Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (29 page)

Hallad sought Ase as he
led Thor at the head of the group, his warrior escort flush to his side. As he
glanced backward in search of her, Rota’s hardened warning stare caught him and
he cursed himself for his earlier decision to respect the rules of the Temple
and cast down his sword. Had his father raised a fool? Even if in the past few
days these women had allowed him to lead, he felt failure creeping upon him
again.
Listen to all sides
, his father had always said, but Hallad had
neglected to heed the warnings of the drengmaers and now he hoped all would not
pay the price.

The warrior caught his
gaze, and said, “Therein lays the sacred groves of Upsalla. Each tree is holy,
surviving from the blood of thousands of sacrifices over hundreds of years. It
is a crime, punishable by death, to cut them down.”

Hallad held his tongue
as they continued through the open gates.

Rota pressed into his
back and whispered into his ear, “Something is rotten here. Be on guard.”

The Temple, shaped like
a fortress—a square center with spires flanking each side—had a width and
breadth larger than the King of Birka’s stronghold, though no city surrounded
the monstrosity. As they crossed into the Temple yard, fifty armed men appeared
from either side while fifty more circled around and closed them in from
behind.

Hallad scrambled toward
the carriage at the sight of the army. He intended to retrieve his sword and
guard Swan but his escort gave chase, tackling him to the ground. Hallad
thudded against the cobblestones, air knocked from his lungs in a painful
wheeze.

Grunts and screams
exploded as the Lion Clan followed his lead, breaking into combat. Hallad
scuffled against the man’s knee in the middle of his back. The warrior twisted
and pinned Hallad’s arms behind him; then Olrun’s foot came into view, flying
over Hallad’s head. He heard a crack as Olrun’s kick hit his oppressor. The man
flew off him as Olrun’s weight slammed down over her target. Rota shadowed her
sal drengmaer, fighting off four others who had moved in for the capture. But
without weapons the drengmaers were no match for the warriors and within a
candle flick all had been subdued and bound with stiff rope, including Hallad.

Hallad’s captors held
him in a dark, dank hole underneath the Temple for two turnings of the torches
before they escorted him back to the surface by a narrow staircase. They marched
him through the Temple’s corridors and led him into a high-ceiling chamber. Armored
men, rank with mead, danced and laughed with serving wenches to the beat of
drums and the frantic twill of pan pipes.

Hallad’s head banged
with the music, his cheek swelling from a previous punch to his face. He
searched the hall for any sign of Swan. Once captured, he had struggled to
remain with the carriage, which won him blows to the head and gut while they
dragged him away from his sister. His last vision had been a warrior opening
the carriage door and looking inside, whistling for his comrades to come and
take a look at his discovery.

Though there was no hint
of Swan’s whereabouts, the drengmaers of the Lion Clan had been caged in two
separate locations in the hall. Iron prisons, rusted with age, sat on either
side of an archway, containing his companions. A courtyard spread beyond the
arch.

Rota caught Hallad’s
attention, her eyes hardening, as if to say,
This is your fault.

The warrior from their
earlier skirmish circled the cage while Olrun wrapped her beefy fingers around
the bars. He pulled his sword from its scabbard with a slick clang. The ting of
metal joined with the music and merriment. The tip of his blade found Olrun’s
foot. The warrior edged the point up her ankle, then calf, then thigh.

“Now we play by my
rules.” The warrior’s eyes lit at his triumph.

Olrun smiled back,
pressing into his sword.

“I knew you liked your
women rough,” she teased.

The warrior stammered at
the statement, fumbling with his sword.

Olrun took the advantage
and pinched the blade between her palms, pulling the weapon from his hand and
into the cage. She swirled the sword around and grasped the hilt, while
grabbing the man’s tunic with her other fist and heaving him into the bars, a
fingertip’s length from her face.

“I hope you are this
slow under the covers,” Olrun said in a husky tone; her stare simmered,
undressing the man with her gaze.

The warrior gulped,
hanging helplessly in her grip.

A few onlookers burst
into laughter before coming to the warrior’s aid. They surrounded the
drengmaer’s cage, forcing her to give up her weapon. Olrun tossed the sword
through the bars but kept her grip on the warrior, her face locked on his.

Abruptly, the warrior
leaned forward and pressed his lips to Olrun's.

A wild cheer erupted in
the hall, men clanking horns and whistling at the display. Neither the warrior
nor Olrun interrupted the lip lock for several heated moments. The crowd
continued to roar until finally, the warrior broke away.

