Eolyn (18 page)

Akmael shook his head. His father could not be speaking of his childhood companion. There must be someone else, another maga in the kingdom who posed a threat.

“Seduce her, Akmael. Convince her to bear your sons. Destroy any sisters she has…Do as I did. Only then will your power be absolute.”

Kedehen tried to inhale, but his body revolted at the effort. Violent convulsions shook him. When at last the seizures stopped, his grip on Akmael’s hand relaxed. His ashen lips curved in a thin smile as he released his final words.

“I knew the Gods would save one for you.”

C
hapter Twenty-One

Prince Akmael assumed
the Crown of Vortingen on the twelfth day after his father’s death. The ceremony took place on the Stone Foundation of Vortingen, a smooth outcrop of granite just north of the castle walls.

Sir Drostan stood alongside eleven other members of the Council of High Mages. Opposite them were patriarchs of the provinces, Lords Herensen, Baramon, and Felton among them. A grim magic floated on the morning mist, as if the surprise of Kedehen’s death had not yet worn off. Low thunder and dim flashes of lightning crowded the northern horizon. Careful expressions of sorrow and regret masked the noblemen’s thoughts, which Sir Drostan imagined laden with treacherous possibilities, now that Kedehen’s iron hand had been obliterated.

The natural contours of the Stone Foundation mimicked the shape of the lands of Moisehén: the plains of the north, the wide river of Selkynsen to the west, the rolling hills that gave way to mountainous terrain toward the south and east. This was the place where Dragon granted the crown to the ancient warrior chief Vortingen. With each passing generation, the castle he built grew until it became the formidable complex that now occupied almost half the hillside.

Master Tzeremond presided over the ceremony, offering the silver circlet in solemn song to East, South, West and North, before placing it on the young royal’s head. Standing tall in his flowing robes, the wizard raised his staff high and invoked the sacred name of Dragon.

Ehekatu naeomed ahmuni ay des Vortingen!

Ehekatu naeomed ano Kaht, Akmael!

In a single movement, mages and nobles knelt before their new regent.

Afterwards, the King descended from the castle and passed through the city streets on horseback. Tzeremond rode at his right hand with the High Mages behind them. The attending nobles and knights of Moisehén followed.

Despite the damp air, people came out in great numbers. Women threw lilies in their path, a symbol of hope for a renewed and peaceful realm. People sang and danced. Still, the reception paled in comparison to Sir Drostan’s memories of the ascent of King Urien some two generations before.

A mere boy riding on his grandfather’s broad shoulders, Drostan had watched Urien progress through streets filled with colorful banners and boisterous song. Couples danced in his path, and children ran laughing among the plodding horses. Behind the King, mage and maga warriors marched some three thousand strong, their flaming staffs held high and their skillfully handled swords shining in the summer sun.

For young Drostan, the knights of Vortingen had seemed a dreary complement to the charismatic power of those mages. That was the day he had declared, with the pure enthusiasm of a very young child, “I want to be a mage warrior, too!”

It sobered him now to remember the naïve hopes of that little boy. He never imagined it his destiny to see those gifted men and women tear each other apart on the battlefield. Nor had he expected his oath would obligate him to take the great tradition of Caedmon, once shared by thousands, and entrust it to the fate of a single prince.

Only a few hours had passed after Akmael’s coronation when Sir Drostan received his first summons from the new King. The knight arrived at the council chamber to find the regent deep in conversation with Master Tzeremond. They sat at a long table made from a single panel of solid black oak, the same place where Kedehen had met with his Council and made the most important decisions of his reign.

Military and magical artifacts adorned the room. Large windows along the southern wall afforded a strategic view of the rolling plains below. Like all the chambers of the King’s apartments, it had been cleaned, aired and laid with fresh rushes. Yet Drostan could not rid his senses of the rot that had destroyed the King’s face, and he felt Kedehen’s ghost lingering in the shadows.

The guards who admitted Drostan closed the doors behind him. Akmael beckoned him to approach.

“Master Tzeremond has informed me of the elaborate project undertaken at my father’s bidding to better understand foreign and exotic forms of magic,” Akmael said as Drostan took his place. “It seems to me a lot of effort for a threat that is at best suspected.”

“The shadow of the magas clings to this land.” Tzeremond’s lips were drawn, and his bony hands worked against his rowan staff. “Despite our most diligent efforts at eradicating them, there are murmurings in Selen of a snow witch who inhabits the eastern forests. And last summer just outside Moehn, we had a confirmed report of subversive witchcraft. A woman traveling alone tried to seduce two boys. When they resisted, she shape shifted into a lynx and attacked them before disappearing into the night.”

