Sword of Shadows

  “We do! I did. I just couldn’t…Gods help me!” She covered her face with her hands.

  What have I done?

  The country was at war, and she with child. The King’s child. Bastard they would call it. A crucible for more division and strife.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “Forgive?”

  “I never intended for this to be your burden.”

  She had made this choice in a time of peace, in a world already so obliterated Eolyn wondered if it had ever truly existed. Her daughter was meant to grow up among Eolyn’s sisters in the quiet province of Moehn, with picnics by the river, forays into the South Woods. Magic and friendship gracing her life. Violence and warfare a distant reality, the tragic plight of others.

  Her existence would never have come to Akmael’s attention, and even if it had Eolyn would have said…

  What would I have said?

  That the father was Borten, or the mother Adiana. That the newborn was abandoned as an orphan at their gate, wailing her distress on a frigid night. She would have said…

  Akmael, this child, this beautiful child, is yours.

  Because she understood in this moment, with utmost clarity, how impossible it would have been to ever lie to him.

  Akmael wrapped his arms around Eolyn, pulling her so close she was scarcely left room to breathe.

  “You ask my forgiveness when you have brought me the greatest of all joys,” he said.

  Tears stung her eyes. She felt the intensity of emotion coursing through him, and feared all that Adiana had prophesized would now come true.

  Please, by the grace of the Gods, let it be a girl.

  “Come, now,” Akmael murmured, pressing his lips against her forehead. “It is time to rest.”

  “We must speak about this first. It is most unexpected, and we cannot—”

  He silenced her with a tender kiss. “Do not be anxious about our son, Eolyn. His lineage is strong, and his destiny is great.”

  “The child I carry in my womb will have enemies if the true father is known. We must take measures to ensure—”

  “Whoever his enemies may be, they will not deter our prince.” Akmael set his hand upon Eolyn’s abdomen. “This child will have the protection of his father, the Mage King, and the magic of his mother, High Maga of Moisehén. The fruit of our love will wear the crown of my fathers, Eolyn. And no one shall stand in his way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  March to Rhiemsaven

  At dawn, Eolyn accompanied the King’s procession down the long winding road from the castle to the central square, then through the City to its massive gates.

  Trumpeters and drummers headed the column, followed by a company of mage warriors. The King and his guard rode beneath flags of the royal house, the silver dragon of Vortingen against a purple night.

  Behind Akmael’s guard came the High Mages of the Council, Eolyn among them. The mages bore richly embroidered cloaks of forest green. Eolyn had donned the traditional burgundy robes of a High Maga. Representatives of the noble households of Moisehén followed, each bearing their own sigil. This explosion of colors was muted by the onset of infantry and cavalry carrying purple flags at the rear.

  People swarmed the streets and hung from windows and balconies, their aspect grim but hopeful. Old men shouted encouraging words, children offered trinkets of luck to the soldiers. Women cried out to the Mage King, pleading protection for their husbands, sons, and brothers.

  Flowers were showered upon the King’s retinue, delicate blossoms of hawthorn and rosemary for courage and guardianship. When recognition of Maga Eolyn spread through the crowd, lilies and primroses were strewn in her path.

  Just outside the city gates, the bulk of Akmael’s forces were assembled. The long columns and rows made Eolyn’s breath come up short. Years before, she had seen the Mage King’s army arrayed against her brother’s men, but it seemed much larger now, more formidable and fearsome than ever before.

  Akmael raised Kel’Barú high, blade shining like the ivory moon. The soldiers responded with a deafening roar of allegiance.

  Rarely had Eolyn felt so far removed from the moment when she first met this Prince of Vortingen, a lanky and uncertain youth lost in the lush corridors of the South Woods. Magic had seemed an innocuous game back then. Now the words of Doyenne Ghemena echoed ominously in her heart, and she understood the trepidation of the magas who had risen up against Akmael’s father.

  Mixing magical power with royal power is dangerous. You cannot have that much dominion in the hands of one family.

