“Oski, did Wyrd say anything about a keeper?” I ask.
“No,” says Oski. “Nothing.”
“We’re not alone,” says Einar, pulling a dagger from his belt.
“That is obvious,” Oski says. They unsheath their sword.
I ready my spear. What is it?
“You won’t be needing those,” says a croaking voice. “Words are all that exist here.”
Suspended high above the floor, hanging from a rope, is a strange creature. As it lowers itself, the rope squeaking and groaning, I see that it is a man who looks more like a tortoise than a mortal. He is short, with a curved, shell-like back and greenish skin.
“Hello,” I say, my voice wavering.
“What is that?” Einar hisses.
“Should I kill it?” Oski asks.
“No!” I plead. “Don’t!”
The man laughs. His feet now on the floor, he limps toward us, and I can see that he is very, very old. Groaning, he pushes some books aside and leans a weary arm across the table.
“Messy in here. My apologies. I am always trying to get the books in order, but they never seem to stay put!” He peers at me.
I note that his eyes are like slits in his head, and when they open and close they bulge out at me. It’s unsettling.
“What are you then?” he asks me.
“What is she?” Oski scoffs. “What are you?”
“I’m the Keeper of the Books,” he says. “Name’s Orð. Who are you?”
I clear my throat. “I’m Runa. This is Einar and Oski. We were directed here by, well, by our friend.” I hold out Wyrd’s hand, and Orð gasps.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “We didn’t do this to her. It was a gift.”
“Funny gift,” says Orð.
“Our friend Wyrd,” Einar says, stepping forward. “She said we could find the knowledge we seek here.”
Orð appraises Einar. “Haven’t had too many elven folk here. So what kind of knowledge is it that you seek? Potions? Cures?”
Einar nods. “Yes.”
“Of what sort?” Orð asks. He regards us with suspicion.
“The kind needed to kill a bad witch,” says Einar.
“A bad one, eh?” asks Orð.
“The worst,” says Einar. “And you have so many wonderful things…” Einar trails off, enchanted again by the books and scrolls and endless reams of parchment. He can’t help touching them.
“Well,” says Orð after a long pause, “they are wonderful. Do have a look around. See what you can find.”
Einar starts combing through the stacks. Somehow he seems to know what he’s looking for and approximately where to find it. Oski plonks down on a pile of books, looking bored.
“I could use some help,” I say.
“Go on,” says Orð. “If we don’t have it, no one does.”
“I need a book on rune magic. A spellbook of old. I must take my training to the next step.”
“Ah, a runecaster you are. I thought so. With those eyes.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling defensive. I hate it when people notice how strange my eyes are.
Orð doesn’t answer. He scuttles across the floor, weaving with grace through the piles of books. He clambers up a rickety ladder and retrieves one for me from a high shelf. He tosses it into the air, and I catch it. The cover has a strange bindrune on it that I’ve never seen.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Don’t know, can’t read it,” says Orð. “I’ve tried many times, and I cannot.”
I turn it over in my hands and notice that the strange bindrune disappears and then reappears. I open the cover and see that the first page is blank. And the next. And the next.
“No wonder you can’t read it,” I say. “There’s nothing here.”
“No?” Orð asks. “Touch it and see.”
I run a finger across the page. A series of silver-colored illustrations of runes appears. They are old, but I can decipher most of them. They appear to be instructions for various spells and rituals, including a method for making runestones for casting.
“I guess only a runecaster can read that book,” says Orð. “Take it. It seems you were meant for each other.”
“Thank you,” I say, opening my pack to place it inside.
“Oh say, what have you got in there?” Orð scoots over and pulls open my bag.
“Hey!” I protest.
“What? You want the book, yes?” he asks.
“Yes, and you said I could take it,” I answer.
“But we must trade for it,” Orð says, rummaging in my pack.
He finds the tiny vial I took from the hidden compartment in Sýr’s wooden trunk.
“Oh…reflecting powder,” says Orð, examining the little container with awe.
“Is that what it is? You know what it does?” I ask.
“Oh yes,” he says. “Whatever you sprinkle it on will see itself. But be careful. It’s very powerful. Not always wise to see yourself.”
I nod.
Orð continues rummaging through my bag. He finds my father’s old dirty cloak. “Oh,” he says. “Warm.” He looks at me.
“You want that?” I ask.
“Please,” he says.
“Go ahead,” I say.
Orð grunts in delight as he pulls out the cloak and wraps it around his curved frame.
I look around for Einar, who is now emerging from the stacks with a small book. It’s deep blue and thin, and it bears an elven mark.
“How much for this?” Einar asks.
“Bah!” says Orð. “Not much use for it myself. Elf potions. If you want it, maybe you trade for a drink of mead?”
Einar shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any.”
Orð grumbles. “My back. Oh, it is so sore from climbing and hoisting. Books, books, books. A drink of mead would be the thing.”
“Wait,” Einar says. He opens his pack and pulls out a small jar. “Put this in your tea tonight, and it will help with your sore back.”
Orð takes it and sniffs. “Blech! Smells like troll!”
