Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga

by Mande Matthews

  Mindless. Befuddled. Confused.

  Then, there, in the distance, a familiar tone—sweet, strong and confident—sounded.

  On yonder mountainside a vine

  Clings at the foot of a mother pine;

  The tree bends over the trembling thing,

  And only the vine can hear her sing...

  Astrid swiveled, searching all around her. Only the emptiness of the corridor spread before her. People still ambled beyond the openings, but no one stopped. No one looked. No one noticed.

  The song came again—a familiar voice, and a sweet and unmistakable caress.

  Mamma? she asked. Mamma is that you?

  Chapter 20

  Astrid bolted upright, sprinting down the alleyway, listening for an answer. As evening approached, darkness crept over the corridor, dimming her vision.

  Mamma? she called again.

  Huffs of her breath turned white upon release as she worked her lungs. Each night, the air grew cooler even though they were well into summertime. Even the overwhelming scent of blooming flader flowers lessened as the days wore on. Astrid skidded to a stop near the exit and peered out. Glitner’s citizens, a group of Palace Guardians, and Givers lined the streets, busily making their way to wherever they were headed. Her gaze darted side to side, but she did not see her mother.

  Then a voice came from behind.

  You remember the timbre of my voice?

  Astrid spun, searching the corridor, but only the shadowy, narrow hall stretched before her.

  How could I ever forget?

  She stepped further back into the alleyway, but couldn’t decipher from where the voice originated. Her heart strummed beneath her breastplate. Her mother had returned to her.

  Where are you? she asked.

  Here. Everywhere. The voice sounded strangely muffled or distant—neither here nor there.

  What do you mean? Astrid stiffened. Wait! An unthinkable notion played in her head. Her pulse skipped what seemed like several heartbeats. How can you hear me?

  Silence answered.

  Mamma?

  Astrid ran her fingers the length of her lamellar armor, mindlessly finding each chink between the plates of iron.

  I have returned to the breast of the Mother, love.

  The young woman’s head wavered back and forth. Her hand slackened, releasing her armor.

  Nei.

  She took a few steps backwards; her boots slid over the slick grass.

  Nei. That’s impossible.

  But Astrid knew it was not just possible, but probable. Balin’s chances of discovering a way into Alvenheim were slim, if any, especially with the waning physical state of her mother in tow. How had she died? Had it been painful?

  Do not mourn for me daughter.

  So Balin…? So you…? I…

  Killed you, she thought to herself.

  Wetness formed at the edges of her eyes. Her throat tightened. Then the most unusual thing happened: Astrid cried. Tears leaked down her cheeks, pooling in the corners of her mouth, then spilled off her jaw.

  Nei, love. Nei. Do not shed tears for me, for I am returned to her breast. I am at peace.

  The young woman couldn’t control the shake of her head. Every hope she’d held inside for her mother’s safety shattered. A sob escaped. Her shoulders trembled, the iron of her lamellar jangling together with her quakes.

  The last bit of light fled, leaving the alleyway in near blackness. Without sunlight, the walls seemed to tighten in around her.

  I came to you because you need me, Daughter.

  How? How are you here?

  I speak through the song—the never-ending power that resides at the well of the Guardian Tree.

  Astrid remembered her mother’s words on their last day together. She mouthed them as if she heard them just yesterday—having memorized and repeated them to herself often: I will always be there, calling to you, singing to you. If you listen, you will hear me.

  That’s right, child. Just as I said. I will always be here for you.

  And yet, her mother’s voice seemed to come from somewhere else other than the earth beneath her. It came from all around, or inside her head, or nowhere at all.

  It’s time to sing out loud, Daughter.

  I’ve tried and failed time and again. I cannot sing outside the walk.

  Now that I have returned to the Mother, I know more than I once had. I have knowledge to aid you. Things others don’t or can’t know. Her mother’s voice blanketed her in sweet comfort. An inkling of hope surfaced, something Astrid had not had since she bonded with Hallad.

  I will teach you.

  How?

  The first thing you must know is that you’ve been lied to.

  About what?

  The walk.

  What about it?

  It’s not evil, child.

