EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (89 page)

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.”

“I . . . “ Bera tucked her head down, once again examining the linens. “I cannot.”

“You said yourself he is wrong. Why can’t you help me?” Emma reached out, placing her hand upon the woman’s arm. Pleading.

Bera answered with silence.
 

Emma sought the window. From her vantage the whole of the horizon stretched out before her, mighty evergreens spanning the space between grass and sky.

“Bera.” She lowered her voice. “I cannot stay here. I am . . . “ She sighed. “Erik will come.” She turned, grabbing Bera’s arms as Whitefoot climbed up her shoulder, shimmied around her neck and nestled in her loose hair. “Erik and I, we’re like the sun and the moon.” Salty tears welled in her eyes. “Do you know I see him? When I close my eyes, he’s there. When I dream, I can see him, watching me. He is so clear! I nearly feel his breath upon my breast.”

“Do not speak of such things,” Bera scolded.

“Why?” Emma knew she risked sounding like an overly inquisitive child, always asking questions, but there was so much of this place she did not understand.

The servant grabbed Emma by her shoulders, gathering the plush material underneath her heavy palms.
 

“You must never, ever, speak of the dreams. Do you hear?”

“The dreams? But—“

“Never. My son . . . “ Bera’s voice dropped to a low moan.

“You have a son? Then you’ll understand. Wouldn’t you rather have your son loved by a woman who adores him? Wouldn’t you want that for him? Certainly you wouldn’t want someone like Lothar to come along and—“

“Lothar is the only reason my son lives.” Bera’s voice cracked as if her neck broke with the effort to speak.

“Surely his Lordship would release his servants if they worked a fair wager.”

“You don’t understand. We are not thralls like in your land. That kind of servitude would be against the Mother’s will.”

“If you are not thralls, then why stay?”

“The Mother wills our service in guardianship.”

“But you said yourself, Lothar is wrong. Why not take your son and leave?”

“You are a child. A Scandian. You cannot understand such things.”

“Then explain them to me, Bera. Please.”

A far-away memory glazed Bera’s eyes. She heaved a breath before continuing.
 

“My son was born without the Mother’s touch. Worse yet, he was deaf to her. He could not hear her soft sounds, her lullabies, her gentle songs. Or her cries of pain. Fortunately, I realized this when he was just an infant and saved him much of the shame others endure.”

Even though Emma did not comprehend the details of Bera’s story, she folded her hands in her lap and listened.

“When they discovered he had been touched by the Shadow, he was branded with the raven. Branded!”

Emma let out a frightened squeal.

“Nei, child. I forget you are a Scandian and do not know of our ways. The branding itself doesn’t hurt, mind you. It’s the humiliation of being branded. That is what causes the pain. Everyone who looked upon my dear boy’s face from that day forward knew he was marked by the Shadow.”

“I am so sorry,” Emma reached out to touch the elder woman’s sleeve, comforting her.

“The worst was yet to come. It is by the Mother’s own decree that we take care of her and, in turn, those who spring from her breast. It is our law. But those marked are shunned, even though they are more helpless than babes. They cannot even light a stone or call water for themselves. Society treats them as leeches—sucking out of the system but giving nothing in return. The Palace tolerates them, but in sooth, they are a barbarity. And for one who knows her song it is difficult to look upon them without disgust. It was natural for my son to turn to Conspirators for protection and companionship. None of them have the Mother’s touch. They are barbarians. They even start fires! Imagine! Fires to burn her breast!” She shook her head for a long time before continuing. “A group of them were caught, my son among them, and taken to Glitner for sentencing. The Palace declared them outlaw and pronounced a death sentence. If it weren’t for Lothar . . . “ She heaved a deep breath, her face flushed.

“Like the Guardian had once come to his son, a human and your ancestor, and cast him into Scandia so that you may live, Lord Lothar rescued my son. That is why we believe Lothar is the Guardian incarnate.”

Emma bit her lip trying to make sense of the tale. “Starting fires can cause the Palace to sentence you to death?”

