Eolyn

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  “Fool!” Lord Felton came up behind Borten and struck him on the head. Not once had Akmael witnessed the congenial Felton lift his hand against another man, but that day the patriarch of Moehn drew his sword and might have run the knight through, had not the King lifted a trembling hand.

  “Wait.” Kedehen’s voice rasped like dry leaves.

  “Lord Felton, stay your hand!” commanded the prince.

  Felton paused, his bushy white brows crouched low over angry blue eyes.

  “It is my father’s wish,” Akmael said.

  The portly man sheathed his sword. By now, several others had approached, including Lords Herensen of Selkynsen and Baramon of Selen.

  Kedehen laid a hand on the prince’s forearm. “Let him be, Akmael. Let the boy go.”

  It was an inexplicable request from a King who had rarely shown mercy during his reign.

  “He dealt a…fair blow.” Kedehen exhaled a long shaky breath. “The will of the Gods…Do not send him to the Afterlife, he might cause me more trouble there.” Kedehen let go a hoarse chuckle, perplexing Akmael even further. The prince had never seen his father so much as smile. “Pardon him. Bring him to the City. He is a knight to have at your side.”

  “My Lord Prince, if you would allow me.” The court healer, High Mage Rezlyn, appeared at Akmael’s side. His dark beard was streaked with red and silver, his hazel eyes filled with anxiety.

  Akmael stood and turned the King over to Rezlyn’s care. Kedehen closed his good eye. His breath continued shallow but even. Rezlyn’s aged fingers traced the wound with great care.

  Borten remained hunched on his knees, his blond hair casting a thin shadow over a smooth face. Sweat ran in rivulets down his neck.

  Though Kedehen had commanded Borten be spared, to pardon a King’s assassin in front of the assembled nobles of Moisehén would give the appearance of weakness, something Akmael could not afford in this of all moments.

  “Arrest him.” Akmael nodded to the King’s guard. “We will see to his fate once we have attended to my father.”

  In the sanctuary of Kedehen’s chambers, High Mage Rezlyn removed all he could of the splintered wood. He washed the wound and applied fresh poultices every few hours. He varied the portions of yarrow, vervain, tormentil, john’s wort and fox’s clote to fight infection, and added fennel and elecampane so that the delicate tissues of the eye might heal. He administered cowbane in hopes of abating the agony.

  Despite Rezlyn’s tireless efforts, within days the flesh surrounding the wound began to rot. Puss flowed in a sour mass from the ruined socket. The King’s chambers filled with the stench of death.

  Reluctantly, medicinal herbs and healing ointments were replaced by abundant winter sage and lavender. Thick midnight blue candles were lit in preparation for Kedehen’s passage to the Afterlife.

  Many nobles and mages requested a final audience with the King, but he would receive no one except his healer and his son. Even his lifelong mentor, the wizard Tzeremond, was driven from the room with mad shouts and curses.

  The King was losing his mind as well as his life.

  Prince Akmael remained at his father’s side from the time of the accident until the moment of his death. Those unfamiliar with the ways of the royals might have interpreted this as an expression of love, but theirs had never been an affectionate relationship. Still, Akmael felt a profound sense of loss at Kedehen’s departure. Since the day Queen Briana had brought him into this world, Akmael had been prepared to assume his father’s place. Yet no one warned him of the heavy sense of solitude that would descend upon him in this moment.

  “Akmael.” It was the seventh morning following the accident when Kedehen called to his son one last time. The pale blue light of predawn filtered through the narrow windows of the King’s chambers. “Are we alone?”

  Akmael glanced up at High Mage Rezlyn, who had kept vigil with him these seven days. With a reverent nod, the healer departed.

  Kedehen opened his feverish eye and fixed it on his son. The flickering light of the candles cast his image in shades of gray and yellow. One side of his face had bloated under the pressure of accumulated rot, the other had sunk into a landscape of dark pits and hollows. His mouth was slack and exuded a foul air. Still Akmael leaned forward to hear his words. He took his father’s burning hand in his.

