“Her power is inconsequential to the outcome of this conflict.”
“You underestimate her abilities, my Lord King. A mistake your father would never have made.”
The King turned his black gaze upon the wizard. Hairs rose on the back of Drostan’s neck. Had Tzeremond lost all sense of discretion, comparing the King to his father and finding him wanting?
Tzeremond lifted his chin, lips tight and shoulders set. “I speak frankly, my Lord King, for your good and for the good of this kingdom.”
“Master Tzeremond,” the King spoke through clenched teeth, “she is but one maga. My father destroyed an entire Order of her kind.”
“Your father sent whatever survived of that rabble to the pyre because he knew one maga is enough to bring down a kingdom.” Master Tzeremond’s amber eyes burned in defiance. “One is certainly enough to bring down an army. You have not confronted a maga in war, so you do not know the spells they can cast. We must destroy her before we meet them if possible, and early in the battle if not.”
Sir Drostan cleared his throat. “Even by our most generous estimates, the rebel army cannot number more than half of the King’s fighting force, especially once the lords of Selkynsen join us. We have twelve High Mages, a Master, and several mage warriors still fit for battle. We have our most worthy Mage King. One maga cannot contend with all of that. The decision of the rebels to take the Pass of Aerunden is clever, but it will accomplish little in end. This dispute will be short lived, no matter where we meet them in battle, no matter what the extent of her powers.”
“She stopped a red flame without a staff in her hand!” Tzeremond shot back. “She made the very foundations of this fortress tremble. No mage or maga of this land has ever accomplished such a thing.”
“She may have unusual powers,” the King conceded, “but she has no training in warfare. She cannot craft a death flame or manipulate fear or invoke any of the techniques we use to vanquish our enemies. She can use her skills only in self-defense. It has long been a limitation of her training.”
Tzeremond snorted, “You speak as if you know her. None of us know her. We’ve had no luck tracing her past.”
The King paused before announcing pointedly, “I do know her, Tzeremond. I have known her for years.”
Astonished, Sir Drostan stared at his King. Tzeremond lost his color. The flames of Dragon himself could not have broken their stunned silence. The old wizard’s breath seemed to catch on his tongue. One hand moved restlessly through the air as if in search of something to support his shock. With visible effort, he pushed a single word out of his throat.
“How?”
“By the will of the Gods, Master Tzeremond.”
The old mage blinked like a confused child.
“This is indeed fortunate.” Sir Drostan interjected with care, uncertain whether it was wise to speak at all. “We have direct knowledge of this woman’s abilities, then. It will save us much time and unnecessary preparation.”
“Who trained her?” Tzeremond’s voice was hoarse. Drostan had the distinct impression the old wizard was no longer aware of his presence.
“One of the Doyennes of the Old Orders,” the King said, “a hag by the name of Ghemena.”
“Ghemena?” The wizard hissed. His staff nearly slipped from his hand. “You knew Ghemena?”
“I never met her, but the young maga spoke of her often.”
“That’s impossible!” Tzeremond exploded with rage. “Berlingen was destroyed! Everybody perished. Sir Drostan, you gave me your word no one escaped!”
Drostan’s heart skipped a beat under Tzeremond’s sudden focus. The knight managed to hold his voice steady, but only with tremendous effort. “We intercepted no one that night. Perhaps the Doyenne found a way to slip through our nets unnoticed, though it is more likely she left before the raid started.”
Tzeremond retreated into a lengthy silence. A summer breeze shifted through the southern windows. From the western tower they heard the rhythmic calls of the changing of the guard.
At last Tzeremond raised his amber eyes. His expression softened, and he adjusted his grip on the staff. “If it was Ghemena who taught her, then you are correct in your assessment of her powers, my Lord King. I knew that Doyenne well. She was incapable of training any maga in the noble arts of war. If you will…If you will excuse me, I would share this information with the High Mages. As Sir Drostan has so wisely acknowledged, it will make an important difference in how we prepare for this battle.”
