Eolyn (22 page)

Somewhere beyond the pounding in her ears, she heard him invoke her name. But was it the Mage King who called, or her ruined memory of Achim? The confusion between past and present, between hope and disillusion, was tearing her apart. She felt his hand on her shoulder and flinched away.

“Please.” A sob broke through her voice. “Let me leave this place.”

Eolyn spoke against hope. She let her pounding head sink into icy hands.

I should have listened to Ghemena. I should have never trusted him. In my foolishness, I have failed them all. My people, my dead sisters, Dragon, the very Gods themselves.

From the beginning, he had meant to claim her, just as Kedehen had claimed Briana, her life subject to his dominion, her magic used for his ends.

There would be no return of the magas, no restoration of the honored traditions of her people. She had fallen into the Mage King’s trap, and now there would only be him, the true son of Kedehen, fueling his magic through the shattering of all her dreams.

C
hapter Twenty-Six

A tremor shook the antechamber,
throwing Corey off his feet and sending a wave of panic through the High Mages. Only after the movement of the earth subsided, did the mages regain their composure. Meaningful glances were exchanged, nods of satisfaction expressed.

The last maga of Moisehén is vanquished.

The thought sank like a stone in Corey’s heart.

Akmael’s staff sounded three times from inside the throne room. The heavy doors opened. Abandoning all protocol, Corey pushed ahead of the rest. He stopped short when he saw her, like a wild rose crumpled against the unyielding floor.

The King sat upon his throne, face as expressionless as the walls of his fortress. “You see, Master Tzeremond? She can be taught humility when handled properly.”

Then Akmael settled a black gaze upon his cousin. “Mage Corey.”

“My Lord King.” Corey’s voice was a smooth river of contempt.

“Take this woman from the city, and do not return until she has unlearned the tricks you taught her.”

Shock rippled through the High Mages.

In an instant, Corey was at Sarah’s side. Her hands felt cold as death, and her skin was a sick tone of gray, but she stirred when he touched her.

She is alive! Thank the Gods, she is alive.

“My Lord King,” Tzeremond said, “I do not think it wise to—”

“Drostan,” the King said, “see that these two are escorted to the castle gates.”

The knight stepped forward and offered his assistance to Sarah, but she shrank from his touch. Corey wrapped his arm around her and pulled her up from the floor. They had advanced only a few steps when she doubled over and vomited a pool of bile right at Tzeremond’s feet. Heart racing, Corey half-carried, half-dragged her out of the throne room, anxious to avoid the wizard’s curse.

A small group of guards assembled around them. Drostan led the way. They walked in silence, hurried steps echoing against torch-lit walls. At the castle gates, Corey and Sarah were released without ceremony into the night beyond.

Corey paused and gathered his breath, Sarah sagging against his shoulder.

A cascade of stars shone over the city.

The silence was unnerving. 

What just happened?

Sarah should have been possessed on this night, her remains burned on the morrow. What impossible turn of events had caused the King to set her free?

Gently, Corey used his magic to prod Sarah’s spirit, trying to assess what Akmael might have taken, what he had left behind. Beneath the terror and despair, everything seemed intact.

Everything except her heart
.

That had been shattered in a way that could only mean…

Corey shook his head.
No.

The serpent bracelet on her arm stirred as if in answer to his question.

But how?

A shadow moved on Corey’s left, and Tahmir slipped out of the night. Sarah moaned as the Syrnte warrior drew her away from Corey and into his embrace. He pressed his lips to her forehead and murmured words of comfort.

“Where is Renate?” Corey asked. With any luck, there might still be time to get her out of the city.

“Thelyn sent her away after the Fire Ceremony,” Tahmir replied. “He urged her to flee, but she came to the Circle and refused to go anywhere until we had news of you and Sarah.”

Tahmir lifted Sarah off the ground and carried her as they began a swift descent toward the city gates.

“He let her go?” Corey said, surprised. “We may still have a friend on the Council, then. Tahmir, when we get to the city gates I want my three fastest horses ready, with Renate on one of them.”

“Rishona will be waiting with everything you need.”

Sarah murmured against Tahmir’s chest. Corey had to lean close to hear her.

“My satchel,” she was saying, “and my walking stick. They must go with me.”

“My sister has already retrieved them for you, dear Sarah,” Tahmir replied.

She responded with a sharp inhale, as if her spirit were returning to her body. Sarah stirred in Tahmir’s arms and looked up.

“I can walk now,” she said, though her voice was weak. “Tahmir, I want to walk.”

He set her down and took her hand in his. The three of them continued together, footsteps tapping against cobblestones. Mournful silence permeated the midnight mist. Even the bars and taverns had shut their doors.

“Where is everyone?” Corey asked. “Bel-Aethne is not a festival of silence. These streets should be filled with revelry.”

“A crowd gathered outside the castle gates after Sarah’s arrest, anxious for another glimpse of the maga. When the tremor hit, they scattered in terror, thinking the King and his mages had destroyed her. The city is in mourning now.”

