"That’s my boy."
Windrunner had been left behind, for no one could tame the beast in Swan’s absence.
Ase met him, the hood of her mantle folded back, cat-skin lining shimmering. She grinned at him, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepening. Gisla stood to her left, beaming with excitement. Four of the Lion Clan guarded a wooden carriage, pulled by a draft horse. Hallad assumed Swan resided inside. The rest of the Lion Clan lined up behind. Hallad approached them.
"It brings me honor to receive this hearty send-off. I am in your gratitude."
He started to bow, but Ase’s smirk widened. He wondered if he had mud on his face.
"You’d think that brain of yours was filled with horse fodder," the priestess said, swirling her stick in the ground.
Hallad scrutinized the women, the pack horses—and he finally realized their intention.
"You are all accompanying me?"
Ase lifted her stick, prodding him in the ribs. She leaned close, whispering into his ear, "Be quiet and act like the legend you are soon to be."
Hallad turned, uncomfortable under her approval. He fingered the medallion in his pocket.
This had better work.
The godhi's son searched the clearing for a sign of Serpent Mother, only glimpsing a black cowl in the shadows of the outer hall. Hallad did not know if she watched him. His aunt had not even spoken to him after he announced his intentions to leave.
Hallad turned toward the gate, commanding his retinue to proceed. He reached into his pocket, the metal of the medallion hot under his touch as he repeated the words both the stranger who had saved his life, and the woman they called Goddess had uttered.
May the strength of the Guardian be with me.
Chapter 3 1
Emma tensed, while Lothar rounded the room, his presence raising the hairs on her forearms. Whitefoot nestled in her collar, rubbing his wet nose against the side of her neck. The polecat sent her comforting images that served to calm the chill rising within Emma. Lothar’s waxy grin melted into a thin line as his eyes calculated her.
"Sit down, my love. I am afraid I deliver tragic news."
Emma’s muscles bunched even though she reclined back into the chair. Whitefoot continued nuzzling into her, but his message had changed. The polecat shot warning images into her mind.
"What news do you have for me, Lord Lothar?"
"Oh, love. Must you address me so formally?"
Emma met his question with mouth pressed. If she possessed Erik’s passion she would have spat. The thought of him sent strength up her spine.
Lothar’s gaze resembled compassion, though Emma thought his emotion hollow. The lord had become easier to read, especially when Whitefoot was near. The animal grounded her and she supposed the elderberry wine had completely drained from her system. Her thoughts were crystal for the first time in moons.
Lord Lothar reached out his narrow hand, placing his palm upon the smooth material of her dress. She would have jerked away, but at Whitefoot’s prodding she kept herself still.
"I deliver this news with the utmost compassion, love. It has been reported that your mother, Thyre, has been murdered." His lips quaked, trying to hold themselves in place.
"My mother? Murdered?" Emma’s blood rushed. Her brow creased as she tried to absorb his statement. "Murdered?" A wobble formed in her chest, then her arms, her hands, her legs. Whitefoot tightened his grip around her neck, snuggling hard to her. "I don’t believe you. Who would murder my mother?"
"I am sorry, but I personally confirmed the news of your mother’s death." His eyes flooded then, brimming as if he meant what he said. "I didn’t mean to hurt you." He paused. "Hurt you with the news," he clarified.
Tears rose, rimming Emma’s eyes, burning to escape. She heaved a huge breath. Her lungs released the air as a whimper.
"Why? Why would someone kill my mother?"
When was the last time she said she loved her mother? Why had she let herself become so removed from her? With Erik and Thyre’s long fight, she had resigned herself to think of her mother as the enemy, but now—now it was too late. Her shoulders quaked.
Lothar reached toward her, brushing her hair back from her face.
"We will catch the culprit. They will be punished."
He lifted her chin, more gently than Emma thought him capable of, yet the movement incited fear, as if at any moment he could strike her and send her flailing. He wiped the tears streaming down her face with his fingers. Emma let him. She didn’t know what else to do, overcome with loss.
