Broken: Book 2 of the ShadowLight Saga Read online

  Astrid’s and Hallad’s hairs stiffened, and their muscles flexed in unison. Astrid barely discerned which response was hers, and which belonged to her brother.

  "A riot?" Hallad pressed. "Over what?"

  The woman paused before continuing, her voice small. "Over your rightfulness as Guardian."

  Chapter 2

  Find a vantage—

  A window—

  A balcony—

  Where we can see what’s going on.

  The twins’ words melded into one within their heads. Their limbs pumped into action as they sprinted in opposite directions, searching for an outlet.

  Astrid bound down a corridor, past the drengmaers’ room and into another hallway, scanning the perimeter for an opening to the outside, but the doorways beyond their chambers were also sealed. Her brother’s muscles bunched and released in concert with her own as he raced along another passageway.

  Booted footsteps echoed behind her as the Lion Clan split into two groups, a group following each twin. Glitner’s hallways spiraled around waterways like a labyrinth. Miniature waterfalls drizzled from the Palace walls feeding the stone-carved creek beds that ran throughout Glitner. The doors beyond their own chambers remained shut with coiled flader vines. Astrid signaled her followers to explore alternate routes as she barreled ahead.

  Finally, the hallway opened into a rounded chamber. Tables pressed upwards from the rock floor. Several ornate pitchers lay tipped on their sides, empty. A whiff of the air signaled the pitchers had, at some point, contained wine—a sweet-smelling wine; its fragrance resembled the blooming flader flowers that permeated the air of the Palace.

  Then Astrid stopped in mid-step. Heat flushed her cheeks as she realized she stared at Olrun and Jorn. They lay wrapped around one another—without a single stitch of clothing. Their giant legs and arms intertwined, their naked flesh melding together. The wheeze of their lungs suggested a less than natural sleep, and by the count of empty wine decanters, Astrid assumed the cause.

  She stepped backwards unwilling to wake them, both fascinated and horrified. Then a long-ago memory popped into her head—the Shadow pressing against her and her defenses wilting to his desire.

  Sister, do you see something?

  Astrid shook the recollection from her head refocusing on the task at hand. Nei, Brother. Nothing.

  She backed away from the drunken lovers and returned down the hallway when every nerve in Hallad’s body shot through her like an arrow.

  Hallad! What is it?

  But his mind muddied; all she managed to read from him was a mixture of confusion, shock, and guilt.

  Without thought, without her consent, without drawing the ward, Hallad appeared before her as if a veil lifted in front of her eyes. She didn’t shadowwalk to him in the physical sense; her body still stood frozen in the hallway, paces from Jorn and Olrun, but the image of him bloomed before her.

  Hallad’s golden brows dipped down over his strikingly blue eyes; his angular features hardened with concentration as he surveyed a scene below him. He ground his teeth. He flexed his jaw. Astrid wanted to shadowwalk through to him, but as swiftly as the vision expanded, it vanished, leaving her back in the empty hall.

  Instead of shadowwalking, she set a course toward her brother with her legs driving at full speed. Within a few heartbeats, she spotted Hallad, his back toward her, facing a window that spanned the size of the room. Lattice work framed his broad figure, while a brightness from below accentuated the taut muscles across his shoulders and arms. Astrid slowed on approach, peering over the sill to catch sight of the crowd below them.

  Angry faces shone with rune-lit lanterns. Bodies pushed into one another, spreading over the Green and spilling down into the streets of Glitner.

  A voice rang over the top of the commotion. "The Guardian would not have brandished a sword! I tell you, he is false. We have been deceived!"

  Another man across from him screamed back. "Who do you propose is the true Guardian?"

  "Lord Lothar! Why do you think they murdered him? To cover the fact that Lord Lothar was the rightful Guardian! This man, this imposter, isn’t even one of our own, but a Scandian!"

  A woman joined their argument. "The songs proclaim the two shall be of both lands."

  "And yet the Scandians treat the Mother as poorly as Conspirators! They are all an abomination and need to be silenced!"