“Well, isn’t that ironic,” Corey said. “After all those years they spent under Kedehen, watching without protest while he bled this kingdom of their magas.”

“They were trapped then by their fear.”

“Fear. Greed. Madness. Whatever it was, I’m glad it’s gone. Would that I could be here tomorrow, when news of her release spreads like wildfire through these streets.”

Rishona met them outside the city gates. She embraced Sarah and gave her a flask of minted water to wash the bile from her mouth. The Syrnte woman had selected three animals with silvery gray coats that would blend well with the moonlit fields. She also produced translucent riding cloaks for both Sarah and Corey.

Renate sat on her horse, ready for travel.

“Curse this waxing moon,” Corey muttered, “and the clear sky that allows it to illuminate the land.”

“These colors will help conceal your retreat,” Rishona assured him, fastening his cloak and giving him a brief kiss.

“All the same, let us hope the King does not change his mind.”

Sarah donned her cloak and climbed up on her steed. Tahmir handed her the staff and satchel, then caught her hand in his.

“Ride swift,” he said. “Do not look back.”

“Why are you not coming with us?” Anxiety filled Sarah’s voice.

“I will follow, soon.”

“Follow us now!”

“We do not have time for romantic interludes,” Corey snapped.

“The smaller your group, the less likely your passing will be noticed,” Tahmir told Sarah. “It is better this way.”

“No.” Sarah clung to his hand.

“We will be together again.” The Syrnte warrior pressed her fingers to his lips. “Until then, listen to your dreams. Look for me there.”  

“Everything connected with her must be destroyed,” Corey said to Rishona as he mounted. “Costumes, bed sheets, combs. Everything.”

“Adiana is taking care of it,” Rishona assured him.

Corey’s horse pranced restlessly beneath him, its breath a fog against the night air.

“It is over,” he announced. “Disband the Circle tonight. Those who understand who we are know what to do. As for the others, use your judgment. If they are ready, let them make their choice. If not, pay their severance and thank them for their services on my behalf. No one is to linger. I want this camp abandoned within the hour.”

“Consider it done,” Tahmir promised.

With a short nod, Mage Corey signaled the horses and they took off, a moonlit cloud of dust rising in their wake.

C
hapter Twenty-Seven

Akmael sent Tzeremond away
with the High Mages, instructing them to resuscitate the stalled festival of Bel-Aethne.

Once alone, Akmael assumed the shape of a gray owl and departed through one of the high windows. With the warm evening air flowing over his wings, he directed his flight toward the ramparts and settled in a whisper of feathers just above the castle entrance.

Twilight had thickened into night. The waxing moon cast broad shafts of silver across the cobblestones below. Mage Corey and Eolyn emerged from the gates, the maga leaning on the mage.

A Syrnte man slipped out of the shadows and wrapped his arms around Eolyn. Akmael’s feathers ruffled as the stranger pressed his lips into her thick copper tresses. The man gathered Eolyn up and carried her away, Corey at their side.

Uncertainty plagued Akmael. He fought the impulse to follow them. He had entrusted Eolyn to Corey, but on what grounds? The devotion of the mage to her defense? The blood of East Selen that bound Corey to Akmael?

Despite their conversations in recent days, Akmael was not convinced of his cousin’s loyalty, but Tzeremond would return soon, and he could not linger. Mage Corey would have to be contacted—and the Syrnte interloper dealt with—later.

With a lift of powerful wings, Akmael took flight and veered back toward the castle. He descended into the throne room and assumed his human shape just as the guards announced the return of Tzeremond.

“The festival will continue as planned, my Lord King,” Tzeremond reported. “It is fortunate the High Mages were set to preside over the third day. Few changes will be required.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

Tzeremond stepped forward, eyes aflame with urgency, knuckles white against his staff. “My Lord King, that witch must not be allowed to escape.”

“Before we speak of that woman,” Akmael replied, “you will tell me who made the attempt on Mage Corey’s life today, and by what authority.”

Tzeremond retreated a step, then drew a breath and said, “I invoked the Dragon. Although, as you undoubtedly noticed, the spell was crafted to make it appear as if the Middle Mages lost control of the fire.”

Akmael studied Tzeremond’s unwavering gaze. Clearly, the wizard believed he could undertake such an act with impunity. Kedehen had granted Tzeremond full authority for administering justice in crimes of magic. Still, certain protocols were expected.

“Who presided at his trial in my place?” Akmael asked pointedly.

“My Lord King, as you know Mage Corey visits us once a year to report on his work with foreign and unusual magic. We take advantage of these meetings not only to learn from him, but to assess his loyalty to the Order and to the Crown, a loyalty that has always been under suspicion, as you are aware, given the fate of his clan. Recently we have come to believe his work has led him astray. There are indications he has assumed a key role in the nascent rebellion about which Sir Drostan and I informed you.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?”

