Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  Lord Penamor stepped forward with yet another petition to see the Queen, but Akmael denied his request and informed High Mage Rezlyn that Taesara was not to receive any visitors except by his leave.

  When Akmael arrived at the Council room, Corey and Drostan stood at the long oak table, maps of the eastern territories laid out before them. The bright and breezy morning had given away to a stifling afternoon heat. Though the southern windows were flung open, perspiration beaded everyone’s brow, the faint smell of sweat a silent herald of battles to come.

  “My Lord King,” Corey greeted Akmael with a respectful bow, his expression one of pronounced concern, his tone deferential. “What news of your son?”

  “The Prince is lost.” Akmael’s voice was terse, his heart already hardened.

  Corey studied him a moment, brow furrowed. “I am most grieved to hear it. And the Queen?”

  “She will recover soon enough.”

  “May the Gods make it so,” Sir Drostan said quietly.

  The King acknowledged their condolences with a brief nod. “What have you gathered from the girl, Mage Corey?”

  “If I interpret her testimony correctly, it would seem Moehn has been taken by a band of Syrnte raiders. They destroyed the school, burned the town, and camped outside what remains of the walls.”

  The useless walls of Moehn, Akmael thought bitterly.

  “They must have come from the east.” Akmael drew forth one of the maps. “Here, around the flank of the Paramen Mountains. An ancient trade route, perhaps. Or a path known only to foresters.”

  “They would not have required many men to take Moehn,” Drostan said, “but they may be poised to open the path into a proper road.”

  “Mage Corey, what of Maga Eolyn?” Akmael asked. “Does the girl know anything of her whereabouts?”

  “Eolyn departed for the South Woods a few days before the attack, accompanied by Sir Borten, Delric and two of her students. The night the Aekelahr was taken, she had not yet returned.”

  Akmael expressed his relief with a slow exhale. There was hope, then. No one knew the South Woods better or could find safer refuge within its corridors than Eolyn. “How many men among the Syrnte?”

  “Impossible to tell,” Corey said. “If I were to believe the child, I would say thousands. But she has never seen an army, and did not—I think—see this one very well. What appeared an infinite horde to her may be no more than a few hundred men.”

  “It would be unwise to assume she’s exaggerating,” Drostan said. “The rebel Ernan amassed a formidable army in the forests of East Selen, man by man and weapon by weapon over many months. We have always thought his followers passed unnoticed in small groups through the western territories, but they may have had other routes of entry about which we were never informed.”

  Akmael cast an acerbic glance at Mage Corey. “What do you say, having known that failed movement all too well?”

  Corey set his jaw under the King’s challenge, his silver green eyes calm as a serpent in the summer sun. “Their routes of entry were just as I informed you, my Lord King. Ernan’s men came from Galia across the Sea of Rabeln, and Khelia’s warriors descended from the Paramen Mountains into Selkynsen. Both travelled along the northern hills of the Taeschel range to meet Ernan in East Selen. Additional rebels were gathered from the peasant classes of Moisehén, and when Ernan forged his alliance with Selen, he called upon the levies of those treacherous lords.”

  “And the Syrnte?” Drostan prompted.

  The mage let go an impatient breath. “The Syrnte were always enigmatic participants in Ernan’s movement. Rishona and Tahmir, for the most part, worked on their own, intent upon their pact of vengeance against Tzeremond, with only a handful of guards at their disposal. But Ernan was promised a hundred or so Syrnte cavalry, which at the time I departed his company had not yet appeared. Nor, as the King well knows, did these mounted soldiers materialize during the Battle of Aerunden. It was never revealed to me how Rishona and Tahmir’s men were expected to enter the kingdom unnoticed, and until this day I had assumed they never did.”

  Akmael studied his cousin in contempt, frustrated once more by the capriciousness of the Gods, who had seen fit to take away so fine and straightforward an advisor as Tzeremond and leave this man—who never once lied and yet had proven a master of deception—as the highest ranking mage of the kingdom.

