She paused, embarrassed to speak of such childish memories in such a grave moment. But then she felt him smile in the dark, and it brought her comfort.
“Well,” he said, “if the Gods call me home tomorrow, you must lay out sweetbread again. And a mug of ale, while you’re at it. I’ve heard there’s no good drink to be found in the Afterlife.”
“Don’t jest about that, Ernan. I lost you once. I can’t bear the thought of losing you again.”
He stepped close, catching her off guard with the sudden awareness of his ephemeral warmth. “Eolyn, if I do not survive tomorrow—”
“You will survive. Don’t even suggest you won’t.”
“If things go badly for us,” he insisted, “if you see my lines break, you must take your horse and ride as fast as you can to the head of this pass. Tahmir has several of his riders stationed there. They will escort you to safety.”
“Tahmir?” An odd anxiety crept into her heart.
“The Syrnte know a way through the South Woods, a little traveled path that skirts the western flank of the Paramen Mountains and leads to their homeland. You will go with them, and you will not return.”
“You and Tahmir agreed to this plan without consulting me?”
“Promise me you will put yourself in the care of his men.”
“No! No, I will promise no such thing, because I will not abandon my people, and you will not fail.”
Ernan drew a long breath and turned to the valley, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword. She wanted to remember this image forever, the cut of his profile against the shadows, his scent of leather and summer grass. She hardly knew her brother, and now he threatened to leave her again. Something deep inside rent in two. Eolyn stifled the sob that rose in her heart.
Ernan glanced upwards as if searching the stars. Then he set his gaze upon her. “Eolyn, dear sister, if I said anything in these days past that offended or upset you, I apologize. I know where your loyalty lies. I know what you want for yourself and for our people. I have never doubted you, or the destiny that brought us here. Not for a moment.”
Eolyn understood her brother was not being entirely honest, but it did not matter. Tomorrow he would march toward fields of death with her memory in his heart. He would seek out his vengeance, thinking to honor her, hoping to venerate their mother. He needed this reconciliation, and she would not deny it to him.
“I know, brother,” she said. “Nor have I ever doubted you. If it is within my power to bring you to victory tomorrow, then I will see it done.”
Ernan nodded. Unsheathing Kel’Barú, he proffered the blade to her. “I would be greatly honored, Maga Eolyn, if you would speak to my weapon tonight, and keep it by your side while you make your final petition to the Gods.”
This was an old tradition on the eve of battle in Moisehén. In all probability, Akmael was offering his own sword to Tzeremond at this very moment. Eolyn accepted Kel’Barú with a bow of respect. “The honor is mine, brother. I will care for your sword and commend it to Dragon.”
Ernan embraced her and departed.
Kneeling at the center of her circle, Eolyn laid the sword in front of her. Kel’Barú’s pale blade reflected the river of stars that illuminated the clear sky. The grass felt cool and soft against her knees. Evening songs of frogs and crickets floated out of the trees in a soothing cadence. Under any other circumstance, this night would have inspired the tranquility of the infinite. But the sun would set over bloody fields tomorrow, and the moon would rise over ravens and wolves.
On the north side of the valley, Eolyn could see the purple blue flames of Tzeremond’s fire. She imagined the old wizard kneeling beside it, observing the same rites and invoking the same spells as she, honoring the same traditions shaped by so many generations before them.
How can a people with so much in common be so divided?
Akmael would be making his way down that hill now, his expression severe, his dark gaze focused. Upon entering the camp, he would greet his men with words of encouragement, perhaps an occasional handshake or clap on the shoulder. Before retiring to his tent, he would look toward the northern ridge and observe the fire where she knelt. He would wonder if she were blessing the sword intended to kill him.
A deep shudder took hold at the base of Eolyn’s spine and traveled up through her shoulders. She covered her face with her hands.
“I cannot do this, Kel’Barú,” she confessed in tears. “I cannot ask you to slay Akmael.”
The blade shifted as if moved by some unseen hand.
“But if I do not ask you to slay him, I may be sending my brother to his death.”
