All the while, the cavern glowed as if natural light reflected from above and shot downward. Erik spotted the cause: strategically placed panels of crystal bounced light from outside, from panel to panel, until the entire cavern glistened with daylight, except it contained the additional infusion of rainbow colors throughout.
"Come," said Seretta.
Rolf’s feet tangled beneath him as he stared at the hidden city. He stumbled. He cleared his throat. He attempted to stick his eyeballs back in their sockets.
A man dressed in grayish-beige trousers and a tunic approached. The tonal color of his attire reflected the man’s monochromatic appearance. He had medium-length blonde hair. Or was it brown? Or grayish? His eyes seemed a smoke-colored hue as well. Or were they blue? None of his features seemed pronounced. In fact, the man was plainly unremarkable. Erik would never tell him apart in a crowd. The only attribute slightly unusual about him was the handful of mint leaves. Upon reaching the duo, the man stuck one in his mouth and chewed.
"Weyland." Seretta tipped her chin to the man.
"A pleasure to see you safe. I assume your escape from Grimnear fared well as I find you here among us."
She nodded. "Thanks to you."
He tipped his chin in acceptance of her acknowledgment.
"If it weren’t for Weyland," Seretta explained to Rolf, "I would have remained trapped in Grimnear. He was undercover as Lothar’s ward and one night, helped me to escape."
"You were in Lothar’s service?" asked Rolf.
"Only to procure certain knowledge. I seek out songvaris who wish to escape the near-enslavement of the Palace and persecution of the Conspirators." Weyland studied Rolf but spoke to Seretta. "And who is this disciple you’ve brought to us?"
Erik’s temples tightened at the word "disciple."
"His name is Rolf Sigtriggson, and though he hails from Scandia, he shows superior ability in the touch of the Mother. I believe he will excel to songvari immediately."
Weyland spread his hands wide, "Welcome to our humble home, Rolf of Scandia."
Rolf’s jaw dropped. "Humble? More like the land of the gods!"
"He jests," said Seretta.
"Nei, I’m serious this time," corrected Rolf.
Seretta sighed. "Sometimes his jests are hard to tell from his earnestness."
"A habit we’ll have to break him of." Weyland smiled. Or did he frown? Then the light caught his irises, and Erik swore he registered a glimmer of yellow.
"Here in Asheim, you’ll find sanctuary. We are separate from the conflicts of Glitner and the Conspirators. We lead a peaceful existence and stay well hidden from the rest of the lands. There’s freedom to grow your ability in touch here and many teachers to guide you. Make yourself at ease, young Rolf."
"I am a scald," said Rolf, grinning. "I can earn my keep. I possess a vast knowledge of lays and kennings, like the Lay of Fenrir, or The Marriage of Thor, and some funny little ditties I thought up myself."
"The Lay of Fenrir?" Weyland glanced down, studying the ground.
"The trickster god’s fearsome monster-wolf."
"Loki’s monster-wolf, you say?" Weyland’s voice remained flat.
"A hideous beast! The son of the Shadow himself!"
"You don’t say," replied Weyland. "And how gruesome would this beast be?"
"Terrible! Ten times the size of a regular wolf, and yet he stands on his hind legs like a man. Drool runs from his mouth—poisonous to the touch. Claws the length of spears pierce from his paws, able to saw a man in half with one swipe. His strength is that of an army, and he takes delight in killing. Truly, the worst creation to spring from the gods." Rolf’s speech sped. He waved his mantle around him. "I can recite the lay now if you wish!"
"You realize there is nei such thing as gods. There’s the Mother, the Guardian, and the Shadow, which we do not speak about."
Rolf pressed his lips into a straight line, his excitement draining out of him.
"I’ve told him before," said Seretta, "but his enthusiasm for these Scandian fantasies outweighs his logic."
"He’s young," agreed Weyland.
Rolf puffed his chest. "I'm old enough to be considered a man where I hail from."
Weyland continued, "There’s nei need for scalds here. You participate in song, and all will be provided."
