Sword of Shadows (2 page)

Eolyn considered engaging Akmael on this issue once more, pleading with him in person. Yet she held her silence, falling back a couple paces as knight and king became absorbed in the sort of discussion knights and kings thought they should have.

The invisibility calmed her.

She looked to the rolling hills, sought comfort in the long grass that shone gold and green under a bright sun. Over the years, Eolyn had often imagined Akmael walking this terrain with her. Not as he was now, a king tied to his retinue and his crown, but as he might have been, a mage free to live and practice magic as he pleased.

Free to love me
.

Eolyn blinked the thought away. She caught sight of Ghemena, running up from the kitchen to announce their meal was ready, and felt grateful for the timely distraction.

In preparation for the Mage King’s visit, Eolyn had secured venison from Lord Felton’s hunters and ordered wine all the way from Selkynsen. Despite these luxuries, the maga felt a sting of inadequacy when she saw the food laid out. It seemed a poor show in comparison to the sumptuous feasts she remembered from the King’s City. If the meager fare troubled Akmael, he did not show it, but ate heartily and expressed appreciation for the meat and wine, for the garden vegetables dressed with herbs from the South Woods, and for Renate’s dark and flavorful bread.

After the meal, Eolyn’s students stood before the King to recite stories from the history of Moisehén, demonstrate their magic, and answer his questions regarding the practice of their craft. This was Eolyn’s finest moment. Hers were well-trained and talented girls, ranging in age from Mariel and Sirena at fourteen, to Ghemena, who had seen but nine summers.

By the time they finished, the sun was descending in the west. Akmael rose and bade his men to ready their horses for the ride back to town. Then he turned to Eolyn and requested a word in private.

Adiana and the girls stopped clearing tables and looked up at Eolyn and the King. A sense of expectation settled over the room.

Eolyn wanted to refuse, but what choice did she have? Anything less than acquiescence would be considered an insult.

So she nodded and led Akmael to her study.

As they entered, Akmael paused at the bookshelves lining the eastern wall. He took a tome from its place and leafed through its pages. Eolyn continued to the other side of the room, standing beside a polished oak table that served as her desk.

“These must have belonged to your tutor, Doyenne Ghemena,” Akmael said, nodding at the books.

“Yes, my Lord King.” Eolyn drew a shaky breath and forced her hands to be still. “She salvaged them from the library at Berlingen. I have managed to bring almost all her books back from the South Woods.”

He put the volume back in its place. “A small collection, but quite valuable. When we return to the City, I will have additional books sent from the royal library to complement these works.”

“Thank you, my Lord King. That is most generous.”

Akmael shrugged. “An
Aekelahr
should have a proper library.”

Silence followed.

Eolyn did not know what to say or where to look. It was disconcerting, being alone with him like this.

Annoyance flitted across Akmael’s features. He approached and stood in front of her.

“You look well, Eolyn,” he said.

Tightness took hold of Eolyn’s belly. A flush rose to her cheeks. “Thank you, my Lord King. I am most glad to see that you and Queen Taesara are in good health. And your daughter, Princess Eliasara…They must bring you great happiness.”

“Happiness is not the purview of kings,” he replied. “Or so my father used to say. But yes, Eliasara is a fine and healthy baby. She will be entrusted to you when she is of age.”

The announcement surprised Eolyn. “My Lord King?”

“I want her to learn the ways of Aithne and Caradoc.”

“Don’t you think…?” Eolyn bit her lip. One did not simply accept students at the will of their parents. Eliasara would have to prove her abilities and disposition. Even if she had aptitude, the decision to take her on was complicated. There were still many in Moisehén who did not wish to see magic wielded by the Royal House of Vortingen.

“The Queen has no knowledge of our traditions,” Eolyn said. “She might not approve.”

“That does not matter. It is my will that Eliasara become a maga.”

“I see.” Eolyn frowned. How could Taesara’s opinion not matter in decisions regarding their daughter?

There was a knock at the door, followed by Sir Drostan’s muffled baritone. Akmael bade the knight to enter.

Drostan crossed the room and laid a long package wrapped in well-oiled leather on the table. He paused and cleared his throat, looking from Eolyn to Akmael as if to say something. Then he merely bowed and took his leave.

Akmael removed the leather wrapping, revealing a sword. The hilt was inlaid with ivory, the blade shone silver-white. Eolyn’s throat went dry when she recognized it.

“Kel’Barú,” she gasped. “My brother’s sword. Where did you find it?”

