Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  Even a useless son is worth more than a daughter.

  She stepped forward to kneel at her grandfather’s side.

  The San’iloman took her hand. “Tamara, my beloved. You were born of noble blood and granted a kind heart. As a child, you were the delight of my court, as a woman its most precious pearl. I wept the day you left us to follow your foreign prince to a distant land, but I let you go and gave you generous gifts in hopes that you would find happiness. On the long road to Moisehén, assassins dishonored our family and murdered you, destroying the sweet dream of your short life. When they brought you to me…”

  Joturi-Nur’s voice faltered. Tears dampened his eyes. “When they brought your body to me, beloved Tamara, I washed you myself. I prepared you to meet our Gods, because no one else was worthy of touching you. Long have I prayed that you would return to me at the hour of my death and kneel by my side in the person of your daughter, as you do now. Thank you for the joy you gave me, for your selfless and loving spirit, and for accompanying me on this, the last day of my life.”

  Joturi reached for the scimitar that lay next to him. He drew it out of its jewel-encrusted sheath and held it high for all to see. Then he set it in front of Rishona.

  “Take my blade, Tamara.” The old man laid her hand over the hilt of his sword. “Rule my people in my stead.”

  Sweat trickled down Rishona’s back. She could not see Abartamor behind her, but she imagined his plump face twitching in triumph. As the eldest, it now fell to him to challenge her claim, and what fight could he expect from a woman? What princess would shed her brother’s blood?

  “Your people are safe with me, Father,” Rishona said. “They shall want for nothing as long as I live.”

  Joturi-Nur drew a breath of satisfaction and leaned back on his pillows. He nodded to the priest, who stepped forward with the cup of death. The San’iloman drank deep and closed his eyes, letting go a long exhale, as if all the burdens of life were at last being laid to rest.

  The chalice was then passed to Meanara, who lifted it toward her dying husband. “I have been and always will be your most faithful servant.”

  Meanara drank, and was helped to her husband’s side, where she laid down and intertwined her fingers in his. She was followed by Rishona’s grandmother, Lhandra, and the Third Wife, Bheulla. The women laid close, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, while the gentle poison took effect.

  Only young Naptari resisted, pushing the cup away with a frightened wail and spilling ebony liquid across the marble floor.

  The guards caught her gently, for the last virgin of the San’iloman must reach the world beyond unscathed. The priest produced a vial from inside his sleeve and broke it over her lips. At once Naptari’s cries were silenced. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and she went limp. They laid her at Joturi-Nur’s feet, curled like a child at rest.

  Through all this, Rishona remained at her grandfather’s side. As Joturi-Nur’s breath slowed, she wrapped her fingers around the jeweled hilt of his broad sword. She adjusted her balance and tilted the blade, trying to see Abartamor’s oversized figure at her back.

  When at last Joturi-Nur laid still, the priest nodded to the princes. Abartamor’s heavy step sounded behind Rishona, along with the slow unsheathing of his sword.

  “I, the eldest son of Joturi-Nur, challenge your claim, Tamara,” he said. “Face me, so that I may send you with my father to the Afterlife.”

  Rishona spun, hands wrapped around the hilt of the scimitar, and cut deep into Abartamor’s protruding belly. The prince cried out as metal parted flesh. Blood sprayed across Rishona’s shimmering gown. Abartamor dropped his weapon and staggered backwards, eyes wide and lips quivering in protest.

  “What have you done?” he stammered. “My niece? A woman? It’s not possible…not permitted…”

  He sat hard on the floor and stared dumbfounded at the entrails spilling from his belly.

  Rishona strode forward and drove the scimitar into his thick neck. With a few vicious hacks, she cleaved Abartamor’s head from his torso. Tearing off her veil, she leveled the sword at his brothers and demanded, “Who else would challenge me?”

  For several moments there was no sound but the gurgle of Arbartamor’s blood, pooling around Rishona’s satin slippers.

  Paolus-Nur drew his weapon, but Mechnes stayed his hand. “Wait, brother.”

  Paolus-Nur stared in surprise at Mechnes, who kept his discerning gaze fixed upon their niece.

