Sword of Shadows (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

In the evening, Eolyn
and Akmael
ascended narrow winding stairs of the southeast tower to the ramparts. The breeze was warm, the stars had just begun to ignite in a darkening sky. Torches hissed and flared in response to shifting winds. Smoke rose from their flames, carrying the aromas of burning pitch and charred wood.

Eolyn kept close to her King, hand resting in the crook of his arm. They matched each other’s stride along the stone walkway, sentries greeting them along the way.

Akmael’s presence invoked a sense of constancy in the midst of so much turmoil. He paused and set his gaze past the City toward the horizon, already lost in the gathering dusk. Eolyn suspected his thoughts were upon Rhiemsaven and the narrow road that wound from there toward the Pass of Aerunden, where the Syrnte awaited. 

“Apartments are being prepared for you here,” he said. “In the East Tower.”

“Your mother’s prison?” The words escaped her lips before she could consider them, but even as he tensed into a brief silence, she felt no desire to retract them. Briana had died in that tower, and Eolyn’s mother had been captured there and sentenced to a bitter fate.

“I am not incarcerating you,” he said. “Those apartments are spacious and well-appointed. Protected by powerful magic. It is the most secure place in this keep; indeed, in the entire kingdom. You will want for nothing, and you will be safe until I return.”

“I see.” Eolyn withdrew and let her hands rest upon the stone parapet. “This is most generous of you, Akmael, but it would be better if I stayed in the Mage’s Quarter. Thelyn has already agreed to help me find a place there.”

“I will not have it.”

She bristled. “I cannot remain in the castle. Ghemena needs me. She was devastated when she learned I would not stay with her tonight, and she is furious with me for not returning at once to Moehn to search for Tasha and Catarina.”

“Those girls are beyond your help now.”

“I know. But Ghemena does not understand this. This is not the moment to abandon her to the company of mages and strangers. She needs something of the past to hold her steady, and a maga as her tutor, that she might direct her magic toward the future.”

“She may stay here with you, in the East Tower.”

“Akmael, you cannot expect—”

“Eolyn.” He took her by the shoulders. “Tomorrow I leave this fortress to meet a formidable enemy about whom I know distressingly little. The future of this kingdom—of our people—weighs heavy on my heart. Give me at least this much peace: Let me depart knowing that you are well cared for, and safe.”

She held his gaze a moment, then lowered her eyes and nodded. “It will be as you wish, Akmael. I will stay in the East Tower, and Ghemena with me.”

“Thank you. You will be content, I promise you.”

He took her hands in his. “Your aura grows brighter as the shadows deepen. It is extraordinary in its colors, so richly hued.”

Desire flushed through her. So many years she had known him, yet the passion he inspired continued to fill her with awe and uncertainty. They kissed, an ardent promise of pleasures yet to come.

“We will descend at the next tower and return to my quarters,” he said, placing her hand in the crook of his arm. “Tzetobar expects one last audience before I depart. This night promises to be far too short.”

Akmael paused to study her again. A frown creased his brow, sending chill down Eolyn’s spine.

“What is it, Akmael? What do you see?”

“Your aura. It has changed.”

“A shadow? A place of no light?” Eolyn subdued a surge of panic. “It may a sign that the Naether Demons are coming.” 

“It is not a shadow I see.”

“Are you certain?”

“This thread is too beautiful to be a herald of those monsters.” Stepping close, Akmael ran his fingers just over her hair, as if sifting through currents of light. “I have never noticed it before. Of purest silver, like the sharpened edge of a newly forged sword, and shimmering, like water reflecting the sunlight. It disappears, then flickers back into brilliance.”

The pounding of Eolyn’s heart faded into stunned silence.

No, it cannot be
.
Not here. Not now.

“This troubles you?” he asked, noting the change in her expression. “Why?”

Long ago, Doyenne Ghemena had taught Eolyn how to recognize the transformative moments of a maga’s life. Each left a particular signature on the aura: the first kiss, the rites of Bel-Aethne, the discovery of love. The emergence of new life.

“It is a child.” Her whisper seemed to echo off the castle walls and city roofs. “It is our child, Akmael. Yours and mine, conceived in the highlands of Moehn.”

For what seemed an eternity he said nothing, dark eyes fixed upon hers, expression inscrutable. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I had thought that magas had ways to avoid—”

“We do! I did. I just couldn’t…Gods help me!” She covered her face with her hands.

What have I done?

The country was at war, and she with child. The King’s child. 
Bastard
they would call it. A crucible for more division and strife.

“Forgive me,” she said.

“Forgive?”

“I never intended for this to be your burden.”

She had made this choice in a time of peace, in a world already so obliterated Eolyn wondered if it had ever truly existed. Her daughter was meant to grow up among Eolyn’s sisters in the quiet province of Moehn, with picnics by the river, forays into the South Woods. Magic and friendship gracing her life. Violence and warfare a distant reality, the tragic plight of others.

Her existence would never have come to Akmael’s attention, and even if it had Eolyn would have said…

What would I have said? 

