My body tells me Sýr is here. And the moths I saw do too. It’s not a huge place, so I’ll have to be careful, but maybe I’ll find Sýr without too much trouble. I see that the green lights form a dome over moonwater, and the temporary city itself is a big circle. Around the perimeter of the marketplace are makeshift taverns and boardinghouses. The casting circle where the competition takes place will be in the center, as will the sacred moonwater reflecting pool. I walk that way, weaving through the crowd of people buying and selling.
When I arrive, the casting circle is empty. It’s much smaller than I imagined it to be. In my mind I had envisioned a huge battleground and a large, majestic pool of water. What I find is a simple dirt arena, surrounded on all sides by stone seats where the spectators and other casters will watch and wait. There is a row of elevated seats on one side, which is where the council of elders will watch. In front of their seats is a small basin about as big as a large cooking pot, forged from stone and rising from the earth. It shines with a reflecting water as still as the ice door that I entered through to get here. The sacred waters.
“Enchanting, isn’t it?” says a voice.
I whirl around.
“New arrival?” a haggard woman asks me. “Need food? Board? I have a place.”
“Uh, y-yes,” I stammer. “Please.”
“Good, good. I’m Vilný,” she says, reaching out a gnarled hand.
I grasp it. “Uh, hello. I’m…Gudrun,” I say, using my formal birth name. No one calls me this, and it’s a very common name on the island.
Vilný grunts. “This way,” she says and leads me from the casting circle to the outskirts of the marketplace. We arrive at a little shack that looks more like a stable for animals, but I’m so tired I don’t care.
“Competition begins tonight,” she says, “after the eclipse.” She points up, and I see the moon edging next to the sun. “I will bring some stew.”
“Thank you,” I say and then stare at her when she doesn’t leave.
“Oh!” I say. “Of course.” She wants to be paid. “How much?” I ask. “Wait. I don’t have any money.”
She grumbles to herself, then says, “Well, what have you got? I take trade. That spear is acceptable.”
I move it aside and place it down with my pack. “Not for trade,” I say. “I have jewels though.”
Vilný’s eyes light up. “Jewels I like.”
“One minute.”
I crouch by my pack and scoop a few pebbles from the floor. I feel bad for duping the woman, but I don’t have much choice.
I whisper to my runes, “Turn stone to gem, by the bounty of Freyja.” My runes clatter and glow, and the pebbles in my hand turn into sparkling, clear gems.
Standing, I turn back to Vilný. “Here,” I say. “Will this suffice?”
“Oh yes,” she says, grabbing the gems with shaking hands. “Pretty. I will bring a big bowl of stew.”
“Thank you,” I say as she retreats. I hope she trades them before they turn back to rocks.
As I settle onto a mound of dried grasses and blankets, I hear lumbering footsteps outside. I scuttle over to the shuttered window and peer out. Jötnar warriors. Several of them. Huge sentinels that would strike fear into the heart of anyone, but these Jötnar ones have a glazed look in their eyes, like walking puppets. Even so, if they are close by, that means Katla is too. And Sýr.
I must disguise myself. I gather my runes and cast them onto the dirt floor.
“Make me unrecognizable,” I say, invoking the rune of Hagall.
I watch as my hands wrinkle and wither and my skin turns a mottled color. The ends of my hair turn a dull gray, and I watch in awe as my belly protrudes. I hope this will be enough.
“What in Odin’s name!” Vilný walks back in and almost drops her stew. “Why do you look so different? You are the odd girl I rented the room to, yes? You have the same fancy cloak. And strange eyes.”
I look down. My clothes are not different. “Change,” I whisper, rubbing my hands on my cloak. It turns from its shiny black to a dull brown.
Vilný gasps. “Magic before the competition is not permitted.”
“Well,” I say, “won’t those gems, and the promise of more tomorrow, keep you quiet?”
“Oh,” she says, setting the stew beside me. “I think so, yes.”
The smell of it makes my mouth water, and I grab the bowl and start slurping.
“Hmm. Tasty, yes?” she asks. “Are you casting?”
