Eolyn

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  Rishona withdrew, and Mage Corey extended his hand to Eolyn.

  Instinct compelled Eolyn to step away, but Adiana reversed her momentum with a firm hand against the small of Eolyn’s back.

  “Mage Corey, I don’t know this dance,” Eolyn said as she stumbled forward. “I can’t do it.”

  He took her hand and drew her close. His voice was low and infused with such confidence it sent a shiver through her. “This dance is in your blood, Sarah. It is as old as the land to which we were born. All you need do is follow the music with your heart.”

  Just as Mage Corey promised, Eolyn remembered. The steps returned to her, carried somehow on the fluid waves of rich music, on the slow heartbeat of the cold winter earth, on the sharp fire of Corey’s essence, on the whispering spirit of the dead magas.

  Eolyn’s interpretation of the rite, though not nearly as skilled as Rishona’s, carried a natural expression of their faith. The movement settled comfortably about her, like a favored old cloak with soft, warm folds.

  In another age, Corey and Eolyn might have engaged in similar rites on countless occasions, he as Mage and she as Maga. Now everyone who watched thought magas no longer danced in Moisehén. Yet Eolyn sensed she had finally, completely exposed herself to Mage Corey, and she discovered she did not care. It seemed a small price to pay in exchange for this moment, for the sense of shared magic at her fingertips, for the steady heat of his silver gaze, for the fleeting vision of how he might respond to her caress.

  When they finished, Eolyn withdrew, and Khelia joined the mage as his third and final partner. Although Eolyn had not witnessed the dance before this night, the maga knew it would end here with Khelia next to him, sparkling as she did like the stars against a black winter night. The last notes of the song resonated against the windowpanes. The lingering heat of the dance rose about Corey and Khelia like a bright cloud. They finished with an impassioned kiss.

  The people broke into applause and laughter and loud demands for more music. When the musicians obliged, the guests reclaimed the floor. Mage Corey took Khelia’s arm in his, and they departed for the night.

  “What do you say now about his ‘special interest’?” Eolyn asked Adiana, watching them leave.

  Adiana shrugged. “Their union tonight is an offering of pleasure meant to give thanks to the Gods. It’s not the same as falling in love. Not the same at all.”

  Eolyn drew an annoyed breath, but subdued the impulse to correct Adiana. The time for thanksgiving would come in the morning, when the pale light of dawn announced the return of the sun. The communion shared by Khelia and Corey, if indeed sacred in aspect, would serve a different purpose altogether, helping illuminate the sun’s path during its perilous journey back home.

  But why argue about the nuances of the old rites? Her friend’s words may have triggered Eolyn’s anger, but Adiana was not the source of her discontent.

  Adiana joined the dancers and beckoned Eolyn to follow, but the maga desisted. Restlessness had invaded her evening. Everything felt out of place, including her own person. Calling upon Winter Fox for invisibility, Eolyn retrieved her cloak and slipped out the door, hoping the familiar company of the forest would afford some peace.

  The night received Eolyn with a frigid embrace. A handful of stars pressed through the clouds overhead. Fresh snow hushed her steps and muffled the sounds of celebration, bringing back memories of peaceful midwinter nights with Ghemena.

  How remarkable, Eolyn now thought, that the company of one woman was more than sufficient for so many years, while the company of all these people left her feeling alone and incomplete.

  Eolyn passed the Old Fir. A frosty breeze rushed through its high branches, stirring up the sharp aroma of its verdant needles. The tree spoke in a dialect Eolyn could not place, until she realized with great surprise it was whispering the language of metals.

  The armband given to her by Achim responded with a silver hiss.

  Eolyn gasped as the jewel uncoiled and traveled in sinuous spirals toward her wrist. The silver dragon emerged from her sleeve and came to rest in a loose coil in the palm of her hand. It lifted its head toward the tree as if in silent expectation.

  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 ha
d 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.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Eostar

  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 t
he 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.