The Stone of Sorrow Read online

  I’m lightheaded. The blood runs from my wound, thick and dark, and it smells like death, like bodies festering in the earth, and of long-forgotten things cast into pits. I turn around, and in the distance I see a golden lake and a dark figure standing next to it.

  I tumble out of control again. What was I doing? There is something I need to do. What is it? I’m lost. And then, through the fog, a voice.

  Runa, the voice calls. Stay with me.

  Sýr.

  The love of my sister calls me back. All I can do is focus on the love. Sýr is my guiding light. In a flash I am beside Sýr once again in the dark room, kneeling beside her bound form.

  “Please,” Sýr says. She is frantic. “Go! They’re coming. You need to be strong.”

  “No, Sýr, I don’t want to leave you.”

  My runes begin to clatter, and the sound they make is a name, repeated over and over. Katla. Katla. Katla.

  “Go, Runa, run. When you need me, look for the moths. Today, tomorrow, it will always be the two of us, Runa. Forever,” Sýr says, her voice shaking.

  I kiss my sister on the cheek. “I will set you free, Sýr. And I will kill Katla.”

  My runes are reaching a crescendo now, warning me of Katla’s imminent arrival. I hurry through the small window that opens into the back lane. Once I’m out, I look inside at my sister one last time.

  “I love you,” I whisper, before running away into the night.

  I sprint through the filthy lanes, crying and desperate to get as far away from Katla as possible. But how will I ever do this without Sýr? How can I be strong enough?

  Sýr may have lifted her binding spell, but I feel more confused than ever.

  I turn a corner and run into someone hard and unyielding. It’s Einar.

  He grabs me and whirls us behind a stall, crushing me with his hug.

  “Runa!” he exclaims. “Thank the gods. I have been searching everywhere. I found your shelter and your pack, abandoned, and I thought the worst.”

  I look at him, at the concern and fear in his eyes, and I let him hold me in silence for a while.

  “Oski?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Come,” he says. “I found a place.”

  We steal through the lanes to a hay stall, where we collapse in a heap. Einar has brought my pack. He hands it to me.

  “I wasn’t sure if…you know,” he says in explanation.

  “If Katla killed me already?”

  “No!” he says. “But this place…this place is strange. I feel danger everywhere.”

  I nod. “I found Sýr.”

  “And?”

  “It isn’t good.”

  He doesn’t say anything. And of all the things I love about Einar, this is perhaps my favorite. He knows when to be quiet. When to let things be. He opens his arms, and I lean into him. We stay like this as the night brightens toward day. It may be the last time we ever do this.

  “How did you get in?” I ask at last.

  “Oh,” he says, stroking a piece of my hair, “I thought of you. And then you opened the door.”

  “Me?” I look at him.

  He shrugs. “I knew it wasn’t real,” he says. “You were like a light in the darkness. And I followed you. As I’ve been doing all this time.”

  He gazes at me, his golden eyes dilated wide in the dim light of dawn but as glowing as ever. I lean in and press my lips to his. I half expect him to taste like honey, but he does not. He’s warm and spicy, and softer than I imagined. When I pull away he doesn’t try to kiss me back, but he doesn’t let me move too far away either. He holds me in place, looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

  “When this is all over,” he says, “will you do that again?”

  “I will,” I say.

  He smiles the barest of smiles, and it coincides with the tolling of a loud bell.

  The competition is starting.

  I scramble to my feet, gathering my things, but Einar doesn’t move.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I wish we had more time,” he says.

  I know he is afraid that I might die battling Katla. I am afraid too. But I can’t indulge those thoughts. And I need Einar.

  “There will be time for us,” I say in response.

  “When?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. But I will find a way to make it myself, if I have to.”

  I swing my cloak on, feeling stronger than I have in a long while. I don’t know if it’s because Sýr lifted the binding spell or if it’s because of the kiss, but I feel alive. I suppose walking into certain death can have that effect on a person.