  Now the course charted by Kedehen and honored by his son would continue in Eolyn’s child who, boy or girl, carried royal blood and magical power. The thought provoked a flutter in her womb, and the maga set a hand upon her abdomen to calm the movement.

  At the Mage King’s command, the royal guard parted, opening a path between him and the High Mages. Tzetobar led the council members forward to meet the King, Thelyn at his right hand and Eolyn on his left.

  Akmael and High Mage Tzetobar entered into a long, ritual exchange that symbolized the transfer of certain powers over affairs of the City in the King’s absence.

  The rosy-cheeked diplomat had been informed of Eolyn’s situation in private council the night before. A new will had been drawn up, in which the King recognized Eolyn’s son as his own. One copy had been left with Tzetobar, the other with Eolyn, each bearing the seal of Vortingen.

  “He is a man of utmost discretion,” Akmael had assured her. “He has served my house well and always acts in the best interests of the kingdom. If anything should happen to me, you must depend on him. You and the prince will be in capable hands.”

  Eolyn did not share Akmael’s confidence. She felt only confusion and uncertainty, the troubling sensation of being dragged by currents beyond her control. Adiana’s warnings tormented her.

  The Queen and all her offspring, and all those loyal to them, will hate him and wish him dead and see it done before he is old enough to understand his own power.

  How could Eolyn know, so recently arrived to the City, who was loyal to the Queen and who was not? And how would Tzetobar interpret the best interests of the kingdom, if Akmael were slain and the Syrnte marching toward Moisehén?

  An intense desire for Mage Corey’s return surged in her breast. No one knew the murky labyrinth of politics in this kingdom as well as Corey. No one would be more devoted to the protection of this child, who for him would be much more than a Prince of Vortingen. Boy or girl, this infant was Corey’s long awaited heir to the Clan of East Selen.

  Another roar from the people startled Eolyn out of her reverie. The King and Tzetobar had finished their dialogue. Akmael’s eyes now rested upon Eolyn. Out of respect she lowered her gaze, the stillness of her body a rigid mask that concealed a burning desire to embrace him one more time.

  “Maga Eolyn.” He drew close on his mount, and she lifted her eyes to his.

  They had murmured their tender farewells in the predawn hours. His kisses had coursed over her face while she breathed in his essence of ancient stone and timeless magic, of leather and mail and the inception of war.

  “You have your charge,” Akmael said. “See it done. I will be looking for your messengers in the coming days.”

  “Yes, my Lord King. I will not disappoint you.”

  A smile touched his lips, a rare expression for such a public event. He saluted her and the rest of the High Mages, then signaled his mount to turn away.

  “My Lord King!”

  Akmael halted at Eolyn’s call. With a nod, he bade her to continue.

  “Return to us.” Her voice broke over the words. She struggled to steady her heart, to subdue the sting in her eyes. “You and all your men. Do not let the women of your city mourn their husbands. Do not let them raise their young in solitude.”

  He studied her, an odd set to his jaw, uncommon compassion in his eyes.

  A breath of dawn swept across the field of s
oldiers, its soothing whisper reflected in fluttering banners, in the hush of grass at their feet. A horse whinnied, another stamped. Metal clinked against metal, leather rasped against mail.

  Still the Mage King held Eolyn in his gaze, as if she were the finest of treasures, a ribbon of beauty woven unexpectedly into the crude fabric of life.

  “War leaves many widows, Maga Eolyn,” he said at last, his tone subdued, “but I will do my best to bring these men home, and leave no one unaccounted for. As for the woman to whom I am bound—the true Queen of Moisehén—she will have me at her side when this conflict is over. On this, you have my word.”

  With that he departed, riders assembling behind him, spears and flags raised as they began their journey south.

  The mages and noblemen separated. Those charged with attending the city—Eolyn, Tzetobar, and Thelyn among them—moved to the side of the road so that all who were to accompany the King might pass.

  They spent the better part of the morning watching company after company join the column, imparting blessings and invoking wards to protect man and beast.

  When the last regiment of cavalry fell into place, camp followers forming a ragged tail behind them, mages and maga passed back through the city gates and journeyed up the winding road to the castle.

