Sword of Shadows (19 page)

Eolyn gasped, disbelief curdling under a wave of dread. “What?”

She looked toward Borten, hoping he would deny the accusation, but the knight said nothing. His face lost all expression, save for his eyes, which hardened like granite and remained fixed on the mage.

The earth wavered, and Eolyn struggled to maintain her balance.

It should not matter
, she told herself, though her inner voice was desperate and small. They did not know each other in those times, and Borten had only acted to protect his liege.

Yet her stomach churned at the thought of the pleasure she had just taken from his kiss. Ernan’s cruel accusations thundered forth from her memories, pounding inside her head.

Will you betray your kin, Eolyn, as Briana betrayed hers?

“Ah.” Mage Corey’s quiet voice cut through her thoughts. “I see you have not yet discussed this particular piece of your history.”

Eolyn had never despised Corey more than in this moment.

“You are not welcome here,” she said. “You cannot stay.”

“I have sworn an oath to the King to return you safely to the City,” Corey replied. “We can depart now, if you like, you with the jewel and I on your staff. Or you can endure my company for as long as necessary while we hide in this wilderness.”

“If you remain,” Borten informed him tersely, “you will not live through this night.”

“Do not try to slay me with that insipid blade of yours,” the mage shot back. “I can send you to the Underworld in half a breath. You have already slain one friend of Eolyn’s. I would counsel you against slaying another.”

“You are no friend of mine!” Eolyn said.

“Oh, but I am,” Corey said, steady against the heat of her rage. “I’m the most valuable friend you have, though you have long refused to see it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Adiana woke with a start.
The smell of dirt and straw greeted her, followed by the more acrid sting of human waste. She registered shouts of men, stamps of horses, the sounds of metal and wood. Beneath it all, a rhythmic tremor in the earth. The deep rumble reminded her of the day Ernan’s troops had emerged from the forests of East Selen.

Trumpets sounded in the distance.

Rishona has arrived, and an army with her.

Adiana rolled onto her back, wincing at the pain in her ribs. The dirt floor was hard and unyielding; her prison dark and plagued by strange rustlings in shadowy corners. There was not a muscle in her body that did not ache, except perhaps the most intimate part of her, the heart of her womanhood.

That will not be spared much longer.

If only Mechnes would let her see the girls. Just that much would make everything else bearable.

Oh, Eolyn
.
Why have the Gods abandoned us?

Presently, a wash basin was brought to her, along with the fresh robes Prince Mechnes had promised.

Adiana turned her back on guards and servants who watched with curious eyes while she shed her old dress. The water was cool, scented with wild lilies. It refreshed her exhausted spirit, and seemed somehow the most luxurious bath she had ever taken, despite the mean circumstances. The new undergarment and frock were simple but made of fine cotton. When she had nearly finished dressing, a servant stepped forward to help her lace the bodice and insisted on plaiting Adiana’s hair.

Then they bound her hands and left her alone, bolting the door behind them.

Adiana remained standing in the dim light. She had not felt this clean in days and was reluctant to sit in the dirt or lean against the soiled walls.

Moans and soft weeping came from the neighboring cells. Adiana had recognized the building where they were housed as the remains of a small brothel, the existence of which had been willfully ignored by the good citizens of Moehn. Yet Maga Eolyn had visited it on occasion and with Adiana’s assistance, tended to the girls who worked there. Adiana wondered where those girls were now, alive or dead, imprisoned or plying their trade freely with a host of new and eager clients.

In their place were captive women and children. Adiana had glimpsed a few members of the noble families of Moehn, others she could not see or recognize, but she had deduced from listening that she was the only prisoner with a cell to herself. The others were crowded like dogs in a kennel.

Sometimes at night, the whispers and weeping of her neighbors pitched into wails and terrible screams, accompanied by laughter and satisfied grunts of guards who came to have their way.

There are worse fates
than to be the favored musician of a Syrnte Prince.

Adiana laughed, giddy from exhaustion and lack of proper food, overwhelmed by the cruel irony of her situation.

