Eolyn (17 page)

They spoke at length, the Old Fir and the silver serpent, but Eolyn could not understand them. Despite her skill with the knife, she had never really mastered the language of metals.

Lowering its head, the bracelet flattened into a three-tiered coil, at the center of which emerged a single point of light. The jewel then slithered up past her elbow and coiled around her arm, coming to rest in its customary place.

Eolyn cupped her hands around the bright gift it left behind, her surprise transformed into awe. Many months had passed—indeed for her it felt like an eternity—since she held a white flame of magic in her hands. She brought it close to her lips and whispered, “Indulge this fantasy of mine.”

Ehekaht, naeom aenthae.

She nurtured the fire with her breath until it shone like the morning star. Then she willed the glowing orb into the highest branches of the Old Fir, where it burst into a thousand tiny flames that settled twinkling among the snow draped branches.

Ehukae.

Eolyn savored the beauty of the sparkling tree, and the rich sensation of magic flowing through her veins, for longer than was perhaps prudent.

Snow began to drift down from the sky. Icy fingers of winter penetrated her cloak. Reluctant to let go of the magic, Eolyn nonetheless allowed the white flames to fade.

When she turned back toward the amber glow of the dining hall, her heart stopped. The shadow of a man stood in her path.

“Tahmir,” she said. “How long have you been here?”

In a few paces he closed the distance between them, hushing her with the touch of his fingers upon her lips. With a soft snap of his fingers he ignited a warm orange glow in the air, a floating light reminiscent of the lanterns of the Guendes.

“Show me your hands,” he said.

Fascinated, Eolyn brought them out from under her cloak. Tahmir pressed the orb against her palms until it penetrated her skin and filled her body with the warmth of the midsummer sun. Eolyn had never encountered magic like this, and she watched her hands in wonder as the glow faded and its essence spread through her. 

“You cannot tell Mage Corey what you saw me do,” she said, returning to the concern of the moment.

“You have nothing to fear from him.”

“He sent you after me, didn’t he?”

“I do not watch you at Mage Corey’s bidding. I watch you because it gives me pleasure to do so.”

Eolyn could not help but smile. Such comments were so very typical of Tahmir. He never lost the opportunity to remind a woman of her beauty. “But Mage Corey asked you to keep an eye on me.”

He measured his words with care, as he always did. “You unleash something in your people. Especially in your kinswomen. The effect was subtle at first, but it grows. Corey has noticed this and wishes to understand it.”

“And he solicited your assistance in the task.” Anger rose inside of her. Why did no one respond to her questions with a straight answer? “Don’t you tire of it, Tahmir? After all, you are under his vigilance too, you and your sister Rishona. We are all watched by Mage Corey. We are all played by his hand.”

She could hardly see Tahmir in the dark but she felt his response, the curious raise of his brow, the puzzled frown on his sensual lips.

She folded her arms and turned back to the Old Fir. “It was a mistake for me to overwinter in East Selen. Mage Corey will win this game, for I do not even know what he is playing at.”

“What game would you play, Sarah, if the rules were yours to craft?”

Tahmir shared this gift with Rishona, this ability to speak a truth so sharp one did not feel its quick descent into the heart. In an instant he had laid open the source of her discontent, and foreshadowed the path she would take because of it.

He will arrive not with the spring rites of Bel-Aethne,
Ghemena had once promised,
but in his own time and of his own accord. He will carry the summer in his caress. He will bring companionship to your longest night.

Always she had imagined
he
would be Achim, but now she was not so sure. Ghemena had not prepared her for uncertainty. Eolyn’s longing for the old rites had never been stronger than on this night. She wanted real masks, not metaphorical ones. She wanted the intimate support of a true coven, not the distant song of dancers and musicians.

“You have told me that your people celebrate the same holidays we do.” Her voice echoed calmly against the night.

“We honor the phases of the moon and the cycles of the sun, though our seasons and our harvests are laid out differently against the year.”

“Do you observe the practice that was once the tradition of our mages and magas, an offering of pleasure given to the Gods?”

In the months since they first met, she had posed many such questions to Tahmir, hoping to better understand his people. So she knew her words could lead to a lengthy conversation about the nature of Syrnte rites, the high festivals during which they were observed, and their interpretation in the context of his faith. She felt a small surge of relief when he chose the simplest of all answers.

“Yes.”

