EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (80 page)

“Nei, Hallad. I will not receive your charity.” The angles in Erik’s face deepened, his jaw fluttering as he ground his teeth. “We will manage without.”
 

Erik turned his back, stiffening his shoulders to Hallad as he combed Merchants’ Row for Rolf. Hallad returned the bedrolls; he gathered stocks of dried meats, cheeses and breads in their stead and paid the merchant.

“Which way to Freya’s Temple?” Hallad asked the merchant as he slung the bundle across his back.

The merchant’s face stiffened at the mention of the Temple and he turned away, busying himself with another customer. Hallad inquired of another passerby, who eyed Swan’s attire then moved along without an answer. Even after gathering their horses from the stables, no one offered up the Temple’s whereabouts.

The group turned nordr, weaving through the streets and pulling their leads behind them, ignoring hostile looks from pedestrians.
 

Abruptly, Hallad leaned down and whispered into Erik’s ear, “We’re being followed.”

“By who?”
 

“Someone in a blue cloak.”

Erik stopped, pretending to adjust the cinch of his black mare’s saddle. A figure, swathed in a blue cowl from head to toe, trailed in the distance; it hid behind groups of people as they stopped.
 

“You’re right.”

“You stay here with Swan and Rolf.”

Erik nodded.

Hallad slipped around their horses and into a side street. He jogged until he found an adjoining path, then made his way back around until he spotted the figure. Slowing to a walk, he stepped behind the blue-cloaked figure, drew his knife and poked it into the figure’s backside. He restrained the follower’s movement with a steady hand on the stalker’s shoulder.

Hallad leaned in to the side of the cowl.
 

“Why are you following us?”
 

The figure turned, allowing Hallad control, and then flipped back the hood. Doe colored eyes peered up at him, guarded with heavy black lashes. Round cheeks stretched into a frightened grimace.

“My apologies. I didn’t realize you were,” Hallad fumbled with the knife, sheathing the blade within his belt loop, “a girl.”
 

Swan’s earlier heroics caused Hallad to overcompensate and, instead of feeling triumphant, the familiar choke of defeat stifled his throat. Within seconds, Erik emerged.
 

Abruptly, Swan appeared behind the girl, causing both Erik and the stranger to flinch.

“Do you have to sneak up on people all the time?” Erik snorted.
 

Swan ignored Erik’s comment, standing behind the girl, awaiting Hallad’s movement.

The girl batted her thick lashes at them.
 

“I am Gisla.”
 

She immediately turned and reached up to Swan’s face. The girl caressed the iron woman with her hand, as if overcome by her features.
 

“I never dreamed I would ever meet the Savior.”
 

She blinked again, as if fixing the moment in her memory, before snatching her fingers back. Swan remained still as an oak.
 

The two young women stared at one another for several uncomfortable moments before Gisla announced to all three, “I am to be your guide.”

Guide to where?
thought Hallad, though his mouth failed to speak.

When no one answered her, Gisla planted her hands on her hips in frustration.
 

“Ase Jorrun, Second Priestess of the Way and Daughter of the Temple, awaits your arrival.”
 

Cart wheels creaked as they passed, horses nickered and dust swirled about the earthen roads. Hallad remained stupefied at the girl who appeared from nowhere to lead them to their destination.

Gisla studied her silent guests.
 

“Well?” She waved for them to follow as she turned and strode down the street, her indigo cloak fluttering in the breeze. She yelled back over her shoulder, “We must hasten our steps. Mid-day fades and night follows fast in this part of the city.”

Erik plucked at Hallad’s linen sleeve.
 

“Where’s Rolf?”
 

Both young men turned, inspecting the merchants’ wagons and stands squeezed within the narrow street, neither catching view of Rolf. Hallad moaned between his teeth. Gisla strode far ahead of them, her barley-brown hair bobbing in and out through the crowd of strangers.

“We have to go,” Hallad said.

“Not without Rolf,” Erik insisted.

Gisla called back over her shoulder, “Come.”

“We’re missing one of our party!” Hallad hollered back.

Gisla stomped back to meet them, planting her hands firmly on her hips again—her youth apparent in her bright eyes and supple skin, as she attempted to muster the authority to command them. Hallad figured someday she would make a good wife for an unsuspecting lad.

