Peaceweaver
Page 23
Another arrow whizzed past and she ducked, her heart pounding.
Cautiously, she raised her head to peer over the wood. Where was Rune? She’d lost him. Then she saw him again, still near the dais. He was on his knees, struggling to loosen the folds of the cloak that tangled around his legs.
Directly in front of him stood Dayraven.
Hild gasped. Didn’t Rune see the danger he was in? Of course he did; she knew that. She watched in horror as the fully armored warrior advanced on Rune, who wasn’t even wearing a mail shirt. Dayraven’s blade rose until it towered over Rune. He let go of the cloak to hold his own blade in both hands.
She watched, heart in her throat, as the sword thundered down. Rune parried, but Dayraven’s sword slid off his, directly onto Rune’s shoulder. Hild’s hand rose to her mouth. Dayraven moved, blocking her view, but she knew Rune couldn’t have survived the blow.
But there he was! And not even bleeding—what had happened? He was still on his knees, scrambling backward away from Dayraven. The brooch on his shoulder—it must have caught the sword blade. He was going to get away; she knew he was.
Then the dais stopped him.
Dayraven took two steps forward and planted his feet. He lifted his sword in both hands. Hild could see Rune’s face as it tilted upward, looking at the sword. Something about it reminded her of her cousin’s face—and of why she was here.
She gripped her sword hilt and raced for the dais.
Dayraven stood with his sword raised high—and now Hild could see the hole in his mail shirt, exactly as she’d seen it when she’d touched the statue. She narrowed her gaze, blocking out the sounds of battle, the yells, her fear of arrows, and focused on the hole. Her blade came up as she ran. She pointed it directly at the weak spot in Dayraven’s mail shirt.
Dayraven’s sword began its descent.
Using both hands and every bit of strength she could muster, Hild rammed her blade home.
The warrior in front of her lurched to one side, then crumpled, pulling Hild forward with him. Angrily, she yanked on her sword until it came free. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. What had she been thinking? Killing people was no way to bring about peace. What kind of a monster was she?
She fought back a wave of dizziness and felt a hand catch her by the elbow, steadying her.
There was a hole in his mail, she thought—or maybe she said it aloud. A tremor ran through her body.
“My lady,” someone said, and she looked to see Rune standing in front of her. He was holding her arm, keeping her from falling.
“I was supposed to weave peace,” she said, as despair threatened to overtake her.
Rune looked down and she followed his gaze. Dayraven lay in a heap, blood spreading onto the dirt floor.
“Is he dead?” she asked dully, although she already knew the answer.
Rune nodded and led her a few steps away from the body.
Hild closed her eyes. This was what it had been like her entire life: men fighting other men; her uncle sending raiding parties or armies to the land of the Geats; the Geats retaliating, calling on their allies to avenge them. How long would it be before her cousin fell to an enemy sword, and then Siri’s sons? How long would the feuds continue? If even she, who wanted an end to war, couldn’t stop trying to solve problems with a sword, what hope was there for the men raised to be warriors?
She felt Rune looking at her and she raised her head. “I’m sick of all the killing,” she whispered, whether to herself or to him she didn’t know.
“Hild,” he said. “You saved my life.”
She swallowed. He hadn’t understood. But before she could say anything else, he asked, “Where are your guards?”
Mord. She’d forgotten all about him. “Outside, looking for me,” she said, and as she thought of Mord and Gizzur and Hadding searching for her, furious that she’d disappeared, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She’d have to find them and explain what had happened. But not just yet. She looked up, and as her eyes met Rune’s, she found she couldn’t get her breath. His hand felt impossibly warm on her arm.
He was the baby in the boat. She’d been waiting for him her entire life; she just hadn’t known it.
A glint caught her eye. The crown, lying on the ground. She bent down to pick it up, then reached up to settle it on Rune’s head. A lock of dark hair fell into his eyes and she pushed it back, tucking it behind his ear, the feel of his skin on her fingertips sending a shiver down her spine.
“Rune!” someone yelled, and they both turned.
Rune lunged for his sword, which lay on the ground beside Dayraven’s body. Hild scanned the hall for danger. What a fool she’d been to forget the arrows and the warriors who wanted Rune dead. What fools they’d both been.
A young man was waving his sword—Rune’s man? Two bodies lay beside the fire, and near them, two men were bound and guarded. Another was trussed to a beam in the back of the hall. Noise from the side door made her turn to see people streaming back in, men, women, and children. The man waving his sword was grinning hugely, and now she recognized him as the warrior who’d led them to the hall, the one with the misshapen nose. She glanced over in time to see Rune smiling back at him.
When she looked at the door, she saw Thialfi entering. Behind him, Mord ran in, his eyes sweeping the hall. Looking for her.
She tried to catch his eye, to let him know she was all right, but he didn’t see her.
As people rushed in from both doors, the noise mounted. A man held up his hand—it was the skald—and the crowd quieted enough for Hild to hear him call out, “Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, King of the Geats!” It took her an instant to remember that was Rune’s name.
Then the roaring began, a joyous sound of people cheering. The drumming she’d heard earlier resumed and the noise of glad voices grew deafening.
Rune turned, his eyes meeting hers, and again she found it hard to breathe. She swallowed, unable to look away from his dark eyes, the line of his nose, the curve of his jaw. Much as she wanted to memorize his face, to look at him forever, she knew she couldn’t. A king had responsibilities. She swallowed a second time, then inclined her head toward the crowd without taking her eyes from his. “Your people,” she said. “They’re waiting for you.”
“They’ll be your people, too,” he whispered, and as he spoke, the crown slipped forward.
She reached up to straighten it and her fingers touched Rune’s hair, sending a shiver of anticipation through her. For the first time since she’d saved her cousin’s life, she felt hope for the future—and a hint of happiness.
Yes, they would be her people, too. She and Rune could work to stop the feuding. Her uncle might have forgone his honor, but that didn’t mean she had to. With Rune’s help, she would find a way to weave peace.
She reached for his hand and he took hers. Together, they turned to face the cheering crowd.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt gratitude to:
—the stalwart Ena Jones, whose words and ideas have enriched this book immeasurably;
—my gracious, thoughtful editor, Diane Landolf;
—the generous readers whose comments helped me see my way more clearly: Megan Lynn Isaac, Allison B. Wallace, Matthew J. Kirby, and Elizabeth C. Bunce;
—the wonder-working copy editors, designers, and behind-the-scenes team at Random House Children’s Books;
—the ever-helpful Anna Webman;
—Dean Shearle Furnish of Youngstown State University, who allowed me a course release for writing;
—and, of course, the cheering section, especially Sid Brown, my parents, my brother, and the Gauses—my aunts, uncles, and cousins.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
REBECCA BARNHOUSE is the author of The Book of the Maidservant and The Coming of the Dragon. She first read Beowulf in Old English at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she earned her doctorate, studying Anglo-Saxon manuscripts and medieval literature written in Ol
d and Middle English, Old Norse, and other fascinating languages. Originally from Vero Beach, Florida, she lives in Ohio, where she is a professor of English at Youngstown State University. To find out more, visit her website at rebeccabarnhouse.com.