EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (92 page)

Rota and Olrun were nowhere in sight, probably preparing some new training feat, but today Hallad would make
his
plans—his plans for Emma, for Swan, for all of them.

Something tugged at him, something different. Emptiness.

Then he realized he didn’t
feel
his sister. The place inside him that belonged to her gaped open. Empty. A chasm of fear rose up within him.

He turned, searching for her. She lay still, in her bedding, arms crossed over her chest. Sprinting to her side, he bent over her, shaking her.

“Swan. Swan. Wake-up.” The emptiness he felt told him she would not. He shook her again and again. “Wake-up!”
 

He leaned close, listening for her breath. There, in the shallow depths of her chest, a light, slow rhythm labored.
 

“Nei!” he cried out.
 

Then he remembered the dream.
It does not fall on you. I will make it right.

“Nei, sister. Nei.” He placed his hand on her cheek—cold, as if death lingered steps away.

He scrambled to his bedroll and pulled his blankets back to Swan, tucking them around her.
 

“Rota! Olrun!” Hallad yelled frantically.

He pulled back his sister’s lids; her dilated pupils stared back. His gut lurched inside, wrenching like a thousand horses pulled his innards in different directions.

“Rota! By the gods, come quick.”

Moments passed, though they seemed like eons, until Rota—with Olrun flanking her—bent by Hallad’s side. Rota felt Swan’s chest and held her ear over the girl’s nose.
 

Others had followed and Rota commanded, “Tell the Hearth we come.”
 

A pair of drengmaers took off at a run.

“Are you responsible for this?” Olrun’s voice boomed, accusing Hallad.

Hallad tried to shake his head, but her words settled down inside him.
 

Am I responsible for this?

Rota lifted Swan into her thick arms, nestling her as a mother with her newborn, and walked the long path back to the Hearth. Hallad followed, his eyes latched on the limp form in the drengmaer’s arms, while emptiness sieged every nook and cranny of his being.

Chapter XXIX

“H
OW
IS
MY
SISTER
?”

“T
HE
same.” Olrun crossed the Hall of the Hearth, slumping down in a nearby chair, her bulk threatening the stability of the wooden seat. Rota followed her sal drengmaer, her fists wound tight.

“Do they know what’s wrong with her?”

“If they do, they won’t say.” Olrun poured herself a horn full of mead and gulped it down. “They will call the Goddess for answers.”

“Call her or pray to her? I don’t understand.”

“Nei, call her.”

“Enough!” Rota barked at her sal drengmaer.

Olrun’s hazel eyes leveled Rota’s own. “He has a right, sister. Look how they fought together these last few days, surely they are—“

“Nei! You will not give away the mysteries of Spirit to a man.”

“He’s not just
any man
.” She left off, returning to her drink, letting the foam settle on her upper lip as she gulped.

They all resumed to waiting. It seemed waiting was all Hallad had accomplished since he came to the Sacred Groves of Freyja, as if there were a million seasons for him to live. He inhaled, reveling in the sound the air made through his nostrils, the coolness steadying him.
Healing is women’s business
, his father would say.
Only a fool interferes with such mysteries.
But the more he sat idle, the more his difficulties multiplied.

“Take me to her.” He spoke to Olrun, catching her arm with his thick hand.
 

Olrun placed her horn on the tabletop. She shifted uneasily. Rota crossed the floor, standing beside her sal drengr without a word. The shorter woman did not need words to sway Olrun’s response, the heaviness of her presence speaking louder than if she screamed commands.

“I cannot.” Olrun glared at Rota. “But it is not that I don’t want too.”

“Don’t you understand?” This time Hallad focused his plea on Rota. He would have barreled through the doors and found Swan himself if the women hadn’t taken every precaution to hide where they had taken her. His mind whirled with reasons he must be taken to his sister’s side, but none found their way to his tongue, a thickness settling in his mouth.