  Kedehen’s voice came hoarse and strained. “You found one, didn’t you? One that you never told us about. Clever, treacherous boy.”

  “Found what, my Lord King?” For days now his father’s ravings had confused Akmael. He wondered if he, too, would lose all sense of reason when his time came.

  “A maga,” Kedehen hissed. “You found a maga.”

  Akmael withdrew in surprise, though he did not release his father’s hand.

  Eolyn.

  It had been years since the Prince had known anything of his friend from the South Woods, though the Gods knew he had tried to find her. In all this time he had not spoken of Eolyn to anyone.

  “The Queen calls to me from across the Plains of the Dead,” Kedehen said. “She has whispered your secrets to me.”

  “You can hear Mother?”

  “Deadly witch, that Briana…” A retching cough overtook Kedehen. Akmael brought a flask of herbed wine to his lips. The King drank and wheezed. “By the Gods I loved her…love her still. She’ll try to kill you.”

  “The Queen?”

  “The maga.”

  “She does not know how to kill.”

  “The sword she speaks to does.”

  “The girl understands too little of swords to—”

  “She is no longer a girl. This weapon loves her. It will do as she asks.” More nonsense. A blade could no more love a woman than a horse could fly, and Eolyn had never mastered the sword. “Take great care with her. Keep her alive. Seduce her, or she will destroy you.”

  Akmael shook his head. His father could not be speaking of his childhood companion. There must be someone else, another maga in the kingdom who posed a threat.

  “Seduce her, Akmael. Convince her to bear your sons. Destroy any sisters she has…Do as I did. Only then will your power be absolute.”

  Kedehen tried to inhale, but his body revolted at the effort. Violent convulsions shook him. When at last the seizures stopped, his grip on Akmael’s hand relaxed. His ashen lips curved in a thin smile as he released his final words.

  “I knew the Gods would save one for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A New King

  Prince Akmael assumed the Crown of Vortingen on the twelfth day after his father’s death. The ceremony took place on the Stone Foundation of Vortingen, a smooth outcrop of granite just north of the castle walls.

  Sir Drostan stood alongside eleven other members of the Council of High Mages. Opposite them were patriarchs of the provinces, Lords Herensen, Baramon, and Felton among them. A grim magic floated on the morning mist, as if the surprise of Kedehen’s death had not yet worn off. Low thunder and dim flashes of lightning crowded the northern horizon. Careful expressions of sorrow and regret masked the noblemen’s thoughts, which Sir Drostan imagined laden with treacherous possibilities, now that Kedehen’s iron hand had been obliterated.

  The natural contours of the Stone Foundation mimicked the shape of the lands of Moisehén: the plains of the north, the wide river of Selkynsen to the west, the rolling hills that gave way to mountainous terrain toward the south and east. This was the place where Dragon granted the crown to the ancient warrior chief Vortingen. With each passing generation, the castle he built grew until it became the formidable complex that now occupied almost half the hillside.

  Master Tzeremond presided over the ceremony, offering the silver circlet in solemn song to East, South, West and North, before placing it on the young royal’s head. Standing tall in his flowing robes, the wizard raised his staff high and invoked the sacred name of Dragon.

  Ehekatu naeomed ahmuni ay des Vortingen!

  Ehekatu naeomed ano K
aht, Akmael!

  In a single movement, mages and nobles knelt before their new regent.

  Afterwards, the King descended from the castle and passed through the city streets on horseback. Tzeremond rode at his right hand with the High Mages behind them. The attending nobles and knights of Moisehén followed.

  Despite the damp air, people came out in great numbers. Women threw lilies in their path, a symbol of hope for a renewed and peaceful realm. People sang and danced. Still, the reception paled in comparison to Sir Drostan’s memories of the ascent of King Urien some two generations before.

  A mere boy riding on his grandfather’s broad shoulders, Drostan had watched Urien progress through streets filled with colorful banners and boisterous song. Couples danced in his path, and children ran laughing among the plodding horses. Behind the King, mage and maga warriors marched some three thousand strong, their flaming staffs held high and their skillfully handled swords shining in the summer sun.

