Sword of Shadows (24 page)

“But will he escape in time to be of assistance to us?”

“Mage Corey understands the gravity of the threat we face,” Akmael said. “If he sent Maga Eolyn in his stead, it was with full confidence that she would be as great an asset to our efforts as he, if not greater.” 

“Mage Corey asked that you take me to Tzeremond’s quarters, Mage Thelyn,” Eolyn said, “that we might decipher the ward to the Master’s library. Corey is convinced Tzeremond had records that can help us defeat the Naether Demons.”

“We’ve been trying for years to open up that library,” said one of the other High Mages, a bent old man with a thinning beard and gravelly voice. “It is impossible. The Master wanted no one to enter, before or after his death.”

“Every ward can be unraveled,” Eolyn countered, “even one cast by Master Tzeremond.”

The statement was met with grim faces and shaking heads.

“We must try,” she insisted. “It could be our only hope.”

Their murmurs of objection continued, but Akmael cut them short. “High Mage Thelyn, you will accompany Maga Eolyn and assist her with this task. Anything you find that can help us must be communicated to me at once.”

“As you wish, my Lord King.” Thelyn bowed. Eolyn thought she caught a wink in his eye.

“Maga Eolyn,” Akmael continued, “you have shared very useful information and insights, but you have yet to answer my question.”

“My Lord King?”

“What do you recommend with respect to the Valley of Aerunden?”

Again Eolyn frowned, searched her thoughts, and put them in order. “I would send mages at once, as many as possible, to begin sealing the breaches that remain in the valley. It will not be enough, of course. There isn’t sufficient time, as you well know; closing all those doors requires planting new life, allowing it to grow and thrive. But there are wards that could block the way temporarily. We can at least make the task more difficult for them.”

“What if you are wrong, Maga Eolyn?” Sir Galison said. “If the Syrnte are able to march forth from Aerunden with an army of Naether Demons? What then?”

It was Herensen who stepped forward and said, “Perhaps there would be a way to harry the Syrnte, to force them out of the valley before they make camp, so they do not have the opportunity to work their magic there.”

“Harry them or lure them forward.” Akmael clasped his hands behind his back, brow furrowed in concentration. “To cede another inch of land after they have taken Moehn and the Pass of Aerunden seems foolhardy at best, and yet, if we are to be truthful with ourselves, we must consider the fact that the information we have about their army is not reliable, only the account of an injured and frightened boy. By letting the Syrnte march north towards Rhiemsaven, we would give our scouts the opportunity to better estimate their numbers, men and demons alike.”

“My Lord King,” Galison objected, “I urge you not to consider allowing them to advance any further than Aerunden.”

“I will consider it, Galison.” Akmael responded with a tone that put an end to all discussion. “Though I have not yet made my decision. Mage Seldon?”

“My Lord King.” The mage who stepped forward had a ruddy face with a bulbous nose and a thick yellow beard.

 “See to it that thirty mages are dispatched at once. They are to ride to the Valley of Aerunden with all haste, and there set to work sealing whatever breaches they can find. You must also send a message ahead of them to the magistrate in Rhiemsaven, that he may put his own mages to the same task.”

“As you wish, my Lord King.”

“With all due respect, King Akmael.” Lord Penamor, the ambassador from Roenfyn, spoke. “This is unacceptable. A woman sitting at a war council? Her advice heard and heeded?”

Akmael let the question hang in the air before responding in even tones. “You would do well, Lord Penamor, not to question who sits on my council.”

A heavy silence followed. 

“My Lord Penamor,” High Mage Tzetobar interjected with conciliatory tone, “this is not just any woman. She is a High Maga, trained in the tradition of Aithne and Caradoc. The only one left to our people. Her knowledge is as vast as it is unique. She is as well respected as any High Mage.”

“She alone among us has met the Naether Demons,” Thelyn added. “And if I understood my Lord King’s recounting of her tale, has already defeated them. Twice.”

“What you say is true.” Eolyn said, conscious of Akmael and Penamor, whose gazes remained locked on each other, like stags preparing to charge. “Though I would not have overcome them without the assistance of Sir Borten and Mage Corey.”

“You must tell us what spells were used, what proved most effective.”

“Why of course, Mage Thelyn.”

The charged silence between Akmael and Penamor choked off any further words. Resentment billowed over the council room. Eolyn’s skin prickled. She felt as if lightning were about to strike the table in front of her.

