Eolyn

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  “Well,” he whispered, loosening her belt with care, “I suppose you will think this the least of my transgressions, should you return.”

  He was relieved to find her purse abundantly lined not only with winter sage, but with the dry cottony fruit of white albanett, and several night shade mushrooms. Some instinct of hers must have anticipated this. She was not ready to leave them yet.

  Dividing the herbs into nine bundles, Akmael set them in a circle around Eolyn. He called her discarded staff, laid it by her side, and placed her cold fingers upon it. Taking her other hand in his, he pressed his lips upon her forehead. Then he rested one palm over her heart and recited the verse of Tyrendel, memorized so many years ago.

  Ehekaht Ehekahtu

  Elaeom maen du

  Sepuenem maene

  Elaeom maen du

  A nuhm moerte

  A nuhm moerte a vaete

  Faeom semtue

  Ehekaht Ehekahtu

  The herbs ignited. Bitter smoke stung his throat.

  Akmael closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and repeated the chant. His voice fell into a constant rhythm, his spirit focused on a single purpose.

  The earth shifted. A thin rumble sounded beneath the grass as the trees sent their roots toward him. Shoots sprouted at his knees. Leafy tendrils crept over his torso, rough woody vines spread across his back. When they finished embracing his body, the fine limbs wove a winding path down his arm toward Eolyn. In the moment they touched her, the tender new buds withered and turned black.

  Akmael felt the terrifying pull of the earth’s core, a primeval force that strained his bones to the breaking point. Placing his trust in the plants that sustained him, he let his spirit fall into the abyss.

  Violent convulsions shook Eolyn as spirit was wrenched from body. She fell weightless through a world without form, until blackness enveloped her in its soft embrace, and she understood the Gods had spoken.

  The time of the Magas was ended. The Fates had set her free. The scent of winter sage drifted about her spirit in a wispy cloud. Refusing to succumb to sadness, she took heart in the thought that Ghemena waited on the other side, along with her mother and father, and Ernan.

  Remembering what Ghemena taught her, Eolyn sang the song of passage. Her voice rose muted inside the thick darkness, nothing more than a murmur against an eternal night. She paused and listened to the silence. Soon the voice of Ghemena could be heard faintly across the void, followed by Eolyn’s mother and father. Their melody floated on tendrils of light, weaving into a pale moon caught behind a mass of clouds.

  As Eolyn drifted toward their song, the landscape took shape around her, a stone filled place where the air did not move. The ground spread into a path that wound against steep cliffs and over formless valleys.

  The singing moon settled at the top of the next peak. Yet when she reached it, the voices receded and the light descended to the valley below. Though time no longer held her, the journey seemed without end, the ephemeral orb always escaping to the next horizon.

  Doubt began to seep into Eolyn’s heart. Anxiety quickened her pace. Finally, upon one rise, she succeeded in touching the orb, only to have it to vanish altogether.

  Eolyn stopped and remained very still. Uncertainty crowded her spirit, worn thin by battle and death. Were her loved ones rejecting her? Had her failure condemned her in Ghemena’s eyes? Had her weakness caused Kaie to turn away?

  She attempted to begin her song anew, but the melody eluded her memory. A knot of fear took hold. She tried to loosen it, but there was no living earth in which to root herself, no air with which to fill her lungs, no fire burning in her heart, no blood rushing through her veins. The elements that empowered her in the living world could not be accessed here, not even to subdue her fear.

  The Lost Souls, Ghemena told her once, hear doubt like a soft bell calling them to the feast.

  An oily mist rose off the ground. Eolyn retreated in dread. She felt the dead slither down the passageways of her mind, spirits in various states of decay, anxious for the renewal she offered, hungry for the life force that would slow their inevitable decline into nothingness. Older souls flitted like shadows on the edge of her awareness, younger ones rose up as pale reflections of their human form. Together they advanced toward her. She could hear their longing, feel their desire to consume her magic in soft whispers drawn out slowly against the night.

  Desperate, she ran. But what refuge could be found in the Underworld? What corner of her mind could shut them out?