  “Mage Corey,” Akmael said, “when we finish here, you will accompany Sir Drostan to speak with our mage warriors. You will tell them all you know of the Syrnte and the magic at their command. If I should discover at any time that you have withheld information of importance, I will have you drawn and quartered, and your remains thrown to the wolves.”

  The mage bowed, apparently undaunted by the threat. “As you wish, my Lord King.”

  “Drostan, once you have what you need from Corey, you are to depart immediately for Rhiemsaven with a hundred men, twenty mage warriors among them. Travel light and fast. The Pass of Aerunden must be secured with all haste.”

  “I will see it done, my Lord King.”

  “I will assemble the rest of the army and depart in three days’ time. By the grace of the Gods, you will have enforcements before you meet the Syrnte in battle.

  “Yes, my Lord King.”

  “That is all for now.”

  Drostan bowed to take his leave.

  “If I may be so bold, my Lord King,” Corey said, causing Drostan to pause in his tracks. “The device that brought the child here. Is it still in your possession?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would counsel you not to use it.”

  Akmael studied the mage, remembering their meeting on the eve of Ernan’s rebellion, when Corey was bound and beaten, deep inside the dungeons of Vortingen. Even then, his swollen and discolored face had failed to diminish the imperturbable authority with which he always spoke.

  “Drostan, you may wait in the antechamber until I have finished with Mage Corey.”

  The knight departed.

  When the heavy oak doors shut behind him, Akmael turned on his cousin. “Speak and speak plainly. I have no patience today for your riddles.”

  “Mine is a simple concern, my Lord King. We do not know the fate of the maga, and therefore have no manner of anticipating where the device will take you. Should the jewel land you in the middle of a Syrnte camp, we will have lost Moisehén in a single blow.”

  “I have considered this possibility and will await our scouts’ assessment of the situation in Moehn before taking any action to retrieve her.”

  “While we wait, she may be at the mercy of Syrnte invaders. Forgive my presumption, my Lord King, but I do not have the heart to abandon Eolyn to such a fate, and neither do you.” Corey set his silver-green gaze upon Akmael. “Send me to find her.”

  “I am to trust you with such a task?”

  “You entrusted her to me once before, and I did not fail you.”

  “You delivered Eolyn to the rebels.”

  “I put her in the safest place imaginable, under the guardianship of her brother. You have no other subject who sets a higher priority upon Eolyn’s fate than I do. You know this.” Corey drew close. “Eolyn is the key to our future. Her magic is just as important to this kingdom as the bloodline of Vortingen. You saw her in Moehn. Does she still wear the serpent upon her arm?”

  Corey referred to a bracelet wrought in silver, etched with images of Dragon, an heirloom of the Clan of East Selen.

  “Yes,” Akmael said.

  “Then she is one of us, one of my own, and I am sworn to protect her. Send me to Moehn in your stead. I will find Eolyn and deliver her to you, safe and whole.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aftermath

  “What was that creature?” Borten’s voice jolted Eolyn out of her reverie.

  The knight had waited two days before asking this question. Still, Eolyn did not feel ready to answer.

  She averted her gaze to Mariel, who stood with skirts hitche
d up and arms wrapped tight around her slender body. The quiet waters of the Tarba lapped at Mariel’s ankles. The summer sky glowed with a deep sapphire hue that under any other circumstances would have instilled joy in a girl’s heart. Yet Mariel did not smile, nor did she move, save for a subtle rocking of her body in synchrony with the swaying reeds.

  “I’m worried about her,” Eolyn said. “She hasn’t spoken a word since we scattered their ashes.”

  They had burned the bodies of Sirena and Delric in accordance with the old rites, on a pyre of Beech to preserve the old, Alder to protect the new, and Ash for wisdom during times of loss. As Eolyn had lifted her voice to mourn their passing, the smoke had twisted toward the heavens in black billows and drifted in a charcoal haze over the rim of the South Woods.

  I sing for the passing of this witch, this warrior,

  These wise and beautiful friends

  Who brought joy to our days and laughter to our nights…

  “Eolyn.” Borten laid a hand on her arm. “Answer my question.”

