The Stone of Sorrow

by Brooke Carter

  I open the large wooden trunk in Sýr’s room and am surprised to find it empty except for a bit of cloth.

  How can this be? I have seen Sýr putting things in here all the time. I know the Jötnar didn’t take anything because no one has disturbed our dwelling. Looking closer, I see that the bit of cloth on the bottom of the trunk is a runecloth used for casting.

  Maybe Sýr used an obscurity spell? I take out my runes with shaking hands and try to quiet my mind, but it’s so hard. I want Sýr. I cast my runes onto the cloth.

  “Appear,” I command and then wait. Nothing.

  Perhaps an unlocking spell?

  I try again. “Open to me,” I say.

  This time there is a glimmer on the cloth. Runes appear, and I read them. “Say the name my heart cherishes, and I will open to you.”

  The name her heart cherishes? It must be Frigg. I say, “Frigg,” but nothing happens.

  “Amma,” I try. Nothing.

  I take a deep breath and then whisper my own name. “Runa.”

  The cloth bursts into a flash of blue flame, revealing a secret latch near the bottom of the trunk. I pull it open and find Sýr’s hidden possessions. Pressed flowers, gifts from Frigg, a vial of shiny powder, a feather, and a ring that I slip onto my first finger. And there is a last item that makes me sit back and cry.

  It is a black cloak, magnificent in its craftsmanship, with a bright blue lining that looks like it was hewn from the sky. I know this blue cloth had to have been dyed with pigments from a rare mineral found in the lava fields. Sýr would have had to trade for this mineral, and it explains why she was spending so much time giving readings at the markets. She was saving to get this for me. Sýr must have worked on this in secret, at night as I slept, and it must have taken her a long time to finish it. It is my runecaster cloak, meant for when I successfully ascend from apprentice to accomplished caster. Sýr never got to give it to me.

  I long to put it on, to feel its glorious weight and relish in its color, but I cannot bring myself to do it. I have not earned this cloak. As I rub my hand along its soft length, I see a glimmer appear. A bindrune has been sewn into the inside of the hood and on each shoulder. One rune says future, one says past, and one says present. Sýr must have created these special runes for me to calm my nerves during my sickness. When I pass my hand down the edges of the garment, more symbols appear. Each rune we cast is accounted for.

  I feel a moment of panic when I realize Sýr will not be with me every night to put me to sleep with her soft spells. What will happen to me without her? I clutch the cloak, breathing in the faint herbal scent that always reminds me of my sister, and then place it in my pack with the rest of my belongings.

  I try to hoist the heavy bag onto my back, but I can barely lift it. This will be impossible to carry any great distance. I must put a spell on it to lighten the load. I take out my runes and cast them onto the table, whispering to them about my problem. I ask them to lighten my load, but instead of easing its weight, the runes make my pack glow.

  “No,” I whisper. “That is not what I need. I need it to be lighter, not so heavy. Like this,” I say, pulling out Sýr’s feather. “As light as this, please,” I tell my runes.

  My pack stops glowing, and I test its weight. It feels almost empty. I position it onto my back, take a few steps and then fall when the pack grows heavy again. The heaviness lasts for a brief moment before lightening up again.

  “We need to work on consistency,” I say to the runes, and I feel another pang for Sýr.

  I must track Sýr and liberate her from Katla and the Jötnar, but I don’t know what I will do once I find them. I know Sýr can’t fight them alone with the stone waning as it is, and I know Katla will be headed to moonwater for the gathering of the clans. All of this is about the moonstone. I know that now. Katla will try to compel Sýr to give her the stone, but it isn’t so simple. The moonstone will need to be charged in the sacred waters, and Katla must know that when that has been accomplished, the moonstone will be more powerful than she can imagine. We don’t even know whether Sýr can wield a fully charged moonstone, and surely Katla will not be able to hold it herself. Will she? I hope not, for once the moonstone is charged, there will be no more use for Sýr.

