Eolyn (10 page)

“No.” Had the girl not heard? “Listen to me, Eolyn. I will not teach you how to use this staff.”

Eolyn’s smile faded. “But why? You are the only teacher I have. If you do not show me then—”

“This is a weapon of war. I will not make you a warrior. I will not teach you how to kill.” Flushed with anger, the old maga snatched the staff from Eolyn. She raised it to the heavens and shouted at the Gods. “Do you hear me? I will not do it! I will not allow you to soil her magic with violence and bloodshed!”

“Ghemena!” Eolyn laid hand on the old maga’s shoulder. “Please, don’t say such things. Wasn’t it you who taught me that the instruments of magic are just instruments? That it is the maga who commands her staff, not the other way around?”

Tears stung Ghemena’s eyes. She sank to the ground. Her many burdens weighed heavy on frail shoulders. She felt weary and spent, worn to the bone by the endless trials of a cruel age.

“Dragon has linked this staff to the deepest places of the earth,” she said, “where rivers of power run thick and virtually untapped. In the legends of old, dark wizards from distant lands used those rivers as a means for destruction. In the time of King Fahren, the magas and mages of Moisehén summoned this same magic to trap the Naether Demons and condemn them to the Underworld. I have great respect for this power, Eolyn, but I bear it no love. It is dangerous and unpredictable. I do not wish to see you bound to it.”

Eolyn’s shoulders deflated. She looked from Ghemena to the staff. Sadness washed over the girl’s features, causing Ghemena to regret her quick tongue.

I could have at least let Eolyn feel joy on this one day
.

“I am sorry, my daughter,” she said. “I have become an old and bitter woman. The future I want for you is not the future I see foretold in this staff. Dragon’s gift brings a great burden, greater than even I imagined. I would give anything to spare you the sacrifices this instrument will demand.”

Eolyn’s eyes turned damp. She blinked and ran her hand slowly along the length of the staff, fingers coming to rest on its crystal head.

“Would you give up your magic, Ghemena?” she asked in subdued tones. “Should I then give up mine?”

Eolyn’s quiet resolve softened the cold knot of fear that had taken hold of Ghemena. With shaking hands, Ghemena drew her last student into a firm embrace.

“So be it, beloved daughter,” Ghemena murmured. “The Gods have spoken. Let us find a way.”

C
hapter Twelve

In the fifth year
of Eolyn’s training, Ghemena sent her into the forest to gather the elements needed for a maga’s ward.

Eolyn harvested abundant silk from three different varieties of spiders: the ghostly sheet weaver, which wove its web at midnight; the dawn mist orb weaver, whose delicate orb could be seen only at the first light of dawn; and the giant harlequin jumper, a multicolored creature whose thick silk would lend strength and resilience to the fabric.

To complement the spider silks, Eolyn collected everything she could find that held the power of deception and hiding. She trapped walking sticks, thorn bugs, bark lizards, and pale rose crab mites. She found pebble homes of tiny water dragons on the river bottom and dusted scales from the wings of cryptic butterflies and moths. She took tufts of fox fur caught in thorny brambles and followed the path of a slipaway velvet snake until it shed its skin for her.

When the time arrived to prepare the ward, Ghemena put everything except for the silk into a large pot. The old maga added portions of rue, houseleek, juniper, rosemary and valerian. She completed the recipe with a healthy dose of wrinkled dusky night mushrooms, known and feared for their capacity to cause blindness.

For an entire day, Ghemena let the ingredients simmer over a low fire, occasionally sending Eolyn to add fresh spring water and stir the mixture while singing whispery incantations.

As night fell, Ghemena and Eolyn took the pot off the fire and separated the brew into three large bowls, one for each variety of silk. They then let the silk soak overnight under the last sliver of the waning moon. In the morning, they separated the threads, washed them in pure rainwater, and laid them out carefully to dry under the sun.

Ghemena set out a loom crafted for weaving wards. As the sun went into hiding behind the trees, she lit candles impregnated with cress and oregano. Only then did she and Eolyn begin the task that would occupy them until morning, for the fabric of a ward had to be woven in a single sitting under a dark moon.

“The magas devised the ward during the struggle against Tzeremond and his Mage King,” Ghemena told Eolyn as they worked side by side. “Before the war, magas had no reason to hide their power. But during the war, the capacity to conceal one’s abilities became synonymous with survival.”

“Can mages break the ward?” Eolyn asked.

