Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  Mechnes nodded at Rishona, directing his brother’s gaze toward the new San’iloman. She had shed her mourning robes and now wore a provocative gown of gold, scarlet, cerulean, and ivory. The silky folds clung to her hips and hinted at the length of her legs. Bracelets adorned bare arms and shapely ankles. Her black hair fell in voluptuous waves to her waist. A simple diadem sat on her forehead, accentuating the magnetic pull of kohl-darkened eyes.

  “It pleases me to see her alive,” he said. “As it should please us all. Besides, she does not rule over us. Rishona may carry the San’iloman’s sword, but I will always wield its power.”

  “Then it is your wish, not hers, that we invade Moisehén?”

  “It is my wish and hers. Moisehén is a worthy conquest, and it is Rishona’s kingdom by right of birth. Besides, a healthy campaign will do her good in the dawn of this reign.”

  “The people of Moisehén know nothing of Rishona or her heritage.”

  Mechnes shrugged. “Even if they did, the Mage King would not simply step aside and hand her the crown.”

  “This is a dangerous undertaking, Mechnes. Access is no easy matter, and they’ve a new alliance with Roenfyn.”

  “Roenfyn is a backward kingdom. Inconsequential in all matters, political or military.”

  “Even if that were so, the Mage King will not fall easily.”

  “He is young and inexperienced in war.”

  “The rebellion Rishona supported was crushed by his inexperienced hand.”

  “A ragged band of mercenaries.” Annoyed, Mechnes narrowed his eyes. “Why such doubt, Paolus? I’ve never seen you so reluctant to wage a war.”

  “I’ve never been asked to wage it through three kingdoms and across a stormy sea.”

  “You will remain in Ech’Naláhm. I need someone here I can trust.”

  “I do not press this issue out of concern for myself. The journey alone would tear an army to shreds. How do you expect to secure safe passage through Antaria, Galia, and Roenfyn?”

  “We will open up the pass of Fehren-vey and attack Moisehén from the east.”

  Paolus-Nur let go a low whistle. “Fehren-vey. That ancient route? But it’s impassible.”

  “The work to restore the road began weeks ago.”

  The older prince shook his head, a bemused smile touching his lips. “Once again your scheme takes root before anyone can object. And if you break open that pass and march into the highlands of Moehn, what then, brother? How will you conquer the lands beyond? How will you vanquish the magic of their people?”

  Mechnes considered his words, uncertain whether it was prudent to share with Paolus-Nur the full extent of their plans, the dark powers Rishona had promised in exchange for her life.

  He caught his niece’s eye through the frenzied swirl of veiled dancers. She greeted his gaze with a slight lift of the chin, a subtle smile upon her full lips. Her dark eyes sparkled with triumph.

  By the gods, she’s beautiful. She will be ripe for some pleasure tonight.

  The Syrnte prince raised his cup to her and drank.

  “We have allies among the enemies of Moisehén,” he said. “Allies only a Syrnte witch can command.”

  Chapter Five

  Farewell

  Akmael set down his cup in indignation. This was the third time since their arrival that Taesara had spurned Lord Felton’s hospitality at the breakfast table.

  “What ails her?” he demanded, though he could well guess the answer: lack of comfort, cramped quarters, and all too common food. The patriarch of Moehn provided them the best of everything he had, but Felton’s generosity failed miserably when compared to the luxury to which Taesara was accustomed.

  “I am certain I do not know, my Lord King.” Taesara’s lady-in-waiting, Sonia, stood in the narrow doorway, hands folded and shoulders erect. Her uninviting lips were drawn in a tight line, and her hazel eyes carried a bitter bite. “My Lady Queen grows weaker with every day. She has lost her color, is beset with fatigue, and cannot keep down food or drink.”

  Realization hit Akmael like cold water in the face. His irritation gave way to an odd mix of surprise, hope, and dismay.

  “Perhaps we should send for Maga Eolyn,” Lord Felton volunteered.

  “The witch of Moehn?” Sonia’s laugh was haughty, derisive. “I doubt our Lady Queen would receive her.”

  “She is not a witch,” Sir Drostan said. “Lady Eolyn is a High Maga, trained in the honorable traditions of Aithne and Caradoc.”