  The knocking in Hallad’s heart quickened. Astrid’s pulsed in reply.

  This is not your fault, Brother.

  The rioters flung screams back and forth at one another, pushing into their fellows.

  Isn’t it?

  We—both of us—killed Lothar to save Erik and Emma. The fault is not yours alone. If anything, the blame lays more with me than with you.

  Nei, Sister. It was my decision.

  He remembers wrong, she thought, shielding her words from his mind. It was my darkness that suggested we kill Lothar in the first place. Now my brother pays the price.

  One citizen punched another’s face, sending the victim sprawling backwards onto his rear; Astrid’s cheek pricked in the exact spot where the man had been hit. She lifted her hand, rubbing the sore spot, confused.

  Hallad turned toward her, brow arching. What’s the matter?

  She shook her head unable to puzzle out the connection between the men’s actions and the sensation spreading across her cheekbone. But the overwhelming sense that the mob below broke into a boiling point refocused her attention. If we don’t stop this—

  We’ve promised not to use force.

  A woman screamed at the attacker as she bound to the fallen man, "You raise your fist against another? You’re nei better than a Conspirator!" She cradled the man, soothing his already purpling cheek with a stroke of her fingers.

  The roar from the crowd escalated.

  A buzz started somewhere inside Astrid—an unfamiliar discomfort as if the energy from the crowd rattled her bones.

  Citizens pushed the attacker backwards. Men grabbed each of his arms, while a group formed in front of him, lifting their hands and opening their mouths.

  At the same time liveried men scrambled down the road from the Palace. They, too, lifted their hands as they approached.

  Someone yelled, "Guardians of the Palace!"

  The mob spread as the Palace Guardians stormed down the walkway.

  The lead guard commanded, "Desist! Break up this gathering under orders of the Norns or face silencing!"

  A gasp ran through the crowd.

  "Silencing? The Palace wouldn’t dare!" came the protests, though most turned and ran.

  They piled over the tops of one another to get out of the Palace grounds, exiting to Glitner’s city streets.

  Only a few of the main group held their positions. "We demand answers about this supposed Guardian the Palace protects!"

  The Palace Guardians gave no answers; they swung their arms in circles, as they sang, "Vapnlauss!"

  Their song continued, breaking into a complex harmony of tenor, alto, baritone and bass notes; an eerie quiet pervaded the landscape. Then, the timbre of the Guardians’ tune sharpened, causing a gust of wind to crack the silence with a glass-shattering whoosh. Tunics and gowns billowed, and hair blew as the blast careened toward the protestors.

  "What does vapnlauss mean?" asked Hallad.

  "Weaponless in the old tongue," replied Ase. The old priestess along with her apprentice, Gisla, and the dwarf had edged up behind them while the commotion stirred below.

  Hallad shook his head in confusion.

  Ase lifted the hood of her cat skin lined cloak over her head, as she continued, "They ask the Mother to render their foes weaponless."

  "But they bear nei weapons."

  "Their voices are their weapons."

  "How do you know such things, Priestess?" asked Hallad.

  "Age provides knowledge," Ase replied. For once her tone held no mirth. The old priestess' age-faded eyes saddened at the scene below. She tighte
ned the pine green cloak around her head with a bony hand; her other hand gripped a gnarled walking stick which seemed permanently attached to her wrist.

  "You cannot silence us all!" screamed the leader of remaining group. "There are more who question—" but the gust swirled around the protester, cutting him off.

  A funnel formed and within moments, the air sucked back into the ground. The men’s breaths caught short as if their voices were ripped from their throats. Each man raised a hand and clawed at his own neck. They bent to the ground and struggled for air. A resounding wheeze filled the streets as the men writhed, their mouths agape.

  Simultaneously, the blast caught Astrid, whipping around her.

  Yet Hallad, Ase, Gisla, and the dwarf’s clothing didn’t stir. She checked her own attire; it remained as still as if the air never touched them. But the ache in her throat clenched like a vice wrapping around her neck—tightening, squeezing until she could no longer draw breath.

  What’s happening?