  I must get to my sister before that happens. I must find a way. I will have to sneak Sýr away or find a warrior loyal to my family line and promise them payment for help. Perhaps the members of the ancient council of runecasters will help me if they know my story. To find out, I have to get to moonwater. The best plan is to find my sister as soon as possible and break her free so that Sýr can fix everything.

  I’m going to need help finding her, and to do that I will need a vegvisir. A regular runic compass like the cloak clasp Amma gave me won’t work. It has to be a different kind. The living kind.

  With my pack on my back, I step through the doorway of my home into the clear midday air. If I didn’t know about the horrors down in the village, this would seem like any other day. I never thought pleasant weather and the shining sun could seem cruel, but it’s almost too much to bear.

  I walk uphill along the cliff side to my lookout so I can see all the way to where the ocean meets the sky. I focus on the horizon, where the gods rest in eternity, and pull out one of my sharp knives.

  “Please, goddess Freyja, guide me, protect me through the fog of the future, and lead me to Sýr,” I say as I press the tip of the knife into the back of my left hand.

  The blade stings as it pierces the skin, and I will myself to draw a design into my flesh. Then I mark the points of the compass, all the intricate lines and curves and dots that will tell me which way to go. As my blood bubbles around the wound and the pain burns my arm, I think of Sýr. As I do, my vision clouds, and right as I am about to panic and fight against the oncoming sickness, I see Sýr’s face. She’s laughing, smiling, looking into Frigg’s eyes, down at the stand in the village. Then a flash and I see Sýr again, walking with me through the crunching snow after a training session. Then another flash, and another, and another. Always Sýr’s face, always a memory of the past, until I can see all of her faces in a row, stretching back through time, growing younger with each iteration.

  A sound like a door slamming shut echoes in my mind, and I come back to myself. My blood drips off the cliff and into the sea as the red moon dips lower in the sky. I look at my hand and make to cover it with salve, but as I do the vegvisir appears to swivel, pointing me in the other direction. It works. Can I trust my spell to lead me the right way?

  “Thank you,” I whisper to the compass. “Thank you!” I shout out to the heavens.

  Before I move on, I mix the remaining blood from my vegvisir with a lock of my hair that I hacked off with the sharp knife. I rub the two together in my palms and smudge the mixture onto a massive rock that looks over our village and informs travelers which lands they are visiting. This is where our ancestors wrote their runes, and now those marks are almost invisible. I whisper to the runes and ask them to protect my people.

  “Sleep well, people of Myrkur Strönd,” I say. “I will find Sýr, and she will cure you.”

  I summon Núna, calling her with a mournful cry that soars over the sleeping village. She appears on the wind and alights on my shoulder, and I take a moment to give her a final meal of dried worms.

  “Núna,” I say, “I must go, and you cannot follow.”

  Núna squawks and ruffles her wings. I can tell she is not pleased.

  “I need your help, Núna. You must fly. You must go out over the great ocean and find Father. Please, Núna. Fly to Father and bring him back.” I take the ring from my finger and slip it onto Núna’s foot.

  She caws and lifts off, flapping in front of me for a moment before climbing higher into the red sky.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  She flies off and disappears into the horizon, and I feel the ache in my chest grow deeper as I watch the last of my loved ones disappear.

  With ever
y bit of power I have, I turn my back on my home, on the people I’ve known and loved and disliked and survived with for my entire life. They’ve tolerated me and cared for me, and now I face the open landscape of this mysterious island alone. It’s a world I’ve never been allowed to discover.

  I turn my back on the open sea, on the adventures in far-off lands that I’ve dreamed of so often and on the father I fear has been lost. I hope Núna finds him, and soon.

  I don’t know what lies beyond the hills of my home, what lurks in the forests or hides in the great cracks of the glacier beyond, but I must meet it head-on. I cannot return without Sýr, without a cure, without hope.