The candles flickered against the walls, illuminating the paintings etched upon them—vignettes of the Goddess with her boar. Hallad had come to realize that the women in the Hearth favored the symbol of the boar, while the women in the temples, or Spirit, decorated with moons and cats. Many Scandian men favored one god over another and wore symbols to represent their loyalty. Rolf had adorned himself with Bragi’s symbol, a harp, until he convinced his father to spend a full turning of the moon’s business on that obnoxious red cape with the god of scalds embroidered on the back. Other villagers had favored the thunder god and wore wood-carved axes on ropes around their necks. His father had taught him that Odin was god of nobles, yet Avarr had never worn anything to symbolize his patronage of the god. The only signet he wore, Hallad wore now—the Guardian Tree digging its roots into the earth.

The silence continued to separate them. Rota’s gaze never lifted. Then she grumbled, “I will take you,” and proceeded to the door.

Hallad rose, following Rota, confused at her change of mind but hesitant to question her for fear she might renege. Olrun flanked him, a satisfied smile forming on her lips as her eyes latched onto the back of her sal drengmaer.

The day melted into evening. Hallad’s sight spotted with orange dots from the torchlight of the hall as they passed into the darkness of the grove. They rounded the giant ash and rune carved dais to a narrow trail hidden behind the tree. The path led to a rock opening. Hallad wondered at the cave. He had thought the IronWood a vast forestland, but the mouth to a mountain spread wide, allowing their entry.

Torches lit the cramped corridor as they shuffled along single-file. Before long, the passage broke into several tunnels. Symbols of cats, moons and runes spread the expanse of walls. Hallad glimpsed movement down passageways; white robes fluttered as women hurried on their way about some unknown task. Rota chose a passage marked in black with the rune algiz etched over the opening.

This tunnel’s walls crowded with paintings and symbols on every available spot. When they reached the end of the corridor, Rota approached a white-cloaked woman seated in front of an archway. Though Hallad was unable to hear what the women said, when Rota finished, the white-cloaked woman looked up at him, nodded and left. Rota waved for him to come.
 

As Hallad passed her and walked into the room, she spoke into his ear, “I will turn my back for only two candle-flicks then I am coming to haul you out myself.”

Hallad nodded and proceeded into the room. Furs strewn across the floor padded his footfalls and he moved as silently as Swan. The paintings on the walls depicted Freyja in silver gowns. A soft white glow surrounded the images of the Goddess, her face stark—serene, yet commanding. All except one image, whose face had been marred with a black raven and whose golden tresses had been painted dark. Hallad frowned at the strange depiction, but stepped forward.

Dozens of candles flickered around the room. Thick wax melted in puddles on rock ledges. Then he spotted Swan wrapped in furs, her skin flaccid, her color drained.

Emptiness welled up within him, surging. He crossed the floor, his boots sinking into the array of hides. He placed his wide palm upon her head, smoothing the white wisps of her hair backward. With the backside of his other hand he caressed her cheek; he bent and kissed his sister’s forehead.

The godhi’s son attempted to contain the flood inside him, but it broke loose, sending a warm tear down his cheek; the droplet trailed from his chin to fall onto her skin. Along every step of this journey he had felt helpless—in someone else’s control, as if the gods played him as a string puppet, directing his limbs for their own amusement, but he had never felt this wrecked. There was nothing he could do but sit here and watch her—watch her die, perhaps. Anguish churned inside him. He wanted to scream.

Outside the silence of the room, Hallad heard muttering. His skin pricked. Another tunnel exited at the back of the room. A glow of light shone down the tunnel. Hallad strained to hear. Women’s voices resounded off the walls. They spoke of Swan.

He glanced at the door, realizing Rota would be in soon, and bent down one last time to kiss Swan’s forehead. Without thinking, he crossed the room walking on the balls of his feet, toward the voices. The hall darkened as he padded down it, the only light ahead or behind as Hallad fingered his way along the slick rock of the wall.

The voices grew nearer. Hallad realized they chanted. A thin drapery hung over the end of the hall. Hallad pressed his body flat against the cavern wall. Shadowy forms showed through the curtain as Hallad spied. He sucked in his breath, holding air in his lungs before releasing, the way his father had taught him when hunting. He moved his head closer to the curtain, finding a small tear in the material, and peered through.