  Rishona had wagered her life on this moment. If she had trusted Mechnes falsely, she would now pay the price. To slay a slobbering fool like Abartamor was easy. Mechnes, on the other hand, could finish her in moments.

  “This is not without precedent,” the Syrnte general said.

  Gasps rippled through the court.

  “Surely you cannot expect us to accept the rule of this woman!” Paolus objected. “What she has done is an insult to us and to the tradition of our fathers.”

  Joturi-Nur’s other sons shifted on their feet, fingering the hilts of their swords. They exchanged looks of consternation, but said nothing.

  “Melani-Naomi defended her claim some five hundred years ago,” Mechnes countered. “And before her, there was Shanuri-Pah, in the Time of Fire. Abartamor knew our niece well. It was foolish of him not to anticipate she would defend her claim.”

  He turned toward the court and spread his arms wide. “Our father has named his heir, and one of our siblings has been offered as sacrifice. The claim is defended. I lay my sword before Tamara-Rishona, San’iloman of the Syrnte. May the Gods keep her wise and fierce.”

  Then Prince Mechnes, the most feared and hated general the Syrnte had ever known, knelt in homage before his niece, Rishona.

  The brothers stifled their confusion and followed suit, one by one. To Rishona’s astonishment, the entire court went to its knees.

  Triumph surged in her heart. She raised her bloodied sword and cried, “I am Tamara, also called Rishona, heiress to Joturi-Nur and Princess of the House of Lhandra. I have sealed my claim with the blood of my brother, Abartamor. From this day forward, you shall know, honor, and obey me as San’iloman of the Syrnte.”

  Chapter Three

  Consequences

  Eolyn retired early, leaving Adiana and Renate laughing in their cups as they celebrated the success of the King’s visit. The night air was cool, the grass soothing and damp beneath bare feet. A guard greeted her as she walked to her quarters. She inquired after Sir Borten, but the knight had already sought solitude and rest.

  For weeks, Borten had goaded the builders from dawn until dusk, coercing the wall into its half-finished state in preparation for the King’s arrival. The incessant clatter of stone and tools had given Eolyn a constant headache, making the silence of this night most welcome.

  It will be nice to have some days of peace and quiet.

  She paused in front of her students’ quarters, listening to Mariel’s soft snore, the quiet song of crickets, the occasional rustle of a field mouse. No other sound came to her ears, not even a giggle from Catarina and Tasha. The girls had long since surrendered to their dreams.

  Eolyn expected to fall fast asleep as well, but she lay awake in bed a long while, nestled between fresh linen sheets, running her fingers absently over a soft wool blanket.

  A storm building along the eastern flank of the South Woods sent low rumbles across the hills. Yet here the night was clear, illuminated by a waning moon. The aroma of sage, mint, and rosemary drifted from the garden.

  Eolyn sighed, exhausted yet wide awake. She shifted her position, but sleep continued to elude her.

  In spite of everything, the visit had gone well. She felt grateful for that. Akmael—the King—appeared satisfied as he surveyed the grounds and spoke with her students. The memory of her outburst still embarrassed her, crying in front of him like a child. He was kind about it though, and now her shame seemed a small price to pay for the feel of his arms around her, for the warmth of his
embrace.

  If only he had not ridden away after that.

  If only this day had never ended.

  Pushing the covers aside, Eolyn got up and went to Kel’Barú, set against the stone wall close to her bed. The weapon had a way of gathering light into itself even when sheathed, and it glowed like the moon caught behind translucent clouds. The blade emitted a contented hum, as if in the middle of some pleasant dream.

  Eolyn sat on the cool floor in front of it and gathered her knees to her chest, wondering if she could ever acquire the skills to use such a weapon. She remembered some of what Akmael had taught her years ago, like how to grip the hilt. And there were eight angles, if she recalled correctly, through which one could sweep the blade. Whenever she swung she had to think about which side was left open, except she would never have time to think. Not in a real fight.

  Eolyn puffed her cheeks in frustration and rested her chin on folded arms.