  Willing her path onto a wide plain, Eolyn instinctively sought the safe memories of her childhood: the village of her youth, the cottage of Ghemena, the deep folds of the South Woods. Every haven responded to her call, revealing itself in gray shadows, but the Lost Souls destroyed them all. They tore down her village, trampled Ghemena’s garden, and felled ancient trees with slow sure strokes.

  They surrounded Eolyn and crowded in on her spirit. They wrapped her in their embrace and dragged her down into their midst. The hooks of their hunger sank into her soul with the delicate pinch of tiny leeches. She tried to cry out, but no voice sounded in her throat. She tried to escape, but her limbs were paralyzed.

  A sudden movement startled her out of her stupor. A blur of gray fur rushed past. She heard a low growl and saw eyes flash in the dark.

  Recognizing Wolf, Eolyn broke free and scrambled after him. The animal led her back inside the forest, to the banks of a small stream where it vanished inside its den. Eolyn followed, sealing the entrance behind her with what little magic she had left. Though Wolf had already disappeared, relief renewed her. Shivering, she gave thanks. What better place to hide from darkness than in a dark hole?

  A hollow scream sounded across the wastes outside, cutting short her respite. Something crashed against her hideaway. The sealed entrance shattered into a thousand smoky pieces that melted into nothingness.

  Had there been a breath to hold in that place, Eolyn would have held it then. Before her, an unearthly creature swayed on long glowing limbs, its predatory eyes lost in gaping hollows, its sagging mouth an open pit. Assaulting her with an ear-piercing howl, the Naether Demon leapt forward, exposing long curved claws.

  Eolyn jumped out of its reach and stumbled into empty space. A small passage at the end of the hideaway revealed itself to her. Overcome with terror, she fled into its depths.

  Akmael’s spirit took root in the void. The night was thick, the dead ominously still. He heard no song of passage floating across the abyss, saw no distant illumination that would indicate a maga’s bright soul. Only desolation reached out, touching his heart and rendering it cold.

  He could yet risk invoking more magic if he wished to find her.

  Without the power of the living elements, Tyrendel had written, a mage in the Underworld must expend his own spirit to cast even the smallest spell. This diminishes his chances of returning whole, and the magic awakens the dead.

  But to sit here without knowing when or if a path would be revealed, fearful that while he stalled she perished, was unacceptable.

  Even as doubt crowded his thoughts, the Underworld responded. Faded faces emerged on the edge of his awareness and flowed past him. Akmael recognized the River of Hunger, of which Tyrendel had spoken. The dead were rushing toward a soul bearing light. Perhaps that soul was Eolyn’s. Caught between hope and anxiety, Akmael let their impulse carry him forward, floating in their midst, his spirit as still as a midwinter night.

  A pale star came into focus at the center of a vortex created by the Lost Souls. Akmael recognized Eolyn’s aura, though much of the color had already bled out of it. He beat back the urgency that crept into his heart, for fear any strong emotion would be noticed as a sign of the living.

  Amorphous tentacles of hunger had trapped her, but she broke free, dragged herself away from the frenzied mass, and vanished. The vortex lurched after her, sucking Akmael into its core. He crashed into the place where she had disappeared. An obsidian barrier shattere
d under the impact of his living spirit.

  Just beyond his reach she cowered, her face pale, her eyes wide inside darkened hollows.

  Eolyn, he called.

  She backed away, stumbled, and fled.

  A hungry murmur spread through the Lost Souls, like a violet shadow creeping across the evening sky. They had recognized his living soul, a fount that could satiate their hunger like no other.

  Blinding them with a shaft of light, Akmael took off after Eolyn. Her diminished strength was no match for his speed. He descended upon her and invoked a ward to halt her retreat.

  No! She pounded her fists against the invisible wall. Ghemena, help me! For the love of the Gods!

  He reached out to calm her, but she scuttled away, convulsing in panic. Akmael steadied his spirit.

  Eolyn.

  Another seizure took hold of her. Trepidation weighed down his heart. She responded as if he were some creature of the Underworld, a Lost Soul or worse, a Naether Demon.

