EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (85 page)

Emma trailed behind the servant, the length of her dress spilling over the tiles. The intricate scrollwork formed archways every ten paces, a decorous display of leaves, branches, flowers and wildlife, crafted by a meticulous hand. Erik wished his little brother could view the mastery of artwork. Even the deftest carvings in all of Birka looked like child’s play in comparison.

The boundless hall rambled onward and, although windowless, shone as bright as a summer day. The carved ceiling glowed, emanating light from runes. Liveried servants passed, some humming in a low voice. They were dressed in the same manner as the woman who escorted Emma and all bore the same insignia on their sleeves—a tree digging into the earth, a bubbling spring at the ground’s depths. All were taller and fairer than anyone he had ever seen, even the plump escort. They reminded him of Lothar. And Swan.

At length they reached a double door, decorated with the crest of the tree. Humming again, the servant passed her hand over a symbol on the doors. They opened as mysteriously as the one in Emma’s room. Erik thought he needed to learn the trick, but laughed at himself, realizing it didn’t matter one wit if he could open doors or not in his present state.

A sumptuous outlay of carved stone furniture, expensive drapery and velveteen cushions crowded the massive room in front of them. Such a chamber would empty the coffers of the entire Steadsby countryside ten times over.
What a vain indulgence,
Erik thought, formulating an even worse opinion of Lord Lothar as he pictured peasants starving for the extravagance.
 

Lothar swiveled around like a drop of wax falling from a candlestick.
 

“There you are love.”

Emma’s face burned as hot as Erik figured his own sizzled. She scowled, her gentle face creasing in anger. Erik would not have thought such an unpleasant state possible from Emma, if he hadn’t witnessed it himself.

“Oh, come now, don’t pout,” said Lothar.

Emma reached up and touched the side of her bruised face, letting her fingers rest there for a moment.

“I have apologized for my tiny indiscretion already. You do believe I didn’t mean it, don’t you love?”
 

Two wolves wandered from the shadows of the room, strutting to Lothar’s side like trained soldiers. The silver whimpered at Emma until Lothar glared at the beast. Then the wolf cowered at Lothar’s side like the yellow-eyed black. The creatures reminded Erik of the wolves that had stalked Hallad in the Great Wood so many moons ago—the night he and Hallad had sworn the oath of blood brothers—and a shiver ran the length of his spine.

“Put a smile on that pretty little face and come see what I’ve brought you.”

Emma refused to budge.
 

Ignoring her rebuke, Lothar glided toward her producing a velveteen bag as he approached. The bag wriggled like a hundred worms squirmed inside. He offered her the wiggling mass.
 

Emma skeptically grasped the bag then opened the drawstrings. A bit of her old sparkle shone through, despite the bulging welt across her cheek, as she viewed the contents.
 

A masked face popped out, nose sniffing the air.
 

Emma’s laughter filled the room—the first happiness, Erik noted, since the night she had disappeared into the Shadow. The weasel-like critter climbed up her arm, making its way across the smooth fabric of her dress, sniffing at her neck and ears; then it licked her earlobe with enthusiasm.

Lothar watched her, pleased.
 

“How long have you been able to speak with animals?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma replied.

“Come, now, don’t play coy. You spoke with the wolves and now with the polecat. I can teach you to excel in your skill.”

“I don’t need any more of your lessons,” Emma replied.

He crossed the room, slippers swishing on the floor. He stroked the bruise on her face with a pointed finger.
 

“I am truly sorry for that, my love. Please forgive me.”

“I am not your love,” Emma shot back.

Lothar bent his finger, tracing the outline of the mark with his nail.
 

“Your mother has betrothed us, Emma. It would be better if you loved me, would it not? I will be a kind and generous husband.”

Emma’s eyes welled.

“She’ll never consent to be your wife! And when I get to you, I will rip your head from your neck with my own hands for the injustice you’ve caused her!” yelled Erik.

Lothar stopped, looking sideways in the air. Erik drilled into him as much as an invisible specter could, and for a moment, Lothar’s eyes came to rest on him. Erik flinched.
 

Can he see me?
 

With a smile, the lord crossed the room and filled two chalices with the elderberry wine. He held out a glass to Emma.
 

