Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

  “Our march through Moehn was little more than a pleasant outing for these men who call themselves soldiers.” Mechnes’s tone was sharp and sober. “The Mage King awaits us on the road to Rhiemsaven. With any luck, by tomorrow my scouts will tell us where. He will not surrender as easily as the useless lords of Moehn.”

  “He is young and new to war. He will be no match for your cunning.”

  “I am not such a fool as to underestimate him. Mark my words, Rishona, this royal progress you have so enjoyed is about to become a cruel and bloody campaign.”

  “My Naether Demons will—”

  “—make little difference at this point. They attack only at night. And they are disorganized, unreliable. They fight their own battles, not ours.”

  “Their battle is our battle.”

  “They are useful pets when they obey your command. But have you considered the possibility that one day they will not?”

  Rishona stiffened. “Of course, Uncle. I am not such a fool, either. Donatya and I are prepared to send them back to their cold prison and close the door behind them forever. But so far, they have done everything I’ve asked them to do and without hesitation.”

  “They have not killed the maga.”

  Rishona drew a breath. She had anticipated this argument, and had considered how to turn it to her advantage.

  “Twice they found her. Twice they failed,” she said. “Their failure was also mine. I sent the Naether Demons too soon; they did not have sufficient magic to defeat her. Now, they have grown in strength, but so has the maga. She has returned to the Mage King and has bound her magic to him. Even as we speak, the intertwining of their power is closing the breach between them and the Underworld. If the Naether Demons are to destroy them, we must strike soon. And with the most powerful magic available to us.”

  Mechnes paused over his wine. “Are you saying they can slay the Mage King directly?”

  “Oh yes.” Rishona picked up a plum, caressed it wth her lips, and bit thoughtfully into the juicy pulp. “But we must make the proper sacrifice.”

  Mechnes’s chuckle carried a low menace.

  Rishona did not waver beneath his gaze but stood, approached with a sinuous stride, and knelt at his feet. She pulled the pins from her dark hair so the ebony tresses tumbled over her shoulders. With a gentle touch she began removing his boots.

  “You want Adiana,” he said.

  “I do not want her, Uncle.” Rishona sat back on her heels, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast so that her lashes would show dark against her cheeks. “Not only because she pleases you, but because I once called her friend. Would that the Gods had given me another path, but they did not. Adiana is the single richest vessel of magic that we took in the highlands of Moehn. The Naether Demons hunger for her more than any other. They assure me that with her, they can destroy the Mage King before we ever meet him in battle. And the maga as well, if she is at his side.”

  Mechnes leaned forward, touched her chin with his fingers, and brought Rishona’s gaze to his. “You should not believe the promises of those beasts.”

  She smiled and pressed her lips to his palm. “I do not trust them without reservation. I only tell you what the Naether Demons have told me. It is for you to decide, in your wisdom, whether to heed their words.”

  Drawing close, Rishona ran her palms along his thighs. “I can say this: to this day they have not deceived me, and I have no reason to believe they are deceiving me now. We can claim our victory over the bodies of a thousand Syrnte soldiers. Or we can grant the Naether Demons this one small sacrifice, and be rid of the Mage King forever.”

  She laid her head upon his lap and set to work on the lacings of his breeches. Rishona felt neither distaste nor desire, only the quiet conviction that this was the surest path to his favor.

  Mechnes played idly with a lock of her hair and took a drink from his cup.

  “You think to bewitch me,” he said. “Like you did that witless brother of yours. Like you did to half the court at Ech’nalahm.”

  She slipped her fingers around his manhood and finding him ready and eager, began applying her practiced touch. “I would never pretend to bewitch you, Uncle. I wish only to please you, as you have always pleased me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Warrior Queen

  Eolyn lifted her head from its resting place on the tomes from Tzeremond’s library, and realized she had fallen asleep. Carefully transcribed histories had followed her into her dreams, images of ancient magic and brutal monsters, violent battles and frigid Underworld prisons. All of them scattered under the insistent pounding at the entrance to her chambers.

