Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  “I have a way to find Maga Eolyn, but I have to free my hands first.” A burning sensation moved through her palms, followed by the prick of a thousand pins on her fingers. Ghemena knew this was a good sign.

  “What way?” Tasha asked.

  “A magic way. She showed it to me before she left. I’m going find her and tell her what’s happened, and then she’ll come to rescue you.”

  “You mean we can’t go with you?” Tasha glanced nervously at Catarina. “Don’t leave us alone here. Please.”

  “I don’t think it’ll work with more than one of us.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maga Eolyn never said anything about taking more than one.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not possible.”

  “No,” Ghemena conceded doubtfully. “I guess we can try.”

  “Promise me you’ll try, Ghemena.” Tasha’s eyes were wide with fear. “Promise me you won’t leave without us.”

  Ghemena looked at her friend. Tasha had always been the quiet one, happy in the company of her friends, forever trying to make peace between Ghemena and Catarina.

  “We’re sisters,” Ghemena said. “We must be loyal to each other, right?”

  Tasha nodded.

  “So you see, I won’t leave you alone. I can’t.”

  A hesitant smile brightened Tasha’s face. “How does the spell work?”

  “Well first, I have to get my hands free.” Ghemena scooted around on her rump to show Tasha her back. “Can you see the knots? Maybe you can chew through them.”

  Tasha wrinkled her freckled nose. “Chew through them? What kind of an idea is that?”

  “Well, I don’t have a knife. Do you?”

  “It’d take me days to chew through those chords, and I’d have no teeth left at the end of it.”

  “Tasha, just do it. Please.”

  Tasha scowled, but she eased over toward Ghemena, then fell heavy onto her side behind the girl’s back.

  “Ow!” Ghemena winced. “You’re supposed to bite the chords, not my wrists!”

  “Well it all looks the same in the dark. Hold still, will you? You’re only making it harder.”

  A sudden flood of light interrupted their efforts. Tasha gasped and Ghemena looked up, squinting, at three figures silhouetted in the tent entrance.

  “By the graces of Mikata, what is this?” The voice was lilting and feminine. As Ghemena’s eyes adjusted, she saw the slight figure of a woman not much older than Mariel, clothed in a simple rose colored dress. She had fine brown skin and hair the color of wheat, neatly braided and coiled. Her expression was kind, with a knowing smile and large eyes set in an oval face. “Our little mice are trying to escape!”

  The men behind her stepped forward, bent low, and cut loose the girls’ bindings. Ghemena rubbed her wrists as they hauled Catarina out of her sleep. The drowsy girl whimpered, looked around with a troubled frown, and began to weep.

  “Oh come, my love.” The woman approached Catarina, knelt and gathered the girl in her arms. “I know it was a difficult night for all of you, but that’s over now. You’ll have a new life from this day forward, and a very pretty one at that.” She took Catarina’s small chin in hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “My name is Pashnari, and I have special orders from Prince Mechnes. You’re to be cleaned up, given food and new clothes. The San’iloman will arrive soon, and she would make you her own.”

  “What’s a San’iloman?” Catarina sniffled and wiped her nose on her tattered cloak.

  “She’s the Queen of all the Syrnte, and soon of all Moisehén. And you,” Pashnari touched Catarina’s nose with the tip of her finger, “will be her lady-in-waiting.”

  “Me? A lady?” Catarina’s eyes were wide and hopeful. Ghemena had never thought her more stupid than in that moment.

  “Where is Mistress Adiana?” Ghemena demanded.

  Pashnari’s eyes pinned her quick as a hawk’s, that sweet smile fixed upon her face. “Mistress Adiana? Who is that?”

  “She’s our music teacher,” said Tasha. “She came with us last night, but the soldiers took her somewhere else.”

  “I see.” Uncertainty flickered through Pashnari’s expression. She shrugged and gave a light shake of her head. “I will ask after her, but you must understand I am a mere servant here. I am not always privy to the fate of Prince Mechnes’s prisoners.”