Seretta closed her eyes. Rolf glanced sideways at her, tentatively.
Weyland closed his as well. "Feel the Mother welcome you."
Rolf’s gaze bounced from songvari to songvari. Everyone, within sight in the crystal city of Asheim, closed their eyes as well and stood still.
Then all began to sway as if wavering to music only they could hear. After more uncertain glances, Rolf soon followed suit, sinking his eyelids over his irises, and he too, joined in the music-less dance.
What a bunch of senseless ninnies, thought Erik.
Then bumps ran the length of Erik’s spine, not because of the bizarre swaying of the songvaris' performance, but because of the sensation of being watched—like eyes crawled up the back of his skull.
Chapter 18
Erik swiveled, examining the crystalline walls, the house-like structures, the pathways and tunnels, yet saw no one. The strange tug of being observed still slid across his neck and back, yet the surveyor seemed distant, as if in another realm.
He focused his mind, and crossed the shimmery texture of mist, back into the gray-shifting landscape of the in-between world.
"Who’s there?" he called.
His words echoed into the space.
"I know you’re watching. Show yourself."
Loki, nei doubt.
The Shadow had remained silent in the days since Rolf confronted him at the edge of Ginnungagap when he’d been so desperate to get to Emma. If it weren’t for his little brother, Erik would have sacrificed his soul to the man—or god.
Whatever he is, he’s nei good—a shiftless shadow seeking the life-blood of men.
The haze slipped around him, covering his feet, ankles, and shins. Asheim still played over the periphery like a cloud drifting in the sky.
"Only a coward hides in the mist," he yelled.
Erik waited. He sucked in a breath, clenching and releasing his fingers.
"I won’t play games with you."
This time, a figure appeared through the smoke. To Erik’s surprise, the form seemed feminine. Long robes clung to a womanly figure—a slender waist, and swinging hips. She slid closer until Erik discerned her features: Ravenna, First of Glitner.
Her form remained transparent as if she didn’t possess the power to transport herself completely into the shadowwalk. Wisps of smoke blew through her shape. Her body wavered.
"Why are you spying on me," Erik demanded.
"Not spying, just testing your ability." The First’s voice rang through the space as if she meant to sing her announcement but settled for words instead. The lilt in her tone slithered over Erik’s skin, and for a moment, her voice lulled him, not unlike Seretta’s once had.
"I’m not a performing pig at Frey’s Festival to keep you amused."
Ravenna smiled, and the action lit up her face like a candle in a room. She possessed a goddess-like exterior—flawless skin withstanding the mark of the black raven tattooed on her cheek, night-black hair with a tint of mahogany, and a shape appropriate for worship. He’d be charmed, if he were a ninny like Rolf. Or if he wasn’t so smitten with Emma.
But truth be told, Erik had eyes for his sweetheart alone, and the comeliness of another could never cause his feelings of dedication to his girl to waver—regardless of this woman’s unnatural attraction.
"You’re powerful," Ravenna stated.
Erik narrowed his eyes. He had a hunch if he spent too much time in her company, he’d have a headache from constantly having to read past her tightly constructed façade. Besides, the tone of her voice made him dizzy. He scrunched his brow, focusing on the contents of her words, rather than the melodious sound.
"With so much strength in the walk, you’re open to the call of the Shadow."
Erik snorted. As if that didn’t happen already.
"You’ll require a mentor. Someone strong in the touch to keep you safe."
"I suppose that would be you."
The First closed the distance between them, but her figure continued to shimmer. She swayed, her hip extending to one side. Her pony tail spilled over her shoulder, dangling at her waist. She stroked its length.
"I am the logical choice."
He blew more air through his nose. Does she think me an idiot? Only a man with a mind full of mutton would fall for such obvious maneuvering.
