Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  Finish it.

  Kel’Barú’s voice was infused with Akmael’s, the boy who had tried to teach her how to fight, how to kill.

  Both hands firm upon the hilt, Eolyn dragged the Galian sword through the creature’s stomach, releasing a foul river of inky blood.

  The animal cried out and fell, clutching at the wound.

  Never leave an opponent half dead.

  She bore down upon the Naether Demon and struck again and again, driving the blade into its chest, cleaving the shoulder, hacking off its head, severing its limbs, reducing the beast to as many pieces as she could, until Borten appeared at her side, calling her name and wrenching her away from the slaughter.

  Overcome with loss and rage, Eolyn beat her fists against Borten’s chest as he wrapped his arms tight around her.

  The knight urged Eolyn to be still, kissing her hair between words of comfort, waiting with fortitude while Eolyn’s fury gave way to inconsolable sobs.

  Chapter Eight

  Faernvorn

  Mage Corey scanned the sodden heath, a vast plain that stretched north and west toward uncharted lands. Pools of water reflected a lackluster sky. Shrubs and grasses grew in motley patches of sage and russet. The solitary keen of a mud kite rose off the bog and then sank into desolation. Nearby, sheep grazed in a silence broken by the occasional dull clang of their bells.

  “Curse it all,” Corey muttered, and strode heavily down the short slope.

  A restless hum invaded the mage’s staff, and its malachite crystal droned like a hive of bees. Erratic bursts of magic were to be expected on the edge of these wastes, but Corey could not shake the sensation that something of great importance was eluding him.

  For days he had roamed this landscape like some mad hermit, chased by elusive dreams and meaningless visions to this abandoned corner of the kingdom. His path had taken him along the northern reaches of Moisehén, from the forests of Selen to the ruins of Berlingen, then across the foothills of the Eastern Surmaeg to Tor Binder, where he had received a tepid welcome from bored and indifferent guards—a matter he planned to bring to Sir Drostan’s attention during his next visit to the City.

  “Boy!” he called.

  The sheep herder jumped and spun around as if he had not expected to see another human soul, though they had arrived here together not more than an hour ago.

  “Show me what you told me about this morning.”

  The lad nodded and whistled to his dog. The mutt padded at their heels as mage and youth hiked to the next rise. From there, they could see a long line of granite monoliths. This was Ahmad-fuhraen, a centuries old barrier of magic that bordered the wastes, bridging the gap between the Eastern and Western Surmaeg, separating the world of the living from the realm of the dead.

  Corey’s staff crackled. The voice of his dreams returned unbidden, a sudden hiss upon the wind. The mage closed his eyes and invoked an ancient ward. The phantom’s grasp receded like an icy mist.

  “That one, and that one.” The boy’s rough accent called Corey back to the waking world. “They weren’t like that last week. Straight as an arrow, they were. Looking up at the heavens, just like my Pa says they should.”

  Corey frowned at the leaning pillars. It was not unreasonable for the ground to shift. The earth beneath the bog was treacherous, apt to swallow these monoliths whole as it was to allow them to waver and lean.

  “Is it true what my Pa says?” The boy’s grubby fingers worked against his crooked staff. “Pa says there’s demons in the wastes, and the only thing that keeps them there is the stones. If the stones start moving, it means we have to run to Roenfyn, or Galia, maybe even to the Paramen Mountains, because they’ll hunt us down and kill us sure as wolves kill rabbits. That’s what he says. But he’s just a herder, see? Like me. What do we know about demons?”

  Corey’s eyes followed the line of granite until it faded in the distance. “There are no demons in these wastes, nor have there ever been. The creatures of which your father speaks were flesh and blood, like us. Predators of the most vicious kind. This is where they left our world, a long time ago.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “They were banished to the realm of the dead, by the Mages and Magas of Old. When they sank into the bowels of the earth, they dragged the mountains down with them, dividing the Surmaeg into East and West, leaving the wastes in their wake.”