While Tzeremond spoke, Drostan kept a careful eye on his new liege. The young King had inherited all the hard lines of his father’s face, but had not yet mastered the use of that stony countenance. Something flickered behind his dark eyes at the mention of the witch from Moehn, though it was gone before Sir Drostan could capture its essence.

“Two witches do not comprise an armed rebellion.” Akmael’s gaze turned to Sir Drostan, inviting the knight to speak. Was this why he had been summoned, to mediate in the first disagreement between King and wizard? The thought did not please Sir Drostan at all.

“My Lord King, as you know, I leave the question of how to find and exterminate subversive magic to Master Tzeremond.” Sir Drostan directed a respectful nod toward the wizard. “Though I agree it is an uneasy peace your father achieved. The possibility of an armed rebellion can never be taken lightly, especially at the dawn of a prince’s reign. As Master Tzeremond may have informed you, this past fall border guards intercepted a small caravan filled with arms. What they carried was not much, but it was meant for battle. We cannot tell how many more of these shipments have entered our lands unnoticed during recent years.”

“Did you question the drivers?”

“There were only three men who accompanied the carts. All of them tried to escape, and just one was apprehended alive.”

“The King turned him over to us for questioning,” Master Tzeremond added, “but he perished before revealing anything.”

“
Perished, Master Tzeremond?”

“My Lord King, as you are aware, the more stubborn the criminal the more rigorous the techniques applied. High Mage Baedon oversaw the process personally, prolonging the interrogation for weeks, but in the end the prisoner did not last long enough to give us the information we sought.”

“What your father and the Council suspected was an armed movement organized through the use of primitive and foreign magic,” Drostan said. “The integration of such forces, if not stopped in time, could pose a serious threat to the peace of the kingdom.”

“Why was I not informed of this while my father was alive?”

The question generated an awkward silence. Sir Drostan inadvertently met Tzeremond’s gaze. Kedehen held no one above suspicion of treachery, except perhaps this wizard who once sat at his right hand.

“He thought I might be involved.” Akmael spoke as if realizing it for the first time. “He suspected I might use this movement to betray him!”

“My Lord King,” Tzeremond responded smoothly, “your father bore you great respect. In his heart, he did not wish to believe you capable of treason, but any prudent King would take similar precautions when it comes to his closest heirs. It is not wise to let pride or affection cloud one’s judgment when defending the Crown. Your father understood this, as must you.”

“I see.” If the King found Tzeremond’s paternalistic tone insulting, he did not reveal it. “Very well. Any grievance I have with my father will have to wait until the Afterlife. Master Tzeremond, you will keep me informed of your findings. I would also have an audience with High Mage Thelyn, and any other mage involved in this project.”

“As you wish, my Lord King.”

“Sir Drostan, we need to increase our vigilance along the borders and monitor the activity of our blacksmiths. You will also report back to me with a full assessment of the defenses of this city and our readiness in the event of an uprising.”

Sir Drostan nodded. He had much to say regarding their readiness in the event of an attack, though little of it could be spoken in front of Tzeremond. The Crown of Vortingen commanded foot soldiers and knights aplenty, and the fortress was as impenetrable as it had ever been. But the class of mage warriors was near extinct. Master Tzeremond had anointed only a handful of High Mages these past twenty years, and just one of them, Akmael, had been trained in the arts of war. The prince had grown into an accomplished fighter under Sir Drostan’s tutelage, but the legions that once defended the heart and soul of Moisehén were gone.

“May I suggest, my Lord King,” Tzeremond said, “that it would be useful at this early stage in your reign to organize a progress by the Riders, so the people might be reminded of the price of treason?”

Just what the wizard would recommend. A band of knights without honor to ravage the countryside. Kedehen would not have hesitated at the suggestion, but Akmael paused. His jaw worked against some unspoken thought.

“My Lord King?” Tzeremond prompted.

“No, Master Tzeremond. No. I would have the Riders disbanded.”

Sir Drostan’s breath stopped short in surprise.

“That was my father’s way. It is not mine.”

“My Lord King,” Tzeremond stammered, “I do not think it wise.”

“I have not solicited your opinion, Master Tzeremond. This is a military matter, and the King has decided. Sir Drostan, see that it is done.”

“Yes, my Lord King.” Drostan could taste Tzeremond’s fury like a stinging mist. The wizard was not accustomed to having his opinion overlooked by the King of Moisehén.

“There is another matter we have not yet settled, Drostan,” the King continued. “Regarding Sir Borten. We will respect my father’s wishes. The man is not to return to Moehn. Keep him here for one year and have him perform whatever service you deem appropriate in support of our men-at-arms. At the end of that period, if he has served well and proves worthy, we will consider incorporating him as a Knight of Vortingen.”

