Sword of Shadows (39 page)

Sword of Shadows
speaks to the chaos of war, especially the plight of civilians caught in the cross fire. It was inspired, in part, by stories I heard from my family about World War II when I was growing up.

The first edition was published by Hadley Rille Books under the title
High Maga
in 2014. Everyone who contributed to that project deserves mention here. Eric T. Reynolds, editor-in-chief at Hadley Rille Books, believed in this story enough to give it a home in his fine small press. Terri-Lynne DeFino had the patience to edit not only the first edition, but all the important changes made in the second edition. Everything that is clean and sparkly about this novel happened thanks to her. Cover and design artist Thomas Vandenberg has been a joy to work with, and I really appreciate the vision and support he has brought to this entire project.

In addition to the highland forests of Costa Rica, certain settings in this book were inspired by Andrews Experimental Forest in Oregon, where I had the opportunity to visit thanks to their Long-Term Ecological Reflections program.

The support of all my friends and especially my family has been invaluable every step of the way.

I’ve been blessed with the best critique partners in the world: David Hunter, DelSheree Gladden, and Cathy Jones. Fellow writers at thenextbigwriter.com and the Dead Horse Society also provided important feedback, and Heartland Romance Authors was a great source of support and information.

Dollbabies, you know who you are! Many hugs for making me a part of your wonderful community. Your compassion and support has been a blessing on so many levels.

For those who are new to Eolyn’s world, thank you for choosing this book and giving me an opportunity. Fans and friends of
Eolyn,
thanks for coming back for more. This story is for you. May your adventures in magic continue well beyond these pages.

Karin Rita Gastreich lives in Kansas City, Missouri, where she is part of the biology faculty at Avila University. An ecologist by vocation, she has wandered forests and wildlands all over the planet, but most often in the tropics. Her pastimes include camping, hiking, music, and flamenco dance. In addition to
The Silver Web
trilogy, Karin has published short stories in
World Jumping, Zahir, Adventures for the Average Woman
, and
69 Flavors of Paranoia
. She is a recipient of the Spring 2011 Andrews Forest Writer’s Residency. You can visit Karin at krgastreich.com.

Find out how it all began.

Eolyn

Book One of
The Silver Web

Karin Rita Gastreich

The first threads of the silver web are cast in a whispered spell,

a sacred oath, and a forbidden kiss.

In a land ravaged by civil war, the Mage King Kedehen initiates a ruthless purge of the magas. Eolyn, last daughter of the magas and sole heiress to their forbidden craft, seeks refuge in the vast and impenetrable South Woods. When she meets the mysterious Akmael, heir to the throne of this violent realm, she embarks on a path of hope, seduction, betrayal, and war. Desire draws Eolyn toward Akmael’s dark embrace, but fate binds her to Corey of East Selen, a cunning mage whose ambition challenges the limits of love and loyalty.

Can she trust either man?

Hunted in a realm of powerful wizards and brutal deceptions, Eolyn must find her own path to freedom or she will burn on the pyre.

“Vigorously told deceptions and battle scenes will satisfy fans

of traditional epic fantasy, with a romantic thread.”

-
Publishers Weekly

ORB WEAVER PRESS

Preview

Daughter of Aithne

Book Three of
The Silver Web

Karin Rita Gastreich

Betrayed by her own prodigy, Eolyn, High Maga of Moisehén, is accused of treason. While power-hungry nobles dismantle her life’s work and honor, the desperate maga forges a risky alliance with the ruthless and cunning Mage Corey. Plagued by enemies old and new, Eolyn prepares for battle against her own sisters in magic.

Across the Furma River, Taesara of Roenfyn is drawn out of seclusion and into an ever-more vicious game of intrigue and war. Subject to the schemes of an ambitious uncle and the mysterious magic of the wizards of Galia, Taesara struggles to assert control over her own fate even as she defends her daughter’s heritage.

In the climactic finale to
The Silver Web
trilogy
,
threads of love, honor, betrayal, and vengeance culminate in a violent conflict between powerful women, opposed to each other yet destined to shatter a thousand-year cycle of war.

Coming Spring 2017

ORB WEAVER PRESS

Taesara removed the last of the bandage from Berena’s arm. A tug as it held to tender, rotting skin pulled a sharp breath from the bedridden woman.

“I am sorry, Berena,” Taesara said quietly. “I do not mean to hurt you.”

Berena managed a black-gummed smile, one good eye sparkling in her bloated and misshapen face. The ward where they sat was long, filled with quiet moans of the sick and dying. Shafts of light knifed through narrow windows, providing dim illumination for the diligent work of the Sisters of the Poor.