Einar smiles. “That’s because it’s made from crushed troll bone.” He glances at me. “I didn’t kill one! I just found the bones. They’re very valuable. Trolls are strong, and their bones, hair, and even toenails are wonderful cures.”
“That’s disgusting,” Oski says.
I look at Orð. “Will you accept the trade?”
“Yes,” he says. He leans in to speak to Einar in a low tone. “Say, will this make me younger?”
Einar grins. “No, but you will feel like it does.”
“Oh!” Orð whoops.
Oski sighs. “Are we done here?”
“I am,” says Einar.
I have another question. “Orð?”
“Hmm?” He is busy admiring his troll potion and snuggling into his new cloak. He doesn’t seem to care that it’s so long it billows around his feet.
“You’ve read everything in here, yes?”
“Most,” he says with false modesty.
“This book says that if I want to be a real runecaster, I have to forge my own runes. And I definitely need to do that. Because I will have to fight a powerful witch at moonwater.”
Orð stares at me. “Then you will need very powerful runes indeed,” he says, nodding.
“Yes, but I don’t have the right kind of materials. Where can I find something powerful enough?”
“Well,” he says, pausing for a moment to think. “You could kill the elf and use his bones.” Orð looks at Einar, very seriously. He laughs, an infectious, chortling sound that makes Oski look up from their perch and smile.
Einar frowns.
“No,” I say, fighting to suppress my own laughter. “We need him.”
“The Valkyrie?” the turtle man whispers.
“Mm-mm.” I shake my head.
Oski hisses at him and waves Wyrd’s hand.
I hold up my own hand. “Stop.”
&n
bsp; Orð rubs his fleshy chin. “Hmm. There is something that could work,” he says. “But it is very powerful. Too much power for most runecasters. But a special one like you, with eyes like yours…perhaps you can benefit.”
“What is it?” I ask. “Please tell me.”
“Oh…” says Orð. “Time stones.”
Einar lets out a funny sound. I’m not sure if it means he’s excited or worried. Knowing Einar, he’s probably worried.
“You might as well say we need pieces of the moon,” says Oski with a dismissive wave of Wyrd’s hand. “There are no time stones, lunatic. No one has seen them for generations, if they ever existed at all.”
“They exist!” Orð shouts. “I have seen them myself. Granted, it was a long time ago, when I lived a different life outside the great tree’s root. But I saw them. Before I was chosen to keep the knowledge.”
“Where did you see them? Please, I have to know,” I say.
Orð leans toward me and grasps my shoulders. His voice is quiet but intense. “I saw them at the bottom of the ocean.”
I groan. He is a lunatic. “That won’t help us,” I say. I feel despair wash over me, sapping my strength. I’m so tired. How can I possibly find something at the bottom of the ocean?
“Ah, but there is a place to get help,” he says. “A keeper I know.”
“One like you?” Einar asks.
“No, not like me at all,” says Orð. “He is very mistrustful of mortals. Doesn’t like to trade. It could be suicide.”
“Great,” mutters Einar.
“Exciting,” Oski says.
“But, runecaster,” says Orð. “If you can get the time stones and forge the runes, you will be unstoppable. Especially with those eyes.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I ask.
“Oh…” says Orð. “Your eyes are very unusual. Special. Didn’t you know?”
“I-I…” I trail off, speechless. “No. My eyes have always been my weak point.”
Orð laughs at this.
I look at Oski, who smiles at me.
“The crazy little man is right about one thing,” they say. “Time stones will change everything.”
I look at Einar. “What do you think? Did you find the poison recipe you need?”
Einar nods. “But it’s not going to be enough. If I can get to Katla, and if I can deliver the poison, it could weaken her,” he says. “But you’re the one who will have to defeat her. I think we need to try to get the stones.”
I sigh. “This keeper you speak of,” I say to Orð. “Where can I find him?”
“Oh, it’s not far,” says Orð. “Go to where the ice breaks apart into the sea. You will have to go into the water to access his cave. Very cold. It will be dangerous.”
“Of course it will,” says Einar.
“How will I know where his cave is?” I ask.
“Oh, the spear you carry will help,” Orð says, pointing to it.
“What? Why?” I ask.
“Because it belongs to him,” he says.
I stare at my spear, illuminated in the glow of my rune pouch and the candlelight of the great library.
“See the runes along its length?” Orð says.
I realize with a shock that the elaborate swirling designs along the spear are not decorations at all. They are indeed runic staves devoted to the sea goddess Rán.
“Speak the runes, and the spear will take you to the cave you seek,” says Orð.
“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t know how to repay you for your kindness.”
Orð grasps my hands in his, and when he speaks his tone is grave. “You can thank me in the next life.”
Once we are safely outside the tree, the door closes and then disappears. I clutch the spellbook Orð gave me. I can’t stop thinking about what he said about my eyes. Special eyes. What did he mean? I should have asked more questions.
Special gifts are for other people. People like Sýr, who have always been beautiful and loved, and who have steady hearts and strong bodies. I’ve always been weaker than the others, prone to sickness, and my goals have always been selfish, not altruistic. My dream is to sail away, not to stay and serve.
