Sword of Shadows (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Golden light slanted
into the King’s chambers, leaving bright replicates of tall windows at even intervals along the stone floor. 

Embarrassed at having slept so late, yet reluctant to leave the comfort of Akmael’s bed, Eolyn yawned and stretched. The covers were soft, impregnated with his magic and the compelling aroma of their shared love. Stories stirred in her memory, old legends told at the fires of her village, of princesses who slept for a hundred years, hidden away at the heart of some old castle. 

“I would sleep a hundred years,” she murmured, “were I given the opportunity in this moment.”

Akmael was nowhere to be seen. Eolyn vaguely recalled him rising before dawn, the warmth of his lips upon her temple. He had tucked a blanket around her shoulders, bidding her to sleep and closing the door softly behind him. It seemed like another dream, the most pleasant in a very long while. Indeed, she could not remember the last time she had awakened so well rested.

She sat up, and was startled by a sudden movement in the corner, a girl rising from a wooden stool. The servant wore a plain dress, and her hair was tucked carefully under a beige cap. She gave a brief curtsey, eyes alert and hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“Who are you?” Eolyn asked.

“Milady Maga Eolyn.” Again the girl curtseyed. “I am Yessenia. The King requested that I tend to you when you wake.” 

“Tend to me?”

“Yes. That is, if it please you, Milady Maga Eolyn.”

Eolyn had grown up tending to her own needs, and could not understand the feigned helplessness of royals when it came to bathing, dressing, cooking, and eating. But young Yessenia looked so eager to please, and in truth Eolyn did not know where to begin if she wished to find a wash basin, food, or a fresh set of clothes.

So she nodded and said, “Very well. But please, call me Eolyn.”

“As you wish, Milady Eolyn.”

“No.” Eolyn rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling a heavy weight settle behind her eyes. She did not belong in this place. She never had. “Just Eolyn, please.”

“I can’t do that!” Yessenia’s eyes went wide in her round face. Then she lowered her gaze and curtsied again. “I mean, forgive me, milady, but it wouldn’t be proper, calling you by name.”

Eolyn drew a breath and studied the stone walls, wishing they would fade for just a moment and reveal an ancient forest draped in emerald moss, illuminated with diffuse golden light. And beyond the massive trees, a river with crystalline waters flowing over smooth boulders, where she and Akmael would play until the sun sank low and twilight called them home
.

She shook off the vision and gave Yessenia a smile. “Then you may call me Maga Eolyn. But please, not milady.”

“As you wish, milady. Oh, I beg your pardon.” Another curtsey. “Maga Eolyn.”

The morning meal—or rather, midday meal—had already been laid on a polished oak table: bread and Berenben cheese, fruits, meats, and sweet mead. Yessenia wrapped a warm robe around Eolyn’s shoulders as she sat down to abate a now ravenous hunger.

While the maga ate, the servant diligently coaxed all the knots out of her copper tresses with a wide-toothed comb. More servants appeared with pitchers of fresh water and a large shallow basin.

After finishing the meal, Eolyn accepted Yessenia’s offer to assist her while bathing, and luxuriated in the feel of the servant’s hands rubbing soap over her tired limbs, of the cool water running through her hair and down her back.

The undergarments and dress they brought were simple but finely woven, the skirt and bodice a deep shade of blue. After a moment, Eolyn recognized the gown. It was one of several left behind years before when she had refused Akmael’s proposal and embarked upon her journey south. The realization that he had kept it all this time surprised and moved her in ways deeper than she cared to admit.

Yessenia took great care with Eolyn’s hair, weaving a string of river pearls into an elegant braid. The extravagance made the maga uncomfortable, but she did not protest, because Yessenia’s touch relaxed her, and she liked the happy whisper of the pearls. Stones born of water and life, theirs was a light-hearted song, never bogged down by the deeper moods of their more ancient and ponderous kin.

Once she finished, Yessenia stepped away to admire her work. “Have you nothing else, Maga Eolyn?”