  “Can they come back?”

  “No.” Corey responded without hesitation, though a knot of uncertainty had settled in his stomach. “The curse cast against them was irreversible.”

  “Then who put the stones there? What’re they for?”

  “My predecessors left them. As a remembrance, perhaps.”

  Or a precaution.

  A promise of sanctuary, meant to last a thousand years.

  Mage Corey did not linger in the wastes. The next morning, he left the sheepherder and his family with gifts of food and blessings. He turned his path toward the King’s City, enduring many days of dusty travel before reaching the western gates, fatigued and grateful for the journey’s end.

  The guards recognized him at once, granting passage through the great stone arch. Corey found their ready welcome oddly disappointing. Countless times he had confronted death within this city. He had called the castle’s highest towers and its deepest dungeons home. Now, even as he enjoyed brighter streets and fairer times, the mage missed the anticipation of games of wit against Tzeremond, the tension of an uncertain future, the freedom of his Circle.

  Where were his beautiful dancers now, his temperamental musicians, his occasional lovers? The ragged crew of happy rebels that had made up Corey’s Circle was scattered and lost, like leaves on the autumn wind.

  And the most valued member of all hidden away like a dormouse in winter time.

  His horse’s hooves clattered against cobblestones as Corey followed the winding streets. Well-remembered smells of the city assaulted his senses: sweat and urine, fresh meat and rotting vegetables, wet wool and stale manure, perfumed whores and bitter ale. Children scampered at his side, calling him by name and begging for sweets, which he granted to those who could answer his riddles or give him a rhyme.

  Under the reign of Akmael’s father, the King’s City had been a somber place of nervous whispers and restrained passions. But now, the Gods had breathed life into this town. Every passage was awash with merchants and craftsmen, artists and musicians, countrymen and foreigners engaged in a boisterous exchange of words and goods.

  At last the alleys widened into proper avenues, indicating his arrival at the Mages’ Quarter, a neighborhood of broad promenades adorned by graceful saplings and fragrant herbs. Stone buildings boasted tall windows. Impressive archways were attended by stiff-postured guards. The unpleasant smells of the lower quarters faded for the most part, and the scamper of street urchins was replaced by the unhurried pace of long-robed mages engaged in reflection or quiet conversation. Several looked up as Corey rode past, recognized him, and nodded in greeting.

  Corey paused at the portal of the residence of High Mage Thelyn who, as befit a long standing member of the King's Council, occupied one of the more impressive buildings of the Quarter. Two stone effigies marked the entrance to his outer courtyard, one of a mage and the other, commissioned shortly after the prohibition was lifted, of a maga. Thelyn had been the first to welcome the return of women’s magic to Moisehén with this gesture. Since then statues of Aithne had sprung up all over the City, often with fresh lilies and flickering candles at their feet.

  “Much good it does us,” Corey muttered as he passed between the images, “to have only magas cast in stone.”

  Thelyn greeted him with a hearty embrace, a leather-bound tome cradled in one arm. Tall and lean, the mage had seen some sun since their last encounter. His dark beard marked a thin line along an angular jaw, and his keen black eyes sparked with curiosity.

  “How good it is to see you,” Thelyn said. “We had begun to wonder what kept y
ou so long in East Selen.”

  He led Corey to a spacious receiving room that overlooked the city square. Tapestries and paintings covered the walls. Tables and shelves housed all manner of artifacts, a visible testimony to Thelyn’s admiration of diverse magical arts. Corey passed one hand over the stone figure of an ancient god and then examined an uncut crystal of amethyst.

  Years ago, he had attended an event here with Eolyn, in the days before the great festival of Bel-Aethne, when she was no more than a peasant dancer with an elusive past. He had introduced her to everyone as his consort and had secretly wished it so. But Rishona’s brother, Tahmir, had distracted her first, and then the Mage King claimed her forever—a turn of events Corey would not have minded so much, if Eolyn had at least made use of the opportunity.

