“But I have heard rumors.” Renate’s hands worked nervously in her lap. “It is said he abandoned the rebellion and swore fealty to the Mage King.”
“I know.” Eolyn did not like to be reminded of this. “Do you think it’s true? That he would betray us?”
Renate shook her head. “I have considered Corey my friend too long to rid myself of the habit of believing him. But he was a student of Tzeremond, and he is cousin to the King. I suppose it will be revealed, before this has all ended, where his loyalties lie.”
Eolyn sat back and bit her lip. Uncertainty weighed heavy in her heart. She rose to her feet, retrieved the tomes Mage Corey had given her in Selen, and set them in front of Renate.
“These are the only annals I have of wartime magic,” she said. “They all came from him, from Mage Corey.”
Renate took one of the volumes and leafed through it.
“Are they authentic?” Eolyn asked. “Do you think they’ll be useful?”
“I don’t know. I had no training in this kind of magic.”
“But you knew people who did. Do you remember anything?”
Renate set the book on the table. “They used sacred circles used to channel courage to the warriors, and different sorts of flames and curses. Ahmad-melan, for example, and—”
“Ahmad-kupt?”
“Yes. The death charge.” Renate frowned. “You found that spell in these books?”
“I think this is it.” Eolyn reached for another volume and drew a small slip of paper from inside the cover. “It was inserted between the pages, as if someone had left it there by mistake. The bound volumes don’t contain any spells for war flames and similar curses, or if they do I haven’t found them.”
Renate murmured the first word of the curse as she read. An icy shiver ran down Eolyn’s back. The mistress bit her lip and examined the rest of the invocation in silence.
“Such violence in those words.” She set the paper down carefully. “May the Gods save you from having to use them.”
“So it’s the death charge?”
“That, or something very similar. You must take great care with that curse, Eolyn. It could kill you just as easily as your enemy.”
“Ghemena told me as much, a thousand times it seemed. Sometimes I’d like to curse her for leaving me so ill-prepared.” She let go an exasperated sigh. “I need at least another year to understand all this, to practice. I try to tell Ernan, but he is too bent on defeating the Mage King, too convinced our destiny is at hand. Or perhaps too distrusting of me to listen to my council.”
“Distrusting of you?”
“He thinks I might be under a spell of the Mage King. He’s said nothing more of it since Selen, but I see it in his eyes often enough. And he will believe his suspicions confirmed when he sees how miserably I perform in battle.” Eolyn rubbed her forehead, trying to alleviate the tension that had lodged there. “This is hopeless, Renate. What am I to do?”
“I’d hardly say it was hopeless. I’ve seen hopeless, you know. They said none of us would survive, and yet here we are still.”
Eolyn tried to smile, but tears stung her eyes.
“I have a gift that may brighten your spirit, Eolyn. Wait here.”
Renate left the tent and returned with an oblong cedar box that she set on Eolyn’s lap. An exquisite image of Dragon was carved upon its face. Her long tail and powerful limbs intertwined with the thick branches of an ancient oak.
“Open it,” Renate said.
Eolyn undid the seal and lifted the lid. A burgundy robe lay inside. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric, sensing the magic embedded in its ruby threads. “Where did you find this?”
“We have kept it hidden in Corey’s estate for years. This used to be mine before the purges began, before I surrendered my magic and allowed my staff to be destroyed.”
“But they would have burned your robes at the same time.”
“I was not wearing the robe when they apprehended me.”
Eolyn stood to lift the dress out of the box. She draped the garment over one arm and studied the elaborate motifs embroidered on its surface. Ghemena had taught her the intricate spells, secret fibers and special dyes used for the robes of a High Maga, but without a complete coven of twelve, it was impossible to craft one.
“It is too great a gift to accept,” she murmured.
“You must wear it when you confront the Mage King,” Renate replied. “It will enhance your power, and protect you, should the Gods require you to invoke a curse like Ahmad-kupt.”
