Eolyn

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  “I think so.” She took another breath, unsettled by the prickly feel of air against her ribs. “Where is Akmael?”

  “Attending to the duties of a King, I imagine. I can send him word, if you like.”

  Eolyn shook her head. She was not ready for that. Not yet. “And Ernan?”

  Corey averted his eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line.

  At once Eolyn understood. Black spots hampered her vision. The room wavered.

  “Your brother is dead, Eolyn,” Corey said quietly.

  “That’s not possible! Akmael assured me he had been spared.”

  “After you returned to the world of the living, Ernan attacked the King. He was struck down by one of Akmael’s men-at-arms.”

  Eolyn sank back against the pillows, stunned. “It can’t be.”

  Only a few weeks had passed since she had found him, this boy resurrected from the dead and transformed into a warrior. A stranger who shared her blood and swore no harm would come to her while he lived. Now, the knights of Vortingen had taken him away forever, just as they had her father. Her eyes burned with tears. “Akmael lied. He lied to me. Again.”

  “The King did not deceive you, Eolyn. Ernan was alive when you asked for him.”

  She pinned Corey with a hard gaze. “Ernan was my brother, and Akmael let him die.”

  “He hardly had a choice.”

  “He always had a choice!” That Corey would defend the Mage King appalled her. “He had a choice. In everything.”

  Corey frowned. He rose and prepared a mild infusion of chamomile and mint, warming the cup with a quiet spell.

  Eolyn accepted the tea with shaking hands. “Why has he brought me here? Am I his prisoner now?”

  His Briana?

  “No. No maga will ever be held inside these walls against her will. At least, not under this King.”

  The mist cleared. Everything came into sharper focus. Eolyn studied Corey as a sick feeling spread through her stomach.

  “The distance between you and Akmael has been bridged,” she realized. “He is your cousin once more.”

  “I have had ample time to reflect on the circumstances of our past, and several opportunities to speak about the future with our King.”

  “Was this before or after you became party to Ernan’s rebellion?”

  If her bitter challenge surprised him, Corey did not show it.

  “I will not ask you to understand,” he said, “much less pardon me. I did what any mage must do to survive in this world. I made the decisions I thought best under the circumstances.”

  “And the others whom you betrayed, Corey? What happened to them?”

  “I do not know the fates of most.” His voice was grave but steady. “The only one they captured alive was Rishona. She killed Tzeremond, with an arrow through the heart and a nasty Syrnte spell. She summoned a Naether Demon to receive him in the Underworld.”

  “A Naether Demon?” The very word inspired terror. Eolyn had confronted one of them during her own descent, limbs long and glowing, claws slashing at her like obsidian knives. Insatiable hunger had flowed from its gaping eyes.

  Or had it? From one moment to the next, the creature was gone, and there was only Akmael. She shook her head in confusion. Everything felt like a dream now, an illusion that sprang out of nothing.

  “I thought no one could communicate with the Naether Demons,” she said, “that their banishment put an end to all contact with the living world.”

  “Apparently the Syrnte have found a way.” Corey did not appear pleased by the prospect. “But the curse left her bedridden, and I suspect it will go badly for her the day those creatures demand recompense.”

  Eolyn furrowed her brow. It seemed unthinkable to condemn anyone, even that old wizard, to such a malevolent end. What could have driven Rishona to employ such dark magic? Eolyn set her tea aside. “I want to see her.”

  “You cannot.” The words were spoken quietly, but they felt like a slap in the face. “Rishona has been taken to Selkynsen, where she will be held until a Syrnte delegation arrives with a suitable ransom.”

  “Ransom?”

  Corey shrugged. “Akmael thought to execute her at first, but given that Syrnte ambitions make them prone to war upon any excuse, we thought it best not to force hostilities.”

  “And Tahmir?” She dreaded the answer, but she had to know.

  “No one has seen him since Aerunden. Rishona believes he is dead.”

