EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (94 page)

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.
 

This had better work.
 

The godhi’s son searched the clearing for a sign of Serpent Mother, only glimpsing a black cowl in the shadows of the outer hall. Hallad did not know if she watched him. His aunt had not even spoken to him after he announced his intentions to leave.

Hallad turned toward the gate, commanding his retinue to proceed. He reached into his pocket, the metal of the medallion hot under his touch as he repeated the words both the stranger who had saved his life, and the woman they called Goddess had uttered.
 

May the strength of the Guardian be with me.

Chapter XXXI

E
MMA
TENSED
,
WHILE
L
OTHAR
ROUNDED
the room, his presence raising the hairs on her forearms. Whitefoot nestled in her collar, rubbing his wet nose against the side of her neck. The polecat sent her comforting images that served to calm the chill rising within Emma. Lothar’s waxy grin melted into a thin line as his eyes calculated her.

“Sit down, my love. I am afraid I deliver tragic news.”

Emma’s muscles bunched even though she reclined back into the chair. Whitefoot continued nuzzling into her, but his message had changed. The polecat shot warning images into her mind.
 

“What news do you have for me, Lord Lothar?”

“Oh, love. Must you address me so formally?”

Emma met his question with mouth pressed. If she possessed Erik’s passion she would have spat. The thought of him sent strength up her spine.

Lothar’s gaze resembled compassion, though Emma thought his emotion hollow. The lord had become easier to read, especially when Whitefoot was near. The animal grounded her and she supposed the elderberry wine had completely drained from her system. Her thoughts were crystal for the first time in moons.

Lord Lothar reached out his narrow hand, placing his palm upon the smooth material of her dress. She would have jerked away, but at Whitefoot’s prodding she kept herself still.

“I deliver this news with the utmost compassion, love. It has been reported that your mother, Thyre, has been murdered.” His lips quaked, trying to hold themselves in place.

“My mother? Murdered?” Emma’s blood rushed. Her brow creased as she tried to absorb his statement. “Murdered?” A wobble formed in her chest, then her arms, her hands, her legs. Whitefoot tightened his grip around her neck, snuggling hard to her. “I don’t believe you. Who would murder my mother?”

“I am sorry, but I personally confirmed the news of your mother’s death.” His eyes flooded then, brimming as if he meant what he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He paused. “Hurt you with the news,” he clarified.

Tears rose, rimming Emma’s eyes, burning to escape. She heaved a huge breath. Her lungs released the air as a whimper.
 

“Why? Why would someone kill my mother?”
 

When was the last time she said she loved her mother? Why had she let herself become so removed from her? With Erik and Thyre’s long fight, she had resigned herself to think of her mother as the enemy, but now—now it was too late. Her shoulders quaked.

Lothar reached toward her, brushing her hair back from her face.
 

“We will catch the culprit. They will be punished.”
 

He lifted her chin, more gently than Emma thought him capable of, yet the movement incited fear, as if at any moment he could strike her and send her flailing. He wiped the tears streaming down her face with his fingers. Emma let him. She didn’t know what else to do, overcome with loss.

“But you must do something for me, to help me catch her slayer.”

Emma’s sobs lightened. She rubbed the back of her hands over her wet cheeks, Whitefoot licking the run-away tears escaping down her neck.
 

“What do you mean?”

“The woman who murdered your mother. I know her. With your help, I can capture her.”

Emma furrowed her forehead. “I don’t understand.”

“Your mother was killed by a woman traveling with your brother, Hallad.”

“My brother?”

“A tall, white-haired woman, with many names. She is known as the Svenna to many. Astrid to others. Mistress of Vend and Nyd and even Daughter of the Night. She is extremely dangerous.”

“You mean . . . “
 

A memory nudged the back of her head. Emma had never been able to recollect the events of the night she came to Holyfell. Lothar had assured her the loss was nothing more than exhaustion from the long trip, but she knew better.

“Listen to me carefully.”