“I have had it since the Battle of Aerunden.”

“All this time you have kept it?”

“I hoped to call it mine. It is a fine weapon, and you have little love for tools of war. But the Galian wizards gave this sword a will of its own. It has done nothing these past three years but weep for you.”

Eolyn,
it sang in the quiet hum of metals.
Eolyn, Eolyn, Eolyn.

“I want you to learn how to use it,” Akmael said.

Eolyn shook her head, emphatic. “No.”

“I will not argue this with you.”

“Stop it! Stop it, Akmael. Why are you doing this?” A moment passed before Eolyn realized her transgression. She checked her anger and lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, my Lord King. I didn’t intend—”

“Do not apologize. It pleases me, to hear you say my name. I would have you say it more often.”

Eolyn managed a smile, ignoring the insinuation she sensed behind his words. “I mean no insult by questioning my Lord King’s gift, but you know my feelings on this matter. We have no use for knights and walls and swords. This is an
Aekelahr
, not a military outpost.”

“This is a fragile community of magas cultivating seeds of great power. You are not to go unprotected.”

“We tried this, a long time ago. You know I have no gift for weaponry.”

“You are not the frightened girl you were then. You have strength, balance and speed. And you have a sword that loves you. Borten can teach you how to use it.”

“I’ve seen men fight. I could never hope to—”

“No, you could not!” Akmael struck his fist against the table and gestured angrily toward the guards outside. “One of those men—trained from the time they were children—one of them could kill you in a heartbeat. But with this blade, it might take them two heartbeats. Or three. Or fifteen. And that might be enough for someone to come to your aid.”

“I am not without defenses. I can invoke almost every manner of flame known to our people. I have even cast the curse of Ahmad-kupt, though I hope never to use it again.”

“Magic is not always enough.”

“It is enough for me.”

“Curse it all, Eolyn, do not refuse me in this!”

Eolyn took a step back, startled.

The King frowned and glanced away. He took an unsteady breath and softened his tone. “Eolyn, please. Years ago you decided it would be better this way. You here, with your magic and your
Aekelahr,
and I left alone to rule my kingdom. I respected that choice, as difficult as it was for me. I return here today not as your king, but as the friend you asked me to be. And perhaps, if I am fortunate, as a man whose love you still remember. If I cannot be present in your life, if you will not allow me to love you and defend you myself, then at least accept the protection this sword. Your brother’s sword. It belongs with you.”

Eolyn felt a painful shift inside her soul, an avalanche of lost opportunity exposing a rugged landscape of forgotten hope.

“I’m sorry, Akmael,” she said, “but I cannot wield this sword.”

“For the love of the Gods, why not?”

“Because this is the weapon that betrayed my brother.”

There. She had said it. The memory of Aerunden coalesced around them, breaching the walls of her heart. Wretched screams and torn bodies. Scorched air and bloodied earth. The void of the Underworld sucking them toward oblivion.

We have never spoken about this. We must speak of it now.

“The morning we rode out to meet your army,” she said, “the curse of Ahmad-melan was invoked against my brother.”

“That was the work of Tzeremond.” Akmael’s response was emphatic, defensive. “The wizard acted without my knowledge or permission.”

“I know. I suppose I have always known, though it relieves to my heart to hear you say it. In his madness, my brother tried to kill me. I broke the curse, but Kel’Barú did not understand what had happened. The Galian sword resented Ernan and no longer wished to protect him. I
knew
this, Akmael, and still I…”

She faltered. So much time had passed, yet everything she had done, everything she had failed to do, still weighed like a stone on her spirit. “I tried to warn Ernan, but he didn’t listen and then I…I simply let him go. I allowed my brother to ride into battle against you with this weapon, knowing it would fail him. Sometimes I think I wanted…”

The room wavered. What had she wanted? For Akmael to live? For Ernan to die? And if the desire of her heart had invoked her brother’s doom, was this not a fitting fate: to be without either in the life that followed? Ernan stolen away by death, Akmael by his crown.

Eolyn glanced away, blinking back tears. “I should have stopped him. I should have stopped them all, but I didn’t. And so their blood became one with the fields of Aerunden, and has stained my hands ever since.”

Akmael studied her, his expression dark and pensive. After a prolongued silence, he said, “All this time, I thought you blamed me.”

Eolyn covered her face. A hard lump settled in her throat. “I did, Akmael. I blamed you, more than anyone. I never stopped being angry with you. With myself. With all of those stupid warriors who couldn’t see past their own bloodlust to…”

To find another way.

