He did not retreat from her challenge, but stepped forward and took her face in his hands. “I have watched you build your school and forge a new life out of ashes. We have spoken, argued, shared meals, fought at one another’s side. I—a humble knight from Moehn—have fancied myself wealthier than the Mage King himself. For three years, the Gods had granted me what my liege so coveted. Every single day I woke up and saw you. Always I have loved you, Eolyn, but to stand between you and our King would only put us both in danger.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Akmael is a good king, but he is a man like any other. He showed me great mercy once, when his father perished at the point of my lance. He will not indulge me again, should I return this favor by taking away someone else whom he loves.”
“That is utter nonsense! Akmael would never—”
“That is an illusion you harbor because of his great kindness toward you. Many would say he has been too kind to the maga from Moehn. Never let him think you have played him for a fool.”
Eolyn drew a breath in protest, but he silenced her with kiss, ardent and bittersweet.
Eolyn traced the lines of his face with trembling fingers. “Why would fate be so cruel as to inspire this love in the moment we must say good-bye?”
“Go,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Go, before I beg you to stay.”
She sought his lips once more, but he stepped away.
“Go,” he said quietly.
Eolyn let the silver web slip from her palm and held it suspended from its delicate chain.
Ehekaht.
The amulet began to spin on its axis.
Elaeom enem.
The spell was breaking her heart. She held onto Borten’s image even as the forest melted around her, a gloomy vortex that consumed everything and left her in momentary darkness.
A floor materialized, cold and hard beneath her feet. Akmael’s familiar aroma of stone and earth and timeless magic enveloped her. Walls appeared, curtained by shadows.
A solitary candle illuminated a small table. Pale moonlight streamed through arched windows and silhouetted Akmael, who stood with his back to her, looking south over the city.
Not so long ago, Eolyn had thought she would never again set foot in this place where she had first given herself to the Mage King. Nervously she glanced at Akmael’s bed. She was surprised not to see Taesara’s figure tucked under the covers, until she remembered the curious habit kings and queens had of not sharing their private chambers.
Eolyn hesitated, the silver amulet warm inside her grip. It would be a simple thing to return to Moehn, to Borten, in this moment. Perhaps Akmael would not even notice she had been there.
The Mage King’s shoulders stiffened. He adjusted his stance and cocked his head, as if sensing the presence behind him.
“Akmael,” she said.
He spun around, knife in hand.
“It is me. Eolyn.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath. “Eolyn. Thank the Gods!”
Akmael swept her into his arms and covered her face with kisses. Eolyn sank into the sweet familiarity of his embrace, the aroma of his skin, the memories of happy adventures in sun-dappled woods.
Then she pulled away. Her knees felt weak, and she struggled to calm her pulse and regain her breath. “We have lost so much. Moehn is overrun. The Syrnte are summoning the Naether Demons back to our world.”
“Naether Demons?” Doubt colored his tone.
“I have seen them. One in the South Woods, and two just now, about a day’s ride from the Pass of Aerunden. High Magic will deter them, but the only weapon that can slay them is this.” She unfastened the belt that held Kel’Barú and proffered her sword to Akmael.
He unsheathed the blade, holding it to the moonlight as if greeting an old and not entirely welcome acquaintance. “So I must wield the Galian sword if I am to confront the Syrnte. Let us hope, then, that it will listen to me now.”
“It will heed you, my Lord King. I will do everything in my power to make it so.”
A smile touched his lips. Akmael sheathed the sword and set it aside.
“There is more—” she began.
He hushed her with a kiss.
“Please, my Lord King. I must tell you—”
“Eolyn, my love.” Akmael took her face in his hands. Strong hands, tempered by magic and made for war. Hands that sparked the ache of desire with nothing more than the familiarity of their touch. “Tomorrow, we will prepare for our battles. Tonight I want only to be with you.”
