by Ana Mardoll
Finndís had to admit, too, that she shared Rúni's curiosity. For all that the adults in her life spoke of the magic sword as something they'd seen in combat during their younger glory days, she had never quite shaken its air of myth from her mind. She thought of Grandmother's sword the way she thought of trolls and fairies: fantastical sights reserved for the eyes of those touched by magic and wonder. They were not for her, for the same reason the good silver dining set went unused when guests were not present.
So she had agreed to follow the witch deeper into the woods. Rúni had squirmed out of Torjei's arms and clasped her hand, following her like the gentle little lamb he wasn't. Torjei argued, but not for long and not convincingly; Finndís knew he shared their curiosity. He fell into line behind them as they squeezed through tight paths and followed the witch into darkness so deep it seemed like winter twilight in the forest rather than the spring noon they'd so recently left behind. All the while their guide chattered on like a bird, not seeming to notice or mind the silence pressing in on them from all sides.
"Don't come this way very often, at least not this time of year. Come back in autumn, though, and you'll see a riot of mushrooms near the stone. A few grow year-round, of course, but they're most plentiful after the autumn rains. No, round this time of year I keep to the outer woods. More meat; the animals don't forage this far in."
"Are there many witches in these woods?" Torjei's tone was strained and the question was pointed; he swiveled his head about as they walked, anxious of an ambush.
"Many witches in the Witchwoods?" Eirný sounded amused but evasive, letting the question roll over her tongue. "Well, yes and no. I suppose it depends who is counting and how they measure."
Finndís kept her tone gentle, feeling Torjei's irritation simmer behind her. "You have friends here, or relatives?" Her hand gripped Rúni's as they stepped over roots which threatened to trip them. The boy had been unusually silent since they'd left the house. Perhaps he was determined to behave himself as long as he got his way, but Finndís couldn't shake the worry that he knew her secret. Would he keep it, as Torjei had all these years, or would her name be the first thing on his lips when they returned home to Father?
A long pause ensued as the woman considered her words. "Your questions are not easy ones," she mused, almost to herself. "Hmm. You would not see another like me in these woods; there is your answer."
"Not a good one," muttered Torjei, as to Finndís' great relief the path ahead of them widened and opened into another clearing. She lifted Rúni over a high tangle of roots, the boy grunting like a happy pig as he scrambled with her, and then they were in a field of soft emerald grass dotted with little brown mushrooms. They grew in clusters around a gray stone dominating the very center of the clearing.
There could be no doubt that this was Queen Ásdís' stone. Twice Finndís' height, the four of them could join hands around it and still not complete the circle. A hilt jutted from the uneven rocky surface at a point just level with her breastbone, its ornate golden dragon head and sharp winged quillons all but hidden under the draped ivy and creeping moss which had grown undisturbed for two decades. Rúni gasped and tore his hand from hers, dashing forward to brush away the moss and run his hands over the shining hilt.
"Rúni!" She stretched out her arm, but there was no stopping him. His fingers flew over the carved dragon with childish reverence, but no lightning from heaven smote him for his audacity. He tightened his hand around the leather grip just above the gleaming dragon and tugged with all his might, but the hilt might as well have been carved from the stone and merely painted to look like a sword; it budged not even a hair's breadth.
The witch watched his fruitless efforts with amusement, slowly circling the massive stone. "I'd thought so often about hollowing it out," she reminisced, "just as I did with my tree, but it would be so much work. Then she returned the sword to its rest, so no rock house for me. Finndís, if you please?"
Finndís blinked at her. "Pardon?"
Eirný's lips twisted into a fresh smile as she shook her head in exasperation. "I could have sworn we agreed I was showing you your sword. Did I not say that? You are Ásdís' granddaughter. I can see her in your face, even had I not watched you in my dreams."
