“Slain! The Mage King is slain!”
Horns sounded, and the Syrnte let forth a deafening roar of victory.
Men began to break away from the ranks of Moisehén, an ominous trickle that preceded frenzied retreat. The rout, Eolyn knew, would be merciless.
“Milady.” The mage warrior demanded her attention. “We must leave now.”
The rest of her guards had gathered around them, some already mounted, one of them with her mare in hand.
Eolyn took her horse by the bridle and pressed her forehead against the flat of its snout, whispering words of encouragement in a language learned long ago.
“He is not dead,” she said to the mage warrior.
“Gods grant that you be right, but it changes nothing. The battle is lost, and I have my orders.”
“Your orders are to protect me.” Eolyn mounted, Tzeremond’s staff in hand, Kel’Barú at her hip. “Protect me then, as I ride to the aid of our King.”
She spurred her horse into a gallop, charging downhill toward the heat of the fray, ignoring the guards’ shouts of consternation.
Stragglers who had begun their retreat paused at her passing and watched the maga’s descent with bewildered expressions. On the edge of the battle Eolyn reined back, nostrils flaring at the sting of blood, stomach roiling at the sight of so many mutilated men.
“Gods help me,” she murmured, invoking the spirit of her dead mother. “Beloved Kaie, Maga Warrior, woman of my blood, give me strength.”
The guards were approaching from behind, hooves pounding against the earth while they shouted their demands to halt. Eolyn did not look back, but waited, measuring the pace of their pursuit. Just before they reached her position, she spurred the mare forward again, forcing them to follow.
She kept her eyes on Akmael’s horse as they plunged into a river of death. A cacophony of metal and men driven mad overwhelmed her senses. Turbulent currents of fighting impeded her pace and threatened to drag her down.
The guards managed to surround her, defending her with sword and shield, their entreaties for retreat silenced by the will to survive. Under their protection, Eolyn pushed forward, conserving her magic as much as she could while invoking quick and scalding flames to fend off her attackers.
At last a path opened between her and Akmael’s horse. She sprang forward, breaking free of the circle of guards and invoking the speed of the wind.
She did not see the Syrnte warrior until it was too late. His sword flew from his hand, a flash of deadly light that sank deep into her horse’s neck. The animal reared, throwing Eolyn as it crumpled to its knees screaming.
She hit the ground hard, bones cracking upon impact, breath knocked from her lungs. Gasping, Eolyn scrambled to regain her footing. Her limbs throbbed with pain. Tears threatened to blur her vision.
Somehow Tzeremond’s staff remained in her grip. She used it to steady her spirit, to reach for the power of the earth.
A Syrnte soldier rushed Eolyn with sword raised, but his advance was stopped by a shout from the man who had brought down her horse. That man approached now, triumph in his gate, his blood-spattered face twisted into a malicious smile.
“Maga Eolyn.” He paused at a distance. “I am Mechnes, Prince of the Syrnte. Do you come to reclaim the body of your dead king, or to pay homage to your new master?”
“A maga has no master.” Eolyn fought to subdue the tremor in her hands. “Save the Gods who rule her heart.”
“I will take your heart then.” Mechnes accepted a sword from one of his comrades. Eolyn remembered how swift and sure the first had flown from his grip. “Though I may be obliged to cut it out.”
Kel’Barú shivered at her side, restless in its hilt, eager for this man’s blood. She ignored the temptation of its call. To go after Mechnes with a sword would be the greatest of all her follies.
Instead, she adjusted her grip on Tzeremond’s staff and focused on the steady hum at its core.
“You are finished here, Prince Mechnes,” she said. “In the name of the King, I bid you leave these lands. You and all your men. I will not ask again.”
“It is your King who is finished, maga. I rule Moisehén now. I bid you, set aside your staff and kneel before me, or you will find this sword lodged between your pretty breasts.”
Maehechnahm, she replied, arrat saufini
Tzeremond’s staff jumped at her call in an ominous surge of power.
Mechnes flung his sword in a sure, straight path to her heart.