  “She is a wench who dabbles in potions and poisons.”

  “Enough!” Akmael said. “You may not understand our traditions, Lady Sonia, but you are now a subject of Moisehén, and you will respect them. Lord Felton, yours is a worthy suggestion. Have one of my messengers fetch Maga Eolyn.”

  Felton nodded to his steward, who hurried off to see the King’s will done.

  Lady Sonia pursed her lips and gave a curt bow. “Forgive me, my Lord King. It was not my intention to offend.”

  “In the future watch your tongue.” Akmael dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “And do not frighten our Queen with your foolish talk of potions and poisons.”

  Drostan grunted after she left. “We should send Lady Sonia back to Roenfyn. She is steeped in the prejudices of her people, and she has far too much influence on the Queen.”

  “Taesara is entitled to appoint her own attendants,” Akmael replied. “Lady Sonia has been her most constant companion. Indeed, she the only woman of Roenfyn who has remained at her side. I will not take that away. Besides it is only talk, and women’s talk at that.”

  “The silver blade of a woman’s lie cuts deeper than any knife,” the old knight said.

  Lord Felton let go a hearty laugh and clapped Sir Drostan on the shoulder. “Oh, that’s a good one, dear knight. A silver blade cuts deeper than a woman’s lie, is it? No. What was that you said again?”

  Drostan frowned, shook his head, and returned to his meal in silence.

  “You’re right, of course.” Felton leaned close and chortled. “It’s best I not remember lest I repeat your jest in the presence of the good Lady Gwen. She’d have a few choice words to say in response, I’ll wager.”

  Their exchange brought a smile to Akmael’s lips, but his sense of levity was short-lived. Sonia’s belittling of Eolyn had goaded him, and his response had been impulsive, perhaps ill-advised. How could he ask his mistress to attend his Queen?

  My mistress.

  The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. This was not the fate he had intended for Eolyn. Yet this was what he had made her, in recent nights of burning need. Every kiss they shared tasted of destiny; every caress seemed an expression of utter truth. Eolyn—not Taesara—should have been his Queen, her magic envied and revered by all the people of Moisehén, not hidden away in this remote province, misunderstood and ridiculed by the women of his own court.

  The food lost its flavor, the wine its body.

  Pushing aside his meal, Akmael announced he wished to survey the city wall. Lord Felton and Sir Drostan stood at once, leaving their meals unfinished in order to accompany him.

  The day was overcast and damp. From the ramparts, Akmael could see the narrow streets of the small town. Farmers peddled vegetables, grains, livestock, and wool. Barefoot children ran through the alleyways, lighthearted and mischievous, stealing an occasional apple or roll, then scampering off amidst shouts and rebukes from outraged vendors.

  The guards who patrolled the wall were scant in number, and they spent more time watching inconsequential dramas in the streets below than scanning the terrain that surrounded their home. Drostan said nothing of their distraction, but Akmael could detect the knight’s consternation at the lack of order and discipline.

  How Sir Borten had become such a formidable soldier among these idle men was a mystery to them both.

  “It was my understanding you would begin repairs on the wall at once, Lord Felton.” Akmael did not bother to conceal his annoyance. Numerous
areas were weak or crumbling. Whole sections would have to be torn down and rebuilt if the town hoped to have functional defenses. Akmael had returned to this topic repeatedly since his arrival more than a week ago, and Felton’s continued delay was unacceptable.

  “My apologies, my Lord King, but we have a limited number of masons in Moehn, and it would seem Sir Borten has hired all of them to finish the wall of the new Aekelahr.”

  Now there was a fine dilemma: which wall to finish first. In truth, Akmael would rather abandon all the walls of Moehn and take Eolyn back to the City, where he could put his own fortress and army to the task of keeping her safe.

  “I see,” he said. “I will speak to Sir Borten about it, and have additional stoneworkers sent from Selkynsen or Moisehén to assist you both.”

  “That is most generous of you, my Lord King, although…” Felton’s words drifted into an uncomfortable silence. He scanned the wall with quick, nervous eyes, and rubbed the palms of his meaty hands. “It just that, masons from Selkynsen…”

  Akmael let go an inward sigh of frustration.