“Every ward, no matter how expertly crafted, has seams. A skilled mage can find these flaws, but he must know what he is looking for and where to search. Even then it is difficult, but Tzeremond’s mages are very astute. They usually start by looking for other indications of magic. Knowledge of medicines and plants. A gift with animals. Exceptional beauty or an outspoken nature. Anything that sets a woman apart, in their minds, can be evidence of witchcraft. Once they have their eyes on a suspected maga, it is only a matter of time before they find her ward, or catch her in a moment of carelessness.”

“Carelessness?”

“Perhaps that is not the right word. A well-trained maga is rarely careless. Yet magic is second nature to us, like instinct. You must find a way to control your impulse to use magic, Eolyn. Every time you express your magic, the ward will slip from its place, exposing the true colors of your aura.”

Eolyn paused in her weaving and cast a glance to Ghemena. “I can’t use any magic at all while wearing this?”

“Several forms of Middle Magic compatible with hiding and deception may be employed. You may also practice Simple Magic in its entirety, but you must take great care in doing so, as this is one of the signs mages look for when they hunt magas. If you use High Magic the ward will falter in the moment you invoke the spell. It will, however, resume its strength as soon as you finish your invocation.”

“How long would it take for a mage to recognize my signature in such a situation?”

“He will likely recognize your magic first, which will be more than enough to send you to the pyre. But if your invocation is not detected, or if it cannot be readily traced to you, a mage could take several minutes to find the aura he seeks. Under such circumstances, this might be just enough time for you to slip away.”

“All these years I’ve dedicated to becoming a High Maga, and now I must hide behind a ward and avoid using my skills at all costs.”

“If you keep the vow you made as an Initiate and return magic to the women of Moisehén, your days of hiding will come to an end,” Ghemena replied. “But when you leave these woods, you must be very cautious. Until you discover true friends and safe places, you must assume that any act of magic will send you to your death.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t go back,” Eolyn said. “What is the point, if everything I’ve learned and most of who I am must be so thoroughly concealed? Better to stay here in the South Woods where I can practice magic freely with you.”

“Loneliness will convince you otherwise,” the old maga responded quietly. “You will soon be compelled to leave the South Woods in order to seek the company of your people.”

“But you are my people, Ghemena! You raised me as your own daughter. You opened up a world of magic for me. All they did was destroy my village, murder my family, and drive me into exile. Why would I want to go back to that?”

Ghemena set her focus on the fabric that grew beneath her fingers. When she spoke, it was in low tones that matched the rhythm of her weave.

“Many terrible things have come to pass in Moisehén, but this does not change the fact that they are your people. You are bound by the craft to serve them, no matter what they have done to you in the past, and no matter what they might do to you in the future. On the day of their need you must respond, for you will be the only High Maga left to them.”

A few days later, Ghemena did not appear for breakfast.

In the years since the old maga had adopted Eolyn, not once had she missed the first moments of the day, when the light of the sun lifted the pale mist off the forest.

Disconcerted, Eolyn knocked quietly at the entrance to Ghemena’s bedroom.

“Come in, my daughter.”

Relieved at the familiar cackle of Ghemena’s voice, Eolyn pulled back the worn curtain and stepped into the cramped space. With the window shutters closed, Ghemena was but another shadow in the tiny alcove. She huddled beneath the covers, eyes peeking out from under the rough weave.

“Why are you still in bed, Ghemena?” Eolyn felt a tremor in her voice. She sought Ghemena’s frail hand.

“My time has come, Eolyn.” Ghemena’s breath rattled through her lungs. “Prepare a place beneath the willow. I would spend my last day in this world under the spring sun.”

Pain invaded Eolyn’s throat. She tried to force a laugh. “Don’t say such things, Ghemena. As if I would let you leave! As if the Gods would call you away before I finish my training.”

“I anointed you High Maga at the last moon.”

“But I’ve so much left to learn!”

“Not from me. Prepare a place, and do not argue the will of the Gods. I would spend my last day in peace.”

Eolyn stood up. Her limbs had gone numb. Without another word, she left Ghemena and stalked out of the house.

In the garden, bushes and herbs lay in full bloom, pastel flowers interspersed with the pale flush of spring leaves. Vegetables pushed new growth up from the dark earth, and fruit trees rustled under the buzzing dance of wasps and bees.

A maga should not be sad on such a day,
she told herself as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
A maga celebrates spring and partakes in its joy.

Or so Ghemena had told her on countless occasions. But all the things that ever made Eolyn sad returned to her now. How far did she have to run to escape death? What pleasure did the Gods derive from leaving her alone, again and again?

Eolyn closed her eyes and struggled to ground her spirit. She had to subdue her anger and recover her calm. If she did not bring her emotions into balance, she would endanger Ghemena’s passage to the Afterlife.

