Eolyn (37 page)

C
hapter Forty-Four

As Eolyn recovered
, Corey remained at her side. He conversed with her in the evening, greeted her with breakfast in the morning, and administered her medicines under High Mage Rezlyn’s strict instructions. The days of Corey’s vigilance had returned, Eolyn realized, and she suspected his constant company was a manifestation of Akmael’s will.

A few days after her awakening, Corey offered to escort Eolyn through the castle grounds.  Her limbs were in much need of movement, and she accepted, resting her hand on his arm to steady herself.

The fortress of Vortingen bore little resemblance to the place she experienced only a few months earlier. Corridors that had once appeared an indecipherable maze of suffocating darkness now spread in broad promenades that wound patiently from one set of apartments to the next. Tall windows allowed light to play on the sun-warmed interior. Many of the inner courtyards supported dense gardens blooming with late summer flowers.

“This is not the castle you brought me to at Bel-Aethne,” she told Corey. “Nothing looks the same.”

“At Bel-Aethne, you came here by night, a prisoner in fear for your life. Now you walk freely by day, as the King’s guest.” He paused before acknowledging, “Though it is true that a shadow has been lifted from this place.”

The King’s guest
. It seemed an unkind euphemism. Guests were not under constant watch. And if she were well enough to mount a horse and continue on her way, would they let her leave?

In quiet hours of the night, after Corey left Eolyn to sleep, her thoughts gravitated toward Briana of East Selen, confined to a single tower, slain at the hands of one of her own sisters. Would Akmael force her down a similar path? Was she his guest, or the prize of his victory?

One day, when her legs were sufficiently steady, Corey led Eolyn on a long climb up the winding stairs of one of the towers. The cramped space and narrow windows generated a sense of confinement, and Eolyn breathed a sigh of relief when at last they emerged on the southern ramparts.

Below them spread a magnificent carpet of fertile plains and rolling hills. Toward the horizon, she saw a blue green haze that marked the border of Moehn. Longing filled her heart, an intense thirst for the forest that had once fueled her soul.

“Akmael has sent word to bordering kingdoms,” Corey said. “He has asked the magas to return.”

“There are others?” The thought surprised her, so accustomed was she to being alone.

“It is possible. Ghemena may not have been the only one to escape, and if others did, they may have acquired students. Those who accept the King’s invitation will be allowed to practice all forms of High Magic, but they will not be permitted to learn or engage in the arts of war. And they will be watched closely. Any talk of the Mage King ceding his staff will be considered treason.”

Eolyn looked at Corey, who kept his gaze fixed on the terrain below.

“Are you trying to warn me?” she asked.

“All I’m saying is that if you have any doubts about the matter, based on the teachings of your beloved Doyenne, you had best put them behind you.”

She blinked and glanced away, uncertain how to respond.

A boy ran past, brushing her skirt. Startled, Eolyn watched him race to the highest point on the ramparts, where he climbed the wall and stood over the undulating plains, his arms spread wide.

“What is it, Eolyn?” Corey sounded anxious and far away. “Your face has lost its color.”

She stepped toward the child.

Instinct told her not to call out to him. He bore a striking resemblance to the boy Achim, but his hair fell straight and shone a burnished brown in the afternoon sun.

“It is the young Prince Kedehen,” she realized. “In the courtyards below, his brothers play at war and adventure, blood and glory, but he likes to come up here and pretend he can fly. Like an eagle. Or a mage.”

“You are speaking like a Syrnte witch,” Corey said.

“No one would receive him, except Tzeremond.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Him.” Eolyn pointed to the boy, but the image faded on the whistling wind. Tears stung her eyes, again. They seemed to come so easy of late. “He was not so different from me, in what he wanted.”

Corey took her by the shoulders. “Eolyn, look at me. Have you had visions like this before?”

“No. Yes. A vision?” She shook her head in confusion. “The day my village was attacked, and again, years later, I saw Akmael die, or thought I did, though it didn’t happen that way.”

Eolyn felt dizzy. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking to ground herself. When she opened them, Corey was searching her face with care.

“You may have been born with this ability, though it is unusual for a witch of Moisehén,” he said. “Yet there was also your journey to the Underworld…”

Eolyn frowned and looked to where the child Kedehen had stood. Was that all that drove him in the end? A passion for magic?  She could imagine the unbearable disappointment of the young prince as one mage after another rejected his petition, not because of the teachings of Aithne and Caradoc, but because of a taboo so ingrained no one had the imagination to see around it. He might have been a different sort of King, had someone other than Tzeremond agreed to teach him. Indeed, he might never have been King at all. 

“Only a handful of people have succeeded in doing what you did.” Corey’s voice called her back from her thoughts. “Perhaps this gift returned with you from the world of the dead.”

Eolyn stepped away, wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered. She recalled how she and Akmael had ruptured the vault of the Underworld. Light had flooded the darkness, and the Lost Souls had fled in terror. Where had that power come from? Had she brought it back? Did it lie sleeping inside of her? Inside of Akmael?

“Has the King had similar visions?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Corey said. “Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”

She flinched at the thought. “I’m weary. I would like to rest.”

Corey nodded and escorted her back to her room.

Time passed. The King did not visit, nor did he send for her. His absence unsettled Eolyn, filling her heart with a strange mixture of relief and foreboding. Relief every time the sun set, because she had lived one more day without having to confront him. Foreboding every time the sun rose, for this might be the day that he appeared.

What would she say, when the time came?