Erik hated, not just hated, but possessed a venomous abhorrence of women who used their sexuality to manipulate men. He imagined his mother—not the stepmother he shared with Rolf—but his birth mother had been such a harlot given her livelihood as a prostitute at the docks of Birka; any inkling of the cloying quality in a female turned his gut to stone. He would have grown up orphaned at the dock-side, or perhaps as a thrall on a ship if his father hadn’t claimed him and paid his wergild price in silver, releasing him from bondage. And the trouble Erik had caused his father when Sigtrig brought home the dark-haired bastard child to Steadsby and asked his wife to raise the child as his own? His father’s wife had reluctantly accepted him after falling heavy with Rolf, but he was never treated as an equal—by her or by any of the villagers in Steadsby, save Hallad and Emma. And of course, Rolf. Always Rolf.
"I will not be trained by you, or anyone else." The veins in Erik’s neck throbbed. "Nor will Emma or I be used in any way for your means, the means of the Palace, or this land. You can muddle in all the conflict you wish, but we will have nei part of it. Understand?"
Erik waited for her argument. Instead, she glanced behind him, searching the air. He swiveled his head, following her gaze, but saw nothing except the ever-changing landscape of mist. Her eyes glazed with a distant look, but she finally returned her attention to him.
"You miss your brother, don’t you?"
Her unexpected change in conversation caused him to shift his weight side to side.
She knows about Rolf?
"It’s hard not to have a comrade—one that knows you through and through. One who supports you. One that accepts you for who you are without question. Your brother was such a man for you. I can imagine you miss him terribly."
"Emma accepts me for who I am." Erik’s brows sagged like rocks on the edge of a precipice.
Ravenna smiled again, her face a dazzle of light against the black of the raven tattoo. "Of course. But she’s a caller, and a caller’s first love is the animals she’s bonded with. Sometimes there is nei room for a mere man when their connection to their creatures runs so intimately."
"You don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Don’t I? You see how she communicates with that polecat in a way that you can’t possibly do with her. And the reindeer—her instant rapport marks her as the most gifted caller in ages. It’s natural for her to cling to them harder than any human."
"You’re wrong." But even as Erik argued, he remembered Emma’s reaction to the wolves.
"I don’t doubt she loves you, but I thought you needed to know the truth about callers. You’ve nei experience of them where you come from, and they are different than the rest of us."
"She’s not different. She’s Scandian just like me." Erik fiddled with the hem of his tunic. Normally, he would have reached for the key tethered around his neck with a cord. Its absence left him feeling naked.
"Of course," replied Ravenna.
The First lifted her gaze from him and watched the shifting landscape in the periphery. Asheim still pooled across the mist, Rolf and Seretta visible through the smoke.
Ravenna’s eyes leveled on Seretta. A strange expression crossed her face, but Erik was unable to distinguish the meaning as the woman kept a tight rein on her movements, and any flash of emotion was promptly replaced with a placid façade.
Her body flickered until it faded into the background. She blinked out of sight for a moment.
"I need to go," she said, as her body reappeared. Mist invaded her limbs and ate away at her rounded hips and trim waist. "But remember this: Even those in Asheim are under an illusion. You can’t stand for one virtue and tolerate the opposite. It’s impossible to remain in the middle. At some point, Erik Sigtriggson of Scandia, everyone must choose a side."
Then the vapor encompassed her chest, neck, and head, and the First of Glitner disappeared.
Chapter 19
Astrid strode through the Palace grounds seeking solitude—she needed to quiet the dark thoughts besieging her mind—but Glitner teemed with people. She’d abandoned the gardens, the main hall, and even her chamber, as a Giver was assigned to her room. Ravenna claimed the woman was there to help her with simple tasks that required the touch of the Mother, such as calling bath or drinking water and opening doors, but Astrid suspected the First planted the Giver as a spy, so she continued her hunt for an unoccupied space.
I need to be alone. To sort out these thoughts.
"Those thoughts" pummeled her like pelting hail. Hallad’s whereabouts still flashed in her mind, but the weightiest thought of all gnawed in her gut.
Am I dark, or am I light?
Her mother believed her light, and the Shadow proclaimed her dark. She knew both lived within her—she could feel it—but how could they survive together? Would one eventually outweigh the other?
