“He’ll be back in three years,” Mother said the next morning. “That is the agreement. You’ll be ten next time. Then thirteen, and a woman. Then sixteen, and ready to be wed.”
If I had been ten, or thirteen, or sixteen, I would have known not to ask the question. “Why can’t Rune come back every summer? Why can’t he be here all the time?”
“Don’t be a fool, Hulde. Rune has his own castle, his own lands, his own responsibilities. You are lucky that he spares any time for you.” Her tone told me she could not imagine why anyone would want to do so.
Rune had said nothing about a castle, but I saw it in my mind straightaway. It would be all gardens and greenery, and the rooms would have big windows through which light would pour in. It would be by the sea. I hardly knew what the sea was, only that it sounded like a true adventure. I wished I could marry Rune instead of the Prince of the Far Isles. But Rune was a bear.
“Nothing to say for yourself?”
When Mother used that voice my insides shrivelled up into a tight ball, and I lost all my words. I shook my head, staring down. The black and white floor tiles blurred into grey. I must not cry. She hated it when I cried.
“You’ve grown attached,” she said. I could not tell if she thought this a good thing or a bad one.
“Rune is kind.” That seemed safe enough.
“Kind!” Mother spat the word out as if it were spoiled food. “What use is kindness? Strength, resolve, an iron will, those are the qualities a leader requires. More pity that your father died when you were a babe in swaddling, Hulde. Now he was a fine example of a man. A true leader.”
I did not understand. If my father had been a true leader, how was it that he had lost a battle and been killed? “Is there a picture of my father?”
“What a foolish question! If such a portrait existed, do you not think it would hang in pride of place here in my reception hall? Off with you, Daughter! You’re wasting my time.”
As I walked out, she spoke to my back. “Tears are for the weak, Hulde. There is a softness in you that does not bode well for the future. Let me not see you with reddened eyes again or, believe me, I will give you something worth crying about.”
The years between were hard to bear. I had nothing to do but wait. My mother considered household duties beneath me. She saw no reason for me to have lessons, and besides, there was nobody to teach me. Our servants did not have children; that was not allowed. I asked, once, if I could have a puppy or kitten, and Mother said I would only kill it with my clumsy hands. I spent my days in my chamber, or in the walled garden, now empty. The storeroom was locked, but I knew where the key was hidden, in a crack between the stones. I touched the markings on the wall—free, far, beautiful—and wished him back. But he did not come until the summer I turned ten. He was more beautiful than ever, and he seemed even sadder, though he greeted my mother courteously and found a smile for me. Suddenly shy—it had been a long time—I looked down at my feet, and my mother reprimanded me.
“You are a king’s daughter, Hulde! Stand up proudly!”
It shamed me to be scolded in front of Rune. I squared my shoulders, set my jaw, blinked back tears. “Welcome,” I whispered.
“It’s good to see you, Hulde,” said Rune. “You are much taller.” He did not ask me about my writing; it was our secret.
I was taller. It was no longer so easy to squeeze through the gap in the wall. But I managed.
Rune had brought me a book. The pictures were in rich colours, with here and there a touch of gold. There was magic in every one of them. The stories on the pages opposite were written in big clear letters, and because I had been practising hard, I could read a word here and there and guess at others. I wondered if Rune made the book himself, but I did not ask him. I practising my reading all day and late into the night, devouring the book over and over by candlelight.
Rune asked me which was my favourite picture. There was the princess in the tower, her long golden hair drifting in the breeze, and a little bird perched on her graceful hand. There was another I loved, with a handsome young man and a lovely young woman riding a black horse together, laughing, a dog running along behind. There was a strange picture of a half-woman, half-fish, seated on rocks with wild water crashing all around her. I did not choose any of those.
“This one,” I said, showing him a picture of a girl in a grey hooded cloak. She was making her way through dense woodland. Her hands were scratched by briars, her skirt was torn, her bare feet were bruised and bloody. She was not as lovely as the golden-haired princess, or as happy as the laughing woman on the horse, or as magical as the woman with a fish’s tail. What I liked was the look on her face. Her eyes blazed with courage. Her mouth was set firm. Even if I had not read the tale, I would have known this girl could do anything. “If I could be a person in a story, I would be her.” Her tale was called Faithful Solvej.
“You are a person in a story, Hulde,” said Rune. “We all are. You can shape that story any way you choose. Don’t forget that when I’m gone.”
He was wrong. While I lived here on the mountain, my story was shaped entirely by my mother. The only part that belonged to me was my precious time with Rune.
In my thirteenth year, my mind was full of doubts. The weight of them kept me awake at night and fearful by day. Mother said moodiness was common in young women of my age and made me drink a foul-smelling tonic. I longed for someone to confide in, someone to talk to, anyone who was not her. Two men came sometimes with deliveries on a cart. Their oxen breathed painfully after the long haul up the mountain. The men spoke one to the other, mostly things like “Over here,” or “Easy now.” They did not linger. They drew up the cart and unloaded their cargo, one of our servants gave them a little bag of silver, and they were on their way again with the beasts still exhausted. I sat on a wall and watched them, just to hear their voices. Sometimes I came close to thinking that the outside world was only a dream; that even Rune was only my imagining. Those men and their shaggy creatures helped me to be strong.
And there was the book; the precious book. Although I’d been careful, the cover was showing signs of wear, rubbed patches, little nicks where my nails had caught the cloth. One of the pages was torn. I had wept over that. I did not know how to mend it, and there was nobody I could ask. I wanted to copy the stories, to keep them safe. But my wax tablet could not hold so many words. I practised saying them over, without the book. I hid them away in my mind.
That summer, Rune brought me powders to make ink. He brought me quills and a knife and parchment. He showed me how to scrub and dry a sheet so I could use it more than once. He brought me a little book of beasts, and a book about the stars, and a book of maps. One of the maps showed the glass mountain, with the north wind puffing his cheeks out. Tucked away in a corner were the Far Isles.
“Oh! It is such a long way,” I said. “How will I get there, when I marry the prince?”
Rune went very still; so still it was as if he had frozen where he sat. “I don’t…” he said, and stopped. “That is not…”
There was a long silence. I felt my heart beating. Somewhere within the house my mother was shouting at the servants.
“What has your mother told you about that, Hulde?” Rune asked.
Something was wrong. I heard it in his voice. “She said that once I turn sixteen, in three years’ time, I’m to marry the Prince of the Far Isles. Long ago an agreement was made that it should be so. I don’t mind going away from the mountain.” When he said nothing, I went on. “But… I am a little afraid. The prince is a stranger. What if he is not a kind man?” My mind shrank from that possibility. I might escape my mother only to find that he was even worse. It was all very well for her to say the prince had chosen me. But how could he choose, when he had never seen me?