  Thelyn invoked a sound ward and served some wine.

  “What news of the maga?” Corey asked.

  “It is said she has two girls who will petition for staves next spring, and three more behind them.”

  “And the King’s visit?”

  “By all accounts, it went well. They spent nearly two weeks in Moehn, before being forced to return due to the Queen’s pregnancy.”

  “Taesara’s with child?”

  “Have you not heard?” Thelyn looked at him in surprise. “The King’s messengers should have reached you along the road to Selen.”

  “I did not come directly from Selen. I made a pilgrimage to the Wastes of Faernvorn, traveling from Berlingen across the iron range to Tor Binder.”

  “Tor Binder?” The mage raised his brow. “What in the name of the Gods took you there?”

  “A whim. But I’m glad I went. I’ve much to report. That outpost is in a sorry state. Binder is not meant for common soldiers. It requires mages of the highest order, men who can recognize the slightest breach between the world of the living and the world of the dead.”

  “We should bring it to the King’s attention.”

  “We will. So the Queen is with child. I suppose I am obliged to say, may the Gods grant her a son.”

  “May the Gods make it so.”

  “And what of her lady-in-waiting, the sweet and gracious Sonia?” Corey asked.

  “There is little to tell. She insulted Maga Eolyn once in the King’s presence. Other than that, she’s been extraordinarily quiet, reluctant to cause any further stir with her words.”

  “Is that so?” Corey had no love for the lady of Roenfyn, not so much because of her open disdain for magic, but because of the taut thread of fury he sensed inside her soul. “You have found nothing else?”

  “I have set our best mages to studying her aura, but it is as clean as new fallen snow. If she uses a ward, it is the finest yet crafted. Not a seam to be found.”

  “Perhaps we were wrong about her, then.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded Thelyn. “Whatever the truth, she despises us and has far too much influence on the Queen. We must continue to treat her with caution.”

  The wine tasted sweet upon Corey’s tongue, though it soured in his stomach.

  “What little power of East Selen was preserved through the sacrifice of my cousin Briana will be lost because of this queen,” he said. “Taesara’s people repudiate magic, and she carries nothing of the Spirit of the Forest in her blood.”

  “There are those who say this is a good thing,” Thelyn replied, “that magic has no place in the royal lineage, and that the King made a wise choice for the future of our people.”

  “Good for Moisehén, perhaps. Not for East Selen.”

  “East Selen is not the King’s concern. You could always sire an heir of your own, you know.”

  There was a bitter edge to Corey’s chuckle. “I might have by now, if the woman of my choosing had received me. As the case is, she’s occupied her heart with less worthy men.”

  “Ah. And this woman is…?”

  “None of your concern, my friend. Let us return to the topic of Maga Eolyn. Any sign of her coming out of the hole she dug for herself in that wretched province?”

  “No.”

  “She wastes her talents in Moehn. We should bring her back to the City.”

  “So you have said, many times. It is rumored the King agrees and has requested she return.”

  “Requested or demanded?”

  Thelyn lifted his hands in a gesture of appeasement.

  “He is too lax with her,” Corey said. “She was spared after her brother’s rebellion in order for her magic to serve this kingdom. She belongs in the City, so that the memory of the Old Orders can be kept alive with more than useless stone effigies.”

  “By all reports, she has been successful, earning the respect of Moehn and recruiting excellent students.”

  “She has but five girls. She would have twenty here, and all of them under our watchful eyes.”

  Amusement crossed Thelyn’s face. “Old Tzeremond has been visiting your dreams of late, hasn’t he? I daresay I hear his thoughts slipping into your words.”

  “Even his approach would be more astute than this utter lack of oversight. The King does not understand the maga’s worth, much less how to make use of her power. If we do not secure Eolyn’s place among us, as an integral part of this Order, the decision to allow women’s magic to return to Moisehen will end in disaster.”