Puzzled by the question, Eolyn frowned and shrugged.

“Other jewels,” Yessenia explained, “to grace your appearance.”

“Oh.” Eolyn’s hand rose to the base of her throat. The silver web had slipped from her fingers last night, somewhere between Akmael’s kisses and his bed. “Yes, I have a necklace, but I don’t know what became of it.”

A brief search revealed the amulet on a small table next to the bed. Yessenia furrowed her brow, as if it were not quite what she had in mind. 

“It was a gift from the King,” Eolyn said. “I assure you it is most appropriate.”

“Of course.” Yessenia nodded. She fastened the clasp behind Eolyn’s neck, then retreated and gave a brief curtsey. “Is there anything else you desire, milady? Beg your pardon. Maga Eolyn.” 

“No. Thank you.” Eolyn’s hands worked restlessly against each other. She glanced around the room, uncertain what to do next. “Where is the King?”

“He meets with his advisors.” She gestured to the wide heavy door that led to the rest of his apartments. “He asked that you seek him out, when you are ready.”

Eolyn nodded and started toward the door. Yessenia ran to open it. The maga paused in the doorway, wary of the muffled sound of men’s voices floating down the passageway.

Be cautious,
Corey had warned.
Be prudent.

“Is there another entrance?” Eolyn asked.

“Another?” Yessenia looked as if she had just been asked to solve an impossible mystery.

“Yes. Some other way that I might enter the King’s audience. A servant’s route, perhaps.”

“It would not be proper for you to enter like a servant.”

“But I can’t…” Eolyn bit her lip. She knew not who waited in the presence of the King, but if she entered like this they would all know exactly where she had come from. 

“Is the Queen with him?”

“No, Maga Eolyn.” Yessenia arched her brow in a friendly, conspiratorial expression. “The Queen is indisposed.”

Of course
, Eolyn remembered.
The miscarriage.

A need to visit Taesara, to attend her illness and comfort her mourning, surged in Eolyn’s heart, though she knew that would not be possible. Not now. Drawing a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, Eolyn started down the hallway. 

Her entrance into the council chamber brought all conversation to a halt.

More than a dozen men were gathered around the long table that occupied the center of the room: noblemen in elegantly embroidered doublets, knights in armor, and High Mages in flowing robes of forest green.

Eolyn recognized several of Tzeremond’s old adherents, among them, gracious old Tzetobar, the long-faced Lord Herensen, and Corey’s friend, High Mage Thelyn. These same men had sent the magas and all their allies to the pyres. They had forced Doyenne Ghemena into hiding, imprisoned Briana of East Selen, and erased centuries of proud history. They had tortured Eolyn’s mother, sentenced her to death, and watched her burn. Now all the laws that had once prohibited women’s magic were lifted, yet here these men stood, wielding the same power they always had and watching her.

Anxious for a maga’s next mistake
.

“Maga Eolyn.” Akmael, standing at the head of the table, acknowledged her presence.

Eolyn gave him a deep curtsey. “Forgive me, my Lord King, for interrupting this audience.”

“This is no interruption. We are all most anxious to hear more of your trials in Moehn.” Akmael extended an arm toward her. His face was expressionless, as was his custom when he met with his men, but Eolyn could see that her appearance pleased him. “Come.”

She approached, occupying a space created by shifting bodies.

“High Mage Tzetobar.” She nodded to the rosy-cheeked mage across the table, who even in the most serious of moments managed a kind spark in his blue eyes. “It is good to see you again.”

“I assure you, Maga Eolyn, the sentiment is most heartily shared,” he said. 

“And you, High Mage Thelyn. Lord Herensen.” Eolyn met the eyes of each man in turn, greeting all assembled, apologizing to those whose names she did not remember, and making note of new faces that had appeared. 

“This is Lord Penamor.” The King intervened when she came to a man at the far end of the table. “The new ambassador from Roenfyn, and uncle to the Queen.”