  “Liar!” Ghemena sprang at Pashnari with clenched fists, planning to beat that pretty face until it bled, but one of the guards caught the girl and held her fast. She tried kicked his shins instead. “You know where she is! You just aren’t telling us.”

  Pashnari withdrew from Catarina and approached Ghemena. She ran her fingers over the girl’s disheveled hair, then took a fistful and yanked it back, making Ghemena cry out. “I do not lie, little one. You will find the Syrnte do not tolerate ill-behaved children. Be still, or I will have you bound and thrown to the fires of Mikata, whether the San’iloman approves or not.”

  Ghemena ceased her thrashing, her fury checked not by Pashnari’s tone, but by the thought of having her hands bound again.

  “That’s better.” Pashnari released Ghemena’s hair and turned to Tasha and Catarina. She spread her arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “Come then, all of you. We’ve a grand day ahead of us.”

  Catarina accepted Pashnari’s hand and clung to her side as they walked. Ghemena and Tasha followed a step behind, herded by the guards, fingers interlaced and eyes wide as they surveyed the camp.

  Ghemena had never seen so many men in one place. Her ears rang with the pounding of hammers, the clatter of wood, stone, and metal. The air smelled of sweat and horses, of charred wood and smoke.

  “Why are you here?” Ghemena asked.

  Pashnari looked over her shoulder. “To bring peace to Moisehén.”

  “We were at peace until you came. Why are you really here?”

  The servant responded with laughter, clear and high-pitched. “Because the San’iloman is your rightful queen.”

  “That’s not true,” Ghemena said. “Taesara is our rightful queen.”

  Tasha elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Don’t make her mad again,” she whispered. “There’s something mean about that woman. I think she likes hurting you.”

  Pashnari stopped and turned around.

  Ghemena and Tasha froze beneath her needled gaze.

  “There will be no whispering in my presence,” Pashnari said.

  Tasha swallowed hard. When she spoke it sounded as if she were squeezing her voice through a very tiny hole. “I’m sorry, Mistress Pashnari. I won’t do it again.”

  Pashnari took them to a tent striped in colors of sand and burgundy. The inside was well furnished, and the girls were seated at a table spread with fruit, bread, sausage, and cheese. Pashnari bade them to eat all they wanted.

  Tasha picked nervously at a piece of bread, while Catarina sat with her back straight, taking fruit in dainty, obedient bites. Ghemena kept her hands clenched at her sides, fighting the impulse to finger the silver web that lay hidden beneath her nightshift.

  She looked from the girls to Pashnari, then glanced furtively at the guards who accompanied them. What Ghemena required was a moment alone, hidden from everyone, in order to spin the jewel and sing the incantation Maga Eolyn had taught her.

  Trying to take Catarina and Tasha along would complicate matters, for she did not know if the medallion would carry more than one person, and if the spell failed on the first attempt, there might not be another opportunity. But try she must, for she had promised Tasha she would, and in truth she did not want to leave her friends alone with this unpleasant woman and these cruel men.

  They had not been eating long when more servants brought in a large shallow basin that they filled with water and covered with blossoms of lily and primrose. Pashnari bade Catarina to leave the table and shed her soiled nightshift, which she did without protest.

  The girl kept her eyes downcast as she stepped into
the basin, where Pashnari scrubbed her pale skin with a soft sponge, cleaning arms, legs, back and tummy before pouring the perfumed water in clear streams through her blond tresses.

  It was not until one of the servants wrapped a towel around Catarina’s shivering body, and Pashnari called Tasha to the wash basin, that Ghemena realized her plan for escape was about to crumble. If she undressed, they would discover the jewel and seize it. Perhaps they would even recognize its use, find Maga Eolyn, and kill her just like they had killed Renate.

  Panicked, Ghemena pushed the chair back and stood, one hand pressed against her breastbone, where she felt the fine silver threads of the medallion beneath the thin folds of her linen gown.

  “Child, you will sit until I call you,” Pashnari snapped.

  Ghemena glanced at the woman, then at the guards on either side of the tent door.

  “Tasha…” she began, but the sight of her friend standing in that pool of lilies, naked and vulnerable, stole away her words.