“That is enough for one morning,” Akmael said tersely. “You have your orders, all of you.”

Penamor was the first to leave, anger in his stride. The others broke off in twos and threes, conversing quietly as they departed the King’s presence, some with more haste than others.

Thelyn made his way toward Eolyn, circling the large table and slipping through moving bodies. A handsome man, always meticulously groomed, he had not aged in the least since Eolyn last saw him. His cherry wood staff was adorned with a crystal head of andradite.

“Maga Eolyn.” He bowed when he reached her side. “You must be very worried about your ward, young Ghemena.”

Ghemena.
Eolyn brought a hand to her forehead and rebuked herself silently. In truth, she had not thought about her student all morning. Such was the spell of the Mage King; even her wits had remained in his bed. “Yes, of course, Mage Thelyn. Where is she?”

“She has been entrusted to me. Had I known you were returned to us, I would have brought her with me this morning. As it is, she is studying magic under the tutorship of Mage Veroden, along with other children of her age.”

“Other girls studying magic? Here in the City?”

“No, not girls. There are no girls studying magic here. Or rather, there weren’t, until yesterday.”

“This is most irregular,” Eolyn said doubtfully, “to have a girl studying among mages.”

“Perhaps,” Thelyn replied. “Or perhaps the first mistake of our predecessors was to separate the boys from the girls.”

“High Mage Thelyn.” Akmael’s stern command interrupted their conversation. “You are dismissed as well.”

“Of course, my Lord King.” He bowed in deference and said to Eolyn, “I will take advantage of this brief respite to bring Ghemena to the castle. She will be delighted to learn you are safe and well.”

“Thank you, Mage Thelyn. I am most grateful.”

He nodded and was gone. 

“All of you as well,” Akmael said to his servants, “leave us.”

They disappeared without word or sound, closing the heavy doors behind them. 

Eolyn turned to Akmael, “My Lord King, there is something of great importance we have not yet—”

He closed the distance between them and cut her words short with a kiss, heated, insatiable. When she gasped for air, his lips released hers, only to course without reprieve down her neck.

“My love,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around him, overcome by the sudden ecstasy of his touch.

Eolyn intertwined her fingers in Akmael’s hair. He lifted her up on the table, pushing back her skirts until he found what he sought. His thrusts were demanding and deep, tinged with anger; she clung to him with vigor, muffling cries of pleasure against his shoulder, dizzy inside his voracious desire, until she heard his groan and felt his release shudder through her. 

“My love,” she murmured, feathering his neck with kisses.

They remained intertwined, their breath keeping rhythm with the fading pulse of his heat. Akmael’s brow was damp, and Eolyn’s dress suddenly stifling.

His fingers sank into her hair. Gently he pulled her head back to expose the arch of her throat, caressing it once again with his lips. Loosening her bodice, he bent to taste the salty dew that had gathered between her breasts.

How did I ever find the strength to walk away from this?

“By the Gods, you are magnificent,” he whispered.

Gently he withdrew, watching her while she straightened her skirts and smoothed her hair.

“No,” he said, when she began to tighten the laces of her bodice. “Leave that as it is, for the moment.”

A flush rose to her cheeks. Eolyn nodded, and Akmael helped her to her feet.

“You angered Lord Penamor,” she said.

“He angered me. It is not his place to tell me how to run my council.”

“It is not the running of your council that has upset him. I should not be here, Akmael. Not like this. When the Queen hears of it, she will surely—”

“The Queen is not your concern.” He traced the curve of her throat, let his fingers settle on the hollow between her breasts where the silver web rested. “I cannot bear to be without you any more. Stay with me now. Promise you will never leave again.”

Words failed her. Eolyn nodded, though her heart remained uncertain, and let him gather her in his arms.

“Akmael,” she said, “the windows the Naether Demons use to find our world, we carry one, you and I, wherever we go. Our journey to the Underworld has left us vulnerable. They can find each of us directly, if they have sufficient magic to cross the barrier.”

He spulled away and searched her face. “You are certain of this?”

“Mage Corey saw the signature in my aura after their most recent attack.”

“Then we must craft a ward capable of sealing a breach woven through a living soul.” His tone was pensive, troubled. “Perhaps such secrets can also be found in Tzeremond’s library.”