  “It was you who argued—passionately, as I remember—for the lifting of the prohibition after Ernan’s defeat.”

  “The intention was to cultivate the flame of women’s magic, not to let it languish in neglect, or burn out of control. However I look at this situation, it does not bode well. Eolyn and her paltry collection of students will either finish the slow death of the magas on the high plains of Moehn, or they will gather strength in an environment of unprecedented freedom. And we all know what happened the last time the magas had that kind of power.”

  Thelyn refreshed their wine, dark eyes narrowed in doubt. “How did the Wastes of Faernvorn inspire this renewed concern for vigilance of the magas?”

  This was Thelyn’s gift, at once indispensable and unsettling: to see past any debate to the heart of Corey’s concerns. It was the price of a friendship that had lasted too many years.

  Corey set aside his cup and stalked a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back. An old tapestry caught his eye, interwoven threads portraying a woman bound to a barren tree, her ashen face twisted in sadness, her thin white shift torn at the hip. A unicorn lay at her feet, sliced open from throat to belly, entrails floating in a river of blood that had faded to pale orange with the passing of time.

  “The stones of Faernvorn are moving,” Corey said.

  He sensed the tension that took hold of his comrade.

  “Impossible,” Thelyn replied, but his tone was wary. “That barrier was bound for a thousand years.”

  “Several of them lean north toward the interior of the wastes.”

  “It does not matter. Those creatures have no way of returning.”

  “We cannot be certain of that.”

  “Centuries have passed since the Naether Demons were banished. Even if they persist in the Underworld, their earth-bound bodies have been reclaimed by the wild lands, shredded by crows and scattered by wolves. The tethers are broken, their spirits have faded. They would not have the strength to come back.”

  “They would if someone were to assist them.”

  Several moments passed before Thelyn spoke again. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “A maga, perhaps. A woman, most certainly. Someone of formidable powers, seeking vengeance or conquest. Do not ask me how I know, for I could not tell you.”

  “You speak of Maga Eolyn?”

  “Eolyn is certainly capable. She journeyed to the Underworld and brought its magic back with her. I doubt, however, that she would turn her gifts to such purposes, though someone close to her might. Someone inspired by her accomplishments.”

  Thelyn drew a slow breath. “And you believe that by bringing Maga Eolyn here, we would be able to deciph
er this threat. Avoid it, even?”

  “We could at least come to an understanding of any true danger.” Corey returned to his wine. “It is, in any case, but one of many reasons to bring her to the City.”

  “You have a difficult argument ahead, my friend. I am inclined to trust your instinct, but the King—and his Council—may not be so easily convinced.”

  “The significance of Faernvorn might be lost upon them, but the Council bowed before Tzeremond’s influence before, and many still favor his legacy of prudence. They will understand the need for vigilance, and will be most pleased to insist upon it.”

  “Their insistence will do little good if the King sees no need to rein her in. He has long favored the maga in ways that defy common sense.”

  “His affection for her occasionally clouds his judgment,” Corey conceded, “yet that same desire can be turned to our advantage. The Council will be motivated by concerns for stability, but other considerations will move the King to action, as surely as a wolf acts to defend his mate.”

  “Then we will bring our case before the Council, and bring the weight of the Council’s opinion to bear upon the King. If everything is as you say, we could have the Maga Eolyn and her coven brought to the City in short order, perhaps even in time for Summer Solstice.”

  Corey smiled, as this was precisely his plan.

  Chapter Nine

  Sisters in Magic

  “I speak in earnest, Renate.” Adiana’s words were slurred by drink. “Borten would be an excellent suitor for Eolyn. He’s good man, a considerate lover—”

  Wine escaped Renate’s lips in a sputtering laugh. “How would you know Borten’s a considerate lover?”

  Adiana shrugged. “I can see it in his face.”

  Renate let go a high pitched cackle and shook her head. “See it in his face? I’ll wager you’ve seen more than his face. You’ve been restless as a lynx in heat since Eostar.”