The Coming of the Dragon (14 page)

The king cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“She was a peaceweaver, a bride whose task was to heal the wounds of two warring peoples, bonding them together.”

Rune listened, astonished. He knew about peaceweavers, of course—half of Amma’s tales had been about them. But what the king was saying didn’t make sense. Not about Amma.

The king sighed, shaking his head. “When the lord is killed, the spear seldom rests, no matter how worthy the bride.”

“But I thought peaceweavers were noblewomen,” Rune said.

“They are.” The king gave him a long look, and finally his meaning began to sink in. Amma had been nobly born?

“She was the daughter of a Frisian earl, sent off to marry a Shylfing lord. The two families had been feuding for generations. When peace couldn’t be woven, Amma lost her husband, her brother, and one of her sons. Her husband’s clan reviled her, and her own family was destroyed. I offered her refuge.”

“But, the way she lived—”

“I know,” the king said. “It was her choice. She was sick
and weary of wars and kings and the intrigues of court. She asked to live in Hwala’s hut. She made me promise not to reveal who she was.” He stared off over the ruins of his hall, thin tears making tracks in the dust on his cheeks.

Rune watched him in awe—it was all too much to take in.

“But there’s more,” the king said, his jaw clenching. He met Rune’s eyes again, not bothering to wipe his tears away. “Amma had two sons. One of them was killed in the feud. The other son died in a different fight.” He lowered his head, eyes closed, pausing for so long that Rune wondered if he was going to say anything else.

Finally, the king looked up again, directly at Rune. “When she took you in,” he said, “and she
demanded
that I let her, even though I wanted you brought up in the hall …”

Rune waited, willing him to go on.

“When she took you in,” the king said again, “she must have recognized your sword.”

Rune watched him, not comprehending.

“Rune,” the king said, reaching out to grip his arm, his fingers digging into a bruise so hard the pain was excruciating. Rune tried to concentrate, to understand what the king was saying.

“Eanmund, the man your father killed—” The king stopped and bowed his head a little, his eyelids closing wearily. Then he met Rune’s gaze again.

“Eanmund was Amma’s son.”

TWELVE

FOOTSTEPS CRUNCHED OVER THE CHARRED TIMBERS OF
the king’s hall, coming toward him. Rune hunched into his cloak and kept his head down.

When a scout had arrived with news for the king, Rune had stayed behind, sitting on the blackened mead bench, staring at beams that had once held up the hall’s golden roof. Dragonfire had almost obscured the stories carved and painted on them. Almost, but not completely. His eyes lingered on an image of Thor wearing his gloves and wielding his hammer, while beside him, Odin listened to the news of the world that his ravens, Huginn and Muninn, whispered into his ears. The interlacing knotwork that surrounded the gods now receded into burned oak. On the other beam, a dragon-prowed ship manned by helmeted swordsmen waited in vain for a wind—its square sail had
burned away—while Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse, galloped into ashy darkness, a warrior on his back. A dead warrior on his way to Valhalla.

Gray clouds rolled across the sun, bringing with them a chill wind, making Rune wrap the cloak tightly around himself.

His father might not have been a traitor, but what did it matter? He had killed Amma’s son. And Amma had known all along. What else hadn’t she told him? She was noble; so was he. Why couldn’t she have just said so?

He balled his hand into a fist.
Amma!
he wanted to scream, but he kept the name inside him. Surely it was wrong to feel such anger toward the dead, but he couldn’t help it. She hadn’t told him
anything
. Why?

The footsteps slowed, then stopped a few paces away. Still Rune didn’t look up. He hoped whoever it was would hear his fierce internal command to go away.

“Rune.” Wyn’s voice.

Not now
, he thought. Not ever. His life was over, and he was just starting to realize it. The farm was destroyed—he had no place and no means to live. What family he had was gone. He would never be able to wield a sword well enough to be one of the king’s warriors. And his father …

Skirts rustled and he felt Wyn sit beside him on the log.

“I want to know about my father,” she said. “How he died.”