The wizard’s weapon lay in silence. For all its enchantment, Kel’Barú was more a loyal dog than a sentient being. It could not give advice or comfort. It could only wait to hear her bidding while humming quiet songs of warriors killed and battles won.
Eolyn drew a shaky breath and took the sword in her hands. The magic of the weapon shifted, connecting to her spirit and will. She pressed the flat of the blade to her lips, then raised it toward the heavens.
Kel’Barú’s song grew more complex, reaching toward the stars, culminating in a spellbinding cadence of joy and valor. Captivated by its power, Eolyn responded with her own voice, offering Kel’Barú everything she could: her love, her fear, her gratitude and resentment, her hopes and disappointments, her uncertainty and her conviction.
Ehekaht, she prayed, this is my petition to the Gods. Bring victory to Moisehén. Whatever the path, whatever the cost, whatever the price you require in blood, return the magic of our ancestors to my people.
Hear the plea of your servant.
Help me fulfill my vow.
Chapter Forty
Ahmad-melan
Eolyn cut a fine figure as she rode out to meet the King, her hair spun red-gold by the cool breeze. She wore a burgundy robe and held her polished staff high. The crystal head shone in the gathering light, a bright reflection of the rising sun.
Akmael felt an unexpected surge of pride as he watched her, accompanied by an undercurrent of desire. Once again, he resolved to have her—woman and maga—before the sun set on the valley of Aerunden.
Beside her rode the man Akmael assumed to be her brother, and next to him a woman with the look of a warrior from the Paramen Mountains.
Khelia, perhaps.
Corey had mentioned her.
Behind them, the rebels were organized into four companies that spanned the width of the narrow valley. Their right flank appeared restless and ill-armed, with pitchforks and hoes. Next to them stood the Mountain Warriors, their lines steady under the constant flutter of sky blue banners. Akmael could feel their predatory gaze from across the field of battle, but lacking spears, they would be easy prey. To their left, under flags of dark green, were several rows of spearmen donated by Selen, a grim reminder of the seditious lords that had turned against him. When this was finished, their years of stewardship over his mother’s land of birth would come to a bitter end. The last company, on the rebel left, was tight knit and just as solid as the Mountain Warriors. Akmael suspected these were Ernan’s own, experienced men who had fought many campaigns together.
A small group of horses, no more than fifty, were stationed to the rear. If Corey were to be trusted and the estimates of the royal scouts correct, that left around five hundred men unaccounted for, in addition to an unknown number of Syrnte cavalry.
No doubt Ernan had concealed archers in the forest, a move Akmael had anticipated. Two companies of his own footmen were positioned to go in after them during the first charge. A second line of horsemen would follow the vanguard to challenge the Syrnte should they appear, or to assist in the rout if they did not.
Assuming Ernan had no real surprises to offer, this battle might well be over by midmorning. And if a thousand mounted men-at-arms were not enough, Akmael had spearmen aplenty to bring into the fray. Either way, victory would be his. If Eolyn’s brother had any sense, he would recognize this and
desist in his madness.
With a nod to Tzeremond and Drostan, Akmael advanced his horse. They emerged in front of his army to receive the rebel’s challenge.
Ernan and his companions halted a few paces before them.
The King studied them in silence, his eyes lingering longest on Eolyn. One remarkable maga arrayed against him and his mages. It was, perhaps, Ernan’s greatest folly to place so much faith in her magic. But his folly had been transformed into her valor, and she held the King’s gaze, her dark eyes resolute, her expression impenetrable.
As if we had not known each other before this day.
“Ernan of Moehn.” Akmael turned to his opponent. He noticed something familiar in Ernan. The fire behind those green eyes troubled him, stirring some dark shadow lodged deep inside his heart. Like a bad dream that struggled to be remembered. “I have heard much of your skill and experience. Surely you recognize the impossibility of your situation. If you lay down your arms now, I am prepared to accept your surrender on generous terms. Your people will be granted my pardon and allowed to remain in this kingdom in peace, except, of course, for your mercenaries and foreign allies, who must depart my lands at once.”