“No common soldier’s rape for me,” she announced to the shadows, lifting her chin in mock arrogance. “I’ve earned the favor of a Syrnte Prince, and therefore am to be granted a
royal
raping.”

Renate’s mocking laughter echoed back to her.

“Do you think princes have jeweled members, Renate?” Adiana quipped. “Perhaps their seed tastes like sweet spice. Perhaps their blood runs gold.”

All men are common when they are naked,
the old maga retorted
. All of them are just common men.

“I want him dead. I want to feel his royal blood running hot through my fingers.”

An idle threat, she knew. What could she, a musician from Selkynsen, do against such a man? It had been a foolish and desperate impulse to attack him the night before. The only task Adiana ever used a knife for was chopping vegetables. Even the preparation of pheasants, rabbits and other small game was beyond her sensibilities. She had always left the bloodier kitchen endeavors to the girls, who had a much stronger stomach for such things.

“Is it true what he said?” she murmured. “Can he see my thoughts and desires, everything that I intend to do?”

Music is your magic,
Renate reminded her.
Melody is your spell.

The door sounded, jolting Adiana out of her thoughts.

As the guards led her outside, Adiana squinted in the harsh light, searching the beige and burgundy tents for any sign of the girls. Already she knew this path well and imagined she could walk it in the dark if ever the need arose.

Soon Prince Mechnes’s pavilion came into view. His men had gathered in front of it, mounted soldiers and infantry forming long lines on either side of the entrance. Adiana had not yet seen the Syrnte forces assembled in this fashion, and the solid wall of armor and mail, adorned by long spears and raised swords, renewed her trepidation.

One of the guards shoved her forward. She stumbled and hurried to keep up as they took her behind the lines and through an opening apparently meant for servants.

Inside, an old matron barked orders to a dozen servants who ran in as many directions as they tidied the tent and laid the table with food and drink. Off to one side, Kahlil and his companions prepared their own space.

Adiana’s heart leapt upon seeing him again. She forgot the presence of her guards even as they loosened her bonds. Though it hurt to smile she did so as she approached Kahlil and called his name.

The musician turned to greet her, his acknowledgment solemn and his gaze somewhat distracted. With a slight nod he indicated the seat next to him. Once she took her place, he paid her no notice, but returned to his conversation with the others.

That silence hit her harder than any blow she had yet suffered at Mechnes’s hands. It was incomprehensible, given the hope of friendship Kahlil had offered the previous night. Adiana felt invisible, unwanted, inconsequential. Not since her days on the piers of Selkynsen, where she had sought work as a singer following her parents’ death, had she felt herself so alone in such a cruel world.

Retrieving the psaltery, she clung to it, fighting back fresh tears.

“They’re here!” barked the matron. “The San’iloman has arrived. Out, everyone. Out!”

All but three of the servants scattered. Trumpets and drums thundered outside the tent, followed by the unified shouts of hundreds of men.

The musicians readied their instruments.

Kahlil took a seat next to Adiana.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered fiercely.

Kahlil shifted uncomfortably on his chair, but did not reply.

“Do not abandon me. We were friends once. Does that mean nothing to you now?”

He set his jaw and said in a low voice. “I have not forgotten our friendship, Adiana, but circumstances have changed. You are a prize of war, and I have seen how Prince Mechnes covets his prizes.”

“I am not fool enough to ask you to protect me from him. But nor must you let him or his madness stand between you and me, and the friendship we once shared.”

Kahlil let go a slow breath and glanced at his companions, one a red-haired youth with a face burnished by the sun, the other an older man with skin as dark as night. Both seemed intently focused on tuning their instruments.

He turned back to Adiana and touched her bruised cheek, his hazel eyes imbued with resignation.

“The Syrnte’s vision depends on strong emotions,” he said. “Fear, anger, hatred, desire. These are the tools he can use to open the windows to your past and manipulate your possible futures. If you are able control the intensity of your emotions, you may find some refuge from his games.” He withdrew his touch, and picked up a flute. “That is all I can give you, Adiana.”