  Sister? Hallad jerked toward her, examining her.

  She opened her mouth, seeking air. Nothing came.

  Sister! Hallad grabbed her shoulders, shaking her.

  Pain seized her as if her lungs had collapsed in her chest. She heaved. Her throat burned from the effort—she struggled to suck in air just like the men confronting the Palace guards below.

  Her fingers tightened around her sword and instinct took over. Her body flashed, dissolving. Hallad’s grip released as she disappeared.

  Chapter 3

  The shadowwalk took Astrid with a momentary blackness. Gray shifting fog followed, swirling around her for a blink—a quick heartbeat—but then she emerged on the Green of the Palace grounds in front of the Guardians.

  Still unable to draw breath, she raised her sword to them, brandishing her blade in front of herself.

  The guards tensed, stumbling backwards; their song faltered, weakening the pull of air. Their pause allowed her to draw in a breath. She pressed forward.

  Their faces contorted into wide-eyed bafflement.

  "The Svenna?" one guard asked the others.

  A few remaining onlookers gasped at her appearance. One broke away and headed down into the streets, yelling, "The Svenna rallies against the Palace with a sword!"

  Another guard shook his head in her direction. "It couldn’t be."

  "What do we do?"

  The rasping of the fallen men behind her stopped, followed by a round of pants as the men refilled their lungs.

  At the same time, relief washed through Astrid as the sweet-tasting air caressed her chest without a fight. She inhaled long wafts through her nose, drawing strength from the sensation. Astrid waved her sword in a figure eight, warning the guards to back away.

  "It must be a trick by the Dark One. The Svenna would not threaten us with a sword."

  "Don’t stop singing!" yelled another guard as his voice piped back into the melody.

  The others joined in. The song crescendoed. Their voices melded into a complex tune of both harmony and dissonance. As the song wove through the space, a strangled moan from the men sounded behind her, and the breath squeezed back out of Astrid’s chest. She bent under the force of its suction, then compelled herself upright. She would not let them win.

  Sister! Put down your sword!

  Nei! she yelled back. They will kill these men.

  They will kill you!

  Her head waffled.

  Then come back to me where we can face them together, he continued. Where I can help you!

  The faces of the men doubled in her vision. She shook herself, attempting to sharpen her sight—regain her focus—but the men blurred before her.

  Sister! You must return to me! Hallad pleaded.

  She sensed sweat beads over her brother’s back and neck. As she gripped her sword, she concentrated on him, on returning to him, on dissolving into the thinness of the air, but nothing happened.

  She remained; her grip loosened as the last bits of breath squeaked from her lungs.

  I cannot, she admitted.

  A slow burn spread through her chest as if a fire raged through her. She pushed her feet onward and swung her sword again.

  The Guardians backed up but kept singing.

  Through the blaze in her throat, she sensed Hallad frantically searching for something. She glanced toward him; he patted his trousers, shoved his hand into his pocket, and pulled out his dyrr—the medallion that allowed him to shadowwalk. His golden hair fell across his eyes as he sought the face of the medallion. Amber light washed his features as his gaze twitched back and forth, reading the morphing runes. His mouth moved, sounding out words; she heard them form inside her head.

  Raidho.

  Brownness replaced the radius of Astrid’s vision. Her knees buckled; she sank downward. The clack of her bones against the road’s stone echoed inside her head, as if she swam beneath a violent wave.

  "Nalaegr!" Ase sounded strange too, as if the priestess spoke from the other side of the same raging ocean.

  Nalaegr, repeated Hallad.

  Astrid’s eyelids descended into slits. The Palace Guardians rushed her, as darkness overtook her sight.

  She expected to find herself inside the gray-shifting landscape, but instead, she found nothingness—a black silence that gripped her like death.

  ***

  Then Hallad’s sturdy arms wrapped under her armpits.

  The skin on her sides tingled. The sensation spread. Heat shot through her limbs as air rushed her lungs. The sweetness of breath flooded her being, as she perceived the solidness of her brother connecting with her.