Rune raised his head, startled out of himself. He caught a whiff of rosemary and felt the warmth of her body.

She stared straight ahead, her mouth set in a line. “Tell me.”

An image of Finn on the mountainside filled his head, and he swallowed, trying to find his voice. “He died fighting.”

She turned to face him, anger darkening her blue eyes. “That’s all Ketil would say, too. No one will tell me anything. I’m not a child.”

Rune blinked in surprise. “But it’s true. He was lying faceup, his sword in his hand. If he had been running away, he would have been facedown.”

“Oh.” She stared ahead of her again. “Now I see. What else?”

“He was … he was badly burned. By the dragon.” Rune looked down. “I couldn’t tell who it was at first, but then I saw his sword.”

Wyn swallowed.

“His shield—he’d cast it aside. He must have known the dragon would burn it.” He cringed at the memory of his own stupidity, the way he’d held his shield up as if it could save him. Doing so had cost him the time he would have needed to kill the monster.

They sat in silence until Wyn whispered, “Is it true about Amma?”

Rune bristled, the sharpness of his anger surprising him.
“What do you mean?” Just how much had she heard? Did she know what the king had told him about Amma’s son?

“Ketil says she’s dead.”

His shoulders slumped as the fight went out of him. He nodded.

“And Skyn, too? And Skoll?”

Rune nodded again. “Everybody at Hwala’s farm.”

“I can’t believe Amma’s gone.” She touched the edge of her cloak, twisting the wool back and forth between her thumb and forefinger.

He looked at her, incredulous. “What do you care about Amma? She’s nothing to you, or to anybody else except me.” He could hear how surly his voice sounded, but he couldn’t stop himself. His jaw stiff with anger, he stared past the fallen beams that marked the far side of the king’s hall. Beyond them lay open, rocky ground, stretching to a line of dark firs.

Beside him, Wyn rose. Her skirt brushed against his leg as she whirled on him. “You arrogant fool,” she said. “You think you were the only one who knew Amma? What do you think we womenfolk were doing while you were trying to learn how to use a sword? Don’t you think we have lives, too?”

Her outburst astonished him. Who did she think she was? Amma had never said anything about her to Rune. And now that Amma was dead, Wyn thought she somehow owned a part of her?

“You know nothing about her.” His words came out in
a growl, and he could feel rage billowing in his chest like clouds before a storm.

Wyn’s eyes narrowed as she stared at him, and he could see her nostrils flaring. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and measured. “Maybe Dayraven was right about you.”

As she turned, a voice called from behind them. “Wyn! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on, there’s a lot to do before tonight.” It was her cousin Gerd.

“I’m coming.” Her words snapped like breaking sticks.

As the two girls moved away, Rune could hear Gerd saying, “Was that Rune? The bruises on his face look awful. Why is he wearing Uncle Brand’s cloak?”

“I thought you were in a hurry,” Wyn answered. Then they were gone.

Wyn’s uncle’s cloak? Rune looked down at the fine stitching on the edge of the wool. Was she the one who had covered him as he slept before the fire? He reached up and tenderly poked at a bruise under his eye. It must have come from his fall down the mountain. Each passing moment made him aware of another bruise or ache, the way he used to feel after a fight with Skyn and Skoll, back in what seemed like another life.

He would give anything to have Skyn and Skoll gang up on him again, as long as it would mean Amma was still alive.

He didn’t understand why he felt so angry at Wyn. It seemed as if everything he’d known about himself, about
Amma, had turned out to be a lie. He’d always thought that he was the closest person to her under the wide skies, that the two of them were alone together against the rest of the world. But now it seemed as if everybody else had known Amma better than he had. As if she had chosen other people to share her secrets with, instead of him. As if he hadn’t been that important to her at all.

His anger fled as quickly as it had come, and grief filled the space it left behind like black mud sliding down a mountainside to drown a valley below. He slumped against the terrible weight.

His head in his hands, he whispered, “Amma,” and as he did, a voice seemed to answer.

