She felt eyes upon her, curiosity and anticipation sparking in the brisk morning air. Her shoulders stiffened under the attention, and her focus broke when she began the invocation.
In that moment, Eolyn realized that even during the recent years of freedom, she had remained accustomed to practicing magic with discretion, in quiet moments hidden from public view. To have so many witnesses to her power, especially men such as these, still felt dangerous and unwise.
Reminding herself that Tibald and the other guards had been appointed by Akmael to protect her, Eolyn drew a breath, anchored her spirit, and started again.
The world shifted, faded, and then returned.
Rain wet her face and cloak, a light but steady curtain of gray that dewed her lashes and blurred her vision. Low and distant thunder was quickly overwhelmed by the sudden whinny of horses, the stamping of hooves, and the startled shouts of men.
Swords rang from their sheaths. Wary of the threat of death, Eolyn sank to her knees, head bowed, hands gripping the staff of Tzeremond, keeping still as a cornered fox while blades hissed in menace and rivulets of water pooled on the muddied ground beneath her.
A sharp command from the King, and the weapons receded. Eolyn heard Akmael dismount, recognized the weight and rhythm of his gait. Still she did not dare look up until he stood before her and bade her to rise, offering his gloved hand.
She accepted his assistance and met his gaze.
“Maga Eolyn,” he said.
“My Lord King.”
They had lived this moment before, it seemed, years ago when the Lost Souls were crowding around them, and their magic and hope had all but failed. They had touched one another in just this way, seen each other as if for the first time. Power had coursed between them as it did now, reigniting their spirits, breaking open the dark vault of the Underworld, allowing Mage King and High Maga to return to the realm of the living.
Akmael glanced at the amber crystal set upon its rowan pillar and furrowed his dark brow. “I recognize this staff.”
“High Mage Thelyn has entrusted it to me,” Eolyn said, “that I might use it to defend our people.”
Akmael nodded, a hint of tenderness in the stony set of his eyes. He laid a hand on her cheek, pressed warm lips against her damp forehead. “At last you have arrived. Eolyn, my love. My warrior queen.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Magpie
A throaty gargle startled Adiana out of her sleep. She looked around, disconcerted. Disturbing dreams clung to her awareness. She could not remember where she was.
Black and ivory feathers lunged at her, wings beating in her face. With a sharp cry, she scrambled backwards, her retreat cut short by a crate.
Before her stood a magpie, its feathery coat black as a starless night, downy breast white as snow. It strutted a few jerky steps, hopped onto her lap, and looked at her first with one amber eye, then the other. Talons pinched her legs through her worn skirt.
“Shoo!” She swatted at it with her hand.
The bird squawked and fluttered a few paces away. It bent to the ground, flipped a stone, straightened, and watched Adiana again.
“Cursed vermin!” A rock flung by one of the guards skidded across the dirt, just missing the magpie.
The bird opened its wings and leapt cawing toward the heavens, diminishing quickly into a small shadow against the slate sky.
The guard drew close, spat at the ground where it had stood, and muttered, “Bad luck, those birds.”
He cast Adiana a greedy glance before turning his attention elsewhere.
A flash of incandescence against the russet folds of her skirt caught Adiana’s eye. It was the broken wing of a Mersien butterfly, adorned with intricate looping patterns of pale green and glittering silver.
Adiana picked up the delicate wing with care, awed by this manifestation of delicate beauty in a world that had become so harsh and ugly. She and Tasha had chased these butterflies at the height of spring, their laughter floating free across the open fields of Moehn.
The memory brought tears, followed by a bitter smile. It seemed funny somehow, that she had not yet run out of tears.
“You’re the laziest whore I’ve ever seen.” The fat matron stood over her, hands on her hips, a scowl fixed on her chubby face. Gertha, she was called. Or at least, this was the name Adiana heard when others spoke of her.