  Of course.

  Selkynsen’s craftsmen would charge three times as much as their counterparts in Moehn. Felton and his family would not have the resources to cover such and expense. “The Crown will pay the additional cost, Lord Felton. This wall is a priority. It must be completed with all haste.”

  “As you wish, my Lord King.” Felton gave a congenial nod. “Though in truth, it is too generous of you. Moehn has avoided war for centuries now. All our noble houses live in peace. The repair of this wall is exorbitant and unnecessary. I must counsel you once again to reconsider. Surely the kingdom has more pressing needs.”

  Nothing was more pressing than Eolyn’s protection.

  “I appreciate your frankness, Lord Felton, but it is my responsibility to determine the priorities of Moisehén. Moehn has long been overlooked, yet your people feed the kingdom, and now you have given a new home to the magas. Yours is a humble but noble province. I will not allow it to be neglected any longer.”

  Felton appeared pleased by these words. He drew a breath as if to speak, but a boy racing toward them along the ramparts distracted him. The child stopped several paces away, eyes wide and uncertain as he stared at the King. Akmael recognized him as one of Felton’s family, a grandson perhaps or a nephew, though he looked little more than street waif with his simple clothes, smudged cheeks, and unkempt mop of brown hair.

  “Come, come, Markl. Don’t be shy.” Felton beckoned the boy. Markl approached and stood close to the patriarch, who set a firm hand on his shoulder. “What news do you bring?”

  “Lady Gwen said to tell you Maga Eolyn has arrived,” Markl said.

  “Ah, well, then.” Felton ruffled Markl’s hair, leaving it standing on end. “We must go in all haste, to see that our Queen is made well. Why don’t you stay on the wall, Markl, and accompany Sir Drostan? You’ve a sharp eye and a good memory. You can make me a list of what needs to be repaired.”

  Markl glanced around the ramparts and shrugged. “Everything needs repairing. I can climb over the wall in a dozen places, and through it in half a dozen more.”

  Drostan cleared his throat. Akmael caught a spark of amusement in the old knight’s eyes.

  “It would seem you’ve found a worthy assistant, Sir Drostan,” he said.

  “It would seem so, my Lord King. Very well, Markl. Why don’t we start with the easiest climb?”

  “If it pleases you, Sir Drostan,” the boy replied, “I think it might be better to start with the biggest hole.”

  Akmael and Felton returned to the lord’s home, a half-timber manor that loomed a haphazard three stories over the central square of Moehn. The largest edifice in the town—indeed, in the entire province—its windows were adorned with painted shutters. Lush blossoms grew in boxes suspended beneath the sills. The heavy oak doors were carved with images of wheat, barley, fruit, and cattle. The whole structure would burn in an hour, Akmael had often thought, were someone to scale the tattered city wall and throw flaming torches through its windows.

  As they approached the front doors, Akmael drew a breath to steady his pulse. Confusion plagued his heart. His desire to see Eolyn was tempered by dread of asking her to confirm what he most wanted to hear and least wanted to confront: that Taesara was with child, that his queen might at last be carrying the son who would one day wear the Crown of Vortingen.

  In the small receiving hall, Eolyn stood in quiet conversation with Maga Renate and Lady Gwen. She wore the burgundy robes of a High Maga, while her assistant, Renate, was clothed in the sapphire blue colors of a Middle Maga.

  Upon the King’s entrance, all three looked up. Maga Renate and Lady Gwen bowed at once, but Eolyn stepped forward, joy and desire flaring through her aura. Then she stopped short, her happy expression fading into a slight frown. As if remembering herself, she lowered her gaze and gave him a deep curtsey.

  “Lady Gwen, Maga Eolyn.” Akmael beckoned them to rise, resenting the formality required of him. “Maga Renate.”

  “My Lord King,” they responded in unison.

  Eolyn continued, “We came as quickly as we could. Your messenger said the Queen has taken ill.”

  “She has not risen for breakfast these past days.” He faltered, reluctant to continue. “If you would see her, Maga Eolyn, I would be most grateful.”

  “Of course, my Lord King.” She studied him carefully now, a puzzled look on her face. “We are here at your service.”