“This is not done,” he
said, breathless.

“I am counting on that,”
replied Olrun, her face flush as the man turned and stalked into the crowd.

Onlookers patted the
warrior's back as he smiled and grabbed a horn of mead, sloshed the contents,
waved the horn toward Olrun then chugged the fermented honey down.

Hallad’s warden pressed
him from behind, jabbing him with a short knife in the middle of his back.

“Stop staring and move
along,” he commanded, pitching Hallad forward.

Hallad searched the
space inside him that had become his sister’s. The faint nudge of her presence
remaining after she fell into the dream still lingered. Hallad inhaled,
steadying himself. He had to remain calm.
Think.

The press at his back
sent him staggering again until he faced the far wall of the Temple, the cages
and courtyard to his right, a dais with a throne a few paces ahead of him. Behind
the throne, three wooden statues towered five men tall. Odin’s likeness, carved
out of birch, loomed over the drunken assemblage, while the gods Thor and Freyr
flanked the central god.

Ase and Gisla, under the
watchfulness of two guards, sat in chairs placed in front of the dais to his
right. The priestess watched as Hallad approached, her face betraying nothing.

Hallad’s warden pressed
him to his knees in front of the throne. The drums halted. The hollow notes of
the panpipe echoed in the chamber before dying down. The slur of inebriated
warriors hushed.

A man, dressed in a
brilliant blue mantle with a gray mane of a beard and a golden circlet around
his head, appeared. The sea of warriors and maids parted, allowing him to sweep
through the crowd, mount the dais and seat himself.

Another man hollered
into the crowd, “High Priest of the Temple of Upsalla, Speaker of our god and
king, the All-Seer Odin.”

The crowd roared at his
arrival, clanking horns of mead on roughhewn tables and lifting them into the
air in salute. The king raised his hand to quiet them and silence rushed
throughout the throng once again. The man resembled every bit of the sculpture
of the god behind him—severe features, grayish white beard sprawling to his
belly and a massive trunk of a body with barrels for arms.

The king’s lips spread
into a smile, though his eyelids remained at half-mast, as he examined Hallad.

“So you are the young
man our God seeks?” said the king.

Hallad opened his mouth
to reply but the warden shoved him from behind, warning him to hold his tongue.

The king waved his hand
in a command, causing four men positioned by the door to scuttle out of the
chamber as the king addressed the crowd.

“Fortune has smiled upon
us.”

The men returned, each
carrying the leg of a litter. On top of the pallet, Swan lay prostrate on a bed
of white feathers. Her hair trailed down around her sleeping face, brushed and
woven with swan feathers. Her white gown draped over the cot as they carried
her into the hall.

Hallad’s gut clenched at
the sight of her. If only he could reach her, release her! His mind whirled. He
remained tied hand and foot, the drengmaers were caged and they were surrounded
by a retinue of battle-hardened warriors.

Think. Think. What
would father say?

But the only thought
swirling in his mind was of his own foolishness for causing their capture.

“Our God has sought this
woman—his valkyrie.” Odin gestured toward Hallad. “And this man has kept her
from the Holy One. But today it is our glory, as we have captured them both. We
will offer to our God the ultimate sacrifice and in return, he will favor us
with a quickened summer, a fertile bounty and riches beyond our imagining. As I
am named after the All-Seer Odin, and I have sacrificed for his gifts, I have
been given the gift of foresight. Our God has whispered the promise of
abundance within my dreams and I tell you it is so.”

The gathering erupted
into another round of cheering.

Hallad lurched forward.

“You will not harm her!”

Another blow to the back
of his shoulders knocked Hallad forward and he fell, knees cracking as they hit
the stone floor.

The king turned to him,
looking down at him under heavy eyelids.

“Of course I will not
harm her. The blood our God calls for is yours.”

With the king’s nod, two
warriors rounded either side of Hallad, grabbing under his armpits and dragging
him across the floor.

“Wait,” interrupted Ase.

The king turned his
attention to the priestess.

“I have no quarrel with
you, seidr-wife. Your ability in seidr makes you an honored guest amongst us.”

Ase’s demeanor remained
smooth yet guarded as she addressed the king.

“You do not know who you
intend to sacrifice.”