“That is my hope, though you have not given me much time if we are to march at dawn.”

He frowned and then gave a short laugh. “My love,
we
are not marching south tomorrow. I am marching south, with my men. You will remain here, in the safety of this fortress.” 

She hesitated, burdened by a shadowy premonition. “We must remain together, Akmael.”

“Our love has weathered greater divisions and harsher conflicts than this.”

“I am not talking about our love! Moisehén has not confronted a threat like this for generations. Every instinct I have is telling me we will not vanquish the Syrnte or their Naether Demons if we are not at each other’s side. That’s why I abandoned my own to come to you, to deliver Ernan’s sword. You cannot face this enemy alone. I will not let you.”

“I will hardly be alone.”

“Akmael, please—”

“Eolyn, I would have you with me at all times were it possible. But I have experienced the fear of losing you in battle once. I will not suffer that torture again.”

“You aren’t listening to me.”

“Yes I am, but I will not risk your life against this enemy.”

“My life means nothing when weighed against the future of this kingdom!”

Akmael drew a sharp breath, looked away, and shook his head.

“Eolyn.” There was admiration in his expression when he turned back to her, but also resolve. He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. “If, in your study of Tzeremond’s collection, you find teachings that support this idea that Naether Demons cannot be defeated save by the union of our magic, then dispatch my messengers at once. Should I find the evidence convincing, I will send for you immediately. On this, you have my word.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Servants dragged Adiana
from Mechnes’s bed in the predawn hours. A coarse dress was yanked over her head, a worn cloak thrown about her shoulders.

Groggy, muscles aching from exhaustion and misuse, she was ushered outside Mechnes’s pavilion. A plump, sour-faced matron ordered her to wait next to a pair of mules.

The animals blinked at Adiana, tearing mouthfuls of hay from dirty bales and flicking away flies with restless tails.

As always, guards accompanied her; two this time, their gazes more lascivious than ever. Adiana began to wonder whether she was the morning meal promised them.

She shivered, pulled the cloak tight about her shoulders, but to no avail. It was not the breeze that chilled her; it was the icy void that had consumed her heart and soul. 

The camp was dissolving in a rising cacophony of activity. Tents were being struck amidst the shouts of men and clatter of tools. Horses whinnied and stamped. Bustling servants emptied Mechnes’s pavilion of its furnishings, pulled stakes from the mud, and let the brightly colored canvass flutter to the ground.

Adiana could not see the Syrnte Lord, but she heard his voice, commanding and impatient as he drove an entire army toward unified rhythm, an ominous requiem for her people.

At last he appeared some twenty paces away, surrounded by officers with whom he was engaged in vigorous conversation. 

Adiana’s gut tightened with something that felt like need, but which she chose to recognize as fear. 

A polished breast plate covered his chest. A cloak of burgundy and gold hung from his broad shoulders. In the crook of his arm he carried a helmet; the other hand rested on the hilt of his sword. His dark brow was furrowed, the set of his jaw grim. Each word he spoke came sharp and quick. Men nodded and took their leave, while others stepped forward with attentive expressions. 

No one questioned his will.

The cadence of Mechnes’s orders stopped when the San’iloman rode into their midst. Everyone responded with deep and sustained bows, save Prince Mechnes, who remained standing and met Rishona with a challenge in his gaze.

The San’iloman sat tall on her chestnut mare, chin lifted and face masked by a sparkling veil. She wore a breastplate and cloak. Her skirt was draped over the horse in a swath of burnished gold. A jeweled scimitar hung on her belt. 

For several moments, Queen and General watched each other in silence.

Then Rishona extended a hand toward Mechnes.

He stepped forward and touched her gloved fingers to his lips.

Quiet words were exchanged between them. Mechnes nodded and summoned his horse. 

Adiana’s heart stuttered in panic, though she did not understand why until she heard the dry chuckle of a guard behind her. He stepped close and took rough hold of her, ignoring the growled objection of his companion. 

“You’re a pretty whore to have caught the general’s eye,” the man said. She cringed at the stench of sweat and grime on his clothes. His breath stank of last night’s ale. “But you’ll be alone now, won’t you?”

She could not think to respond before he was wrenched away. A warm spray of blood wet Adiana’s cheek. The assailant fell to the ground, clutching a crimson river that pulsed from his throat.