Emma nodded, unsure.

“Do you see him in the dreams?”

Emma’s sense returned. Whitefoot stilled upon her shoulder, his button eyes resting upon the lord. Bera’s words shot through her head.
You must never speak of the dreams.

“What dreams? And who? Who are you talking about?”
 

She held her gaze steady, trying not to blink. She didn’t want to miss any signal from Lothar—the kind Whitefoot told her to watch for. Lothar’s eyes flicked to the polecat and back to Emma.

“It is very important, Emma. Think.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she repeated, hoping the words sounded truthful.

Lothar leaned close. She smelled his breath upon her—hot and heavy. He pulled her face within a hair’s distance from his own. Whitefoot’s hairs stood on end.

“I know you’ve seen Erik in your dreams. Do not lie to me.” Lothar continued in a shallow tone, “She will kill him if he comes to you, as she killed your mother.”

Emma twitched. Was he lying?
 

“Why would she kill him? Why did she kill my mother?”

His eyes flicked back and forth, examining her. “Because, she is something dark, something wicked. You must help me to trap her. It is the only way Erik will be safe. Hallad too. She will kill them both.”

Confusion swam inside Emma, kicking wildly.
 

“I don’t—“

“If Erik comes to you, tell him to go away, to never come back. Tell him you are content here. If he comes, she will kill him. She waits there in the dream. She waits for him. Do you understand?”

What had Bera said about the dreams? There was something dark about them, evil. Emma shook her head.

“If you care for him, as you say, you must do this.” His eyes dug a hole inside her. “You can save him.”

Whitefoot didn’t believe him. Emma knew this from the warning alarms he sent inside her mind. But how could she be sure? Slowly, she nodded.

“There, there. It is best this way. You’ll see. Erik will find someone new and forget all about you.”

The words tore through Emma. She thought she would die if he continued.
 

Erik. Oh, my Erik.

“But now, to fulfill your mother’s wish, we will wed. I have set the ceremony for the coming full moon and I have arranged to have the most spectacular dress woven for you, my love.”

Emma jerked back, pushing his hands off her.
 

“I will not marry you!” she half screamed, half sobbed.

Lothar tried to pull her back to him, but she refused, her mind racing.

“Don’t think of it now, love. Let the grief for your mother pass, but you realize this is what your mother would have wanted. You must carry out her wishes.”
 

The lord turned and exited.

Marry him
, thought Emma.
I’d rather die.

Chapter XXXII

B
ERA
HAD
NOT
RETURNED
FOR
what seemed like several candle-turns, though Holyfell did not burn candles. Rather, rocks glowed at the touch of Bera’s palm and with the hum in her throat, and try as Emma might, she could not replicate the effect.

Day turned to night, the silver stars blinking outside Emma’s window. When she was a child, her mother had told her stars were the house fires of all the gods and goddesses of Scandia—they watched over mankind from their high perch. Bera had told her there was no such thing as gods and goddesses—only the Mother, her Guardian and the Shadow. Could the woman Lothar spoke of be the Shadow? Or part of it?

Her mind flashed to her mother. In her grief, she hadn’t even asked Lothar if her mother received a proper pyre or if the runes were writ upon her gravestone. Had she died in Steadsby or somewhere else? How was she murdered? By hand, by poison, by knife, or by sword?

A flash of metal lit her memory—the woman in the Great Wood with a sword lying on the ground by her side. She squeezed her eyes shut with the recollection, allowing the thought to quicken. The sword bore her father’s signet, the Guardian Tree digging mighty roots into the earth; not unlike the sigil worn by all the people of Holyfell. But her mind hit the wall of haze, the visions dissolving into a void.

Wracked by grief, Emma snuggled down with Whitefoot, who snored in the crook of her arm, and gave in to exhaustion.

A light hum awoke Emma. The door opened; Bera’s girth spanned its width.
 

“Child?” Her voice soothed her as if she still hummed. “Are you awake?”