Eolyn

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  “I wonder what’s missing,” Akmael asked, frustrated at the end of yet another failed attempt. “Is it a special chant or incantation? A certain herb or mushroom or tincture?”

  “Maybe we need a staff. Only High Mages and Magas can shape shift, and they all have staffs.”

  “Perhaps.” Akmael was not convinced.

  “We’ll learn in any case, once we become Initiates and start studying High Magic.”

  Akmael became serious. “You cannot go through with that, you know. You cannot learn High Magic.”

  “Why not? I’ve had no trouble at all learning Middle Magic.”

  “You know very well why not. There won’t be a safe place for you in the kingdom if you practice magic. Already what you know is enough to sentence you to the pyre.”

  “Ghemena will teach me how to protect myself, just as Dragon taught Aithne and Caradoc.”

  “You don’t know what you will be up against! Tzeremond’s Order, the Council, the warriors of my...of the King’s army. Ghemena hasn’t so much as shown you how to use a knife, much less teach you wartime magic.”

  “I’ll have you,” Eolyn said. “I don’t know any other mages to compare you with, but it’s obvious you have very powerful magic. And Ghemena says one friend can make all the difference in a hostile world.”

  This declaration threw Akmael into an uncomfortable silence. Having the girl Eolyn as a secret friend in the South Woods was easy. Coming to the defense of the woman Eolyn, High Maga and threat to the peace of his father’s Kingdom…that would be a different matter altogether.

  “All I’m saying is that if you continue down this path it will become very dangerous for you,” he insisted. “It is not right for women to practice High Magic anymore. It is not acceptable.”

  Eolyn stared at him as if he had slapped her in the face. She stood up and stepped away, eyes smoldering with rage.

  “Do you really believe that?” she demanded.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know.” The intensity of her reaction caught him off guard. “It is just, everybody knows women’s magic is wrong. The magas brought death upon this kingdom, upon their families, even upon their own sisters.”

  Eolyn’s cheeks lost their color. She folded her arms and turned her back on him. For a very long time she did not speak.

  A mysterious anxiety ignited in Akmael’s heart.

  “It’s late,” Eolyn said, her voice tired and stiff. “I should head home.”

  In an instant Akmael was on his feet and at her side. “Wait, Eolyn. What I meant was…What I mean is, if you must learn High Magic, then at least learn how to defend yourself. I could teach you, if you like.”

  What am I saying?

  He was only going to make things more difficult in the end.

  “Of course, I am still a student myself,” he added awkwardly. “But I could show you a few things, like how to throw a knife and how to hold a sword.”

  Eolyn looked up at him as if through some invisible barrier. Akmael detected apprehension in her aura. With any other person, he would have taken that fear and made it his own, just as Master Tzeremond had taught him. But he could not do this with Eolyn. Indeed, it hurt something deep inside to have her watch him like that.

  “I will not betray you, Eolyn,” he murmured. “That I will not do.”

  Did she believe him?

  He could not tell.

  Without a word, Eolyn walked away, becoming one with the shadows of the South Woods.

  Chapter Six

  Tzeremond

  From the moment Kedehen took Briana as his bride to the day the maga warrior struck her down, Tzeremond had watched the situation with unceasing diligence.

  Kedehen had always impressed the wizard with his clear and level-headed thinking, but when it came to the ebony haired sorceress of East Selen, the King tended to lose his bearings. The strain of keeping the Witch Queen’s power at bay all those years had so permeated Tzeremond’s life that he did not realize his exhaustion until the day the Gods released him from his duty.

  How intriguing the irony of my deliverance, he often mused, that a maga warrior should have put an end to the most troublesome witch of them all.

  With Briana out of the way, Tzeremond had turned his hopes toward the possibility of a new queen, and with her more suitable heirs. Although Akmael had inherited his mother’s gift for magic, he did not have the qualities of a true king. His rebellious nature interfered with his advancement in sorcery, and witnessing the violent death of his mother had only made matters worse.