A sob broke on her lips. Eolyn stepped away, but Akmael reached out and wrapped his arms around her. In that moment, she realized how his absence had followed her all these years, a deep and abiding ache that could not be cured, only ignored.

“You must not blame yourself for what happened,” he said, pressing his lips against her forehead. “Ernan chose his own fate. Perhaps you remember that I offered your brother a truce, one that you counseled him to accept. He did not listen to you then, either. This was what cost him his life and lives of his men. Not your neglect, nor the anger of Kel’Barú.”

Akmael’s words brought such deep and needed comfort, but Eolyn withdrew, wary of lingering too long in his embrace.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and steadied her breath. “You must think me of fragile constitution, for such an outburst. It’s just a passing melancholy, I assure you. These have been days of great agitation. I fear I’ve fallen prey to many memories.”

Akmael touched Eolyn’s chin, and brought her gaze to his.

“Fond memories as well as difficult ones, I hope,” he said.

The words sparked a sting of renewed tears, but Eolyn forced them back with a warm smile. “Yes, my Lord King. Many fond memories, indeed.”

Chapter Two

Rishona sat up and shielded
her eyes from the evening lamps. Shadows pursued her from a fitful sleep, restless dreams of Aerunden. She had seen her brother, Tahmir, consumed by fire, watched shapeshifters swarm over a ravaged landscape. She had heard the anguished cry of an old wizard devoured by monsters, great beasts with long glowing limbs and obsidian claws. They had tunneled out of the earth, ripping through metal, mail, and flesh, heeding Rishona’s every command until…

She drew a sharp breath and rose to her feet, trying to erase the vision from her mind.

These are false murmurings,
she assured herself.
Nothing more than dreams of a troubled heart.

Sheer curtains billowed under a warm breeze, dividing Rishona’s sumptuous chambers from a wide balcony that overlooked the city below. Rounded roofs and tall spires covered the dry plains, like a coral bed exposed by a retreating sea. This was Ech-Nalahm, Rishona’s childhood home and the jewel of the Syrnte Empire. Oil lamps lined the rooftops, alleyways, and doorsteps, a flickering vigil that mirrored the stars above, the people’s homage to the last days of Joturi-Nur, San’iloman of the Syrnte.

“My Lady.” Merina appeared at the entrance to the chamber. The servant’s golden-brown hair was neatly bound in a single braid that fell over bronze shoulders. She kept her eyes downcast and hands folded. “General Mechnes and his brother, Paolus-Nur, ask to see you.”

“Of course,” Rishona said. “Show them in.”

Merina retreated on bare feet.

Rishona noticed her palms were damp. She washed her hands and refreshed her face with water from a basin. Just as she finished patting her skin try with a fragrant towel, Mechnes and Paolus-Nur strode into her presence.

Sons of Joturi-Nur by his second wife, the Syrnte princes appeared cut from the same stone. Blue-gray eyes glittered inside swarthy faces. Mechnes, the stouter of the two, had won Joturi-Nur half his empire on the battle field. Paolus’s skill lay in more subtle but no less brutal games of politics and intrigue.

Rishona bowed to receive them. “Lords and Uncles.”

Paolus-Nur took her hands in his. “Tamara-Rishona, daughter of my father and sister-in-name to my brothers, it is I who have come to pay homage to you.”

Rishona subdued the impulse to stiffen. On this day, each of Joturi-Nur’s sons had addressed her by her deceased mother’s name. Every time they called her Tamara, she liked it less.

They profess their love even as they delight in the prospect of my death.

“It is you who honor me with your presence,” she said.

Mechnes stepped forward as his brother moved aside.

“You have grown into your mother’s beauty.” Mechnes said, bringing Rishona’s fingers to his lips. “Tamara, Princess of the Syrnte, daughter of my own mother. The flower and pride of our lineage. You will do well by her on the morrow. I am confident she will meet you in the Afterlife with pride and joy.”

Does he say this to appease Abartamor’s spies or to taunt me?

Rishona lowered her eyes in respect.

“There is wine and food for all my guests on this day.” Her voice broke. She hated herself for that. Drawing a quick breath, she lifter her chin and met Mechnes’s gaze. “Please stay and remember with me the life we have enjoyed as a family.”

The brothers exchanged a glance.

“You are most generous, sister-niece,” Paolus-Nur said, “but I respectfully decline. My vigil with Joturi-Nur begins shortly. I would not disappoint my father on this of all days.”