Voices were approaching the tent, Prince Mechnes’s imposing baritone among them, followed by what Adiana recognized as Rishona’s rich laughter. She reached forward and placed a hand upon her friend’s arm.

“It is enough,” she said. “Thank you.”

Chapter Twenty

Rain fell in the hours before dawn
, a brief but intense shower that hummed against leaves and branches, grumbling a quiet thunder. By the time the first hint of daylight crept into the sky, the deluge had ended. Clothes and gear were soaked, the campsite transformed into muddy puddles. The horses snorted restlessly, steam rising from their damp backs.

Eolyn, Borten, Corey, and Mariel took their breakfast without conversation, the maga keenly aware of Borten’s silence, and saddened by the awkwardness she now felt in his presence.

Wrapped in a sodden cloak and huddled over his tea, Corey seemed far less imposing than he had the night before. Eolyn remembered when they first met, she a vulnerable girl fearful of the pyres of Moisehén; he the master of his own small world.

During her time with the Circle, the mage had guarded her and kept her under his wing, despite his knowledge of her forbidden magic. After the disaster at Bel-Aethne, he had risked his life to defend her against the Mage King and Tzeremond; and then delivered her swift and sure to the protection of her brother, Ernan.

It was odd, in view of all this, how she had come to distrust him. Though perhaps it was not distrust she felt as much as an uneasy sense of security. In truth, she believed Mage Corey would never allow harm to come to her, but she had also learned he would not hesitate to sacrifice whomever he thought necessary in order to achieve his ends.

Corey set aside his cup, retrieved the pieces of his staff, and examined them with an irritated scowl.

“That was a foolish act, destroying this,” he said to Borten. “We may regret its absence in the coming days.”

“You managed quite well without a staff during your years with the Circle,” Eolyn snapped. “I don’t see why you should need one now.”

Corey had allowed all the members of the Circle to believe he had never completed his training, yet as soon as Ernan’s rebellion had ended his staff reappeared, exposing him as a master of High Magic. A true student of Tzeremond.

“I was just getting accustomed to having this instrument in hand again.” Corey said. “Is there anything else that accursed Galian sword can do that I should be aware of?”

Eolyn and Borten exchanged a glance. The knight gave a slight shake of his head, but Eolyn drew a breath and said, “It will kill a Naether Demon.”

Corey looked at her in surprise.

“Eolyn,” Borten said in rebuke.

“It is better to tell him. Perhaps he can help us understand why the creature appeared, whether it might return.”

“Now I know the highlands of Moehn have driven you mad,” Corey said, though his tone betrayed uncertainty. “Naether Demons are already dead; they cannot be killed again.”

“Not by conventional weapons. We were attacked in the South Woods. Borten, Mariel, and I survived because of Kel’Barú.”

“The South Woods is home to many strange and magical creatures. How can you be certain what attacked you was a Naether Demon?”

“I know what I saw. The beast consumed Sirena’s heart—only her heart—before it turned on us. Borten’s and Delric’s weapons were of no use against it, but Kel’Barú could pierce the substance one might call its flesh. It was not a creature of flesh and blood, but rather made of something luminescent, at once solid and ephemeral.”

Corey sank into a brooding silence. Water from last night’s rain dripped from the leaves. The horses whinnied and stamped their impatience. When the mage spoke again, his voice was subdued. “The stones of Faernvorn are moving.”

Dread crept like a winter fog into Eolyn’s heart. “How do you know?”

“I was there, less than a fortnight ago. Several monoliths were leaning toward the center of the wastes.”

“Then the demons have escaped onto the plains of Moisehén?”

“Not that I know of. Indeed, you are the first to tell me you have seen one.”

“This makes no sense,” Eolyn said. “The Naether Demons were banished from Faernvorn; if they found a way to return at all, it should be through Faernvorn, not here on the other side of the kingdom. Not in the South Woods.”

“Perhaps the Syrnte have brought them here,” Borten suggested.