His lips found hers again, and Eolyn surrendered to their insistence, to her own desire. She closed her eyes, shivering as he freed her body from the stifling bonds of her tattered dress.
Akmael lifted Eolyn up and delivered her to the heat of his bed. What small voice of protest sounded inside her heart was silenced by the overwhelming need to lose herself in this intimacy, to fly on the wings of Dragon and forget the horrors that had besieged her world.
Eolyn drank deep from the cup of their shared desire. When the ecstasy was complete and their passion spent, she lay awake in Akmael’s arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
The Mage King shifted in his sleep, tightening his embrace. Eolyn pressed her lips to his warm chest, awed by the deep sense of security she felt at the center of his keep.
As she drifted toward slumber, her thoughts returned to Borten, to the sweet discovery of his kiss, the sadness of their parting, the life they would never know.
“I love you,” she murmured, though she was no longer certain for whom the words were meant.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grief
Mechnes’s gait was quick, his temper raw. For all her wanton beauty and womanly elegance, Rishona could act like a witless girl of six summers when the mood struck her.
Once they had satiated the Naether Demons and returned to her pavilion, Rishona’s fury had exploded like quickfire. Mechnes had settled the argument with a violence rarely directed at his niece, beating the rage out of her until she turned on him like a lynx in heat, desperate with an old and familiar hunger. The moment filled him more with mirth than desire. He had mocked Rishona’s advances and then abandoned her, leaving the San’iloman alone to contemplate the bitter truth of her dependence on him in all things.
Torches illuminated the starless night. The rhythm of the camp had lowered to a pulsing murmur, characteristic of the brief period between when the men finished with their whores and gaming, and when they rose to begin a new day.
Mechnes found the peace of his own tent refreshing. Servants stepped forward as he entered, offering a washbasin and towel that he used to cool his face and neck.
“The woman?” he asked.
They nodded toward the back of the pavilion, where his bed was partially concealed by sheer drapes and illuminated with candles. There, Adiana lay asleep, bound hand and foot.
Contemplating the landscape of his next conquest, Mechnes removed his belt and undid his doublet. Her shapely ankles were just visible beneath the hem of a light cotton shift that revealed the graceful curves of her body. Her eyes were swollen from the force of her tears; her face marked with exhaustion and despair.
Behind him, servants poured wine, laid out food and set fresh water on a small table near the bed. He allowed them to assist with his outer garments and took a seat while one of them knelt to remove his boots. Goblet in hand, he sent them away.
The candles exuded a sweet aroma of summer sage and purple anise. The tension faded from his shoulders.
Mechnes took a drink, reclined his head and closed his eyes, listening to the troubled murmur of Adiana’s dreams.
He saw a woman consumed in flames and a man beheaded. Adiana ran from those deaths through mist-filled alleys, calling the names of her precious girls, terrified by the silent pursuit of a formless enemy.
“Jonaias,” she murmured fitfully. “Jonaias. . .”
The nightmare faded and began again.
/> Mechnes released her visions and opened his eyes.
A kinder man would let the woman sleep off the fatigue and shock, but Mechnes had never found much use for kindness. Of course, in recent days Adiana’s intriguing beauty had rendered him unusually benevolent. He had refrained from crippling her fine hands. He had protected her from the basest instincts of his men. He had granted her a place of honor among his musicians, and tonight he had saved her life.
Tomorrow, his dear niece Rishona, in her murderous rage, might poison this lovely musician from Selkynsen. After that, Mechnes would be left satisfying his needs on servants and whores, most already well-used by his men.
He set aside his wine with a decisive grunt.
It was time to claim his due.
“Adiana.”
She started, opened her eyes and then closed them tight as if to shut him out.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes were reddened, her cheeks splotchy as if plagued by a fever.
He sat next to her, using a damp cloth to refresh her face. “You should procure not to weep so much. The effects are unbecoming on a face as fair as yours.”
