Eolyn (29 page)

C
hapter Thirty-Four

Corey hit the ground
with a harsh thud. Shadows blurred about him, men silhouetted against a twilight that was unbearably brilliant after so many days in the dark.

Aromas of summer grass and night blossoms filled the air, yet did nothing to alleviate the stench of blood and sweat that clung to Corey’s clothes. He recognized Thelyn’s smooth baritone, along with voices of three other High Mages.

By Thelyn’s command, Corey was wrapped in a coarsely woven net of Lievian spider silk. Every time they moved him, pain shot through his limbs. Just as his vision began to clear, he was lifted off the ground, suspended in the net between flying staffs. They rose high and carried him swiftly over a rolling landscape illuminated by a silver moon.

Night air refreshed his face, and trees met his passing with shifting words of encouragement, but every muscle throbbed in protest. Every thought echoed with regret. What he wouldn’t give for a hot bath, a mug of wine, and the songs of his people under a starry sky. What he wouldn’t give to meet the Solstice Dawn at Eolyn’s side once more, to enjoy her light-hearted laughter, to feel the heat of her hand in his.

If he could turn back the days, months, and years, he would see things done differently the second time around. But then so would everyone else. The resulting mess would be just as dismal. In all likelihood, Corey would still have finished here, a sack of bruised flesh carried upon the wind toward certain doom.

But I would have kissed Eolyn
.
I would have known the bittersweet taste of a maga’s lips.

Below them, the King’s City appeared, blanketed in shadows of gray and midnight blue. They landed in one of the lower courtyards, slamming Corey’s battered body against the flagstones. The net was sliced open. Rough hands grabbed him and dragged him off.

They descended into the labyrinth of shadows beneath the fortress. Corey had thought the dungeons of Selkynsen miserable, but here the darkness was absolute. The only sound was the musty heart of the mountain, beating slow and cold.

No food or water was brought to him. For what seemed hours, he sat in the company of his aching body, wondering who would arrive first, Tzeremond or Baedon. Perhaps they would come together, magical instruments in hand, eager to play their games of torture and intimidation.

At last he heard footsteps and voices, the turn of the massive lock, and the screech of dry hinges. The heavy door was shoved inward. Torch light blinded him. Guards stepped into the cell, followed by King Akmael.

Surprised and wary, Corey watched his cousin through swollen eyes. Briana’s son stood tall, somehow at home in that dark place, his face as expressionless as his father’s had once been. The guards set the torches high and ensured the steadfastness of Corey’s chains before retreating from the cell. For several moments, king and mage studied each other in silence.

“I sent instructions regarding your care,” Akmael said at last. “It appears they were not heeded.”

Corey shrugged, though his shoulders winced at the movement. “They would have had my head on a pike and thrown my flesh to the vultures had High Mage Thelyn not intervened. I am as he found me.”

“We will have to work with what is left, then,” Akmael replied. “There is much I would learn from you, Mage Corey.”

“My Lord King.” Corey drew a wheezing breath and met his cousin’s gaze. “As I once told you, what humble knowledge I command is intended for your service, for the good of our Clan, as was sworn to your mother and my protector, Queen Briana. Ask what you will, I will respond truthfully.”

“So you say, but I am told you revealed nothing to the inquisitors of Selkynsen.”

“I do not know who pays the inquisitors of Selkynsen. My secrets are meant only for my Lord King, to be heard and acted upon by him alone.”

Akmael lifted his brow in doubt. “You would have died at their hands rather than speak?”

“Yes.”

Akmael studied the stale air for a moment, then returned his gaze to Corey. “Why did you deliver the maga to the rebels?”

“It was the safest place I could think of outside this citadel. What happened to me in Selkynsen would have happened to her—and worse—had I attempted to hide her in any other corner of this kingdom.”

“You knew her brother was their leader?”

“No.” Corey frowned. How had the King come by this information? “That was unexpected, and unfortunate. The maga would not have been so keen to support their cause, were it not for him. She loathes the very thought of war, but she loves her brother and will not abandon him.”

“I see.”

Corey studied his cousin, but to no avail. The mage could read the face of Master Tzeremond himself, but these accursed Kings of Vortingen never let a thought slip past their eyes. Of one thing he was certain: his fate would be decided within the next few minutes.

“I wanted to smuggle her out again,” Corey said, “but it seemed too risky on all accounts. In any case, the current situation may well be to our advantage. Her presence has mobilized them, brought them forward before they are ready. Ernan’s forces cannot hope to match yours, and they will find no support in Selkynsen, as Herensen remains loyal to you. They’ve no choice but to confront you with what they have.”