“No,” I lie. “I’m watching. Learning.”
“Ah,” says Vilný. “Be careful.”
I look at her.
“Between you and me, I have heard tales of a witch,” she says.
I finish chewing a piece of meat before I respond. “A witch?” I ask.
“Nasty one,” says Vilný. “Snatching babies. Has the heart of a monster.”
“Well,” I say. “Perhaps she won’t get in?”
Vilný grunts. “There are already whispers of people going missing. Some say the witch changes her face.” She looks at me with suspicion.
“And you think that could be me?”
Vilný stammers. “N-no, I did not say so.”
I stand and walk over to her. I hold my hand out, offering another tiny jewel.
“Would a nasty witch give such lovely gifts?” I ask with a smile.
Vilný takes the gem. “Ah, I knew you were a good one.”
She collects my empty stew bowl and makes to leave.
“Vilný,” I say, and she turns back. “If you don’t disturb me, and you keep people from my door, I will give you three more tomorrow.”
“Three?” she asks.
I nod.
“Sleep well, good one. I will have porridge tomorrow.”
She leaves, and I lie on my sleeping pile. I must rest for a little bit, and then, when it is dark, I will look for Sýr. I will need to be careful, for it sounds like Katla is afoot. As much as I want to kill her, I need to get Sýr out first. If Oski and Einar got through and are here in moonwater, I hope they are safe.
I run my hand along my upper arm, gingerly touching our tattoo, and fall asleep with Einar’s golden eyes floating in my dreams.
I sleep without dreaming. A soft fluttering against my cheek wakes me, and as I open my eyes to the darkened shed, I see a cluster of moths. They hover over me, each one in turn sparking aflame, passing the firelight back and forth in a kind of frenzied dance.
“Sýr?” I whisper.
As if in answer, the moths move as a group toward the door. I grab my spear and tighten my cloak around me. The moths want to go, and I am sure they want me to follow.
I ease open the door, letting a loud creak escape into the cold night air, and the moths fly out, sparking as if to beckon me. The alleyway in front of the tavern is empty save for a sleeping man propped against a barrel. He’s drunk on mead and doesn’t stir when I step out into the night.
The moths move quicker now, and I hurry to keep up, my boots squishing in the mud-caked footsteps of so many others.
The moths lead me to a locked shed that looks like it’s used to store dry goods or tools. There is no sign of the Jötnar sentinels, and for that I am grateful. No indications of Katla. To be sure, I consult my runes.
“Reveal the witch to me,” I whisper, holding out my rune pouch.
They clatter and glow, sending off little beams of light that pierce the darkness. The beams fizzle and fall all around, settling in grooves and footprints and creating a pattern of Katla’s activity. Everywhere she’s been glows a sickening yellow. I see her footprints, pointed at the ends like knives, and smears on the building’s doorframe that suggest her brushing against it. Her fingerprints are on the door handle. The whorls of her imprint aren’t like a mortal’s in any sense. They form a pattern like a serpent’s body. I am careful not to touch them.
The markings fade, and there are no other signs of her. Wherever Katla is, it’s not close by. I push in the door, peeking in
side the murky darkness. The moths flutter inward, illuminating the space, and my heart lurches in my chest. My beloved sister is chained in the corner like an animal.
“Sýr!” I exclaim in a loud whisper. I rush to her and kneel to embrace her.
“Runa,” she gasps. “My Runa.”
She is emaciated, her ribs visible beneath her dress. Cuts and bruises cover her body and her once long and lush hair is choppy and matted. Katla must have hacked it off for use in her wicked spells. If I ever get the chance, I will cut that witch to pieces. But for now I must try to free my sister. I grab the chains and examine the heavy locks.
Sýr moans. “Stop, Runa,” she says. “It’s no use.”
“No, I won’t give up. I will get you out of here.” I wonder if her bonds are enhanced by a spell. “My runes can help me break through these. I just need a little time.”
“No, Runa,” she says. “Look at me.” She searching my face with her eyes. “By Freyja!” she exclaims. “Why do you look so old?”
