Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (16 page)

Lothar rounded the table
and poured himself a goblet of wine, savoring a sip before swallowing.

"I will entrap the
girl and kill this man. With the girl’s power our Master can finally break free
from his prison in the shadows. Since it will be me that delivers this power to
him, I will become his right hand when he reigns. No longer will our kind hide
and squabble over scraps. And those with the Mother’s touch will be punished
for our years of subjugation."

Erik viewed the exchange,
entrapped in a gray void. Though he had tried to wake he failed each time. The
dream sucked him in, deeper and deeper, until he no longer struggled for
consciousness. He only sought to maneuver through the shifting grayness,
discovering windows to peek through to his sweet Emma.

The black wolf picked up
his head, sniffing the air in Erik’s direction. Lothar responded to his beast’s
action by following the line of the wolf’s gaze.

"My Lord,"
interrupted Weyland. "There is other business we need to attend to."

"Agreed." Lothar
waved his waxy fingers in a come hither gesture. "Bring in the supplicant."

The ward crossed the
polished floor, his sleeves fluttering with the banner of the tree digging its
roots into the ground. He paused, hummed and passed his palm over a carved
symbol in the wall. The door slid open.

A waif of a figure
waited in the hallway. Weyland gestured for the man to enter. The supplicant
stumbled through the door and across the floor, barely able to keep upright,
his body thin from malnourishment. His bones protruded, sticking out from under
his tattered clothing. Gaunt, pale lips broke into a heartfelt grin when his
sunken eyes caught sight of Lord Lothar. He dropped on his bony knees, grabbed
the folds of Lothar’s cloak and kissed the hem. Lothar reached down and took
hold of the man’s forearms, raising him to full height.

"Please. Stand."

Erik watched, unable to
fathom Lothar as kind or a man so ruined as to seek his hem.

The man’s eyes rimmed
with water. "My Lord, I thank you. My wife thanks you. My children thank
you. They would have killed us, you know. Children. They would have killed our
children."

Lothar kept the man in
his grasp, steadying him.

"It is not your
fault."

"I realize our
crime is an offense to the Mother, but what could we do? Starve?"

"I know your pain.
You are safe now."

"You are a gracious
lord."

"My staff will see
you fed and healthy before you leave my care. I have arranged for a place for
you and your family in the New Lands past Ginnungagap where others like you
flourish without persecution."

The man leaned his head
forward, resting his forehead in the cradle of Lothar's outstretched arms.

"What can I do to
repay you?"

"There is nei need."
Lothar lifted the man’s chin. "Only tell others like yourself there is a
place for them. Do not give out my name as the Palace knows nothing of my work,
but I have eyes all over Alvenheim, watching and saving those in need."

"I know what I have
done is an atrocity, but what can I do? I was born from her breast without the
Mother’s touch. Helpless. And they shame me. They cast looks upon me like I've
been cursed from . . . " His voice trailed to a whisper.

"You have been
blessed
by Master Loki," Lothar corrected. "The Shadow Master is your new lord,
and I swear an oath on my ancestors he is a gentle lord, unlike those who
worship in the Mother’s name."

The spikes of fear
glinting in the man's facade receded at Lothar's oath. He bowed, releasing a
sigh.

The maid, who attended
Emma, entered and directed the man to follow her. The man abruptly prostrated
himself upon the floor at Lothar’s slipper adorned feet.

"When I was a
child, I swore my oaths to the Mother, to serve her, to care for her. Now I
give those oaths to you."

A smile erupted across
Lothar's face.

"The Shadow will
honor and protect you and yours. Now rise. Grovel for scraps nei more. A long
past meal awaits you. Bera will tend to you and your family."

When
the man stood he seemed taller, as if the fear of starvation and humiliation had
disappeared. He strode behind Bera as they exited the room, his shoulders
straighter, his cheeks gaining in color, his legs stronger.

Lothar
crossed the room and seated himself. His wolves padded next to him, their noses
working the air as if a foreign scent caught in their nostrils.

"How
many were rescued?"

"Ten,
including the man and his children. The Palace is in an uproar. They were under
judgment from Glitner itself for two offenses. After killing a deer, the father
had started a fire to cook the meat. The blaze raged out of his control,
burning half of an apple grove."

Erik
fidgeted. He wished they would speak about Emma.

"Good.
Good. We must have over a thousand in the New Lands. You attend to their daily training?"

"All
are trained with sword, fire and archery."

"They
must learn everything the Scandians know."

"Our
Scandian trainer works well." Weyland snorted. "He still believes
he's in the land of the gods."

Both
Lothar and the ward laughed.

The
noise grated Erik, sounding deep within his ears. All of a sudden the gray
fringe at the edge of his vision receded and the room brightened. The wolves
raised their snouts, the wet-black of their noses wriggling. The silver wolf
crept toward Lothar, whimpering.

"Predictable
creatures, those Scandians. Even so, one of those Scandians has proved to
possess interesting abilities. And as my betrothed, Emma will do my bidding."

The muscles in Erik’s
neck tensed at Emma’s name. He focused. The room sharpened around him. His skin
tingled. For the first time since he had entered the void, he felt warm air
stroke his skin.

The wolves’ hackles
sprung up, hairs rising like blades.

Lothar twitched in
response.

"What is it boys?"

The lord followed the
wolves’ stares, pinning his gaze on Erik. A waxy sneer spread his lips.

"You see me!" Erik
screamed.

He willed his body
forward, toward the leering man.

Instead, darkness
flooded. The void returned, fast and furious, like blackness after a lightning
strike.