  Curse him.

  Why did Akmael insist on this foolishness? He knew her distaste for weaponry.

  Yet how could she refuse his will, after all that he had done for her, after everything that had been forgiven.

  “Do you forgive me too, Ernan?” She spoke out loud, as if Kel’Barú might hold the answer.

  Her brother would know by now of her love for the Mage King. A soul perceives everything through the lens of the Afterlife. Ernan would see she had deceived him from the beginning, that she hid the secrets of her childhood and lied about the yearnings of her heart.

  But surely he would also realize he had made it impossible for her to confide in him. Anything that had exposed her bond to the Mage King, and all the uncertainties surrounding it, would have condemned her in Ernan’s eyes.

  The more she thought about Akmael’s words, the more she realized he had spoken the truth. Ernan had loved her, treasured and protected her, but not once did he listen or try to understand her.

  Why was her instinct of so little consequence to him?

  Perhaps he thought her too naïve and inexperienced—which was true, but that did not mean she was always wrong. His campaign might have played out differently, had he considered her counsel. He might be alive now, and she in a different place altogether.

  But then Akmael would have perished, for Ernan was bent upon slaying the Mage King, and nothing would have stayed his hand had the Gods given him the opportunity.

  Tears burned in Eolyn’s eyes. Again. She clenched her jaw and wiped them away, angered by the inability to leave this heartache behind. A single day in Akmael’s presence, and all her barriers had been hopelessly unraveled, her heart laid open for him to take or leave as he pleased.

  Did he notice her feelings had not changed? She prayed he did not. She wanted the Mage King to go away, to return to the City without looking back at her or her Aekelahr. She wanted to be left alone with her magic, so she could heal and try to forget once more.

  A hush of wings on the windowsill interrupted Eolyn’s thoughts. She looked up to see a Great River Owl, its proud silhouette outlined by moonlight.

  Eolyn rose to her feet in surprise, keenly aware of its penetrating gaze, though she could not see its round eyes in the dark. A breeze ruffled its feathers. Its aura was impossibly familiar: intense shades of gold, burgundy, and forest green, shot through with streaks of deepest indigo.

  She held her breath and let it go in a whisper. “Akmael?”

  More than a question, it was a hope, a fear, an invocation.

  A shimmer passed through the owl, followed by a flash of white light. Suddenly Akmael was with her, the heat of his hand upon her throat, the strength of his fingers intertwining in her hair, the demand of his lips upon hers, warm and full of passion. The magic of the South Woods blew through the window in a humid gust, swirling about them, begging Eolyn to remember who she was and what she once meant to him.

  Akmael kissed Eolyn until she had no more breath to give. Then he paused and held her close, their foreheads touching as her fingers traced the familiar prominence of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the curve of his full lips.

  All she could hear was his desire, carried on the rhythm of his heart. She dared not speak, for if she did, she might stumble upon words of caution or prudence or common sense, and none of that had any place here. Not when he was so near, nearer than he had been in such a painfully long time, closer than he might ever be again.

  This is a gift from the Gods, Akmael had once said. To deny it would be an insult to them.

  “Eolyn, I—”

  She hushed him with a kiss.

  Elation filled her heart as he responded. Her nightshift slipped away at his touch, his tunic disappeared at her insistence, the bed cushions shifted beneath their weight. Her hands explored the familiar contours of his torso, solid like the living trunk of some great tree. His kisses flowed over her like water let loose from a dam, leaving burning rivers across her shivering skin.

  “Akmael,” she murmured. “My love, please.”

  He interlaced his fingers with hers, and she pulled him close, delighting in the burden of his weight. Then he found her and entered her, and everything that had ever gone wrong between them was set right. Eolyn understood, in a deep and abiding way, that there was no greater truth than this moment. No expanse of time or conflict would ever erase the magic that had bound their spirits.

  They made love late into the night, pausing at intervals to rest in each other’s arms, conversing in a silent language of tender caresses and soft kisses, until the Spirit of the Forest beckoned them once more toward ecstasy.

