To the Sun, page 1
part #12 of The Circle of Ceridwen Saga Series
To the Sun is the eleventh book in The Circle of Ceridwen Saga by Octavia Randolph
Copyright 2024 Octavia Randolph
ISBN 978-1-942044-41-3
Book cover design by DesignforBooks.com. Cover illustration and maps by Michael Rohani. Sun image photo credit: Shutterstock/Nazarii_Neshcherenskyi.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests beyond this, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions” at octavia@octavia.net
Pyewacket Press
The Circle of Ceridwen Saga employs British spellings, alternate spellings, archaic words, and oftentimes unusual verb to subject placement. This is intentional. A Glossary of Terms will be found at the end of the novel.
To the Sun
Octavia Randolph
Contents
List of Characters
To the Sun Maps
Chapter the First: Message Bearers
Chapter the Second: The Venture
Chapter the Third: She Forgets Nothing
Chapter the Fourth: Runaway
Chapter the Fifth: Jorvik
Chapter the Sixth: Hard Landing
Chapter the Seventh: Cause to Live
Chapter the Eighth: To Staraya Ladoga
Chapter the Ninth: What Have You Brought Me?
Chapter the Tenth: The Wheeled Ships
Chapter the Eleventh: Two Princes
Chapter the Twelfth: The King of Kyiv
Chapter the Thirteenth: Swift and Rocky Waters
Chapter the Fourteenth: The River Gods
Chapter the Fifteenth: I Want to Go Home
Chapter the Sixteenth: Shadow
Chapter the Seventeenth: The Visitation at Oundle
Chapter the Eighteenth: Land of the Red Dragon
Chapter the Nineteenth: Of Kings, and Saints
Chapter the Twentieth: St Peter’s Pence
Chapter the Twenty-first: The Apple
Chapter the Twenty-second: Daughter of a King
The Wheel of the Year
Liturgical Hours of the Day
Anglo-Saxon Place Names, with Modern Equivalents
Glossary of Terms
Notes to To the Sun
Acknowledgements
About the Author
List of Characters
Sidroc the Dane, formerly Jarl of Four Stones in South Lindisse, now a wealthy trader on Gotland
Ceridwen, Mistress of the hall Tyrsborg on the island of Gotland, wife to Sidroc
Hrald, son of Ælfwyn and Sidroc, Jarl of the Danish keep of Four Stones in South Lindisse
Yrling, son of Ceridwen and Sidroc, currently living at Four Stones
Gunnvor and Helga, cook and serving-woman respectively at Tyrsborg
Eirian, daughter of Ceridwen and Sidroc
Rodiaud, youngest daughter of Ceridwen and Sidroc
Eskil, a Svear warrior and ship-master
Tindr, a bow hunter
Juoksa, a boy of Gotland, son of Tindr and Šeará
Šeará, a Sami woman, wife to Tindr
Jaské, daughter of Tindr and Šeará
Brani, a seaman guide of Eskil
Rannveig, a brewster on Gotland, mother of Tindr
Runulv, a Gotlandic ship-master and trader
Gyda, wife to Runulv
Berse, a weapon-smith, formerly a warrior
Withun, a monk
Bork, an orphan and young warrior under Hrald’s care
Sigewif, Abbess of Oundle
Sigferth, King of Jorvik
Ælfred, King of Wessex
Guthrum, late King of the Danes in Angle-land
Thorvi, a Danish star-reader
Aszur, a ship-master and trader of Jorvik
Tofa, a lewd woman of Jorvik
Pega of Mercia, wife to Hrald, and Lady of Four Stones
Jari, a warrior of Four Stones, chief body-guard to Hrald
Kjeld, second in command at Four Stones
Mealla, companion to Pega, a maid of Éireann
Ælfgiva, daughter of Hrald and Pega
Edwin, Lord of Kilton in Wessex
Alwin and Wystan, captains of Edwin’s body-guard
Wulgan, a Saxon ship-master and trader
Edgyth, Lady of Kilton, mother by adoption to Edwin
Ceric, son of Ceridwen and the late Gyric, grand-son of the late Lord Godwulf, God-son of King Ælfred, and older brother to Edwin
Dwynwen, Princess of Ceredigion in Wales, wed to Ceric
Worr, the horse-thegn of Kilton, pledged man of Ceric
Dunnere, priest of Kilton
Tegwedd, a Welsh serving girl to Dwynwen
Garrulf, scop of Kilton
Æthelflaed, Lady of Mercia, daughter of King Ælfred of Wessex
Wilgyfu, wife to Worr
Ladja, Mistress of Staraya Ladoga
Vermund, King of Novgorod
Davor, a guide thereof
Efim, Prince of Gnezdovo
Karlen, Prince of a river trading post
Demyan, his older brother, also Prince of the same trading post
Oleg, King of Kyiv, uncle to Karlen and Demyan
Arni and Farulf, two Gotlandic adventurers
Emund, brother to Farulf
Sigtrygg, a Svear adventurer
Ælfwyn, formerly Lady of Four Stones, now wife to Raedwulf of Defenas
Raedwulf, Bailiff of Defenas in Wessex
Burginde, companion and nurse to Ælfwyn
Ealhswith, daughter of Ælfwyn and Sidroc
Blida and Bettelin, orphaned siblings of Defenas
Cerd, grandson to Ælfwyn and Ceridwen, son of Ceric and the late Ashild
Indract and Lioba, married couple, stewards of Raedwulf’s hall
Eadward, Prince of Wessex
Ecgwynn, his wife
Eanflad, younger sister to Ælfwyn
Dagmar, daughter of the late Guthrum, King of the Danes in Angle-land
Asberg, brother-in-law to Ælfwyn, in command at the fortress of Turcesig
Sister Ælfleda, mother to Ælfwyn and Eanflad, a nun at Oundle
Congar, a thegn’s son of Cantwaraburh