  But you always said—

  I know what I said, but now I know the truth. The walk is a gift.

  Astrid's muscles bunched. She narrowed her eyes. Everything she’d ever been told, all her mother had ever taught her ran contradictory to what she said now.

  It allows you to see beyond, that’s all. It breaks the veils between the worlds.

  What do you mean?

  Think about it. Where does the walk take you? What do you see?

  The young woman thought: when she first saw Hallad, when she traveled to speak to Erik and Emma, and now, when she walked from place to place, or saw Hallad and his whereabouts.

  But, what about the land of the Shadow? Surely, that’s a dark place, and a dark power transports you there?

  The in-between world is simply another location. The walk itself allows you to see from place to place, or travel from place to place. How can that be evil?

  Astrid didn’t know.

  Astrid, Daughter, I tell you upon my love for you, because my love is beyond measure for you. You believe that, don’t you?

  Astrid nodded, unsure.

  I tell you because of my desire for you to sing—the walk is a gift.

  Yet everyone else in her life told her it was a shameful, evil, dangerous thing—a thing she’d promised the one person she loved most in life never to use again.

  Do not be afraid to use it.

  Then her mother’s voice was gone.

  Chapter 21

  Emma entered the Gathering Hall. Erik had refused to join her, which was just as well. He’d hardly spoken to her all night. Though she was well acquainted with Erik’s brooding mood, it had never been directed at her. His furrowed brow, tight lip, and the vein popping at his forehead caused a wrenching sensation in her belly.

  "Have you eaten?" she had asked him the night before.

  Erik had replied with a grunt.

  "Are you tired?"

  He had waved her off with his hand, rolled over and stared at the wall, pretending to sleep. Even his strong, warm arms hadn’t wrapped around her in the night.

  But what did she expect? Emma wished to tell him her inability to marry him right now had nothing to do with him, but that would require an explanation of what held her back—about what she intended to do—and that, she couldn’t confess.

  After returning to their chambers, Emma had tucked the dyrr into her stockings—the only article of clothing other than her shoes that she removed before retiring to bed. At least, they were until her embarrassing rescue of Whitefoot. She still felt foolish over her cover story. When she had rushed into Hallad’s chamber, breathless, and unsure of what to do, she’d rambled on about the only subject that came to mind: acquiring a nightshift to wear to bed. She’d babbled on about not wanting to ruin her songvari-woven dress, as if she cared about such matters. As if she were a princess in a palace. As if her cares were the most trivial of topics.

  The First’s features never betrayed any anger at her frivolity or her intrusion, but Emma stammered under Ravenna’s scrutiny while Whitefoot grappled with the dyrr, tiptoeing not so quietly across the stone floor behind them. The poor critte
r was an ill match for the weight of the medallion, and it had taken him twice the time to exit, tottering along, tugging the dyrr at a hair-raising slowness. All the while, Emma swished her skirts and displayed the material in grand flourishes to demonstrate her absurd conversation and keep her brother and the First’s eyes upon her. Finally, when the two thieves had returned to Erik’s chamber, three new night gowns lay across their shared bed.

  Now as she entered the Gathering Hall, the medallion, tucked neatly under the top fold of her stocking, warmed her leg. As soon as she had touched it, the dyrr lit with a glow, and three runes repeatedly morphed over its face, but she had no idea what any of them meant or even how to pronounce them.

  But Emma had a plan; she scanned the room. Since the departure of the Lion Clan, other palace occupants used the hall to take their meals, and this morning was no exception. An array of Givers and even a few Norns scattered about the tables, consuming palace delicacies.

  Gisla sat at the far end of the room with Ase, her head between her hands, her elbows planted on the table, studying scrolls spread over the table top.

  The luck of the Goddess is with us.

  Whitefoot peeked from behind Emma’s curtain of hair, as the girl hurried across the hall and slid onto a bench beside Gisla.

  Or the luck of the Mother, corrected Whitefoot.

  Whichever. I’ll take either at this point in time.

  "Tree trunk," said Ase.

  Gisla squeezed her eyes shut. She tapped her fingers on the table. She wore the emerald smock of the Givers, and the rich color brought out the warm tone of her skin.

