EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (78 page)

Where am I?

Fragments popped in and out of her memory. The forest. Erik. A strange woman. A cold blackness. Strong arms grabbing her, squeezing her until she hurt. As she strained to remember, her thoughts dissipated like smoke in the evening air. Emma struggled to grasp at them. They eluded her, shrouded in a wall of haze.

The girl rubbed her sore eyes with the backs of her hands, clearing her sight. A velvety material tickled her skin. A brief inspection of her body revealed an unfamiliar gown tightened around her waist; its plunging neckline exposed her modest cleavage.
 

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.”

Chapter VIII

“E
MMA
!” E
RIK
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.

“What did you mean by another way?”

Rolf cut in. “Brother, she hasn’t spoken since we met her.”

Erik waved his arm, flashing a warning glance at Rolf, and repeated, “What did you mean?”

The young woman stared back with iron hard eyes.

Hallad rolled to his side, wiping his broad hands over his face. His chiseled bones deepened in the firelight as if carved of stone. A tired groan reverberated in his chest as he tossed the bedroll aside and stood, exposing his bare feet to the crisp night air. The downy hair across his well-muscled chest and arms refused to rise and Erik wondered how he withstood the frigid temperature. By far he was the tallest of the group—aside from the young woman, who stood nearly as tall as he—and his shadow cast a long darkness over them, as if they stood beside a mighty tree.