  As long as Akmael remained Kedehen’s only heir, the kingdom was at risk. Yet three summers had passed since Briana’s murder, and still the King refused to seek another bride.

  Now, as Tzeremond sat in conference with the rest of the Council, the future of his people weighed heavy in his heart.

  The Council was gathered around a long polished oak table in the largest of the antechambers to the King’s apartments. Twelve High Mages occupied seats on the Council, many of Tzeremond’s finest students among them. Military and magical artifacts adorned the room. An elaborate tapestry depicting the appearance of Dragon to the ancient warrior chief Vortingen covered the eastern wall. Large windows along the southern face provided a strategic view of the rolling plains of Moisehén, verdant under the late summer sun.

  “The Prince continues to progress rapidly, my Lord King,” Sir Drostan was saying. “If he maintains the focus he has demonstrated these past weeks, he will make a fierce warrior and an able leader.”

  “His focus has returned,” Tzeremond said, “but his obstinacy has not faded.”

  The attention of the Council turned to the wizard, as it always did in the moment he chose to speak.

  “He fights his tutors every step of the way, challenges our wisdom at every turn,” Tzeremond continued. “His skills in magic cannot be doubted, yet he has trouble understanding the deeper truths of what we teach. He is a difficult child, my Lord King, and it worries me the future of this kingdom rests solely on his shoulders.”

  “With all due respect, Master Tzeremond,” Sir Drostan said, “I believe a gifted student should challenge his instructors. Indeed, it would be a greater worry if Prince Akmael’s questions were too few rather than too many.”

  “He disappears, my Lord King.” Tzeremond kept his gaze on Kedehen. “For long periods of time. Sometimes an entire day can pass in which no one knows where he is.”

  “These absences have not interfered with his lessons,” the knight insisted. “It is natural for a boy of fourteen summers to explore the world. He is a prince, not a prisoner.”

  “Sir Drostan, I speak with Prince Akmael’s best interests in mind.” Tzeremond turned on the knight. “A young mage unsupervised can fall to many malevolent influences, even within these halls.”

  Drostan drew a breath as if to speak, then retreated into silence with a deferential nod. Before the war, this knight had trained under the masters of the Old Orders, weak wizards whose indulgence of women’s magic had brought Moisehén to near ruin. Though his valiant service had secured the King’s trust, Drostan was not fool enough to argue with Tzeremond in matters of subversive magic. At least, not in open Council.

  “I suspect, Master Tzeremond, that the flame of women’s magic has been extinguished both within these halls and without, thanks to your very thorough efforts,” Kedehen said. “Trials and executions for witchcraft are now rare events in Moisehén.”

  Tzeremond acknowledged the King’s complement with a gracious nod. “The diligence of our mages in seeking out and destroying women’s magic has served us well, and the oversight of the magistrates in the provinces is exemplary. Still, the shadow of the magas clings to this land. Our divinatory tools send mixed messages regarding our success. On the one hand they indicate the Order of Magas is finished. On the other, they insist a new age of female sorcery is set to arrive.”

  “And what do you make of this contradiction?” the King asked.

  “I b
elieve, your Grace, that the coming threat will be so new to our experience we may not recognize it. We hunt magas with old techniques. We need new strategies for finding the witches prophesized by our seeing pools and sacred symbols.”

  “Indeed.” The King stroked his beard. His dark gaze flicked across the table to Mage Tzetobar. “Do you have anything to add to Master Tzeremond’s observations?”

  “I share his concern, my Lord King.”

  Tzetobar’s rounded cheeks seemed permanently flushed under that thick blond beard. Like Drostan, he had trained under the Old Orders, but Tzetobar often showed greater wisdom and prudence in matters that came before the Council.

  “What organized resistance existed after the war has long since crumbled under the purges,” Tzetobar said. “Where memory of the great conflict has not yet faded, it is repressed by fear. The people’s attention has returned to farming, commerce, and craftsmanship, but it is an uneasy peace we have achieved. The possible resurgence of any subversive magic cannot be taken lightly.”