“I will stay,” Mechnes said. “I have had my time with the San’iloman, and would be most pleased to indulge in the company of my niece on her last evening with us.”

Paolus departed, and Mechnes ordered the servants away.

Once they were alone, Mechnes took a stance in front of Rishona, feet spread and hands resting on his broad belt, his expression one of amusement coupled with a hint of disdain. Though advanced in years, Mechnes was still in his prime, his handsome face undiminished by its many scars. Rishona remembered how he had towered over her as a young girl. She was not so little anymore, but his presence still had the same imposing effect.

He stepped close and fingered a lock of her hair. “Are you ready for this, Niece?”

He smelled of blood and ash. The heat in his eyes was unmistakable. Rishona wondered if he would be so bold as to demand her on this of all nights, when pleasures of the flesh were strictly forbidden among members of the royal family.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

*  *  *

The following morning, Merina woke Rishona well before the sun spread its golden rays over the white city. Guards escorted the Syrnte princess to the fountains in the east courtyard. There she was bathed in water scented with lilies. They massaged her muscles with rose oil until her skin was supple and every knot undone. Then they dressed her in a simple gown of charcoal silk and placed ruby slippers on her feet. Bright jewels were braided into her hair, a sparkling veil draped over her face and shoulders.

As if they were preparing me for my wedding,
she thought, not without bitterness.

Rishona refused all food and wine that was offered to her. Fasting was expected and revered before the sacrifice. Even if it were not, she would not have risked being drugged or poisoned. She preferred to face death on her feet, with all her wits about her.

At sunset, the court of Ech’Nalahm gathered in the expansive chambers of the San’iloman. Curtains of dark silk hung from marble pillars, and the heavy smell of incense impregnated the air. Courtiers, advisors, and nobles from distant provinces took their places. A few engaged in quiet conversation.

The last to arrive were Joturi-Nur’s surviving sons, ten in all. Abartamor, the eldest of the princes, strode at their head. A portly man with heavy-lidded eyes and jowls that sagged around his full lips, he was despised by many for his indolence and gluttony. Behind him, the other siblings entered in pairs. Prince Mechnes accompanied Rishona, as he would have done for his sister Tamara, had she lived to see this day.

On the wide bed lay Joturi-Nur, San’iloman of the Syrnte. A thin old man with clay-colored skin and gray eyes, he was propped up among voluminous pillows dyed in rich shades of burgundy and gold. His First Wife, Meanara, sat to his right. Tall and stately, she kept her hands folded on her lap. A jeweled veil covered her thin white hair. At Meanara’s side sat the Second and Third Wives, Lhandra and Bheulla. Next to Bheulla knelt a girl, Naptari, whose shoulders trembled beneath a pale blue veil. A virgin of twelve years, she had been chosen to join the San’iloman on this day, so that Joturi-Nur might be comforted by her pleasures in the world beyond.

The high priest, a white-robed man with a shaven head and protuberant brow, whispered in Joturi-Nur’s ear. Joturi-Nur nodded and raised his hand to the assembly. All shifting and murmuring ceased. A scribe seated close by bent over his ledger and dipped his pen in ink.

“I, Joturi-Nur, San’iloman of the Syrnte, son of Mahtaron-Feh, and father to seventeen children of royal blood, do hereby declare the end of my reign on this, the last day of the eightieth year of my life.” The old man’s voice resonated throughout the chamber. “I have served my people with fervor and devotion. I commend my spirit to the Gods, who have prepared a place for me in the hall of my fathers.”

A sob escaped the virgin Naptari’s throat, but no one paid her notice.

Joturi looked at each of his sons, from eldest to youngest, until his gaze came to rest on his granddaughter, Rishona.

“Tamara, my daughter,” he said. “Come to me.”

Rishona’s stomach lurched.

Until this moment, she had clung to a faint and impossible hope that Joturi-Nur might not call upon her. The San’iloman’s eldest son, Abartamor, was a man of hollow ambition, ruinous for such an empire. If Joturi-Nur were to name him instead, Abartamor would have died, for he could not defend his claim against any of his brothers, and surely Mechnes or Paolus-Nur would have stepped forward to—

Mechnes cleared his throat.

Rishona glanced at her uncle, registered the merciless command in his eyes.

Even a useless son is worth more than a daughter.

She stepped forward to kneel at her grandfather’s side.