  Ghemena blinked against the burning sensation in her eyes. A black shadow coiled around her heart, threatening to cut off her breath.

  I have to go now.

  It was the best way. The only way. Otherwise none of them would ever be rescued.

  “I’m sorry, Tasha.”

  With that, Ghemena sprang between the guards and rushed into the light of day. Feet pounding against the dirt, she dodged carts and leapt over discarded campfires, swerved around hobbled horses and ducked from the meaty grasp of shouting soldiers.

  Her haphazard path brought her to the town wall, where she ran along the edge until she spotted a collapsed portion that she had scaled countless times with Markl. Rough stones scraped her hands and knees as she scrambled upward. At last, she reached the top, leapt, and landed breathless on the other side.

  Ghemena had known every hiding place in the town of Moehn, but this landscape of blackened timber skeletons was unrecognizable. Where was she to go? How could she escape long enough to invoke the magic of the silver web?

  Behind, she heard the throaty shouts of men and the sound of loose rocks giving way beneath heavy feet.

  Gripped by fear, Ghemena charged down the remains of an alley, feet tripping over scattered stones and rubble. At last she found a wall still standing. She slipped behind it, taking shelter under a partial stairwell, and pulled the silver web from its hiding place.

  Sunlight caught in the crystals, causing them to dance inside the web. The instrument hummed with magic. Focusing all her thoughts on Maga Eolyn, Ghemena spun the jewel on its axis.

  Ehekaht¸ she murmured, Elaeom enem.

  The shout of a man nearby startled her out of the spell. Ghemena heard footsteps on the other side of the wall and bit her lip, uncertain whether to run or start the spell anew.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

  Eleaom enem, elaeom enem

  “I have you now, you little wench.”

  Ghemena’s eyes flew open. A man towered over her, a satisfied grin on his scarred face and a curved knife in his hand. The web spun between them, a fine silver orb that gathered all light, all form, all sensation toward a single tiny vortex.

  Renoenem mae, Ghemena begged the Gods as the guard reached toward her. Ehukae.

  Chapter Twelve

  Messenger

  At midmorning, trumpets sounded from the western wall. Akmael glanced up from the table where he was engrossed in discussion with Lords Herensen and Langerhans, along with representatives from the merchant guilds of Selkynsen. When the trumpets sounded a second time, the King rose. All the men in attendance followed suit.

  “It would seem our new ambassador from Roenfyn has arrived,” Akmael announced. “Let us adjourn this meeting.”

  Herensen, a tall man of angular features, allowed his disappointment to show. Already the debate over port tariffs in New Linfeln had dragged on for hours, with no clear resolution in sight.

  “We will continue this audience tomorrow,” Akmael assured Herensen and his companions.

  They departed with respectful bows and quiet murmurs.

  Akmael strode to the southern windows while one of the servants brought his cloak. It was a fine summer day, with a bold sun in a cloudless sky. High over the slate roofs of the city, almost at eye level with the balcony, a Stone Hawk hovered, a large raptor with mottled gray wings, black legs and an ebony-tipped beak. Its cry was a low-pitched wail, more ominous than the sharp keen of its lesser brothers.

  “Odd,” Akmael murmured as the servant placed the cloak about his shoulders and fitted the clasp. Stone Hawks inhabited the Eastern Surmaeg. It was unusual, though not entirely unheard of, to see them this far south.

  The servant stepped away, eyes lowered in deference.

  Akmael departed the receiving room and proceeded down the long halls of the fortress, accompanied by his guards. They descended a series of winding steps that led them to the outer courtyard, where horses waited attended by grooms.

  The silver and purple colors of the House of Vortingen fluttered over the gathering. Those appointed to the royal procession were engaged in a lively chatter that quieted upon the King’s entrance. All turned to pay their respects.

  Taesara arrived shortly after the King, appearing from one of the opposite towers with six of her ladies, and escorted by Mage Corey of East Selen. She wore an elegant summer gown of pale green, cut in voluminous folds that hid the demure rise of her belly. Her golden hair was bound in a jeweled net that sparkled under the midmorning sun, and her laughter rang like the song of a thrush. She approached Akmael, one hand upon Corey’s arm. Both bowed low before him.