She did not wince at the matron’s words. A whore was what she had become, and when she was not playing music or serving Prince Mechnes’s needs, she felt idle and useless. “If you wish to give me some task, I would not complain. I can wash and cook, sew and mend—”
“And roughen up those lovely hands of yours? Prince Mechnes would have my head for it. Besides, you’d sooner fall asleep than scrub pots or mend shirts.”
“I have not slept so easy of late,” Adiana said. “I would welcome the distraction.”
“You’ve been sleeping well enough since we arrived in this place. Haven’t stirred from that spot since yesterday afternoon.”
Adiana scrambled to her feet, slipping the butterfly wing into her pocket. Soldiers moved about with bold purpose, shouting at each other and exchanging broad grins as they sharpened their weapons and tended the horses.
“That long?” Adiana asked, confused. “I’ve been asleep that long?”
The matron chuckled derisively.
“He didn’t call for me,” she realized, fear pricking her heart. “Last night he did not call.”
“Now don’t you worry.” Gertha folded her flabby arms and studied Adiana with narrowed eyes. “Half the army would’ve rutted with you by now, if the General had lost interest. No, you’re still his prize and off limits to the rest. I’ve got orders to see you cleaned up. The General wants to hear you play tonight.”
She winked and gave a lewd, toothless grin.
As evening fell, Adiana was delivered to Mechnes’s tent bathed and perfumed, hair brushed until it shone then braided with blossoms of purple aethne gathered from the nearby woods.
The dress they had given her was clean but simple. Its sheer fabric did little to ward off the chill and left her with a sense of raw exposure. Her cheeks flushed in the presence of the men, though all save Mechnes did not allow their gaze to linger on her for more than a moment.
Kahlil and the rest of the musicians did not speak to her as she took a place next to them. Not that their silence mattered any more. Nothing mattered anymore, really. Except for the music.
She picked up a psaltery, tuned it, and when Idahm marked the pace of their song with the slow beat of his drum, began to play.
It was a somber dinner, devoid of the raucous merry-making that had characterized these gatherings ever since their departure from Moehn. No other women were present. Food and wine were pushed to the edge of the table to make room for maps splayed across its center. The officers did not sit but rather stood restless, some pacing momentarily before returning to the fold, all speaking earnestly, emphasizing words by jabbing at the maps or sweeping their palms in wide arcs across the painted landscape.
Adiana did not understand their discussion, and in any case paid it little heed, absorbed as she was by the spell of her own melody, its gentle caress and comforting embrace, its kind invitation to a place of forgetfulness.
At length the debate died down, and then finished with a monologue by Prince Mechnes. The officers responded with brief nods or short bows before taking their leave.
Men and musicians dismissed, Adiana set her instrument aside and waited.
Mechnes indulged in a slow walk around the long table, ignoring her presence as was often his habit, while studying the map with a shrewd gaze, fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword. When he returned to the head of the table, he took a seat, served himself a cup of wine, and directed his attention to her.
“Play,” he said.
She chose the lute this time, interpreting a song Kahlil had taught her years ago, one evening when Corey’s Circle was resti
ng from its long journey between Moehn and Selkynsen, right here in the Valley of Aerunden. It was a mournful tune, and she was not certain of the meaning or pronunciation of the words, but this was the melody stirring inside her heart. She gave it all her voice and passion, though her ribs were still tender at every breath and her spirit shivered under the weight of the general’s presence.
When she finished, he said nothing.
The silence grew long and uncomfortable, until at last she lifted her eyes and found him studying her, as if she were a sculpture he had just commissioned, or a foal recently produced by one of his mares.
“Why that song?” he asked.
He had never posed such a question.
“It is the one that came to me, Prince Mechnes,” she said. “That is all.”
“Do you know its meaning?”
“I believe it is a love song. That is what Kahlil said, when he first taught it to me.”
“Ah.” He leaned back in his seat, loosened the lacings on his doublet. “Are you in love, Adiana?”
