“We are going to invoke the sacred fire?” Milena’s hazel eyes went wide.
“No, Milena. You hardly have the skill to do such a thing. You will dance. Then you will stand next to the mages when the sacred fire is invoked, just as Aithne stood next to Caradoc in support of all his endeavors.”
“But Aithne didn’t just stand there,” Eolyn interjected.
Everyone’s attention turned to her. She faltered under the sudden scrutiny.
“What I mean is, all the legends concur,” she said. “Aithne and Caradoc created the sacred fire through their act of perfect union. It was the magic of both—not one or the other—that brought light and warmth to our people.”
Adiana’s pale brow lifted in amusement. “So you want an act of perfect union during the Fire Ceremony? Tahmir will be rather upset. I’ve heard you’re to dance with Corey!”
A hot flush rose to Eolyn’s cheeks.
“Adiana.” Renate’s admonishment fell ineffective against the women’s laughter. The mistress turned on Eolyn with a severe expression. “Sarah, you would do well not to voice your unusual interpretation of Bel-Aethne in this place. The wizard’s spies are out in force, as I am certain Mage Corey has informed you.”
“Well if there’s to be no perfect union during the fire dance, how about during the High Ceremony?” Adiana said. “I’ve heard that in the old days, the Third Night of Bel-Aethne was a riot of sensual indulgence.”
“For the love of the Gods, Adiana,” Renate said, “where do you find your stories? In the great tradition of the Old Orders, the third night of Bel-Aethne was the climax of an elegant ceremonial cycle…”
“There, you see?” Adiana’s blue eyes flared in triumph. “The climax.”
Renate raised her voice over everyone’s renewed laughter. “And we will repeat this cycle just as the Old Orders did. We will begin with the rites of Primitive Magic on the first day and proceed to the Fire Ceremony of the Middle Mages on the second day. On the third day at midnight, the Celebration of High Magic will be completed with the union of two partners in the white light of passion—”
“Two?” Eolyn’s indignation was lost among the cheers and applause led by Adiana.
“An act that invokes High Magic because it transcends time,” Renate insisted, her shoulders as stiff as her voice, “yet remains Primitive because it is accessible to all regardless of training. The King will stand in representation of Caradoc, and the High Mages will choose his Aithne.”
“Oh.” Adiana’s playful grin fell into exaggerated disappointment “Well that sounds rather boring, unless…” An easy smile spread through her rosy lips. “Unless one of us gets to be Aithne. They say he’s handsome, you know. The most powerful mage and king to ever walk these lands.”
“Does that mean he can go all night?” one of the women quipped.
“Sounds like a perfect union to me!” another replied.
“How do you think we might get on that list, Renate?” Adiana asked.
“I doubt you’d qualify,” Milena interjected. “Tzeremond’s mages will pick a virgin for sure.”
Adiana shrugged. “Well, it’ll be his loss then. No virgin of Moisehén can entertain him as well as I can.”
“I can’t believe you are discussing this as if it were some kind of jest!” Eolyn’s anger cut harshly through their banter. “The third night of Bel-Aethne should commemorate one of the greatest mysteries of our faith! In the old days, every man had the opportunity to become Caradoc, and every woman Aithne, and the fire of their love was renewed a thousand times over to illuminate this land. But Tzeremond…” She thrust her finger in the direction of the castle. “Tzeremond would have all of this erased from our memory! Now only one bed will be illuminated, and poorly at that. The Gods will not be pleased.”
Eolyn’s outburst ended in surprised silence. Even Adiana, who never lacked for a clever retort, only opened her mouth and then shut it again.
“In the traditional rites of Bel-Aethne,” Eolyn continued, “the magic of our mages and magas was turned over to our people. Everyone was allowed to taste the passion that bound Aithne and Caradoc. Everyone felt the joy of magic running through their veins. But Tzeremond and his mages do not want us to remember this. They will not tolerate a living reminder of Aithne’s power. This is why they deny the sacrament to all but the Mage King. They seek to transform one of our greatest traditions into nothing more than a ritual seduction, at best. Quite frankly, it’s disgusting.”