The King narrowed his eyes. “You are under oath to do her no harm, Tzeremond. If you defy my orders, you shall pay for it with your life.”
“My Lord King.” Tzeremond’s tone was subdued and humble, his gaze direct. “I would never betray you or this kingdom. My long years of service to your father demonstrated that.”
Akmael studied the wizard’s face before conceding. “Very well, Master Tzeremond. You are dismissed.”
With a deep bow, the wizard turned to leave. Sir Drostan moved to follow, but the King bade the knight to remain with a subtle gesture of his hand.
As soon as the doors closed behind Tzeremond, Akmael approached Sir Drostan, his voice low, his expression severe. “For the moment, dear knight, I will not question your decision to lie in the presence of Tzeremond, but nor will I tolerate any attempt to deceive me. You will tell me the truth of what happened in Berlingen, and you will tell me at once.”
Unnerved, Drostan shifted on his feet. Ever since his induction as a Knight of Vortingen, he had prided himself in being an honest and loyal warrior. But once, a long time ago, he deceived his liege, and now that transgression had returned to condemn him, just as he always feared it would.
“My Lord King,” he said. “I have served the Kings of Vortingen faithfully all my life, and with your father made no exception. I followed him into war and defended the Crown to the best of my ability. Even so, with all due respect to our dead King, I have always believed the war he asked us to fight, the war brought upon us by the magas, was a war without honor. We slaughtered our brothers and sisters on the battlefield, and extinguished the brilliance of our heritage with the blood of our kin.”
Sir Drostan paused, confounded by his loose tongue. What did his thoughts on the war have to do with Berlingen? Indeed, what did it matter whether he agreed with the war or not? A knight’s duty was to follow his king.
He searched his liege’s face for some sign of judgment, but Akmael’s expression remained impassive. The King nodded, bidding the knight to continue.
“The Abbey of Berlingen was not a military target. It was a retreat for the oldest and wisest of mages and magas, an unrivaled storehouse of magical knowledge. We were sent to Berlingen on the pretense of evacuating those revered men and women to a safer place. But when we arrived, the seal of the King’s orders was broken and the true objective of our mission revealed. The soldiers sent with us, men selected for their eagerness to kill, set upon the abbey, burned everything to its foundations and cut down everyone within. The mage warriors took posts in the surrounding terrain, under orders to kill anyone who tried to escape.
“I intercepted Doyenne Ghemena quite by chance. The knight Sir Varyl accompanied her. I did not know how he came to be there, for he was not among the company sent to execute the raid. When he saw me, he unsheathed his sword to defend her. Varyl was a skilled fighter, but he was not a mage warrior. I could have defeated him easily, yet what would that have left me? I trained to be a warrior in the tradition of Caedmon, a knight of the House of Vortingen, not a thief in the woods and murderer of old women. So I let them pass, and I never reported their escape.”
The King’s brow furrowed. “You did not know what happened to Doyenne Ghemena after that?”
“No, my Lord King. Not until today.”
Drostan felt Akmael’s senses upon him, measuring the pulse in his temples, the lines of his face, the shift of his eyes.
“Why did you remain in the service of my father all these ye
ars, if you felt so strongly about the war?” the King asked.
“When I spared Ghemena’s life, she entrusted something me, a tiny purse meant for your mother. I was but a knight then, and even when granted a place on the Council, I had few chances to see the Queen, much less deliver such an incriminating gift. But eventually I succeeded, and after that she…Well, she was kinder to me. The Queen told me I would one day regain my honor, but only if I continued to serve the Kings of Moisehén.”
“And was her promise fulfilled?”
Sir Drostan drew a shaky breath. “My Lord King, forgive my boldness in saying so, but I have always believed you have the makings of a great ruler. It is in serving you that I have hoped to recuperate my honor.”
“I see. Yet I, too, am leading you into war against your own people.”