  Eolyn, I am Akmael, High Mage and King of Moisehén. I have come to help you. See me now.

  It was no use. The confusion of that desolate place had ensnared her. Like a caged animal, Eolyn flung herself against the confines of the ward. When they did not give, she wilted, her soul inundated with sorrow, her flame all but spent. Akmael’s hope faltered. His own magic would soon fail. He could not bring her back if she did not overcome her terror and recognize him.

  Behind him the vortex resumed its shape. The dead were returning. There was precious little time left. He spied the tether crafted by Tzeremond and grasped it with his spirit. If he could not recover her whole, perhaps he could break the cord and push her over to the other side.

  He had known it might come to this, and yet he hesitated. To set her free would diminish his power and terminate any hope of returning to his own body. Nor could he follow her, as he had tethered his spirit to the world of the living before descending. A prisoner of the Underworld, he would perish here, becoming one of the Lost Souls, or worse.

  It is the only way.

  He pulled the glowing thread taught. The thought of letting her go, this time forever, rent through him, hollowing out his soul and shattering his heart. Retrieving one of the pulsing shards, he set its sharp edge against the tether.

  Ehekahtu

  Naeom denae daum

  Erenahm rehoernem ekaht

  Behnaum enem

  Ehukae Ehekahtu

  Magic flowed into the blade. Light sparked as he set the shard upon its mark.

  Akmael.

  Her voice stayed his hand.

  Eolyn rose up and touched him, her spirit warm against the frigid night. It’s you.

  The dead paused in their approach.

  A sapphire flame ignited between them. From what source, Akmael could not fathom. He watched, mesmerized, as Eolyn caught the dancing light in her tapered fingers. The Underworld trembled and the dead retreated while Eolyn coaxed the flame into a scarlet and purple blaze. Her aura ignited in blinding colors, wrapping Akmael in brilliance. A fountain of light escaped them, rushing into the black sky and rupturing the vault of the Underworld. Illumination flooded the landscape. The Lost Souls screamed and fled.

  Eolyn faltered, as if overwhelmed by her own power. The vault began to close, heralding the return of the endless night. Akmael caught Eolyn and drew her close. Binding her spirit to his, he commanded the trees to pull them out.

  Air rushed harsh into Akmael’s lungs as the vines released him.

  Eolyn struggled to her knees, only to be overcome by a hacking cough. She vomited fine white ice that melted into the sun-warmed earth. Sweat broke out upon her skin, and she shivered uncontrollably. Instinctively, she sought the heat of his embrace.

  “Akmael,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “What have you done? The dead are not to be brought back.”

  “You were not dead.”

  “The battle…”

  “It is over.”

  “My brother.” Her choked sob ended in a fit of coughing.

  He hushed her and cradled her in his arms. “He is alive.”

  “I saw you kill him.”

  “I wanted to slay him.” His voice was grim with the implications of the task he had left undone. With any luck, one of his men had finished it. “I should have. But I could not do it because of you.”

  Her breath steadied, and her fingers drifted to his face. She traced the line of his brow, his nose, his lips. “Akmael, are my eyes open?”

  “Yes.”

  “The world is covered in shadows. I cannot see you.”

  “Your sight will return.” He spoke with more confidence then he felt. Blindness was one of many prices that could be paid for venturing into the Underworld. He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Rest, Eolyn. You are safe and cared for.”

  Placing his palm upon her forehead, he invoked an ancient spell of East Selen, one of the first taught to him by Briana. In an instant she fell asleep, releasing her limbs to his embrace. He gathered her in his arms and picked her up off the ground.

  The Valley of Aerunden was quiet, battle cries and clashes of metal replaced by the moans of the wounded and dying. A handful of his men had gathered on the ridge. Covered with blood, dirt, and sweat, they stood waiting for his next command.

  Tzeremond remained huddled on his knees, his hands now secured behind his back, Drostan’s blade steady at his throat.

  A rush of footsteps behind Akmael broke the quiet. Drostan cried out a warning. Akmael heard the crude sound of metal ripping through mail and flesh. He turned just in time to see Ernan collapse at his feet. The rebel leader’s fine ivory sword fell from his grasp. A pool of blood spread quickly from beneath his body.