Drawing a deep breath, the young maga returned to the cottage.

“The candles.” Ghemena’s voice rasped like dry leaves. “The ones we made last summer, of night berry, winter sage and iris root. Bring them now so we may put them to use.”

Eolyn wrapped a blanket around the old maga’s frail shoulders. She accompanied Ghemena to a willow tree that stood on the edge of the meadow. She brought the candles and placed them, nine in all, in a circle around the base of the trunk. When she finished, Eolyn settled next to Ghemena and took her hand.

The transformation of a maga was a delicate event. To reach the Afterlife, she had to pass through the treacherous landscape of the Underworld. There she risked falling victim to the lost souls, who confused the light of magic with the call of the Afterlife. Even worse were the Naether Demons, who hunted and feasted on the souls of practitioners.

“Mother didn’t have any of this.” Eolyn gestured to the circle of candles. “She did not have nightberry or winter sage; she did not even have a friend nearby when they destroyed her. Does that mean she was trapped in the Underworld?”

Ghemena lifted her face to Eolyn. How the old woman had changed! Her eyes sat in weary dark hollows. Her nose drooped over thin lips. Her cheeks had lost their color.

“Warrior magas prepared differently for death,” Ghemena said. “They carried winter sage in their belts and recited incantations before each confrontation, sometimes every day. They bore the purple mark of nightberry on their bodies; some stained the soles of their feet, others painted elaborate designs over their arms or backs. Kaie observed all of these practices. From what I remember, she was a devout maga.”

“But how can we be certain?”

“You said you saw Kaie the day the King’s men attacked your village.”

Eolyn nodded. “She appeared to me in the woods and urged us to hide.”

“Then she survives in the Afterlife. It is impossible for a soul trapped in the Underworld to reach back into this realm.”

“Why are you leaving, Ghemena?” The words jumped out, angry and unbidden.

“You speak as if I have a choice.” Ghemena managed a quiet chuckle. “All of us die in the end. Your time will come, as well.”

“But you are all I have. There must be some kind of magic that can keep you here for a little while longer.”

“Perhaps you brought such magic with you when you arrived as a little girl. Maybe that is why I lived all these years until now.”

“Ghemena!” Eolyn’s voice filled with exasperation. She did not want trite answers. She wanted ancient spells and secret escape routes.

“You will not be alone for long,” the old maga said gently.

“Is that what your cards told you?”

“The cards, and the dreams of an ancient woman.”

“Divination is a reckless form of magic.” Eolyn did not bother to hide her sarcasm.

“It is. But it brings comfort at times, and that, at least, can be of some use.” The corners of Ghemena’s lips turned up in a weak smile. Her eyes shone in quiet amusement.

Eolyn looked away. She was not in the mood for jests.

“I speak the truth, Eolyn. The Gods have given me a glimpse of your future. Your friends wait for you. You will recognize them...”

Ghemena’s words ended in a ragged gasp. Her body contracted around her chest.

With a start, Eolyn took the old maga in her arms. Summoning the powers of the earth, she laid her hand over Ghemena’s heart and murmured a lengthy spell.

Ghemena’s breath settled into a slow and rasping rhythm.

“You have become a fine healer,” she said. “Such heat in your hands. Your magic depends on this place, Eolyn. You must never forget that. You will always be drawn to the forest to restore your power and renew your magic.”

“You were talking about my friends. Where are they? How will I know who they are?”

“They have unique magic. They hide in visible places.”

Eolyn frowned. Did the dying always speak like this, in riddles and contradictions?

“And what of Achim? Have you seen Achim?”

Ghemena closed her eyes. “No. I have looked for your friend, Eolyn, but he is covered in shadows. You must be very careful. Do not let your affection for the boy cloud your judgment of the man. He has been through years of the most rigorous training. If Tzeremond anointed him High Mage, it is because he has accepted a way of magic that leaves no room for a woman of your power.”

Clarity returned to Ghemena’s gaze as she opened her eyes.

“He knows your name,” she continued, “and by now others may have heard of you. So you must use a different name when you leave the South Woods. Do not invoke any magic unless necessary. Do not do anything that would allow them to find you before you are certain who your allies are.”

Eolyn nodded, but in her heart she could not accept the idea that Achim would ever betray her.

Ghemena sighed as if speaking so many words had demanded extraordinary effort. Her eyes closed again. For a time she lay so still Eolyn would have thought her passage had begun, were it not for the continued warmth of her frail body.

The Doyenne slept the better part of the day, occasionally waking to shift her position or to watch the creatures of the meadow before dozing off again. It was not until the sun dipped low over the trees that Ghemena spoke once more.