Ehekaht neurai!
Lightning tunneled from the earth and travelled through the rowan staff, bursting from its crystal head in an explosion of white fire that lanced at Mechnes and threw him to the ground, trapping him in a luminous net.
Eolyn clung to Tzeremond’s staff, channeling all power of life and limb into its deadly fire. She braced for the impact of the Syrnte sword in desperate hope that her enemy would perish before his blade parted her sternum.
Fire crackled over Mechnes’s body and he screamed in agony, but Eolyn did not relent until his cries faded and the stench of burnt flesh saturated the air.
Eolyn released the curse. Her hair was singed, the palms of her hands blackened and raw. Her ears rang. She coughed and gagged and drew a rattling breath.
Running a sore hand over chest and abdomen, she found herself whole and unharmed. The flame had deflected Mechnes’s sword, which now lay useless on the ground, blade tarnished, leather wrappings of the hilt melted away.
Warily, Eolyn approached her victim, remembering the last time she had attempted this curse, how Tzeremond had survived its impact and risen again, vanquishing the maga and banishing her soul to the Underworld. Drawing Kel’Barú, she held the faithful blade in front of her, stepping close and setting the tip of the sword at Mechnes’s throat.
The man wheezed, sputtered, and lay still. He turned his head as if to look at her, but his soot-encrusted eyes had been burned white by the curse. He lifted a trembling hand toward her face.
“Adiana.” Mechnes’s voice was reduced to a ragged whisper, tinged with mirth and melancholy. “I knew it would be you.”
“What?” Eolyn’s bewilderment gave way to realization and then horror as Prince Mechnes’s limbs went limp.
She let go of the sword and fell to her knees. Taking the Syrnte commander by the shoulders she shook him and slapped him across the face. “No! You cannot die. Not until you tell me what you have done with her!”
Eolyn beat her fists upon the dead man’s chest, tears streaming down her cheeks, imploring him to speak until rough hands took hold of her and dragged her away.
“Maga Eolyn.” The man repeated her name, holding her by the shoulders until her ravings ceased and she looked at him as if awakening from a dark and terrible dream.
It was one of the guards, face bloodied and dripping with sweat. He studied Eolyn as if seeing her for the first time. Abruptly he released her and backed away. His head was bowed; fear and respect filled his expression.
“Look, Maga Eolyn.” He gestured down slope. “Look at what you have done.”
Along the length of the field of battle, the last of the Syrnte fled before the banners of Moisehén. Stragglers were being hacked down, scattered bodies looted by the King’s soldiers.
Eolyn turned away from the slaughter.
In war, even victory seems an ugly thing.
“Where is the King?” she asked.
The guard nodded in the direction of a group of knights and soldiers. Akmael lay splayed on the ground at their feet, surrounded by corpses of men who had tried to protect him.
At last unhindered, Eolyn rushed to his side.
Her heart stopped at the sight of his face, ash-gray and steeped in death. The skin around his lips and eyes had turned a sickly blue. The spear that had brought him down had since dislodged, whether during the fall from his horse or by his own hand she could not know. Blades had pierced his armor, and the lacerations had produced copious amounts of blood. Though th
e flow appeared to have stopped, Eolyn knew from his drenched tunic, and the dark and sticky pool beneath him, that he had already lost too much.
“Akmael.” She knelt beside him, removed his gauntlets and took both hands in hers. His fingers were stiff and cold as ice. She felt for his pulse and after a long agonizing moment, found it, fainter than the whisper of falling snow.
“Send for High Mage Rezlyn.” She loosened the straps on his armor that she might expose the wounds and begin to bind them. “And a litter for the King.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Second Descent
Akmael was borne with reverence back to his tent, where High Mage Rezlyn and Eolyn stripped him. They removed shards of metal and grit from his wounds, and washed them with wine and water. Then they applied poultices of yarrow, vervain, tormentil, and fox’s clout.
Rezlyn’s expression was somber. Eolyn noticed a haunted look to his eyes, as if he were reliving some terrible memory.