  “My Lord King,” she said. “The Gods bring me joy with your presence.”

  “My Queen.” Akmael responded. Then he turned to his cousin. “High Mage Corey.”

  Corey straightened and met Akmael’s gaze, his expression predictably indecipherable. “My Lord King. It has been a great honor to spend these days at court, and to serve you in person once again.”

  “I always find it reassuring when you are close at hand,” Akmael replied.

  Amusement sparked in Corey’s silver-green eyes then vanished under the cover of neutrality. He bowed again. “It humbles me to hear you say so. If you would excuse me, my Lord King, I would speak with High Mage Tzetobar before we get underway.”

  Akmael nodded his assent. Once Corey had departed, he turned to Taesara. “You look as lovely as this fine day, my good Queen.”

  She blushed and lowered her eyes. “You are too kind, my Lord King.”

  “To what purpose did Mage Corey seek an audience with you this morning?”

  She gave a short laugh and shrugged. “I assure you, my King, I do not know. Half the morning passed us by, and not a single petition or grievance on his part.”

  “What, then, did he speak about?”

  She lowered her voice in an amused whisper. “Your cousin has the boldest stories, my Lord King, of the days before your coronation, when he traveled the kingdom with a group of troubadours, drunken musicians, and wanton dancers who caused all manner of scandals from one village to the next.”

  Akmael’s brow furrowed. Corey was speaking of the Circle, no doubt, but why would he share such tales with the Queen?

  Hesitation clouded Taesara’s smile. “Is something wrong, my Lord King?”

  Akmael shook his head. “I am not certain.”

  “Perhaps it was unwise of me to let him carry on so,” she conceded. “But truly my ladies have not been so well entertained since we returned from Moehn. Sonia laughed so hard, I feared her bodice might split at the seams.”

  The image of that unfriendly woman surrendering to a fit of laughter amused Akmael, and he allowed a smile to touch his lips.

  Taesara’s shoulders relaxed. She gestured toward the procession being assembled. “Shall we, my Lord King? I do not wish to keep my uncle waiting.”

  “Your litter is not here.” Akmael scanned the courtyard, seeing no sign of the Queen’s
transport. “It should have been ready by now.”

  “I had the grooms prepare my mare, Kaeva, that I might ride at your side to the docks.”

  “Impossible. I will not have it.”

  “But my Lord King—”

  “You are with child, a Prince of Vortingen entrusted to your womb. And you have been ill.”

  “It is a short ride on cobbled streets, and Kaeva is a docile mare. I have already consulted with High Mage Rezlyn, and he says I am well enough to ride.”

  “Rezlyn!” Akmael’s summons thundered across the courtyard, silencing all conversation. The old physician scurried to his side. “My Lord King?”

  “Why do you counsel my Queen to ride?”

  The mage frowned, shifting his eyes from Akmael to Taesara and back again. His long dark beard, streaked with red and silver, quivered as he stroked it. “I’m sorry, my Lord King, my Lady Queen, but I do not recall—”

  “Taesara, are you trying to deceive me?”

  “I am not lying, my Lord King. Rezlyn assured me I am fully recovered from my illness.”

  “That is not the same as being fit to ride.”

  King and queen glared at each other, then at the physician.

  High Mage Rezlyn took a step back. “My Lord King, my Lady Queen, it is true Queen Taesara has recovered from the ailment that beset her in Moehn, but she is with child and I would not recommend—”

  “I will not hear it!” Taesara’s face flushed with anger. “My mother rode from Merolyn to Reonahn to Fahlvort, from the moment she conceived to the day she gave birth. I, my brother and sisters, all of us were riding horses before we were born. I am a Daughter of Roenfyn, and I will not receive my kinsmen lying on my side like some helpless old woman. I suffered quite enough from that sort of humiliation in Moehn.”

  Her blue eyes flashed in defiance, her jaw was set.

  In that moment, she reminded Akmael of Eolyn. The similarity of their ire softened his heart. He touched Taesara’s cheek, an inadvertent and rare gesture on his part.