"I..." She felt Torjei at her back; her chest was too tight, her breath struggling in its rhythm. Each word felt like a stone disgorged from her throat, scratching her insides on the way up. "I am Ásdís' granddaughter. But that doesn't make the sword mine. It belongs to her heir, not to the first girl who comes along."
"Did you never imagine that might be you?" asked Eirný, watching her with bright birdlike eyes.
Finndís' gaze drew back to the golden hilt as she felt a flutter of need coil in her gut. Yes, she had imagined this. They'd played games as children, she and her two older siblings. Her brothers had spun elaborate scenarios to thwart the prophecy: the stone would shatter or dissolve or melt away so Leifur or Magni might wield the blade as king. But in her dreams at night, Finndís was the one who held the sword and not through any trickery; the blade leaped easily to her hand, undeniably hers by birthright.
Yet those were childish dreams. Every time she'd taken a step towards the western Witchwoods, she would remember her duty to her strict father, or her responsibility to keep Torjei safe, or a thousand other reasons why she ought not run into danger. She'd watched her brothers grow up, marry, and sire children, and she'd waited with trepidation while her own future was haggled over by others. If she had a great destiny, surely it would have manifested itself by now; if magic existed on her doorstep, it would have touched her mundane life in some way. No, she was no predestined queen; she was simply Finndís.
"Please, Finn?" Rúni crept back to them, picking his way around the mushrooms dotting the lush ground. He slipped his hand into hers and looked up at her with the expression which had wheedled so many treats from the castle kitchens. "Please try? It would be so amazing if you could do it! Think of coming home with Grandmother's magic sword! Wouldn't that make everyone happy?"
Not Father. Finndís bit her tongue to keep the words back from her little brother.
Yet while Rúni was an innocent, Torjei was not. Reaching out, he rested his hand on her shoulder. "Many people would be glad," he said, answering her unspoken objection. "This land longs for a queen." A cloud passed over his face, pained and selfish and fearful of change, and she understood his hesitation because it was written on her own heart. "But only if you want to be queen, Finndís."
She took a sharp breath at the sound of her name on his lips, letting the cool forest air slip into her throat. Queen! She could help people as queen; she could unite the tribes and beat back the brigands and bandits who preyed on the weak. She could be herself, too, and that was far from nothing. Whatever bindings were placed on her as queen, whatever oaths she must swear to her people, her name would be hers. No longer a cherished secret held close to her heart, others would use her name as Torjei had just now. 'Finndís the First', they would call her, granddaughter of Ásdís, great-granddaughter of Védís.
She exhaled again, the breath warm on her lips. "You know this is all for nothing if I'm not the right one," she muttered to Torjei, stepping forward to stand in the shadow of the stone. "We're going to feel silly if this doesn't work." Downcast, too, she knew. The hopes she'd buried long ago as a child in her father's court had awoken and now all she could do was grip them tightly and pray they didn't slip away.
Reaching out, she let her fingers slide over pebbled leather and smooth gold. Whichever smith had crafted the sword, they had created a work of art. A fraction of blade protruded from the stone, its edge untouched by time or rust. The powerful dragon head and wings forming the ornamental guard beguiled her eyes, and the wrapped leather hilt was soft as sheepskin under her touch. Beneath lay a thrum of magic, a primal sense of belonging. The sword was part of her, or perhaps she was part of the sword.
"My birthright." Her voice was a whisper as she let her hand ti
ghten on the grip and gave a gentle pull, just as she would draw her knife from her belt; she felt a smooth sliding sensation. With a vague awareness that her feet were moving, she stepped back to make room as more of the blade appeared from within the stone sheath. Light gleamed from its naked surface, reflecting back so much more light than existed in the dark clearing. Finndís turned her head to follow the light and gasped when she glimpsed Eirný.
