Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Matthews, Mande

  The air smelled sweeter than any she could recall. Colors were more vibrant—her dress a deeper red than any shade she’d ever seen. The walls shone brighter, the stone was smoother, blankets softer. Dizziness washed over her again as she tried to reason, but the barrier of haze returned, blocking any recollection.

  If only I can clear my mind. Think.

  The door opened. Emma hadn’t noticed it before, hidden within sculpted landscapes. A man filled its breadth, his lips stretched in a smile, dark eyes glinting. His frost white hair shot back from his temples. Tall and limber, he appeared as if he could bend in all directions without ever breaking a bone. The indigo of his shirt intertwined with gold. Billowing sleeves depicted a mighty tree digging its roots into a bubbling spring, deep within the folds of the earth. The symbol scratched at her memory, but Emma could not place the image. She thought the emblem should be embroidered, but like the dress and blankets, the design didn't show any sign of stitches.

  The man gripped two enormous wolves by the scruffs on either side of him. He seemed annoyed at holding them back, but Emma sensed their desire to meet her. She smiled affectionately at the wolves, one silver, and the other onyx. They panted, pulling away from their master. The man reluctantly let go and they barreled toward Emma, wagging their tails and licking her face in greeting. She giggled, rubbing their ears.

  "Enough." The beasts cowered at the man’s command, slinking back to their master’s side.

  "Welcome," said the man as he spread his arms outward. "I hope you find your accommodations in order."

  Emma caught sight of her less than maiden-like attire and snatched the blankets tight.

  "Quite hospitable, but where . . . "

  Her tongue thickened in her mouth, her voice harsh next to the man’s flowing tone.

  "I am Lothar, Guardian of Holyfell, second lineage of the house of Heimdal and dyra-sogn, a caller." His smile turned genuine at the last of his introduction.

  Emma didn’t understand the strange titles and her nerves bunched.

  Lothar crossed the room, slippers swishing on the marble floor as he glided. The wolves followed in his wake, sniffing at Emma, though sticking to their master's side. Lothar propped himself up against a slick stone ledge. Her host surveyed her curiously.

  Emma fidgeted; she felt bare in front of him with her dress no more than underclothes.

  A thought broke through the haze and she blurted, "Erik? Where’s Erik?"

  "He attends your mother," said Lothar nonchalantly.

  After a loud clap of the man's lank hands, a servant scuttled in carrying a tray with a container and goblets. Like the odd chamber, the wares swirled with designs too deft for even the finest potter.

  "My mother?" Emma chewed the fullness of her lower lip.

  "Why of course. Your mother sent you here." The lean man moved around her like a twig bending in the wind. "To make a pact with this country."

  "That couldn't be." Emma closed her eyes, forcing herself to puzzle through the haze. Her head ached. "What sort of pact?"

  While pouring cherry-colored liquid into each gilt glass, Lothar locked his gaze on the girl as a cat surveys its supper. He handed her a goblet.

  Emma noted how the wolf’s haunches quivered as the silver wolf padded to her side. She scratched his thick fur, his sleekness comforting under her palms; as she did, she connected with the beast. Her mind filled with the image of the goblet. Its foul liquid spilled over the lip, melting the gold as it spewed over. Emma blinked. The image vanished. She stared at the cup without reaching for it.

  Lothar’s face tightened, his jaw line fluttering.

  "Svol! Arvak! Go."

  The wolves tucked their tails and slunk out of the room. The servant woman bowed her head as quickly as the wolves had cowered, and crept from the chamber as well.

  Lothar looked at Emma with renewed interest, taking in every piece of her until his eyes caught hers and a broad smile darkened his pale face. His leer sent a wave of nausea into her throat.

  "What do you mean by pact? With what country? And where did this dress come from?" Emma bit her lip, realizing her emotions raced before her tongue.

  Lothar pushed the goblet into her hand, forcing her to take hold. He grasped her arm, guiding her to stand.

  "A lovely gown and it fits you well. Quite well."

  Heat rose in Emma’s cheeks. Even Erik would not have ogled her so indecently.

  Erik! Her memory snapped. "Erik would not be with my mother."