“Then I will wear it only for this campaign, and return it to you when we are victorious.”
“I have no more use for it.”
“But you will,” Eolyn said. “When Dragon grants you a new staff.”
Renate’s complexion lost its color. She looked away. “Do not jest about such things.”
“It is no jest.”
“A staff, once destroyed, cannot be replaced.”
“Why not, if the Gods will it?”
Renate shook her head. “Dragon would punish me for such arrogance. I surrendered my magic, a faithless coward, and watched without protest as all my sisters burned.”
“The Gods have a different way of judging our transgressions.” Eolyn returned the gift to its box and took Renate’s hands in hers. “They interpret our acts across a grander expanse of time and consequence.”
“More words from your Doyenne.”
“No,” Eolyn realized. “Those words are mine. What I mean, Renate, is that perhaps you were meant to give up your magic then, so you could recuperate it now, at a time of greater need, and greater hope.”
Renate choked back a sob and hid her face behind shaking hands. Sensing the upheaval that moved toward the surface, Eolyn wrapped her arms around the mistress and drew her close. A shudder went through Renate’s shoulders. She clung to Eolyn and wept long and hard, releasing all the tears denied during the interminable years since the last of her sisters had perished.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Prophecy
The morning after Ernan and Khelia’s forces arrived at the pass of Aerunden, Tahmir appeared in front of Eolyn’s tent with a fresh pair of horses. The sun had not yet risen over the eastern hills, and the maga’s muscles ached after the long journey from Selen, but Tahmir’s company renewed her spirit. They mounted the horses and retreated from the broad expanse of tents that now comprised the rebels’ war camp.
The pass of Aerunden occupied the southeast apex of a long valley that stretched north until it opened abruptly onto rolling plains. A verdant forest cloaked the surrounding hills. Upon their arrival, Ernan had remarked with satisfaction how the trees would conceal their scouts and archers. But all Eolyn could see was sweet magic flowing from the living woods. Just above the entrance to the pass rose a low ridge capped by a flat grassy knoll. Eolyn planned to cast her sacred circle there, should the King meet them here in Aerunden.
“All the windows of Ernan’s destiny are converging,” Tahmir said as he rode next to Eolyn. “He will confront the Mage King in this valley.”
“When?”
“Soon. You will hear the movement of the royal army, even before your brother’s scouts report their approach.” Tahmir scanned the surrounding hills. “Where would be the best place for Tzeremond to cast his circle?”
Eolyn closed her eyes and listened to the trees. After a few moments, she nodded toward a low rise on the northern side of the valley. “That will be his first choice. Magic runs from the heart of that mound into the valley, and it provides a view of the entire field of battle. We should inform Ernan. He can set up a guard to defend this hill and impede Tzeremond’s access.”
“No.” Tahmir shook his head. “Better that we know where he will be.”
“If you plan to fulfill your father’s oath during battle, you won’t be able to do it there. The mage’s circle will be well defended. In the tradition of Moisehén, the moment the circle is broken, the battle is lost. The King will pla
ce all of his lines in front of it, and a special guard around it. It will be impossible to reach Tzeremond.”
“My warriors and I will find a way. Would you accompany me up that slope, Eolyn? I want a closer look, to know all the details of how his circle will be cast.”
They dismounted at the base of the hill. Tahmir sent the horses back to camp.
“We will descend on the other side, and mark a path behind the ridge on foot,” he said. “That will be the surest route for approaching him once the battle begins.”
They took their time, weaving back and forth across the face of the small mountain until the Syrnte warrior felt confident in his knowledge of every tree, bush, and stone. A morning mist clung to the herb-littered floor, and the leaves hung thick with the sweet aroma of late summer. A chorus of birds floated on the air; angry squirrels chucked from safe perches. These melodies made Eolyn’s heart burn with the desire to return home, to the safe places and carefree adventures of her childhood in the South Woods.