  Shaking off drowsiness, Eolyn rose, crossed the antechamber, and laid her hands upon the sturdy wooden door. “Who calls at this hour?”

  “The King, my lady.” It was Tibald, the captain of her guard, his gruff voice muffled by the door that separated them. “The King’s messenger has arrived from Rhiemsaven.”

  With a whispered spell, Eolyn undid the ward that protected her residence in the East Tower. She lifted the bolt and peered into the darkness beyond.

  Tibald’s lips were set in a grim line over his chestnut beard. Behind him stood half a dozen other men at arms, faces expectant under the light of flickering torches. One of them proffered a folded piece of paper bearing the seal of Vortingen.

  Eolyn accepted the missive, surprised by how heavy it felt. She bade them to wait, stepped back into the antechamber, and broke the seal.

  Maga Eolyn.

  Akmael had written in his own hand. The paper bore traces of his essence, the ink an imprint of the weight of his grief.

  It is with deep misgivings that I place this burden upon you, but the hour is late, and I have no other choice. You must come to me now. The Syrnte have taken Aerunden with their Naether Demons, slaying almost all who protected it. Sir Drostan was among the fallen.

  Eolyn drew a sharp breath, knowing how deeply Akmael would feel the loss of his beloved tutor and trusted advisor. Though reserved in his demeanor, Drostan had always treated her with kindness. There had been an aura of timelessness about him, of invincibility.

  While the mage warriors I have are able men and loyal of heart, they do not know these creatures or the Underworld realm from which they came. I need your power and your wisdom at my side.

  “I’m not ready.” She glanced at the stack of books that had consumed every thought, every moment, since Tzeremond’s library was revealed to them. She had read much and learned much, but she had not yet found what she sought.

  Or if she had found it, she had not yet recognized it.

  “What’s happening?” Ghemena wandered in from the bedroom and stood beside the desk, hair disheveled, nightshift crumpled beneath a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders. She studied Eolyn with a sleepy frown.

  “I must leave the City at once, Ghemena.”

  “You’re going to Moehn?” There was doubt in her eyes, but hope in her voice. “You’ll bring them back then, Tasha and Catarina and Mistress Adiana?”

  Eolyn shook her head. “No.”

  “That’s from the Mage King.” The girl pointed accusingly at the letter. “You’re going to him! Why? Our sisters are in danger.”

  “The entire kingdom is in danger, and my skills are needed to defend it.”

  “Why should you waste your skills defending him and his mages?”

  “Ghemena—”

  “They burned the magas!”

  “That is not entirely true—”

  “Yes it is. That man’s father burned them all, except for the one on whom he forced himself to make the Mage King. You know this, and still you act like that terrible man is more important than any maga, more important than our entire coven!”

  “Our coven could not have existed without his protection.”

  “This is not protection.” She pounded her small fist against the table. Her cheeks were flushed and wet with tears. “He keeps you like a caged bird while Tasha,
Catarina, and Adiana perish in Moehn.”

  Eolyn set the letter aside, taken aback by the intensity of Ghemena’s rage. She took the girl gently in her arms, wiped the tears away, and smoothed the hair from her face. “Dear Ghemena. I know how hard our many losses have been for you. Everything is so complicated in times of war. When the Syrnte invasion is turned back and our land once again at peace, you and I will have a long talk about everything that has come to pass. Gods willing, we will be reunited with our sisters then.”

  “What if we never see them again? What if they’re dead because we didn’t go back? I promised Tasha we’d go back for her.”

  “Not all promises can be kept, Ghemena. Especially in times of war.”

  “This promise must be kept!”

  Eolyn let go a slow breath, uncertain how to respond.

  “The Mage King’s cast a spell on you.” Ghemena’s words sprang out between angry hiccups.

  Eolyn could not help but smile. “You think so?”

  She nodded fiercely.

  Eolyn kissed her forehead. “Then you must invent a ward to break the Mage King’s spell. Now go ready your things. I can’t leave you alone in this castle.”

  “I’m going with you?”

