Read Online Peaceweaver by Rebecca Barnhouse - Free Book Online

uncle stepped out of a circle of men to stand directly in front of his throne. Bragi positioned himself just to the side and a little behind the king. As she neared them, she steeled herself, narrowing her focus. None of the men who lined the way to the dais—not even Arinbjörn, wherever he was, and certainly not Bragi—mattered in this moment. She had eyes only for her uncle, the king.
    She sidestepped the fire pit and wove around a long bench, careful not to waver in her gaze. She didn’t need to look down to find her way, so familiar was the hall to her feet. She remembered to avoid the board that always creaked, and approached the long tables where the king’s hearth companions ate their meals. Once she was clear of them and in the wide expanse before the dais, she could hear someone’s wheezing breath. Somebody coughed. Men stood on either side of her, watching her, but she blanked them all from her mind and kept her focus on the steps to the dais.
    Reaching it, she stopped and sank into a curtsy, not all the way to the floor with lowered head, as would befit a supplicant, but halfway down and then up again, her eyes never moving from her uncle’s face.
    She swallowed, trying to wet her dry tongue. Then, hoping her voice wouldn’t crack, she spoke without waiting for permission. “Ragnar, King. Your mother, my grandmother, was a far-minded woman. She foretold that you would rule.”
    No one spoke. The king regarded her impassively. Never had he been so good at wiping all emotion, all judgment from his expression. She wished he would give her the barest hint of what he was thinking.
    Then she realized he had—by not stopping her from speaking.
    She took a shaky breath. “Her grandmother, it is said, was also far-minded.”
    Again, no one reacted.
    “My lord.” The muscles in her neck stretched impossibly taut. “Ragnar, King, I, too, am far-minded.”
    From the rustle of clothing and the creaking of floorboards, she knew that the men who weren’t still staring at her were turning to see the king’s reaction.
    There was nothing to see. He held her eyes, again shielding all his thoughts from her.
Say something!
she wanted to shout into the silence.
    Footsteps sounded behind her, the light patter of a woman in slippers walking quickly. Hild flinched as her mother’s hand touched her shoulder.
    “It’s true, my lord. My daughter is far-minded.”
    The king took a step forward. Almost imperceptibly, the men standing nearest him moved back. “Far-minded Hild may be. Nevertheless, a visitor to my kingdom, a Bronding nobleman, is dead.” His gaze seemed to bore into Hild, but she kept herself from looking down or even blinking. “What do you have to say to that?”
    “My lord,” she said, her voice low but steady. “The Bronding nobleman was planning to kill your son.”
    “That’s a lie!” a man said, pushing his way forward. His words served to unloose the tongues of all the other people in the hall, and in the noise, Hild watched him, recognizing him as one of the companions of the Bronding who had tried to murder Arinbjörn.
    The king raised his hand. Immediately, the voices quieted.
    Hild watched her uncle’s face. Did he believe her?
    “Whether or not it is true is not my question,” he said to the Bronding, who scowled. Then the king turned to Hild. “If, by some power of far-mindedness, you knew the man’s intentions, why did you not call for the guards?”
    “There wasn’t time, my lord.”
    “They were within shouting distance.”
    She stared at him. Hadn’t he understood? She had saved his son’s life. The life of the atheling, the heir to the throne.
    “As you say,” her uncle continued, “my mother was a far-minded woman. Yet she gave her knowledge to the king. He decided what to do with it. She didn’t kill men she suspected of murderous intent.”
    “I didn’t
suspect
him, I
knew
,” Hild said, then added almost under her breath, “my lord.” She hated what her uncle