Akmael had risked his life and soul to bring her back from the Underworld. He had restored her magic and her spirit. He brought her into the protection of his fortress and assured her all the comforts of his royal household. Yet at the same time, he took away everything that once gave her a sense of home. He permitted the death of her brother and the slaughter of her allies. He had sent her few surviving friends into exile.

Now even Corey was drawn into his service, forcing a wedge between her and the one companion who remained from the time before the rebellion. She found it impossible to imagine this man, Mage and King, was once the boy who brought her such happiness. The laughter they shared in the sun-speckled shade of the forest seemed no more than a distant dream. Everything had changed. Everything had gone wrong.

In the evenings, Corey took her to the gardens, where the sun illuminated lush herbs and fruit laden trees in a green-gold haze. Butterflies wandered from leaf to leaf in search of a place to lay their eggs. Spiders spun their webs in the bushes. Eolyn whispered to the plants, her fingers caressing stems and flowers, her thoughts drifting ever further toward the South Woods.

The yearning for home was growing more intense.

Your magic depends on this forest
, Ghemena had once said.
The South Woods will always call you home.

What would she do if Akmael did not let her go?

“How does one gain an audience with the King?” she asked. “Am I to request it, or do I wait until summoned?”

Corey laughed. “Surely, Maga Eolyn, you must realize that you, of all people, can see the King whenever you please.”

“Don’t mock me, Corey.”

“I am not mocking you. When do you wish to see Akmael?”

“Well.” She lifted her chin. “If what you say is true, then now.”

She was testing him, of course. Had she known he would acquiesce, she would have said ‘tomorrow’ or ‘next week’, but Mage Corey placed her hand upon his arm and led her away from the gardens. They passed through a maze of corridors, up narrow stairwells, and down long hallways.

As they approached the King’s apartments, the number of guards they encountered increased, but not once were they detained. Everyone, servants and men-at-arms alike, gave respectful nods as she passed. Their deference disturbed her. “They greet us as if they know who I am. I don’t like it.”

“You’ve become far too accustomed to passing through this world unnoticed,” Corey replied. “That will have to change now.”

They entered the King’s antechamber through a pair of heavy doors and proceeded to the receiving room without being announced.

Magical and military artifacts adorned the stone walls, and the windows revealed a wide balcony overlooking the rolling plains below. Akmael stood engaged in conversation with one of his High Mages, a rosy cheeked man with a thick blond beard. They sifted through parchments and other objects on a large polished table.

Akmael wore a simple but finely woven linen shirt, reminiscent of the one he had worn the day they first met in the South Woods. The dark curls of his youth had grown back, and they were bound loosely at the nape of his neck. His broad shoulders were relaxed, his strong hands spread upon the table. His bearing, which gave testimony to his place in the line of Vortingen, filled Eolyn with conflicting emotions of apprehension and pride.

The King looked up. The intensity of his focus made Eolyn catch her breath, though it was clear by his expression that her arrival pleased him.

“Maga Eolyn,” he said. “You are well.”

“Yes, thank you, Achim…Akmael…my Lord, King.” She lowered her eyes, embarrassed by the confusion of names that stumbled from her lips.

Corey and the other mage took their quiet leave. 

“Please.” The King extended his arm, inviting her to approach. A smile touched his lips.

She remembered how much she enjoyed seeing him smile as a boy, how hard it was to get him to do it at first. Though she longed to close the distance between them, she stopped just beyond his reach. Her hands worked against each other in nervous agitation.

“I wanted to tell you I am deeply grateful for what you did, bringing me back. I understand what it could have cost you, and I am glad no harm came to you in retrieving me. I will…” She drew a breath and steadied her hands. “I will set forth for the South Woods in a few days. I wish to rest there, perhaps the winter through. My magic was drained by the journey to the Underworld, and the battle…” She flushed. By the Gods, why did she have to mention it?

“But you will return?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, I…” She shifted on her feet. This was not the response she had expected, that she was free to go. “Mage Corey told me the prohibition has been lifted. So there is much work to do. There will be students to teach. Many women, I hope. The magic of this land has been so unraveled. It will take a long time to weave it all back together.” Her gaze drifted to the table as she spoke. Absently, she picked up an oval object. It fit comfortably in the palm of her hand, and she realized it was a portrait of a young woman. “Who is this?”

Akmael cleared his throat. “The first princess of Roenfyn. One of many candidates I have been discussing with High Mage Tzetobar.”

Eolyn set the portrait down carefully. Her fingers were numb.

“The duty of a King,” she murmured.

“Alliances must be forged, an heir to the throne secured.” He spoke without emotion, as if the matter did not directly concern him.

“So you will marry her?”

“I have not yet decided with whom we will initiate negotiations. Roenfyn has its advantages. It is a neighboring kingdom that offers important territorial gains, and our people share a common history. But there are other possibilities. The Mountain People or the Syrnte, for example, both with magical traditions that could serve us well.”

“You just banished them from our territory, and now you speak of alliances?”

“I threw out their hostile armies, but as Mage Tzetobar would be quick to tell you, war must be followed by diplomacy else it will soon engender more war. If the Mountain People and the Syrnte have designs over our territory, it would do well to consider abating their hunger with a royal marriage.”

“They did not come to conquer us. They came to assist Ernan and his cause.”

Akmael touched her chin and brought her gaze to his. He studied her face for several moments, his expression at once puzzled and amused. “I think what caught my heart on that first day was your capacity to trust so readily, to believe the best of others, even of me. Ghemena worked hard to train you out of it, but she never quite succeeded, did she?”

“My instinct toward trust has little to do with this. I knew them. Khelia. Tahmir. Rishona.”