“She is the only one left to us, Mage Corey. She cannot be lost.”

Corey cleared his throat. A difficult point, that one, but he had done what he could. “Her brother will not allow any harm to come to her. As an additional precaution, I have left the maga with annals of war time magic pulled from the libraries of Selen. Old techniques used by mages with no training in weaponry. It’s no guarantee of course, but it should keep her out of harm’s way when they meet you in battle.”

The King did not respond.

“It would be prudent for our mages to use similar techniques,” Corey added, to fill the silence. “Otherwise she might conclude I have deceived her.”

Akmael nodded, though his expression remained unchanged. “The seals on the East Tower have been broken. A room is being prepared for you there.”

The significance of this declaration was not lost on Corey. The East Tower had not been opened since Briana’s death. “How long will I be detained?”

“Until we crush this rebellion,” Akmael replied.

Or until the King decides whether he has any further use for his cousin.

Tension faded from Corey’s muscles. He had been granted time and words. With enough of both, he might yet secure his future.

“Sir Drostan will see you on the morrow. You must treat his ears as mine, Mage Corey. I will not indulge you with another private audience until your loyalty is beyond doubt.”

The mage nodded. The weight of regret and relief brought his aching head to his bruised hands.

“You will be moved before sunset.” The King turned to take his leave.

Corey drew another painful breath. His ribs pinched his lungs. “That armband she wears. You gave it to her didn’t you?”

His words brought the Akmael’s smooth retreat to a sudden halt. “She told you about that?”

“No. She speaks to no one of you. I recognized the Silver Dragon as an heirloom of East Selen. When I first saw it…” How long ago was that? A year perhaps, under a late spring sky on the grassy knolls of Aerunden. Eolyn was no more than a peasant with a curious gift then, an unassuming girl of little significance. “I suspected she had met some lost cousin of mine. It was easier to imagine another member of the Clan surviving, than to conceive of a manner in which you might have known her.” Easier, and somehow more bearable. “But then the pieces of her story came together, and they all pointed to you.”

“It was an improvised present,” Akmael spoke to the door, “from a self-centered boy with neither the foresight nor the imagination to craft a gift worthy of her friendship.”

His words fell like pebbles into a deep well, disappearing as soon as they were uttered. Corey would have thought he had imagined them, were it not for the resonance they left, waves reverberating against the dank air. “You invoked an ancient tradition of our Clan when you honored her with that jewel.”

Akmael turned to his cousin with a puzzled expression. “The armband was mine, a present from my mother. She said nothing of the Clan when she gave it to me.”

“It makes no difference whether you understood its significance. It was the Silver Dragon that chose Eolyn, not you.”

“Chose her?”

“That jewel came from the heart of East Selen. It is an invitation to join the Clan, to be a part of its legacy as much as any person who carries the blood of our ancestors.”

“And Eolyn knows this?”

“No.” Corey shook his head. “To speak to her of it during these days would have been imprudent. She must be told, however, and she must decide whether to accept.”

The King took a moment to absorb this. A smile curled his lips, and he nodded. “Then we may yet make her ours, Mage Corey. We may yet make her ours.”

C
hapter Thirty-Five

“They head southwest, my Lord King,” Sir Drostan reported. “Their numbers are reinforced by about four hundred men from Selen.”

“Cavalry?”

“Fifty, at most. The rest are foot soldiers. Mage Corey suspects they intend to reunite with Syrnte riders, secure the Pass of Aerunden, and recruit additional support from Moehn before marching toward the King’s City.”

The knight waited as his liege considered the news.

Tzeremond stood with them in the council room, bony hands working against his rowan staff.

The King took his time, back turned to his advisors as he looked out the window and surveyed the broad expanse of land toward the south. An undulating landscape shone green and gold under the summer sun. In the distance, a dark blue smudge indicated the low mountains that bordered Moehn.

“Very well.” Akmael turned to face them. “We depart at dawn. Send immediate word to Herensen and the lords of Selkynsen. They are to meet us at Rhiemsaven in three days’ time.”

“With all due respect, my Lord King,” Tzeremond said, “I think it unwise to act upon information given to us by a traitor and a heretic.”

“I understand, Tzeremond, and I agree. But Mage Corey’s words are corroborated by what we have gathered from our own scouts and spies. We must respond accordingly. We cannot simply sit here until the enemy knocks at our gate.”

“Of course, my Lord King.” Tzeremond nodded respectfully. “Then perhaps it would be wise, before we march, to settle the matter of how best to dispose of the maga.”