  “I knew it,” Eolyn whispered. “I felt something…in the battle.”

  Corey’s expression softened. He left his chair and sat next to her on the bed. “I have burdened you with too much in the first moments of your awakening.”

  “All of my friends are gone. All of them, slain or scattered.”

  Corey took her hand gently. “Not all.”

  He drew back the loose fabric of her sleeve until his fingers came to rest on the intertwining images of Dragon wrapped around her arm. The intimacy unnerved her. She tried to pull away, but he held firm.

  “We must speak about this,” he said.

  Eolyn averted her eyes, her body tense as a viper ready to strike.

  “Akmael gave it to you, did he not?” Corey asked.

  Angered, she wrested her hand from his grip and pulled her sleeve over the jewel with force. “Achim gave it to me. After I met Akmael, I tried to remove it with as many spells as I could invent, but it has not budged. I will find a way, though. I will not be bound to him or his murderous line of kings!”

  “Did the jewel stir upon your skin during the months we spent in East Selen?”

  “Tahmir told you about that?”

  “Surely you do not still believe he was my spy?”

  Corey’s tone was calm and unflinching, and under his steady gaze the fire of her anger wavered.

  What is the use of resisting anymore?

  The rebellion had ended. Ernan and Tahmir lay dead. Her friends were banished. If she was not a prisoner now, they could declare her one whenever it pleased them. What difference would it make anymore, to conceal the truth?

  “On Midwinter’s Eve,” she murmured. “At the foot of the Old Fir. It spoke with the tree of your ancestors, though they used a dialect I could not understand.”

  He nodded. “I am glad to hear it. The jewel is an heirloom of our Clan. Queen Briana entrusted it to her son before she died, though she did not tell him its meaning. And it does bind you to Akmael, although not in the way, perhaps, that you fear. It binds you to me, as well. It binds you to the entire clan of East Selen.”

  He paused a moment before adding, “All two of us, as it were.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “East Selen is not a clan of the blood,” Corey said, “at least not entirely. If it were, we would be no different from the royals, plagued as they are by rivalries and intrigues, by the denial of love and passion, by betrayal and—”

  “You haven’t avoided any of that.”

  Mage Corey let go a sigh and retreated to his chair. “This period in which you have come to know us has not been the brightest in our history.”

  “So you understood the meaning of this jewel from the first time you saw it?”

  “It is your invitation. The armband clings to you in silence because you have not yet made your choice. Should you accept, it will stay with you forever, reinforcing your magic and protecting you as one of our own.”

  “And if I decline?”

  “It will return to the roots of the Old Fir from whence it came, until a new invitation is made to another.”

  “Then I decline.” Eolyn pulled up her sleeve and spoke fiercely to the silver band. “I do not wish to be a part of it. Any of it. I decline!”

  The jewel remained motionless against her arm.

  After a moment, Corey cleared his throat. “It would appear she is not convinced of the conviction behind your words.”

  Eolyn cried out and drove her fist into the bed cushions. She wanted to fling hers
elf upon Corey and claw out his eyes, but she did not have the strength. “Why do you do this? You betrayed my brother. You delivered me to Ernan knowing I would inspire him to march to his doom. Our friends are scattered and dead because of you, and still you insist on dragging me into your games. Why won’t you just let me be?”

  Corey remained still as a serpent on a sun-warmed rock. She was reminded of the first time they met, of the last time they embraced. What a strange bond the Gods had granted them, that this sense of mutual understanding should persist despite the many deceptions that marked their relationship.

  When at last the mage spoke, his voice was subdued. “I hold on to you, Eolyn, because you give me hope.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Reconciliation

  As Eolyn recovered, Corey remained at her side. He conversed with her in the evening, greeted her with breakfast in the morning, and administered her medicines under High Mage Rezlyn’s strict instructions. The days of Corey’s vigilance had returned, Eolyn realized, and she suspected his constant company was a manifestation of Akmael’s will.