"Nei!" Erik
screamed again, struggling to return.

The shadow enveloped
him, a sickening swirl invading his limbs, his body, and his sight.

A voice pierced through
the dark. Lothar’s voice.

"Your power is
weak, spy. Don’t think you can penetrate my holdings without consequences."

Emma’s hums echoed off
the stone walls, floor and ceiling of her lavish prison. Her small hand passed
over the carving etched into the wall, imitating the movements she had seen
Bera perform earlier.

This has to work. Has
to
, she told herself.

At first she hadn't
understood that the song and carving worked in unison. Then she didn’t want to
believe it. Songs and carvings moving stone—farther fetched than one of Rolf’s
tales.

But Emma studied Bera
each time she entered and exited. The servant’s song for operating the door
remained the same. Other tunes caused a stone to glow and light the room or
heat the decanter, warming the wine, but the melody for the door was always the
same. Each time Emma repeated the notes in her head until she was alone and
could try them out loud.

The polecat—who called
himself Whitefoot due to a splotch of silver hairs on his toe—hopped around her
feet, springing back and forth in a wild dance. He nipped at Emma’s ankles,
begging her to play.

"Not now," she
said, though she understood Whitefoot tried to distract her from her
seriousness. Animals were sensitive. This she knew. She understood them. Humans,
however, baffled her. They were capable of bending their intentions, masquerading
them, twisting them until she could not tell what they wanted.

Emma rolled her
fingertips over the grooves of the rune. She did not know what the symbol meant.
Reading had been reserved for noble men and considered the lower form of galdr,
a spell work achieved by chanting the names of runes. Emma never imagined a
higher form of galdr existed, producing the feats she witnessed in this strange
land. The only other people with rune knowledge were seidr-wives, and her
father never allowed those women in his village. Even though Emma had picked up
on some of Hallad’s training, she knew the runes in Holyfell were more
intricate, their meanings shifting with every subtle embellishment.

Though she sang and
swished her palm across the symbol as Bera had, the door did not respond. She
threw up her hands in frustration.

Footsteps echoed in the
outer hallway.

Emma scampered backward,
crossed the room and sat by the window. Whitefoot raced by her side and settled
in the folds of her skirts, poking his pink nose out for a secreted view.

The hum sounded. Three
notes. Emma squeezed her eyes closed, memorizing the melody once more, trying
to discern where she was off.

The heavy door swung
wide. Bera entered, a platter wedged between her arm and hip. Caked with her
mid-day meal, the tray contained miniature masterpieces made from roots, fruits
and vegetables, carved into elaborate shapes. At first Emma had refused to eat
such delicacies. "Please Bera. Tell the cook not to trouble herself so. I
am not a princess in a castle demanding servants waste their time to please me."
But Bera had insisted the cook took pleasure in her designs. When Emma
continued to complain, Bera muttered that a Scandian could not understand the
joy of communion with the Mother. And Emma could not deny she hadn’t a clue
what Bera meant.

Elderberry wine
accompanied each meal; knowing it tainted with poison to cause her memory to
lapse, Emma found ways to dispose of it. Though Emma squeezed juice from the
plump berries, her throat was parched from the lack of liquid.

Bera placed the tray in
front of her.

"Bless the Mother
and take your meal. Then we'll go to the baths."

Emma sighed, picking at
the spread in front of her while Bera busied herself straightening the linens.

"Bera, do you think
I could have a horn of mead?"

"Mead?" The
woman wrinkled her short nose.

"Water then?"

"Tsk, child. You
know I cannot. The wine is the finest." The woman kept her eyes pegged to
the bed cloth.

The finest poison,
Emma thought.

Bera finished tucking in
the ends of the downy blanket. She cast a sideways glance at Emma.

"It's not so bad,
child. It will be easier on you if you take the wine."

"Easier than
remembering," said Emma, pushing the platter away.

As Emma stood, Whitefoot
dislodged from his hiding place. He hopped, grabbing Emma’s skirts with his
teeth and claws, shimmying his way up her torso. Emma caught him by his scruff
and lifted him to her breast, snuggling him in her arms as she giggled at him.

Bera gawked as Whitefoot
nibbled Emma's fingers.

"You're a caller."

"Pardon?"

"Dyra-sogn. A
caller. Child, how can a Scandian speak with the Mother?"

"Bera, if you are
speaking to me, please speak in my tongue. For Freya's sake, I cannot
understand you."

The servant shook her
head.

"No wonder he . . .
" She averted her eyes and returned to straightening the perfectly smooth
bedding.

"No wonder he what,
Bera?"

The servant twitched
then sang a melody Emma had not heard, light and crisp, ending on a sharp note.
The door swung, shutting without a sound.

"It is not right,"
she muttered. "Not right at all." She threw mindful looks at the
polecat nestled against Emma. "And you, a caller!"

"Bera, either you
tell me what you are talking about, or fetch me some water."

The woman turned,
scolding Emma with her eyes.

"Oh, forgive me
Bera. I didn't mean—"

"Nei. It is I that
must ask the Mother's pardon."

"You?"

"It is against the
Mother that he keeps you, a woman. A woman! Captive! Such vileness. And so soon
after the loss of his wife."

"His wife?"

"She died." Bera
added conspiratorially, "But some whisper she ran away."

Emma’s belly clenched at
the thought of another woman desperate enough to escape the confines of
Lothar’s marriage. In response to her discomfort, the polecat licked at her
earlobe, soothing her, causing the twinge to subside.

"If Lothar is such
a danger, you must help me."