  "Vindr?"

  "Nei," said Ase.

  Her brow scrunched down further as she pressed her full lips together. Even though Emma had not spent much time with the girl—she had been so wrapped up in Erik, the wolves, and even the reindeer to afford much time for new friendships—they had shared an easy comfort with one another since leaving Grimnear. Emma had instantly liked Gisla for her forthright and practical attitude—a no-nonsense type of girl who both studied and worked hard at her apprenticeship to the priestess and now to the Palace, and Emma admired her self-sufficiency.

  Gisla’s eyes popped open, "Draugr!" she exclaimed.

  "Correct," said Ase, picking through flower-capped vegetables on her plate. The priestess bit into the orange skin—what kind of vegetable, Emma had no clue as many of the fruits, nuts, berries and vegetables of Alvenheim were still unknown to her—taking the tiniest bite. The priestess nibbled, then dusted her hands with one another, pushing the plate away.

  "I prefer your meals," said Ase.

  Gisla turned to her, swung her arms wide and hugged the unwilling priestess. "You mean it?" she asked, her eyes glittering. "The Palace cook is a songvari, you know! One of the few remaining ones in all of Glitner."

  Though Ase stiffened in her grip, the old woman’s eyes twinkled, and her lips cracked with mirth. She patted Gisla’s back with her bony hand.

  "That’s enough now," Ase said, peeling Gisla’s arms away. "You have a lot of work to do. Your pronunciation is frightful."

  "Drau…grrr…?"

  "Better. But don’t catch the R in the back of your throat for so long." Ase repeated the word for her, and Gisla repeated it.

  Emma memorized the word in her head as well, taking note of how each letter sounded. She hoped her pronunciation for the words she needed would suffice. Whitefoot shimmied down the front of her dress and hopped onto the table. His nose twitched as he searched the parchments.

  What are we looking for again?

  The three runes from the dyrr.

  Oh, yeah. Of course. Let me see…

  Which was an absurd statement for the near-blind polecat, but he dipped his head a hair’s width from the scrolls, examining them anyway.

  Finally, Gisla turned toward Emma, her face aglow.

  "Morning, Emma. Sorry to be impolite, it’s just that I have to learn all the elements before my lesson today."

  "I don’t want to interrupt you," said Emma.

  "How are you faring this fine morning, young woman?" asked Ase.

  Emma shrugged. "Fine." She glanced down at the parchments, searching for a match.

  "Sleeping well?" pressed the priestess.

  "Well enough. I’ve never been at ease in strange places."

  "I see." The old woman wore a hint of a smile; her gaze searched the girl.

  Here! said Whitefoot.

  The polecat hopped side to side at the edge of the paper.

  The third one!

  Emma examined the rune in question. That’s not even remotely close, Whitefoot.

  Oh?

  Nei.

  His button nose quivered. I’ll look harder.

  Emma meant to apologize for her harshness, but a few runes below the one Whitefoot spotted, were two of the runes she hunted for. She pointed to the first one.

  "What’s this rune?"

  "Um…" Gisla pulled the parchment toward her for a closer look. "Iss?" she asked tentatively.

  "Correct," said Ase.

  "What’s it mean?"

  "Ice."

  "Oh, good," said Gisla. "I need to know that for today."

  Iss. Iss. Emma rolled the word around in her head.

  "So far, for my elements I have—"

  "What’s this one?" Emma interrupted, again. Her rudeness prompted heat in her cheeks, but she pressed the sensation back. My need to know is greater than my need to be polite.

  Gisla squinted, then shrugged. "I don’t know."

  "Vaettfang," said Ase.

  Vaettfang. Vaettfang. Iss. Iss. Vaettfang. Vaettfang. Emma repeated, boring them into her memory.

  "Why do you ask?" The old priestess’ gaze settled on Emma.

  "Nei reason." Emma swallowed.

  "None at all?" pressed Ase.

  Emma shook her head. "I just liked the way they look."

  "I see," said the priestess again, and Emma supposed the old woman saw more than she let on. I just hope she doesn’t see too much.

  Come on, Whitefoot. One more to go before we raise too much suspicion.