  A few days after her awakening, Corey offered to escort Eolyn through the castle grounds. Her limbs were in much need of movement, and she accepted, resting her hand on his arm to steady herself.

  The fortress of Vortingen bore little resemblance to the place she experienced only a few months earlier. Corridors that had once appeared an indecipherable maze of suffocating darkness now spread in broad promenades that wound patiently from one set of apartments to the next. Tall windows allowed light to play on the sun-warmed interior. Many of the inner courtyards supported dense gardens blooming with late summer flowers.

  “This is not the castle you brought me to at Bel-Aethne,” she told Corey. “Nothing looks the same.”

  “At Bel-Aethne, you came here by night, a prisoner in fear for your life. Now you walk freely by day, as the King’s guest.” He paused before acknowledging, “Though it is true that a shadow has been lifted from this place.”

  The King’s guest. It seemed an unkind euphemism. Guests were not under constant watch. And if she were well enough to mount a horse and continue on her way, would they let her leave?

  In quiet hours of the night, after Corey left Eolyn to sleep, her thoughts gravitated toward Briana of East Selen, confined to a single tower, slain at the hands of one of her own sisters. Would Akmael force her down a similar path? Was she his guest, or the prize of his victory?

  One day, when her legs were sufficiently steady, Corey led Eolyn on a long climb up the winding stairs of one of the towers. The cramped space and narrow windows generated a sense of confinement, and Eolyn breathed a sigh of relief when at last they emerged on the southern ramparts.

  Below them spread a magnificent carpet of fertile plains and rolling hills. Toward the horizon, she saw a blue green haze that marked the border of Moehn. Longing filled her heart, an intense thirst for the forest that had once fueled her soul.

  “Akmael has sent word to bordering kingdoms,” Corey said. “He has asked the magas to return.”

  “There are others?” The thought surprised her, so accustomed was she to being alone.

  “It is possible. Ghemena may not have been the only one to escape, and if others did, they may have acquired students. Those who accept the King’s invitation will be allowed to practice all forms of High Magic, but they will not be permitted to learn or engage in the arts of war. And they will be watched closely. Any talk of the Mage King ceding his staff will be considered treason.”

  Eolyn looked at Corey, who kept his gaze fixed on the terrain below.

  “Are you trying to warn me?” she asked.

  “All I’m saying is that if you have any doubts about the matter, based on the teachings of your beloved Doyenne, you had best put them behind you.”

  She blinked and glanced away, uncertain how to respond.

  A boy ran past, brushing her skirt. Startled, Eolyn watched him race to the highest point on the ramparts, where he climbed the wall and stood over the undulating plains, his arms spread wide.

  “What is it, Eolyn?” Corey sounded anxious and far away. “Your face has lost its color.”

  She stepped toward the child.

  Instinct told her not to call out to him. He bore a striking resemblance to the boy Achim, but his hair fell straight and shone a burnished brown in the afternoon sun.

  “It is the young Prince Kedehen,” she realized. “In the courtyards below, his brothers play at war and adventure, blood and glory, but he likes to come up here and pretend he can fly. Like an eagle. Or a mage.”

  “You are speaking like a Syrnte witch,” Corey said.

  “No one would receive him, except Tzeremond.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Him.” Eolyn pointed to the boy, but the image faded on the whistling wind. Tears stung her eyes, again. They seemed to come so easy of late. “He was not so different from me, in what he wanted.”

  Corey took her by the shoulders. “Eolyn, look at me. Have you had visions like this before?”

  “No. Yes. A vision?” She shook her head in confusion. “The day my village was attacked, and again, years later, I saw Akmael die, or thought I did, though it didn’t happen that way.”

  Eolyn felt dizzy. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, seeking to ground herself. When she opened them, Corey was searching her face with care.