“Ernan’s followers are nothing more than mercenaries and dishonest men. Even if he recruited some of our own, the people of Moisehén who march with him do not fight against you, they fight against the memory of your father. Moisehén suffered much under the war and the purges that followed. There is a desire among the people to play out their vengeance. They have yet to separate you from our dead King.”
Akmael’s lips compressed into a puzzled frown.
Sir Drostan lowered his gaze. Years had passed since he had spoken so frankly, and a great weight now lifted from his shoulders. Still, he expected the worst. His disobedience in Berlingen was an act of treason, punishable by death.
The King broke the heavy silence with an abrupt laugh.
Sir Drostan withdrew a step, surprise mingling with trepidation. He had not seen his prince so much as smile since the days of Akmael’s youth.
The King’s hand fell upon Drostan’s shoulder with a heavy clap.
“Do not worry, loyal knight,” Akmael said. “I will not punish you for disobedience. I need your head firmly on your shoulders if we are to succeed in this battle, for we will be fighting on many fronts.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tzeremond’s Torment
Tzeremond strode down the castle corridors, dark robes flowing behind him, magic crackling through his staff. He did not acknowledge the guards who saluted his passing. When he arrived at his quarters, he sent his chamber servants away, shut the door behind them, and leaned against the solid oak. His hands trembled, and his breath came in wheezing gasps.
Drawing air deliberately into his lungs, Tzeremond stood, steadied himself on his staff, and continued through the maze of small chambers that led to the heart of his apartments.
He reached a place sealed by magic and accessible only to him. A dark, windowless sanctuary illuminated by gray candles, littered with secret books and parchments, and adorned with numerous magical objects.
Opening a small box of ironwood, Tzeremond pulled his most treasured tool from its resting place among sheets of black silk. The polished crystal stared back at him, a faint glow in its black heart.
Divination is a reckless form of magic.
He jumped at her voice, glanced around, but saw nothing.
Sending a soft curse into the shadows, Tzeremond sat at one of the cluttered tables. He shoved aside papers, books, and instruments. Then he laid the crystal sphere in front of him. Closing his eyes, he spread his long fingers over its smooth face.
Ehekaht, naeom veham
Renenem pelau
Erenahm uturm se sepuenem eom
She laughed at him. “You can’t see the future in a rock, my love.”
“I saw our future well enough!” he spat back.
“Did you, Tzeremond?”
That voice, its sad lyrical beauty, like a knife through his heart.
Tzeremond looked up, and there she stood. Young and beautiful, just as she was so many forgotten years ago. Her eyes shone gray like the autumn dusk, her platinum hair ran in a silky river down her back. Her fine linen gown was drawn loose about pale shoulders. A melancholy smile graced her lips.
“One day that toy will mislead you,” she said, “and you will regret it.”
“It was you who misled me!” he cried “That is the only regret I have.”
She lowered her eyes, and her image dissolved like a mist.
Tzeremond returned to the cloud-filled crystal and repeated his spell. The device may have failed him these past weeks, but by the Gods, it would not fail him now.
He focused all his will on its smoky depths, until images began to dance through the glass. For hours he sat deep in concentration, combing the past in search of a connection he had missed, a critical thread he had failed to cut.
As the candles burned low, he found her: a child racing into the woods. Her laughter mocked the autumn wind. Her magic was still too weak to be detected under the cover of that ancient canopy. Tzeremond watched as Riders ravaged her village. He saw the Guendes lead the girl away and take her across the river, through an enchanted forest that parted like a curtain to reveal the lost home of a woman he once believed dead.
Ghemena.
With an unnatural roar, Tzeremond took the crystal and flung it against the wall. The smooth glass shattered into a million indigo flames that flared and dissolved like quicksilver. Light faded into darkness. Tzeremond let his weary head sink into his hands, clutched at his graying hair, and wept.
They outwitted us.