They all stared at her, stunned looks on their faces.
Renate shifted in her seat and took a pensive sip from her tea. “So then, Sarah, what do you suggest?”
The prompt startled Eolyn. Too late, she realized what she had just said. Did Renate truly expect her to propose a course of action? Or was the mistress simply seeking to close the trap?
Retreating from Renate’s discerning gaze, Eolyn studied her hands. Her tapered fingers, trained since childhood for sorcery, had lain useless now for more than a year. Since she joined Corey’s Circle, not a single invocation had been crafted through them, except on Midwinter’s Eve.
She realized how tired she was of standing still, of waiting until she found Achim, of expecting the world to change of its own accord. She could not continue like this any longer. She had to do something, and she wanted to do it here.
Drawing a shaky breath, she lifted her gaze to her companions. “Well, I do have an idea. There exists a simple, very subtle form of Primitive Magic that we have already exercised within the Circle, though not with the focus required for the task I have in mind.”
“Are you suggesting we invoke magic?” Milena asked. “A bunch of women? Inside the King’s City? You must be mad.”
“It sounds deliciously risky,” Adiana countered, “and far more entertaining than watching the King have his pleasure with someone else.”
“The High Sacrament will be conducted in private,” Renate said pointedly.
Adiana rolled her eyes. “By the Gods, they really do want to take all the fun out of it, don’t they?”
“Sarah,” Renate said. “Please, continue.”
“In essence, what it involves is capturing a thread of desire that runs hidden in the fabric of Moisehén. We have all felt this thread, a longing in the hearts of our people, during every one of our performances. We can take their dream and weave it into movement and song.”
“So.” Adiana’s brows furrowed in doubt. “You want us to do another dance?”
Eolyn looked to Renate. A tremor had invaded the young maga’s hands. She felt she could not continue unless Renate gave a clear signal as to where her loyalties lay.
“I know this magic to which you refer.” Renate set the tea down in front of her. “It is the power to reflect and amplify a dream by transforming thought into movement and letting movement flow into thought. I have taught all of you how to do this, though I have not revealed to you the many potent ways in which it can be used.”
“Sounds like a dance,” Adiana said.
“If it were invoked during the celebration of Primitive Magic, it would be just another dance,” Eolyn conceded. “But we are meant to accompany the Middle Mages during the Fire Ceremony. If we implement this magic then, it will mingle with the power of those mages, be strengthened and reflected back to the people with greater force. Each person will be visited by a vision. Collectively, they will remember the ignored powers of Aithne, and they will see the magas as they once were.”
There. I’ve done it.
Although Eolyn claimed the spell was Primitive Magic, Renate would know only a High Maga could weave such disparate forces into a single potent image. Eolyn kept her head bent, afraid of what she might see in the mistress’s gaze. If Renate betrayed her trust now, Eolyn would be on the pyre by morning.
“I don’t like it,” Milena decided. “What you describe sounds far too obvious to go unnoticed by the High Mages.”
“Therein lays the brilliance of it.” Rishona spoke for
the first time. “It will culminate in an ephemeral instant, hardly distinguishable from a collective memory. Syrnte witches practice a similar magic.”
“Nothing more will happen,” Eolyn assured them, “except that an image will be sealed into everyone’s minds. Against that image, the High Ceremony and the Midnight Sacrament, even if managed entirely by Tzeremond’s mages, will simply not make sense. Their interpretation of the rite will have no meaning for our people.”
“Tzeremond and his mages would not detect the coming of this spell, nor would they recognize it while implemented.” Renate’s gaze, dark and full of caution, remained steady on Eolyn. “But if effective, they will know what happened afterwards, and they will hunt down the perpetrators.”
