Sword of Shadows (13 page)

Chapter Twelve

At midmorning, trumpets sounded
from the western wall. Akmael glanced up from the table where he was engrossed in discussion with Lords Herensen and Langerhans, along with representatives from the merchant guilds of Selkynsen. When the trumpets sounded a second time, the King rose. All the men in attendance followed suit.

“It would seem our new ambassador from Roenfyn has arrived,” Akmael announced. “Let us adjourn this meeting.”

Herensen, a tall man of angular features, allowed his disappointment to show. Already the debate over port tariffs in New Linfeln had dragged on for hours, with no clear resolution in sight.

“We will continue this audience tomorrow,” Akmael assured Herensen and his companions.

They departed with respectful bows and quiet murmurs.

Akmael strode to the southern windows while one of the servants brought his cloak. It was a fine summer day, with a bold sun in a cloudless sky. High over the slate roofs of the city, almost at eye level with the balcony, a Stone Hawk hovered, a large raptor with mottled gray wings, black legs and an ebony-tipped beak. Its cry was a low-pitched wail, more ominous than the sharp keen of its lesser brothers.

“Odd,” Akmael murmured as the servant placed the cloak about his shoulders and fitted the clasp. Stone Hawks inhabited the Eastern Surmaeg. It was unusual, though not entirely unheard of, to see them this far south.

The servant stepped away, eyes lowered in deference.

Akmael departed the receiving room and proceeded down the long halls of the fortress, accompanied by his guards. They descended a series of winding steps that led them to the outer courtyard, where horses waited attended by grooms.

The silver and purple colors of the House of Vortingen fluttered over the gathering. Those appointed to the royal procession were engaged in a lively chatter that quieted upon the King’s entrance. All turned to pay their respects.

Taesara arrived shortly after the King, appearing from one of the opposite towers with six of her ladies, and escorted by Mage Corey of East Selen. She wore an elegant summer gown of pale green, cut in voluminous folds that hid the demure rise of her belly. Her golden hair was bound in a jeweled net that sparkled under the midmorning sun, and her laughter rang like the song of a thrush. She approached Akmael, one hand upon Corey’s arm. Both bowed low before him.

“My Lord King,” she said. “The Gods bring me joy with your presence.”

“My Queen.” Akmael responded. Then he turned to his cousin. “High Mage Corey.”

Corey straightened and met Akmael’s gaze, his expression predictably indecipherable. “My Lord King. It has been a great honor to spend these days at court, and to serve you in person once again.”

“I always find it reassuring when you are close at hand,” Akmael replied.

Amusement sparked in Corey’s silver-green eyes then vanished under the cover of neutrality. He bowed again. “It humbles me to hear you say so. If you would excuse me, my Lord King, I would speak with High Mage Tzetobar before we get
underway.”

Akmael nodded his assent. Once Corey had departed, he turned to Taesara. “You look as lovely as this fine day, my good Queen.”

She blushed and lowered her eyes. “You are too kind, my Lord King.”

“To what purpose did Mage Corey seek an audience with you this morning?”

She gave a short laugh and shrugged. “I assure you, my King, I do not know. Half the morning passed us by, and not a single petition or grievance on his part.”

“What, then, did he speak about?”

She lowered her voice in an amused whisper. “Your cousin has the boldest stories, my Lord King, of the days before your coronation, when he traveled the kingdom with a group of troubadours, drunken musicians, and wanton dancers who caused all manner of scandals from one village to the next.”

Akmael’s brow furrowed. Corey was speaking of the Circle, no doubt, but why would he share such tales with the Queen?

Hesitation clouded Taesara’s smile. “Is something wrong, my Lord King?”

Akmael shook his head. “I am not certain.”

“Perhaps it was unwise of me to let him carry on so,” she conceded. “But truly my ladies have not been so well entertained since we returned from Moehn. Sonia laughed so hard, I feared her bodice might split at the seams.”

