Eolyn

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  Together they retired to the privacy of Mage Corey’s tent. Their meeting, conducted in quiet tones, extended for over an hour. When the two finally emerged, Mage Corey called Rishona and asked her to oversee the preparation of Thelyn’s tent. Then Corey sent for Mistress Renate.

  He moved straight to the point as soon as Renate appeared. “You are summoned to the King’s City.”

  She froze a few paces short of the chair he had set out for her, face white as a lily.

  “In truth, we are all summoned,” Corey said, “but your summons is immediate. You will depart with High Mage Thelyn tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Renate’s usually sharp voice came small and weak. “Why? What have I done?”

  “You have not done anything, dear Renate.” Mage Corey took her hand and guided her to the chair. He poured a drink and insisted she take it. “At least, Thelyn is not here under the open pretense of arresting you. Somehow he has managed to convince Master Tzeremond and our new King that it would be appropriate, in the spring of this great reign, to resurrect some of the old customs. To recreate, as it were, the former glory of the High Festivals of Moisehén.”

  “But what does this have to do with me? Why should their plan obligate me to return to that place?”

  Corey drew a slow breath. It pained him to ask this of Renate. On the few occasions the Circle visited the King’s City, he had always given the mistress leave not to accompany them. She despised returning to the place where she had abandoned her magic and watched her sisters die.

  “Thelyn needs a woman to help him. Someone who remembers the role of the magas in the old festivals. Someone capable of constructing the image of those rituals within appropriate bounds, as determined by the enlightened era in which we now live. He believes your work with the Circle makes you just the person for the task.”

  “It is one thing to choreograph a few dances for the Circle, but what he is asking cannot be done. We can imitate the old rites, but without true magas…” Her voice broke off and her face twisted under the burden of unspoken thoughts. “It cannot be done.”

  “I am afraid you have no choice. Thelyn carries orders from the King. You must assist him, whether or not you think the task is possible.”

  Renate lifted the cup to her lips, gaze focused on some inner world. “Which festival are we talking about?”

  “Bel-Aethne.”

  “I see.” She lowered the drink and met his gaze. “They can’t do it without representation of Aithne. And how can they represent Aithne without reminding our people of the magas?”

  “That, dear Renate, is precisely your task.”

  “Very well. I will do this thing you ask of me, Corey. But you must tell me what this is really about. They don’t have to resurrect Bel-Aethne. They could just as easily wait until Summer Solstice.”

  Corey considered his response. “I confess, Renate, I am not entirely certain what they are up to. I do know the rest of the Circle will follow you soon. Thelyn expects to incorporate our people fully. Artists and mages are being brought from all over the kingdom. Some have even been invited from neighboring territories. The people of Moisehén will flock to this event. Perhaps all the Council seeks is to consolidate the power of the new King under a spirit of celebration. Yet knowing Master Tzeremond, I believe there is a deeper objective. I suspect he is planning his own assessment of the status of magic in Moisehén.”

  “And a well-constructed Festival of Bel-Aethne would be excellent bait for women of special ability,” Renate realized. “A true homage toward Aithne under a new King might be just enough to cause suspected witches, and their supporters, to let down their guard.”

  Corey chose to neither confirm nor deny her conclusions.

  “Did Thelyn speak to you of this?” she asked.

  “Not explicitly. He appeared caught up in his enthusiasm for the project—and for the opportunity to work with you, I might add. But he is a member of the High Council, and he knows every decision they make has a dual purpose.”

  “Thelyn has always been a friend to us. I would not be here, working with you, if it weren’t for him. Even so, to arrive unannounced and force me back to that place under these circumstances…Anything could happen to me in the City.”

  “High Mage Thelyn assumes personal responsibility for your safety. He has given me his word you will come to no harm. You will stay with him as his guest until the rest of the Circle arrives, at which time you will be free to join us again.”

  “As his guest or as his prisoner?”

  Corey leaned forward and refilled her cup. “For a woman of your talent, dear Renate, it is all the same.”