“That knight of yours can be astute when he makes the effort,” Corey said. “There are many passages that lead toward the Underworld. Any place in which souls were torn from their bodies through violence is a potential point of entry or exit, unless the door has been properly closed with magic. Moehn has a relatively peaceful history, but that does not mean it is without portals that the Syrnte could put to use, if they know how.”

Eolyn rose and paced the campsite, mud sloshing underfoot. A question burned upon her tongue, though she felt a great reluctance to voice it. She stopped and scanned the low hills, back turned to her companions. Akmael’s description of Tzeremond’s death returned fresh to her memory.

A muffled scream sounded from the heart of the mountain, a tremor passed through the earth.

The creature had risen toward the surface without ever showing its face and plucked Tzeremond’s soul from his body, dooming the wizard’s magic to obliteration.

“Rishona called the Naether Demons to finish Tzeremond,” Eolyn said. “She was our ally then. I cannot imagine her allowing this magic to be used against us.”

“Perhaps she has no control over events recently come to pass,” Corey replied. “Though there is another possibility. The death of Tzeremond may not have been the last act of a desperate ally, but rather the first strike of a clever enemy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tzeremond was the oldest mage left to our people, unsurpassed in skill and knowledge. Even you must recognize this, Eolyn, though he made your life quite miserable. You and I will be stumbling in the dark if we are to confront an army of these monsters. Tzeremond might have shown us a way.”

“Rishona slew Tzeremond so that Ernan might defeat Akmael.”

“And to this day she probably wishes your brother had achieved victory. With the Mage King defeated, Tzeremond dead and his mages scattered, who would have been left to defend Moisehén against Syrnte ambitions?”

“She killed the wizard that I might live,” Eolyn insisted.

“If Rishona had been concerned for your survival, she would have struck before Tzeremond cast the curse of Ahmad-dur, not after.”

“But she and Tahmir…” Eolyn faltered.

“Distracted you,” Corey finished for her. “Yes, the Syrnte charmer was very good at that.”

“Who are these people you speak of?” Borten intervened. “Rishona? Tahmir?”

Eolyn shook her head sadly. “Friends of times long past. Or so I would like to believe.”

“They were members of the Circle,” said Corey. “Syrnte royalty who negotiated an alliance with Eolyn’s brother, but never delivered on their promises. Tahmir perished in the Battle of Aerunden. Rishona was taken prisoner and ransomed back to her people.”

“I see,” Borten said, and the pensive tone of his voice led Eolyn to believe he saw much more than she desired.

“There will be more of those beasts, then,” Mariel said quietly.

“Will be, and perhaps already are,” Corey agreed.

Borten stood and approached the maga. “You have the silver web, Eolyn. Take Kel’Barú, and deliver it now to the King. Tell him everything that we have seen and spoken of.”

“And leave you? Abandon Mariel, now that I know more of those creatures are out there? Their greatest hunger is for the magic of Moisehén. They will not rest until they devour her, and you can do nothing to stop them without the Galian sword.”

“I will find a way to protect her.”

“No. It won’t work to leave her in Moehn. I see that now. I was a fool to ever imagine otherwise.”

“The man who needs that sword is Sir Drostan,” Corey said. “He rides towards Rhiemsaven, under orders to secure the Pass of Aerunden. He will expect Syrnte warriors with swords of flame, not Naether Demons.”

“Then I will go first to Rhiemsaven. Otherwise, our plan is unchanged. We will ride together to the foothills of the Taeschel Mountains. From there, I will fly into Selkynsen by night, and Mariel can use the amulet to follow me in the morning.”

Borten took Eolyn’s arm in a gentle but firm hold, compelling her to meet his gaze. “It is unwise for you to linger in Moehn, now that you have the means to escape.”

“It would be heartless to escape on my own now that I can take Mariel with me.”

“Do not let sentiment cloud your judgment. Mariel is but one girl. Every moment you delay puts an entire kingdom at risk.”

Eolyn blinked against the sting of tears. “How can you say that? She is my world. All I have left. None of my students remain, don’t you see? Just Mariel and Ghemena. Ghemena is safe, if we are to believe Corey. Mariel must be made safe as well. Otherwise all the work I have done these past three years—every sacrifice of my life—becomes meaningless.”