The image of that unfriendly woman surrendering to a fit of laughter amused Akmael, and he allowed a smile to touch his lips.

Taesara’s shoulders relaxed. She gestured toward the procession being assembled. “Shall we, my Lord King? I do not wish to keep my uncle waiting.”

“Your litter is not here.” Akmael scanned the courtyard, seeing no sign of the Queen’s transport. “It should have been ready by now.”

“I had the grooms prepare my mare, Kaeva, that I might ride at your side to the docks.”

“Impossible. I will not have it.”

“But my Lord King—”

“You are with child, a Prince of Vortingen entrusted to your womb. And you have been ill.”

“It is a short ride on cobbled streets, and Kaeva is a docile mare. I have already consulted with High Mage Rezlyn, and he says I am well enough to ride.”

“Rezlyn!” Akmael’s summons thundered across the courtyard, silencing all conversation. The old physician scurried to his side. “My Lord King?”

“Why do you counsel my Queen to ride?”

The mage frowned, shifting his eyes from Akmael to Taesara and back again. His long dark beard, streaked with red and silver, quivered as he stroked it. “I’m sorry, my Lord King, my Lady Queen, but I do not recall—”

“Taesara, are you trying to deceive me?”

“I am not lying, my Lord King. Rezlyn assured me I am fully recovered from my illness.”

“That is not the same as being fit to ride.”

King and queen glared at each other, then at the physician.

High Mage Rezlyn took a step back. “My Lord King, my Lady Queen, it is true Queen Taesara has recovered from the ailment that beset her in Moehn, but she is with child and I would not recommend—”

“I will not hear it!” Taesara’s face flushed with anger. “My mother rode from Merolyn to Reonahn to Fahlvort, from the moment she conceived to the day she gave birth. I, my brother and sisters, all of us were riding horses before we were born. I am a Daughter of Roenfyn, and I will not receive my kinsmen lying on my side like some helpless old woman. I suffered quite enough from that sort of humiliation in Moehn.”

Her blue eyes flashed in defiance, her jaw was set.

In that moment, she reminded Akmael of Eolyn. The similarity of their ire softened his heart. He touched Taesara’s cheek, an inadvertent and rare gesture on his part.

Her eyes widened in response and she lowered her gaze.

“Please, my Lord King,” she said, “I meant no disrespect. If you will not allow me to ride, I would rather wait to receive Lord Penamor here, than be carted down to the river on that accursed litter.”

Akmael placed his fingers beneath Taesara’s chin and brought her gaze back to his. Truly she had a beautiful face, and in the years they had known each other, she had never failed in her obedience.

Perhaps I was wrong to close my heart to her.

“Very well, my Lady Queen. You will ride today to greet your uncle.”

Relief and gratitude brightened her countenance. “Thank you, my Lord King. You are most generous.”

Trumpets sounded as they passed through the castle gates. The procession descended along the single, long road that wound from the Fortress of Vortingen toward the city square. From there, they bore south along a broad promenade toward the banks of the Furma River.

News of the King’s passing rippled before them, carried on the shouts of excited adults and scampering children. The people flocked to witness their progress, crowding the streets and hanging from windows, wishing the King a long life and throwing blossoms in the path of Taesara’s horse.

“A son!” they cried. “Gods grant our beautiful Queen a son.”

Taesara glowed at their attention and reached out to touch the hands of the commoners. In a few short years, she had garnered the love of this city, with her beauty, sweet demeanor, and her gentle attentions to the cause of the poor and the sick.

The horses plodded over cobblestones at a tedious pace, as befit the occasion, taking them slowly along a street that sloped downward and veered right. Rounding a bend, Akmael could see the sparkle of the Furma, its turbid jade waters stretching wide toward the opposite shore.

The fore of Penamor’s barge was just visible beyond the last of the stone buildings, sage-colored flags of Roenfyn fluttering over its wooden deck. Though the ambassador had already docked, protocol obligated him to wait until the King and his entourage arrived before disembarking.