Elfrid, a priest at the cathedral of Cantwaraburh, uncle to Congar
Sister Bova, brewster at Oundle, formerly known at Tyrsborg as Sparrow
Brother Balin, a monk at Oundle
Elidon, King of Ceredigion in Wales, uncle to Dwynwen
Anarawd, King of Gwynedd in Wales
Merfyn, King of Powys in Wales
Llywarch, King of Dyfed in Wales
Meurig, King of Morgannwg in Wales
Luned, a woman of Wales
Gwydden, priest to Elidon
Ultan, stable boy in the King’s stable at Witanceaster
To the Sun Maps
Chapter the First: Message Bearers
Gotland
The Year 896
SIDROC was not certain where he was; all was darkness. Nor did he know how he had found himself here. Had he taken a blow to the head? All he knew was that one of his sons was behind the wall he pressed his hands against – a boy who needed him…
He forced himself awake; not a fear-induced jolt, but a summons he gave himself. Despite pulling himself by force of will from the bleakness of the vision, his heart was as tightly clenched as if his fist had replaced it.
When in the past he had startled awake from having ridden the night-mare he knew to reach his arm over his head, and place his palm flat against the sturdy wooden head board of the bed he had built. It was reminder he was in fact not on some field of battle across which men screamed out their death-throes, nor fighting upon the blood-slimed deck of a lurching ship. Often beneath his reaching palm he would feel the grooves of the design he had chiseled there, the great circular interlace from the silver disc bracelet he had placed upon his shield-maiden’s wrist. He did this now, extending his arm so that it met that reminder of the here and now. His palm lingered only a moment. The wood under his hand felt too much like the wall he had been pressing against, trying to reach his son. Yet he was here, at Tyrsborg; his wife safe and asleep next him. He drew back his arm and wiped it across the beads of cold sweat which had gathered on his brow.
This was all he was sure of; he was here at his peaceful hall. Was it a night-mare he rode, or a fluttering of his fylgja, that female guardian-spirit of his family, which awakened him? When he had touched his own brow, he sensed the second, his fylgja moving within him, ready with counsel.
It lasted a moment, this freeing sensation, to be replaced by the leaden weight of dread. Yet it seemed confirmation of the trueness of the vision. It was a message, not a night-mare.
One of his sons – or both of them – were in distress. His mouth worked, soundlessly. Hrald. Yrling. Both, he had trusted, were safe and well at Four Stones. Their shared fylgja told him otherwise.
Sidroc must address her, must face her. And he had ever felt her presence most readily under the heavens. He rose, and stood in the dark, pulling on his clothes. Around the margin of the closed shutter high in the gable, the soft blush of dawn was beginning to show.
He opened the door of the treasu
He stood there, aware of the creeping Sun breaking in from the closed shutters, lightening the hall moment by moment. He returned to the treasure room. His wife was just beginning to stir. He said nothing to her of the vision. So formless it was, he could not yet speak of it. Their day began.
Seated at the broad table Sidroc took two spoons of the boiled oats in his bowl, and no more. Ceridwen noted this, without comment. The hall door was open to the morning and its sounds. The lowing of one of the cows Tindr was milking served as excuse for Sidroc to stand. “I will get a start on the paddock fence,” he said. He and Tindr had been repairing the top rail where it had weakened from the stress of the horses leaning against it. He looked to his wife, who gave a quiet smile. He reached for a loaf where they sat piled on the platter, and took it with him. Ceridwen knew it was not for him to eat later.
Never an empty hand, Sidroc thought, when approaching the Gods.
Out in the forecourt between hall and stable, Sidroc left Tindr undisturbed in his milking. Flekkr had followed him out and was frisking at his heels. Sidroc thought almost to drive the dog back, but then gave thought. The animal was a scent-hound. Such were meant to find things. He would keep the dog with him in his appeal. He slipped into the spruce trees beyond the kitchen yard and vanished up the path.
The Dane was headed for the Place of Offering, and its small, fern-bedecked clearing. It was there he spoke to Tyr, and to the Goddess Freyja. Tyr was his fulltrúi, that patron God he had given himself to as a young man. He had come later to the service of Freyja, a dedication foretold by an old woman he had met in Jutland. It had been that white-armed Goddess of love and lust who had helped him secure his shield-maiden, and had kept her under Her protection in the intervening years between first seeing her as a young maid at Four Stones, and making her his wife here on Gotland.