“We haven’t time for nonsense, my Lord. I beg you. My Mistress waits.”

Rolf finally materialized, bending over to accommodate Erik’s grip on his ear, as Erik dragged him down the street. Hallad couldn’t help but laugh at the odd spectacle.

“What did I do?” asked Rolf.

Erik exhaled, air escaping through flared nostrils with a snort. “Let’s go.”

Hallad nodded back, concealing a smirk.

Rolf dislodged himself from Erik’s grip, brushed off his red cape, straightened his tunic and primped his hair.
 

“Go where?”

When no one answered Rolf, he continued, “You are not going to believe who I saw at the docks!”

“Probably the King of Birka,” replied Hallad.

“Nei,” added Erik. “It was the queen and her fine young daughters.”

Rolf persisted. “It’s not a joke. I swear it on Odin’s tree! You’ll never guess who I saw!”

“Rolf, we haven’t time for your jabber.” Hallad waved toward Gisla. “We are expected at the Temple.”

“But . . .”
 

As Rolf caught sight of the girl his lips split into a white-toothed grin. He swept into a bow, bending to one knee. With his long fingers he grasped Gisla’s hand, pressing his lips to them.
 

“My lady,” his tenor voice rang as if he sang a fine tune, “it is an honor. I am Rolf Sigtrigson.”

Gisla giggled with a flurry of batted eyelashes.

Hallad moaned. Erik rolled his eyes. Swan surveyed them with a slight up-turned crack of her lips.

“I am Gisla, apprentice to the Temple of Freya,” she returned, allowing Rolf to hold her hand. “Now, we must hurry, as the priestess does not like to be kept waiting and I’ve nei intention of scrubbing extra pots on your account.”
 

She attempted to sound stern, but her young voice broke as she gushed back at Rolf.

They hustled through the bustling streets. Rolf pranced like a stallion at Gisla’s side, reciting bits and pieces of lays and flattering her with absurd compliments. Hallad couldn’t fathom any woman succumbing to such obvious overtures, but Gisla seemed taken with him.

The throng of people lessened as they passed through the center of the city. Towers rose skyward, waving the flags of the King of Birka high on the apex of each spire. Crimson and gold adorned the gateways that led into the castle grounds. The massive doors depicted the great All-Seer, Odin, god of all nobles.

Rolf’s pace lagged as they passed, studying the elaborate paintings—the first time he managed to peel away from Gisla since they’d met. He reached out and touched the design, awe striking him until a guard hollered for him to move along.

The group wound their way through the city until another gate released them from Birka. They traveled a well-trodden road upward. Oak trees, bared from winter, dotted the valley’s landscape. As they approached the peak of the hill, incense permeated the air. They crested the top of the mound and the land spread to accommodate a birch temple larger than his father’s longhouse in the village of Steadsby. In the center of the path lay a wide-open pit, emitting alder smoke from its depths. The path split in two around the pit and joined again as a landing for a massive door, carved and painted with the figure of Freyja, donning an ornate necklace and driving a carriage pulled by a fierce black cat. The cat’s jewel-green eyes glinted in the firelight, reminding Hallad of Erik.

Gisla hurried around the fire and excused herself, disappearing behind the painted doors, hefting them with surprising strength. The smoke wrapped around them, entrapping them like prisoners.

The silence must have worn on the young would-be scald, because he interrupted it.

“Now guess who I saw? Hallad, you’ll be particularly interested.”

Hallad shooed him with flick of his hand.

Erik replied, “Hush, Rolf.”

Gisla reemerged, announcing, “Ase Jorrun, Mistress of the Temple of Freyja, will receive you.”

Chapter XI

S
WAN
LED
THE
GROUP
THROUGH
the temple doors. The men followed in her wake like water in a pond rippling behind a majestic bird. The chamber opened to reveal a hall adorned with paintings of women, cats, boars and moons, favoring the colors crimson, emerald, silver and onyx. The licks of flame at the center pit jumped, producing wild shadows that tricked the eye into believing the depictions on the walls danced. Gray smoke swirled around them, pungent with amber and alder. At the end of the hall, an immense statue of the goddess Freyja had been erected and bedecked with silver and scarlet pigment. A huge black cat carved in wood accompanied the Goddess, with her hand resting upon his head.