Sadness invaded Borten’s eyes. His expression softened. “Nothing about you is meaningless, Eolyn.”

The knight left her to ready the horses.

The sun warmed the morning mist with golden hues as they broke camp. Borten assigned the horse Sirena had ridden to Corey, and though the mage expressed his preference for Delric’s sturdier animal, he accepted the lithe brown gelding without argument.

They departed with Borten leading the way, marking a path that led roughly west through abandoned fields and remnant woodlands.

Mariel lingered behind, as had become her habit. Mage Corey took a place beside her, occupying the girl with carefree banter until midmorning, when her shy laughter began to mingle with the songs of thrushes and warblers. Intermittent patches of fog burned away, leaving a clear sky in its wake, though a shadow darkened the eastern horizon.

“She is a fine young maga,” Corey remarked, appearing unannounced at Eolyn’s side. “An excellent testimony to your gifts as a teacher. We are lucky the Gods saw fit to spare her the fate of the others.”

Eolyn made no response.

“I gather she will be in her fifteenth year next spring.” He continued. “Time to petition for her staff, if I understand the traditions of the magas correctly.”

Eolyn nodded. “The fifteenth spring was my time. It will also be hers.”

“And afterwards, of course, there will be the awakening of
aen-lasati
at Bel-Aethne.” Corey paused, allowing the words to hang in the air between them. “If you’re in need of a mage to assist with the ceremony, I’d be happy to—”

“You can be most certain I will
not
call upon you.”

A broad grin spread across his face.

Eolyn rolled her eyes.

“Why do you bait me so?” she demanded, her tone more one of resignation than anger.

“Because you always bite.” Corey scanned the landscape as he spoke. “I’ve missed you, Eolyn. I’d convinced the King to bring you back to the City, you know, before news of the Syrnte reached us. You were to be with us in time for Summer Solstice. That would have been a kinder circumstance for our reunion.”

“I am beginning to fear there are no kind circumstances left in this world.”

“Perhaps you are right. Although your friendship with the King is a kind circumstance, one you appear determined to ignore.”

“My friendship with the King is not your concern.”

“Everything about you concerns me.” Corey’s tone became severe, patronizing. “Do you know what I thought all those years ago, when you refused the Crown yet attended Akmael’s wedding? ‘Now there is a woman with political instinct’, I told myself. ‘For all her apparent innocence, my sweet Eolyn understands that the only woman more powerful than a queen is the king’s mistress.’”

“I despise your vulgarity, Corey.”

“I’m not vulgar, I’m honest. And you have disappointed me, Eolyn. Why do you waste your affections on that peasant-turned-knight from the backwoods of Moehn?”

Eolyn winced at his words, mortified that Borten might have overheard. “There is nothing unworthy about Moehn or its people. This is my home you insult with your arrogance.”

“You are no daughter of Moehn. You are a High Maga, heiress to East Selen, and a woman most favored by the Mage King. You may not be able to trace your ancestors to the line of Vortingen, but your blood is just as precious and your power just as formidable as any nobleman’s. You could have been a mother of kings.”

Eolyn laughed. “I’d rather be a teacher of magas. Let the good Queen Taesara be a mother of kings. She is prepared for that duty, much better than I.”

“Prepared or not, the Gods may have other plans,” Corey replied. “Taesara has lost her child.”

Eolyn reined in her steed. An icy flutter settled in the pit of her stomach. Her hand went inadvertently to her abdomen.

“How awful,” she murmured. “How terrible for her. And Akmael, is he…?”

Her words drifted into silence, for she was not quite certain what she wanted to ask, or whether she wished to hear the answer. Corey had stopped at her side, but waited until Mariel caught up with them, and bade the girl to ride ahead with Sir Borten.

“The King is as stony-faced as any Prince of Vortingen ever was,” he said, “though I imagine he is much affected by the news. We are four years into his reign after all, and no heir to speak of.”