The San’iloman took her hand. “Tamara, my beloved. You were born of noble blood and granted a kind heart. As a child, you were the delight of my court, as a woman its most precious pearl. I wept the day you left us to follow your foreign prince to a distant land, but I let you go and gave you generous gifts in hopes that you would find happiness. On the long road to Moisehén, assassins dishonored our family and murdered you, destroying the sweet dream of your short life. When they brought you to me…”

Joturi-Nur’s voice faltered. Tears dampened his eyes. “When they brought your body to me, beloved Tamara, I washed you myself. I prepared you to meet our Gods, because no one else was worthy of touching you. Long have I prayed that you would return to me at the hour of my death and kneel by my side in the person of your daughter, as you do now. Thank you for the joy you gave me, for your selfless and loving spirit, and for accompanying me on this, the last day of my life.”

Joturi reached for the scimitar that lay next to him. He drew it out of its jewel-encrusted sheath and held it high for all to see. Then he set it in front of Rishona.

“Take my blade, Tamara.” The old man laid her hand over the hilt of his sword. “Rule my people in my stead.”

Sweat trickled down Rishona’s back. She could not see Abartamor behind her, but she imagined his plump face twitching in triumph. As the eldest, it now fell to him to challenge her claim, and what fight could he expect from a woman? What princess would shed her brother’s blood?

“Your people are safe with me, Father,” Rishona said. “They shall want for nothing as long as I live.”

Joturi-Nur drew a breath of satisfaction and leaned back on his pillows. He nodded to the priest, who stepped forward with the cup of death. The San’iloman drank deep and closed his eyes, letting go a long exhale, as if all the burdens of life were at last being laid to rest.

The chalice was then passed to Meanara, who lifted it toward her dying husband. “I have been and always will be your most faithful servant.”

Meanara drank, and was helped to her husband’s side, where she laid down and intertwined her fingers in his. She was followed by Rishona’s grandmother, Lhandra, and the Third Wife, Bheulla. The women laid close, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, while the gentle poison took effect.

Only young Naptari resisted, pushing the cup away with a frightened wail and spilling ebony liquid across the marble floor.

The guards caught her gently, for the last virgin of the San’iloman must reach the world beyond unscathed. The priest produced a vial from inside his sleeve and broke it over her lips. At once Naptari’s cries were silenced. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she went limp. They laid her at Joturi-Nur’s feet, curled like a child at rest.

Through all this, Rishona remained at her grandfather’s side. As Joturi-Nur’s breath slowed, she wrapped her fingers around the jeweled hilt of his broad sword. She adjusted her balance and tilted the blade, trying to see Abartamor’s oversized figure at her back.

When at last Joturi-Nur laid still, the priest nodded to the princes. Abartamor’s heavy step sounded behind Rishona, along with the slow unsheathing of his sword.

“I, the eldest son of Joturi-Nur, challenge your claim, Tamara,” he said. “Face me, so that I may send you with my father to the Afterlife.”

Rishona spun, hands wrapped around the hilt of the scimitar, and cut deep into Abartamor’s protruding belly. The prince cried out as metal parted flesh. Blood sprayed across Rishona’s shimmering gown. Abartamor dropped his weapon and staggered backwards, eyes wide and lips quivering in protest.

“What have you done?” he stammered. “My niece? A woman? It’s not possible…not permitted…”

He sat hard on the floor and stared dumbfounded at the entrails spilling from his belly.

Rishona strode forward and drove the scimitar into his thick neck. With a few vicious hacks, she cleaved Abartamor’s head from his torso. Tearing off her veil, she leveled the sword at his brothers and demanded, “Who else would challenge me?”

For several moments there was no sound but the gurgle of Arbartamor’s blood, pooling around Rishona’s satin slippers.

Paolus-Nur drew his weapon, but Mechnes stayed his hand. “Wait, brother.”

Paolus-Nur stared in surprise at Mechnes, who kept his discerning gaze fixed upon their niece.

Rishona had wagered her life on this moment. If she had trusted Mechnes falsely, she would now pay the price. To slay a slobbering fool like Abartamor was easy. Mechnes, on the other hand, could finish her in moments.

“This is not without precedent,” the Syrnte general said.

Gasps rippled through the court.

“Surely you cannot expect us to accept the rule of this woman!” Paolus objected. “What she has done is an insult to us and to the tradition of our fathers.”

Joturi-Nur’s other sons shifted on their feet, fingering the hilts of their swords. They exchanged looks of consternation, but said nothing.