Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (21 page)

"I can get through
to this place she calls Glitner. I can take Swan there."

Even as the words left
his mouth, he prayed it would be so. Ravenna had said she would speak to the
Council of Norns. If Norns were the fabled keepers of man’s fate, why couldn’t
they weave their threads and force the situation to their ends? Something did
not ring with truth and Hallad questioned the woman’s goddess-like status.

None of the women
acknowledged him.

"Who is Ravenna
anyway?" asked Hallad.

Serpent Mother swirled
on the balls of her feet, her smooth face emotionless.

"She is the First
Walker of the Norns."

"I have never heard
of a walker before."

"It is quite
possible there are many things you have not heard of."

"True." Hallad
expected her to treat him as if he were nothing more than a child to be
schooled. "But doesn’t it seem strange to you? If she holds the power of
fate, why can she not mend the threads that hold my sister and wake her?"

Serpent Mother’s voice
grew softer the longer she stared at him.

"Ravenna sought us
out many seasons ago, when I was young, when your mother was young, before your
birth. We were chosen by her as our women have had a long relationship with
their realm. She explained to us their ways are not as we have imagined them. They
do not tell us how or why. They do not need to. Man makes their own stories and
histories to his own liking. Perhaps we would not like the truth. Perhaps
knowing the gods we worship are as helpless as we are would frighten our
people, and render them hopeless."

Hallad turned her words
over in his mind. For the first time, he considered a world without gods and
goddesses, but other mortals in far off realms, who only abused the power that
comes with being thought of as a supernatural being.
But if her words
spoke true, and the powers of the gods he had learned of from childhood did not
exist, then Swan’s danger increased tenfold. If Hallad could prevent her death,
he would need to depend on his own mindfulness and quick action. He stretched
his hands into his trousers, pulling out the golden medallion the ward had
given him and held the piece up for all to see.

"This will show me
the way."

Their eyes lit upon the
yellow circle like children watching honey-bread rise.

"Where
. . ." Ase’s voice disappeared, unable to complete a sentence.

"The
man who killed Thyre called me Guardian, warned me of Conspirators waiting for
me to cross and gave me this medallion." He neglected to tell them of the
man kissing his hem, afraid his face would flush if he uttered the words.

Ase’s
eyes darted, taking in every angle, every detail of the medallion. The gold
piece had settled into a flat surface on one side. The runes on the other side
had been replaced with the symbol of the Guardian Tree with a raven pecking its
roots—the same raven blackening Ravenna’s white cheek.

Serpent
Mother reached a smooth hand out as if to grab the medal, but Hallad snatched
his hand back. The medallion was his only bargaining chip and he meant to use
it well. He’d had enough of relying on other people’s choices. Today, he would
stand on his own. If he failed, and he prayed to the gods he would not—if the
gods even existed—he would be assured he had tried as hard as he could.

"The face changes
when I concentrate. Runes appear, like a riddle." Hallad knew he could not
manage a demonstration, since it had only happened once, but his gut told him
the medallion would reveal his path.

Serpent Mother said, "We
will study it. You will wait as Ravenna commands."

"Nei. This is meant
to show me the way through."

"It
could be a trap," warned the High Priestess. "You do not know who
that man was. He could be on their side."

"On
whose side?" asked Hallad. "Do we even know who we are up against? Has
your Goddess told you that?"

"Watch
your tongue boy!" Even though her voice thundered, her features remained
emotionless.

Those
features sparked familiarity. Hallad recalled that Serpent Mother had called
herself Isla’s sister, his aunt. His heart thrummed, realizing how much she
resembled an older version of Swan. He remembered the moment he and his twin
had met Serpent Mother on the dais, how the High Priestess examined Swan, and
the void inside her—a similar hollowness that tarnished his own father’s
memory. Isla must have been a mighty woman to have left so many with such deep
memories and deep hurt. Hallad gestured toward his kin.

"You
are my mother’s sister." It was not a question, but a statement, delivered
in a tender boy’s voice—a voice he thought he had left back in Steadsby, back
with his father.

Serpent
Mother blinked. Her face remained smooth as silver, like a numbness washed
throughout her being.

"You
will stay as Ravenna commands, as I command." She turned, her skirts
whisking the ground as she walked away, a cloud of black in the candle-lit
glow.

"I will not!" The
steady rise of Hallad's voice gave way. "I will not wait any longer!"

Ase’s lips twitched into
a smile. Rota scowled, deepening the crags in her face. Olrun looked as if she
didn’t know whether to laugh or attack him. But Serpent Mother’s face remained placid.

"I waited for help
with my sister, Emma, and now she is in mortal danger. I waited on my father’s
order and now he is dead. You will not have me wait and watch Swan die too!"
Hallad’s arms bulged with his veins, as his fingernails ground into his palms.
"I will not watch her die!"

The air thickened. No
one spoke. The candles flicked, turning time, and the anger slowly boiled out
of Hallad. He realized that must be what Erik felt like—tongue raging, his
emotions spilling. His father had warned of passion as a weakness; but it boiled
up out of him, demanding he take action and felt like a dam had broken inside
him, with all the waters of the Syrra rushing forward.