  For young Drostan, the knights of Vortingen had seemed a dreary complement to the charismatic power of those mages. That was the day he had declared, with the pure enthusiasm of a very young child, “I want to be a mage warrior, too!”

  It sobered him now to remember the naïve hopes of that little boy. He never imagined it his destiny to see those gifted men and women tear each other apart on the battlefield. Nor had he expected his oath would obligate him to take the great tradition of Caedmon, once shared by thousands, and entrust it to the fate of a single prince.

  Only a few hours had passed after Akmael’s coronation when Sir Drostan received his first summons from the new King. The knight arrived at the council chamber to find the regent deep in conversation with Master Tzeremond. They sat at a long table made from a single panel of solid black oak, the same place where Kedehen had met with his Council and made the most important decisions of his reign.

  Military and magical artifacts adorned the room. Large windows along the southern wall afforded a strategic view of the rolling plains below. Like all the chambers of the King’s apartments, it had been cleaned, aired and laid with fresh rushes. Yet Drostan could not rid his senses of the rot that had destroyed the King’s face, and he felt Kedehen’s ghost lingering in the shadows.

  The guards who admitted Drostan closed the doors behind him. Akmael beckoned him to approach.

  “Master Tzeremond has informed me of the elaborate project undertaken at my father’s bidding to better understand foreign and exotic forms of magic,” Akmael said as Drostan took his place. “It seems to me a lot of effort for a threat that is at best suspected.”

  “The shadow of the magas clings to this land.” Tzeremond’s lips were drawn, and his bony hands worked against his rowan staff. “Despite our most diligent efforts at eradicating them, there are murmurings in Selen of a snow witch who inhabits the eastern forests. And last summer just outside Moehn, we had a confirmed report of subversive witchcraft. A woman traveling alone tried to seduce two boys. When they resisted, she shape shifted into a lynx and attacked them before disappearing into the night.”

  While Tzeremond spoke, Drostan kept a careful eye on his new liege. The young King had inherited all the hard lines of his father’s face, but had not yet mastered the use of that stony countenance. Something flickered behind his dark eyes at the mention of the witch from Moehn, though it was gone before Sir Drostan could capture its essence.

  “Two witches do not comprise an armed rebellion.” Akmael’s gaze turned to Sir Drostan, inviting the knight to speak. Was this why he had been summoned, to mediate in the first disagreement between King and wizard? The thought did not please Sir Drostan at all.

  “My Lord King, as you know, I leave the question of how to find and exterminate subversive magic to Master Tzeremond.” Sir Drostan directed a respectful nod toward the wizard. “Though I agree it is an uneasy peace your father achieved. The possibility of an armed rebellion can never be taken lightly, especially at the dawn of a prince’s reign. As Master Tzeremond may have informed you, this past fall border guards intercepted a small caravan filled with arms. What they carried was not much, but it was meant for battle. We cannot tell how many more of these shipments have entered our lands unnoticed during recent years.”

  “Did you question the drivers?”

  “There were only three men who accompanied the carts. All of them tried to escape, and just one was apprehended alive.”

  “The King turned him over to us for questioning,” Master Tzeremond added, “but he perished before revealing anything.”

  “Perished, Master Tzeremond?”

  “My Lord King, as you are aware, the more stubborn the criminal the more rigorous the techniques applied. High Mage Baedon oversaw the process personally, prolonging the interrogation for weeks, but in the end the prisoner did not last long enough to give us the information we sought.”

  “What your father and the Council suspected was an armed movement organized through the use of primitive and foreign magic,” Drostan said. “The integration of such forces, if not stopped in time, could pose a serious threat to the peace of the kingdom.”

  “Why was I not informed of this while my father was alive?”

  The question generated an awkward silence. Sir Drostan inadvertently met Tzeremond’s gaze. Kedehen held no one above suspicion of treachery, except perhaps this wizard who once sat at his right hand.

