Peaceweaver (31 page)

She had crossed the room, pulled her sword from its sheath, and started running before she knew she had moved. At the threshold she stopped, daylight opening her eyes to her foolishness. It was too late. The goddess had been trying to warn her—Dayraven would have killed Rune by now. She lowered her head, shutting her eyes to the image of
the warrior’s sword rising into the air, of Rune’s taut jaw, the resolution in his eyes. Then she pictured him lying dead in the hall, blood pooling from his wound. “
No
,” she whispered, her hand going to her mouth as if to hold in a sob. She didn’t want him to be dead, but what she wanted didn’t matter. Dayraven, not Rune, would be king of the Geats.

Something hit her hip. She jumped, suppressing a scream, and looked down. It was just a goat, butting its head against her. When she extended her hand, it danced out of reach. As it did, she saw how big it was, and how white. Someone’s pet, perhaps.

She tried to clear her head, to think. She couldn’t let her feelings about Rune overwhelm her. If he was dead and Dayraven was king, she was under no obligation to the Geats. She needed to get back to Mord to let him know what was happening. If Dayraven was taking charge, there would be no peace. They needed to leave now.

The hope of home rose in her again, and for an instant she saw herself raising her children alongside her sister’s children, just like she’d always wanted, all of them secure in the web of kindred, uncles and aunts and cousins to protect them.

That web hadn’t protected her father, or her sister’s husband.

Nor would it be enough to protect her children when Dayraven continued the feud, for surely he would do so.

If he was king. If Rune was truly dead. But how could he still be alive?

A wave of dizziness made her grasp at the doorframe. She didn’t have to close her eyes this time to see Dayraven’s sword towering above Rune—and the hole in his mail shirt. It was the same image she had seen before, replaying itself in her mind. Her heart skipped a beat. Had it already happened? Or was it yet to come?

A splinter bit into her hand, making her realize how tightly she was gripping the doorframe. She let go, then grasped it again to steady herself.

She saw Rune’s face, his dark eyes wide, his lips parted. She could see the masked helmet reflected in his eyes.

Freyja, tell me
, she begged, but the goddess was silent.

She let out a shuddering breath.

She thought of her sisters, her mother, her cousin. If she didn’t leave now, she would never see them again. But if Rune was still alive …

Again she saw Dayraven’s mask reflected in Rune’s pupils.

Slowly, her hand left the doorframe and fell to her skirt. She lifted it out of the way of her feet, grasped her sword, and ran.

THIRTY-TWO

H
ER WAY WAS BLOCKED
. P
EOPLE WERE SPILLING FROM THE
hall, children crying, one woman shrieking and dashing after a little boy.

Where was Mord? She needed to tell him what was going on—but there was no time. There were people everywhere, standing with dazed looks on their faces, lumbering in confusion like a flock of goats missing their goatherd.

Hild fought her way through them, elbowing between men, women, and children, all of them going the opposite direction of the one she wanted.

Please, gods, don’t let me be too late
, she prayed, knowing that if she was, it was her own fault for taking so long.

Where was the back of the hall? That was where Gizzur was taking the horses. She spotted the side door and glanced
wildly around her for Mord or Hadding. She couldn’t see them.

A man ran into her and she stumbled, then righted herself and kept going, pushing through the people in her way.

Finally, she made it to the door.

A steady stream of people rushed through it, many of them looking behind them as they ran, none of them letting her through. She would never get in. Finally, she shoved against a woman, who stepped back in surprise, allowing Hild just enough space to duck between two farmers without skewering them with her blade.

Inside the hall, she stopped. Helmeted warriors were fighting near the fire, the terrible clash of metal on metal loud and jarring. In the back, more fighting. Where was Rune?

There, by the dais. He was still alive!

“You need to leave. Now!” a woman said, grabbing her sleeve, and she looked up to see Thora’s angry face. “Hurry!”

Hild shook her hand away and stared across the hall, trying to take in the situation. Was this what she’d seen when she’d touched the statue? Had she misunderstood?

“You must leave,” Thora said, pushing her toward the door.

Hild turned to her. “Thora,” she said, meeting the older woman’s eyes. “Your people need help. I don’t.” She glanced meaningfully at the sword in her hand.

Thora looked at it, as well. Then she took a step back, nodding. “May the goddess be with you,” she whispered.

Hild watched as Thora turned and hurried to the door, urging people outside as she went.

A whistling sound followed by a thud made Hild jump. An arrow embedded itself in the wall directly behind her. She whirled back toward the hall. Was it a stray shot? Or had someone been aiming at her?

She ran toward a stack of firewood and crouched behind it. It wasn’t high enough to protect her head, but it gave her a little cover.

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.

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.

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 Old 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
.