Eolyn drew a breath of surprise. Akmael caught her gaze in his.
Furrowing her brow, she glanced away.
“You have expressed a clear interest in Selen,” Akmael continued, returning to Ernan. “I can grant you a portion of the lands in the east, from the Furma River south, and west to the Maeskon Hills, to be kept by your family and their descendants. Your sister,” he nodded toward Eolyn, “will remain a maga, by my leave. I suggest you accept my terms, so that we can desist from this bloodshed and go home.”
“Ernan,” Eolyn said. “Perhaps we should consider—”
“We will not surrender.” Her brother’s resolve at once impressed and dismayed. Akmael thought it unfortunate that this man, who might have made a worthy ally, was so bent on being his sworn enemy. “The line of Vortingen has betrayed our people. We have come to avenge the corruption of this kingdom, to end the rule of you and your fathers, and to restore magic to all the people of Moisehén.”
“You have no case for vengeance against me, and you cannot win today. If you fight, your people will fall like summer rain. Their blood will drench this valley. It is within your power to avoid this tragedy.” Akmael shifted his focus once more to Eolyn. “Surrender, and accept the promise of my protection.”
Ernan brought his horse forward to block the King’s view of Eolyn. Tension took hold of the rebel leader’s shoulders. Waves of heat rose off his armor, though the dawn air remained cool.
Akmael noted a disturbing change in the rhythm of Ernan’s breath. Instinctively, the King’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but Ernan did not attack. He sat as still as stone, green eyes smoldering beneath red brows. He looked not upon the King but upon something seen only by him.
A metallic odor pricked Akmael’s senses, and realization dawned on him. He glanced at Tzeremond, but the wizard’s amber eyes were fixed upon Ernan, who now turned to his sister and said to her in a low growl, “On this day, you will perish upon my sword.”
Ernan spurred his horse back toward the rebel army.
Face filled with alarm, Eolyn spun her mare to follow.
Khelia, visibly disconcerted by their sudden retreat, trailed behind at a gallop.
Akmael had to fight his impulse to take off after them. Anger spilled out in a vicious rebuke. “It is too early in the day for such curses, old wizard!”
Tzeremond lifted his brow in mild surprise, but nodded in deference. “Forgive me, my Lord King. I thought you would be pleased. Surely you saw he was not inclined to accept your terms, and there is more than one way to avoid bloodshed.”
Akmael subdued his temper. “That was a dishonorable move, and the threat to his sister is not a good sign.”
“I assure you, my Lord King, he will be too disoriented to raise his sword against anyone.”
Unconvinced, Akmael gripped his reins and slowed his breath. Corey had once assured him Ernan would never allow harm to come to his sister, but the thought did little to comfort him now. Even the greatest bonds of love had been known to shatter under the terrifying frenzy of Ahmad-melan.
About fifty paces before reaching their line, Ernan veered away from his fighters and sped to a temporary refuge under an isolated tree. Eolyn, still some distance behind him, pulled her horse to stop.
Khelia came up behind her, anxious and perplexed. “What in the name of the Gods just happened?”
Eolyn kept her gaze fixed upon Ernan. “Khelia, go to our people. I must speak with my brother.”
Leaving the mountain warrior behind, Eolyn approached Ernan and dismounted under the shade of the spreading branches. She drove her staff into the earth.
Ehekaht
Naeom veham
Leanom enem
Ehukae
The air shimmered, and the valley blurred. Only her brother remained in focus. He stood with his back to her, one hand upon the hilt of his sword, the other gripping a low strong limb. The heat of his rage reverberated in tight waves off his back.
Eolyn drew a deep breath, trying to control her apprehension. Cautiously she stepped toward him. “Ernan.”
“Get away from me, witch,” he growled. “I’ve had enough of your spells and deceptions! You convinced me once you were my sister, lost and returned to me. Now I see you are nothing but a whore of the Mage King!”
Eolyn braced her heart against his insults. Ernan was not himself, and if she did not break this curse, the anger that burned in his veins would drive him mad. The battle would be lost before they had even begun.