  "They have come to an understanding for what is in your best interest." Lothar closed in on her, lifting his cup to his lips. "Drink. You would not deny me the manners of a proper host, would you?"

  In one even swig, the lord emptied his goblet.

  "Thank you, but I’m not thirsty."

  Emma wished the wolves had stayed. She understood them, as she did most animals. Humans were more complex, masking their emotions under complicated motivations.

  Lothar cocked his head curiously. Then he turned his back to her, pouring himself another glass.

  "You won't find a sweeter berry anywhere—the finest in all of Alvenheim, cultivated by the few songvaris left."

  He swiveled back around and sipped his drink while eyeing Emma over the edge of the glass.

  Emma's head spun. Alvenheim. Songvaris. What was he talking about?

  She wrestled to retain the images of her family and fix them in her mind. The pain in her head thrummed. She touched her temples, her sun-kissed hair falling into her face. Emma’s throat stung as she looked at the ruby substance inside the glass.

  Maybe one sip. Maybe it will ease the ache in my head.

  She held the cup to her lips, the coolness of the rim soothing. Lothar crossed the short distance between them, smiling down on her.

  Emma drank. The sweet substance swamped her mouth, trailing down her throat. Before she realized it, she’d drained her glass. She sank back comfortably as a warm tingle filled her belly and limbs.

  "I knew you would like it. It's elderberry wine with a drop of something special."

  His smile broadened.

  Emma beamed back at him. The tension released from her head with a pleasant buzz, all her troubles forgotten. All memories erased.

  Lothar reached for her, running his slippery hand over her cheek.

  "You really are a beautiful girl, even if you are a Scandian."

  Chapter 8

  "Emma!" Erik called.

  A man circled Emma. He looked like melted wax—slippery, pale and ever-changing. Emma’s face flushed pink. Her scent, the subtle fragrance of linnea flowers, filled Erik. His vision appeared vivid—bright and alive—but far away, as if he watched the scene through a dark tunnel.

  "Emma!" he yelled again, without her notice.

  Erik tried to edge closer but couldn't find his limbs. The man’s indigo sleeves fluttered as he walked, his lanky fingers wrapped around a gilt goblet. Liquid swished inside, gathering momentum as he rolled the contents, a wily smile dominating his thin face.

  Though Scandians were fair skinned, this man’s coloring appeared exaggerated. His waxy skin and frost blonde hair reminded Erik of the swan maiden. Except, unlike the woman, this man oozed a sordidness, warning Erik of perversions lurking below the surface.

  A din roared in Erik's ears, drowning out Emma’s and the man’s speech. He fought to scoot closer again, but again he failed.

  Emma held the cup to her lips.

  "Emma, nei!"

  His beloved paused; she looked over the lip of the goblet, thick lashes sweeping upward in search of the ceiling.

  "Nei, Emma! Don’t drink anything he offers. I do not trust him."

  Her bright eyes searched the room. Then she sipped. A dizzy gaze washed over Emma’s face and she beamed. Erik adored the fact that her smile stretched all the way into her eyes, lighting sparkles within her gray irises. But Emma wasn’t smiling for him, and his chest constricted at the scene. The man slunk close, grazing the back of his
hand across her face.

  Suddenly, they vanished and blackness pervaded Erik’s vision. The dark walls rolled inward until he floated in obscurity.

  Erik, a voice intoned.

  "Who's there?"

  Here, the voice said again, echoing through the black space.

  Erik searched for the source, only meeting dark veils, as if his eyelids refused to open. He twitched and writhed. He had to get back to Emma. Free her. Kill the man who dared to lay his hand upon her.

  Erik, this is not the way. The voice sounded behind him.

  A smoke-colored landscape appeared out of the darkness. Erik’s tunic and trousers, cloaked in a charcoal haze, blended into the environment. He whirled around, and realized his feet didn’t touch ground. His body floated in a half circle without the aid of his limbs, until he faced the swan woman. Her milky skin appeared translucent, the shadowy background filtering through her figure. She lifted her hand, touching Erik’s shoulder.

  "Where's Emma?" he demanded.

  Her iron eyes seemed softer—kinder than he remembered. Instead of answering, she waved her free hand and hummed. The tone rushed through him, tugging at his emotions; it was filled with both sweetness and sorrow. Her body solidified.