  I am walking in my sister’s shoes, and I do not fill them. I wish someone else had survived this attack. Someone stronger, someone better. All my people have now is me. Runa Unnursdóttir, near-child, unprepared apprentice, village freak.

  I take a last breath of the fresh sea air and set out on the path north. Fear follows me with every step, my constant companion. I wish we didn’t know each other so well.

  My vegvisir points north-northeast, and I see the red moon advancing higher in the sky. Soon it will hover over everything, and then it will eclipse the sun. The main road my people take to trade with other villages runs this way, and I can follow it for a time. I know already that when I reach the crossroad and the well-traveled path leads toward the east coast of the island, where the realm of mortal men eke out their survival on the calmer shores, I will have to choose a different way.

  Moonwater is not easy to find—and it’s not meant to be. As a magical place, surrounded on all sides by a powerful barrier of green light, it takes incredible tenacity and devotion to the runepath to find it. And once found, not all may enter. I’m not trying to get inside, not unless I have to. I’d prefer to find Sýr and escape with her back home while the rest of the island’s magical people duel for the runestone in our absence. Even if it means Sýr must relinquish the stone, we need to escape. We’ll run, Sýr will save our people with a spell, and we can find a boat to set sail for a new land. At least if we start over somewhere else, I might be able to let go of being our family’s great disappointment.

  My thoughts seem more negative than usual. In fact, they don’t quite feel like my own thoughts. I rub my chest where the ache has returned. My family has never made me feel like a burden. Sýr and Amma and even Father have loved me. So why are my thoughts so much like a poison?

  The dagger. Katla has infected me. I stop to root through my pack for a tincture Sýr calls engill water. It cures people when they ingest the wrong kind of fungus or when their green shark hasn’t aged long enough. I put a drop on my tongue, and the ache in my chest fades. It’s still there but not as intense. I must keep going.

  I decide I will walk through the night and sleep in the day. Even though we don’t have many predators on this part of the island, I’m not fond of sleeping exposed at night, where any manner of ghost or troll could find me and drive me insane.

  I walk the uneven road running out from our village, beyond the shoreline and cliffs and wind-battered hills, toward the flats and forests of the interior. The red-tinted sky casts a warm glow over everything, but the moon is high enough now that there is still a blue edge to the horizon, and the white clouds give the whole picture before me a serene aspect. The road underfoot is a mix of dry dirt so dark it is almost black and mud that has a purplish hue. Moss and lichen and wildflowers grow all around, and wild grasses sway in the wind. I’ve longed to travel, to journey through our land, but not like this.

  I walk, my feet already rubbed raw in the too-large boots, for hours and hours, but the distant forest feels as if it will never grow closer. As darkness falls, the light of the red moon casts eerie shadows along the road.

  I have not seen any other travelers and am startled when I see a figure crouched on the road ahead. As I approach, it stands. The shape is that of a slender woman, and she is watching me.

  I cast a quick glance around, trying to determine if she is alone, but it’s too dark to see far. I clutch my spear a little tighter, and I whisper to my runes, “Protect me now.”

  “You don’t need those, love,” the figure says. Her voice is like dripping honey. So sweet and relaxing.

  I realize I am at the junction where my path intersects with another that runs west to east. But I must continue north, where the figure stands.

  I look at the full moon and curse my own stupidity. Elves have been known to frequent crossroads on nights like this, when their persuasive powers are at a high and unsuspecting people are at risk of falling in love with them. Once a human is enchanted, an elf can do as they wish with that person. Amma told me that elves often seek gold, but she also teased that they like to eat mortals. Right now I hope that was just another wild Amma tale.

  “Silly girl, you are too thin to eat,” says the woman. How can she hear my thoughts? My chest begins throbbing again.

  I am at the spot where the roads meet, and I have no choice but to continue. I have nowhere to run to, and if I must fight, I will fight.

  “Who said anything about eating?” I ask, the bold edge in my voice surprising even me.