“Then make this offering with me tonight.” Her voice held steady, surprising given the sudden pounding of her heart. “Help me guide the sun back to Moisehén.”

Tahmir did not hesitate, nor did he rush. He stepped forward, drew back her hood and sent his long fingers into the thick tresses of her hair. He tilted her face and set his lips upon hers.

Raised as a maga, Eolyn knew her body well, having explored its contours and recesses in midnight communion with the Spirit of the Forest. But she had never been touched like this by another, not since her farewell to Achim, and that exchange was abrupt, plagued by the awkwardness of recently discovered passion.

In contrast, Tahmir drew her to him as if he had decided long ago exactly how to kiss her when given the opportunity. Eolyn savored her response, the thin sheen of sparks that leapt upon her breath, the arch of her neck as it ceded to his exploratory descent, the shiver of pleasure ignited by the touch of his tongue upon her skin, the white-hot shaft of heat that shot from her core into the snow covered earth below.

Eolyn lost her balance. Catching herself against Tahmir, she spread her fingers over the resonating plain of his chest. She recognized his intoxicating aroma. It was the same rich dance of spices Rishona had given her when they visited the market that first day in Selkynsen.

He caressed her with the heat of his breath. “This decision must be yours. It must be freely made.”

“It is.” She drew his lips back to hers. “This is my choice.”

C
hapter Twenty

After their first midwinter’s offering
, many nights came to pass where Eolyn sought the warmth of Tahmir’s bed. Each encounter revealed another undiscovered path across the solid contours of his body. Eolyn delighted in the response of his sun-warmed skin to the curve of her palms, in the silky fall of his black hair between her tapered fingers, in the sensual pull of his lips upon her breasts, the curve of her abdomen, the sacred mystery of her sex. Over and over she cultivated the flame of his desire and lost herself to the pleasure of his strength, until the ecstasy of the gods bound them and abandoned them, leaving her nestled against him in sweet, satiated exhaustion.

Her magic took root in their passion and grew with a ferocity she found difficult to contain. At first she was certain this sudden expansion of power, building like a hot current inside of her, would not escape Corey’s notice. Yet the mage, who had shown unrelenting curiosity about every other aspect of her life, expressed no interest in her relationship with Tahmir. This surprised her, and then fueled her wariness. She took care not to repeat any acts of magic in Tahmir’s presence. Nor did she speak with him about the truth of her training. Despite their intimacy, Eolyn could not wrest from her imagination the thought that anything revealed to Tahmir would eventually be known by Mage Corey.

Spring announced its arrival in East Selen much as it always had in the South Woods, with the crystalline shower of ice melting from tree branches, the tentative song of the first arriving wood thrush, and fresh blossoms of rose aethne suspended low over newly exposed leaf litter.

With the Circle’s new season set to start after Eostar, rehearsals increased in frequency and intensity. Tents were checked for wear and damage, equipment repaired, and costumes aired, washed and mended. The celebration of Spring Equinox, though undertaken with the same enthusiasm the Circle dedicated to all its festivals, proved a less sumptuous affair than Winter Solstice.

This was a time of mixed emotions for Eolyn. Even as she prepared for the journey to the King’s City, the thought of saying goodbye to Tahmir and other friends she had made in the Circle filled her with a strange melancholy.

A couple weeks after the equinox, as crates were packed and carts loaded, a sickening rumble sounded from deep inside the earth. Eolyn, whose senses had not detected such terrifying movement since the day the Riders destroyed her village, mounted the first horse within reach. She would have fled into the forest without looking back had Tahmir not caught the horse’s bridle and stopped her flight.

“It is only the King’s messenger,” he assured her. “Come, let us see what news they bring.”

Subduing her panic, Eolyn dismounted. Tahmir took her hand and walked with her to the front of the manor, where everyone was gathering. A small company of men bore down upon them. Armor flashed under the spring sun. Purple and silver flags snapped in the wind. Hooves kicked up clumps of dirt.

When the men drew to a halt in front of the manor, Mage Corey stepped forward to greet them. The messenger did not dismount but turned to all assembled and announced in a cry fit for a city square:

“The King is dead!”

The words knocked Mage Corey back a few steps. In the year since Eolyn had known him, she had never witnessed such an expression on Corey’s face, such blatant acknowledgement of the entirely unexpected.

After a moment of stunned silence, Mage Corey regained composure. He turned to his people and led them in the only response acceptable under the circumstances.