Still, no one spoke. He thought
he could stand before them for eternity without an answer.

Finally, Hallad added, "Good,
then. We are agreed."

*****

Hallad paced and packed
all night long. Ase warned him to rest before his journey, but sleep reminded
him of Swan. He hovered over her, her shallow breath wavering, as if a death
mask waited for its moment to capture her.

The drengmaers had moved
his sister from the sanctuary to an adjoining room in the Hall of the Hearth. Women
attended her without pause, checking her status and wiping her brow with a foul
smelling herbal mixture. The women of the Hearth allowed Hallad to come in and
out to check on his sister; he did so the remainder of the night, while the
women helped him to pack, darned his clothes and prepared food.

"This is too much,"
Hallad insisted as the piles of supplies heaped.

But the women refused to
stop gifting him with dried meats, breads, cheeses, furs, clothing, bedding,
flint, pots, cutlery and every imaginable travel convenience. When he offered
them silver for their efforts, they called Hearth Mother. His insult struck
across the woman’s face, rivaling the indignation of any fine born Mistress of
the Hall, so Hallad conceded to the gifts.

Hallad continued to pack
until the morning broke through, bird song burgeoning from the canopy of trees.
He thought the creatures should be silent, in reverence for his troubles, then
scoffed at his arrogance for the self-centered belief; as if the world should
cease while his problems festered.

Even without sleep, his
muscles jumped beneath his skin, ready for action. He felt alive—he had taken
control, going when he wanted to go, doing what he thought was right. Hallad
slipped his fingers into the new trousers the women had tailored for him and
ran his fingertips over the slick metal of the medallion’s design. Without
looking, the design sprung into his mind—the mighty ash of the Guardian
Tree—almost identical to the signet his father had given to him, except this
one bore a raven gnawing the roots of the tree. In comparison the craftsmanship
of his father’s pin seemed crude. Until now, Hallad thought his own signet the
finest in Scandia. He realized how much he didn’t know—how much he had to
learn. The weight of his ignorance wore on him, drowning him as if he whirled
in a pool of stupidity, waiting for some tidbit of knowledge to seep through to
him. All the lessons his father had taught to him had become painful reminders
that knowledge and experience were two separate masters and he must learn from
them both if he intended to
make it right
.

Hallad's gear sprawled
in the corner of the Hall of the Hearth as he bent to examine his belongings
one last time. The door thumped behind him. He swiveled. Rota, shadowed by
Olrun, strutted toward him. They wore determination on their faces like war
paint. The sight of their lips set in tight lines bunched the nerves in the
back of his neck. He had known them long enough to know they were up to
something.

Picking up his sword
from a nearby bench, Hallad sat, sharpening the edge of his blade and waited
for their attack. The sound of metal grating as he honed his sword calmed his
jumble of nerves.

"If you’ve come to
convince me to stay, you are wasting your breath." He spoke without
looking at them, concentrating on the crisp chime of metal striking stone.

"We didn’t come to
convince you of anything." Olrun’s voice wore a grin wrapped up within her
tone.

"I didn’t think you
two were the goodbye sorts."

"We didn’t come to
wish you farewell either, farm boy." This time Rota spoke. The sound of
her startled him enough to look up at the two drengmaers. Olrun’s face split
into a wide grin. Rota’s lips cracked at the ends—as much of a grin as he had
ever seen from her. They crossed the short distance together as if tied in a
three-legged race. A hearty laugh burst from Olrun as she slapped Hallad across
the shoulder. Then it struck him.

"Oh. Nei. You
aren’t thinking of coming with me?" The thought of the two of them barking
at him as he floundered around, trying to figure out how to use the medallion,
caused his stomach to flip.

"There is honor in
one who protects his own," said Rota. Hallad had heard more from her in
the last day than he thought she had spoken in her entire lifetime. "But
only a fool runs into battle by himself."

She reached her hand out
and placed her sturdy palm on his shoulder, as a Scandian man would greet his
kin.

Hallad heard the wisdom
in her words and acquiesced. He reached over, slapping Rota’s shoulder in the
same manner, their eyes locking for the first time since they’d met.

As Hallad turned to
gather his gear, he wondered if their accompaniment was planned from the
beginning, recalling the extra supplies the women of the Hearth had piled upon
him. He smiled to himself, shaking his head.
Women.

The three of them exited
the Hall of the Hearth together and headed toward the sudr gate. A crowd
gathered in their wake. All appeared expectant as he emerged. Hallad recognized
their divisions now. The women bearing arms, dressed in trousers and assorted
leathers and animal furs were drengmaers of various clans. Women in a variety
of village skirt styles made up the Hearth, and women donning white or black
cloaks and dresses, embroidered with cats and moons, belonged to Spirit and
served the Temple. These women organized themselves as a village; the Spirit
ruling as a godhi, the drengmaers acting as the men of the village—the hunters
and protectors—and the Hearth serving the function of women.

The crowd quieted as he
approached the gate. The Lion Clan had gathered with several pack horses,
including Thor. His gelding neighed at his arrival, greeting him, bringing a
smile to Hallad’s lips. He patted his nose.

"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.