Bonded: Book One of the ShadowLight Saga, an Epic Fantasy Adventure by Mande Matthews Page A
Authors: Mande Matthews
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toward him. Before
he could react, a net soared through the air, casting over Erik. He brandished
his sword, but blackness inflated from the edges of his vision. He fell, his
knees knocking against the rocky ground. Hands prodded him. Laughter rang in
his ears. He struggled against them until darkness seized him.
Chapter 18
Light shone through an
immense window, lighting sun-kissed strands of Emma's hair. She lay prostrated
across a mass of indigo blankets, her head buried in the crook of her arms. Her
back rose in quakes.
Erik’s vision of Emma
appeared so real that he smelled the light scent of linnea flowers on her—his
sight so clear, he thought he could reach out and stroke her hair, caress the
strands like satin through his fingers. Since the night Swan had entered into
his dream, the visions had reduced to rapid-fire snatches of images and Erik
could not hold on to them. But now they played before him as if he stood in the
room with his beloved.
Erik reached out to
stroke Emma, his specter-like hand passing clean through her tresses. The dream
captured him in a way like never before, more a prisoner than spectator. Or had
he died? Become a draugr doomed to walk between worlds? He sloughed off his
worry, realizing whether a dream or death, he edged a step closer to his
beloved.
A sob escaped from Emma.
He wanted to reach out to her, to sooth her.
"Emma?" he
asked.
Emma turned. Her eyes,
swollen red and brimming with tears, searched the air. A purplish spot
ballooned from her cheek, puckering around the fleshy part of her lip. Erik
tightened his hands into fists.
Who? Who had harmed
her?
His temple pounded and
he realized he possessed physical sensations in this dream.
Emma’s water-rimmed eyes
stared through him, blank, unseeing.
"Emma. I’m here."
Erik reached for her
again, but she turned her head toward a tap upon the door instead. A woman’s
humming followed, and the stone of the door slid open. A middle-aged woman
lumbered through the room with a platter and decanter, her roundness reminding
Erik of Emma's first nursemaid.
Emma wiped her eyes with
the backs of her hands, sniffling.
"Master Lothar
requires your presence." The woman emphasized "master" as if it
left a bad taste on her tongue.
Emma turned toward the
window, the light catching the water in her eyes. Erik focused, forcing his
apparition-like figure to float toward Emma. He tried to take hold of her
tear-stained face in his hands, managing a handful of air instead.
"Tell him I'm ill,"
said Emma.
"Come, child."
The rotund woman planted a free fist on her hip, balancing the ornate platter
and decanter in the other. Erik remembered Hallad stating women were born with
their hands on their hips. "I'm afraid that won't do. You don't want to
tempt his anger."
The tears spilled from
Emma's eyes as she stared out the window. Beyond the marble pane, lush trees
lined a trim yard—the grass sheered so short Erik figured they must own hundreds
of goats to keep the lawn manicured.
Emma took solace in the
view. She tightened her jaw.
"Nei, of course I
wouldn't want to anger him."
"It's best this way
mistress. You'll see."
Emma kept her back to
the woman. After the woman set the platter down on the mantle, she poured a
glass of cherry-colored liquid. Emma's shoulders bunched at the tinkling sound,
but kept her sight locked on the far scenery.
Erik's arms ached—if only
he could touch her, hold her, tell her all would be right.
The serving woman
waddled across the room, rounding the stone bed with a cup gripped in her fist.
Emma's breath stopped as the woman's heels clicked against the floor, but her
eyes never wandered from the window, watching a blue-gray backed falcon reel
through the sky. The serving woman positioned the cup in front of Emma.
"Master Lothar
wishes you to drink this."
"I will not." Emma’s
lips quivered.
The woman pleaded, "You
must mistress. Life will be easier for you."
Emma refused, shaking
her
he could react, a net soared through the air, casting over Erik. He brandished
his sword, but blackness inflated from the edges of his vision. He fell, his
knees knocking against the rocky ground. Hands prodded him. Laughter rang in
his ears. He struggled against them until darkness seized him.
Chapter 18
Light shone through an
immense window, lighting sun-kissed strands of Emma's hair. She lay prostrated
across a mass of indigo blankets, her head buried in the crook of her arms. Her
back rose in quakes.
Erik’s vision of Emma
appeared so real that he smelled the light scent of linnea flowers on her—his
sight so clear, he thought he could reach out and stroke her hair, caress the
strands like satin through his fingers. Since the night Swan had entered into
his dream, the visions had reduced to rapid-fire snatches of images and Erik
could not hold on to them. But now they played before him as if he stood in the
room with his beloved.
Erik reached out to
stroke Emma, his specter-like hand passing clean through her tresses. The dream
captured him in a way like never before, more a prisoner than spectator. Or had
he died? Become a draugr doomed to walk between worlds? He sloughed off his
worry, realizing whether a dream or death, he edged a step closer to his
beloved.
A sob escaped from Emma.
He wanted to reach out to her, to sooth her.
"Emma?" he
asked.
Emma turned. Her eyes,
swollen red and brimming with tears, searched the air. A purplish spot
ballooned from her cheek, puckering around the fleshy part of her lip. Erik
tightened his hands into fists.
Who? Who had harmed
her?
His temple pounded and
he realized he possessed physical sensations in this dream.
Emma’s water-rimmed eyes
stared through him, blank, unseeing.
"Emma. I’m here."
Erik reached for her
again, but she turned her head toward a tap upon the door instead. A woman’s
humming followed, and the stone of the door slid open. A middle-aged woman
lumbered through the room with a platter and decanter, her roundness reminding
Erik of Emma's first nursemaid.
Emma wiped her eyes with
the backs of her hands, sniffling.
"Master Lothar
requires your presence." The woman emphasized "master" as if it
left a bad taste on her tongue.
Emma turned toward the
window, the light catching the water in her eyes. Erik focused, forcing his
apparition-like figure to float toward Emma. He tried to take hold of her
tear-stained face in his hands, managing a handful of air instead.
"Tell him I'm ill,"
said Emma.
"Come, child."
The rotund woman planted a free fist on her hip, balancing the ornate platter
and decanter in the other. Erik remembered Hallad stating women were born with
their hands on their hips. "I'm afraid that won't do. You don't want to
tempt his anger."
The tears spilled from
Emma's eyes as she stared out the window. Beyond the marble pane, lush trees
lined a trim yard—the grass sheered so short Erik figured they must own hundreds
of goats to keep the lawn manicured.
Emma took solace in the
view. She tightened her jaw.
"Nei, of course I
wouldn't want to anger him."
"It's best this way
mistress. You'll see."
Emma kept her back to
the woman. After the woman set the platter down on the mantle, she poured a
glass of cherry-colored liquid. Emma's shoulders bunched at the tinkling sound,
but kept her sight locked on the far scenery.
Erik's arms ached—if only
he could touch her, hold her, tell her all would be right.
The serving woman
waddled across the room, rounding the stone bed with a cup gripped in her fist.
Emma's breath stopped as the woman's heels clicked against the floor, but her
eyes never wandered from the window, watching a blue-gray backed falcon reel
through the sky. The serving woman positioned the cup in front of Emma.
"Master Lothar
wishes you to drink this."
"I will not." Emma’s
lips quivered.
The woman pleaded, "You
must mistress. Life will be easier for you."
Emma refused, shaking
her
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