“My Lord King.” Sir Drostan nodded. Though less pleased by this command, he was bound by duty to obey.

Tzeremond moved as if to speak, but Akmael raised his hand and dismissed them both. “That will be all.”

Though the wizard held his tongue as they departed, Drostan was not fooled. Tzeremond would seek a way to make the King’s will reflect his own, and he would not rest until he succeeded.

C
hapter Twenty-Two

Soon after Corey’s Circle
set up in the town of Selen, High Mage Thelyn paid them a visit. The Council Member arrived on horseback with a small escort of men-at-arms bearing the colors and crest of the royal house of Vortingen.

Dressed in attire that accrued to his station, Thelyn dismounted with easy grace. A square cap sat upon his head, and he carried a staff of polished cherry wood. His forest green cloak hung in long, loose folds. Tall and well groomed, Thelyn wore this uniform very well.

Mage Corey greeted Thelyn warmly, glad to see his old friend. Corey and Thelyn were of a similar age and had studied magic together in the King’s City. Though Thelyn did not share Corey’s natural talent, he had a higher tolerance for Tzeremond’s character and an innate skill for the political maneuvers necessary to excel in his Order. He commanded an impressive knowledge of Primitive Magic, and had supported the unique work of the Circle from the very beginning.

Together they retired to the privacy of Mage Corey’s tent. Their meeting, conducted in quiet tones, extended for over an hour. When the two finally emerged, Mage Corey called Rishona and asked her to oversee the preparation of Thelyn’s tent. Then Corey sent for Mistress Renate.

He moved straight to the point as soon as Renate appeared. “You are summoned to the King’s City.”

She froze a few paces short of the chair he had set out for her, face white as a lily.

“In truth, we are all summoned,” Corey said, “but your summons is immediate. You will depart with High Mage Thelyn tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Renate’s usually sharp voice came small and weak. “Why? What have I done?”

“You have not done anything, dear Renate.” Mage Corey took her hand and guided her to the chair. He poured a drink and insisted she take it. “At least, Thelyn is not here under the open pretense of arresting you. Somehow he has managed to convince Master Tzeremond and our new King that it would be appropriate, in the spring of this great reign, to resurrect some of the old customs. To recreate, as it were, the former glory of the High Festivals of Moisehén.”

“But what does this have to do with me? Why should their plan obligate me to return to that place?”

Corey drew a slow breath. It pained him to ask this of Renate. On the few occasions the Circle visited the King’s City, he had always given the mistress leave not to accompany them. She despised returning to the place where she had abandoned her magic and watched her sisters die.

“Thelyn needs a woman to help him. Someone who remembers the role of the magas in the old festivals. Someone capable of constructing the image of those rituals within appropriate bounds, as determined by the enlightened era in which we now live. He believes your work with the Circle makes you just the person for the task.”

“It is one thing to choreograph a few dances for the Circle, but what he is asking cannot be done. We can imitate the old rites, but without true magas…” Her voice broke off and her face twisted under the burden of unspoken thoughts. “It cannot be done.”

“I am afraid you have no choice. Thelyn carries orders from the King. You must assist him, whether or not you think the task is possible.”

Renate lifted the cup to her lips, gaze focused on some inner world. “Which festival are we talking about?”

“Bel-Aethne.”

“I see.” She lowered the drink and met his gaze. “They can’t do it without representation of Aithne. And how can they represent Aithne without reminding our people of the magas?”

“That, dear Renate, is precisely your task.”

“Very well. I will do this thing you ask of me, Corey. But you must tell me what this is really about. They don’t have to resurrect Bel-Aethne. They could just as easily wait until Summer Solstice.”

Corey considered his response. “I confess, Renate, I am not entirely certain what they are up to. I do know the rest of the Circle will follow you soon. Thelyn expects to incorporate our people fully. Artists and mages are being brought from all over the kingdom. Some have even been invited from neighboring territories. The people of Moisehén will flock to this event. Perhaps all the Council seeks is to consolidate the power of the new King under a spirit of celebration. Yet knowing Master Tzeremond, I believe there is a deeper objective. I suspect he is planning his own assessment of the status of magic in Moisehén.”

“And a well-constructed Festival of Bel-Aethne would be excellent bait for women of special ability,” Renate realized. “A true homage toward Aithne under a new King might be just enough to cause suspected witches, and their supporters, to let down their guard.”

Corey chose to neither confirm nor deny her conclusions.

“Did Thelyn speak to you of this?” she asked.

“Not explicitly. He appeared caught up in his enthusiasm for the project—and for the opportunity to work with you, I might add. But he is a member of the High Council, and he knows every decision they make has a dual purpose.”