Astrid had retrieved her sword, and it hung sheathed in her scabbard at her side. The presence of her iron garnered sideways glances as she crossed the courtyard of the Guardian’s Hall. Men, for all Palace Guardians were male, halted at her passing. Their indigo sleeves fluttered in the breeze waving the symbol of the Guardian Tree digging its roots into a bubbling spring. They all wore slippers but Astrid thought the choice an oddity. She had overheard the thinness of the material provided a better connection with the Mother but didn’t protectors require sturdy soles and sure footing?
The men’s stares followed her. Astrid straightened her back and crossed the lawn, then exited through an archway.
Is there nei place to be alone in this city?
She continued onward, ignoring the concerned stares and nervous eyes flitting toward her sword as she passed, her mind preoccupied with darker thoughts.
She examined the black space inside. Still there. But what is it? If I open to the song, what will happen?
Then the young woman spotted a narrow pathway that led between two towering flader bush entwined buildings. Astrid edged into the tight alleyway. The corridor continued for hundreds of paces before reopening at the opposite end of the buildings. She glanced behind and in front of her. Citizens strolled by the entrances, but none bothered to look inside.
Astrid sighed. It will have to do.
Balin had taught her that sliding into the action of her sword calmed one’s mind. And her mother had always believed in her. Believed she’d succeed. Believed she’d open her heart and ultimately sing. And most of all, believed Astrid was a product of light—her ljos she had called her—and the young woman longed for her mother’s assuredness.
But Mamma was wrong. Has she paid dearly for her belief in me? She thought of her mother, and the fact that no sign of her had appeared, and she struggled to keep from thinking the worst.
Then, there was Hallad. Everything she did disappointed him. He was so logical. So restrained. So moral. And yet, she couldn’t help herself. Her feelings seemed to overcome her logic as if the bad thing inside her prompted her to act against her own morality every time.
Since she’d left her mother and Balin so many moons ago, she used her sword as a balm for her ills. Now she wanted nothing more than to silence her thoughts and most of all the question that screamed in her head: Am I a savior or a destroyer?
The young woman couldn’t even extend her arms sideways in the tight space, but she drew her sword anyway. The
slick zing of the iron escaping its case spread a slow smile over her face. The weight of it dragging her arm, enlivening her muscles, caused the pace of her breath to quicken. With limited room, she worked the blade snug to her body. Iron sped a hair’s breadth from her thighs as she swung the sword side to side, then overhead and behind her back. The visions of Hallad disappeared. A rush of blood raced through her, and her emotions quieted in that small, remote blink of time where she hid herself and her sword between the gleaming white towers of Glitner and all the demands of its occupants.
With one final movement, Astrid plunged the blade into the ground before her. Iron tore through levels of grass, then dirt, slicing, cutting, and searing the land beneath her.
A grimace cracked over her face. Her eyes pricked with water.
Tears? She’d never cried. Ever.
Astrid swallowed, her hands still firm on the hilt, her blade still deep in the ground.
Pain welled under her flesh, as if a rapier dug into her skin tearing through muscle and bone, slitting her organs. She shuddered.
Firming her grip, she heaved the blade from the ground.
If she could have spoken, could have moaned, could have screamed, she would have. The release of her sword caused a slithering out of her own being, gashing, ripping, and tearing her apart as it did.
Dizziness swam over her as the pain spread—and she realized she felt the sword’s slice through the land as if it were cutting her own skin. Her knees wobbled. Her breath came in quick pants. She wanted to throw up. She slid to the ground, her sword slinking downward with her.
Astrid released her grip, and the blade fell the rest of the way to settle in the folds of grass.
The intensity faded as she sat, panting, trying to catch her breath and choke back the nausea. All the while, the song of the Mother lingered, and for the first time she heard words intermingled with the tune, Why hurt yourself so?
She shook her head, the weight of her hair pulling her side to side. I don’t understand, was all she could think. No other thoughts filled her mind.
Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga Page 10