  Einar stares at me. “I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” he says.

  I smile at him and offer a hand to help him up.

  “I think I do,” I say. “Now.”

  I hand him his own pack and pull up the hood on my cloak.

  “Whatever happens,” I say, “you must take care of yourself. Help your clan. If I can’t kill her, then you have to.”

  He adjusts his pack and draws his cloak tighter, shivering a little, as if he’s cold.

  “I promise,” he says. “I’ll see it through.”

  We stand there, a beam of cold morning light shining through the slats overhead. We’ve come so far, and it feels like a lifetime since Katla first came to my village to steal the stone.

  “Runa, I—” He struggles to find the words.

  “Tell me after,” I say, turning to go.

  I walk away from the stall, leaving him behind. I can’t look back or else I’ll never leave.

  We’ll have our time. When we’re back on the black sands of home, and the world isn’t falling apart around us.

  I weave through the throng as the crowd heads to the battling circle. My face is once again shrouded in false lines of aging. Any caster worth their runes will see through my disguise if they truly look, but I want to go as unnoticed as possible. I’ve even disguised my spear as a mere walking staff. No need to attract attention to a marbendill’s spear in a place where such things are sought and lusted after.

  As I walk past stalls and taverns and sellers hawking their wares, I see a large figure, clad in black, with a bald head shining in the morning light. Oski! Did the bindrune tattoo work for them, or was it something else? I watch as they slip into a doorway, casting around surreptitious glances. What odd thing are they doing now?

  I follow, peeking through the slats of a dilapidated window. It’s difficult to see, but Oski is speaking to someone. Carefully, I pull open part of the broken shutter to get a better view. There’s an old woman, gnarled with time, sitting on a pile of ornate cushions, her skinny legs folded beneath her. She is dressed in colorful robes not of our custom. The old woman casts a glance toward the window, and I jump out of sight.

  I strain to hear, but their voices are too low. “Louder,” I whisper to my runes, and I cup my hand to my ear. Oski and the old woman’s voices echo in my ear, much louder now.

  “I have done my duty,” Oski says. “I have brought the caster here.”

  “Yes,” says the old woman. “She is close.”

  They’re talking about me! And what is this duty Oski speaks of? Enough! I remove my disguise and barge in through the doorway.

  “I am close,” I say. “And I demand to know what is going on.”

  Oski recoils in surprise. “Runa!” they exclaim and then rush to embrace me.

  I sidestep them and give them a poke with my spear.

  “Ow!” they howl.

  The old woman laughs, and the sound is like a gurgling stream.

  “I demand the truth!” I say, wielding my runes. “Or I will make you talk.”

  Oski cowers away from me. I am stunned to realize they are afraid. They should be.

  “You’re different,” Oski says. “You are not the runecaster I saw last.”

  “She is unbound,” the old woman explains.

  I whirl around. “What did you say?” />
  The old woman sighs. “Child, I have known your family for generations. I have provided counsel to your mother and her mother and her mother, all the way back to Freyja herself.”

  “How old are you, Mimir?” Oski asks the old woman, rubbing their side where I had jabbed them with my spear.

  “No matter,” Mimir says.

  “I don’t understand what is happening,” I say.

  “The Valkyrie,” says Mimir. “I sent them to find you. And to ensure you got here. I have seen things. My family has the gift of foresight. And yours, the gift of time.”

  “What did you mean about Freyja?” I ask.

  “Ha!” Mimir laughs. “You are not a goddess, never mind. A few drops of Freyja’s blood in your line. But that is all you need.”

  “I have Freyja’s blood?” I ask.

  “I thought you said she was a smart one,” Mimir says to Oski.

  “Hey!” I exclaim.

  “One drop is enough,” says Mimir. “But not every child in the line inherits the gift. To wield the moonstone, a charged moonstone, you must have the blood and the gift.”

  There seem to be a great many people concerned with my ability to wield this stone.