“That question has already been settled,” the King replied, “as you should remember. She is not to be disposed of. She is to be captured and brought to me, alive and whole.”

“But if we allow them to meet us in battle, with her power at their disposal—”

“Her power is inconsequential to the outcome of this conflict.”

“You underestimate her abilities, my Lord King. A mistake your father would never have made.”

The King turned his black gaze upon the wizard. Hairs rose on the back of Drostan’s neck. Had Tzeremond lost all sense of discretion, comparing the King to his father and finding him wanting?

Tzeremond lifted his chin, lips tight and shoulders set. “I speak frankly, my Lord King, for your good and for the good of this kingdom.”

“Master Tzeremond,” the King spoke through clenched teeth, “she is but one maga. My father destroyed an entire Order of her kind.”

“Your father sent whatever survived of that rabble to the pyre because he knew one maga is enough to bring down a kingdom.” Master Tzeremond’s amber eyes burned in defiance. “One is certainly enough to bring down an army. You have not confronted a maga in war, so you do not know the spells they can cast. We must destroy her before we meet them if possible, and early in the battle if not.”

Sir Drostan cleared his throat. “Even by our most generous estimates, the rebel army cannot number more than half of the King’s fighting force, especially once the lords of Selkynsen join us. We have twelve High Mages, a Master, and several mage warriors still fit for battle. We have our most worthy Mage King. One maga cannot contend with all of that. The decision of the rebels to take the Pass of Aerunden is clever, but it will accomplish little in end. This dispute will be short lived, no matter where we meet them in battle, no matter what the extent of her powers.”

“She stopped a red flame without a staff in her hand!” Tzeremond shot back. “She made the very foundations of this fortress tremble. No mage or maga of this land has ever accomplished such a thing.”

“She may have unusual powers,” the King conceded, “but she has no training in warfare. She cannot craft a death flame or manipulate fear or invoke any of the techniques we use to vanquish our enemies. She can use her skills only in self-defense. It has long been a limitation of her training.”

Tzeremond snorted, “You speak as if you know her. None of us know her. We’ve had no luck tracing her past.”

The King paused before announcing pointedly, “I do know her, Tzeremond. I have known her for years.”

Astonished, Sir Drostan stared at his King. Tzeremond lost his color. The flames of Dragon himself could not have broken their stunned silence. The old wizard’s breath seemed to catch on his tongue. One hand moved restlessly through the air as if in search of something to support his shock. With visible effort, he pushed a single word out of his throat.

“
How?
”

“By the will of the Gods, Master Tzeremond.”

The old mage blinked like a confused child.

“This is indeed fortunate.” Sir Drostan interjected with care, uncertain whether it was wise to speak at all. “We have direct knowledge of this woman’s abilities, then. It will save us much time and unnecessary preparation.”

“Who trained her?” Tzeremond’s voice was hoarse. Drostan had the distinct impression the old wizard was no longer aware of his presence.

“One of the Doyennes of the Old Orders,” the King said, “a hag by the name of Ghemena.”

“
Ghemena?
” The wizard hissed. His staff nearly slipped from his hand. “You knew Ghemena?”

“I never met her, but the young maga spoke of her often.”

“That’s impossible!” Tzeremond exploded with rage. “Berlingen was destroyed! Everybody perished. Sir Drostan, you gave me your word no one escaped!”

Drostan’s heart skipped a beat under Tzeremond’s sudden focus. The knight managed to hold his voice steady, but only with tremendous effort. “We intercepted no one that night. Perhaps the Doyenne found a way to slip through our nets unnoticed, though it is more likely she left before the raid started.”

Tzeremond retreated into a lengthy silence. A summer breeze shifted through the southern windows. From the western tower they heard the rhythmic calls of the changing of the guard.

At last Tzeremond raised his amber eyes. His expression softened, and he adjusted his grip on the staff. “If it was Ghemena who taught her, then you are correct in your assessment of her powers, my Lord King. I knew that Doyenne well. She was incapable of training any maga in the noble arts of war. If you will…If you will excuse me, I would share this information with the High Mages. As Sir Drostan has so wisely acknowledged, it will make an important difference in how we prepare for this battle.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “You are under oath to do her no harm, Tzeremond. If you defy my orders, you shall pay for it with your life.”

“My Lord King.” Tzeremond’s tone was subdued and humble, his gaze direct. “I would never betray you or this kingdom. My long years of service to your father demonstrated that.”

