Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (5 page)

Scandalous! If my
mother sees me in this, she’ll flay my hide and hang me out like an old rug.

Emma tugged the silken
covers over her, trying to hide her shame. The fibers of the blanket caught her
eye. Like the dress, the material revealed no seams as if woven from a single
piece of cloth.

Emma sat upright. Confusion
fogged her head as she examined her surroundings. White stone composed the
entire room, like a sculpted marble cavern. Scenery was etched into the walls,
portraying fields of flowers, ash and oak trees, and buoyant cloud-dense skies.
Chairs, settees and tables seemed to grow from the floor in one fluid
connection. Scrollwork graced the furniture, blending back into the landscapes
on the walls. The bed’s carved arch stretched over the top of the mattress,
like a fine lace veil. Emma couldn’t imagine such finery in the King of Birka’s
hall. It belonged in a scald’s tale, as the description of Valhalla.

It’s a dream. That’s
all. A dream.

The air smelled sweeter
than any she could recall. Colors were more vibrant—her dress a deeper red than
any shade she’d ever seen. The walls shone brighter, the stone was smoother,
blankets softer. Dizziness washed over her again as she tried to reason, but
the barrier of haze returned, blocking any recollection.

If only I can clear
my mind. Think.

The door opened. Emma
hadn’t noticed it before, hidden within sculpted landscapes. A man filled its
breadth, his lips stretched in a smile, dark eyes glinting. His frost white
hair shot back from his temples. Tall and limber, he appeared as if he could
bend in all directions without ever breaking a bone. The indigo of his shirt
intertwined with gold. Billowing sleeves depicted a mighty tree digging its
roots into a bubbling spring, deep within the folds of the earth. The symbol
scratched at her memory, but Emma could not place the image. She thought the
emblem should be embroidered, but like the dress and blankets, the design didn't
show any sign of stitches.

The man gripped two
enormous wolves by the scruffs on either side of him. He seemed annoyed at
holding them back, but Emma sensed their desire to meet her. She smiled
affectionately at the wolves, one silver, and the other onyx. They panted,
pulling away from their master. The man reluctantly let go and they barreled
toward Emma, wagging their tails and licking her face in greeting. She giggled,
rubbing their ears.

"Enough." The
beasts cowered at the man’s command, slinking back to their master’s side.

"Welcome,"
said the man as he spread his arms outward. "I hope you find your
accommodations in order."

Emma caught sight of her
less than maiden-like attire and snatched the blankets tight.

"Quite hospitable, but
where . . . "

Her tongue thickened in
her mouth, her voice harsh next to the man’s flowing tone.

"I am Lothar,
Guardian of Holyfell, second lineage of the house of Heimdal and dyra-sogn, a
caller." His smile turned genuine at the last of his introduction.

Emma didn’t understand
the strange titles and her nerves bunched.

Lothar crossed the room,
slippers swishing on the marble floor as he glided. The wolves followed in his
wake, sniffing at Emma, though sticking to their master's side. Lothar propped
himself up against a slick stone ledge. Her host surveyed her curiously.

Emma fidgeted; she felt bare
in front of him with her dress no more than underclothes.

A thought broke through
the haze and she blurted, "Erik? Where’s Erik?"

"He attends your
mother," said Lothar nonchalantly.

After a loud clap of the
man's lank hands, a servant scuttled in carrying a tray with a container and
goblets. Like the odd chamber, the wares swirled with designs too deft for even
the finest potter.

"My mother?" Emma
chewed the fullness of her lower lip.

"Why of course. Your
mother sent you here." The lean man moved around her like a twig bending
in the wind. "To make a pact with this country."

"That couldn't be."
Emma closed her eyes, forcing herself to puzzle through the haze. Her head
ached. "What sort of pact?"

While pouring
cherry-colored liquid into each gilt glass, Lothar locked his gaze on the girl
as a cat surveys its supper. He handed her a goblet.

Emma noted how the wolf’s
haunches quivered as the silver wolf padded to her side. She scratched his
thick fur, his sleekness comforting under her palms; as she did, she connected
with the beast. Her mind filled with the image of the goblet. Its foul liquid
spilled over the lip, melting the gold as it spewed over. Emma blinked. The
image vanished. She stared at the cup without reaching for it.

Lothar’s face tightened,
his jaw line fluttering.

"Svol! Arvak! Go."

The wolves tucked their
tails and slunk out of the room. The servant woman bowed her head as quickly as
the wolves had cowered, and crept from the chamber as well.

Lothar looked at Emma
with renewed interest, taking in every piece of her until his eyes caught hers
and a broad smile darkened his pale face. His leer sent a wave of nausea into
her throat.

"What do you mean
by pact? With what country? And where did this dress come from?" Emma bit
her lip, realizing her emotions raced before her tongue.

Lothar pushed the goblet
into her hand, forcing her to take hold. He grasped her arm, guiding her to
stand.

"A lovely gown and
it fits you well. Quite well."

Heat rose in Emma’s
cheeks. Even Erik would not have ogled her so indecently.

Erik!
Her memory snapped. "Erik would not be with
my mother."

"They have come to
an understanding for what is in your best interest." Lothar closed in on
her, lifting his cup to his lips. "Drink. You would not deny me the
manners of a proper host, would you?"

In one even swig, the
lord emptied his goblet.

"Thank you, but I’m
not thirsty."

Emma wished the wolves
had stayed. She understood them, as she did most animals. Humans were more
complex, masking their emotions under complicated motivations.

Lothar cocked his head
curiously. Then he turned his back to her, pouring himself another glass.

"You won't find a
sweeter berry anywhere—the finest in all of Alvenheim, cultivated by the few
songvaris left."

He swiveled back around
and sipped his drink while eyeing Emma over the edge of the glass.