  “You may have been born with this ability, though it is unusual for a witch of Moisehén,” he said. “Yet there was also your journey to the Underworld…”

  Eolyn frowned and looked to where the child Kedehen had stood. Was that all that drove him in the end? A passion for magic? She could imagine the unbearable disappointment of the young prince as one mage after another rejected his petition, not because of the teachings of Aithne and Caradoc, but because of a taboo so ingrained no one had the imagination to see around it. He might have been a different sort of King, had someone other than Tzeremond agreed to teach him. Indeed, he might never have been King at all.

  “Only a handful of people have succeeded in doing what you did.” Corey’s voice called her back from her thoughts. “Perhaps this gift returned with you from the world of the dead.”

  Eolyn stepped away, wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered. She recalled how she and Akmael had ruptured the vault of the Underworld. Light had flooded the darkness, and the Lost Souls had fled in terror. Where had that power come from? Had she brought it back? Did it lie sleeping inside of her? Inside of Akmael?

  “Has the King had similar visions?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” Corey said. “Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”

  She flinched at the thought. “I’m weary. I would like to rest.”

  Corey nodded and escorted her back to her room.

  Time passed. The King did not visit, nor did he send for her. His absence unsettled Eolyn, filling her heart with a strange mixture of relief and foreboding. Relief every time the sun set, because she had lived one more day without having to confront him. Foreboding every time the sun rose, for this might be the day that he appeared.

  What would she say, when the time came?

  Akmael had risked his life and soul to bring her back from the Underworld. He had restored her magic and her spirit. He brought her into the protection of his fortress and assured her all the comforts of his royal household. Yet at the same time, he took away everything that once gave her a sense of home. He permitted the death of her brother and the slaughter of her allies. He had sent her few surviving friends into exile.

  Now even Corey was drawn into his service, forcing a wedge between her and the one companion who remained from the time before the rebellion. She found it impossible to imagine this man, Mage and King, was once the boy who brought her such happiness. The laughter they shared in the sun-speckled shade of the forest seemed no more than a distant dream. Everything had changed. Everything had gone wrong.

  In the evening
s, Corey took her to the gardens, where the sun illuminated lush herbs and fruit laden trees in a green-gold haze. Butterflies wandered from leaf to leaf in search of a place to lay their eggs. Spiders spun their webs in the bushes. Eolyn whispered to the plants, her fingers caressing stems and flowers, her thoughts drifting ever further toward the South Woods.

  The yearning for home was growing more intense.

  Your magic depends on this forest, Ghemena had once said. The South Woods will always call you home.

  What would she do if Akmael did not let her go?

  “How does one gain an audience with the King?” she asked. “Am I to request it, or do I wait until summoned?”

  Corey laughed. “Surely, Maga Eolyn, you must realize that you, of all people, can see the King whenever you please.”

  “Don’t mock me, Corey.”

  “I am not mocking you. When do you wish to see Akmael?”

  “Well.” She lifted her chin. “If what you say is true, then now.”

  She was testing him, of course. Had she known he would acquiesce, she would have said ‘tomorrow’ or ‘next week’, but Mage Corey placed her hand upon his arm and led her away from the gardens. They passed through a maze of corridors, up narrow stairwells, and down long hallways.

  As they approached the King’s apartments, the number of guards they encountered increased, but not once were they detained. Everyone, servants and men-at-arms alike, gave respectful nods as she passed. Their deference disturbed her. “They greet us as if they know who I am. I don’t like it.”

  “You’ve become far too accustomed to passing through this world unnoticed,” Corey replied. “That will have to change now.”

  They entered the King’s antechamber through a pair of heavy doors and proceeded to the receiving room without being announced.

  Magical and military artifacts adorned the stone walls, and the windows revealed a wide balcony overlooking the rolling plains below. Akmael stood engaged in conversation with one of his High Mages, a rosy cheeked man with a thick blond beard. They sifted through parchments and other objects on a large polished table.