At first I don’t understand, and then I remember the disguising spell I used earlier. Taking my runes in hand, I wipe the soft leather of the pouch over my face.
“Better?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “There is the Runa I have longed to see again. I knew you were coming. I left messages for you. I tried to speak to you, to cross the distance between us.”
“Sýr, I want to know everything. I want to sit and talk with you forever. But I have to get you out of here before Katla comes.”
Her eyes have a ghostlike sheen to them, as if she’s fading out of existence. Is it Katla sucking her life force? Or is it the stone?
“Where is the moonstone?” I ask.
“I have it,” she says. “But it is almost drained. Katla draws from it even more when she takes over my body. But she cannot wield it herself. I have made sure of that.”
I shudder, thinking about Katla possessing my sister’s body. “I can get help. I’ll go to the elders. They’ll stop her.”
“No, you can’t.”
“But why, Sýr?”
“You have to let things be,” she says. “You must leave me and battle Katla in the circle, or else she won’t get the stone.”
“Wait, what do you mean?” I ask. “You want her to get the stone?”
Sýr is shaking and I know she won’t be able to hang on much longer. “I don’t have time to explain everything, Runa. You have to trust me. We must make sure Katla gets the stone, but it has to be in the circle after it charges in the reflecting pool. It needs to be strong. As strong as possible.”
“Where is it? How did you disappear it?” I am getting more scared by the moment.
“I didn’t disappear it,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s no time now, Runa. You must go. I wanted to see you one last time, sister. My beloved baby sister.” Sýr starts to cry, her sobs racking her thin chest, and I throw my arms around her.
“You’ve grown so beautiful,” Sýr says through her tears. “As I always knew you would.”
“How can I leave you now that I’ve found you again?” I cry.
“You must. I am weak, Runa. So weak. Now you are the strong one.”
I shake my head, but I know it is true.
“Trust me, Runa. When Katla holds the stone, she won’t understand what it is, what it truly is.”
“What is it, Sýr?” I whisper.
“It’s a time stone, Runa. The most powerful of all the time stones, and so few can wield it.”
“A time stone,” I say. I pull open my rune pouch and cast my own time stones on the ground.
Sýr gasps. “It’s all coming true,” she says. “You are who I dreamed you to be.”
“What does that mean? I’m so confused, Sýr. I want you back. I want to go home. Our village, our people. Frigg. Amma.”
Sýr nods. “I have felt the loss in my heart. When Frigg was killed, I knew my old life was over.”
“Sýr, Frigg is not dead. She is under the power of an enchanted dust. If we defeat Katla, then maybe the spell will be broken and Frigg can be saved. Maybe you can have the life you dreamed of.”
My sister cries harder, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Please promise me,” she begs, “that when you return home you will help Frigg. And tell her…tell her she was the only one I ever loved.”
I rest my head on Sýr’s shoulder, taking in her smell. Still the same.
“Listen to me, Runa,” she says. “The runecasters who know the moonstone’s true nature are those who’ve been blessed to hold it and survive. Runa, there is so much you don’t know, and I fear I have not prepared you.” Her voice is strangled with emotion. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I tried. You must forgive me.”
“For what, Sýr?” I ask. I lift my head to look at her.
“For what I must do,” she says, meeting my eyes with a sadness I’ve never seen before.
I shake my head. “No, no. I don’t want to know.”
“When you were born, we knew you were special,” she starts.
“You mean a freak,” I say.
“Hush! Special. But—” She hesitates. “There was something odd too. You seemed to shake, like the light of a candle before it flickers out. And then Mother realized that you weren’t connected to this time.”
I stare at Sýr, starting to comprehend what she is saying.
“Runa, you were still attached to our mother with your life cord,” says Sýr. “And you were jumping around in time. You took her with you.”
The air is still and silent between us. “What happened to her?” I am terrified to hear the answer, but I must know.
Sýr shakes her head. “One moment you were there in my arms, still attached to Mother, and we were admiring you. Then you vanished, and she vanished too. And when you came back, appearing once again in my arms, Mother did not come back with you.”