  In the front courtyard, they were met by servants and stable hands. As Eolyn dismounted, she noticed Taesara and her ladies gathered on one of the high balconies. The Queen’s face was pale, her aspect weak. She did not acknowledge the arrival the mages and nobles, but kept her gaze directed resolutely south, where Eolyn imagined she could still see the long snaking column of Akmael’s army as it receded.

  One of Taesara’s ladies—a dark haired woman—watched Eolyn instead. Her chin was lifted, her eyes narrowed. An unsettling look of triumph played on her thin lips. More than malice, Eolyn sensed from the woman an intense anticipation, as if she suffered from an unbearable thirst that was about to be quenched.

  “Maga Eolyn?” Thelyn appeared at her side.

  Eolyn broke away from the wordless exchange, grateful for the High Mage’s distraction.

  “I thought we might, after a brief repast, continue our work in Master Tzeremond’s quarters.”

  “Of course, Mage Thelyn. I was thinking just the same.”

  They had visited the wizard’s rooms the day before, but there had been little time for more than a cursory tour of the labyrinthine apartments. Thelyn had assured her little had changed since Tzeremond’s death. Years had passed, yet no one seemed anxious to occupy the the Master’s dwelling or raid its artifacts.

  Eolyn could see why. Tzeremond’s spirit still lingered in that place. At times, his form melted out of the dank shadows, only to vanish again when she spun to confront him. The piercing gaze of his amber eyes seemed to follow her every step, raising the hairs on Eolyn’s neck, making her arms tingle with anxiety.

  Today when she arrived after a modest meal, the mood of the place was somewhat improved. Thelyn must have spoken with one of the stewards, for Eolyn found servants busy removing dust sheets from the simple furniture and scrubbing the neglected stone floors. A number of windows had been opened, bringing in fresh air and allowing the midday light to chase away shadows and ghosts.

  Amidst the bustle Thelyn waited, polished cherry wood staff in hand. He greeted her with a bow of respect and said, “You have not brought your staff, Maga Eolyn. May I suggest we send for it? This will likely be an arduous task, requiring the channeling of much magic.”

  “I understand, Mage Thelyn, but unfortunately I no longer have my staff. I left it in the care of Mage Corey.”

  Thelyn cocked one brow in surprise. “You entrusted your staff to Corey?”

  “Yes.” Eolyn pushed away the doubt that still haunted her from that decision. It is far too late for regrets now. “His staff was damaged when he arrived in Moehn. So I offered him mine, that he might better protect my ward, Mariel.”

  “I see.” A bemused frown crossed Thelyn’s face, followed by a shrug. “You are braver person than I, Maga Eolyn. Though, if Mage Corey were to honor anyone’s confidence, I daresay it would be yours.”

  Eolyn was not sure how to respond to this.

  “Let us proceed, then.” Thelyn gave a sweeping gesture toward one of the darkened narrow corridors. “Ours is a formidable charge, and the war will not wait.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Fox

  Mage Corey, Borten, and Mariel turned northward after Eolyn’s departure. They abandoned their horses, travelling on foot to avoid being too conspicuous.

  Late on the third day of their journey, Corey and Mariel were following a small stream through a narrow valley when Borten descended from a nearby ridge with a dark scowl. He stopped in front of them.

  “Stay here,” Borten said to Mariel. Then to the mage he barked an equally curt order, “Come with me.”

  Corey bristled, but repressed the desire to respond in kind.

  They climbed the steep slope, leaf litter crunching under their feet. Late afternoon light sliced through thin trunks of birch and alder. Near the top, Borten signaled the mage to get down, and they approached the ridge on hands and knees.

  Below them stretched a broad grassy valley where a road followed the glistening course of the Tarba River. On that road, an army marched westward under banners of scarlet and gold.

  Corey shook his head in dismay. “Could the Gods have granted us any better luck?”

  The snap of branches underfoot nearly bolted the mage out of his skin. Borten spun into a ready crouch, knife in hand, but it was only Mariel watching them with worried eyes.