“
Long live the King!
”

It was well known in Moisehén that practitioners of magic, if the Gods favored them with a natural death, lived to be very old. Indeed, their age proved difficult to calculate because youth clung to their features. This was not due, as many might have imagined, to secret spells, magical elixirs or pacts with supernatural forces, but to the simple fact that mages and magas did not live in terms of days, months, and years. For them, life flowed in immeasurable waves of experience. Thus, the demise of Kedehen during a period of relative peace came as a surprise to all the people of Moisehén, including his son and only heir, Prince Akmael.

The accident occurred in the days preceding Eostar, when the King hosted traditional spring tournaments. The finest warriors gathered from the four provinces, their armor a blaze of silver over heavy warhorses. Long wooden galleries were erected outside the city walls for the nobility of Moisehén, who sat resplendent beneath the bright banners of their houses. Gold chains glinted upon the men’s velvet doublets, and women’s veils fluttered in the wind.

Honoring the custom of his ancestors, Kedehen opened the tournament by accepting a ceremonial challenge from one of the recently sworn knights of the provinces. The identity of his opponent was determined by chance, and on that sunny morning, Sir Borten of Moehn was drawn. A tall, lean youth with just a hint of a beard, Borten was the youngest man to ride that day.

As Borten mounted his horse, the crowd mocked him. Moehn was not known for the skill and valor of its fighters. Yet Borten held his head high and refused to play the coward.

Admirable
, Akmael thought, as the knight accepted his shield and balanced his lance, for the young man had little chance against the Mage King. 

Akmael had heard the thunder of his father’s horse plowing down the length of the lists countless times. He had seen Kedehen unseat every man who ever challenged him, and the King had killed more than a few.

Yet today as the horses approached each other, the tremor of the earth beneath their hooves took on an unsettling rhythm. A slip on a stone perhaps, or a hidden muddy spot, interrupted the cadence.

When they met, the King’s lance glanced off the knight’s shield, eliciting a roar of surprise from the onlookers. Borten’s weapon drove into the King’s helmet with a harsh splintering rasp. Wood shattered against metal as the lance tip broke. The knight’s horse rushed passed the King and reached the end of the run, where Borten turned his steed, dropped the broken lance, and lifted his visor.

The crowd was silent. Kedehen’s horse slowed to a stop just after the impact. The King wavered in his seat. Long howling cries rose from the galleries as ladies and lords realized what had happened. Akmael ran toward his father. Just behind him he heard the heavy pounding of Sir Drostan’s feet.

Kedehen fell as they reached his horse. With Drostan’s help, the prince caught the regent and lowered him to the ground.

The impact of the lance had bent and lifted Kedehen’s visor. Blood flowed freely from a twisted knot of wood and flesh that had once been his eye.

“My Lord King,” Sir Drostan prompted.

The regent said nothing, but drew a slow ragged breath.

A mage warrior of the Old Orders, Drostan had served the House of Vortingen faithfully since the time of Akmael’s grandfather, Urien. Though strands of gray ran through his red beard, his strength seemed undiminished by time. The man was built like a bear. He laid his powerful fingers next to the wound and then looked up at Akmael. A furrow settled upon Drostan’s brow, and a slight tremor invaded his voice. “It has driven deep, my Lord Prince.”

Akmael understood at once his world was about to change. 

Sir Borten approached and fell to his knees a few feet away. The knight covered his face with gloved hands and wailed supplications to the Gods.

“Fool!” Lord Felton came up behind Borten and struck him on the head. Not once had Akmael witnessed the congenial Felton lift his hand against another man, but that day the patriarch of Moehn drew his sword and might have run the knight through, had not the King lifted a trembling hand.

“Wait.” Kedehen’s voice rasped like dry leaves.

“Lord Felton, stay your hand!” commanded the prince.

Felton paused, his bushy white brows crouched low over angry blue eyes.

“It is my father’s wish,” Akmael said.

The portly man sheathed his sword. By now, several others had approached, including Lords Herensen of Selkynsen and Baramon of Selen.

Kedehen laid a hand on the prince’s forearm. “Let him be, Akmael. Let the boy go.”

It was an inexplicable request from a King who had rarely shown mercy during his reign.