Akmael studied the wizard’s face before conceding. “Very well, Master Tzeremond. You are dismissed.”

With a deep bow, the wizard turned to leave. Sir Drostan moved to follow, but the King bade the knight to remain with a subtle gesture of his hand.

As soon as the doors closed behind Tzeremond, Akmael approached Sir Drostan, his voice low, his expression severe. “For the moment, dear knight, I will not question your decision to lie in the presence of Tzeremond, but nor will I tolerate any attempt to deceive me. You will tell me the truth of what happened in Berlingen, and you will tell me at once.”

Unnerved, Drostan shifted on his feet. Ever since his induction as a Knight of Vortingen, he had prided himself in being an honest and loyal warrior. But once, a long time ago, he deceived his liege, and now that transgression had returned to condemn him, just as he always feared it would.

“My Lord King,” he said. “I have served the Kings of Vortingen faithfully all my life, and with your father made no exception. I followed him into war and defended the Crown to the best of my ability. Even so, with all due respect to our dead King, I have always believed the war he asked us to fight, the war brought upon us by the magas, was a war without honor. We slaughtered our brothers and sisters on the battlefield, and extinguished the brilliance of our heritage with the blood of our kin.”

Sir Drostan paused, confounded by his loose tongue. What did his thoughts on the war have to do with Berlingen? Indeed, what did it matter whether he agreed with the war or not? A knight’s duty was to follow his king.

He searched his liege’s face for some sign of judgment, but Akmael’s expression remained impassive. The King nodded, bidding the knight to continue.

“The Abbey of Berlingen was not a military target. It was a retreat for the oldest and wisest of mages and magas, an unrivaled storehouse of magical knowledge. We were sent to Berlingen on the pretense of evacuating those revered men and women to a safer place. But when we arrived, the seal of the King’s orders was broken and the true objective of our mission revealed. The soldiers sent with us, men selected for their eagerness to kill, set upon the abbey, burned everything to its foundations and cut down everyone within. The mage warriors took posts in the surrounding terrain, under orders to kill anyone who tried to escape.

“I intercepted Doyenne Ghemena quite by chance. The knight Sir Varyl accompanied her. I did not know how he came to be there, for he was not among the company sent to execute the raid. When he saw me, he unsheathed his sword to defend her. Varyl was a skilled fighter, but he was not a mage warrior. I could have defeated him easily, yet what would that have left me? I trained to be a warrior in the tradition of Caedmon, a knight of the House of Vortingen, not a thief in the woods and murderer of old women. So I let them pass, and I never reported their escape.”

The King’s brow furrowed. “You did not know what happened to Doyenne Ghemena after that?”

“No, my Lord King. Not until today.”

Drostan felt Akmael’s senses upon him, measuring the pulse in his temples, the lines of his face, the shift of his eyes.

“Why did you remain in the service of my father all these years, if you felt so strongly about the war?” the King asked.

“When I spared Ghemena’s life, she entrusted something me, a tiny purse meant for your mother. I was but a knight then, and even when granted a place on the Council, I had few chances to see the Queen, much less deliver such an incriminating gift. But eventually I succeeded, and after that she…Well, she was kinder to me. The Queen told me I would one day regain my honor, but only if I continued to serve the Kings of Moisehén.”

“And was her promise fulfilled?”

Sir Drostan drew a shaky breath. “My Lord King, forgive my boldness in saying so, but I have always believed you have the makings of a great ruler. It is in serving you that I have hoped to recuperate my honor.”

“I see. Yet I, too, am leading you into war against your own people.”

“Ernan’s followers are nothing more than mercenaries and dishonest men. Even if he recruited some of our own, the people of Moisehén who march with him do not fight against you, they fight against the memory of your father. Moisehén suffered much under the war and the purges that followed. There is a desire among the people to play out their vengeance. They have yet to separate you from our dead King.”

Akmael’s lips compressed into a puzzled frown.

Sir Drostan lowered his gaze. Years had passed since he had spoken so frankly, and a great weight now lifted from his shoulders. Still, he expected the worst. His disobedience in Berlingen was an act of treason, punishable by death.

The King broke the heavy silence with an abrupt laugh.

Sir Drostan withdrew a step, surprise mingling with trepidation. He had not seen his prince so much as smile since the days of Akmael’s youth.

The King’s hand fell upon Drostan’s shoulder with a heavy clap.

“Do not worry, loyal knight,” Akmael said. “I will not punish you for disobedience. I need your head firmly on your shoulders if we are to succeed in this battle, for we will be fighting on many fronts.”