  Erik blinked.

  "I'm dreaming."

  In a way, she responded, but her lips remained shut even though her voice spilled through the air.

  Her humming continued, weaving through the gloom, as the gray of Erik’s clothing brightened to white and his limbs materialized.

  "I have to get to Emma."

  I know, but you must find another way. Her words spun around him, resounding from all directions.

  "Brother!" Another voice invaded his head.

  The woman’s face contorted, swirling, distorting until she looked like a white swan with blue-black eyes. Wings fluttered. The waxy man’s lean face flashed, his mouth twisting into a snarl. Emma's gray eyes danced and her cherry stained lips opened, calling Erik’s name. The song resonated through it all, curling in and out, filling the air like a choir.

  You must find another way.

  "Wake up. You’re having a nightmare."

  Erik’s eyes ripped open. He grabbed Rolf’s tunic, bunching the homespun fabric up in his fingers.

  "Hey! Watch out," said Rolf, loosening his grip on his brother’s shoulders. "You’ll wrinkle the material."

  The night sky lit up their camp, casting a glow on the surrounding trees. Embers burned in the banked campfire. Puffs of the young men's breath drifted in the air. Across from the ebbing fire, Hallad and the young woman slept in goose-down bedrolls. Hallad had offered his own roll to the brothers, but Erik refused. Though Rolf pouted, he had followed his brother’s lead and had wrapped himself in his mantle, settling close to the warming flames.

  "Brother," Rolf pleaded, reaching around to pry Erik’s hands from his tunic, "it’s the only shirt I own."

  Erik let go and sprang up. He tore around the fire to find the young woman burrowed in her bedroll.

  "Erik, what are you doing?" Rolf skittered over to his brother’s side. "Come brother, we’ve had a long couple of days. Let them sleep."

  "She’s not sleeping."

  Barely visible in the dim light, the young woman’s eyes popped open. She scrambled to her booted feet, facing Erik. Her hair strung around her shoulders, looking even whiter in the moonlight, and Erik recalled the pale coloring of man from his dream.

  "What did you mean by another way?"

  Rolf cut in. "Brother, she hasn’t spoken since we met her."

  Erik waved his arm, flashing a warning glance at Rolf, and repeated, "What did you mean?"

  The young woman stared back with iron hard eyes.

  Hallad rolled to his side, wiping his broad hands over his face. His chiseled bones deepened in the firelight as if carved of stone. A tired groan reverberated in his chest as he tossed the bedroll aside and stood, exposing his bare feet to the crisp night air. The downy hair across his well-muscled chest and arms refused to rise and Erik wondered how he withstood the frigid temperature. By far he was the tallest of the group—aside from the young woman, who stood nearly as tall as he—and his shadow cast a long darkness over them, as if they stood beside a mighty tree.

  Hallad sought the woman. Their eyes met simultaneously, locking for a brief moment, seeming to speak secretly before disengaging. Erik tensed, the muscles twitching under his skin. How much influence did this woman hold over his friend?

  "Come, blood brother." Hallad’s low voice contained a commanding quality. Erik wasn’t sure Hallad was even aware of the tone, which had persuaded him, time after time, on timbre alone. "We need to get some rest. We still have many days of travel before we reach Birka."

  "She knows," said Erik.

  "Knows what?" Hallad and Rolf asked in unison.

  Hallad’s forehead creased and worry plagued his face. The woman turned away, walking into the night. Erik tried to grab her arm but ended up with a fist full of air.

  "Tell me!" Erik yelled after her. "Tell me where Emma is!"

  Hallad stepped in front of him, blocking Erik’s line of sight to the woman.

  "Erik, you are tired. You need to rest."

  "Nei!"

  Both Hallad and Rolf wore concern etched into their features.

  "She knows! She told me I . . . "

  Hallad’s worry changed to condescending, halting Erik’s speech. Rolf appeared frightened that his elder brother danced with the Shadow of Loki. Erik turned, kicking the ground with his foot, sending dirt into the fire pit.

  "She hasn’t spoken since we met her," said Hallad, as if speaking to an upset child. "How could she tell you anything?"