  She studied his face, the strength behind those clear blue eyes. His touch ignited a dull ache inside, a longing to wrap herself in his arms and never come out again.

  Even so, every time she looked at Borten, she felt as if she were searching for someone else.

  “I am not certain,” she said. “If I knew, I would have spoken to you about it by now.” Her throat constricted. She coughed and called to her student. “Mariel, come! We have delayed long enough.”

  For a moment, the girl showed no signs of having heard. Then she withdrew from the water, retrieved her boots, and came up the steep bank to join them. Her gait was heavy and her gaze vacant.

  Eolyn put one arm around Mariel’s waist and pulled her into a gentle embrace.

  “We’ve but half a day of travel left,” she said in quiet encouragement. “Then we’ll be home again, eating Renate’s soup and Adiana’s bread, playing games with the girls, sleeping in our own beds.”

  Eolyn touched her student’s chin. Mariel responded with a hesitant smile, though her eyes remained shadowed with sorrow.

  “I need you to be strong for the young ones, Mariel,” Eolyn continued. “It’ll be difficult news for everyone.”

  The girl nodded, but her shoulders sagged.

  Troubled, Eolyn bit her lip and withdrew. “Perhaps we could walk for a little while, give the horses a rest and take in some of this fine day. What do you say, Sir Borten?”

  His scowl rendered any response unnecessary. Borten wanted them to return to the school with all haste. Though Eolyn shared his sense of urgency, she also saw that Mariel’s spirit could not be rushed. The girl needed time, fresh air, warm days, and quiet nights.

  Most of all, she needed quiet nights.

  “There are things you and I must discuss, Sir Borten,” Eolyn insisted. “It will be easier, if we walk.”

  This seemed to appease the knight, though his nod was stiff.

  Leading the horses by the reins, they started downriver once more, Eolyn falling in step beside Sir Borten, Mariel lagging behind.

  “That monster in the South Woods…” Eolyn’s heart spasmed, and her voice failed her. She yearned to share her fears and doubts, yet every time she drew a breath to speak of the attack, some inexplicable force silenced her. She paused, connected her spirit to the earth, and tried again. “I have seen it before, or something very much like it, when Tzeremond banished my spirit to the Underworld. I believe it was a Naether Demon.”

  For a long moment, Borten did not reply. Their feet sounded against the grass, accompanied by the rhythmic plod of the horses. A fresh wind blew across the rolling hills, muffling the songs of warblers and thrushes.

  “I know something of those legends,” Borten said. “It would make sense. All the beast took from Sirena was her heart.”

  “But it does not make sense, Sir Borten! The Naether Demons were trapped in the Underworld, banished for all ages. How could it have escaped, and why here in the South Woods? The curse of Ahmad-dur has been reversed only once that I know of, when it was cast upon me. Akmael…I mean, the King, was able to bring me back because very little time had passed and my earthly body was still intact. My spirit had a home to which it could return. The Naether Demons have no earthly bodies left. Even if they did, those vessels would be on the other side of the kingdom, in the Wastes of Faernvorn. Not here in Moehn.”

  “That beast was not made of flesh and blood. You saw how our swords passed through it. Only the weapon of the Galian sorcerers could cut it open.” He nodded toward Kel’Barú, now hanging on his belt.

  Eolyn rubbed her forehead, troubled by the nagging sense that she had all the pieces necessary to solve this puzzle, if only she could put them in proper order. Pausing in her gait, she closed her eyes and focused on the darkness within.

  “Corey.” The sound of his name on her lips surprised her. “Corey might know.”

  “The mage of East Selen? Why?”

  Indeed, why? Eolyn’s pace quickened, as if every step could bring her closer to an answer. “Something he said once. If I could only remember…”

  Borten stopped in his tracks, eyes fixed on the horizon. A frown filled his face.

  “What is it?” she asked, following the direction of his gaze.

  Two dark lines twisted against the sky, one toward the west and the other further north, as if some great hand had drawn a line of watery ink from the earth to the heavens.

  “Moehn,” Borten murmured, “and the Aekelahr.”