A dry laugh hiccupped from her lips. She looked away. When she spoke, her voice quivered. “The well of my tears may be deep, Prince Mechnes. But you are the one who keeps dipping your cup. Bring those children back to life, and I will be most glad to stop weeping.”
He set aside the cloth, laid a hand on her cheek. “There is something I would ask you, Adiana, and you must answer truthfully.”
She set her jaw and kept her eyes averted.
“In these days past, have any of my men laid a hand on you, hurt you in any way? You may answer without fear of reprimand or punishment. If one of them has violated my orders, I will have his head.”
“You have hurt me,” she said. “Perhaps you could demand your own head.”
Mechnes appreciated her unflinching humor. It set her apart from so many others, who simply wept or raged in their submission. He shifted his position to tend to Adiana’s bound feet.
Loosening the leather cord wrapped around her ankles, he ran his palm over the smooth surface of her skin, the elegant curve of her calf. “Truly you are beautiful, Adiana. Even the slave markets of Ech’Nalahm rarely see a woman so finely wrought.”
He brought her foot to his lips. Her momentary resistance aroused him, as did the taste of her skin, the rose-scented oil that mingled with her own sweet aroma. When his hand strayed toward Adiana’s knee, she jerked away and curled into herself like an injured pup.
He settled beside her, found her hands and began to untie them. Her limbs were pliant, emptied of any will to fight. But Mechnes would have more from her than mere acquiescence.
“Who is Jonaias?” he asked, stroking the silky strands of her hair.
Surprise crossed her face, though she managed to hide it with a look of disdain. “I thought you could see all the threads of my past.”
“His face was hidden in your dreams. Who is he?”
Something broke in her expression, giving Mechnes a glimpse of the vulnerability he sought, the reluctant recognition that there was no one left to her save this Syrnte prince.
“He was my father’s steward.” Her voice fell to a murmur. “When my parents died and I ran away to the piers, he came after me. He took me away from that life, and gave me a place in his home.”
The revelation moved Mechnes. “You were calling for your champion, then.”
“Why do you pretend intimacy with me?” Her voice was firm but without fire. “Do what you came to do. It does not matter anymore.”
“I pretend nothing.” He took her delicate hand in his. “I intend to pleasure you.”
“A whore does not feel pleasure.”
Mechnes caressed her fingers with his lips, found the place on Adiana’s wrist that made her shiver. “Then you have never been the whore of a Syrnte Prince.”
“You…” Rage choked off her words. She drew a breath and then continued. “You murder those children, and then come here and speak to me as if…What vile place did you come from? How is it possible to live as you do, without soul or sentiment?”
“This is sentiment.” He loosened the lacing of her shift, exposing the creamy rise of her breasts. “Though you may not recognize it as such. I have seen many slain, Adiana: valiant men and beautiful women, innocent children swept away by forces beyond their understanding. I learned long ago not to regret their passing. The best way to honor the dead is to embrace the life left to us.”
“This is no life.”
“Ah, no? What is it then that you have clung to with such ferocity these past days? Of all those we found in that little school, you are the only one that remains. The only one clever enough to have sought refuge under my wing.”
“I sought no such thing.”
“Be true to yourself, Adiana. You have never felt more alive than now, with death crowding close, showing you time and again its brutal face.”
“You know nothing of what I feel.”
He hushed her and placed his fingers upon her brow, covering her eyes. “I know the way you perceive the world shimmering around you. Even now you hear the pulse of this camp, the murmur of my men. Every smell, every sound, every sensation calls to you, because you have looked into the eyes of death and survived. You cannot shut out the comfort of this bed, the heat of my touch, the scent of our desire.”
His hand passed from breast to belly, and drew back the folds of her skirt. She reared against him, but he immobilized her, taking his time to explore the secrets of her womanhood.
Fear and longing, shame and desperation fought for control of Adiana’s expression. He could feel the sweet ache of all her wounds reopened, the intensification of a void that drove her toward experience, sensation, satiation.
