The Coming of the Dragon (27 page)

After the meal, people made themselves comfortable on the benches, firelight and torches illuminating the pale wooden walls, while shadows lurked in the corners. Bond servants moved around the hall, refilling cups and drinking horns and adding wood to the fire. Rune directed them to make sure the newly returned patrol had everything they needed. He watched the men from that troop watching
him and pretended not to notice. When they whispered to each other, he told himself they were just catching up on the news. The other patrols seemed to have accepted him. This one just needed time.

The bard strode forward and struck his harp. “Listen!” he called.

Conversations quieted and people turned toward him. Rune watched the firelight gleaming on their teeth when they smiled. It shone in the whites of their eyes and reflected off gold arm rings as warriors shifted on the benches.

“We have heard of the deeds of the kings,” the bard began, signaling the start of the “Lay of Beowulf.” People nodded their heads in recognition; it was an appropriate tale to soak into the timbers of the newly consecrated hall, reminding men of the deeds of a hero from days long past.

But as Rune listened, he realized the bard was skipping over the familiar parts of the story and beginning instead with the dragon fight. Winding his words into sinuous patterns, the bard sang the dragon—and the king—back to life. Warriors leaned forward, listening. Not all of them had heard this tale.

The harp strings thrummed as the bard plucked them. “Then I have heard, in the king’s hour of need, the spirit rose up in the heart of his kinsman Wiglaf, son of Weohstan,” he sang.

Sitting up front where everyone could see him, Rune
felt alone and exposed. He wished Ketil hadn’t drawn guard duty for tonight. He closed his eyes to the crowd and listened, allowing the song to flow over him, the past to flood back into his head. Knowing what was coming, he cringed at the memory of the dragon’s fangs biting into the king’s neck, the poisonous venom bubbling green on the king’s skin. But the words didn’t come. Instead, the bard took a new turn.

The back of his neck grew hot. Rune knew the bard was doing his best to help the warriors accept him as their leader, but knowing so didn’t make him feel any less awkward.

When he’d shown the bard the piece of wood from Amma’s hut and asked him if he knew anything about his mother, he hadn’t expected her to become part of a song. He should have, he realized. Especially when the bard had nodded gravely and said, “Inga Til. I know the name. Her father was the king of the Brondings. What became of her
I have never heard.” He had stared at Rune with his piercing eye and said, “From your father, you are kin to King Beowulf; from your mother, to the lord of the Brondings. And brought up by a noblewoman, too.” He fell silent, but he kept up his fierce gaze until Rune had to look away.

Later, when there was time, Rune thought, he might tell the bard the vision he’d had, of his mother racing from terror and destruction to save her child’s life, certain of her own death. For a moment, he could feel the rough wool of her clothes against his cheek, the beating of her heart as she placed him in the boat. If anyone deserved a song of her own, she did.

He looked out into the firelit hall and again saw men watching him, appraising him, their expressions unreadable.

As the song ended, there was a roar of approval. Rune signaled the bond servants to refill the drinking horns. They would have to be more careful with their resources later, in order to get through the long winter, but he didn’t think now was the time. Tonight, at least, the people needed to celebrate.

“Let’s have the part where the dragon comes out of the barrow again,” someone called, and the bard rang his fingers across the harp strings, happy to oblige.

Rune slipped out the side door of the hall and took a deep breath of the cold night air. He heard someone coming out behind him and turned to see Wyn pulling her cloak tightly around her.

“While you and Ketil were gone, he sang the dragon
fight every time a new patrol came back,” she said. “But the part about your mother—that’s new.”

He nodded.

“I’m glad he added it.”

“So am I,” Rune said. Something cold landed on his cheek, and he looked up to see white flakes spiraling down through the dark.

The first snow. They had finished the hall just in time.

Now, a day later, they rushed to prepare for the coronation.

“Ow!” Rune said again, and Gerd laughed.

“If you’d hold still, you wouldn’t get pinned.” Her face turned serious as she concentrated on his sleeve.

“I
was
holding still,” he said.

A knock sounded at the door, and Ketil stuck his head in, shaking snow from his hair. “Thialfi and your brothers are back,” he hissed, looking at Wyn. “With a bunch of Shylfings.”

Shylfings? Rune looked sharply at Ketil.

“Shylfing envoys,” Ketil said.

Rune dropped his arms, and the women quickly stripped him of the new shirt and tunic. Gerd stuffed his old clothes into his arms, and he dressed fast. “Here,” Gerd said, fastening the garnet clasp on his cloak. His sword and mail coat were in the chest by his bed—King Beowulf’s old bed in his house just beyond the hall. He looked at Ketil, spreading his hands to indicate that he didn’t have them here.

Ketil nodded his understanding. “I’ll take them the long way to the hall,” he said. “You can come in the side door.”

Rune glanced at Thora. “Would you—?” he started to ask, but she was already moving, her cloak over her shoulders, a basket on her arm.

“Wyn,” she said. “Find the bard. Gerd, make sure there are no chickens in the hall.”

They ran.

Rune got to the hall a half-step before Ketil. As he straightened his cloak, he could hear him speaking to the Shylfings, who were stamping snow from their boots in the alcove that kept the wind from howling through whenever the door was opened.

Someone had already lit the hall fire. Rune mouthed a silent thanks to whoever it had been. He moved toward it as the bard came hurrying, Thora just behind him. They stood on either side of Rune, all of them listening to the sounds of swords being pulled from sheaths. Ketil would be directing the Shylfings to leave their weapons at the door.

Ottar and Gar stepped to the sides of the hall, helmets down, spears up, and Rune felt rather than saw Wyn and Gerd falling into place near the side door, ready to help if he needed them.