“Amma?” He rose, looking toward the fir trees. Had she called him? He stumbled over a fire-blackened bench, righted himself, and began running, his sword slapping against his leg, his shoes hitting the rocky ground beyond the ruined hall.

Just inside the curtain of fir trees, he stopped, listening, but all he could hear was the sound of his own panting. As his heartbeat slowed, he stood in the cold, silent air, breathing in the bright scent of pine, feeling brittle needles breaking under his feet. Far above him, branches swayed in the wind, and when he listened hard enough, he could hear trees groaning. In the distance, some kind of bird beat a rhythm against a hollow trunk. Then it stopped.

Rune felt something, some presence, comforting or malign he couldn’t tell. He stiffened.

“Amma?” he whispered, and suddenly a memory flooded through him, one he didn’t know he had, of a man with pointed teeth grinning at him—not kindly, either. The slave! But a younger, cleaner version of the slave, clad in rich clothing, a fine sword girt to his belt. A cloak was clasped at his shoulder, its wool stitched with a pattern that looked almost like feathers. He seemed somehow larger, more powerful, than he was now, and his fingers dug into the ruff of the dog that stood beside him. Then the dog turned its head, and as it looked straight at Rune, he saw that it was no dog; it was a wolf, a glint of saliva on its black lips.

As quickly as it had come, the image faded, leaving him with an aching head. Had it been a memory? Had he seen the slave before? He didn’t know. Eyes shut to the sharp pain in his temples, he laid his hand against a tree branch to regain his balance. He willed the vision back, trying to recall exactly what he had seen, the pattern on the slave’s cloak, the bright golden torque around his neck, and something else, too, if he could only remember—

Something hit against his thigh, making him yelp.

A goat, a white one. It lowered its horns and butted him again, gently.

“What do you want?” Rune said irritably. He’d been so close to understanding the vision; he was sure of it.

The goat bleated, looking at him with strange eyes—one was yellow, the other blue with gold flecks in it. It pranced out of the forest, looking behind as if to see that
Rune was following. When he took his hand off the tree, a wave of dizziness made him stagger.

The goat bleated again.

Rune steadied himself and followed it. As he stepped onto the rocks, a croaking sound made him look back in time to see a raven hopping along a branch, sending a shower of bark to the ground before it lifted into the air.

When he turned around again, the goat was gone. So was the image and all the details he’d been on the verge of remembering. Everything except the splitting headache.

He shook his head and began walking, brushing pine needles off his cloak. Not his cloak—Wyn’s uncle’s cloak. The uncle who had died in the dragon attack. Anybody could have put it over him while he slept, not just Wyn. It could have been Ketil—he’d found Rune’s sword and shared his breakfast with him.

The thought of that breakfast made him realize how hungry he was.

He headed for the stronghold.

The smell of roasting meat wafted from Wyn’s house. Maybe she would forgive him. And maybe she would give him something to eat to tide him over until tonight’s feast.

He was almost to the door when someone came hurtling around the corner, looking behind him. Rune jumped to the side, but he couldn’t get out of the way before a man barreled into him.

“Oh!” the bard said, looking at Rune and then linking an arm into his and pulling him down the narrow street. “You don’t want to go in there.”

“I don’t?”

“Trust me. You don’t. Feast preparations.” He guided Rune past a bond servant, who hurried by carrying four squawking chickens upside down by their legs.

“You go in there and you’re no better off than those hens. They wanted me to chop herbs. Me! A bard!”

Rune thought he saw a glint of humor in the man’s single eye, and he hurried along beside him, his arm still caught.

They turned past the stables, and the bard glanced behind him, then slowed. He sighed exaggeratedly, his hand to his chest. “Safe, I think.” He looked Rune up and down as if just noticing whom he had waylaid, and suddenly he was the mysterious bard again, his demeanor changed as if he’d donned a new cloak. Close up, the dark space where his missing eye should have been was even more frightening because of the thick eyebrow that outlined it, and in the corner, the eyelashes.