“I don’t care,” one of the women said. “What do we really have to lose at this point? The Circle will be disbanded after Bel-Aethne. Rishona has foreseen it. And when that happens, our place in this kingdom will be lost. If we do not take our risks now, while we are still together, then when?”
“I, for one, am tired of whispering in fear,” another agreed. “If I have this power to which Sarah refers, I wish to exercise it.”
“Could we also make the King impotent?” Adiana asked. “I mean, now that it’s clear I won’t get to sleep with him.”
“We will not stop the High Ceremony,” Eolyn replied firmly. “We will only render it meaningless.”
Adiana sighed. “What good is magic if you can’t make a man impotent?”
“No more jesting,” Eolyn said quietly. “This is very serious. We must all be in agreement if we are going to do this. And we must have Renate’s blessing.”
The announcement of this final condition generated an expectant silence. All eyes now turned to the mistress.
Years ago, it was said, Renate had betrayed her sisters to save herself. Eolyn had no doubt she was capable of betraying the women assembled here. But if the mistress chose to walk down that path, Eolyn would not let her do it without giving her this burden, without forcing her to remember that it was her assent that led them to the pyre.
Renate pursed her lips and gave a quiet nod.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bel-Aethne
During the days before Bel-Aethne, Mage Corey attended a string of engagements. True to his word, he kept Eolyn at his side. Only on two occasions did he leave her in Tahmir’s care, once when he met with Master Tzeremond and again for an audience with the King.
Eolyn soon learned that gatherings of mages were governed by unspoken rules. Wizards of equal rank were kept together. Women, while present, were shielded from any meaningful discussion of magic, commerce, or other affairs of the kingdom. Eolyn never deciphered how they communicated the appropriate moment, but no sooner would Corey bring his lips to Eolyn’s ear with a reminder to watch her tongue, than she would be herded away with the rest of the women, often by the perfumed consort of the highest ranking mage.
Thus Eolyn came to know a very different community of ‘daughters of Moisehén’, bred to serve the needs of their mages and purged of all desire for a magic of their own.
By the eve of Bel-Aethne, Eolyn had met a number of men from Tzeremond’s Order, yet Achim did not appear among them. She began to suspect he never would. Perhaps he had not completed his training, though it was difficult to imagine. Perhaps he had traveled back to the South Woods in hopes of finding her, though surely he would return for this important event. Perhaps he had passed prematurely into the Afterlife. Yet Eolyn could not help but believe she would have sensed his departure. The mystery occupied her thoughts, sometimes keeping her awake at night.
A crescendo of activity filled the final days before the great festival. In the central square, carpenters worked in a constant clatter to erect galleries from which the King and his attendants would observe the ceremonies. The people of Moisehén flocked from the farthest reaches of the kingdom, crowding inns and setting up camps outside the city. Avenues and alleys filled with the pungent aroma of roasted meat and fresh ale. Vendors sang like summer frogs, peddling traditional adornments of the season: white lilies, fragrant pine branches, decorated masks, and hooded cloaks. Laughter and chatter rolled freely through the streets.
On the second evening of the three-day festival, people packed the city square in anticipation of the Fire Ceremony. Men and women wore colorful cloaks and decorated masks. They held lilies and pine branches in a sea of white and green. Children darted among the adults, pushing and shoving for favored spots next to the single promenade that connected the palisade on the north with the tent from which mages and dancers would emerge on the south. The low platform led to a sacred circle cast the day before, during the celebration of Primitive Magic.
As the afternoon sun slanted golden red against the high rooftops, trumpets sounded, indicating the opening of the castle gates. The winding path from the fortress was long and steep, so several minutes passed before the King and his retinue completed their ritual descent. They rode into the square on magnificent horses, much heavier in build than the sleek runners Corey owned. Each mage wore a forest green cloak richly embroidered with gold and jewels. They did not cover their faces with common masks, but used a play of shadow and light that blurred their features as well as their auras.
