body, not in my mind. If I walk, I will be led there. But I cannot describe the way.”
“How will that help us?” Einar asks, frustrated. “You cannot walk.”
I put a hand on his shoulder.
Oski holds out their hand, and Wyrd places her heavy one in it.
“She means to send a piece of herself with us,” says Oski.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
Oski takes a step back. “Watch.”
Wyrd lifts her left arm, and with a great yell brings the heavy stone down onto her outstretched right arm, cracking it in half. The stone hand and forearm tumble to the ground, and Oski scoops it up and kisses it.
“Wyrd!” I exclaim. “What have you done?”
“It will point the way,” she says, smiling. She looks at Oski. “Bring it back, my love. And bring yourself too.”
“My wings, your weavers,” says Oski. “I will return.”
I step forward and embrace Wyrd as best I can. “Thank you,” I say.
“Go, child,” says Wyrd. “For all my hope rests with you.”
I swallow. “And if I fail?” My voice is thick with dread.
“Don’t,” she says. “I have but one other arm.”
Oski laughs before taking a last long moment to bid Wyrd farewell.
I pull Einar along with me to give them privacy.
At last Oski manages to tear themselves from their love and rejoin us, wielding Wyrd’s severed arm in front of them like a demented compass. “Onward!”
Einar and I follow, with Oski blowing kisses on the wind as we walk away from Wyrd. As we retreat the ground rumbles, and Wyrd disappears back into the earth once again.
I say a quiet spell of protection. Not for us, but for Wyrd. I ask the runes, and the earth, to watch over her until we can return. One day we will set her free.
The stone hand waves in a macabre arc as Oski holds it out in front of them. It settles on a direction, and Oski leads us away from the geyser fields, past crags of lava flow and into a fertile valley. A small stream, verdant bushes, and a sense of eerie calm are all that exist here. That and a massive ash tree rising in the center of everything.
We descend into the valley, and I note that there are no other trees here. The tall tree ahead has a strange allure. I’ve never seen one like it before. Ash trees are not supposed to grow as thick as this one is, and it has the quality of something that’s been woven in fabric—a picture of a tree rather than the tree itself. But I can see as we near it that its upper branches are swaying, so it must be a real tree.
“Is this the root we’re looking for?” asks Oski, pointing at the tree. “Wyrd’s hand is pulling stronger. And there’s something about this tree…something off.”
“Yes,” I say. “I feel it too.”
“It doesn’t seem like much to me,” says Einar. “I thought a root of Yggdrasil would be more magnificent.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Perhaps not. It wouldn’t be very well disguised then.”
He looks around at the valley. “Too…nice…here,” he says, echoing my thoughts.
“Yes,” I say. “It feels odd. Perfect. Maybe dangerous.”
“A spell?” Einar asks. “Do you think this place is enchanted, Runa?”
Oski scans the landscape. “And eyes in the fields?” they ask, pointing to the tall grasses to the east of the tree.
“I don’t know. I don’t see anything,” I say. And yet I know we are being watched.
“I feel the presence of Katla,” Oski says.
“Me too,” says Einar. He is shaking. I place a hand on his arm to steady him. He lets out a breath.
“Then let’s not waste any more time,” I say.
“How do we enter?” Oski says as we approach the tree. “There is no door. All I see is this mark.”
It’s a phrase in runes. I read it out loud. “It says, ‘Make the sound to enter.’ ”
“What sound?” Einar asks.
“I don’t know. What sound do you make to open a tree? A knock?”
Oski knocks. Nothing.
I knock. Nothing.
Einar shrugs. He knocks. Nothing. “What now?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. But then I get an idea. I turn to Oski. “May I have Wyrd’s hand?”
Oski passes it to me, and I use the stone appendage to knock. After a moment the wood groans, and a door appears and opens inward.
I can see that it’s very dark inside the tree. I have no desire to enter without knowing what’s there, but Wyrd’s hand pulls me forward with a jolt.
“R
una!” Einar shouts. I hear them lumbering in behind me.
The door shuts, and we find ourselves in a small chamber. It’s too dark to see, so I glow my runes.
“There,” Einar whispers, pointing. The room narrows to a small stairwell that has a faint light coming from it.
We go down the small staircase, which opens up into a great hall. It’s wider and taller than any hall I’ve seen—bigger even than the huge gathering places my people use for celebrations. Everything is covered in a twinkling dust. The floor and the walls all shine, and I think this place must be enchanted, but I don’t feel any of the uneasiness I did in the exposed valley outside. No, this place is warm despite its loftiness, and it smells like my amma’s hut.
I realize why when I see that there are scrolls and books and parchments all over the room. They line the walls, rest on ladders and are scattered all over the tables. They’re spilling open, large and small, a jumble of ancient knowledge. Some of the books are shelved so close to the ceiling that I wonder how anyone could reach them. As far as I can tell, the hall goes up to the heavens and continues down into the depths of the earth.
“The great library,” I whisper. I feel a terrible pang of sadness. “Amma will never get to see this. She would have loved it.”
Einar places a hand on my shoulder.
“I have seen only one book in my lifetime,” says Oski. “And I didn’t read it.”
Einar chuckles. “I’ve read lots.”
“You have?” I ask. I’ve seen some old spellbooks that Sýr has, and Amma used to let me peek at her scrolls from time to time, but not much more than that.
“Yes,” says Einar. “I was training to be a potion mage, remember? A lot of it is reading the old wisdom. And my mother loved to read.” He runs a finger across the worn spine of a thick green book. Then he picks up a large brown one and gently turns its pages. As he does so, the gold lettering flakes off a bit and falls glittering to the floor. This must be where all the twinkling dust is from. I realize now that the books and scrolls in this library are a special kind.
“Magic books,” I say.
We hear a sound, a frantic scurrying across the floor, from somewhere in the room. We look around but don’t see anything. The sound echoes in the great hall.
The Stone of Sorrow Page 13