  In a flash of horror, Eolyn dropped the reins and ran, feet pounding hard against the earth until she reached the top of the next ridge, where she stood breathless, one hand shielding her eyes from the bright sun, trying to see what distance refused to reveal.

  Borten came up beside her.

  “Burning?” she said in disbelief. “Both of them? How can that be? Gods help us…the children!”

  Magic coursed through Eolyn as she invoked the shape of Hawk.

  “What are you doing?” Borten demanded, but already she had left him, soaring high toward the heavens. “Eolyn, stop!”

  She keened while catching an updraft, letting his figure fall away. The landscape billowed into a broad rolling plain of golden green, dark patches of forest nestled inside shallow ravines, the Tarba a silver ribbon winding between low hills.

  With the pulse of the wind beneath her wings, Eolyn veered west toward the school. At last it came into view, and her worst fears were realized.

  Eolyn alighted on the western wall, clinging to the form of Hawk, too stunned to think beyond the burnt out hulls below. She ruffled her feathers, flapped her wings, and settled again on her perch, restless and uncertain, eyes darting between the blackened stone ruins that had once been the kitchen, the herbarium, the study, her quarters. A strident cry escaped her, repeating in staccato notes as excruciating grief beat relentless through her breast.

  Was this all that was left after years of labor and a lifetime of hope? Was this the reward of the Gods for the many sacrifices of her heart?

  With a stroke of her powerful wings, Eolyn soared upward and circled the complex, seeking some sign of Adiana, Renate, or the girls, but the place was deserted. Gardens, medicines, books, all her greatest treasures reduced to ash.

  A flutter of black wings drew her gaze south, alerting her to a flock of ravens beyond a nearby ridge. Eolyn flew toward them. At their center she saw a forsaken corpse, a flash of cloth dyed midnight blue, the color of a Middle Maga.

  She charged into the ravens screaming, wings spread and talons extended, clawing at their black eyes and snapping at their sharp beaks. In moments, the lesser birds scattered, hissing their fury but respecting her dominance. When they had retreated she resumed her human form, and knelt, trembling, beside what was left of Renate.

  The maga’s head had disappeared. Her gut was torn open, emptied by a scavenger in the night. The rest of her ragged remains were being picked to pieces by the ravens.

&nb
sp; “Oh, my dear, sweet sister.” Eolyn covered her face and wept.

  The sun continued its slow arc toward the western sky. The ravens cawed, impatient, a few paces away. Eolyn lifted her face to the breeze, drew a shuddering breath, and wiped the tears from her cheeks, though they had not yet ceased to flow.

  The grass was whispering, You cannot stay.

  Borten would be sick with worry, and furious. Even now he might be galloping toward the school, Mariel dragging in his wake. She had to stop them before they came too close, for whoever did this might yet be wandering the hills.

  “You there!”

  Eolyn jumped, and scrambled to her feet. Three men-at-arms were approaching, one on foot with bow drawn, the others mounted behind. They were too far away to recognize their faces, but Eolyn could see their colors. These were not the King’s soldiers.

  “What business have you here?” one of them called.

  Eolyn took a few steps backwards.

  “Answer me!”

  She turned and ran.

  An arrow hissed past her, and she leapt forward, plunging into the shape of Wolf, bounding over the hill as fast as four legs could take her. Shouts pursued her, followed by the whinny and prance of horses. Panic nipped at her heels. She did not dare look back.

  Already fatigued from grief and flight, Eolyn did not know how long she could hold the shape of Wolf. Another arrow shot past, grazing her back with its heat. She yelped and began a desperate run, dodging arrows as she followed the ravines, hoping the ridges would conceal the path of her retreat, keeping head and tail low while her pursuers fanned out behind her. Her breath came in harsh pants, her tongue hung steaming from her jowls. Her muscles ached with every movement.

  Suddenly her snout caught the peppery green scent of woodlands. Lifting her head Eolyn spotted a small patch of forest nestled between two hills. She hurtled toward the cover and crashed into the underbrush, thorny branches scraping her flanks as she sought refuge under the shifting shadows of bushes.