  They climbed two sets of steep and narrow stairs to the small apartments that comprised the Queen’s quarters. The polished oak floor was warped in places and creaked beneath their feet. The door to Taesara’s room squeaked on hinges that required oil.

  The Queen lay in bed, her flaxen hair brushed and braided, her complexion as white as the linen sheets. Dark rings had settled under tired blue eyes. Upon seeing Akmael, she smiled and bade Lady Sonia to help her with the pillows that she might sit up to receive him.

  “My Lord King,” she reached out to Akmael. “It is good of you to come.”

  Akmael approached and took Taesara’s delicate hand in his. Her touch had always been fragile, and today her fingers were cold. The shadow of his guilt spread heavy across his shoulders. In the week since they had arrived, he had dedicated all waking thoughts to Eolyn, while the Queen of Moisehén languished in this sorry state, forgotten and neglected.

  “We have brought healers to see you, Taesara,” he said. “High Maga Eolyn and Maga Renate.”

  Taesara cast a nervous glance at both. “You would bring these witches into my chambers?”

  “My Lady Queen.” Felton’s cheeks reddened. “Forgive my boldness in speaking so directly, but Maga Eolyn is the finest healer in our province, and Maga Renate is second in skill only to her.”

  Taesara lifted her chin, indignant. “Then it is no wonder Moehn remains a province filled with disease.”

  “Taesara.” Akmael’s tone was harsh.

  The Queen responded with an expression he had come to loath, that of a child who could not understand what she had done wrong. After a moment, she lowered her eyes and reached for Lady Sonia, gripping her hand tight. “As you wish, my Lord King.”

  Akmael and Felton left the women to their task and waited outside the Queen’s room. As Felton paced the antechamber, the King took a stance by one of the narrow windows and stared unseeing into the courtyard below.

  He considered the possible futures that might unfold, depending on what truth emerged in the next few moments. If Taesara were with child, it would be glorious and terrible news, a bond of duty that would secure the future of his kingdom yet end his stay in Moehn and separate him from Eolyn, once and for all.

  Yet if Taesara were not pregnant…

  The thought provoked a sharp intake of breath.

  If she were not pregnant, there might still be an opportunity to set right what he had allowed to go wrong: to dissolve the contract with Roenfyn, bring Eolyn to
the City, and fulfill the destiny envisioned by his father.

  Convince the maga to bear your sons, Kedehen had urged with his last breath. Only then will your power be complete.

  Akmael shook his head in doubt.

  Eolyn will never be convinced.

  Time after time, she had turned him away. First out of fear and anger, then out of her own sense of duty. In all the years they had known each other, how often had she truly been his? There was one brief kiss in the South Woods; another years later, in the forests of East Selen. After the defeat of her brother Ernan, the Gods had granted them a few short months of intimacy, lulling Akmael into the belief that Eolyn would remain at his side. Yet once again she had abandoned him to begin a new coven in Moehn.

  Dragon has called me to a different destiny, she had insisted. A woman cannot be both Queen and High Maga.

  So Akmael had let Eolyn go and agreed to a political match with Taesara of Roenfyn. The princess was pretty enough, and Moisehén had acquired valuable territories thanks to this new alliance. But Taesara was dull and delicate, lacking in passion and fearful of magic. For all her grace and beauty, this daughter of Roenfyn could not inspire the desire ignited by a single glance from his beloved Eolyn.

  A squeak of rusted hinges interrupted Akmael’s thoughts.

  Eolyn and Renate appeared, closing the door to the Queen’s room. Entrusting her staff to Renate, Eolyn approached Akmael.

  “I have given our Lady Queen an infusion of chamomile and mint to calm her stomach and restore her appetite.” Eolyn drew a shaky breath, but kept her dark eyes steady upon his. “It would seem the damp climate does not agree with her, and she…Well, my Lord King, it appears that the Queen…”

  Eolyn bit her lip and looked away.

  “The Queen is with child.” Renate’s sharp tone was a fine match for that hawkish face. “She is about two months along, my Lord King. This is the primary reason for her indisposition.”

  “Praise the Gods!” Felton clapped his hands in joy.