A flush of heat blossomed between her thighs. Mechnes sustained his tender but insistent touch, teased her breasts with tongue and teeth, until at last she arched her back and shuddered, a choked sob breaking upon her lips.
He withdrew his hand, the evidence of her need glistening on his fingers.
“The Gods take you!” Tears streamed down her face, and she beat his chest with tight fists. “May they take you and tear you limb from limb.”
“Be careful what you ask, Adiana. Who will protect you and comfort you, if I am gone?”
“I will not forget those girls. I will never forgive what you did to them.”
“I have no need for your forgiveness.” He rent her cotton shift in two and settled his weight upon her. “Come Adiana, no more tears. Children in this world are easily replaced. Let me help you remember how.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Council
Golden light slanted into the King’s chambers, leaving bright replicates of tall windows at even intervals along the stone floor.
Embarrassed at having slept so late, yet reluctant to leave the comfort of Akmael’s bed, Eolyn yawned and stretched. The covers were soft, impregnated with his magic and the compelling aroma of their shared love. Stories stirred in her memory, old legends told at the fires of her village, of princesses who slept for a hundred years, hidden away at the heart of some old castle.
“I would sleep a hundred years,” she murmured, “were I given the opportunity in this moment.”
Akmael was nowhere to be seen. Eolyn vaguely recalled him rising before dawn, the warmth of his lips upon her temple. He had tucked a blanket around her shoulders, bidding her to sleep and closing the door softly behind him. It seemed like another dream, the most pleasant in a very long while. Indeed, she could not remember the last time she had awakened so well rested.
She sat up, and was startled by a sudden movement in the corner, a girl rising from a wooden stool. The servant wore a plain dress, and her hair was tucked carefully under a beige cap. She gave a brief curtsey, eyes alert and hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Who are you?” Eolyn asked.
“Milady Maga Eolyn.” Again
the girl curtseyed. “I am Yessenia. The King requested that I tend to you when you wake.”
“Tend to me?”
“Yes. That is, if it please you, Milady Maga Eolyn.”
Eolyn had grown up tending to her own needs, and could not understand the feigned helplessness of royals when it came to bathing, dressing, cooking, and eating. But young Yessenia looked so eager to please, and in truth Eolyn did not know where to begin if she wished to find a wash basin, food, or a fresh set of clothes.
So she nodded and said, “Very well. But please, call me Eolyn.”
“As you wish, Milady Eolyn.”
“No.” Eolyn rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling a heavy weight settle behind her eyes. She did not belong in this place. She never had. “Just Eolyn, please.”
“I can’t do that!” Yessenia’s eyes went wide in her round face. Then she lowered her gaze and curtsied again. “I mean, forgive me, milady, but it wouldn’t be proper, calling you by name.”
Eolyn drew a breath and studied the stone walls, wishing they would fade for just a moment and reveal an ancient forest draped in emerald moss, illuminated with diffuse golden light. And beyond the massive trees, a river with crystalline waters flowing over smooth boulders, where she and Akmael would play until the sun sank low and twilight called them home.
She shook off the vision and gave Yessenia a smile. “Then you may call me Maga Eolyn. But please, not milady.”
“As you wish, milady. Oh, I beg your pardon.” Another curtsey. “Maga Eolyn.”
The morning meal—or rather, midday meal—had already been laid on a polished oak table: bread and Berenben cheese, fruits, meats, and sweet mead. Yessenia wrapped a warm robe around Eolyn’s shoulders as she sat down to abate a now ravenous hunger.
While the maga ate, the servant diligently coaxed all the knots out of her copper tresses with a wide-toothed comb. More servants appeared with pitchers of fresh water and a large shallow basin.
After finishing the meal, Eolyn accepted Yessenia’s offer to assist her while bathing, and luxuriated in the feel of the servant’s hands rubbing soap over her tired limbs, of the cool water running through her hair and down her back.
Sword of Shadows Page 22