  “Why do you want me to wield it?” I ask. “Why is everyone so involved with me and with my family and my gifts? If you can call them that.”

  “Because child,” says Mimir in a grave voice, “no one else can do it. And it is vital that you obtain the moonstone.”

  “But why? To kill Katla? If we get enough casters together, we can defeat her,” I argue.

  Mimir laughs her gurgling laugh, and I look at Oski, who won’t meet my gaze.

  “Oski? What is it?” I demand.

  Oski shakes their head. “I’m sorry, Runa. There’s so much more you do not know.”

  “Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me now.”

  The bell tolls again outside. I have minutes left before I must be at the circle.

  I grasp my runes and hold them in front of Mimir, who recoils in shock.

  “Time stones,” she whispers. “A time caster with time stones. It has been so long.”

  “Yes,” I hiss. “And I will send you so far back in time that you will not even exist for thousands of years.” Even though I have no idea how to do this, the threat seems real enough to me. I feel like I can do it. Somewhere inside of me I know it to be true. I am that angry, and the old woman senses it.

  “You must get the moonstone,” Mimir says. “You know that it is a time stone. The most powerful of all. And when it is charged and wielded by a time caster like you, your power will be unparalleled.”

  My heart quickens, recalling my mother’s test at moonwater’s gate.

  “What do you intend to use me for?” I ask, anger rising in my throat. I am so tired of people lying to me.

  “I do not intend to use you,” she protests.

  “Ah, but you do,” I say, spitting the words into her face. “Everyone wants to use everyone for something. Katla is using my sister to try to get the moonstone. She’s trying to use me. She’s using Einar and his family. You used Oski to get me here. And in truth, I used Oski and Einar to get here. Now tell me why you want me.”

  Mimir sighs. “A long time ago the wanderer and god of all, Odin, traded his eye for a drink of water from the well of cosmic knowledge. The same well the stone will be charged in here at moonwater.”

  “Go on,” I say, a chill running down my back.

  “The moonstone is not just a stone. It is the lost eye of Odin. If you are able to wield it, then you must return it to Odin himself. He wants it back, and he’s desperate. So desperate, in fact, that he sent a serpent, a witch, to retrieve it for him.”

  I stare at Mimir. “A serpent?” I ask. “You mean to say that Odin sent Katla—Grabak—to get the moonstone? All of this is his doing?”

  “Yes, child,” says Mimir. “Odin is a tricky and fickle god. This we know all too well. Oski knows it,” she says, nodding to them.

  Oski glowers with anger.

  “Then why should I give him back his stupid eye?” I say.

  “Because,” says Mimir, “if he does not get it back, he will bring about Ragnarok. Everything in existence will be wiped out.”

  As she says the words, I hold out my runes. This is too much. “Stop,” I command.

  Time stands still.

  I know Mimir has spoken the truth, and I have heard all that I care to. I look at Oski and the old woman, each of them frozen in the moment. It’s exactly like back at the elf tavern when I met Píla Ör.

  Staring at Oski, I am filled with anger. How could they betray me? I walk over to their frozen form and take the feather from inside their cloak. I wave it. “Goodbye,” I say, placing it in my pouch with my runes. “Go back where you came from.” With that, Oski disappears in a flutter of black. I stand there for a moment, blinking in disbelief. I didn’t expect that to work.

  “Oski?” I say, but they do not return. Somewhere in my mind’s eye I know that they are waiting for me. Perhaps by the golden lake. They will have to wait some more.

  As for Mimir, I reach out and carefully shut both of her eyelids. “When you wake,” I whisper, “your eyes will remain closed, and you will not be able to open them.” She will also have to wait until I release her from this spell.

  I peek from the window and see that the crowd is frozen in place. I slip out the door and walk through the crowd, wandering around people as if they are monuments in a graveyard, and I am aware that if I fail, they will all be as good as dead.