“My Lady,” Akmael turned to his Queen, curious about this uncle she appeared so fond of, “tell me once again how—”

A terrified scream interrupted his question, followed by shouts and the ring of swords pulled from their scabbards.

Gasps pulsed through the crowd. People scattered, crushing hapless onlookers against walls and forcing street urchins up the sides of buildings.

Taesara’s horse reared, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Coming down on all four hooves, it scuffled backwards until Akmael caught the bridle and forced the animal to be still. The Queen clung breathless to her saddle, face pinched and pale.

“Are you hurt?” Akmael asked.

She shook her head, though her eyes were wide and she trembled like a mouse in wintertime.

“Are you certain?” he insisted.

“Yes, my Lord King, I was just…Kaeva has never…and I thought I saw…” Her words faltered into a startled cry, gaze fixed upon the road just ahead of them.

Akmael turned to see several of his guards had dismounted. Their swords were drawn around a barefoot girl. Her cheeks and sandy brown hair were smudged with soot. Beneath a russet cloak she wore a soiled nightshift. Her lower lip trembled, tears welled in her eyes. She let out long, terrible wail.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work!” she cried, looking frantically around her. “Where is she? Where’s Maga Eolyn?”

To his shock, Akmael recognized the child. He dismounted and strode toward her.

“With care, my Lord King,” one of the guards said.

“She’s a child, Galison.”

“Not a child. Some sort of demon, perhaps. Did you not see? She appeared out of thin air.”

Silence had descended upon the crowd. The guards watched Ghemena with wary expressions, as if she were the dead come to walk among them.

“I know this girl,” Akmael said. “She is a student of Maga Eolyn. Lower your swords.”

“But my Lord King—”

“Do as I say.”

The moment they sheathed their weapons, Ghemena bolted.

One of the guards anticipated her impulse and caught her. She kicked and punched and screamed even as he set her in front of the King.

“Ghemena,” Akmael said, but she was too engaged in battle with her captor to pay him heed. “Maga Ghemena!”

At this she quieted, looked around and then up at him with a puzzled expression. “Who are you?”

There was a low chuckle behind him. Akmael glanced back to see Mage Corey, who had dismounted and pushed his way to the front of the column.

“Oh, I remember now,” Ghemena said. “You’re the King. But I wasn’t supposed to come to you. Where’s Maga Eolyn?”

Akmael knelt on one knee. “Ghemena, how did you get here?”

After a moment of hesitation, she held up the silver web crafted by Akmael’s mother. “With this.”

Akmael’s heart turned cold. “How did you come by it? Did you steal it?”

“I’m a maga, not a thief!”

“How did you come by this jewel, Ghemena?”

An agonized expression broke across her face. She stumbled backwards and sank to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. “She said I could use it to find her, if something bad happened. She said…”

Her small shoulders began to shake.

Akmael drew a sharp breath and asked with forced calm, “Ghemena, what has happened?”

“They burned everything! They attacked the
Aekelahr
and killed Maga Renate and took Mistress Adiana away. I was going to find Maga Eolyn so she could rescue everyone, but the web didn’t work! She promised it would! She did! Did I do it wrong? Is she dead, too?”

The child succumbed to a fit of weeping.

Akmael stood abruptly. His muscles were taut,
his abdomen clenched in a deep and primitive rage. “Who attacked the
Aekelahr
, Ghemena?”

“I don’t know!” She scrambled to her feet, face puckered and crimson, eyes wild and angry. “But I left Tasha and Catarina alone. I have to go back. I have to go back now!”

She raised the jewel and spun it, but Akmael snatched it out of her hand. With an angry cry, Ghemena sprang upon him, clutching after the silver web, hissing, biting, and spitting like a rabid wolverine.

One of the guards dragged her off the King, but when the man lifted a hand to strike her Akmael stopped him. “She will not be mistreated!”