  When the first light of dawn crept through the window, Akmael departed in the shape of Great River Owl. Filled with the sweet ache of their spent desire, Eolyn pulled her pillow close, breathed in his lingering aroma of earth and salt, and let her satiated body drift into a peaceful sleep.

  * * *

  Adiana awoke late, with stiff limbs and a queasy stomach, glad this business with the Mage King was over for another year or two—more if they were lucky. It was far too much fuss, in her opinion, for just another man on a horse.

  In the weeks prior to the King’s visit, Eolyn had set them to scrubbing every building from floor to ceiling, dusting furniture, cleaning linens, weeding the gardens, sweeping the stables a dozen times over, until even the sweet and hard-working Tasha had complained.

  Of course, Adiana had put on a good face and given the whole ordeal her best, because she knew what the Mage King’s visit meant to her good friend Eolyn. At least the occasion had inspired the maga to buy some decent wine, something Adiana had not enjoyed since she moved to this forsaken province. When at last the King had departed, there was still half a barrel to spare, so she and Renate had finished off as much as they could to celebrate the success, and most especially the end, of the King’s visit.

  Now Adiana had a royal headache.

  She shielded her eyes against the mid-morning sun as she crossed the gardens to the herbarium. The building was cool inside, with a well-swept dirt floor. Fragrant bundles of plants hung from the ceiling and lined the plain wooden shelves, along with a variety of forest and garden products such as nuts, mushrooms, spider silks, and dried fruit.

  Eolyn stood at a small table, mortar and pestle in hand, her expression an odd mixture of intense happiness and mild preoccupation.

  Adiana recognized the herbs on the table, closed the door behind her, and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll wager you have a story to tell.”

  Eolyn glanced up from her task. A flush rose to her cheeks. “This is not what it seems.”

  “Oh no?” Adiana crossed to the table and picked up each plant in turn. “Angelica, coltsfoot, hemlock, and fickle bloodswort. I know this recipe well, Eolyn. It’s the first one you taught me. What did you do, take Borten on as a lover?”

  “Don’t be coarse, Adiana.”

  “Why not? It’s what I’m best at.”

  Eolyn selected a short stem of hemlock and removed all the leaves with one
sure sweep of her fingers, letting them fall into the mortar. A bitter sting hit Adiana’s nose, causing her to sneeze. She snatched the mortar from Eolyn’s grasp, sniffed and sneezed again.

  “For the love of the Gods!” Adiana exclaimed. “How much bloodswort did you put into this? You’ll be sick for a month if you drink it. Or worse.”

  The maga blinked and looked at Adiana as if seeing her for the first time. “It’s just as Doyenne Ghemena taught me. Equal parts of angelica, coltsfoot and hemlock, with a pinch of bloodswort, to be brewed by midday and taken before the next moon rises.”

  Eolyn’s voice faltered. She stepped away and sat on a stool, rubbing her forehead as if trying to collect her thoughts.

  Adiana watched her friend with a frown. It was not in Eolyn’s nature to be distracted.

  “I’ll take care of this.” Adiana tossed the foul mixture onto the hearth and rinsed the mortar and pestle.

  Several minutes passed in silence as she worked, measuring the amount of each plant and grinding them together into a fine mass. She filled a small pot with hot water from the hearth, emptied the ingredients into it, and let the mixture steep. Once the brew was ready, she strained it into a cup and served it to Eolyn. Then she pulled up a stool and sat next to her friend.

  “It was the King, then?” Adiana said.

  Eolyn nodded as she swirled her cup.

  “Well, go on. Tell me about it.”

  The maga let go an impatient sigh. “Adiana, please. I can’t bear to have you treat this as your next piece of gossip.”

  “You know I keep the secrets that are meant to be kept. You need to talk to someone, and the Gods brought me here this morning with a splitting headache and a queasy stomach, both of which have mysteriously disappeared. I’d say that’s a sign you should talk to me.”

  “There’s not much to say, really. Nothing that could be captured in words. It was…”

  “Divine?”

  “Yes. And now it’s over. Again.” Eolyn stood and set the cup on the table, not having taken a drop.