“Oh, but I do. For years
we have spilled the blood of beings in order to gain the power of seidr. My
sight brings me into the world of the gods and our God has shown me exactly who
this upstart is. I have been watching for him for some time. His death will
release this girl and our God will collect and resurrect her. This man’s blood
will satisfy our God and my people will prosper because of him. He should be
honored at his contribution to the well-being of all.”

Ase stared back at the king
without a rebuttal.

Hallad figured this
man’s god was none other than the Shadow and he had been seduced into believing
the Shadow would serve him for his loyalty. The king’s delusional god-like
status amongst his people told Hallad no amount of reasoning would break the
man’s belief.

Hallad’s captors
continued to haul him toward the archway leading into the courtyard.

As he passed Ase, the priestess
leaned into him, whispering, “Do not listen to your fear, but to your inner
wisdom. Your moral compass is good and good comes from right choices.”

Right choices?
Hallad thought. He had not managed to make a
singular right choice since leaving Steadsby.

The center of the yard
contained a massive ash tree, its base thicker than twenty men; its branches
pushed outward, crowding the wooden walls of the Temple. The tree’s mighty
stature soared over the height of the Temple’s outer spires. Long ropes strung
from the wide branches, hanging all around the base of the tree.

The captors adjusted
Hallad’s binds, tying his wrists in front and securing his ankles. They lashed the
rope several times around his chest and under his armpits then strung the
central cord from the ash through the back of the knot, hoisting him into the
air fifteen paces high. Hallad dangled from the tree’s mammoth limb, the
bindings digging into his flesh, bearing his weight and burning his skin.

The dressmaker worked in
silence, intent on placing a swatch of indigo fabric under Emma’s chin. Lothar
had introduced the woman as Afridr, one of the last songvari weavers in all of
Alvenheim. His face had slid open with pleasure at the statement, as if Emma
should be impressed—only Emma still reeled from the heartache of sending Erik
away, her eyes stinging from a restless, tear-filled night.

Lothar waved his lanky
fingers in dismissal of the fabric and the woman held up another piece of
cloth. The lord’s lips bent upward at the sight of shimmering blue-gray
threads.

“Perfect! The silver
accentuates the color of your eyes. You will be the most stunning bride
Alvenheim has ever seen.” He clapped his hands together and addressed Afridr,
“You may proceed.”

Lothar’s ward, Weyland,
appeared at the door. He implored his Lord’s attention with a jittery shuffle
from side to side while Afridr gathered a bolt of fabric and draped the
material around Emma’s feet. Emma had been dressed in a tight fitting stocking
that covered her entire body. The hug of the material revealed her form and she
felt naked, but the will to fight had drained out of her when she had told Erik
to leave her forever. A numb sensation held her in a constant daze.

Whitefoot pounced at the
fabric as Afridr worked, but Emma did not have the strength to ask the polecat
to stop. Springing from side to side in an eager dance, he lost his balance,
toppling over, only to bounce back up and leap about again. When his antics
didn’t brighten Emma, he sulked away, opting to give her some space. A wash of
guilt filled her. She should take ease in Whitefoot’s desire to comfort her, but
nothing relieved the hollowness eating away at her insides.

Lothar crossed the
distance to Weyland. The two leaned in to one another, whispering with urgency.
Lothar’s anger rose, visible in the bulge of veins in his neck and Emma knew
whatever news Weyland had delivered had not been to the lord’s liking.

Whitefoot snuck around
the ground behind the two conspirators while shooting images of eavesdropping
on their conversation to Emma. She wordlessly reminded the polecat of Lothar’s
rage, but Whitefoot ignored her, continuing with his mischievous mission.

Low, resonant notes
sprang from Afridr. A melody coursed from the woman, her tone reminding Emma of
the blooms of springtime. As she sang she spread her palms over the material at
Emma’s feet and the cloth swirled, rising up Emma’s body, melding together into
a spectacular gown.

Emma lost her breath at
the vision, finally understanding what Lothar and Bera had meant about the
Mother’s touch. She also realized the
touch
was something she could
never achieve. A pang of envy nudged its way through the deadness.

The material continued
to spin, weaving a gown around her, delicate butterfly patterns revealing
themselves within the fabric as the woman’s tune continued. Emma could not
understand the words the woman sang, the language foreign, rolling from her in
smooth vowels and consonants rather than the guttural tone of Emma’s own tongue.
When the songvari stopped singing, the dress was breathtaking but the weight of
it bore down on Emma like a landslide threatening to entomb her.