“Fire is the worst offense to the Mother.” Bera watched Emma, realizing she didn’t understand. “We were all born with her touch, the Mother’s, the land’s. We sing to her and she yields her fruits, keeping us healthy and alive. In return, we nourish her, protect her—much like the great Guardian. But over the epochs, the blood of the Shadow sunk into us and some were born without the ability to sing to her. It has been tragedy ever since.”

“I’m sorry.” Emma squinted, taking it all in. She thought her forehead would split open with the effort. “Can you teach me?”

“Teach you?”

“The Mother’s songs.”

A frown pulled down the edge of Bera’s lips. “Child, you are born with it or without it. There is no teaching, except if you excel.”

“But you said I was a caller.”

“Callers are not quite the same as songvaris.” The elder woman shook her head, considering. “One thing is certain. You must not speak of the dreams. Do you hear?”

Emma nodded in reply, but continued, “The dreams prove it between Erik and me. Can’t you see how we are connected? How we fit together? Surely the gods would not have made one without the other.”

“First off, child, you must get this Scandian nonsense of gods out of your mind. There is only the Mother and the Guardian—and the Shadow, which you will not speak of. Second, I agree that there is one woman for each man. The Mother made it so. Even for Scandians this is true, but it is your mother’s right to choose your consort. In that way, she assures your ancestry. I, myself, am a direct descendant from the House of Freyja. It is the mother who chooses.”

“My mother chooses wrong!”

“Hush, child. Such talk will only cause you agony. If your mother chooses Lothar for you, then the Mother will bless you.”

“I could never love Lothar. No matter what my mother promised him.” Her palms turned to fists. “I would die first. By my own hand.”

“Child, don’t say such things! By the grace of the Mother, your crime would be worse than Lothar’s!”

“Then help me. Please.”

The elder woman’s eyelids drooped. “You would ask me to betray the man who has saved my only son from death? That I cannot do. No matter what crimes he makes against the Mother by keeping you against your will.”

Whitefoot circled round, chattering in Emma’s ear.
 

“Then only leave the door open while you attend to me. You may close it when you leave. That is all I ask.”

“Why?” Bera raised her hands in second thought. “Nei. Don’t tell me.” She plumped the pillows with a knock of her fists, adjusting them at the head of the bed. “Finish your meal and we’ll be off to the baths.”

Emma broke apart pieces of the rose-shaped pastry, feeding Whitefoot. The polecat snatched the crumbs from her fingers as Emma giggled; then the door flew wide open without warning. Lothar’s wiry form loomed in the hall.
 

The lord settled a cold stare on Bera before commanding, “Leave us.”
 

He waved her off, and she scuttled out. Lothar slunk in the room.
 

“We have much to discuss, my love.”

Chapter XXVI

E
RIK
SQUINTED
,
ADJUSTING
TO
THE
faint light. His neck, shoulders and head all throbbed and his temples pounded like thrumming drums. Even after Hallad and he downed one too many horns of ale at their first Plow Blessing, his head had not produced such a rebellion. His stomach soured at the memory of Hallad, but the beating in his head banished the thoughts.

The room blurred around him as he tried to sit. His feet draped over the edge of two tiny mattresses stuffed with hay and pushed together to make a bed large enough for him to lie upon. Stone ceilings dipped downward, making it impossible to stand up straight. Gray stone walls crowded in on all sides, while half-sized furniture crammed the room. The only light shone from a single candle propped on a table the size of a milking stool.

As his lips parted, his dry skin cracked.
 

“Emma?” his voice caught in his throat.

“Brother!” Rolf leapt off a chair the size of a toddler’s seat to kneel by Erik’s side, his amber eyes gleaming. “Brother! By the grace of the Norns, you’re awake!”

Giggles sounded in the corner. Two sets of eyes peered at Erik.
 

“Papa, Papa,” their little voices squeaked. “The big one woke up.”
 

They popped out of the room as fast as little jack-rabbits, yelling all the way down the hall.

“Who . . . “