  The morning of Renate’s departure dawned gray and without spirit. Though everyone turned out to wish the mistress a safe journey, their mood was as colorless as the sky. Only High Mage Thelyn acted with enthusiasm, but his cheerful words did little to return the blood to Renate’s cheeks.

  The old mistress held each member of the Circle in a lengthy embrace. When she released the last of her students, tears sprang from her eyes.

  Mage Corey helped Renate onto her horse. He pressed her fingers between his palms and tried to reinforce her courage with his magic, but Renate’s lips remained tight and her face ashen.

  “After Bel-Aethne, everything will change,” Rishona said, as they watched the travelers depart down the long road to the King’s City. “We must enjoy the days that are left to us, for we will not be together like this again.”

  During the days that followed, the Circle chased away their melancholy with vibrant performances and spontaneous post-show festivities. Mage Corey did his best to join these efforts, but the forced joviality failed to dispel the weight inside his heart.

  Restless visions invaded his sleep, of black shadows and violent explosions, of his father’s face when the soldiers burst into their home, of the tortured screams of Corey’s mother on the night she died.

  Briana leapt out of the shadows like a hunted animal. She grasped Corey’s small hand and dragged him into the forest. They fled toward an ever-deeper night until they were lost in suffocating darkness. Still they ran, as fast as they could, but it was not fast enough. Swords found them, spinning through the sky. Corey felt the cold cut of steel as it drove hard into his flesh. He heard their metal voices ring with the triumph of death.

  The mage woke with a start. Sweat trickled down his neck. He glanced around the dark tent.

  Someone is here, watching me.

  Corey’s hand found the knife under his pillow. With a snap of his fingers he set a nearby lamp aglow.

  “Show yourself,” he demanded

  A hooded figure moved cautiously into the light.

  He recognized her at once and sighed in relief. “Khelia. You should not have come.”

  With the grace of a cat, she extinguished the lamp and knelt beside him. “It is time.”

  “Khelia…”

  “We are not as prepared as we would have liked.” She spoke as if anticipating his objections. “But you know what is said of this new King, of the magic he commands. We cannot hesitate. We must strike now, before he consolidates his power.”

  “They have Renate.”

  She responded with a sharp intake of breath. “What? How?”

  “Thelyn came unannounced and took her just a few days ago. She is to assist him in organizing the High Ceremonies of Bel-Aethne. We have been ordered to follow, and will set out for the King’s City tomorrow.”

  “Thelyn knows the affection you feel for Renate.” Anxiety sharpened her voice. “He holds her hostage to guarantee you will do as he asks.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “You put the entire Circle at risk if you take them there!”

  “I’m afraid I have little choice.”

  “And what of you, Corey?” She rested her hand on his. “What if they are after you? We lose everything if we lose you.”

  Her words moved him deeper than she could know. “That is not true, Khelia. I a
m but an instrument in a much larger process. This does not depend on me. Not anymore.”

  The mountain warrior lapsed into troubled silence.

  Corey heard soft sounds of field crickets and the quiet rush of a starlit breeze. Somewhere outside, moonflowers were blooming. Their sweet aroma reminded him of the nights he had shared with this beautiful and spirited warrior.

  When he spoke again, it was in reassuring tones. “Don’t worry about me, or Renate, for that matter. I have always turned Tzeremond’s plans to our advantage, and this will be no exception. Tell Ernan to wait until we’ve finished with Bel-Aethne. I will use the festival to assess the strengths and weaknesses of our new King. After that, we will decide upon our next move.”

  Khelia nodded and kissed him on the lips. Then she slipped away without a sound.

  Letting go a long, slow exhale, Corey reclined on his bed and stared into the darkness.

  An accursed mess, that’s what this is.

  A simple trick of fate had converted all his elaborate schemes to rubble.

  There was a time, not too long ago, when he might have put a stop to their plans with a few pointed conversations. Not anymore. This movement had assumed a life of its own. The best he could hope for now was to navigate the coming chaos without getting himself killed.