I swallow hard. I’m dizzy and overwhelmed. “I killed our mother?”
“No!” Sýr says. “She’s gone. Lost in another time. And…”
“What?” I ask.
“I thought it was me,” Sýr says, her voice quiet. “I was jealous while Mother was expecting you. I dreaded your birth. And when you both vanished, I thought I had wished you away. It took me a long time to understand. And when I did, I made it my life’s goal to protect you and keep you here. With me. In the now.”
Sýr looks at me with pleading eyes, begging my forgiveness.
“So every night, when you did the sleeping spell—” I begin.
“It was a time spell,” Sýr finishes. “To keep you with me. I was able to do it because I carried the moonstone.”
I take all this in. “Could Mother be alive?” I ask at last, thinking back to the vision of her at the entrance to moonwater.
“I don’t know. All I know is that you’re the one who will wield the moonstone.”
“But you’ve been using it all this time!” I say.
“No, Runa,” she says. “I inherited the stone. It was low on power after Mother disappeared, and it has been killing me ever since. Look at me,” she says, opening her arms as wide as the shackles will allow. “This isn’t from Katla. It’s from the stone. And when it is charged in the reflecting pool, it will be more powerful than I can handle.”
“If you can’t do it, then how—?”
“You must believe,” she says, interrupting me. She nods at my runes. “Those,” she says. “And that.” She looks at my spear. “Those are the tools of a powerful caster. The most powerful I have ever seen.”
I gather my runes and put them away, then reach out to touch Sýr’s cheek. Gone is the soft, tanned skin that glowed with youth and health.
“I’m scared,” I say, not without shame.
Sýr nods. “That’s because you are still bound by my time spell. And once I remove it, you will be who you truly are. I’m so sorry I had to do it this way.”
A surge of panic goes through me. “W
hat will happen? Will I disappear? Will you?”
Sýr shakes her head sadly. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Runa. I’m sorry I had to keep this from you.”
“Sýr, please,” I plead. “Let’s find another way. It’s all I have left of you.” I embrace her again, crying into her neck.
Sýr whispers in my ear. “I must take it off now, Runa, and you must fight to stay here and use your own strength. I know you can do it. I unbind you, Runa. I set you free.”
As she says these last words, I feel myself falling fast, as if plummeting through the earth. I tumble in darkness, and I’m jolted back and forth by alternating flashes of light. I realize that I am slipping around in time.
How do I stay? How do I get back?
Sýr, I call out with my mind and heart. Help!
The bright light of day rushes at me, and I’m sitting on the floor of our dwelling back home. I am very small, and Sýr is a teenager. She feeds me porridge, and I am filled with love.
Back again into the darkness, tumbling faster now. Another flash, and I am an infant, newly born, staring at my mother’s face. Darkness. Light. Over and over I fall. Over and over I visit some small moment of my life. Feeding Núna, my raven. Sending Amma’s body out to sea. Waving at Father’s ship from the shore. Eating shark with Sýr. Casting runes with Sýr. Always Sýr.
Blackness. Cold. A sharp, searing pain in my left side. And then the bright blue sky is spinning past. I land on a hard surface, the breath knocked out of me, and it takes me a long time to sit up. When I do, I recognize nothing.
I am alone on a small hilltop. There is nothing but green fields of tall wild grass as far as I can see. I am naked and cold. Wet leaves cling to my body.
There is a lone tree on the hilltop with me, its branches bare. Sap runs from a gouge along its trunk. As I look at the tree’s wound, I become aware of my own injury. My side pulses, and I reach down to examine it. I touch the edges of the wound and then cry out in pain as a hot, stabbing sensation rips through my abdomen. How did this happen? Where am I?
Even as the terror of my wound rushes through me, it is replaced by a new fear. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know my own name. I struggle to recall something, anything, of what happened before this, but my mind is blank. Did I exist moments earlier, or not? Somewhere deep inside my soul, I know that I was someone. I am someone.
The Stone of Sorrow Page 19