The witch's eyes were closed in rapture, her haggard face upturned to the trees with a smile on her lips. Around and above and through her flitted indistinct human forms. They were people of every shape and size: thick and thin, short and tall, lovely and ugly, but all of them insubstantial and ephemeral, clear as water in a cupped hand. Some seemed ancient, with bowed backs and wrinkles bearing witness to the dawn of time; others were infants, toddling with fat ethereal baby legs about the clearing. All were tied to Eirný with silver threads, the gleaming linkages draping her in a glowing gossamer net. Her body bathed the sword in light, and it reflected that light back upon her as she basked in glory.
With a final flash, the sword pulled free from its resting-place. Finndís clutched it close to her heart, both hands tight on the grip. Torjei held Rúni back as the boy stared open-mouthed, his head swiveling between the witch and his sister, unable to decide who was more fascinating. The ghosts, if that was what they were, faded as Eirný's light diminished. The witch's gaze meandered down from the trees to settle on Finndís and, though her face was still young, Finndís marveled at how very old her eyes now seemed.
"What once was has come into being again," Eirný whispered, her smile serene, "and you are all on the path to becoming what you shall be. Now it is time for you to return home. Follow me."
By the time they returned to the castle, the kitchen staff had given up waiting for fresh game and were busy putting together a dinner from the larder. Finndís' new sword, naked in her hands and ostentatious in its glory, raised every eyebrow they passed as the three walked from the castle stables to the great hall.
The doors to the great hall were open as they approached and heated discussion drifted down the stone passageways. Passion and drink made nobles loud, coupled with the confidence so many of them carried after years of being masters in their own castles. Finndís heard her brother's name over the clamor.
"Just because Magni has whelped an heir is no reason to hand him a crown! He can barely manage his own lands; I shudder to think what he'd do as regent!"
"At the bare minimum, he needs experience. If he could be persuaded to take on a small portion of the responsibilities of the crown as training—"
"Magni will never submit to sharing power with me, or with anyone else for that matter." King Njáll's voice was strong and stern, carrying over the others. "You who have met him know I am right in this."
"Nevertheless, we need a succession plan. As things stand, if something were to happen to you—I pray the gods perish the thought!—the kingdom would be torn between Leifur and Magni."
"It would be Sveinn and Orvar all over again, but without Ásdís to lead us."
"Lords, I still maintain that the prophesied daughter will come from my household, not those of my sons. I ask your patience for a little longer, as I—"
The gasp which rose from the assembled clan-lords cut short the king's words. He whirled to follow their gaze, his jaw dropping at the sight of his youngest children lingering in the doorway. Finndís stood front and center, the magical sword held in both her hands and resting lightly against her shoulder. Rúni trotted along beside her looking enormously pleased with himself, while Torjei stayed a few steps behind; present as he always was for her, but careful to convey his lower status with deferential body language when in public.
Finndís swallowed in the deafening silence. "My lords," she began, her voice dry but determined not to fail, "we return from the Witchwoods. I bear the blade of Queen Ásdís, my grandmother, as her granddaughter and heir." Blank faces stared at her and she took a deep breath. "Some of you know me but others I have not yet met. I am Finndís, daughter of King Njáll. I am honored to welcome you to our home."
Her father's face held a storm brewing, but it was old Lord Adils who spoke first. He was nobility by only the thinnest of threads: the father of Queen Ásdís' youngest sister, loyal to his queenly step-daughter, and elevated to nobility when one of her vassals had died without issue. However, he had become a lord before many of those present had been born and was like a grandfather to Finndís. His voice was a papery whisper in the quiet room, confused but not unkind. "Finn...dís? Weren't you a little boy? I remember holding you on my knee."
She shook her head, hands clutching the grip of her blade tightly for strength. "No, Lord Adils," she said, as gently as she could with her father glaring daggers at her; she would not let her voice quaver. "I have always been a girl. I told you this once, when I was very young; you might not remember."
His ancient face creased in a frown but he nodded slowly. "I do. I asked what a little boy might want for Candletide. You corrected me." His chuckle was warm as rich liquor. "I had quite forgotten."