“What is it?” she asked when they finished dressing the wounds. “What do you see?”
Rezlyn shook his head and spoke low, so that the others in the tent might not hear. “I see his father.”
Her heart contracted. With a sharp intake of breath, Eolyn turned to Rezlyn’s table of herbs and extracts. She began gathering ingredients for an infusion of ironwort and blood thistle.
“That was more complicated than this,” she said. Kedehen had died from a spear wound, a mass of splintered wood that had taken out his eye and penetrated his skull, festering for days before releasing the old King from his agony. “Nearly impossible for anyone, mage or maga, to clean and heal. There was little you could have done, save wait for the Gods to make their choice.”
Her hands shook. The vials slipped from her fingers. A violent spasm coursed through Eolyn’s womb, and she sank to the floor.
Rezlyn was at her side in an instant. “Maga Eolyn!”
Cold sweat had broken out on her skin. She struggled to speak, but each breath was cut short by a new wave of pain.
“Please,” she managed through frightened gasps, “please, Mage Rezlyn, ask them to go. Everyone.”
The mage sent away the servants, knights, guards, and nobles who had been anxiously watching their work. Then he returned to Eolyn and wrapped his cloak around her shoulders.
“You have asked too much of your magic today,” he said. “You must rest, Maga Eolyn. Allow me to care for the King. I will prepare an infusion to calm your spirit.”
“Mage Rezlyn.” Eolyn clutched at the healer’s arm and gave him a pleading look. “I am with child. The seed took root just a few weeks ago. I fear this spark of life is too new, too delicate to survive the curse I cast against Prince Mechnes.”
Rezlyn’s eyes widened. “It tries to claim the life inside of you.” He rested a hand upon her abdomen, listening with his touch, and said, “The child’s father is a warrior.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he fights.” Rezlyn’s glance strayed toward the King. “He has sounded his battle cry through your pain. A meeker baby would slip quietly away, and you would not have known until morning, when the blood of his defeat stained your bed.”
Renewed spasms coursed through her.
“We will start with the root of winter sage to cleanse you of the curse, salvia to calm the muscles, and juniper and rosemary to protect the child.” Rezlyn helped Eolyn up and guided her toward the King’s bed.
“I am of no use to Akmael like this,” she protested. “I would rather rest elsewhere than be an invalid at his side.”
“It is his son that is in danger, is it not?”
Eolyn opened her mouth to object, then bit her lip and looked away, unable to voice the lie.
“The son’s spirit can help the father, just as the father’s spirit can help the son,” Rezlyn said. “This is powerful magic, and we cannot deny it to them.”
She met the mage’s eyes, a challenge overriding the tremor in her voice. “You must not tell anyone.”
Rezlyn responded with a gentle smile that enhanced the many lines of his face. “You need not worry, Maga Eolyn. If there is one thing I have demonstrated during my years of service to the House of Vortingen, it is my capacity for discretion.”
That night, the Lost Souls dragged Eolyn down into their midst. A thousand tentacles of their thirst penetrated her spirit, seeking the life within. Eolyn clung to the world of the living on a thin thread of winter sage, the bitter root spooned into her mouth by High Mage Rezlyn, whose face appeared distorted and blurred in the dim candlelight whenever she surfaced from her nightmares.
She took the magic he gave her and wove it around her unborn child, interlacing the ephemeral fabric with fresher aromas of rosemary and juniper, all the while beating off the Lost Souls until the protective cloak gathered strength, and the decaying spirits who sought her baby withered at its touch, at last slipping away toward eternal darkness.
At dawn, she awoke exhausted.
Every muscle in her body ached, but the spasms had passed. She could feel the child alive inside her womb. Tears of joy and relief stung her eyes.
Mage Rezlyn brought another infusion and examined her carefully. Bruises had bloomed purple and black over her ribs.
“I must have cracked them when I fell from my horse,” Eolyn said. She had not even noticed the pain until now.
Rezlyn shook his head. “The Gods must favor you, Maga Eolyn, to have allowed you to charge into that melee, and come away with only this.”