“Mage Corey is a delicate target. He has garnered great popularity with the people, with many important families and a number of mages. And though you no longer sustain a close relationship with him, he is your cousin. We had hoped this festival would bring more evidence to light, allowing us to arrest him without controversy. But during today’s Fire Ceremony, I realized we had waited too long. A vision was sent to our people, a perverse image of magas creating the sacred fire alongside the mages. The only person in the ceremony skilled enough to attempt such a manipulation was Corey. So, I decided the time had come to eliminate him.”

Akmael took a moment to absorb these words.
Would my father have condoned such an act?
“A trial would have been more appropriate.”

“In this case, perhaps not. Given his reputation, and the infancy of your reign, it would be more prudent to avoid a messy arrest and trial. Better he fall victim to an accident.”

How many of Tzeremond’s rivals had fallen victim to accidents over the years? “Mage Corey was not the only one with the ability to craft the vision to which you refer.”

Tzeremond gray brows furrowed. “It is a mistake to let her go, my Lord King. And to allow Mage Corey to escape with her.”

Akmael took a few paces away from his mentor and placed a broad hand upon one of the many pillars that supported the throne room. He noticed a hairline crack, evidence of the tremor she had just invoked.

Father was right.

Eolyn was no longer a girl. The maga commanded her own authority now. Indeed, she was a vision of magic reinforced by spellbinding beauty. The scent of the South Woods hovered about her like a bright cloud. Her very presence had filled his heart with an unbearable need, igniting a desire more intense than he thought possible. He had come close, dangerously close, to satiating the darkest of appetites.

Even now, Akmael could not say what stayed his hand. The rich flavor of Eolyn’s magic lingered on his tongue and nourished the flame in his breast.

“Her power is extraordinary,” he murmured. “She moved the earth, Tzeremond. And then bade it to be still.”

“The maga did that?” The wizard’s voice shook.  

“Yes, though it seemed she was not entirely cognizant of the magic she invoked. I find it curious that whoever trained her did not open her awareness to this gift, this ability to set the deepest powers of the earth into motion.”

“Only her ability to unsettle the ground has been proven, my Lord King.”

“That, and her capacity to stop a death flame invoked by a master.” Akmael’s hand drifted away from the pillar. He turned back to Tzeremond. “A power like that could be harnessed, could it not? A power like that could be made to serve me, just as Briana’s magic served my father.”

Tzeremond went still as an arrow poised in its bow. A glow of trepidation filled his amber eyes. “That was a unique situation, my Lord King. One I would not recommend repeating.”

“But it could be done.”

“Yes, it could be done, though it is not necessary. You have no need of her power.”

“I am no longer your student, Tzeremond. It is my decision what I need, what I do not need, and what might serve my purpose whether I need it or not.”

“I only offer the advice I think best, my Lord King. The appearance of this maga has caused confusion among our people. The guards report they threw lilies in her path. They need a clear act of justice from their new King, or this one incident could very well undo the life’s work of your most honored father.” 

“Their desire for the magas is like a forgotten river threatening to burst out of the earth,” Akmael countered. “We cannot subdue their longing indefinitely.  Perhaps it would be better to let it emerge into the daylight, where we can see it and keep it under control.”

“There is no controlling the magas! Five years of war they brought upon Moisehén. They turned our people against each other, cursed us with division and bloodshed. They burned fields, ravaged towns, and left countless orphans in their wake. And for what purpose? So that your father could not wear the crown the Gods had clearly destined him to wear. You are bound by duty to your people, and the memory of your father, to keep this land free of the magas’ poison.”

“My father eliminated all but one. He kept Briana for himself.”

Tzeremond held Akmael’s gaze for a long moment. Then he let go a quiet sigh. “I will not stand in your way, my Lord King, if you decide to attempt such a thing, just as I did not stand in your father’s way, when he took Briana of East Selen. If you desire her magic, then claim it.”

Akmael’s glance strayed toward the high windows where he had just escaped as Owl.

They will be at the city gates by now
.

Eolyn, Corey, and that Syrnte thief.

Tzeremond stepped close and spoke in low tones. “She need not live in order for you to make use of her power. Bring the woman back, possess her, and send her remains to the world of the dead.”

Yet Akmael did not want to subdue Eolyn in the way Tzeremond had taught him. He did not want to feed on Eolyn’s fear or break her body or even expropriate her extraordinary magic. The thought of Eolyn disappearing in a flash of violence, never to be enjoyed again, filled him with disgust.

“Or keep her if you must,” Tzeremond added, “in the East Tower, just as your father did.”

No.

Akmael desired something else from her, something deeper and more powerful. Something he could not yet name. “She cannot be brought to me by force. Briana trusted my father, if not with everything, then with that which was most important to her. So it must be with this maga. I would have her return to me willingly, and surrender her magic without reservation.”

“You deceive yourself, my Lord King,” Tzeremond said. “A maga does not surrender her magic. You must imprison this woman, or you must kill her.  There is no other choice.”