“Ernan—”
“Do not provoke me!” Unsheathing his sword, he lunged at her.
“Ernan!”
His blade halted just short of her throat. Eolyn heard the metallic sob of Kel’Barú as it strained against Ernan’s will.
“I am Eolyn, your sister and High Maga of Moisehén. You will hear me and see me. Now.”
Rivulets of sweat coursed over Ernan’s temples. His eyes twitched and dilated.
“Sister?” He choked as though it took all his strength to speak. Kel’Barú broke free of his grip and tumbled to the ground. Ernan sank to his knees under the force of the fever. “What has happened to me? I am overcome with the desire to kill you.”
Tears escaped his eyes. Eolyn moved quickly lest rage sink into inconsolable despair.
“It is Ahmad-melan.” She retrieved an amulet from her belt and broke it open, releasing a copper dust into his face. “Breath, Ernan. Breathe deep.”
His head shot back with the sting of the antidote. Stepping behind him, Eolyn placed one palm against his damp forehead and the other upon his throbbing chest. Closing her eyes, she sought the roots of the curse and pulled them out with force.
Ehekaht,
Naeom denae daum
Erenahm rehoernem ekaht
Behnaum enem
Ernan keeled over and vomited sour bile upon the grass. The fever departed, leaving him shivering in its wake. Kneeling, Eolyn gathered him into her arms and brought a flask of minted water to his lips.
“It is over.” She assured him quietly, encouraging him to drink. “You will recover your strength in a few moments.”
“I saw you embrace him.” Ernan’s voice shook. “You surrendered everything and laid your power at his feet. You betrayed me to my death. It all seemed so real.”
“It was a vision, a reflection of your deepest fears. Tzeremond, or perhaps the King.” Her voice faltered at the thought. “One of them found your fear and manipulated it against you. Forgive me, Ernan. I had not thought them so dishonorable as to attempt such an attack before the battle began. I will not fail you again, and I will not betray you. Not today, not ever.”
He pushed away from her and steadied himself on his knees.
“Our people.” He glanced in the direction of the rebel lines. “I drew my sword aga
inst you. What will they think?”
“They have seen nothing. I invoked a vision ward. They are watching us, brother and sister, warrior and maga, as we pray to the Gods for victory.”
“Victory,” he repeated as if trying to remember where he was and why he had come here. “Yes. Victory.”
Ernan struggled to his feet. He retrieved Kel’Barú from where it lay and extended his arm to Eolyn. The madness in his eyes had faded. His expression was once again calm, his voice resolute. “Come, sister. We have a battle to win.”
Eolyn accepted his hand and stood, but her relief was short lived. As they approached their horses, Kel’Barú startled her with a silver hiss.
He turned me against you.
She paused, fear threading through her veins. He was not himself. A curse took hold of him.
He meant to kill you.
Before she could respond, Ernan sheathed the blade and mounted his steed.
“Brother,” she said, “you must choose another weapon for this battle.”
He laughed. “I have no finer sword, Eolyn.”
“Please, Ernan. Something’s not right with Kel’Barú.”
Frowning, he withdrew the sword from its sheath and held it in front of him, gauging its balance before sending a few clean slices through the air. The blade shone brilliant as ever, its song smooth and confident.
Ernan shrugged and smiled. “Kel’Barú has always danced for my sister, and today will be no different. This sword was meant to taste the blood of wizards, Eolyn. It will share in the glory of our victory over the Mage King, else why would it have come to me?”
With that, he spurred his horse toward his men.
Akmael’s grip on his reins relaxed when Eolyn emerged from the vision ward with her brother, the two of them united and ready for battle. He even allowed himself a smile at Tzeremond’s sharp hiss of frustration.
Truly she was gifted, having undone the curse of a master with such ease. How many times had he tried to persuade her to abandon High Magic? If she had listened to him, she would have betrayed her very essence. Yet in choosing that path, she had embarked on an inevitable confrontation with forces that would deny her this privilege. Akmael was born to those forces, and he could no more escape his heritage than she could her destiny.
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