Somehow, the dead magas had lifted spells out of their graves with their cold, charred fingers. They had saved Ghemena. Then they had delivered to her a girl who could corrupt a prince.
How very clever their ruse. How innocent the young maga must have appeared! How ingenuous the boy who found and befriended her.
No wonder the problems with Akmael persisted after the death of his mother: the insolence, the barely concealed skepticism, the arrogant insistence on questioning the obvious. A student of similar temperament but different breeding would have been barred from further training, but this was Kedehen’s only son, destined to become High Mage and King.
For years, Tzeremond had tried to convince Kedehen to take another queen, but to no avail. With a second prince, the future of Moisehén might have been secured and the scourge of female magic forever extinguished.
But the Gods had not willed it so. They had left Moisehén at the mercy of this insipid King, a man who pardoned his father’s assassin, set a maga free at Bel-Aethne, and treated the heretic Corey like an honored guest.
And now he wants the maga for himself.
It could not be allowed to happen. Kedehen had the strength to resist the darker influences of Briana, but his son was of a different constitution. This witch would be Akmael’s ruin, and with him the ruin of an entire kingdom.
With weary determination, Tzeremond recognized the path before him. Redeeming the young King would be difficult, a complex and delicate undertaking. It would require much of the wizard, perhaps the rest of his life and magic. But the Gods reserved the greatest tasks for their most dedicated servants, and Tzeremond resolved to accept this challenge with gratitude and humility.
The future of his people depended on him.
Filling his lungs anew, Tzeremond dried his tears and lifted his head. He extended his hands to the candles, restoring them to their full height and steady glow.
Much of the night would pass before he found the curse he sought among the stacks of books and parchments. It was an ancient spell, meant for the most troublesome of enemies, so powerful he would need assistance to control it. But Tzeremond knew who among the High Mages were loyal. He copied the spell faithfully and tucked the parchment into his robe.
When he extinguished the candles and returned to his bedchamber, dawn’s pale light was just beginning to filter through tall windows.
“Ghemena,” he whispered, lifting his face to the new day. “You have played your last hand. Now watch as play mine.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ahmad-kupt
The march from Selen to the Pass of Aerunden proved arduous. Ernan’s column snaked forward at a tedious pace. Th
e stink of urine and manure followed them everywhere. The longer Eolyn rode at her brother’s side, the greater her distaste for this endeavor the Gods had handed her.
Ernan’s men took what they wanted from fields and farmers, filling wagons with grain and slaughtering pigs or cattle wherever they pleased. Girls showed up from villages, bartering pleasure in exchange for food or coin. When Eolyn asked Ernan to put a stop to these practices, he laughed, though not unkindly.
“I cannot ask my men to fight on empty stomachs,” he said. “And if they have other appetites that need filling before they confront their fate on the battlefield, who am I to stand in their way?”
“At least pay the farmers for their food,” Eolyn insisted.
“Their liberation from the Mage King will be payment enough.”
With that, her brother turned his attention to other matters.
They were still a couple days east of Aerunden when Renate caught up with them, one afternoon.
Some weeks before, the mistress had retired to Corey’s estate, claiming she was too old to lend further service to the rebellion. Eolyn had tried to convince her otherwise, but without success.
Renate’s unexpected arrival sent a wave of excitement through the camp. The mistress had undergone a visible change. The lines of her face no longer ran so deep, and the silver gray of her hair had given way to intermittent strands of charcoal. She wore midnight blue colors of a Middle Maga.
Overjoyed by this transformation, Eolyn greeted Renate with a full embrace and a kiss of friendship. Together, they retired to the privacy of the High Maga’s tent.
“I departed East Selen as soon as word of Corey’s arrest reached me,” Renate said as they sat down. “It is a tragedy, Eolyn. A tremendous loss for all of us.”
“We cannot give ourselves over to mourning just yet. Rishona’s dreams indicate Corey is alive, and his injuries have been attended to.”
Eolyn Page 27