He produced a linen bandage that he used to wrap her torso.
“Let me tend to the King,” she said.
“The child is still delicate. Too much exertion could yet do him harm.”
“No task heals us better than the task of healing others.”
Rezlyn responded to this old saying with a warm smile. “Very well. But when I order you to rest, Maga Eolyn, you must rest.”
For days, Akmael hovered between this world and the next, his skin translucent, his body cold and unresponsive. Eolyn kept a close eye on his wounds, changing the poultices and applying fresh bandages several times a day.
One morning, High Mage Rezlyn inspected the laceration left by the spear, and on finding it clean, decided to have it cauterized. Akmael’s body convulsed at the touch of the hot iron, a reaction that worried Eolyn but seemed to please the court physician. The stench of burnt flesh brought back unwanted memories of the curse of Ahmad-kupt, and when they applied the iron a second time, Eolyn turned away, unable to watch. Once they had sealed the wound, new poultices were prepared using fennel, elecampane, and Berenben cream to heal the blistering skin.
When they finished wrapping the bandages, Eolyn closed her eyes and set her hands upon Akmael, her spirit seeking out torn tissues and splintered bones, weaving what she could back together with her magic. It was exhausting work, and she could keep it up for only short periods of time before the flame of her magic wavered. Rezlyn inevitably withdrew her hands, breaking her focus and reminding her she also had a child to protect and heal.
He brought another cup of ironroot tea, and Eolyn delivered the infusion to Akmael’s cracked lips in small spoonfuls.
“He lost too much blood,” she said, “and these infusions, I fear, are not replacing it rapidly enough.”
“Healing must obey the pace of the earth,” Rezlyn replied.
Eolyn bristled. “Why, then, is the pace of the earth so slow?”
A commotion was heard outside the King’s tent. Raucous shouts and laughter filled the air, the sounds of men meeting in friendship.
Mage Corey strode in, sunlight following him in a luminous cloud. He greeted Rezlyn with a hearty embrace, and turned to Eolyn, who flew into his arms. He had washed recently and donned fresh clothes, but the smell of Moehn clung to him, of earth and crushed oak leaves, of pine and sweet herbs. It made Eolyn’s heart ache for home.
Corey’s silver-green eyes sparkled. “I never thought I’d receive such a greeting from y
ou, Maga Eolyn.”
She flushed and withdrew. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see you, Mage Corey. You must tell me of Mariel and Borten.”
“They are alive and well, or were the last time I saw them. I have no reason to believe they have come to any harm. I suppose we shall know soon enough, with Lord Herensen on his way to chase the last of the Syrnte out of Moehn. Ah!” He proffered the staff he carried, of polished oak and water crystal. “This, I believe, is yours. It is a fine instrument, Eolyn. Thank you for entrusting it to me.”
Eolyn’s heart swelled as she accepted the staff, her magic reconnecting with the familiar resonance of the South Woods. She set it aside and turned back to the mage.
“Corey, the men who brought Rishona’s head to Akmael spoke of you. They said they met you at the head of the Pass of Aerunden, and that you had followed the Syrnte army for days.”
“It is true.” He grinned. “I have become an honest hero.”
Eolyn drew a breath, but the question faltered on her lips. “Perhaps, you have heard that I slew the general who commanded the Syrnte army.”
“Yes, of course. Very impressive, but I assure you, the San’iloman was the more prestigious kill. You haven’t bested me, Eolyn. Not yet.”
“No.” She held up her hands, trying to stay his humor. “Please, Corey. That is not what I meant. When he died, Prince Mechnes mentioned Adiana with his last breath, and I thought…I thought perhaps you had seen her. And the girls, Tasha and Catarina, were they…?”
Her voice trailed off at the change in his expression. She had never seen Corey like that, without even a hint of levity in his eyes.
“The girls are dead, Eolyn,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Eolyn beat back the rush of pain unleashed by these words, clinging to the one name that still held hope. “And Adiana?”
“For the moment, Adiana is beyond our reach.”
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