“I have never been in love.” Her gaze was steady on his, her tone tinged with defiance. “And by the grace of the Gods, I never will be.”
Chuckling, Mechnes set aside his wine. “Well said, Adiana. Well said, once again.”
He leaned forward. The mirth drained from his features. A predatory heat took hold of his eyes.
“Come,” he said.
Adiana obeyed. Mechnes drew her close and wrapped an arm around her waist.
“I’ve noticed the elixir you drink in the mornings,” he said.
A chill threaded through Adiana’s veins. It shouldn’t surprise me anymore, everything that he sees.
“You could make a fortune selling your potion to the whores that follow this army.”
“Prince Mechnes, I—”
“I am not reprimanding you. On the contrary, pregnancy is a nuisance during a campaign. Gods know I’ve had to cast aside more than a few women because of it.” He set a hand upon her abdomen and kissed her breasts through the sheer fabric. “When this is over, however, and Moisehén is ours, you will stop drinking your bitter herbs. I want to see my son growing in your belly, Adiana. Nothing would please me more.”
Adiana’s heart went cold and still. What could she say to this? What had she been able to say to any of it?
As the Gods are my witness, I will never…
Yet she had, and perhaps she would. Committing the unthinkable had become a natural part of this existence. If only she could leave her body altogether, abandon its wasted landscape to Mechnes’s perversions and find a different life in another form, another Adiana. New and whole.
Mechnes untied Adiana’s sash and recovered from its folds the butterfly wing she had found earlier in the day. The fragment glinted silver and green as he held it to the light.
“Tell me about the magpie that gave you this.”
“Magpie?” His question surprised her. “The magpie did not give me this. It must have spied the wing on my lap and wanted to steal it….”
Her voice trailed off into confusion.
“You’re certain it was not one of your friends?” Mechnes asked. “The Maga Eolyn, perhaps?”
“Eolyn? No, that was not Eolyn.”
“I have heard your magas and mages can assume the form of many forest creatures.”
“Yes, but they shapeshift into animals compatible with their character. The magpie is a bird of cunning and thievery. It is not like Eolyn. Not at all.”
“One of her companions in magic, then. A mage, sent to rescue her friend?”
Adiana shook her head and looked away, wishing for a spell that could erase the vividness of his presence, this constant smell of sweat and leather, of blood and war. Melancholy weighed on her shoulders and crept into her voice.
“No one is coming to rescue me, Prince Mechnes.”
He took her chin in hand. She despised the compassion that flickered in his eyes, a cruel note of hope in his vicious and unending song.
“Why do you believe no one will come for you?” he asked.
“Those who were not crushed during the invasion of Moehn are now gathering to the Mage King. Eolyn, all the mages, the noble families, and their men-at-arms. They see the Syrnte army at their doorstep, and they unite with one purpose: to defeat you.
“Even if they knew of my capture, they would not waste time mourning it. They will not sacrifice a single man to take me from your side, for they know the challenge that waits when your armies meet, and they cannot waste able mages on inconsequential matters. I was once worth much to my friend Eolyn, but that worth amounts to nothing when weighed against the fate of this kingdom.”
An odd expression crossed Mechnes countenance. He loosened his hold on her, and his gaze turned inward.
“Does it?” he murmured. “Amount to nothing?”
The uncertainty in his tone unsettled Adiana. She averted her gaze.
After a moment, Mechnes refreshed his wine. He waved her off and nodded toward the bed. “Ready yourself. I leave tomorrow, but we have yet a generous night ahead of us.”
Adiana let the dress slip from her shoulders as she took refuge beneath a soft blanket. She lay awake a long time, watching the Syrnte commander lost in thought. He ran his fingers idly over a map at his side, drank absently until at last he tipped the cup and found it empty. A scowl rossed his face, and he threw the cup aside.
“Curse it all,” he said, and stormed toward the bed.