“I don’t feel anything anymore, milady,” Berena slurred. “Not on my skin, I don’t. Just the pain of my ugliness, that’s all I feel.”

“You are not ugly.” Taesara placed the bandage among other soiled linens in a basket at her feet. Taking a clean rag, she plunged it into a bucket of water scented with juniper needles and arogat root. “None of us are ugly before the Gods of Thunder.”

Taesara took the stump of Berena’s hand, her fingers long since fallen away, and held the arm steady as she bathed Berena from shoulder to wrist, cleansing away scabs yellowed by blood and puss. Berena’s affliction was a slow rot that had endured for years, forcing the poor woman to watch without hope or remedy as her body decayed.

“There you are wrong, milady,” Berena said. “The Gods like their women beautiful. The only reason they make ugly ones is so they can appreciate the pretty ones all the more.”

Taesara smiled at the jest. “The Mother of all my Sisters teaches us that those visited by the plague of Catlan are the most blessed of all. The Gods have chosen you to suffer the trials of the Underworld in this life. Thus they purify your spirit, so you will not be ensnared by the slow decay of the Lost Souls when you pass from this world into the next.”

A wet chortle escaped Berena’s sagging lips. “She’s a clever one, that Mother. Merciful too, and good at heart. But she’s wrong. Wrong about the Gods, wrong about me, and wrong to make pretty ones like you waste their pretty lives on this ugly rot.” Berena pointed with her chin down the length of the infirmary.

“She makes us do nothing.” Taesara plunged the rag into water, refreshing its fragrance before she continued to wash Berena. She worked systematically, with a gentle skill founded on years of attending the worst miseries of the poor and destitute. “We are all here of our own accord. We follow her because we share her beliefs.”

“You follow her because you’re afraid.”

“Afraid?” Taesara glanced up, startled by the accusation. “I am not afraid, Berena. Certainly not of you, or of the disease that haunts your body. You must forgive me if I have ever done anything to make you think otherwise.”

“I ain’t talking about the sickness.” Her good eye glazed over, hard as crystal. “Thunder set his red eye on you, that’s what I think. You got scared and ran away.”

“I would never turn my back on—”

“Not that I’d blame a fine lady like you. It’s always trouble when the Gods notice us. Look what happened when they noticed me.”

“Thunder is a loving guardian to all our people, especially to the poor and the afflicted. I do not hide from him or the Gods he serves.” Taesara lowered her voice. “But this I will confide in you, Berena: I loathe the men of this world. I abhor their desire, their rage, their lust for blood and power. I saw too much of men’s truth when I was young and at their mercy. I wish no more of it. That is why I came here, that is why I stay. Having lived in their company, I can say that you are not ugly, Berena. You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever known.”

Berena blinked and drew a ragged breath. Scrunching her deformed face, she looked away.

“I don’t want a bath anymore,” she said hoarsely. “I want to rest.”

Taesara nodded and withdrew, taking the bucket of water and the basket of soiled linens with her. She walked along the row of beds in respectful silence, pausing only to inform one of the Sisters that Berena was ready for fresh bandages.

Outside the infirmary, the harsh sunlight caused Taesara to squint. She crossed the courtyard, stepping carefully through the gardens, and left the linens with women who tended the laundry in boiling cauldrons set over open fires.

The bucket of bath water she took to the kitchen, where it was mixed with the rest of the water collected from the infirmary that day. At the evening meal, the purest of the Sisters would cleanse their spirits in preparation for the Afterlife by drinking water used to bathe the sick. Taesara was not allowed to participate in such sacred rites, because she had known a man and worse, a mage. It had not been her choice to lie in his bed, and she had taken no pleasure from her duty. Indeed, she had suffered what no mother should be forced to bear. Yet a lifetime of service would not atone for her sin, nor erase the stain he had left upon her soul.

“Our blessed Mother has sent for you,” the head cook announced, taking the bucket from Taesara’s hands. “She wants to see you as soon as you’re finished with the baths.”

Taesara greeted this news with an obedient nod. She left the kitchen and climbed the narrow stairs that led to the Mother’s study and a handful of chambers set aside for receiving guests from the outside world. The rest of the cloister was stark and modest in its furnishings, but here the chairs and tables were finely carved. Tapestries graced the walls with images of men and women called by Thunder during the long and difficult history of Taesara’s people.

When Taesara entered the study, the man standing at the window wheeled about and pinned her with a stern gaze. His long face was framed by graying hair, his sage cloak richly embroidered with silver threads.

“My Lord Regent.” Taesara sank to her knees, deeply troubled by this unannounced visit.