  A general murmur of agreement sounded across the table.

  “If I may make a suggestion, my Lord King.” High Mage Thelyn spoke now.

  The youngest member of the Council, Thelyn boasted a striking countenance accentuated with a thin beard. One of the few to achieve the status of High Mage after the war, he was an excellent student with a keen intellect. Tzeremond had recommended him to the King, believing Thelyn would have much to contribute with his understanding of the complex mysteries of Primitive Magic.

  “I believe it would be wise to initiate a comprehensive study of alternative forms of magic,” Thelyn said. “Magic as it is practiced beyond the borders of this land, by the Syrnte or among the Mountain People, for example. It is an idea I have discussed at length with some of the other High Mages. Such an endeavor might give us better insight as to what to look for.”

  “An interesting recommendation,” the King acknowledged. This was the kind of project that would appeal to Kedehen. Though he did not have a natural aptitude for magic, his thirst for knowledge had made him work harder than any student Tzeremond had ever taught, transforming the young prince into a formidable wizard. “What do you think, Master Tzeremond?”

  “I support Mage Thelyn’s suggestion, my Lord King. As he himself mentioned, we have discussed it at length.”

  “The work Thelyn proposes must be undertaken with great care.” Tzetobar, always the cautious one, interjected. “We would be prudent to keep it hidden, to disguise our efforts under a guise of friendship, cooperation, and exchange of magical traditions.”

  “Very well,” the King said. “See that it is done, Master Tzeremond. I expect periodic reports on your progress.”

  “Of course, my Lord King.”

  Kedehen moved to dismiss them, but High Mage Tzetobar gave a tentative lift of his ruddy hand. “If I may, my Lord King?”

  Kedehen nodded and settled back into his chair. The diplomat’s blue eyes connected briefly with Tzeremond’s before returning to the regent.

  “I thought we might use this opportunity to analyze the proposal made by the King of Roenfyn,” Tzetobar said.

  Kedehen’s broad shoulders stiffened. “I have already made my decision, Mage Tzetobar, as you well know.”

  A tense silence spread across the table. Tzeremond shifted in his seat. If Tzetobar could not resolve this, then perhaps no one could.

  “With all due respect, my Lord King,” the red-faced mage persisted. “The Third Princess of Roenfyn is a very suitable match, a virtuous maiden of excellent lineage, and her father offers a generous dowry of goods and territories. There are many advantages to this opportunity and many risks in denying it. Among other considerations, you must know that it is not…” Tzetobar cleared his throat. “It is not prudent to let the future of the Crown to depend upon a single heir.”

  “The destiny of my son cannot be questioned,” the King said. “With him the glory of Vortingen and the magic of East Selen have been poured into a single vessel. I require no other heirs.”

  “My Lord King,” Tzeremond spoke with care, infusing his voice with genuine concern. “I agree this boy, if the Gods continue to favor him, could be the greatest Mage and King to have walked these lands, but we must take care with our own pride and arrogance. What would have happened, after all, if your father had set all his hopes upon his eldest son?”

  Kedehen stood abruptly and moved away from the table. His jaw worked beneath the hard lines of his face. For several minutes the only sound was the heavy fall of his boots as he paced.

  Tzeremond’s question burned in the air between them. Three of Kedehen’s brothers had gone to their deaths before the weight of the Crown fell to him. Experience had proven a single heir was not enough. What in the name of the Gods kept Kedehen from recognizing this? The very thought of accepting another queen seemed to fill him with distaste, inexplicable for a Prince of Vortingen.

  Perhaps he did indeed love her.

  As improbable as it seemed. Briana had lived out her last years as little more than Kedehen’s prisoner, confined to the East Tower behind doors sealed by magic.

  Still, if there was no love between them, what force kept the King from taking another princess to his bed? What other explanation could there be for this strange attachment that transcended death itself?