  “I told you to stay below.” The knight’s rebuke was delivered in a whisper.

  “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  She dropped onto her knees and crawled until she lay beside Corey. Her aroma of oak leaves and loam proved a pleasant distraction.

  “What’s happened?” she asked then gasped when she saw the Syrnte army.

  “We are too close.” Borten drummed his fingers against the damp earth. “They will break for camp soon, and send out foragers. We must find a concealed place to spend the night. Tomorrow, we will head east until we have a greater chance of crossing the road unnoticed.”

  “I can invoke some additional wards once we’ve settled,” Corey offered. “They will not hide us entirely, but they can divert the unsuspecting.”

  The knight nodded, rose to his feet, and started back toward the stream, signaling them to follow.

  * * *

  Compared to East Selen, the forests of Moehn were dizzying in their summer activity. At night frogs, crickets, cicadas, and other unnamed creatures burst forth in raucous song.

  Corey might have found their cadence soothing, were it not for his wary attention to any sound that might indicate a Syrnte patrol, or worse, the Naether Demons.

  Beside him Mariel slept, her quiet snore falling into easy harmony with the insects that ruled the night. The light of a waxing moon fell in speckled patterns across her heart-shaped face. One hand lay in a covetous grip over the hilt of her knife.

  Corey looked up through the thicket of branches that concealed the little hollow where they lay, a damp depression surrounded by rocky walls, carpeted with spongy moss and rotting leaves. Somewhere nearby, Borten was keeping the first watch, but the knight’s vigilance, no matter how dedicated, could not calm Corey’s mood.

  Curiosity nipped at his heart. He was restless as a magpie in search of shiny objects. Turning to Mariel, laid a hand upon her forehead and murmured a short spell to ensure a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Then, centering his spirit and calling upon the powers of the earth, Corey assumed the shape of Fox.

  At once, sound illuminated the darkness. Corey’s sharp ears detected the scratch of a cricket’s legs, the rumble of a mole beneath the earth, the scuffle of a sleepy thrush shifting its position on a high branch.

  Flattening his tail and lifting a paw, he turned his ears for
ward then back, until he caught the steady resonance of Borten’s breath some twenty paces away. Having determined the position of the knight, Corey crept off in the opposite direction.

  The mage retraced their path along the stream, trotted over the ridge, and picked his way down the slope beyond. At the edge of the young wood, he settled on his haunches and wrapped a soft tail around his feet, eyes fixed on the west, where fires of the Syrnte camp dotted the grassy vale. After indulging in a meticulous grooming of his paws, Corey lifted his snout and listened again.

  The valley was rife with voles digging up roots and chewing on sedges. Nervous squeaks floated low over the ground, carried away by the slightest breeze. Their sweet smell of oil and salt made Corey’s mouth water. His stomach gave a plaintive plea. He trotted forward a few paces and crouched, tail extended behind him as he gauged distance with scent and sound.

  Rodents within striking range ceased all movement, but Corey could smell each one, and the occasional shiver or muted alarm call betrayed them. He did not delay his decision, but sprang into the air and pounced on the nearest. It squirmed and squealed its distress even as Fox scooped it up and snapped the delicate bones with a few hard chomps.

  Warm blood wet Corey’s tongue and then the vole was gone, carried whole down his throat and adding a satisfying weight to his belly.

  Leaving the other voles in peace, the mage continued in the direction of the Syrnte, keeping just inside the line of trees. He did not intend to wander close. There would be dogs to pick up his scent, servants anxious to protect their masters’ chickens, men with more than a passing interest in securing a fine pelt.

  But much could be heard and smelled by Fox from a safe distance, and what Corey sought was a familiar voice, or a whispered spell. Something that might afford insight into the magic upon which the Syrnte now depended.

  He trotted toward the flickering torches until the muffled din of the camp blossomed into a rich tapestry of discrete noises: lowing oxen and stamping horses, taunts of men well into their drink, the hiss of a soldier relieving himself, the high-pitched laughter of a whore.