“Thelyn has always been a friend to us. I would not be here, working with you, if it weren’t for him. Even so, to arrive unannounced and force me back to that place under these circumstances…Anything could happen to me in the City.”

“High Mage Thelyn assumes personal responsibility for your safety. He has given me his word you will come to no harm. You will stay with him as his guest until the rest of the Circle arrives, at which time you will be free to join us again.”

“As his guest or as his prisoner?”

Corey leaned forward and refilled her cup. “For a woman of your talent, dear Renate, it is all the same.”

The morning of Renate’s departure dawned gray and without spirit. Though everyone turned out to wish the mistress a safe journey, their mood was as colorless as the sky. Only High Mage Thelyn acted with enthusiasm, but his cheerful words did little to return the blood to Renate’s cheeks.

The old mistress held each member of the Circle in a lengthy embrace. When she released the last of her students, tears sprang from her eyes.

Mage Corey helped Renate onto her horse. He pressed her fingers between his palms and tried to reinforce her courage with his magic, but Renate’s lips remained tight and her face ashen.

“After Bel-Aethne, everything will change,” Rishona said, as they watched the travelers depart down the long road to the King’s City. “We must enjoy the days that are left to us, for we will not be together like this again.”

During the days that followed, the Circle chased away their melancholy with vibrant performances and spontaneous post-show festivities. Mage Corey did his best to join these efforts, but the forced joviality failed to dispel the weight inside his heart.

Restless visions invaded his sleep, of black shadows and violent explosions, of his father’s face when the soldiers burst into their home, of the tortured screams of Corey’s mother on the night she died.

Briana leapt out of the shadows like a hunted animal. She grasped Corey’s small hand and dragged him into the forest. They fled toward an ever-deeper night until they were lost in suffocating darkness. Still they ran, as fast as they could, but it was not fast enough. Swords found them, spinning through the sky. Corey felt the cold cut of steel as it drove hard into his flesh. He heard their metal voices ring with the triumph of death.

The mage woke with a start. Sweat trickled down his neck. He glanced around the dark tent.

Someone is here, watching me.

Corey’s hand found the knife under his pillow. With a snap of his fingers he set a nearby lamp aglow.

“Show yourself,” he demanded

A hooded figure moved cautiously into the light.

He recognized her at once and sighed in relief. “Khelia. You should not have come.”

With the grace of a cat, she extinguished the lamp and knelt beside him. “It is time.”

“Khelia…”

“We are not as prepared as we would have liked.” She spoke as if anticipating his objections. “But you know what is said of this new King, of the magic he commands. We cannot hesitate. We must strike now, before he consolidates his power.”

“They have Renate.”

She responded with a sharp intake of breath. “What? How?”

“Thelyn came unannounced and took her just a few days ago. She is to assist him in organizing the High Ceremonies of Bel-Aethne. We have been ordered to follow, and will set out for the King’s City tomorrow.”

“Thelyn knows the affection you feel for Renate.” Anxiety sharpened her voice. “He holds her hostage to guarantee you will do as he asks.”

“Of course he does.”

“You put the entire Circle at risk if you take them there!”

“I’m afraid I have little choice.”

“And what of you, Corey?” She rested her hand on his. “What if they are after you? We lose everything if we lose you.”

Her words moved him deeper than she could know. “That is not true, Khelia. I am but an instrument in a much larger process. This does not depend on me. Not anymore.”

The mountain warrior lapsed into troubled silence.

Corey heard soft sounds of field crickets and the quiet rush of a starlit breeze. Somewhere outside, moonflowers were blooming. Their sweet aroma reminded him of the nights he had shared with this beautiful and spirited warrior.

When he spoke again, it was in reassuring tones. “Don’t worry about me, or Renate, for that matter. I have always turned Tzeremond’s plans to our advantage, and this will be no exception. Tell Ernan to wait until we’ve finished with Bel-Aethne. I will use the festival to assess the strengths and weaknesses of our new King. After that, we will decide upon our next move.”

Khelia nodded and kissed him on the lips. Then she slipped away without a sound.

Letting go a long, slow exhale, Corey reclined on his bed and stared into the darkness.

An accursed mess, that’s what this is.

A simple trick of fate had converted all his elaborate schemes to rubble.

There was a time, not too long ago, when he might have put a stop to their plans with a few pointed conversations. Not anymore. This movement had assumed a life of its own. The best he could hope for now was to navigate the coming chaos without getting himself killed.

Just play the game carefully, as you’ve always done.

He shifted his position and bade himself to sleep.

It’s not that bad, after all. You still have Sarah, and that is no small thing.

He smiled and surrendered to the tide of his dreams.

The Gods could not have given him a better prize with which to negotiate his fate.