Hallad spotted Ase first, garbed in her usual pine-colored cloak, holding hands with a willowy woman in all black. The second woman’s silver-white hair draped around her shoulders, falling to the middle of her back. She moved as sleek as a snake and Hallad realized the woman was Serpent Mother. Other figures in white cloaks surrounded them. They all kneeled on cushions before an empty dais.

“She will come,” said Serpent Mother.

“Are you sure?” asked Ase.

The women concentrated on a large candle flame before them. Hundreds of candles perched themselves on ledges, the room ablaze with their light, but the one before them shone brightest, as large as a torch.

“I spoke with her in my sleep. She assured me,” said Serpent Mother.

“Does she know what has happened?”

Serpent Mother nodded then added, “Continue.”

Ase bowed her head. The chanting resumed.

In the center of the platform, a white light shifted. Hallad blinked to make sure the play of light wasn’t a result of his tired eyes reacting to the candles, but it expanded, spreading like white fire.

In response, the women chanted louder and faster.

A female figure appeared through the light. Her features blended with the background as if she wasn’t quite there. Alabaster robes draped over her body, the color blanched, making the other whites in the room drab in comparison. The material hung in billows, as if made from the rarest silks. Her hair was pulled in a tight knot on the top of her head, spilling its length through the loop of the knot. Skin, whiter than even her robes, bore flawless features setting off a stark contrast to the black of her tresses. She was beauty personified, except for a mark tattooed on her cheek—the mark of a raven. Upon further inspection, Hallad realized the tattoo floated on her flesh like a birthmark, as if part of her skin, and he recalled the strange, dark-haired depiction of the marred goddess in the outer room.

Hallad fought to keep his breath. He tried to steady his intake as his chest fluttered.
 

Could this be Freyja? Could these women really speak to the Goddess?
 

More of his father’s wisdoms flooded him.
All you see is not always what it seems.

The woman’s—or goddess’—body had not clearly materialized and Hallad viewed the cavern walls through her when she shifted, spoiling her pristine beauty.

Ase, Serpent Mother and the white-cloaked women ceased chanting. The goddess looked down upon them, her eyes searching around them.

“Our reverence to you, Ravenna, for answering our call.”

“What has happened? Tell me all you know.” Ravenna’s gaze flitted about, examining the space around their heads, while never settling on their eyes.

“The Savior has fallen into a deep sleep—graver than any who have tried walking. We cannot bring her out, as if she doesn’t desire to return.” Serpent Mother’s words inflected with guilt.

“Has her strength in the shadowwalk been tested by any walker?”

“Nei, your Reverence. We had thought to train them together and the boy only understands the sword. He has no other talents. We were going to bond them as sal drengrs when they were ready.”

Hallad’s throat constricted at Serpent Mother’s answer. He realized these women thought him inadequate, and a quick sliver of agreement pierced him.

“Do not be judgmental,” scolded the Ravenna. “He is the Guardian.”

“Forgive me.” Serpent Mother wobbled into a bow, as if she had never conceded to anyone in her lifetime.

“And do not bond them. Your bond will be weaker than if we bond them in our realm, by ones with the touch of the Goddess. The connection will bring about a more powerful bond and they must be secured in their connection. Ase, how much training did the girl receive from her mother?”

Serpent Mother’s face fell at the question, though Hallad couldn’t fathom why.

“I cannot be sure,” Ase replied. “Isla took her sudr many seasons past. When she returned I knew nothing of what had transpired, yet I am reasonably sure Isla told her to seek the boy in case of her death. I do not know how much time the girl took in finding him.”

Serpent Mother’s head hung low, her eyes glazing with numbness. “Many seasons.” Her voice cracked as she bit back memories. “My sister died many seasons ago. I felt my twin’s death as if it were my own.”

Hallad finally understood. Serpent Mother was his mother’s sister—his aunt.

“Did the girl seek anyone out in the dream?” Ravenna’s figure weakened as she spoke, thinning, the wall behind her becoming more visible.

“Only once,” Serpent Mother replied. “When she first arrived, though she did not speak. She sang the lullaby her mother and I sung to her and her brother when they were babes, before the boy was left with Avarr.” She smiled with the memory.