The other clan-lords were less amused, already gathering their wits and objections. "This is an outrage," sputtered a thin lord whose name Finndís did not know. His eyes raged like the sea over his sable beard. "If you had a daughter all this time, you ought to have told us so." He eyed Finndís with misgiving, suspecting trickery, but the gleaming sword in her hands was not counterfeit; she held the golden sword each lord present had longed to see in the hands of an heir before they died.
"Njáll, you pretended she was a boy? To protect her from threats as a child?" Finndís turned to find Lord Salbjorn watching her with a thoughtful gaze. She liked Salbjorn from what little she knew of him; he had a son her age who rarely attended court, being apparently too sickly to travel far from home. The defense he now offered Njáll was so opportune that she wondered if he had practiced the line and why; not at Njáll's request, she was sure. She made a mental note to meet later with Salbjorn and his reclusive heir, who might have more in common with Finndís than she'd ever before dared to dream.
Yet her heart sank when she looked at her father, recognizing anger simmering just beneath the surface. This was the best solution he could have imagined; he would be father to a queen, not an elderly regent displaced by one of his ambitious sons or clinging to scraps of power while he rushed to sire more children. He was too stubborn to appreciate what was offered, unable to see past his public humiliation.
Finndís decided she would save him, though he did not deserve her help. She would save him because she loved him in spite of his faults, and because preserving his face before the lords would benefit them all. "He did, my lord," she answered Salbjorn in her firmest voice, looking him in the eye. "He hid my true identity in order to keep me safe. If you examine your hearts, you will see this was the wisest course."
The others murmured, but Salbjorn continued to rise in her estimation by accepting this with a thoughtful nod. "He could not have known you were the prophesied daughter," he pointed out, his voice pitched to raise over the murmur. "Any granddaughter of Ásdís was eligible, after all, and there would be considerable danger to a young heir-apparent. King Njáll ably protected you from attempts to kill you or carry you off."
She matched his nod, not allowing the relief she felt to show on her face. "Precisely, my lord. He raised me in secret so that I remained safe and hidden until this day. But he has provided for me the best of tutors and his own excellent guidance." She glanced again at her father, gratified to see his mind working as she spoke. "He has trained me well."
The lords looked at Father, their previous outrage beginning to thaw. Finndís knew they resented being deprived of the opportunity to wheedle and ingratiate themselves with her as a child, but they would fall in line now because they must. If they did not someone else would, and they were well aware of that. She caught her father's eye and chose her words with care. "He still has much to te
ach me, but I am now ready to take my rightful place according to the prophecy and unite our people under a single banner of protection and peace."
Father met her gaze and she saw defeat steal over his face and drain away the taut anger. Finndís held the sword, after all. He could wait for sages and wand-wives to pronounce over her with their second sight, but to do so would undermine his own authority. Better to be the canny King Njáll who wisely raised a queen in secret and brought her forward in triumph than to be a fool who knew not the value of his own children.
He scanned the faces of the lords at the table, his expression stern once more. "I have always insisted that the daughter of prophecy would come from my household," he pointed out, his tone verging on the righteous scolding she knew he so dearly loved. "My lords, did you think this was an idle boast? I present to you now my daughter Finndís, your true and rightful queen. You have been brought here to plan her coronation."
As the lords burst into a fresh argument on the whens and hows of the ceremony, Rúni looked up and tugged on her sleeve. "Does that mean we get treats?" he whispered, beaming happily at the prospect.
She felt Torjei's hand on her back, steadying her now that the ordeal had passed and her knees were weak with relief. Looking at her companion, she raised an eyebrow and tried to hold back the silly smile spreading over her face. "Torjei, do you think Rúni should have treats?"
Torjei's own smile was radiant. "I obey my queen's every order, as you know," he murmured, lips twitching with mischief. "I will most happily follow her and her little brother to raid the kitchens. We can let them argue until they're exhausted, then you can sweep in with your decisions already made."