“Come love, drink with me. Since the polecat pleased you, I will have more presents for you in the future.”

“You can’t make me forget,” Emma whispered.

“Perhaps,” Lothar replied. “Perhaps not.”
 

He lifted his glass and drank, waiting for her to do the same. She conceded and emptied a mouthful from the cup. His waxy smile stretched wide.

“Very good. You may go.”

Emma forced a curtsey, looking as if she would rather throw up on his shoes. The polecat worked his way around her neck and snuggled in the back of her long hair, making a nest and feasting on her earlobes.

With a clap of Lothar’s hands, the servant woman returned, humming as the door opened, leading Emma back through the corridors. Erik hesitated before he followed her, watching Lothar leer at Emma’s backside as she left the room. Had he been in Steadsby, he’d have taken the man’s life by law for the insult.

Erik concentrated and found himself by Emma’s window as she arrived in her room. The servant scuttled out the door, humming as the heavy stone closed behind her. Emma ran to the window and spat the scarlet liquid from her mouth.

Sighing, Erik allowed himself a smile of relief. Could the liquid really make her forget? He didn’t know, but thanked the gods that she had the sense to avoid the vile drink.

Emma crawled into bed and huddled beneath the feathery blankets, the black-masked polecat’s long body wrapped around her neck, his whiskers twitching at her cheeks. Tears streamed from her wide gray eyes. Her new fuzzy friend lapped up the waterfall with compassion. Erik watched, unable to speak to her, to hold her, to comfort her. She brushed the sable fur of the critter, cooing as she had with the falcon, and sobbed into the empty air.
 

“Erik, why haven’t you come for me?”

Chapter XIX

“S
TAND
STILL
,”
THE
HEAD
DRENGMAER
commanded, as she untied the knot of Hallad’s blindfold.

“Leave the binding sister. I like him sightless,” said Olrun, the larger of the two Headwomen.

Hallad tired of their nonsense. They had kept him blindfolded and stumbling for hours as they traveled and he itched to be free of the bonds, to seek out the clan’s head priestess and make a plan of action that would enable him to stand up to his responsibilities—not only for Swan, but for his little sister Emma. Regardless of his new understanding about their half-blood relationship, Emma still wore at his heart.

Activity clamored around Hallad—feet shuffling, clanking noises, the bustling sounds of a small village. Incense burned in his nostrils, the same pungent smell from the Temple outside Birka. It mixed with the aroma of the deep forest—the heady scent of pine, moss and earth.

The cloth dropped away from Hallad’s face and he squinted to regain his focus. Swan stood next to him like an exotic bird, her limbs light as feathers, yet strong enough to defy gravity. Her hair added to the effect, an avalanche of white ice.

The only comfort as they traveled was in her presence as she glided along next to him, knowing she would battle these wild women with him if it came to that. Yet his confidence in her devotion didn’t quench his guilt over Erik, Emma and his father. Hallad registered a flicker of sadness in Swan’s eyes as thoughts of his broken loyalties crossed his mind, but she turned away to survey their surroundings.

An expanse of towering trees surrounded them. Elm, birch and evergreens, gnarled together, their immense branches hung like a rooftop over the entire Sacred Groves of Freyja. Beneath their mighty blanket several longhouses gathered in a circle, curving at an angle to accommodate the trees’ massive trunks. The buildings acted as a gate to the inner grove. With the oppressive IronWood as first defense and the longhouses as second, the inner circle would be nearly impenetrable. Hallad wondered if the outrageous tales of IronWood and valkyries could have been spread by the women themselves as a third line of defense.

Women, hundreds of them, hustled in and out of the grove. Some dressed as drengmaers, others in typical women’s garb, reflecting different Scandian areas in their design. A few dressed in solid black. Those women moved with more purpose than the rest, as if their concentration couldn’t be broken, even by a sword.

Hallad had assumed the woman of the cult would all be like Rota and Olrun, hardened warriors, the valkyries of local legends. Instead their variety shocked him. They must have congregated here from every part of Scandia.