At some point during the
dressmaker’s composition, Weyland had left and Lothar had turned to stare at
Emma. She felt his eyes, hot, angry and calculating, upon her. Whitefoot
scampered to her and hopped up and down, begging her to pick him up. She bent
and obliged him, lifting him to her neck where he wrapped himself in a nest of
her hair.

“Afridr, exceptionally
done,” said Lothar. “You are the most touched weaver in all of Alvenheim.”

The woman bowed her head
in response.

“I need a word with my
betrothed,” Lothar continued, and the dressmaker immediately exited.

The lord pressed in
close to Emma, shortening the distance between their bodies.

“We must leave.”

Though confusion spread
through Emma, her continued sorrow caused her to nod in agreement. Lothar whirled
away from her, intent on addressing some other matter occupying his mind, when
Whitefoot bit Emma’s earlobe. She jumped, turning to scold him, when the
polecat alerted her to inquire about their departure.

At Whitefoot’s prodding,
Emma asked, “Why do we leave?”

Lothar turned, examining
her. He cast a suspicious glance at the polecat.

Emma smoothed her
emotions, taking in long breaths and slowing the beat of her heart. She had
learned that if she controlled her reactions, she could guard against Lothar’s
distrust of the polecat. Whatever the lord’s ability as a caller, he could not
read the polecat’s direct communication with Emma without the creature’s
permission.

The lord returned to
her, catching her limp hands in his own.

“You are in grave
danger, my love. The woman who seeks to endanger Erik has learned of you and
your whereabouts.”

Liar.
The thought came from Whitefoot, shooting into
Emma’s mind.

Emma forced away any
reaction that would betray Whitefoot’s communication, trying to keep her body
still, her muscles loose, her breath even.

“She is headed here,
intent on your death as we speak. Though Holyfell is well protected, it is best
that we flee to my holdings across Ginnungagap to keep you as safe as
possible.” He reached up, running his slick fingertips over her cheek.

He lies
, said Whitefoot.
The ward told him Glitner
has been informed he keeps a Scandian woman against her will and they are at
the gates to investigate the accusation.

Emma nodded more at the
polecat’s comment than at Lothar’s, but the lord took her gesture as agreement
to his statement.

“We will leave at once. I
will arrange for your belongings to be sent and Afridr has had enough time on
your bridal gown to complete the weaving without you.” Concern filled his tone,
as if he thought Emma actually cared about the dress.

“Whitefoot may come
too.” Lothar cupped her chin in his hand, tenderness filling his gaze. “I do
not ever want you to be afraid of being without friends in a strange place.”

His sincerity caught her
off guard. Somewhere in his past, Emma reasoned, Lothar had felt as empty and
alone as she felt this very moment. A surge of compassion struck her, but she
forced it away.

“And Bera? Can she come
too?” Emma asked.

Lothar’s hand tightened
on her chin. “I am afraid that will not be possible.”

He has had Bera
detained. She will be questioned for the leak of information about you,
said Whitefoot.

Emma worked at keeping
still, though her muscles strained. She forced back her breath, threatening to
push itself out in panicked huffs.

I have jeopardized
Bera.

The thought spiraled,
reviving the deadened places inside Emma. At that moment she realized
resignation would not do. If Lothar lied so easily about this, he lied about
Erik too. She was sure of it. Embers kindled in her stomach, a fire ready to
roar as the will to fight back simmered within her; but Lothar acted too fast.

He snagged Emma about
the waist, pulling her tight into his body. The heat of him burned her skin. His
sweaty form pressed against hers, a stickiness seeping through her dress and
stocking to wet her skin.

Within a moment the
light faded, darkness compressing in around Emma. Her vision blurred. The
contents of the room distorted, a gray haze clouding on all sides.

“Relax.” Lothar’s voice
slithered through her.

Whitefoot clung to Emma's
neck, nails digging into her skin. She tried to reach up to calm him, to wrap
her fingers around his elongated back, but the weight of her limb impeded her
movement.

“Close your eyes,” said
Lothar.

The lord’s hands
constricted around Emma, towing her into him—her breast and belly forced against
his midsection. Her head spun. Her stomach lurched. Sourness filled the back of
her throat as her lids slid down over her eyes. Emma felt as if she fell,
spinning in an endless void with Lothar spiraling with her, his hands upon her,
his body pressed into hers.

Abruptly, all movement
stopped.