“Do you remember, Tahmir, when you first taught me to ride?” she asked. “I was so afraid then. I thought that in any moment I would be found out and my life would end in flames. Now I look back, and the troubles of the Circle seem trivial compared to what we face today.”
“Your burden has never been trivial.” He took her hand in his as they walked.
“I remember every detail of those afternoons: the slant of the sun across the fields, the smell of tilled earth, the heat of the horse’s bodies. I wish those moments had lasted forever.”
“Your people speak of time as if it can be sliced up and eaten like bread. For the Syrnte, time is not that way. We experience no beginning and no end. We have only the now, and our shifting visions of past and future.”
“Yet you know birth and you know death. If I ask you to tell me about the first time we met, you would speak of the pageant in Moehn.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I would speak of the first dreams I had of you, or of the first afternoon we rode together, or of the first time we made love. I could even speak of moments we have not yet lived, and in the end I would confess that until an eternity has passed, I will not truly have known you at all.”
Eolyn paused, troubled by his words. “So have we loved each other, or not?”
Tahmir smiled and took her face in his hands. His dark eyes, rimmed by thick lashes, harbored tiny flames of the golden sun. “What would your Doyenne say?”
“She would say love is not bound by time.”
He brought his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. “So it is with us.”
When they reached the summit, Eolyn paced the grassy clearing until she located the primary conduit to the heart of the mountain. Removing her shoes, she pressed her bare feet against the damp earth and focused on the steady pulse emanating from the core far below. Had she brought along her staff, she might have dared a descent into the darkness to explore the ribbons of magic that radiated toward the battle field, but without oak and crystal to anchor her spirit, the risk was too great.
Eolyn opened her eyes. “If I have understood the annals correctly, Tzeremond will stand here. The magic is not as strong as on the southern side of the valley, but for him, it will be more than sufficient.”
“Who will be with him?”
“Eight High Mages, one at each of the cardinal points, twelve paces from Tzeremond’s position.”
A shadow crept into the edge of Eolyn’s awareness, faint yet unbearable. Her senses filled with an ephemeral mist that smelled like blood. Cries of anguish rose from the empty field. Eolyn covered her face to shut the vision out.
“I am a fool to have come here,” she said. “We are leading these people to disaster.”
Tahmir approached and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “They would have met their King in battle, with or without you at their side. Your foolishness, as you call it, is their hope, even for those destined to die. You presence will ease their passing.”
“Not if Tzeremond—”
“You need not worry about Tzeremond. He will have journeyed into the Underworld long before he has the opportunity to break your circle.”
“Is that what your visions tell you?” She did not hide the challenge in her voice.
“Battles are difficult to divine,” Tahmir admitted. “Too many windows intersecting at once. But my heart assures me Rishona and I will not fail in this task to which my father appointed us.”
Tahmir pulled her close. Eolyn had always found refuge in his heat and strength, and today was no different. She rested her head against his broad shoulder. The voices of fear dissolved. In the valley below, the long grass bent in undulating waves, its color deepened by passing shadows of white clouds. A small winding stream glinted under the rising sun.
“I must let the creatures of the water know,” she said, “so they have time to evacuate before the battle begins.”
“Eolyn.” Tahmir’s voice reverberated inside his chest. “When this war is over, I want you to come back to my homeland with me.”
His invitation moved her deeply. Nonetheless, she said, “I can’t do that.”
“If you will not come out of love for me, than do it for yourself and your people.” Cupping her chin in his hand, Tahmir brought her eyes to his. “There is a wind in my country called ‘Saefira’, the breath of the sun. Every year at the First Equinox, she appears from the east. When our children are of age, we take them to meet this wind, and she awakens their powers. Saefira would awaken you, too. You have abilities the rigid traditions of Moisehén have not allowed you to discover. My sister has foreseen this. Your power is greater than you imagine, and the Syrnte can show you how to use it.”