  “No. I will leave you in High Mage Thelyn’s care until I return.”

  “Him?” Ghemena scowled.

  “I’m afraid there’s no one else, for the moment.”

  “But I don’t like him.”

  “Why not? Has he been unkind to you? Has he mistreated you in any way?”

  “No. But he’s a man.”

  “Oh, Ghemena.” Eolyn rolled her eyes. “Half the adults in this world are men. Sooner or later you must to learn to like at least some of them.”

  “I liked Borten well enough, but you abandoned him, too.”

  Ghemena stomped off, unaware how deeply her words knifed Eolyn’s heart.

  Remorse and raw uncertainty filled Eolyn’s breast. She remembered the bittersweet taste of Borten’s kiss.

  They will live, she told herself. Borten and Mariel will reach his family’s estate, and there they will be safe.

  As for the others, it was impossible to know. And in any case, they were beyond her powers now.

  “My lady?” Tibald called Eolyn’s attention back to the moment at hand. His frame filled the doorway. Behind him, she could see the other men, all of them waiting for her instructions.

  Eolyn rose and blinked back the sting of her regrets. “Please advise the members of my guard. We depart within the hour.”

  Fresh horses waited for them in the outer courtyard, still shrouded in the dark of predawn. Eolyn mounted with Ghemena and nodded to Tibald, who barked orders to open the gate.

  As she spurred her mare forward, Eolyn glanced toward the high windows of the Queen’s apartments, dimly illuminated inside. A shadow passed along the balcony just as Eolyn’s view was blocked by the high arch of the castle portal.

  They rode down the winding road toward the City in silence, hooves clattering against cobblestones, the chink of swords and mail a rhythmic accompaniment. At the city square, they turned down the wide avenue that led to the Mages Quarter.

  The people of Moisehén were just beginning to stir. Candles flickered on window sills. An occasional clatter of pots sounded from a back entrance, accompanied by the shrill voice of a woman harrying her children out of bed.

  Eolyn breathed in aromas of steaming tea and fresh bread, interrupted by the disagreeable smell of a man relieving himself in a corner. She heard the snoring of a drunkard in an alley; passed an ox driver muttering curses as he coaxed his beasts of burden into wakefulness.

  Their arrival at the Mages Quarter was marked by the refreshing fragrance of silver linden, whose leafy branches cast wide arches over well-kept streets. High Mage Thelyn’s residence was dark, and his servant reluctant to call the master from his sleep. Eolyn’s insistence in the name of the King did little to persuade him, but when Tibald stepped forward with sword drawn and stormy countenance, the young man hastened to comply.

  Thelyn’s sleepy eyes opened wide upon seeing Eolyn and the King’s escort. He asked no questions but beckoned the maga and her ward inside, bidding the men-at-arms to remain at his door.

  “I leave for Rhiemsaven at once,” Eolyn said.

  “I surmised as much.” Thelyn looked down at Ghemena, who clung to Eolyn’s side and fixed him with a dour stare. “And this one stays with me?”

  “If you would be so kind.”

  “Of course.” He instructed a servant to prepare a room. “Ghemena, go with Mikahl. He will see that you have everything you need.”

  She hesitated and cast a final pleading look at Eolyn, who bent to give her a hug.

  “Do as High Mage Thelyn says, Ghemena. And pray to the Gods that they will not keep us apart for very long.”

  Mikahl took Ghemena’s satchel and her hand. The two disappeared down one of the long corridors, Ghemena dragging her feet.

  Thelyn ushered the maga into a small antechamber, where he invoked a sound ward around them.

  “Have you found anything else in Tzeremond’s collection?” he asked.

  “No. I am sending some of the most detailed accounts to Rhiemsaven, that I might continue to study them there, but it’s all just histories and events. I fear I will be of little use to the King, but he has called, and I must answer his summons.” The memory of her descent into the Underworld crept unbidden into her mind, and she shivered. “I don’t even have a staff to reinforce my magic.”