Emma's head spun.
Alvenheim.
Songvaris. What was he talking about?

She wrestled to retain
the images of her family and fix them in her mind. The pain in her head
thrummed. She touched her temples, her sun-kissed hair falling into her face. Emma’s
throat stung as she looked at the ruby substance inside the glass.

Maybe one sip. Maybe
it will ease the ache in my head.

She held the cup to her
lips, the coolness of the rim soothing. Lothar crossed the short distance
between them, smiling down on her.

Emma drank. The sweet
substance swamped her mouth, trailing down her throat. Before she realized it,
she’d drained her glass. She sank back comfortably as a warm tingle filled her
belly and limbs.

"I knew you would
like it. It's elderberry wine with a drop of something special."

His smile broadened.

Emma beamed back at him.
The tension released from her head with a pleasant buzz, all her troubles
forgotten. All memories erased.

Lothar reached for her,
running his slippery hand over her cheek.

"You really are a
beautiful girl, even if you are a Scandian."

"Emma!" Erik called.

A man circled Emma. He looked like melted wax—slippery, pale
and ever-changing. Emma’s face flushed pink. Her scent, the subtle fragrance of
linnea flowers, filled Erik. His vision appeared vivid—bright and alive—but far
away, as if he watched the scene through a dark tunnel.

"Emma!" he yelled again, without her notice.

Erik tried to edge closer but couldn't find his limbs. The
man’s indigo sleeves fluttered as he walked, his lanky fingers wrapped around a
gilt goblet. Liquid swished inside, gathering momentum as he rolled the
contents, a wily smile dominating his thin face.

Though Scandians were
fair skinned, this man’s coloring appeared exaggerated. His waxy skin and frost
blonde hair reminded Erik of the swan maiden. Except, unlike the woman, this
man oozed a sordidness, warning Erik of perversions lurking below the surface.

A din roared in Erik's
ears, drowning out Emma’s and the man’s speech. He fought to scoot closer again,
but again he failed.

Emma held the cup to her
lips.

"Emma, nei!"

His beloved paused; she
looked over the lip of the goblet, thick lashes sweeping upward in search of
the ceiling.

"Nei, Emma! Don’t
drink anything he offers. I do not trust him."

Her bright eyes searched
the room. Then she sipped. A dizzy gaze washed over Emma’s face and she beamed.
Erik adored the fact that her smile stretched all the way into her eyes,
lighting sparkles within her gray irises. But Emma wasn’t smiling for him, and
his
chest constricted at the scene. The man
slunk close, grazing the back of his hand across
her face.

Suddenly, they vanished and
blackness pervaded Erik’s vision. The dark walls rolled inward until he floated
in obscurity.

Erik
, a voice intoned.

"Who's there?"

Here
, the voice said again, echoing through the black
space.

Erik searched for the
source, only meeting dark veils, as if his eyelids refused to open. He twitched
and writhed. He had to get back to Emma. Free her. Kill the man who dared to
lay his hand upon her.

Erik, this is not the
way.
The voice sounded behind
him.

A smoke-colored
landscape appeared out of the darkness. Erik’s tunic and trousers, cloaked in a
charcoal haze, blended into the environment. He whirled around, and realized
his feet didn’t touch ground. His body floated in a half circle without the aid
of his limbs, until he faced the swan woman. Her milky skin appeared
translucent, the shadowy background filtering through her figure. She lifted
her hand, touching Erik’s shoulder.

"Where's Emma?"
he demanded.

Her iron eyes seemed
softer—kinder than he remembered. Instead of answering, she waved her free hand
and hummed. The tone rushed through him, tugging at his emotions; it was filled
with both sweetness and sorrow. Her body solidified.

Erik blinked.

"I'm dreaming."

In a way
, she responded, but her lips remained shut even
though her voice spilled through the air.

Her humming continued,
weaving through the gloom, as the gray of Erik’s clothing brightened to white
and his limbs materialized.

"I have to get to
Emma."

I know, but you must
find another way.
Her words spun
around him, resounding from all directions.

"Brother!" Another
voice invaded his head.

The woman’s face
contorted, swirling, distorting until she looked like a white swan with
blue-black eyes. Wings fluttered. The waxy man’s lean face flashed, his mouth twisting
into a snarl. Emma's gray eyes danced and her cherry stained lips opened,
calling Erik’s name. The song resonated through it all, curling in and out,
filling the air like a choir.

You must find another
way.

"Wake up. You’re
having a nightmare."

Erik’s eyes ripped open.
He grabbed Rolf’s tunic, bunching the homespun fabric up in his fingers.

"Hey! Watch out,"
said Rolf, loosening his grip on his brother’s shoulders. "You’ll wrinkle
the material."

The night sky lit up
their camp, casting a glow on the surrounding trees. Embers burned in the
banked campfire. Puffs of the young men's breath drifted in the air. Across
from the ebbing fire, Hallad and the young woman slept in goose-down bedrolls. Hallad
had offered his own roll to the brothers, but Erik refused. Though Rolf pouted,
he had followed his brother’s lead and had wrapped himself in his mantle,
settling close to the warming flames.

"Brother,"
Rolf pleaded, reaching around to pry Erik’s hands from his tunic, "it’s
the only shirt I own."

Erik let go and sprang
up. He tore around the fire to find the young woman burrowed in her bedroll.

"Erik, what are you
doing?" Rolf skittered over to his brother’s side. "Come brother,
we’ve had a long couple of days. Let them sleep."

"She’s
not sleeping."

Barely
visible in the dim light, the young woman’s eyes popped open. She scrambled to
her booted feet, facing Erik. Her hair strung around her shoulders, looking
even whiter in the moonlight, and Erik recalled the pale coloring of man from
his dream.