His partner watched with dispassionate eyes, a grimace on his weathered face as he cleaned his knife. Then the killer set his gaze on Adiana, a lewd invitation in his gape-toothed grin. The smile was startled off his face, and he dropped to his knees.

“Prince Mechnes,” he said, eyes downcast.

Adiana spun around.

The Syrnte general studied the scene with narrowed eyes and a stormy countenance. 

“Forgive me,” the guard continued, “I did not think…”

The man looked from Mechnes to Adiana. His companion convulsed then lay still. Resignation filled his features, and he stared resolutely at the ground.

“Mercy,” he said hoarsely.

Adiana could see his worth extinguished in Mechnes’s eyes. 

“It is too early in the day to be losing men,” the Syrnte prince muttered, but drew his sword nonetheless.

“Prince Mechnes, please!” Adiana took hold of his arm, then let go at the angry heat of his sudden glare. Her hands burned where she had touched him, yet the rest of her body felt cold as a winter night.

She backed away and averted her gaze. When at last she found her voice, it was reduced to a murmur. “Too much blood has been shed on my account. Please, let this man be. He did not lay a hand on me.”

Adiana closed her eyes, keenly aware of Mechnes’s stance, the way he savored this power he held over life and death. Moments passed while she braced against the sickening sound of metal opening up flesh. Canvas fluttered, crates fell loud upon carts, soldiers grunted and officers bellowed long calls demanding order.

After all these days, the air still smelled of fire and charred wood, of triumph and defeat, of revelry, suffering, and blood.

Most of all, of blood.

Always blood. Eternal blood. Hot scarlet rivers let loose upon the earth, drying into bitter ochre stains that riddled the soul, exuding an acrid vapor that permeated the camp and made Adiana sick to her stomach. 

“Please.” She clutched at her abdomen, fighting the surge of bile in her throat. “Let him be. Or end it now.”

Mechnes said nothing.

Then he sheathed his sword.

The sound hit Adiana like a breeze from the South Woods, fresh and unexpected. 

“Get out of my sight,” Mechnes said to the guard. “Do not disappoint me again.”

The man scuttled away.

Prince Mechnes produced a clean rag and began wiping the blood from Adiana’s face, his touch rough but not unkind. His eyes met hers in ephemeral moments as he worked. When he finished, he stepped away. 

“You need rest,” he said. “There’ll be little enough of that to be had today.”

Adiana watched him in silence. The sounds of the camp faded into the background; the soldiers and beasts of burden blurred. Mechnes’s face became ever more vivid, dark hair softened by strands of gray, face marked by the scars of his many battles, stone blue eyes that knew not love or compassion.

He had destroyed her life, raped her spirit, and gutted her soul. There should be nothing left of Adiana, and yet here she stood before him, her own gaze steadfast and unflinching. 

For the first time in days, Adiana felt no fear.

Perhaps, in truth, she no longer felt anything at all. 

A shrewd smile curled Mechnes’s lips. He stepped forward and touched her chin. “You have pleased me, Adiana of Selkynsen. You will not be left behind.”

With that, he departed, issuing a few short barks that left Adiana in the company of a new set of guards. One of them bade her to sit as the sour-faced matron brought a bowl of lukewarm gruel and a cup of watered wine.

Adiana lost sight of Mechnes, though she could see the parting and shifting of his men as the Syrnte Prince approached his mount.

The San’iloman waited on her mare, still as a heron at the water’s edge. Though a shimmering veil concealed Rishona’s face, Adiana sensed the bite of the queen’s gaze, sharp as her obsidian blade.

Mechnes climbed on his steed, drew his sword, and saluted Rishona. Shouts of allegiance and victory thundered across the camp. Flags floated high in the early morning breeze; horses pranced impatiently to the ring of metal and chink of mail. As the royal guard fell into formation around the queen and her general, clouds in the sky ignited with the brilliant colors of the waking sun.

The march toward Moisehén had begun.

A maga should not be sad when the sun rises,
Eolyn had once said.
A maga celebrates the dawn and partakes in its joy.

But Adiana had never been a maga, and now she never would. Fate had turned her into a woman of no consequence, a wicked man’s whore.

Adiana was loaded onto an oxcart with the rest of the food and equipment. The column snaked ahead of them, though half the camp, it seemed, had yet to begin its march. The cart creaked and rocked as oxen pulled it onto the road.