  A soldier with thin blond hair withdrew his weapon from the corpse and knelt.

  “Forgive me, my Lord King,” he stammered, “for drawing my sword at your back. He intended to kill you.”

  It was Borten, the young man who had slain Akmael’s father. With a mixture of relief and misgiving, Akmael looked from Borten to Ernan’s corpse.

  It is done, then.

  Already he could hear Eolyn’s lament. She could forgive him many things, he knew, but this she would never pardon. “Rise, Sir Borten.”

  The young man obeyed, sheathing his sword. He is a knight to have at your side, Akmael’s father had said. And so he was. “It seems you have proven yourself worthy for the King’s service.”

  “My Lord King.” He bowed again.

  Akmael could tell from Borten’s expression how much the words moved him. “Take my horse, and deliver the maga safely to High Mage Rezlyn. Tell him she has returned from Ahmad-dur. He is to ensure that she recuperates in full. I will have no one else attend to her. And stay with her, Borten, until I arrive.”

  Borten nodded. Akmael entrusted Eolyn’s exhausted body to him.

  As the knight departed, fatigue overtook Akmael. Every muscle ached. His cuts stung and his bruises had begun to throb. He felt drained of strength and magic. Thank the Gods the battle had ended, and ended in his favor.

  Bending down, he retrieved Ernan’s sword. Corey had spoken of this weapon, a work of Galian wizards. In truth it was finer than he imagined.

  Eolyn, it sang, sad and mournful. Send me with Eolyn.

  He tested its balance and ran his fingers along the length of the blade. “We’ll see about that, my friend. I’ve a mind to keep you for myself.”

  Tzeremond’s high-pitched wail broke through Akmael’s thoughts. A bolt had penetrated the wizard’s torso.

  A woman emerged from the forest—Syrnte, judging by her coloring. In an instant, three of Akmael’s men were upon her, forcing a crossbow out of her grip. She struggled against their hold even as they drove her to her knees.

  Achme talam nu! she cried. Bechnem ahraht neme, Salahm machne du!

  The arrow in Tzeremond’s chest ignited. The air filled with his agonized cries and the acrid stench of burning flesh.

  One of
the knights buffeted her across the face.

  Mechahne! she wailed, tears and blood streaming down her cheeks. Mechahne achnam! Talam nu ahram! Tzeremond!

  A muffled scream sounded from the heart of the mountain. A tremor passed through the earth. Akmael gripped his sword as a menacing shadow bloomed underneath the wizard. Tzeremond’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell lifeless to the ground. As quickly as it had appeared, the dark stain upon the grass melted away.

  The woman went limp and sank to the earth.

  “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “Mother, Father, forgive me…Death was not enough for him. It was not enough to for me.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Recovery

  Shadows dissipated into a thin gray mist. Eolyn opened her eyes and saw a large room with stone walls and a vacant fireplace. Light from tall windows illuminated fresh rushes spread over a smooth floor. There was a long table laid out with herbs, tinctures, and candles bearing the scent of lemon grass, primrose, and sage. Warm linen sheets and summer blankets enveloped her. A familiar presence took shape at her bedside.

  “Corey.” She drew a careful breath into aching lungs. “It’s good to see you again.”

  He started at her voice and looked up from a tome spread open on his lap. A smile filled his face, and his silver-green eyes sparked with relief. “It is good to know you can see.”

  He leaned forward to help arrange pillows as she pushed herself up to sit. She felt groggy, her muscles stiff and slow to move. “How long have I slept?”

  “Seven days and seven nights, including the time it took to bring you here.”

  “Where is here?”

  “The King’s City. You came around occasionally to take infusions, but even then you were only half awake.”

  “I heard your voice when the wraiths appeared.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to push away vestiges of terrible dreams that flickered like shadows on the edge of her awareness.

  “I called you out of your nightmares,” Corey said, “but I did not bring you back from the world of the dead. Do you remember what happened, Eolyn?”