Ketil strode into view and then Thialfi, the pair of them flanking two Shylfing warriors. Behind them, Rune could see another figure hidden by a furred cloak—not a fighter, perhaps an emissary—and another Shylfing warrior, followed
by Wyn’s brothers. He heard their mail clinking as they approached, and before he could speak, one of the Shylfings stepped forward.

“Hail, Wiglaf, son of Weohstan,” the man called out.

He watched the warrior carefully, the mustached face, the dark brown beard, the powerful shoulders.

“Our king sends you greeting,” the warrior said in a strong voice. Rune saw him glance around the hall, his eyes taking in everything in an instant before he looked back at Rune. What was his expression? Contempt? Rune wasn’t sure.

He stepped forward. “You are welcome to the land of the Geats. You have journeyed far and returned our valued thanes, free from harm. We thank you.” At least he hoped they were free from harm, but he didn’t want to take his eyes from the Shylfing’s to check. Much as his fingers itched to clutch his sword, he clamped his gloved palm to his side.

“Past hostilities have divided our people,” the Shylfing said. “My king asks that they be forgotten.” His tone suggested that he didn’t agree with his king.

Rune almost bowed, catching himself just in time.
Never show submission to an emissary, no matter how high his status
, the bard had told him as they had waited for the envoys’ return.

“Your lord speaks wisely,” Rune said.

The emissary regarded him coldly. “We thought we would find a king,” he said.

Rune nodded, enlightened. “The coronation takes place tomorrow,” he said, inwardly cursing himself. The bard had wanted to have Rune crowned as early as possible, but Rune had postponed the coronation until after the harvest, and then again until after the hall was built. He hadn’t thought about what it would mean to the Shylfings. “You will be our honored guests,” he added.

Without moving his head, the Shylfing warrior glanced at the man beside him, who gave him a curt nod. They both looked back at Rune. The first man spoke again. “Our king sends a peace pledge between our two nations.” He stepped back, and the figure behind him came forward, pushing back the furred hood of a cloak.

Rune’s eyes widened. A profound silence filled the hall. Only the fire dared dance and snap.

“Hild, our king’s sister-daughter,” the warrior said.

A grave-faced girl, her dark hair pulled back, sank into a low curtsy.

“Be welcome, Hild,” Rune said, stepping forward to raise her by the hand.

She matched him for height and met his eyes with her own dark ones. One eye looked directly at him, while the other seemed to see beyond him, making it hard for him to know where to focus. Just like Amma’s eyes, the girl’s seemed to see right through him, challenging him, taking his measure.

He struggled to find his voice in a mouth gone dry as stone. “Be welcome, all of you,” he managed to say, then
added, “Sit and rest after your journey.” He guided Hild to Thora, and the two curtsied to each other before Thora led the girl to a bench near the fire.

Suddenly, the hall was a flurry of activity as the Shylfings took their seats on the mead benches, as Geats brought them food, as a bond servant dumped a load of logs by the fire and built it to a roar.

Ketil came alongside Rune and looked him a question.

“That,” Rune said, his knees weak, “was more terrifying than any dragon.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

IN THE KING’S HOUSE IN THE KING’S BED, RUNE LAY AWAKE
, staring into the midnight air, the day’s events replaying in his mind. The Shylfings’ arrival had taken them all by surprise, and he’d been too busy to digest everything that had happened. Thialfi had been a good choice for emissary, Rune could see; the Shylfing warriors respected him, treating him like a member of their troop. He ate with them, introducing Geatish warriors who joined them at the mead bench. They seemed to like Wyn’s brothers, too.

Wyn and Gerd had circled Hild warily, casting suspicious glances at her as she sat before the fire. But it didn’t take long for compassion to melt their hearts, and Rune watched as they escorted her out of the hall, taking her off to Thora’s house to bathe in front of a fire. Later, Gerd
whispered to him, “I don’t think she’s very pretty. And she doesn’t say much.”

He’d been thinking about the warriors more than about the girl, knowing that they saw in him an untested youth too green to rule. Would they take that report back to their king? And would their king attack, despite the presence of a peaceweaver?

Rune screwed his eyes shut so hard he saw stars, then stared into the dark again. That was what Hild was: a peaceweaver, just as Amma had been. It hadn’t worked with Amma—hostilities broke out again, leaving her bereft. Why did anyone think it would work now? King Beowulf had thought peaceweaving was a foolish idea.
The spear seldom rests
, he had said,
no matter how worthy the bride
.

Bride?
Rune froze under the blanket. He knew what peaceweavers were; he knew what the Shylfings intended, but he’d been too preoccupied to recognize the implications. Hild was to be his bride, a pledge of peace between their lands.

He was supposed to
marry
her.

Did he have a choice in the matter? Did she? The bard had said there would be time for negotiations after the coronation. Was he talking about a wedding?

And the coronation. A shudder ran through his body. Tomorrow, like it or not, he would be king. Up until now, he’d been busy enough to avoid thinking about it. Now it
would be real. He hoped Amma would still be with him in some way.

And what of the gods? It had been a long time since he’d been butted by a goat or seen a raven watching him from the eaves. Were Thor and Odin still toying with him? And Loki—was he lurking in the shadows, watching? Maybe the gods were finished with their games. He wondered what the stakes had been—and who had won.

Groaning, he rolled over, trying not to think of tomorrow, knowing he’d never be able to sleep.

The scent of fresh-cut lumber filled Rune’s nostrils, and he tried to focus on it, tried to remember to breathe as he stood before the dais, the golden torque biting into his neck, a forgotten pin sticking him under his arm.