Women halted, taking notice as the group with their guards neared the circle of longhouses. Girls carrying barrels and vegetables nearly dropped their bundles to stare. The drengmaers, dressed in a variety of animal skins, leathers and equipped with bows, swords and even weighty axes that only a man should possess the strength to heft, gathered in distinct groups. Their dress reflected different animal types: lions, wolves, beaver and bear, distinguishing the divisions of the drengmaer clans. The warriors stopped in a perfect line, each woman partnering with another, back to back. Some sneered. Others gawked as if they had never seen a man. Swan closed in next to Hallad, arm to arm.

A black-robed girl greeted Rota in their clan-speak. Rota nodded. She signaled to Ase. Ase bowed her head in compliance to the girl, who turned and headed through the center door of the longhouses. Ase and Gisla followed without a word, but when Hallad attempted to trail them, Rota intervened.

“This way,” she grunted, her crop of short hair bobbing like a thrusting dagger as she strutted toward a group of women in skirts and aprons.
 

Rota led Hallad and Swan through a longhouse a hundred paces away from the one Ase and Gisla had disappeared through. As Hallad expected, weaponry stocked the inside of the hall, acting as a pass-way to an inner sanctuary. The walls, thickened with triple-widths of clay, led them to an opposite door. They exited to a circle of houses built around a massive yarrow tree, older and wider than any other Hallad had ever seen, seeming as if it had grown since the creation.

Before the tree stretched wooden planking painted in vibrant crimson, indigo and white. An intertwined design of cats, boars, moons and swords worked its way into a five-pointed star. A rune was carved at each point: kanunaz, fehu, uruz, tiwaz, ansuz and at the middle, algiz, meaning protective sanctuary.

Rota and Olrun forced their pace as they escorted Hallad and Swan into a barrack-type dwelling vestr of the sanctuary. The room smelled of honeyed ham, beef, bread and mead. As soon as he crossed the threshold, a skirted woman with a stark white apron held out two welcome chalices, foaming to the rim with mead.

Hallad complied by taking the cup and drinking, the fermented honey warming his throat. Swan grabbed her cup at the same time and drank without pause, until it was emptied. Scandian customs required the male be served first, but under the circumstances Hallad didn’t question this slight of tradition.

“Welcome to the Hearth of Freyja. We are most honored to offer our hospitality,” said the woman, her round cheeks and middle suggesting an appreciation for cooking.

“Thank you. Your hospitality is most generous.” Hallad inclined his head.
 

Swan, standing as straight as a sword at his side, stared at the woman.

“I am Amma, Hearth Mother. Please be welcomed to the bounty of our table.” With her introduction, she spread her arms back toward a table, decked with a feast. “If you require anything, please don’t hesitate to ask upon Rota or Olrun.”

Rota’s head jerked up, as if the woman had slapped her.

“We’ve done our job in escorting them. Waiting on them should be a hearth duty,” Olrun blurted.

“You will discover the reason for the punishment soon,” said Amma, turning to leave.

Hallad cut in. “We appreciate your hospitality, but I have reason for swiftness. I need to speak with your head priestess now.”

Amma turned, leveling her stare on Hallad. “Serpent Mother will summon you when she is ready for you. Not before.”

“But—“ Hallad started.
 

Hearth Mother turned and exited before he could continue. Hallad bunched his shoulders in frustration. Angst wailed at him the longer he left the fates of those he loved in the hands of unknown women. His body itched for action.

“Eat,” directed Olrun. “You do not want to insult Hearth Mother.”

“Insult her?” Hallad asked.

“Trust me,” the large freckled woman replied as she poured herself a mug of mead, glugged it down and refilled her glass. “If she returns and you haven’t eaten, you will be sorry.”

Swan ignored their banter and dug into the spread before them as if she was starving. Even Gisla’s cooking hadn’t kept her satiated. Hallad wondered if her legs were hollow.

“What is this place?” Hallad asked Olrun. He gave up talking to Rota. She only grunted answers when she chose to answer at all.

“This is the Hall of the Hearth.” The freckled woman downed another cup of frothing mead.

“The Hearth?” Hallad asked.

“Ja. There’s the Hearth, the Temple and the Clans.”
 

The oversized drengmaer emptied the mead horn into her glass, lifting the mug for another swig. Rota narrowed her eyes at her sal drengmaer.