So confused were Sidroc’s feelings he would need the aid of both. Tyr and Freyja could guide his hand in casting the bones of augury, but he would need his fylgja’s help to discern their meaning. This inner guardian spirit was carried also in the breast of Hrald, and Yrling.
He reached the place, where every year he made Offering in thanks for the bounty Tyrsborg enjoyed. All who lived at the hall stood with him then. But he had come here betweentimes as well, times of doubt and trouble. The low wooden Offering boxes he and Tindr had made their first harvest-tide were sinking into the undergrowth, a few slats of their framework still visible under the furling ferns. A single, tall post crowned with an open platform stood ready to receive what Sidroc had carried with him from the table. He had offered many fowl here over the years. He drew a deep and steadying breath, and entered the space.
“Tyr! Freyja! Every good thing comes from you. And every good thing I share with you.” He held the bread loaf aloft, to the heavens, and to the waiting birds, those eyes of Odin, he knew were watching. With a twist of his thumb and forefinger he tore a hunk of the crusted loaf, and placed it in his mouth. Flekkr was nosing in the ferns, and looked, bright-eyed, to him, his folded ear cocked, the second pointing straight up, as always. The dog was here as emblem of finding; he must take part in the Offering as well. Sidroc tore a second piece and tossed it to the hound’s quickly snapping jaws. As Flekkr gnawed one-sidedly at it, his master reached up and laid the torn loaf on the Offering platform.
This done, Sidroc drew breath. He needed answers. His right hand rose to his head and his fingers combed through his dark hair, hair now amply streaked with grey. His eyes skimmed the tops of the trees surrounding him. He stilled himself. The fylgja needed quiet, or he needed quiet to hear her. A fluttering again, the slightest movement in his breast. He must ask.
He reached his hand again up to the platform on which he had placed the loaf. His fingers groped, touching, then closing around a cluster of bones there. A knot of feathers, still attached to a piece of gristle was there as well; this he replaced upon the Offering platform. Sidroc opened his calloused palm to the lifting Sun and studied what he had gathered. He had collected nine small bones, some straight, some slightly curved. There was rightness in this. Nine was a sacred number. He could ask three questions, and throw the bones in three equal handfuls. He would cast them here, on the hardened earth at the base of the Offering pole.
He chose three bones, then placed the remaining six on the edge of the Offering platform. His fingers closed about the first three, and he brought his fist to his heart. The words falling from his lips were no more than a hoarse whisper.
“Tyr. Freyja. You will guide my hand, as you ever have. You know before I speak what I will ask. Fylgja, Lady-spirit who runs in the blood of me and mine, answer so I will not mistake you.”
Sidroc drew a slow breath, and as he flung the three bones on the ground before him made question.
“Of which son did I dream?”
The delicate bones, the colour of ivory, held an answer. They formed the rune Hagal.
“Hrald.” His father exhaled the name.
Hagal was the rune his oldest son signed his name with, when he wrote in runes. Hagal stood for hail, water transformed into ice. Hail could destroy tender Spring crops, and also melt to nourish them. Hagal signified a change of direction, a sometimes mystifying one.
Sidroc reached up and pulled the next three bones from the platform. Again he closed his fist around them, and again voiced aloud his question as he held the bones to his breast.
“How grave a danger?”
Sidroc took a step back, and flung the bones so they would fall beneath those first cast.
The three aligned as Thorn, one upright, and the two others joining it at an angle to form a point. Thorn indicated a weapon, though it need not be one cast of iron. Thorn could be anger – or lust. Either way it signified a test, as was breeching the defences of a blackthorn tree, or an encircling ring of briar.
Sidroc’s lips parted, considering this. He expected a trial, a test. Sidroc had witnessed his son face what he hoped would be the greatest challenge of Hrald’s life, facing an older, more experienced warrior in single combat. It was an ordeal Sidroc had wanted to take upon himself, so grave a threat was death at the hands of Thorfast. Was there now another, even more dangerous test awaiting Hrald?
The Dane closed his eyes. This woman-spirit, the fylgja he shared with his son, knew more, and could tell him if he was ready to know.
Sidroc uttered his next words to her. “I will cast again.” He bent and retrieved the three bones, blew on them gently to clear them from the shadow of Thorn, and let them drop.
It was a strange cast. One of the fowl bones fell straight out before him. The other two bones fell almost atop each other, at the tip of the first, angled down like a fish hook.
Lagu.
This was the ultimate female rune of power, and one of the most potent of all runic symbols. It carried the sense of water, and all its life-giving and life-destroying qualities. It was the sea carried in our mother’s belly in which we swam before our birth, and vital refreshment for all thirsting plants and animals. Water could be unstoppable and beyond control; raging rivers sweeping away all before a surging flood, seas crashing down on a hapless ship, scouring away mast and sail and men. And Lagu held another meaning, that of the madness of sexual desire.
Sidroc stood still, studying this barbed rune. From the self-same bones he had cast first Thorn and then Lagu. Ordeal, trial, pain – and then a waterfall far too easy to be swept off by.
Something moved strongly within Sidroc’s breast as these thoughts flashed through his head. He spoke aloud what he felt his fylgja was telling him.