  The King took a resolute stance before them, powerful hands gripping the back of his chair. “I desire no other queen, and I require no additional heirs. The Mage Prince Akmael will assume the Crown of Vortingen, and the line of my fathers will continue through him. You may give this message to the King of Roenfyn: his offer is refused. I will suffer no further discussion of the matter.”

  With that Kedehen departed, and the Council was adjourned.

  Tempted to let his weary head sink into his hands, Tzeremond maintained his composure. He stood and retrieved his rowan staff. He acknowledged Tzetobar’s efforts with a silent nod.

  Once again they had failed, but Tzeremond would not give up hope. The Gods had led him this far in his effort to heal the country of women’s magic and to ensure its future against any resurgence. It was only a matter of time and perseverance before Dragon showed him another way.

  Chapter Seven

  Three Rivers

  “I want to be a warrior maga like my mother.” Eolyn’s voice cut sharp through cool morning air.

  Ghemena gathered a handful of bean pods, set them in her basket, and observed her charge for several minutes. Vexation marked Eolyn’s every move as she wrestled carrots out of the soft earth.

  “But there is no war to fight,” Ghemena replied. “Why learn the arts of war if no war exists in which to apply them?”

  “It would serve to defend myself against those who would punish me for my magic and…” Eolyn forced another carrot out of the ground and threw it in her basket. “It would serve to avenge the destruction of my village and the murder of my family.”

  “There are many strategies for self-defense that do not require wartime magic. As for vengeance, who speaks to you of such things? The impulse for revenge has no place in this household, much less in your lessons.”

  Ghemena received the girl’s cross silence with concern. An agitated glow tinged Eolyn’s aura, accompanied by a surprising spark Ghemena had not noticed until this moment.

  “You have a friend you haven’t told me about,” she realized in astonishment. “Who would have thought? A child in this corner of the woods. And a secret you’ve chosen to keep from me.”

  Still Eolyn did not speak. She wrapped her fist around another bunch of carrot greens and pulled hard. Tension creased the girl’s brow and the sweat of her efforts dampened the fine roots of her hair.

  “Why did you not tell me?” Ghemena insisted.

  The earth released the carrot unexpectedly, throwing Eolyn back on her heels. She stared at the vegetable for a long moment and then tossed it in a basket. “He asked me not to.”

  “Oh for the love of the Gods
!” Ghemena lifted her hands to the heavens. “What is it with men that they can smell a virgin across such distances? Who is he, Eolyn? The son of a forester? He cannot be a thief, or I would have lost you to some terrible fate long ago.”

  “He’s not a thief or a forester. He’s just a boy who comes to visit the forest, a student of magic like me.”

  The words hit Ghemena in the stomach. The ground lurched and her vision blurred. She caught herself on unsteady hands and tried to recuperate her breath. A harsh rattle invaded her lungs.

  Eolyn rushed to place her hands upon the old woman’s back, but the girl’s healing powers had not matured enough to penetrate Ghemena’s brittle ribs.

  “A mage!” Ghemena gasped. “But how? Where did he come from?”

  “I’m not sure.” Eolyn sounded distraught. “He just appears. He told me he lives in a forest like this one, only everything is made of stone. Ghemena, what is wrong? Where has your breath gone?”

  The old maga closed her eyes. Her head sank into shaking hands. Only one place could be described as a stone forest, the great city of Moisehén, the King’s City. A student of Tzeremond had somehow crossed the kingdom, penetrated the South Woods, and found Eolyn.

  I do not have the strength at this stage of life to confront a disaster of such magnitude.

  Ghemena lifted her face and found it wet with tears. “You cannot see him again. And we, we must leave this place at once to seek a new refuge.”

  Even as she spoke Ghemena recognized the impossibility of this task. Varyl would not return before spring, and Ghemena was too old to move without his help. At least two moons would pass before winter rendered the South Woods impenetrable. If the mages wished to track them down, they could do it before Samhaen.