“Are you okay?” Einar touches me on the wrist. The sensation travels up my arm in an electric flush.
I shiver. “Yes,” I say. “That turtle man gave me a lot to think about.”
“I know,” he says, gazing into the sky. The red moon is overhead, growing bigger and darker every hour. “Listen.” He turns to me, leaning in so I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. “If you want to go find moonwater now and forget about this time-stone thing, I’m with you. And if you don’t want to face Katla, want to just run away…” He trails off.
“I know,” I say, meeting his steady gaze. But we both know that quitting isn’t a choice either of us can make. Our clans and families and futures are at risk.
“Thank you,” I say. “For being on my side. And for everything else.”
He continues looking at me. Being this close to him isn’t awkward like it used to be, but it’s not comfortable either. I’m trying to get used to meeting the intensity of his gaze. I feel like there’s not much stopping one of us from kissing the other, and I wish I had more time to dwell in this moment. But the red moon won’t wait. Sýr cannot wait.
“We need to continue northeast toward the ice,” I say, breaking the soft tension between us. “It shouldn’t be far. Just beyond the valley toward the coast. My spear will help us find our way, I suppose. But we need some replenishment first.” Píla had given us some food, but we’ve run out.
“I agree,” he says. “We should take a bit of time to gather food and then go.” He pauses. “I don’t like what Orð said about it being so dangerous.” Einar touches my spear, a frown on his face. I think he wishes I had never found this thing.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I have you.”
Oski interrupts with complaints of their ever-growling stomach, so I pull my hook and line from my pack to see if I can catch some fish in the stream we saw on the way into the valley. Einar sets about gathering moss and scavenges the grassy fields surrounding us for herbs and roots. Oski, as usual, does nothing.
Once I’m beside the stream, I dig grubs near the soft earth along the water’s edge. It reminds me of Núna. Where is she now? I pierce the worms’ fat bodies and toss my line into the water. It isn’t long before I catch a few smallfish.
As I am cleaning them, I see something in the shallow water. It’s a rune, one made of whalebone. I recognize it as one of Sýr’s collection.
I dive forward, splashing, and Einar hurries over. “What is it?”
I scoop the rune and cradle it in my hands. “It’s Uruz,” I say. “The rune for strength and will. It’s a message from Sýr!” She wants me to stay strong. The world is alive with Sýr, and Sýr is alive! I am so full of glee that I embrace Einar in a sudden hug.
I let go of him just as quickly and hold out the rune in explanation. “She must have left this for me.”
“A positive sign,” says Einar, still standing close to me.
We roast the fish over the fire and gobble them down, all of us silent. I wonder if they’re worrying about the next step in our journey. Orð said it would be dangerous to seek the time stones, but I have to try. Sýr’s rune has given me new hope.
“Runa?” Einar’s voice startles me. I look up to see him standing over me. “Everything okay?”
“Thinking,” I say. I move over so he can sit next to me on the damp trunk of a fallen tree. He sits close enough for our shoulders to brush against each other, his soft gray cloak rustling against mine.
His cloak fits his broad shoulders so well. It has a fuzzy softness to it that makes me want to bury my head in his neck, though I dare not do such a thing.
Einar is looking at me with a curious expression, as if trying to read my thoughts. I often catch him looking at me this way. It used to make me feel like I was a problem for him to solve, him looking
at me the way he studies his plants and potions, but not anymore. Now I long to have him look at me this way.
“Here,” he says, offering me a handful of plump just-picked winterberries, smooth and black. I know they must have been very hard to find.
“Thank you,” I say, “but maybe someone else needs them more than I do.” I nod at Oski, who sits cradling Wyrd’s severed hand.
“You’ll need your energy if you’re going to swim in the ice water,” Einar says, a quaver in his voice. It alarms me.
“Do you think I can really do this?” I ask.
“Well, if you had asked me that when I first met you, I would have said no, I don’t think you can,” he says. “But now I believe you will succeed.”
“If I don’t, then promise me you will continue. Find my sister,” I say. I try to push down my fear, but I feel it taking over.
“I will,” he says. “But I won’t need to. I’m just sorry…” He doesn’t finish his thought.
“For what?” I ask.
“For being a part of what led you here,” he says. “For this being your life. I wish it was different for you.”
I take this in. “And your life,” I say. “I wish it was better.”
I am beginning to wonder if anyone has the life they want. “Maybe existence is a long dream. Maybe we fight against our fate until it’s over,” I say, “and it all keeps happening, over and over.”
Einar gives me an odd look. “Then we don’t have much choice but to keep moving forward,” he says.
“Do you want to get married?” I blurt.
“W-what?” Einar chokes on a berry and then recovers.
“No!” I exclaim. “I’m not asking. I mean, do you ever. Want to get married. To anyone. Ever. In the future.” My face is burning hot and must be red as the moon.
“Oh,” he says, regaining his composure. “Yes, I think so. Do you?”
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
I point at Oski. “Loving people means you can lose them. Why get married and have children just to watch them die?”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” says Einar.
I shrug. “It’s the truth.”
“For you maybe. Not for me,” he says.
The Stone of Sorrow Page 14