That the father was Borten, or the mother Adiana. That the newborn was abandoned as an orphan at their gate, wailing her distress on a frigid night. She would have said…

Akmael, this child, this beautiful child, is yours
. 

Because she understood in this moment, with utmost clarity, how impossible it would have been to ever lie to him.

Akmael wrapped his arms around Eolyn, pulling her so close she was scarcely left room to breathe.

“You ask my forgiveness when you have brought me the greatest of all joys,” he said.

Tears stung her eyes. She felt the intensity of emotion coursing through him, and feared all that Adiana had prophesized would now come true.

Please, by the grace of the Gods, let it be a girl.

“Come, now,” Akmael murmured, pressing his lips against her forehead. “It is time to rest.”

“We must speak about this first. It is most unexpected, and we cannot—” 

He silenced her with a tender kiss. “Do not be anxious about our son, Eolyn. His lineage is strong, and his destiny is great.”

“The child I carry in my womb will have enemies if the true father is known. We must take measures to ensure—”

“Whoever his enemies may be, they will not deter our prince.” Akmael set his hand upon Eolyn’s abdomen. “This child will have the protection of his father, the Mage King, and the magic of his mother, High Maga of Moisehén. The fruit of our love will wear the crown of my fathers, Eolyn. And no one shall stand in his way.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

At dawn, Eolyn accompanied
the King’s procession down the long winding road from the castle to the central square, then through the City to its massive gates.

Trumpeters and drummers headed the column, followed by a company of mage warriors. The King and his guard rode beneath flags of the royal house, the silver dragon of Vortingen against a purple night.

Behind Akmael’s guard came the High Mages of the Council, Eolyn among them. The mages bore richly embroidered cloaks of forest green. Eolyn had donned the traditional burgundy robes of a High Maga. Representatives of the noble households of Moisehén followed, each bearing their own sigil. This explosion of colors was muted by the onset of infantry and cavalry carrying purple flags at the rear.

People swarmed the streets and hung from windows and balconies, their aspect grim but hopeful. Old men shouted encouraging words, children offered trinkets of luck to the soldiers. Women cried out to the Mage King, pleading protection for their husbands, sons, and brothers.

Flowers were showered upon the King’s retinue, delicate blossoms of hawthorn and rosemary for courage and guardianship. When recognition of Maga Eolyn spread through the crowd, lilies and primroses were strewn in her path. 

Just outside the city gates, the bulk of Akmael’s forces were assembled. The long columns and rows made Eolyn’s breath come up short. Years before, she had seen the Mage King’s army arrayed against her brother’s men, but it seemed much larger now, more formidable and fearsome than ever before. 

Akmael raised Kel’Barú high, blade shining like the ivory moon. The soldiers responded with a deafening roar of allegiance.

Rarely had Eolyn felt so far removed from the moment when she first met this Prince of Vortingen, a lanky and uncertain youth lost in the lush corridors of the South Woods. Magic had seemed an innocuous game back then. Now the words of Doyenne Ghemena echoed ominously in her heart, and she understood the trepidation of the magas who had risen up against Akmael’s father. 

Mixing magical power with royal power is dangerous
.
You cannot have that much dominion in the hands of one family.

Now the course charted by Kedehen and honored by his son would continue in Eolyn’s child who, boy or girl, carried royal blood and magical power. The thought provoked a flutter in her womb, and the maga set a hand upon her abdomen to calm the movement.

At the Mage King’s command, the royal guard parted, opening a path between him and the High Mages. Tzetobar led the council members forward to meet the King, Thelyn at his right hand and Eolyn on his left.

Akmael and High Mage Tzetobar entered into a long, ritual exchange that symbolized the transfer of certain powers over affairs of the City in the King’s absence.

The rosy-cheeked diplomat had been informed of Eolyn’s situation in private council the night before. A new will had been drawn up, in which the King recognized Eolyn’s son as his own. One copy had been left with Tzetobar, the other with Eolyn, each bearing the seal of Vortingen.

“He is a man of utmost discretion,” Akmael had assured her. “He has served my house well and always acts in the best interests of the kingdom. If anything should happen to me, you must depend on him. You and the prince will be in capable hands.”

Eolyn did not share Akmael’s confidence. She felt only confusion and uncertainty, the troubling sensation of being dragged by currents beyond her control. Adiana’s warnings tormented her.

The Queen and all her offspring, and all those loyal to them, will hate him and wish him dead and see it done before he is old enough to understand his own power.

How could Eolyn know, so recently arrived to the City, who was loyal to the Queen and who was not? And how would Tzetobar interpret the best interests of the kingdom, if Akmael were slain and the Syrnte marching toward Moisehén? 

An intense desire for Mage Corey’s return surged in her breast. No one knew the murky labyrinth of politics in this kingdom as well as Corey. No one would be more devoted to the protection of this child, who for him would be much more than a Prince of Vortingen. Boy or girl, this infant was Corey’s long awaited heir to the Clan of East Selen. 