  It’s tempting to leave things like this, frozen in place, no one moving forward or changing. No one to cause problems for me. What would it be like to wander the world alone while the whole of existence waited for me to start time again? I don’t know if my command will last as long as I wish it to or if things will resume their pace on their own. It occurs to me that maybe I’m the one who is out of time, and everyone else is still moving forward as they always were. If that is true, then every world I step into or out of from now on is a different world each time.

  I laugh, bitterness flowing through me. I thought I would find Sýr, and she would help end this. Now I can see how foolish I’ve been. This will never end. Return the eye of Odin? Ha! How could I possibly do that after all the suffering he has caused?

  When I arrive at the circle, I see that the Jötnar are all there, lined up in neat rows, waiting for the competition to start.

  I scan the crowd and see Einar. He is standing by Ymir’s side, father and son reunited. Ymir looks like a husk of himself, like someone painted his skin on and walks around with it.

  The council of elders, all female runecasters of advanced age, is in position on the elevated stone seats. I wonder how many of these competitions they’ve seen, or if any of them have wielded the moonstone. I know of them only from stories. They have discarded their old identities and have taken the names of the three Fates in tribute to their commitment to the forces of destiny. They bear the names of the Fates of time itself. They are Urðr, Verðandi and Skuld. Amma told me all about them and how much they seem to enjoy their status and influence. My amma has never cared for people in lofty positions.

  I walk by them, close to their seats, and look each elder caster in the eye. None blinks or moves or indicates that they see me. I’m alone in this.

  I do not see Katla or Sýr, but the witch could be present in the bodies of any of the spectators.

  The only thing that moves in my frozen world is the reflecting pool. I walk over to it and see that its waters are rippling in anticipation of the eclipse. The red moon has almost covered the sun. It is still moving, so it appears I am not all-powerful with my time stones. Even I cannot stop the moon.

  I peer into the sacred water, seeing myself. I look older than I remember, though this journey has not taken the years that seem to live on my face. My one brown eye gives me an odd, somewhat crazed look. It’s not much in the way of a beauty improvement, but it is scar
y enough to intimidate a foe, and I think I’m even happier for that.

  I feel a presence behind me. Turning, I spot Katla in the crowd. She is not frozen.

  The yellow witch skulks through the stilled forms of the people like a winding serpent, hissing and dragging Sýr behind her like one of the brainless Jötnar. My dear sister is near death. This much I know.

  “Sýr!” I call, but she doesn’t look at me.

  Katla slithers closer.

  “Look at the runecaster,” she says. Her voice sounds like something slithering through grass. “I am going to enjoy consuming you.”

  “Is that so?” I say as I touch my runes.

  “Back to now,” I say, and time resumes in violent relief.

  Katla slinks back into the throng, a smile on her face. She has retracted her daggers. For now.

  The council elders are startled, but the crowd doesn’t seem to notice that they’ve been out of time.

  “What is this?” says Verðandi, the middle elder. “Who are you?” she demands. “Why are you in the circle near the waters?”

  I take a step back. “I am Gudrun Unnursdóttir, sister of Sýr Unnursdóttir, and I have come to win back the moonstone for my clan, the people of Myrkur Strönd.”

  The crowd murmurs.

  “Silence,” says Urðr. She is the oldest of the council members. “Is that not Sýr behind you? She is the current keeper of the stone.”

  I step aside to allow the council a good look.

  “Indeed,” says Katla, stepping forward. “She has defected from Myrkur Strönd and will now fight on behalf of the Jötnar clan. She is our champion now, and we are the current keepers of the moonstone.”

  “Liar!” I shout.

  Katla growls, then composes herself. She doesn’t want to reveal herself yet.

  The elders are suspicious. “Who are you?” asks Skuld, the third elder.

  “I am Katla of the Jötnar,” she says. “Wife to the great Ymir.”

  There is a gasp from the crowd. Katla’s name has preceded her.