A rustle of skirts indicated the Mother’s approach. The old woman laid a frail but steady hand on Taesara’s shoulder. “If it pleases you, Lord Regent, I will take my leave now, so that you may speak with your niece.”

Taesara looked up at the Mother with a mixture of hurt and trepidation. “Dear Mother, I have no family in this world, not since I—”

“Hush, my daughter.” The Mother took Taesara’s face in her hands and studied her with a kind expression. “I know the vows you took when you entered this place better than you. I do not doubt the devotion with which you have served the Gods as part of our community these many years. Your family has indeed been dead to you, but now it appears Thunder wishes to call you back to the world of the living. Listen to your uncle. He seeks to resurrect your heart from its grave. The news he bears will bring you much joy.”

“But I don’t want—”

“Know that whatever you decide, you have my blessing.” The Mother kissed Taesara and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Taesara lowered her gaze to the floor, burdened by a terrible uncertainty she had not felt in years.

Sylus Penamor, Lord Regent of Roenfyn, strode forward and extended a gloved hand to his niece. “Rise, Taesara.”

She obeyed, stiffening as Penamor took her chin in his fingers and subjected her to cold inspection. After a moment, his frown deepened. He shook his head. “Only the Sisters of the Poor could take a woman at the height of her flower and turn her into a dried-up weed.”

Taesara bristled. “There is no place for vanity within these walls.”

“Apparently not. They’ve made you skinny and sallow. Though it is nothing, I’ll wager, that a bit of sun and some proper food cannot remedy. What are these rags they dress you in?”

Taesara stepped away, clenching her jaw. “This is all I need. All anyone needs, to live at peace in this world.”

Penamor snorted. “Indeed.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve come to fetch you home.”

“This is my home.”

“This was your temporary refuge. A foul place, but one of your choosing. We were generous enough to let you stay, first your father and then I, as we put the outside world in order. Now it is time for you to return.”

“I am not going back.”

“Oh, but I think you will.” Penamor spoke with an odd tone, at once menacing and full of promise. “War is at hand, and you will be the one to lead it.”

Taesara forced a laugh. “You know I will have no part of it. Eliasara will die at their hands if we so much as—”

“They do not have Eliasara,” he said. “We do.”

Shadows flashed through Taesara’s vision. She stumbled and caught hold of the back of a chair. A chasm opened inside her heart, swallowing the vines and trees with which she had concealed her love and pain during all these years. A bitter flood of anguish returned full force.

“Where is she?” Taesara did not look at her uncle, her mind consumed by the image of King Akmael’s stony countenance, his dark intent, his merciless heart. “Where is my daughter?”

“About a day’s ride from here. She has been asking for you.”

“Is she…whole? Have they harmed her in any way?”

“Do you mean have they turned her into a witch? No. Eliasara is a true daughter of Roenfyn. She has remained faithful to her memory of you, and to the convictions of her people. And she is beautiful, Taesara, as lovely as you were at her age, with the same sweet smile and golden hair.”

“She will not recognize me. She had only just begun to walk when we were separated.”

“She will know who you are. That is enough. She wants a mother to love, and one who will love her. She needs you, Taesara.”

Unable to endure the weight of the moment, Taesara sank to the floor.
Oh, sweet Thunder, help me.
“What is this unbearable work of the Gods? How has such a thing come to pass?”

“That is an amusing story to tell.” Penamor knelt at her side. The smell of leather and horse stung her senses. “The wizard Tzeremond often said that the magas always betray their own, and so that old hawk’s wisdom has once again proven true. The Witch Queen’s greatest student, a maga warrior by the name of Ghemena, broke into Eliasara’s prison with two of her companions. They slew the Mage King’s guards and brought the Princess to Roenfyn, to me. Now the magas stand with us, ready to fight.”

“Who else?” Fire surged through Taesara’s veins. “Who else stands with Roenfyn?”

“Galia has agreed to support our cause, and new messengers have been dispatched to Antaria. We await their response. We also have allies inside Moisehén: noble families whose loyalty I have cultivated in secret; mages who pretend to serve King Akmael; and others among the Witch Queen’s guard who are anxious to see the line of Mage Kings dissolved. This is our moment, Taesara. Your moment. To exact vengeance on the King of Moisehén and his villainous harlot, to kill their bastards, and to see your daughter and all her descendants claim the Crown of Vortingen.”

Taesara straightened her back, withdrawing from her uncle’s grasp and taking deep breaths as she tried to steady her pulse. After a moment, she leveled her gaze at him. “I don’t care about any of that, Uncle. All I want is to see my daughter.”

A smile of triumph touched his lips. “As well I knew you would.”