Another roar from the people startled Eolyn out of her reverie. The King and Tzetobar had finished their dialogue. Akmael’s eyes now rested upon Eolyn. Out of respect she lowered her gaze, the stillness of her body a rigid mask that concealed a burning desire to embrace him one more time.

“Maga Eolyn.” He drew close on his mount, and she lifted her eyes to his.

They had murmured their tender farewells in the predawn hours. His kisses had coursed over her face while she breathed in his essence of ancient stone and timeless magic, of leather and mail and the inception of war.

“You have your charge,” Akmael said. “See it done. I will be looking for your messengers in the coming days.”

“Yes, my Lord King. I will not disappoint you.”

A smile touched his lips, a rare expression for such a public event. He saluted her and the rest of the High Mages, then signaled his mount to turn away.

“My Lord King!”

Akmael halted at Eolyn’s call. With a nod, he bade her to continue.

“Return to us.” Her voice broke over the words. She struggled to steady her heart, to subdue the sting in her eyes. “You and all your men. Do not let the women of your city mourn their husbands. Do not let them raise their young in solitude.”

He studied her, an odd set to his jaw, uncommon compassion in his eyes.

A breath of dawn swept across the field of soldiers, its soothing whisper reflected in fluttering banners, in the hush of grass at their feet. A horse whinnied, another stamped. Metal clinked against metal, leather rasped against mail.

Still the Mage King held Eolyn in his gaze, as if she were the finest of treasures, a ribbon of beauty woven unexpectedly into the crude fabric of life.

“War leaves many widows, Maga Eolyn,” he said at last, his tone subdued, “but I will do my best to bring these men home, and leave no one unaccounted for. As for the woman to whom I am bound—the true Queen of Moisehén—she will have me at her side when this conflict is over. On this, you have my word.”

With that he departed, riders assembling behind him, spears and flags raised as they began their journey south.

The mages and noblemen separated. Those charged with attending the city—Eolyn, Tzetobar, and Thelyn among them—moved to the side of the road so that all who were to accompany the King might pass. 

They spent the better part of the morning watching company after company join the column, imparting blessings and invoking wards to protect man and beast.

When the last regiment of cavalry fell into place, camp followers forming a ragged tail behind them, mages and maga passed back through the city gates and journeyed up the winding road to the castle.

In the front courtyard, they were met by servants and stable hands. As Eolyn dismounted, she noticed Taesara and her ladies gathered on one of the high balconies. The Queen’s face was pale, her aspect weak. She did not acknowledge the arrival the mages and nobles, but kept her gaze directed resolutely south, where Eolyn imagined she could still see the long snaking column of Akmael’s army as it receded.

One of Taesara’s ladies—a dark haired woman—watched Eolyn instead. Her chin was lifted, her eyes narrowed. An unsettling look of triumph played on her thin lips. More than malice, Eolyn sensed from the woman an intense anticipation, as if she suffered from an unbearable thirst that was about to be quenched. 

“Maga Eolyn?” Thelyn appeared at her side.

Eolyn broke away from the wordless exchange, grateful for the High Mage’s distraction.

“I thought we might, after a brief repast, continue our work in Master Tzeremond’s quarters.”

“Of course, Mage Thelyn. I was thinking just the same.”

They had visited the wizard’s rooms the day before, but there had been little time for more than a cursory tour of the labyrinthine apartments. Thelyn had assured her little had changed since Tzeremond’s death. Years had passed, yet no one seemed anxious to occupy the the Master’s dwelling or raid its artifacts.

Eolyn could see why. Tzeremond’s spirit still lingered in that place. At times, his form melted out of the dank shadows, only to vanish again when she spun to confront him. The piercing gaze of his amber eyes seemed to follow her every step, raising the hairs on Eolyn’s neck, making her arms tingle with anxiety. 

Today when she arrived after a modest meal, the mood of the place was somewhat improved. Thelyn must have spoken with one of the stewards, for Eolyn found servants busy removing dust sheets from the simple furniture and scrubbing the neglected stone floors. A number of windows had been opened, bringing in fresh air and allowing the midday light to chase away shadows and ghosts. 

Amidst the bustle Thelyn waited, polished cherry wood staff in hand. He greeted her with a bow of respect and said, “You have not brought your staff, Maga Eolyn. May I suggest we send for it? This will likely be an arduous task, requiring the channeling of much magic.”

“I understand, Mage Thelyn, but unfortunately I no longer have my staff. I left it in the care of Mage Corey.”

Thelyn cocked one brow in surprise. “You entrusted your staff to Corey?”

“Yes.” Eolyn pushed away the doubt that still haunted her from that decision.
It is far too late for regrets now
. “His staff was damaged when he arrived in Moehn. So I offered him mine, that he might better protect my ward, Mariel.”

“I see.” A bemused frown crossed Thelyn’s face, followed by a shrug. “You are braver person than I, Maga Eolyn. Though, if Mage Corey were to honor anyone’s confidence, I daresay it would be yours.”

Eolyn was not sure how to respond to this.

“Let us proceed, then.” Thelyn gave a sweeping gesture toward one of the darkened narrow corridors. “Ours is a formidable charge, and the war will not wait.”