Tearing back the covers, Mechnes took hold of Adiana and dragged her back into his vortex of unyielding hunger. She met his lust with equal ferocity, refusing to let this night be anything less than luminous. Not because she wished to please him, but because she felt the beady eyes of death upon her, its sharp beak anxious to pluck at her flesh, its feathers of snow and shadow beckoning toward a final embrace.
When Mechnes released himself inside of her, his roar was one of rage and triumph. Adiana’s body shuddered with forbidden ecstasy. He caught her in a bruising hold, breath hot upon her skin, voice hoarse in her ear.
“No one shall have you as I have had you,” he vowed. “No one.”
In the morning, when the sun’s first light broke over the Valley of Aerunden, Prince Mechnes began the long march north with his officers, his guard, and the greater part of his army.
Adiana was left behind, surrendered to the will of the San’iloman.
Chapter Thirty-Six
A Greater Power
Akmael’s army plodded beneath gray and weeping clouds. By mid-afternoon, the rain relented somewhat, and while the sun did not show its face, the sky brightened. Steam began to rise from the horses and the cloaks of their riders.
Scouts returned from the south and spoke at length with Akmael and his officers. The mood of their deliberation was grim, with set jaws and hardened eyes. At Akmael’s command, the army continued another half league before reaching a campsite along the Tarba River.
While the men began setting picket lines, pitching tents, and digging latrines, Eolyn was asked to accompany the King, his officers, and his mages, in order to survey the ground where they intended to halt the Syrnte advance. It was a broad plain sloping downward from a low ridge, flanked on the west by the steep banks of the Tarba and on the east by a young but dense forest. The terrain would give them an advantage, Akmael told her, and this was one of the reasons why he had decided to wait for the Syrnte here.
At the crest of the ridge, Eolyn dismounted with the rest of the mages. The King and his men completed their rounds on horseback, while she and her fellow practitioners walked barefoot, listening to the hush of the wind over damp grass, the quiet turnover of the earth below their feet. They sent their spirits toward the core of the long plateau. Eolyn could tell from the slow pace of its heart that this was the root of an ancient mountain, worn to its foundations by time and forces beyond her ken.
One of the mages drew close, a portly man with a jovial face, a bulbous nose, and bushy whit
e eyebrows. He introduced himself as Echior. “We met once, in a hamlet of Moehn. Not that I would expect you to remember.”
Eolyn had to study him a moment, but she did remember. “At the wedding. You were the one who told me about Mage Corey and his Circle.”
Echior nodded, a broad grin on his face. “You could have trusted me back then, you know. Though you were wise not to.” He held up his staff. “I’m a High Mage, now. Completed my training after Tzeremond was dead and the prohibition was lifted. Not as skilled as the likes of Corey or Thelyn, but you’ve got a friend in me, if you ever need one.”
The declaration warmed her heart. “Thank you, Mage Echior.”
Side by side, they searched the low-slung ridge until they found a small rise that could serve as a focal point of magic during battle. No sooner had they cast their first circle than the King and his men returned.
Akmael dismounted to inspect their work. Expressing his approval with a brief nod, he instructed the mages to establish a second circle to the west, near the forest. Eolyn was asked to return to camp with the King while the mages continued their work along the ridge.
“You must be weary,” Akmael said as they rode together.
“There is no place for weariness on the eve of war.”
“Well said.” He scanned the landscape as he spoke. Eolyn could feel him register every dip and knoll, every stray tree and solitary rock.
“This evening, we will sit with the chief officers and High Mages,” he said, “and you will share everything you know about the Naether Demons.”
“I fear it will not be much.”
“Whatever you have found will be of use. And there is something else.” Akmael reined in his steed. “Did Borten instruct you as I commanded?”
Eolyn’s throat constricted. “You mean, has he taught me sword play?”
Akmael nodded.
“Well,” she stumbled over her words, “yes, but—”
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