“He dealt a…fair blow.” Kedehen exhaled a long shaky breath. “The will of the Gods…Do not send him to the Afterlife, he might cause me more trouble there.” Kedehen let go a hoarse chuckle, perplexing Akmael even further. The prince had never seen his father so much as smile. “Pardon him. Bring him to the City. He is a knight to have at your side.”

“My Lord Prince, if you would allow me.” The court healer, High Mage Rezlyn, appeared at Akmael’s side. His dark beard was streaked with red and silver, his hazel eyes filled with anxiety.

Akmael stood and turned the King over to Rezlyn’s care. Kedehen closed his good eye. His breath continued shallow but even. Rezlyn’s aged fingers traced the wound with great care.

Borten remained hunched on his knees, his blond hair casting a thin shadow over a smooth face. Sweat ran in rivulets down his neck.

Though Kedehen had commanded Borten be spared, to pardon a King’s assassin in front of the assembled nobles of Moisehén would give the appearance of weakness, something Akmael could not afford in this of all moments.

“Arrest him.” Akmael nodded to the King’s guard. “We will see to his fate once we have attended to my father.”

In the sanctuary of Kedehen’s chambers, High Mage Rezlyn removed all he could of the splintered wood. He washed the wound and applied fresh poultices every few hours. He varied the portions of yarrow, vervain, tormentil, john’s wort and fox’s clote to fight infection, and added fennel and elecampane so that the delicate tissues of the eye might heal. He administered cowbane in hopes of abating the agony.

Despite Rezlyn’s tireless efforts, within days the flesh surrounding the wound began to rot. Puss flowed in a sour mass from the ruined socket. The King’s chambers filled with the stench of death.

Reluctantly, medicinal herbs and healing ointments were replaced by abundant winter sage and lavender. Thick midnight blue candles were lit in preparation for Kedehen’s passage to the Afterlife.

Many nobles and mages requested a final audience with the King, but he would receive no one except his healer and his son. Even his lifelong mentor, the wizard Tzeremond, was driven from the room with mad shouts and curses.

The King was losing his mind as well as his life.

Prince Akmael remained at his father’s side from the time of the accident until the moment of his death. Those unfamiliar with the ways of the royals might have interpreted this as an expression of love, but theirs had never been an affectionate relationship. Still, Akmael felt a profound sense of loss at Kedehen’s departure. Since the day Queen Briana had brought him into this world, Akmael had been prepared to assume his father’s place. Yet no one warned him of the heavy sense of solitude that would descend upon him in this moment.

“Akmael.” It was the seventh morning following the accident when Kedehen called to his son one last time. The pale blue light of predawn filtered through the narrow windows of the King’s chambers. “Are we alone?”

Akmael glanced up at High Mage Rezlyn, who had kept vigil with him these seven days. With a reverent nod, the healer departed.

Kedehen opened his feverish eye and fixed it on his son. The flickering light of the candles cast his image in shades of gray and yellow. One side of his face had bloated under the pressure of accumulated rot, the other had sunk into a landscape of dark pits and hollows. His mouth was slack and exuded a foul air. Still Akmael leaned forward to hear his words. He took his father’s burning hand in his.

Kedehen’s voice came hoarse and strained. “You found one, didn’t you? One that you never told us about. Clever, treacherous boy.”

“Found what, my Lord King?” For days now his father’s ravings had confused Akmael. He wondered if he, too, would lose all sense of reason when his time came.

“A maga,” Kedehen hissed. “You found a maga.”

Akmael withdrew in surprise, though he did not release his father’s hand.

Eolyn.

It had been years since the Prince had known anything of his friend from the South Woods, though the Gods knew he had tried to find her. In all this time he had not spoken of Eolyn to anyone.

“The Queen calls to me from across the Plains of the Dead,” Kedehen said. “She has whispered your secrets to me.”

“You can hear Mother?”

“Deadly witch, that Briana…” A retching cough overtook Kedehen. Akmael brought a flask of herbed wine to his lips. The King drank and wheezed. “By the Gods I loved her…love her still. She’ll try to kill you.”

“The Queen?”

“The maga.”

“She does not know how to kill.”

“The sword she speaks to does.”

“The girl understands too little of swords to—”

“She is no longer a girl. This weapon loves her. It will do as she asks.” More nonsense. A blade could no more love a woman than a horse could fly, and Eolyn had never mastered the sword. “Take great care with her. Keep her alive. Seduce her, or she will destroy you.”