Spying the scene from the entrance to their tent, Eolyn wondered whether the spell that created those masks bore any resemblance to the invocation of a maga’s ward.
Adiana pressed her warm cheek against Eolyn’s.
“We cannot see the King’s face,” she said, “but look at his bearing. He wears power with absolute confidence, even in these early days of his reign. What they say about him is true. He is the worst kind of king, the handsome kind, the charismatic kind. They will love him even as he exploits them all for his own gain.”
People parted to allow passage of the royal procession. Eolyn sensed gray tendrils of fear curling up from the onlookers, a shimmering mist that drained in a constant stream toward the King and his High Mages.
Tzeremond’s students do not simply harvest the energy of the earth, she realized.
They fed on fear and used it to enhance their power. Ghemena had warned her about this. Kedehen had cultivated terror among his people during long, brutal years. Now the new king enjoyed the fruits of his father’s labor. Bel-Aethne was but a temporary salve on this ever-open wound, a momentary distraction from the corruption that consumed the once splendid traditions of Moisehén.
As the King took his seat, Adiana drew Eolyn into a tight hug. She kept her voice low. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“Yes.” Eolyn had never been more certain of anything in her life.
“Then I am with you.” With a brief kiss, Adiana slipped away to join the musicians.
Eolyn checked the intricate lacing of her mask and pulled her burgundy hood over her head. Adiana’s song already floated clear and high when she took her place beside Corey. A thrilling sense of purpose rose inside her. The women had followed her lead. Renate had kept their secret. Eolyn felt as if all the events of her past had conspired to create this moment, in which she would at last crack open the door of lasting change.
As Corey took up her hand, a spark passed between them. He stiffened and cast a glance toward her. Despite the mage’s mask, Eolyn saw tension behind his silver-green eyes.
Doubt clouded her resolve. Corey had never been anxious before a performance.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He did not respond, but studied her as if considering some difficult decision. A knot took hold of Eolyn’s heart.
Did Renate tell him?
If she did, why had he not intervened?
Before Eolyn could shape her misgivings into words, Corey tightened his grip and escorted her out the tent. They followed the others in procession, keeping stride with Adiana’s song.
Love that burns in my heart
Night no longer grows dark
Come, my Aithne, my Caradoc
E
mbrace me
Eolyn and Corey fell into a complex choreography, where the interaction of each couple merged into the seamless pattern of the whole. Eolyn had planned to invoke her subtle magic here, early in the dance, but she hesitated, wary of what she sensed in Corey’s demeanor.
The people crowding the square joined their voices with Adiana.
See the white moon shining
Hear the black sky in song
The raging love of a river’s passing
The warmth of a sun that has not gone
Our union illuminates the midnight sky
Conquering eternity with this eternal moment...
Caught by the spontaneous power of those voices, Eolyn and Mage Corey paused in their dance. Magic surged through the crowd, dissolving the mist of fear and leaving in its wake a bright solidarity. They raised their blossoms and pine branches high, moving them back and forth in unified rhythm.
Though she could not see the High Mages, Eolyn sensed the pallor that descended over their muted auras. A shadow of foreboding deepened about Master Tzeremond. Only the King’s colors remained unchanged. If the response of the people moved him, he did not reveal it.
Mage Corey touched Eolyn’s hand in a subtle signal to continue.
“What is happening?” she asked.
Corey drew her close and murmured into her ear. “This is the magic of the people of Moisehén. A sleeping river that binds them. A power that has not stirred for decades.” They spun away from each other and came close again before he added, “Tzeremond will not be pleased.”
Adiana brought the hymn to a close. The mages and dancers formed two concentric circles, with the men on the inside. Rishona’s rich voice now rose into the air. The mysterious language and sinuous melodies of her people evoked a sense of deep longing in Eolyn’s heart. It had been bold of Renate to propose that a Syrnte woman sing during the Fire Ceremony. Yet Eolyn could not imagine another person who matched so well the essence and majesty of the Sacred Fire.
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