  Thelyn nodded. “There is much a High Maga can do without a staff, but when meeting the enemy, in particular an enemy such as this, it is a necessary tool.”

  “You think I was a fool to leave mine with Mage Corey. I confess, I agree.”

  A smile touched his lips. “Not a fool, just remarkably trusting. But your capacity for trust may be rewarded, Maga Eolyn. I’ve a mind to grant you an opportunity to ignite Corey’s envy.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Thelyn stepped away with a bow of deference, and ran his hand along the stone wall toward the southeast corner of the cramped space. Murmuring a spell, he drew back the stone as if it were a thin curtain. Behind the illusion stood a staff of rowan, aged and polished, with a head of amber. Thelyn took it up with both hands and proffered it to Eolyn.

  She recoiled in a serpentine instinct, her spirit rooting to the ground, defensive magic surging toward her fingertips. “I know this staff. It was used against me.”

  “To cast the curse of Ahmad-dur,” Thelyn agreed. “It remains the most powerful staff in the kingdom, though its master is no longer with us. I believe it would be your best choice now.”

  “I cannot use this instrument. It would defy everything I try to do with it.”

  “I beg to differ, Maga Eolyn. You see, I have been plagued by a curious puzzle in recent days. Tzeremond allowed you into his library. You, and no one else, were given the cipher for his ward. Given all Tzeremond’s dedication to eliminating the magas, given everything he taught his followers regarding the dangers of women like you, why reach across the chasm that separates us from the Afterlife in order to touch your awareness? And why now?”

  “You read too much into this, Mage Thelyn. My deciphering of the ward was mere coincidence; a memory that came in the right moment, the lucky instinct of a weary maga.”

  “With all due respect, Maga Eolyn, do not insult our dead brothers and sisters by denying their power to speak to us when the desire moves them and the need is great.”

  She studied the staff in his hands. “Rishona summoned a Naether Demon to consume Tzeremond. He would not have survived to enter the Afterlife. It’s impossible for him to speak to any of us now.”

  “The Syrnte Witch wished him and all his magic destroyed. Yet if you but lay your hands on this staff, Maga Eolyn, you will realize she did not succeed. Tzeremond’s spirit must have found a way to escape the Naether Demons, for his magic cannot live in this wo
rld unless it also survived in the next.”

  Still Eolyn hung back in doubt.

  “All I ask is that you test its magic,” Thelyn said. “If the staff does not please you, you need not take it.”

  Hesitant, she stepped forward, laid a palm on the polished wood, closed her eyes, and listened to its quiet hum.

  The feel of Tzeremond’s magic surprised her. She expected anger, aggression, and resentment; but all she detected was discipline and focus, the stalwart dependability of a well-rooted tree.

  When Eolyn opened her eyes, Thelyn had stepped away. The staff lay steady in her hands.

  The mage studied her a moment and shrugged. “He was not a bad man. Just bad for some.”

  She gave a short laugh, tears stinging her eyes in an intense surge of emotion. She remembered the fiery destruction of her village, the brutal death of her family, the years of exile, fear, and hiding that had culminated in the heartbreaking war against Akmael.

  And at the center of it all, Tzeremond.

  Was it truly possible that her enemy in life could become an ally in death?

  “You will take it, then?” Thelyn asked.

  “Yes.” She pulled the staff close. “Thank you, Mage Thelyn. It is a most generous gift.”

  “I do this not for you, but for our people. And it is not a gift.”

  Eolyn smiled. “I understand. It will be returned to you then, when this war is done.”

  He nodded and escorted her to the door. The guards waited, torches in hand. The sky overhead had already brightened with the tenuous light of dawn.

  “Our liege has granted me means of magic to reach him,” she said to Tibald. “I will use this spell now. You and the other guards will remain here. I thank you, in the name of the King, for your service.”

  Tibald nodded. “As you wish, Maga Eolyn.”

  Eolyn stepped away and withdrew the silver web from its resting place over her heart. A breeze whipped at her cloak and sent leaves scuttling across Thelyn’s courtyard. Candles now illuminated every window of the High Mage’s household.