  I hear the woman hiss, and she steps forward into the light. She has a tall frame, dark skin, pointed ears and elegant features. She must be an elf, I think, but as I look at her, her face changes, and her black hair takes on a sickly yellow color.

  “Katla,” I whisper and then thrust my spear out in front of me. But how can she be here? Has she been waiting for me? And why does she look not quite like herself? A sharp pain makes me clutch my chest, and she begins to laugh, her voice assaulting my mind. The sound echoes around me and feels like it will never end.

  I clutch my runes. “Stop!” I shout in a booming voice. I feel the word hurl from my body, carrying with it all the power of my anger.

  Katla stumbles backward at the force, which surprises me too, and her image seems to separate from her body, floating out overhead. I see Katla in the sky and the collapsed body of the woman in the road.

  “Be gone!” I shout again at Katla. I make the sign of Þurs, the rune to cast out demons, in the air in front of me and blow it away with every ounce of breath I have.

  Katla’s image quakes, struggling to remain. “Embrace the darkness,” her voice hisses, and then the image disappears into the night sky.

  The woman on the ground groans. I approach her, careful not to get too close, as I am certain now that she is an elf. She has an irresistible quality and is one of the most beautiful beings I have ever seen.

  “Are you all right?” I ask. “Can I help you?”

  I know this is dangerous. Though my family is rumored to have a small amount of elven blood in our lineage, the elves are still considered dangerous to all. We humans are the weaker species. Elves are the smartest and deadliest creatures in all the realms.

  The elf sits up and then stands with an uncommon grace, regarding me. “Who are you?” she asks.

  “Runa Unnursdóttir,” I answer her, powerless to lie or resist. Her eyes are like golden beams in the night. I have a strong impulse to reach out and touch her.

  “Runa, you have saved me this night. The witch had me in her clutches for a long spell. I thought I would never get my body back. I’m not certain how you did that. Are you a powerful witch too?” she asks, extending a lithe arm to stroke my wild hair.

  “No,” I whisper. “I’m just Runa.”

  “Well, Just Runa,” she says, “I am Falleg of the Ör people. I am eternally grateful to you,” she says, pressing a small golden coin into my palm.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “It is but a small token of my debt to you,” Falleg says. She nods and then turns west and runs off into the dark without another word. It takes a brief moment for her to disappear and leave me on my own again.

  I take her lead and set off running too, north, holding my spear out in front of me and whispering to my runes to glow the way. They do, and I’m able
to see a few feet ahead. If there are any big holes in the road, I hope to avoid falling into one and breaking both of my legs. And if I come to any more crossroads on this journey, I’ll run straight through, spear first, and won’t look back.

  I alternate between running and walking most of the night, until the darkness starts to lift across the land. I must rest soon, but I need to find shelter. As dawn breaks I can see that the main road is ending. I will need to decide between crossing the flats to the east to meet up with the common path around the great forest or keep going north on a less traveled footpath that goes through the forest and includes harder terrain. If I go around, it will take days, and I must find Sýr sooner than that. But if I continue straight ahead, I’m entering a realm I know nothing about and have been warned against. I cannot find Sýr if I don’t survive the journey.

  “What to do?” I mutter to myself.

  The grasses at my feet ruffle, and I jump backward as a small brown rabbit hops past me on the path. It pauses at the trailhead, looks back at me, and then continues.

  “Sýr?” I whisper.

  Could she be sending me a sign? Or is this just a rabbit that I should try to catch and eat?

  I sigh. My energy is draining from me. This is impossible.

  I consult my vegvisir. “Which way?” I ask.

  The compass continues to point north-northeast, the same direction the rabbit went.

  “Fine,” I say. That is the direction I will travel. But first I must find a place to stop for a couple of hours.

  I’m not excited about entering the forest, but it does offer some cover and protection. I try not to think of Amma’s stories of fairies and sprites and other hiddenfolk.

  As I am looking around for a suitable place to rest, I spot an immense rock, almost hidden by brush, right on the edge of the forest. The sight of it strikes fear deep in my belly.