  "And why doesn’t she speak? She knows, for Odin’s wisdom, she knows and she won’t tell me!"

  He bent, picking up pebbles to toss in the fire, throwing them one after the other with a flick of his wrist, causing the charred wood to crack and crumble.

  Rolf and Hallad exchanged a worried glance.

  "They say when you have seen too much, the gods take away your speech," Rolf offered.

  "Forget it. You wouldn’t understand."

  Erik chucked his last stone into the embers. The pebble clinked against burnt wood, sparks flying. He stalked across the distance, thumped to the ground and rolled himself in his cloak, wishing the dream would seize him again.

  Hallad and Rolf exchanged hushed words from the other side of their camp. Erik suspected they discussed him, but ignored them both. He lay awake until the others settled down. Emma’s sweet face floated in his memory as he fought off the stinging under his eyelids.

  After the others nodded off, Erik rummaged through his saddlebag until he found Emma’s golden key. He fumbled with his fingers, affixing the charm around his neck, tucking the piece beneath his tunic. He placed his hand over the key, his heartbeat thrumming under the metal, as a dreamless sleep captured him.

  Chapter 9

  After days of travel, they stood upon a rocky precipice surveying the landscape below. The wild waters of the river Syrra, with the gulf of the Sea of Gods gulping at her head, cut into the canyon banks and separated the group from their destination. Their path led to a wooden bridge strung across a chasm hundreds of feet above the raging waters. Bridge met road and continued downward into the tangle of the city. The bustling port city of Birka ranged from nordr to sudr. It was the largest establishment Hallad had ever seen, spread beneath them like a jewel at the edge of a boundless sea.

  As they descended, an array of fish and salt smells burned Hallad’s nostrils. His stomach groaned. His father had packed plenty of dried meats and breads but Hallad longed for the taste of fresh food, especially after a few nights of Rolf’s burnt rabbit.

  "We'll get a hot meal, supplies and a warm bed for the night before we seek the Temple."

  Rolf stuck his chin in the air. His sparse hairs—an attempt at growing a beard—poked in all directions.

  "I don't take orders from the godh
i's son."

  "We should have left you at home embroidering with the women," Erik replied.

  The elder brother grew more irritable with each day of their travel. Hallad spent most of his time worrying over Erik’s wellbeing, defusing fights between the brothers and trying to keep Erik from hounding Swan, the name they had taken to calling their travel companion. Though Swan stayed close by his side she remained elusive, even refusing Hallad when he tried to tend to her bandage. A stolen peek of the wound he had inflicted the night they had met rested his mind though; the incision had healed quickly, forming over with pink skin.

  "It's all right, Erik. What would you have us do, Rolf?"

  "I would . . . " Rolf hesitated, glancing at Erik. "I would find a good meal, supplies and a soft bed." He smiled his toothy grin. "And a horn of warm ale for my belly."

  Hallad rolled his eyes. Erik hinted at a smile. Swan bore what resembled a smirk. Hallad swiveled his head to hers—he'd never seen her smile—but by the time he looked again her carved face appeared as straight as a sword. For the first time he wondered if she understood their conversations and cursed his presumptions.

  "And a fine young maid's bottom to pinch," added Rolf.

  Erik and Hallad both sniggered. Hallad chanced a glance at Swan, but her face remained stone. As they continued down the path, Rolf recited Lokesenna, acting out the contest of insults between the gods with exaggerated gestures.

  Finally, they passed under the thick beams of the entry way to Birka, the weighty doors swung wide open in welcome. The city bustled. People bumped into one another—some offered a hearty pardon, while others fought over the unexcused offense. The aroma of fresh fish, oysters, mussels, grains, spices and whale fat wafted through the streets as merchants hawked their wares in any space they found that would fit their carts and blankets.

  "We’ll find lodging and stables for the horses first," said Hallad. "We should have time for supplies before dusk."

  Hallad led the crew, horses in tow, through the packed streets. As civilians noted Swan’s leather breastplate and impressive broadsword, they backed away, giving her wide berth. An occasional passerby crossed their index fingers together in order to flash the warding sign in her direction. Hallad tensed under the continual scrutiny, wishing for a nocked arrow and the familiar slickness of the green wood of his bow in his hand.