Emma struggled to peel
open her eyelids. Her surroundings came into focus—dim, stone walls, plastered
with stained cob. None of the refinement gracing Holyfell existed here. Though
lavish, the room remained ordinary—carved wood seating, duck down pillows and commonplace
paintings. The deft craftsmanship of Holyfell dulled this new chamber in
comparison.

“Welcome to Castle
Grimnear,” said Lothar.

Exhaustion hit. Emma’s
knees gave out.

Lothar caught her as she
slumped. The lord picked up her slack form, cradling Emma like a child while
Whitefoot clung helplessly to her neck.

“You must sleep, my
love. Shadowwalking without being touched by the Shadow is hard on one’s body.”

The howling of wolves
woke Emma. She glanced about her new surroundings, the comfort of Whitefoot’s
heat around her neck like a fur collar. The polecat let out a sigh, stretched
and yawned, detaching himself from her throat as Emma sat upright.

The air chilled her skin
and she pulled the goose down blanket around her body as she stood, Whitefoot clambering
for a spot on her shoulder. Her
wedding
gown had been replaced with
another dress in the scandalous style of Holyfell fashion, the thinness of the
material adding to her inability to find warmth. Gray block walls lent
dreariness to the large chamber. A fire raged in the hearth, the air thick and
oppressed with the smell of pine and smoke. A large window splayed over the
opposite wall, darkened with clouded glass.

The wolves’ cries continued.
Emma crossed to the window, rubbing her hand on the pane to remove the soot so
she could see through. Her chest clenched as she viewed the remains of
burn-bare trees spiking upward from frosted ground, like skeletons in a
graveyard, their blanched forms blades against the moon filled night. The
nightmare image of the dead forest sloped downward, stretching for as far as
she could see. In the animals’ baying she sensed hunger—a desperate craving for
nourishment, as if the land had been stripped bare of all living creatures
except predators and they turned on one another in order to survive.

Fingers pulled at the
back of Emma’s shoulder and her skin pricked. She swiveled around, expecting
Lothar. Instead, whiteness filled her vision, like falling snow. The frosty air
swirled, taking shape as the young woman from Prophetess Cove—the woman Lothar
warned her about.

The woman’s blue-black
eyes came into focus as her gaze settled on Emma. Remembering Bera’s warning
and Lothar’s lie, Emma shrunk. The rhythm of her heart sped. She worked at her
throat to call out for help, but the gentleness in the woman’s eyes held her
voice at bay.

Whitefoot watched, but
didn’t balk. Emma trusted the polecat’s perception more than her own and
allowed herself to calm down, even though she remained on guard.

“What do you want?” Emma
demanded.

The woman’s image
flickered in and out as if she struggled to remain.

I seek to help you, for
Hallad’s sake.
Though the young
woman spoke, her lips had not moved. Her words bloomed all around Emma.

“Why? What has happened
to my brother?”

Emma’s chest clenched as
her mind raced with the possibilities. If Bera had been right and this woman
was the Shadow . . . Or if Lothar had told the truth and this woman sought to harm
Hallad and Erik . . .

Nei
, Emma thought.
Lothar speaks lies.

Our brother
, the young woman corrected.

Emma scrunched her
eyebrows downward in confusion. “What do you mean?
Our
brother.”

Hallad and I are
twins.
The woman’s usually
frozen face brightened, warmth spilling over her.
You are my half-sister.

A moment of denial swam
through Emma, but then she saw truth in the statement. Though the woman was
pale as ice and Hallad gold as summer, their stature, their bone structure and
their mannerisms were identical. Another flood of understanding ran through her
as she realized she herself had acquired much of her own mother. Her sun-kissed
hair spilled with doe-colored undertones was a lighter version of Thyre’s
golden brown. Emma’s petite frame came from her mother, along with her bowed
lips and full cheeks. Her eyes were a gift from her father, Avarr—wide, pale
gray—along with the heart-shape of her face and her pleasant, gentle demeanor. Her
father, too, had a gift with animals, though he had warned Emma early on never
to speak of her own talent, as the gift warranted suspicions from others. It
was the only reason both she and her father could ride Windrunner. Emma was a
complete mix of the two. Hallad, however, obtained traits neither Avarr nor
Thyre possessed—angular bones, a lean muscular body, a fluid grace and eerie
stillness. Both he and the woman shared these characteristics. Hallad bore no
resemblance to Thyre at all. Emma dropped her jaw, searching for words, but
only amazement filled her head.