Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (22 page)

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.

Emma tensed, while
Lothar 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.

Bera 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?"

"I’m awake, Bera."

Emma sat upright as
Whitefoot stretched in her arms, opening one eye to peer at them.

"Let’s be off to
the baths, child."

Bera crossed the room.
Her eyes dropped as she helped Emma out of bed. The old woman’s shoulders
slumped, her mouth in a frown.

"Is everything
alright? You seem—"

"Fine, child. Don’t
you worry for this old woman." She paused, lifting her eyes to meet
Emma’s. "I heard of your mother. I am sorry."

Emma grimaced. "Thank
you Bera."

"She is returned to
the Mother’s breast now. Let that rest your mind."

Emma nodded.

"Let us be off to
the baths. I would have come earlier, but . . . I was detained."

Emma complied, gathering
a fresh nightdress from the closet. At first Emma thought the custom strange—the
luxury of an entire room for dresses, shoes and jewelry—but now the convenience
seemed rather reasonable.

How could Emma tell Erik
she would be happier without him? The thought hung inside her like a dangling
rope. Lothar could not be right. The lord lied—terrible, awful, painful deceits.
They churned inside her like a knife in her belly, but Bera would know the
truth.

The older woman’s
shoulders slumped as she walked, leading Emma through the expanse of hallways
in the castle of Holyfell. The stone-carved walls glowed, lighting their way
through the maze of endless corridors. The jumble of hallways confused her and
Emma would have found herself lost had Bera not chaperoned her wherever she
went. At some point, she realized the runes must act like road signs and she resolved
to study them whenever she was allowed to leave her room.

Bera kept her pace two
steps in front of Emma as if she didn’t want to face her. Instinctively Emma
knew something troubled the woman. Unlike Lothar, Bera’s emotions brimmed at
the top like an animal’s with no intent to deceive. Emma would not have pushed
an issue in such delicate circumstances, but tonight she required the truth
about the dreams. If Erik appeared to her tonight, she needed to have made a
decision. The thought of him in danger because of her sickened her, sending
sharp pains into her stomach.

They entered the bathing
room, a large, rounded chamber with huge stone tubs carved in to the floors. Out
of the stone grew massive serpent heads, rising up as if ready to strike. The
tall walls met a transparent ceiling, made from an unfathomable material. Stars
glistened through, adding subtle lighting to the shining walls.

Emma removed her shoes,
warmth searing her soles from the heated floor. Bera hummed a series of
melodies while running her palms across runes set inside the doorway. The doors
closed, as water spat from the serpents’ mouths, flowing into one of the
circular baths. Emma sat on the edge of the stone floor, waiting for the warm
water—warm!—to rise to her feet.

Bera settled herself
behind Emma, untied the lace holding closed the back of her dress and helped
her slip the gown up over her head.

"Bera?" Emma
spoke so quietly she almost could not hear herself. The word hung in the air,
mixing with the sound of running water. She turned to meet the old woman’s eyes
but Bera averted her gaze.

Emma sighed, lifted her
hand and placed her palm upon Bera’s hand. Bera lifted her head, looking at
Emma, questioning.

"I know there is
something wrong with you this evening."

Bera twitched.

"But I won’t
pressure you to speak of it, only if you need a friend." Emma smiled.

Bera returned an
uncomfortable grimace.

"But I also need a
friend tonight. I have to ask you about the dreams."