  Just play the game carefully, as you’ve always done.

  He shifted his position and bade himself to sleep.

  It’s not that bad, after all. You still have Sarah, and that is no small thing.

  He smiled and surrendered to the tide of his dreams.

  The Gods could not have given him a better prize with which to negotiate his fate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sedition

  Eolyn could not contain her joy at the turn of events. At last, she would visit Achim’s home! And she did not have to give up her place in the Circle to do so.

  Her excitement did not diminish her sensitivity to the mood of her companions, all of whom perceived the King’s City as a dark cloud on their collective horizon.

  Mage Corey, in particular, had never been so distracted. His vexation broke to the surface constantly. He had grown cross and impatient. He even retreated from his incessant vigilance of Eolyn.

  Though she appreciated the unexpected freedom, the maga soon discovered she missed Corey’s company. One afternoon, feeling the landscape somehow incomplete without him, Eolyn sought out the mage and invited him to join her walk.

  Corey hesitated. For a moment, Eolyn thought he would refuse. But then he grinned and threw a cloak around his shoulders. “It’s not every day you step forward with an invitation, Sarah.”

  Spring had advanced into early summer, with warm southern winds pushing back the cold breath of the north. Cultivated fields adorned the fertile hills in sunlit shades of green. Apple and cherry trees shed their fragrant blossoms to begin the slow swelling of flowers into fruits. Songbirds worked tirelessly at feeding their nestlings, and dragonflies buzzed low over sparkling streams.

  “You must be pleased we are visiting the City of Moisehén,” Mage Corey said. “Perhaps you will find your friend.”

  “I have many friends now, Mage Corey. The finding of this one does not carry as much weight as before.” Eolyn spoke truthfully. She had put off her departure for weeks now, not because she feared traveling alone, but because she did not want to say goodbye. For all its mysteries and deceptions, the Circle had become her home. “But yes, I am pleased. Even if I don’t find him, at least I will know the home of his youth.”

  “Is he a mage, this acquaintance of yours?”

  “He had just finished his studies of Middle Magic when we last saw each other.”

  “Did he plan to continue under Tzeremond?”

  “I don’t know.” Eolyn hedged on the truth. She knew where Corey’s questions were leading. Only a small number of students completed their training in High Magic under Tzeremond. If Achim was ever anointed High Mage, Corey almost certainly knew him.

  “The study of High Magic under that wizard changes a man,” Corey said. “He will not be the boy you once knew. You must be very careful, Sarah. Do not be too quick to trust him.”

  The frankness of his tone disturbed her. “We were close as children. I have faith he remembers our friendship well.”

  “If he mastered magic as taught by Tzeremond, he will find the seam of your ward and unravel it for all to see.”

  Eolyn’s words caught in her throat. For several moments, the only sound was the rhythm of their feet against gravel.

  “I don’t understand what you are talking about,” she managed to say.

  “Sarah.” Mage Corey placed a hand on her arm, forcing her to stop and look at him. “In a matter of days we will enter the citadel of military and magical power in this kingdom. Every member of the Circle understands the dangers of that place except for you, and I understand the unique risk that will accrue to each person who follows me, except for you. That you have some ability is obvious, but it has been impossible for me to assess the extent of your gifts. I would much rather leave you behind, for I do not tolerate unknown risks. Yet Thelyn has inventoried all of our members. During his visit, he wrote each face upon his memory. So the face that does not arrive with us in the City will be the first one he looks for when the new purges begin. I will not abandon you to that fate, but I must know who it is I have taken under my wing before we enter that place.”

  Eolyn searched Corey’s expression, the fine lines of his face. Though she sensed sincerity, she did not dare trust him. “I am Sarah of South Moehn, just as I told you. I know a few tricks that my grandmother taught me, and nothing more.”

  Corey’s features hardened, but then something broke behind his expression. What Eolyn saw in that moment caught her off guard: sadness, coupled with the realization of what it might mean to him to lose her. Unsettled, she averted her gaze.