"But you must do something for me, to help me catch her slayer."
Emma’s sobs lightened. She rubbed the back of her hands over her wet cheeks, Whitefoot licking the run-away tears escaping down her neck.
"What do you mean?"
"The woman who murdered your mother. I know her. With your help, I can capture her."
Emma furrowed her forehead. "I don’t understand."
"Your mother was killed by a woman traveling with your brother, Hallad."
"My brother?"
"A tall, white-haired woman, with many names. She is known as the Svenna to many. Astrid to others. Mistress of Vend and Nyd and even Daughter of the Night. She is extremely dangerous."
"You mean . . . "
A memory nudged the back of her head. Emma had never been able to recollect the events of the night she came to Holyfell. Lothar had assured her the loss was nothing more than exhaustion from the long trip, but she knew better.
"Listen to me carefully."
Emma nodded, unsure.
"Do you see him in the dreams?"
Emma’s sense returned. Whitefoot stilled upon her shoulder, his button eyes resting upon the lord. Bera’s words shot through her head. You must never speak of the dreams.
"What dreams? And who? Who are you talking about?"
She held her gaze steady, trying not to blink. She didn’t want to miss any signal from Lothar—the kind Whitefoot told her to watch for. Lothar’s eyes flicked to the polecat and back to Emma.
"It is very important, Emma. Think."
"I don’t know what you mean," she repeated, hoping the words sounded truthful.
Lothar leaned close. She smelled his breath upon her—hot and heavy. He pulled her face within a hair’s distance from his own. Whitefoot’s hairs stood on end.
"I know you’ve seen Erik in your dreams. Do not lie to me." Lothar continued in a shallow tone, "She will kill him if he comes to you, as she killed your mother."
Emma twitched. Was he lying?
"Why would she kill him? Why did she kill my mother?"
His eyes flicked back and forth, examining her. "Because, she is something dark, something wicked. You must help me to trap her. It is the only way Erik will be safe. Hallad too. She will kill them both."
Confusion swam inside Emma, kicking wildly.
"I don’t—"
"If Erik comes to you, tell him to go away, to never come back. Tell him you are content here. If he comes, she will kill him. She waits there in the dream. She waits for him. Do you understand?"
What had Bera said about the dreams? There was something dark about them, evil. Emma shook her head.
"If you care for him, as you say, you must do this." His eyes dug a hole inside her. "You can save him."
Whitefoot didn’t believe him. Emma knew this from the warning alarms he sent inside her mind. But how could she be sure? Slowly, she nodded.
"There, there. It is best this way. You'll see. Erik will find someone new and forget all about you."
The words tore through Emma. She thought she would die if he continued.
Erik. Oh, my Erik.
"But now, to fulfill your mother’s wish, we will wed. I have set the ceremony for the coming full moon and I have arranged to have the most spectacular dress woven for you, my love."
Emma jerked back, pushing his hands off her.
"I will not marry you!" she half screamed, half sobbed.
Lothar tried to pull her back to him, but she refused, her mind racing.
"Don’t think of it now, love. Let the grief for your mother pass, but you realize this is what your mother would have wanted. You must carry out her wishes."
The lord turned and exited.
Marry him, thought Emma. I’d rather die.
Chapter 3 2
Bera had not returned for what seemed like several candle-turns, though Holyfell did not burn candles. Rather, rocks glowed at the touch of Bera’s palm and with the hum in her throat, and try as Emma might, she could not replicate the effect.
Day turned to night, the silver stars blinking outside Emma's window. When she was a child, her mother had told her stars were the house fires of all the gods and goddesses of Scandia—they watched over mankind from their high perch. Bera had told her there was no such thing as gods and goddesses—only the Mother, her Guardian and the Shadow. Could the woman Lothar spoke of be the Shadow? Or part of it?
Her mind flashed to her mother. In her grief, she hadn’t even asked Lothar if her mother received a proper pyre or if the runes were writ upon her gravestone. Had she died in Steadsby or somewhere else? How was she murdered? By hand, by poison, by knife, or by sword?