Images, beautiful and seductive, filled her mind: of vast plains and wide rivers, colorful caravans and vibrant people. She saw them dancing under the bright sun and chanting by the silver light of stars. The haunting rhythm of their music filled her ears, weaving a dream of endless nights at Tahmir’s side, of the eternal pleasure of his touch, of the protective heat of his embrace.
“I would give much to follow you to your homeland, Tahmir,” Eolyn said. “But when I accepted my staff, I made a vow to bring the traditions of the magas back to this land. If we defeat Tzeremond and the King, the most important part of my work will have only just begun. And if we lose…Gods help us if we lose, but if we lose then I must find some way to start over. In either case, I cannot leave my people.”
He pressed his lips against her forehead. She responded to their searching tenderness, melting into his embrace, returning his caress with her unspoken assent. They would make love on the way back to camp in some unexplored corner of these peaceful green woods, invoking the spirit of the forest and offering their shared ecstasy to the Gods.
“There are many paths to your destiny,” Tahmir murmured. “Not all of them are confined to these hills.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Invocation
The disturbance startled Eolyn out of her sleep. A massive movement of horses and soldiers was upsetting the pulse of the earth. The air rang with the metallic chorus of their weapons. A deep ache ignited behind Eolyn’s temples and spread to the back of her head.
Fighting the sour pit that took hold in her stomach, Eolyn rose, dressed, and sought out her brother.
Hours later, Ernan’s scouts, sent out days before, appeared to confirm that the King’s army marched toward Aerunden. They had two days, perhaps three, at most.
While Ernan and Khelia set their people to work readying their weapons, Eolyn enlisted Rishona’s help for her own preparations. They made extracts of horehound and laurel to mitigate curses of Ahmad-melan, and crafted amulets of houseleek and vervain to blunt the enemy’s blade. They gathered white willow and mandrake to ease the pain of the wounded, and laid wood for the sacred fire of Eolyn’s circle: Oak for strength and endurance, Rowan for control and victory, Alder to give guidance to those destined for the Underworld.
Late in the afternoon on the following day
, the first of the royal troops appeared at the far end of the valley, purple banners snapping above a cloud of dust. With the sun descending rapidly in the west, they halted their advance at some distance, setting up camp while the rest of the column arrived. Even as night fell, the King’s men continued to file into Aerunden, a long river of bright torches that fed an ever-expanding pool of shimmering light.
Accompanied by Ernan, Khelia, Tahmir, and Rishona, Eolyn climbed the southern ridge to cast the first sacred circle she had ever dedicated to war. Calling upon the power of the earth, she ignited the wood and fed carefully measured portions of juniper, rosemary, and winter sage into the flames. She invoked the memory of her mother and Ghemena to give strength to her magic and peace of mind in the face of death. Kneeling before each of her companions, she painted their hands and feet with dyes prepared from night berries and blue iris root, meant to ward off their enemies in this world and the next.
Ehekaht, Ehekahtu, she sang, Naeom cohmae, faeom denae, naeom dumae.
As the ritual drew to a close, the people retired to their tents. Only Ernan lingered, standing beside his sister in silence as they watched the King’s army fill the valley beyond.
He placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “It is not unlike the nights we used to stay up on the farm, searching for falling stars in the moonless sky.”
“There you are wrong, dear brother,” she replied quietly. “This is not like those nights at all.”
He stiffened and withdrew his hand. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “I thank the Gods every day that you were returned to me, and not—as you might have imagined—because of the victory you can help us achieve, but because I missed you, Eolyn, from the moment you were lost.”
She tried to swallow, but her throat was tight. “I missed you too, Ernan, more than you can imagine. Every year after the raid, I stayed up late on Samhaen, hoping to catch a glimpse of your spirit. I left out as much sweetbread as Ghemena would allow, because I remembered how much you liked it, and every morning it was gone. Who could have eaten it, I wonder? It must have been the Guendes. But I thought it was you. I always believed it was you.”
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