In front of the statue sat a woman in a carved chair. She stared down at them with a smirk, fine lines etched around her eyes and lips. A shock of silver-gray hair entwined with light brown was pulled tightly into a knot situated on the crown of her head. She pounded a gnarled walking stick on the ground twice, the flaps of her pine green robe rustling with the movement. The woman rose from her seat.

Visions of a seidr-wife filled Hallad’s head. Only once did such a woman visit Steadsby. Avarr had prohibited anyone who possessed any level of seidr-craft—be it prophecy, spell casting or the ability to view into the land of the gods—in his village even when the villagers had begged for one of the Goddess’ seidr practitioners to rescue their crops from failure after three long years of starvation. Many died in those seasons, but his father still refused the aid of seidr-craft.

Rumors remained of the one-time visit from a seidr-wife. They said his father and the Goddess’ enchantress fought behind closed doors until the woman burst through the longhouse, flung herself on her horse and yelled back to Avarr that he would rue his foolishness. The godhi had cursed the woman as she galloped away and the villagers feared the seidr-wife’s retribution for years to come. But it never came and no one, save the godhi, knew what the argument was about.

Now Hallad stood face to face with such a woman. A seidr-wife. One who called the power of Freyja. One who could see through the veils of truth, predict the future and see into other lands by her talent in seidr. The priestess held out a silver horn to him, in the customary welcome of Scandians. He reached for the horn and gulped, studying her over the edge of the cup.

“It’s about time you got here.” A mischievous twinkle caught in her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for years!”

Hallad exchanged a puzzled look with Erik. Ase Jorrun poked Hallad in the ribs with her walking staff and he jumped nervously at her assault. Gisla giggled in the corner, covering her mouth with her hands. For the first time Swan smiled—a full, tooth-showing grin.

“Now, I’ve prepared for you Astrid.” Ase nodded toward Swan.

Hallad knotted his brow at the unfamiliar name.

“I see there is more to tell you than I thought.” She tapped her stick to the ground. “Come. Sit in a circle and we will start.”

Ase reclined in the wooden chair as she continued, “Sit. Sit.” She waved her hand toward Gisla, her pine-colored robe fluttering, the cat-skin cuffs shining in the fire’s glow. “Gisla, take your place.”
 

The girl scampered across the room, smiling coyly toward Rolf along the way and situated herself by Ase’s left side.

“As for your friends Hallad, you should make the introductions.”

Hallad wondered how she knew his name. His tongue felt thick and words escaped him.

“I see we’ll have to work on your manners as well.”

A lump formed in Hallad’s throat, but the woman’s eyes sparkled, causing him to relax. He bowed, finding his voice.
 

“I am Hallad, son of Avarr, Godhi of Steadsby.” Hallad straightened, gesturing toward his companions. “This is my blood sworn Erik Sigtrigson and his half-brother Rolf.”

Rolf grandly swept downward. Erik tipped his head in scant acknowledgement. The woman calculated them, smirking at Erik’s defiance. Swan towered straight as a sword; Hallad didn’t know how to present her.

“She is . . . Swan.”

“She is Astrid, daughter of Isla, daughter of the Night, our Savior, and,” the old woman’s voice rumbled with weightiness, “your twin sister.”

The statement startled Hallad, but made sense. The feelings he had of her—of knowing her, of communicating on a level the others never understood. But twins? His stomach turned.

“Twins made of evil sire, bear to the winds or take to the fire,” Rolf chanted. He caught his mindless statement and quieted, addressing Hallad. “You would have been exposed. Not even the godhi could have saved you.”

Rolf swiveled his head toward Swan, studying her, identifying his companions’ similarities. Hallad recognized the resemblance too—their height, their sculpted features—the likeness uncanny, though she was white as winter and he as golden as summer.

“Nonsense!” Erik said. “You are not going to listen to this twaddle, are you?”

Hallad couldn’t speak. A jolt buzzed through him. Swan smiled directly at him for the first time—a wide, soft smile that defied her iron-edge. He knew. Something inside him churned. In the same moment that their connection felt right, Hallad felt betrayed.