A flash of metal lit her memory—the woman in the Great Wood with a sword lying on the ground by her side. She squeezed her eyes shut with the recollection, allowing the thought to quicken. The sword bore her father’s signet, the Guardian Tree digging mighty roots into the earth; not unlike the sigil worn by all the people of Holyfell. But her mind hit the wall of haze, the visions dissolving into a void.
Wracked by grief, Emma snuggled down with Whitefoot, who snored in the crook of her arm, and gave in to exhaustion.
******
A light hum awoke Emma. The door opened; Bera’s girth spanned its width.
"Child?" Her voice soothed her as if she still hummed. "Are you awake?"
"I’m awake, Bera."
Emma sat upright as Whitefoot stretched in her arms, opening one eye to peer at them.
"Let’s be off to the baths, child."
Bera crossed the room. Her eyes dropped as she helped Emma out of bed. The old woman’s shoulders slumped, her mouth in a frown.
"Is everything alright? You seem—"
"Fine, child. Don’t you worry for this old woman." She paused, lifting her eyes to meet Emma’s. "I heard of your mother. I am sorry."
Emma grimaced. "Thank you Bera."
"She is returned to the Mother’s breast now. Let that rest your mind."
Emma nodded.
"Let us be off to the baths. I would have come earlier, but . . . I was detained."
Emma complied, gathering a fresh nightdress from the closet. At first Emma thought the custom strange—the luxury of an entire room for dresses, shoes and jewelry—but now the convenience seemed rather reasonable.
How could Emma tell Erik she would be happier without him? The thought hung inside her like a dangling rope. Lothar could not be right. The lord lied—terrible, awful, painful deceits. They churned inside her like a knife in her belly, but Bera would know the truth.
The older woman’s shoulders slumped as she walked, leading Emma through the expanse of hallways in the castle of Holyfell. The stone-carved walls glowed, lighting their way through the maze of endless corridors. The jumble of hallways confused her and Emma would have found herself lost had Bera not chaperoned her wherever she went. At some point, she realized the runes must act like road signs and she resolved to study them whenever she was allowed to leave her room.
Bera kept her pace two steps in front of Emma as if she didn’t want to face her. Instinctively Emma knew something troubled the woman. Unlike Lothar, Bera’s emotions brimmed at the top like an animal’s with no intent to deceive. Emma would not have pushed an issue in such delicate circumstances, but tonight she required the truth about the dreams. If Erik appeared to her tonight, she needed to have made a decision. The thought of him in danger because of her sickened her, sending sharp pains into her stomach.
They entered the bathing room, a large, rounded chamber with huge stone tubs carved in to the floors. Out of the stone grew massive serpent heads, rising up as if ready to strike. The tall walls met a transparent ceiling, made from an unfathomable material. Stars glistened through, adding subtle lighting to the shining walls.
Emma removed her shoes, warmth searing her soles from the heated floor. Bera hummed a series of melodies while running her palms across runes set inside the doorway. The doors closed, as water spat from the serpents’ mouths, flowing into one of the circular baths. Emma sat on the edge of the stone floor, waiting for the warm water—warm!—to rise to her feet.
Bera settled herself behind Emma, untied the lace holding closed the back of her dress and helped her slip the gown up over her head.
"Bera?" Emma spoke so quietly she almost could not hear herself. The word hung in the air, mixing with the sound of running water. She turned to meet the old woman’s eyes but Bera averted her gaze.
Emma sighed, lifted her hand and placed her palm upon Bera’s hand. Bera lifted her head, looking at Emma, questioning.
"I know there is something wrong with you this evening."
Bera twitched.
"But I won’t pressure you to speak of it, only if you need a friend." Emma smiled.
Bera returned an uncomfortable grimace.
"But I also need a friend tonight. I have to ask you about the dreams."
Bera’s face whitened. "Shush child!"
"You told me not to talk about them, but Lothar—"
"You didn’t tell him, did you? Say you didn’t, child."
"Nei. Your advice stayed in my heart. I did not tell him." Emma bit her lip. "But I think he knows."