  “He thought I might be involved.” Akmael spoke as if realizing it for the first time. “He suspected I might use this movement to betray him!”

  “My Lord King,” Tzeremond responded smoothly, “your father bore you great respect. In his heart, he did not wish to believe you capable of treason, but any prudent King would take similar precautions when it comes to his closest heirs. It is not wise to let pride or affection cloud one’s judgment when defending the Crown. Your father understood this, as must you.”

  “I see.” If the King found Tzeremond’s paternalistic tone insulting, he did not reveal it. “Very well. Any grievance I have with my father will have to wait until the Afterlife. Master Tzeremond, you will keep me informed of your findings. I would also have an audience with High Mage Thelyn, and any other mage involved in this project.”

  “As you wish, my Lord King.”

  “Sir Drostan, we need to increase our vigilance along the borders and monitor the activity of our blacksmiths. You will also report back to me with a full assessment of the defenses of this city and our readiness in the event of an uprising.”

  Sir Drostan nodded. He had much to say regarding their readiness in the event of an attack, though little of it could be spoken in front of Tzeremond. The Crown of Vortingen commanded foot soldiers and knights aplenty, and the fortress was as impenetrable as it had ever been. But the class of mage warriors was near extinct. Master Tzeremond had anointed only a handful of High Mages these past twenty years, and just one of them, Akmael, had been trained in the arts of war. The prince had grown into an accomplished fighter under Sir Drostan’s tutelage, but the legions that once defended the heart and soul of Moisehén were gone.

  “May I suggest, my Lord King,” Tzeremond said, “that it would be useful at this early stage in your reign to organize a progress by the Riders, so the people might be reminded of the price of treason?”

  Just what the wizard would recommend. A band of knights without honor to ravage the countryside. Kedehen would not have hesitated at the suggestion, but Akmael paused. His jaw worked against some unspoken thought.

  “My Lord King?” Tzeremond prompted.

  “No, Master Tzeremond. No. I would have the Riders disbanded.”

  Sir Drostan’s breath stopped short in surprise.

  “That was my father’s way. It is not mine.”

  “My Lord King,” Tzeremond stammered, “I do not think it wise.”

  “I have not solicited your opinion, Master Tzeremond. This is a military matter, and the King has decided. Sir Drostan, see that it is done.”

  “Yes, my Lord
King.” Drostan could taste Tzeremond’s fury like a stinging mist. The wizard was not accustomed to having his opinion overlooked by the King of Moisehén.

  “There is another matter we have not yet settled, Drostan,” the King continued. “Regarding Sir Borten. We will respect my father’s wishes. The man is not to return to Moehn. Keep him here for one year and have him perform whatever service you deem appropriate in support of our men-at-arms. At the end of that period, if he has served well and proves worthy, we will consider incorporating him as a Knight of Vortingen.”

  “My Lord King.” Sir Drostan nodded. Though less pleased by this command, he was bound by duty to obey.

  Tzeremond moved as if to speak, but Akmael raised his hand and dismissed them both. “That will be all.”

  Though the wizard held his tongue as they departed, Drostan was not fooled. Tzeremond would seek a way to make the King’s will reflect his own, and he would not rest until he succeeded.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Summons

  Soon after Corey’s Circle set up in the town of Selen, High Mage Thelyn paid them a visit. The Council Member arrived on horseback with a small escort of men-at-arms bearing the colors and crest of the royal house of Vortingen.

  Dressed in attire that accrued to his station, Thelyn dismounted with easy grace. A square cap sat upon his head, and he carried a staff of polished cherry wood. His forest green cloak hung in long, loose folds. Tall and well groomed, Thelyn wore this uniform very well.

  Mage Corey greeted Thelyn warmly, glad to see his old friend. Corey and Thelyn were of a similar age and had studied magic together in the King’s City. Though Thelyn did not share Corey’s natural talent, he had a higher tolerance for Tzeremond’s character and an innate skill for the political maneuvers necessary to excel in his Order. He commanded an impressive knowledge of Primitive Magic, and had supported the unique work of the Circle from the very beginning.