Eolyn hoped her expression did not betray the quickening of her heart. Penamor was a tall man with stiff shoulders, a long face and shrewd eyes. His wore a slate gray cloak, and his doublet bore the sigil and colors of his king, a sheath of silver wheat on a sage background.

She nodded. “Well met, Lord Penamor. Welcome to Moisehén. I regret that we must receive you under such trying circumstances.”

“As do I,” he replied, with a cold unblinking stare. 

“Maga Eolyn.” Akmael drew forth a large map of the southern provinces and laid it out for her to see. “We have received word from Sir Drostan, who obtained information about the invading forces from a refugee met on the road to Aerunden. He intends to stall the army at the pass until we arrive.”

“You will meet them in Aerunden?” she asked.

“We march at dawn.”

Eolyn frowned and studied the map, troubled by this news for reasons she could not quite capture. The men resumed their conversation. Their talk of arms, supplies, and levies flowed like the murmur of a stream behind her thoughts, until the danger she sensed unfolded like a dark rose in her mind.

“That may not be wise,” she said.

Everyone looked at her as if they had already forgotten she was there. Eolyn bit her lip, uncertain whether she should have spoken at all. She glanced around the table until her eyes met Akmael’s. 

“Please, Maga Eolyn,” he said. “Speak.”

She drew an unsteady breath. “My Lord King, it has been but three years since you met Ernan’s forces in the Valley of Aerunden. Many people died that day; the curtain between the world of the living and the world of the dead is still thin. If the Syrnte intend to summon Naether Demons on the battlefield, then that valley could be the ideal place for them to do so.”

There was a shifting of feet and clearing of throats, accompanied by looks of doubt, curiosity, and scorn.

“I dare say Maga Eolyn has a point,” Thelyn said with a lift his dark brows. 

“Yes,” agreed a mage warrior called Galison, a fair-headed man with a broad face. “But we cannot, at this juncture, hope to meet the Syrnte in Moehn. Not without incurring great loss. So enter the Valley of Aerunden they must. And when they do, they will summon the Naether Demons and send them after us, no matter where we are.”

The men nodded and voiced their concurrence, only to fall into renewed silence when Akmael asked, “What, then, would you recommend, Maga Eolyn?”

She faltered under expectant gazes. “Well, I…I’m not certain, my Lord King. There is much we do not yet know about the Naether Demons, or the power the Syrnte hold over them. I would think their time in our world is constrained by the integrity of the breach they use to enter it, and the potency of the magic given them.

“So, while the Syrnte may be able to summon Naether Demons in the Valley of Aerunden, I do not believe they could travel far from the place where they emerged, except perhaps by some extraordinary magic, a power beyond anything we have yet conceived.”

“They may well have that kind of power,” Galison said.

“I don’t believe so,” Eolyn replied.

“Why not?”

“Well…” Eolyn paused, for her initial response had been based more on instinct than on logic. “If the Syrnte had magic that formidable, they would not need to summon Naether Demons. They could simply crush us, and be done with it.”

“Maga Eolyn.” Thelyn addressed her now, long fingers working against his staff of polished cherry wood. “I understand it was Mage Corey who was sent to retrieve you. Why is he not here?”

“This device,” she touched the silver web at her throat, “can only carry one practitioner at a time. Mage Corey insisted I use it to return to the King.”

“Where did you leave him?”

“Just south of the Pass of Aerunden.”

“He could fly out, then,” Thelyn concluded. “Cross the mountains into Selkynsen, and be in Rhiemsaven by the day after tomorrow.” 

“I am sorry to say that is not his plan,” Eolyn replied. “Corey intends to help Sir Borten look after my student Mariel. They will find a way out of Moehn together if possible, and see Mariel safely into hiding if not.”

“We have need of him.” Thelyn turned to the King. “There is no one who knows more about Syrnte magic than he.”

“If there is anyone who can escape an occupied province, it is Mage Corey,” Lord Herensen said drily. “Survival is that man’s greatest talent.”