"Oh." Bera’s voice sounded hollow.
The water level reached her shins. Emma removed the rest of her undergarments. She slipped onto a ledge in the pool, the water wrapping around her like Erik’s arms holding her tight and safe.
"I need to know why they are bad, Bera. Are they dangerous?"
Bera filled the bath with sweet smelling oils from an urn. The familiar scent of linnea flowers filtered through the room. The woman’s features tightened as she ignored Emma’s question.
"Bera, please tell me."
"Child, I cannot speak any more than I have. Please understand."
The older woman drew a sponge from a cabinet and scrubbed at Emma’s back.
"Please Bera, you must." Emma’s voice sounded against the walls, startling her with its force. She dropped to a whisper. "Someone is in danger. Please."
Bera closed her eyes against Emma’s words, her face contorting as her features stretched tighter.
"He . . . " the words stuck in the air, "he frightens me."
"Lothar?"
"Hush." Bera glanced sideways as if she thought someone hid amongst the stone walls to listen to them. Then she nodded.
"He frightens me, too," Emma admitted. "He has asked me to do something unbearable. That is why I must know about the dreams."
"I don’t care much for myself, but for my boy. If he knew that I told . . . " Her voice fell away as if tumbling from a cliff.
"He saved him, why would he harm him?" Emma drew her arms around her middle to calm her tremors; even the heat of the water was unable to keep her chills at bay.
"I have heard things that are better left unsaid."
Emma nodded.
"He even . . . " Again the older woman’s voice trailed off.
"Even what?"
Bera shook her head, her eyes like dams trying to hold back a mighty river.
"I do not know what I say."
Emma nodded, letting the woman escape from the words.
"Is there something evil in the dreams?"
"The Palace says anyone who shadowwalks is subject to the call of the Shadow. Shadowwalking is different from regular dreaming. You see things in other places, people who actually exist. You glimpse
into their worlds." Her voice deadened. "Like when you see your love, it is real." Bera took a breath. "Then the Shadow comes. You cannot hide from it. It seeks you, hounds you, until you give in. Those with the Mother’s touch can be strong enough to resist, but those who cannot feel her sink into the Shadow."
"Could someone get hurt? Or killed in the shadowwalk?"
Bera’s thick gaze met Emma’s. "Ja, child. Or worse."
The confirmation was all she needed. Emma knew what must be done.
Chapter 3 3
“Our guests have a grand need. A legendary quest is at hand. We have gathered as a village to decide the best way to offer our help to these travelers who have become our friends and brothers.” Elder Eitri spoke to the crowd assembled deep within the bowels of the Skaggs. His words lingered in the cavern, echoing off the moist walls and ceiling of miniature stalactites—so delicate they resembled winter’s first icicles on the godhi’s longhouse back in Steadsby.
The Elder sat in the center of a long table, surrounded by other impossibly old dwarves. Villagers crowded on wooden stools in front of the table. The cavern of the meeting hall stretched into blackness; the entrance to the fabled gold mines of the dwarves stood several paces away.
Erik fingered the key beneath his shirt.
This is stupid.
He wondered how long he’d have to stay here, listening to this quest nonsense. It was bad enough he had to listen to Rolf’s far-fetched stories, but now an entire village indulged in the absurdity.
Rolf perched himself on the edge of his seat, eyeing the dripping rocks and bolted doors, an unbreakable smile spreading from ear to ear.
Erik squeezed his fist around the key. At least he hadn’t heard the voice again—the one who promised him Emma. He wondered if it would be so bad to hear it again, and to see her, touch her, smell her once more. He shook his head.
Tricks. Lies, he told himself.
But his mind convoluted, mixing images and thoughts. He couldn’t keep them straight. And here he sat listening to a bunch of half-wits and dwarves deciding how he would travel. By Thor’s thunder, he would not have allowed such nonsense moons ago. He cursed himself for letting his spine soften. His hand rested upon the clandestine key as the smooth metal soothed the skin beneath it.
Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure Page 16