Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure (17 page)

"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."

Erik 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 . . . "

"Don’t try to speak.
Elder Eitri says you’ve worked a powerful magic. You are lucky to be out of it,
brother."

"Telling stories
again?" Erik’s head spun as he sat up. If there had been anything in his
stomach, the contents would have visited Rolf’s tunic.

Steps echoed against
stone as a man no higher than Rolf’s waist ambled in. He pressed down on Erik’s
chest, forcing him back down into the bed. The two children peeked out from
around his girth.

"Easy now, lad. You’ve
had a time of it." The little man’s eyes shone when he spoke, his mouth
turning up at the ends. Erik spotted a pouch around the man’s waist, much like
the one that lying seidr-wife from the Temple wore. He pinched his eyes shut
against the memory and cleared it from his mind.

The man produced a foul
smelling herb from the pouch, waving the twig in front of Erik’s nose. The
scent stung at the back of his throat but the thrumming in his head receded.

"Ysja, bring water.
He’s woken up," said the little man.

"Who . . . " Erik
tried sitting again, only to be pressed back down by both Rolf and the man.

"My, you are
feisty." His mouth retained a perpetual smile as he spoke. "I’m
Andvarri and you are in the Village of Gnarn. Our hunters mistook you and your
brother for Scandian gold seekers, but the poison shouldn’t have caused you
more than a few minutes of unconsciousness. You spun yourself into a powerful
spell, trapping yourself in the Shadow. We thought you might be lost," the
little man explained as if he spoke to one of his children.

A woman, a head shorter
than Andvarri, scuttled in. Her chestnut skirts rustled against her stark apron
as she hustled to the man’s side. Plaited braids hung down past the woman's
belt. She held a crafted mettle pot in her stunted hands. The two strangers
looked like mushrooms standing in the shade of a wiry tree next to Rolf.

Andvarri and the woman
gazed at one another like lovers reuniting after a long separation. "And
this is my wife Ysja."

"Papa." The
boy peeked around his father’s waist, pulling at his tunic.

"Ja," he
smiled. "And these are my children, who are going to be fed to the giants
if they don’t behave."

They giggled, peering
around Andvarri so Erik could see them. Then they scampered to Rolf and hid
underneath the tower his legs created. "Ah, papa. Rolfy won’t eat us!"

"He will so,"
said Rolf.

They laughed again,
pulling at the hem of Rolf’s tunic. "Rolfy, will your brother tell us
stories, too?"

Rolf ruffled the hair on
each of their heads. "Nei. I think he needs to rest, but perhaps when he’s
better."

Erik examined his
company then asked Rolf, "Dwarves?"

"And you thought
they were just one of my stories."

Erik snorted.

"There are many
stories about us, as your talented brother has told us, yet none quite true. Nei.
We are men, just like you and Rolf. Only smaller."

Ysja poured Erik a glass
of water. Like the furniture, the cup was in miniature. He enveloped the glass
in his grip and gulped, wetting his lips and throat.

"Then will you tell
us a story, Rolfy?" asked the boy.

"Perhaps this
evening if you are good and do what your father tells you."

"Now," said
Andvarri. "You must run and tell the Elder our guest has awoken."

The children raced from
the room, arguing over who would be first to Elder Eitri’s house.

"How long have I
been sleeping?" Erik asked.

"Two days." Rolf’s
amber eyes simmered with concern.

"Two days?" Erik
lurched up, swinging his feet around to the floor, throwing back the rough
woolen blanket.

"Oh, my,"
yelped Ysja.

"Where are my
boots?"