  She peeled back her eyelids and caught sight of Hallad, hovering over her and supporting her in his arms. His muscles loosened as she awoke and stared up at him.

  The men?

  The Guardians gathered them up, but they are breathing once more, he assured her.

  She sat upright, gaining her orientation. They were back in the Palace. Rota and the drengmaers crowded around them. Ase checked her, holding her hand over her mouth to ascertain her air flow.

  Astrid brushed off the attention and sprang to her feet. She forced herself upright; though her balance tested her, she covered her unsteadiness by straightening her trousers and hefting her sword. Though she fooled the others with her quick recovery, Hallad’s hand slid to the small of her back, guiding her.

  Boots sounded down the hallway.

  Everyone tensed and turned when Olrun and Jorn stumbled in, clothing in a reckless disarray. They reeled to a stop upon entering the chamber.

  Rota flashed a scowl that could kill a half dozen hardened warriors by its look alone. "You decided to show yourself, Sister? And here I thought your brains mushed into mutton in favor of fine wine and a man’s hammer!"

  "Sister!" Olrun shot back.

  "Nei, you cannot ignore your duties as my sister and head of this clan over a man, spending your nights in drunken frolic while I stand watch!"

  Everyone searched for something else—anything else—to occupy their gaze.

  "Sister," Olrun urged, "I am not here to argue. The First and her guards—"

  Before Olrun could continue, Ravenna strode in, a few white-robed Norns and a dozen Palace Guardians trailing in her wake.

  Chapter 4

  Emma slipped from Erik’s grip, wriggling through the tunnel of his arms. Coldness rushed into the space between them, and Erik reached out to pull her soft body back to him. He’d reveled in having her so close to him all night. He’d drunk in her scent—the perfume of blooming Linnea flowers—and watched her sleep, not allowing himself to rest for fear she’d disappear. He didn’t want to wake and discover this blissful state was merely his imagination. So he stayed as vigilant as a night watchman in the Halls of Valhalla, minding the slight rise of her breast through her gown and the pale blush on her cheeks in the Palace’s ever-glowing light. And whenever a fitful twitch from nightmares played over her sweet face, he had smoothed her hair and whispered,
"I’ll never leave you," into the crook of her neck.

  Emma gave in to him, allowing her form to snug back against his, but her sleepy voice rang with concern.

  "Don’t you hear it?" she asked.

  A low drone of voices played down the corridor, drowning out the babble of the waterways. It crept into their chamber as if to confirm her worries.

  "I hear our hearts beating together, Emma."

  She twisted toward him; their noses almost touched. She scrunched her brows in mock anger. "The noise, silly. As if an angry crowd gathers."

  His lips brushed over her nose, placing pecks along the bridge; then he kissed each cheek, followed by each brow. He slid his arm between them; his hand sought her chest, patting a rhythm over her ribcage.

  "Thump, thump. Thump, thump. See how they beat as one?"

  She giggled, but listened, as if confirming the slight knock of their hearts, did indeed, drum in unison.

  "Thump, thump," he continued as his lips cracked into a grin.

  Emma grabbed his hand and pressed it against her breast to stop his movement. "I swear you’ve gone daft," she teased.

  The softness of her bosom beneath his fingertips sparked flames in his groin; he snatched his hand away, and rolled onto his back before his body overtook his brain, though every bit of his manhood protested.

  "Let the worlds be as troubled as they wish. Why do we care when we have one another?"

  But Emma sat upright, flinging her feet off the bed. She cocked her head at the noise. "We should rise and see what’s wrong."

  Erik corralled her around the waist, the texture of her gown slippery beneath his fingers. "Nei, love," he said. "Come back to bed."

  She turned, the tangle of her hair falling over her features. The ceiling’s glow warmed her skin; her pale gray eyes took on an unearthly appeal as if the Goddess bestowed her with beauty beyond human form.

  Erik’s reflexes overtook him. He smoothed his fingers along the strands of her hair, untangling the waves from her face. He pulled her down to meet his lips and kissed her as if he wished to climb inside her and live there for all the ages.