  Mage Corey touched her chin and brought her eyes back to his. “The problem is this, dear Sarah: Just the sight of you inspires images of the Magas of Old.”

  “They cannot burn me for my appearance.”

  “You do not know what they can do. They will stop at nothing in their quest to extinguish all memory of that noble and ancient line of witches.” He released her and turned away.

  Confused by the mix of signals that just passed between them, Eolyn let him to retreat into pensive silence.

  The sun lay low on the western horizon, casting an auburn glow over trees and fields. A cool breeze penetrated her summer cloak, making her shiver.

  Mage Corey extended his arm and bade Eolyn to come to his side. He placed a firm hand on her shoulder and pointed to the crystalline surface of a nearby stream. “Do you see how the dragonflies move across the water? The pair of them there, locked together in flight?”

  “Yes, Mage Corey.”

  “That is how we will be in the City of Moisehén. You are not to leave my side during the time we are there. You will not perform with the rest of the dancers in the Ceremony of Primitive Magic, and you will stand with me, in representation of Aithne, during the Fire Ceremony. As for all other events, public and private, you will accompany me unless otherwise instructed. I will not take you to the city unless you give me your word on this.”

  Eolyn’s anger at this ridiculous proposition was tempered only by the nascent realization that perhaps Mage Corey truly desired to protect her. Still, she would have thrown these terms in his face and marched off on her own, had not a clear advantage of his plan occurred to her.

  Achim, she thought. Mage Corey can lead me to Achim.

  “Very well,” she said. “It will be as you wish.”

  The caravan departed Selen and snaked its way westward through verdant hills. Woodland birds followed their progress, darting with eager chirps between scattered trees and groves. Sporadic, lazy showers drifted over the landscape, leaving in their wake a golden light that illuminated the wet earth with crystal colors of Dragon. At nightfall, the company m
ade camp beside clear brooks, and the musicians brought out their instruments to complement the subtle sounds of twilight.

  Mage Corey paced their travel so that on the morning of the seventh day, they crossed the final ridge of Selen and began their descent toward the low undulating plains of the ruling province of Moisehén. From a distance, the city and fortress of Vortingen shone like a polished stone over grazed and cultivated fields.

  As the caravan drew near, the city grew into slated rooftops and stone spires. The castle occupied a ridge above, its fortifications built upon sharp cliffs that descended from the flat summit. Only the northern face of the mountain remained free of construction.

  Eolyn suspected this was the sacred site Ghemena had told her about, the Stone Foundation where Dragon had crowned the warrior chief Vortingen and charged all his descendants with the protection of Moisehén. She asked Mage Corey if her excursions with him would include a visit to the Foundation. He found that very amusing, the thought of a woman setting foot in such a sacred place.

  When at last they arrived at the city wall, High Mage Thelyn rode out to meet them accompanied by Renate, who no longer exhibited the frightened pallor that had consumed her in Selen. The Council Member escorted them to a campsite set aside for the Circle, complete with its own water well and recently supplied firewood. Located just outside the main gates, the site provided ready access to the city, as well as easy vigilance of the Circle for anyone who might care to watch from the high ramparts.

  Soon after the Circle set up camp, Renate met with the women in their tent. Savoring the stiff, peppery tea Rishona had prepared for the occasion, Eolyn listened enraptured as Renate told them elaborate stories of her stay in the King’s City. The mistress spoke at length about the complicated preparations for the festival of Bel-Aethne, describing with some pride the many debates that went into resurrecting the different stages of the festival.

  “It has been a difficult task, but we managed to organize almost everything in keeping with the most important customs of old.” A faint smile touched the corner of her lips. “The Fire Ceremony of the Middle Mages inspired the most discussion. I could hardly envision it without direct representation of Aithne, and even Tzeremond acknowledges she had some role in bringing the sacred flame to our people. In the end, we decided to use nine women dancers, each paired with one of the Middle Mages. Several of you will participate.”