  Then Whitefoot hopped side to side in a frantic dance. Gisla giggled at his antics. Even the priestess smirked. Emma was thankful that no one threw him from the table. In her father’s hall, a critter on the tabletop would have feared becoming tomorrow’s dinner.

  "Your companion’s feeling frisky," said Gisla.

  "I guess." Whitefoot! What in Valhalla are you up to?

  A distraction.

  Then Whitefoot rolled, tumbled and just about tottered off the edge. Gisla laughed, and Ase chuckled. Emma searched until she spotted the rune they needed. There!

  Whitefoot came to a dead stop. You’re welcome, he said.

  Heat spread underneath Emma’s stocking where the dyrr hid. She bounced her toes, nervously, glancing downward. A slight golden glow shone through the material of her gown. She gulped, shoving her hand over her thigh to cover the light.

  "You were wrong about your brother," said Gisla before Emma could ask about the final rune. The girl lowered her lashes as she spoke, shading her soft brown eyes.

  Whitefoot scurried over and hopped into Emma’s lap, circling around, then laying down over the yellow glow of the dyrr.

  Emma heaved in a breath. "What do you mean?"

  "He does know women exist." Gisla’s gaze swept the parchments. "Just not this woman." Pink blossomed on the girl’s neck and cheeks.

  Compassion flooded Emma. She sighed, her immediate task on hold. "You know what, Gisla?

  "Hmmm?" she said, still studying her runes.

  "If my mutton-headed brother can’t see what a beautiful, hard-working, self-reliant, woman you are, he’s a fool."

  Gisla’s blush deepened, her lips curving into a smile.

  Ase’s bony finger smacked the paper over a rune. "A woman, especially one with power that calls to her, should never wait around on a man." The priestess winked at Emma. "And what’s this one?" sh
e asked Gisla.

  "Um… I’m not sure."

  "Raidho," said the priestess. "It means journey."

  "That’s not an element," protested Gisla.

  "I know." Ase’s tone remained level, but she gave Emma another wink.

  ***

  Vaettfang. Vaettfang. Iss. Iss. Raidho. Raidho. Emma repeated again and again.

  With the dyrr burning under her stocking, the runes tumbling in her head, her skirts hefted in her fists and Whitefoot riding her shoulder, Emma rushed through the curving corridors of Glitner, searching for privacy.

  Do you think she’ll tell?

  Whitefoot clucked, bouncing along with Emma’s strides. Nah. She wouldn’t have given you the last rune if she was going to tell on you.

  How did she know?

  A clever one, that woman. Nothing escapes her—not a hesitation, not a blink, not a, oh, let’s say a glow of light under someone’s skirt?

  You have a point.

  You don’t say?

  Still. She helped us.

  That she did, so why question it?

  Emma rounded the corner, nearly colliding with a woman dressed in an emerald colored smock of a Giver. She skittered to a stop, releasing the wad of material clenched in her hands.

  The woman shot up a brow but gave her a pleasant smile regardless.

  "Excuse me," said Emma, still panting.

  "What do you require?" asked the Giver.

  The perfect answer shot through her mind. "I need to use the privy."

  The woman nodded, turned and led her down two more corridors before stopping in front of a vine-covered wall. The swirl of leaves and vines formed the scene of a river. The woman swept her hand over a rune, hummed, and the vines untangled. She waved Emma through the newly created doorway.

  "Thank you!" exclaimed Emma.

  "I’ll be near if you require anything else," said the woman.

  "Oh, I won’t!" Emma almost slammed her hand over her mouth but resisted.

  The Giver arched her brow again, then turned and strolled away.

  Emma hurried through the opening. A smallish chamber opened. A fountain trickled in one corner, and a row of seats with open holes sat in the other. No matter how long she had been in Alvenheim, she’d never get used to the conveniences of the alves, such as indoor privies! Even Holyfell’s privy fell short with one seat located in the shared bath. The memory of Holyfell led her down a darker pathway, and the image of Lothar popped in her mind—his slick white hair, his sinewy form pressing against her. She shuddered. Nausea crept into her throat. A hot tear burned her eye, but she blinked it back, tightening her jaw.