Behind them, Moehn came into view, charred walls hung with bold Syrnte colors. Shirtless men labored to refortify the town, tearing down what was too weak to restore, laying barriers of heavy stone behind rows of sharpened stakes. Above them, soldiers stood on mounds of rubble and watched as their comrades fell into stride.  The column began its inexorable advance north and west. 

Every rut in the road jolted Adiana. The canvas on which she sat was lumpy; the objects beneath it hard and unyielding. Yet the discomfort did not ward off the great weariness that pressed down upon her. She closed her eyes, surrendered to sleep, and did not wake again until she heard the girl’s happy laughter and lyrical voices, the sound of their feet pounding against the earth as they ran toward her. 

Mistress Adiana!

Adiana bolted upright, hand gripping the rim of the cart, heart leaping inside her chest. With anxious eyes she searched the train of carts and mules, the servants and slaves who walked among them, the men on horseback that surrounded them. 

“Tasha?” she called. “Catarina?”

No one responded. 

The plump matron, who rode at the head of the cart, glared over her shoulder.

A pair of oxen nearby announced with long, protesting lows that they had decided not to continue. The driver shouted and whipped their flanks with a willowy switch, until at last the beleaguered animals bellowed and reluctantly pulled forward, cart groaning behind them.

Adiana secured her unkempt hair behind her ears and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head to hide from the unrelenting sun, from the guards who watched her with serpent’s eyes. 

“Forgive me,” she murmured. 

The girls did not answer. Even Renate no longer whispered inside her head. Nor did Adiana expect to hear them, to feel their presence as anything more than a lingering torment, ever again.

She had given herself to their murderer, sinking toward oblivion as a drunkard drowns in his wine, without thought or care for those he loves, certain that dawn will erase all memory, until morning light breaks through a colorless sky and he finds himself alone with his pain.

Adiana’s hands felt numb despite the warm summer day. Her bones ached as if with a fever. She tried to lay down on the lumpy canvas, but the moment she closed her eyes Mechnes was upon her, pitiless hands wringing pleasure from her body, drinking the nectar of her womanhood as if she were nothing more than a ripened plum crushed in his grasp.

Shuddering, Adiana sat up, tucked her knees tight to her chest and took to staring at the dirt road as it rolled beneath the cart like a dusty river, long straggling ruts broken by sharp-angled stones, ever different yet always repeating. The rhythm comforted her, lulled her until she was drained of all thought and could almost convince herself she had found refuge in a formless world.

The sun was high when the caravan came to a stop. Riders slid off horses and carts. Those who had been walking wandered a little ways off the road, some finding places to sit. Flasks of wine and water were uncorked, and food was produced from hidden places.

One of the guards offered Adiana water, which she accepted with wary gratitude. The matron gave her an apple, scowling as if she were sacrificing a meal fit for a king.

Adiana slid off the cart as well. The ground swayed beneath her before becoming firm and steady. 

The earth is the source of a maga’s power,
Eolyn used to say,
the fountain of all her courage
. 

Adiana walked several paces and then stopped herself. Glancing around she saw the guards had followed her. They watched with hooded eyes, alert yet somehow distant. They made no comment or rebuke, so she turned and continued, aware of their heavy footfalls while she wandered onto the grass beside the road. 

The landscape of Moehn, despite all the horrors visited upon it, had not changed. The grassy hills spread low, seeming to rise and fall in an almost imperceptible breath as they stretched southward toward the distant smudge of the Paramen Mountains.

The crops were densely cultivated, though each field had been invaded by at least one scraggly tree. Prince Mechnes would be pleased, she thought, with a contradictory mix of pride and melancholy, when he saw just how bountiful this land could be.

It occurred to Adiana that she might never lay eyes on the province of Moehn again; that wherever this war was leading, it would not bring her back here.

Not that there would be anything to come back to, except sadness and loss, bitter memories of the joy and friendship she once knew, of the people she betrayed.

She took off her shoes, pressed her feet against the soft verdant blades, and prodded at the herbs with her toes until one pricked her back.

With a sharp gasp, Adiana knelt down. She recognized the rosette, and she pulled it, roots and all, out of the soil.

The flower was deep maroon with a speck of gold at its heart, the leaves purplish-green and spiny, the roots a blood-stained ivory.