Sword of Shadows

by Karin Rita Gastreich

“Then she is still a prisoner of the Syrnte? Perhaps we can send word to Lord Herensen, and he could—”

  “No.” He waved her words away. “No, Eolyn. She is not with the Syrnte. She is safe, but her situation is…complicated. I think it best that we do not speak of it now.”

  “But I must know whether—”

  “Eolyn.” He took her chin in his hand. “Look at yourself. How long have you have been carrying the weight of this kingdom on your shoulders? Your magic is spent and your aura faded. You must recuperate your strength, and bring the King back to our people. When these tasks are finished we will speak at length, and you will know the fates of all your sisters.”

  The maga drew a breath to protest.

  “That is my final word,” Corey said.

  Eolyn understood there would be no more argument. Reluctantly, she returned to Akmael’s side, troubled by Corey’s unyielding silence, by the mystery behind his words.

  In the days that followed, Akmael’s hands grew warmer, but still he did not respond to her touch. Eolyn took to sleeping in his bed. No one questioned her decision to do so. Time and again, she searched for Akmael in her dreams, but he eluded her like a shadow on the edge of awareness.

  At last one night, she found him. Not Akmael the man, but a boy lost in the black forest, crouched beside a gnarled old tree, peering anxiously into the endless gloom.

  I must find my mother, he said. She left long ago and never returned.

  A woman’s voice floated from deep inside the formless woods. Akmael sprang to his feet and ran toward it.

  Eolyn cried out and caught his hand, pulling him back from the darkness, but the boy wrenched free of her hold.

  I must find my father, he insisted. He waits in the halls of my ancestors and has prepared a place for me.

  Many voices were calling now, woven together in a single tapestry of song that settled in the high branches and glowed like an ivory moon. Akmael began to scale one of the giant trees.

  There is light in the South Woods, Eolyn said, following him in desperation. The shadowy branches slipped from her grasp and she lost her footing on ephemeral holds. Light and magic. A river with sparkling fish and trees that reach toward the sun.

  I have no need of such things. Truth waits for me, there. Akmael nodded toward the luminous orb. Truth and peace. The spirits of all those who have gone before. I will not delay any longer.

  Eolyn grasped Akmael’s ankle, finding it surprisingly solid to the touch. The tree hissed and shivered, attempting to throw her from its nebulous trunk. There is a child whom we have not yet met. He waits on the riverbank.

  Akmael paused in his ascent. What child?

  Can you not hear his voice?

  The trees wavered in a breeze that could not be felt.

  A child’s laughter slipped through the darkness, soft and high-pitched.

  Uncertainty clouded Akmael’s expression.

  Come with me, Eolyn said.

  He watched the orb above them, longing in his stance.

  Your ancestors will wait.

  Reluctantly he set his gaze upon her, ebony eyes in a pale face.

  I do not remember the way, he said.

  I will show you.

  Light began to filter through the forest as they walked hand in hand. The herbs at their feet drew color from the earth, sprouting flowers of ruby and amethyst. The trees solidified into twisting branches and crusty bark, adorned with emerald leaves and opal blossoms.

  The river murmured their names, and they paused on its banks, watching the flow of the water rise until it caressed their bare feet, cool and soothing, ever full of life. On the other side floated a silver star, formless and vibrant, like the lanterns of the Guendes that once guided her home…

  Eolyn awoke.

  Daylight filtered into the tent.

  Akmael sat in the bed next to her, idly stroking her hair. His convalescence had left him pale and gaunt, but he was alive.

  Alive.

  “High Mage Rezlyn has told me of all you did on the day of the battle,” he said. “How your courage inspired my men.”

  Struck with wonder, she sat up and touched his face.

  Akmael pressed his dry lips to her palm.

  “Foolish woman,” he murmured, but his tone was one of gentle admonishment, and there were tears in his eyes. “Never disobey me again.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Freedom

  Taesara studied her face in a mirror crafted by the silversmiths of Antaria and gifted to her by the noble house of Velander on the occasion of her marriage to the Mage King. A finer mirror could not be found in all of Moisehén, yet the Queen longed for a cleaner image, something that reflected the warmth of her cheeks and the curve of her brows. Something that made her look alive, rather than etched from stone.

  She set the instrument aside. “This will not do. I never know what he sees when he looks upon me.”

  “He sees great beauty, my Lady Queen.” Sonia was putting the finishing touches on Taesara’s hair, tucking stray locks into the elaborate weave of her golden tresses, adorned with silver ribbons and sapphire crystals.

  “Beauty is not enough.” Taesara rolled these words on her tongue, their flavor new and bitter. She stood and distanced herself from Sonia, smoothing the folds of her purple gown, fingering the braids of her hair.

  “Trust me, my Lady Queen,” said Sonia. “Men are hungry after war. Your beauty will be enough.”

  “Not with that witch at his side.”

  “Even if he slept with a thousand harlots from here to Rhiemsaven, it would not matter. You are his Queen. Give him your adoration, grace him with your beauty, and he will come to you. Tonight.”

  Taesara shivered at the thought. How could something so distasteful for a woman be so sought after by men, and so necessary for bearing children?

  Horns blasted from the towers of the fortress. Taesara’s belly tightened like a fist.

  “That is the third call, my Lady Queen.”

  “I know!” she snapped.

  Sonia stiffened and bowed in deference. “There is little time left, if it still be your will to meet the King before the gates.”

  Taesara’s will or not, it had to be done.

  Lord Penamor waited for them in the antechamber, wearing the colors and sigil of Roenfyn. He assessed his niece with a sharp gaze, eyes lingering on her exposed hair.

  Blood rose to Taesara’s cheeks. It felt vulgar and unclean to forego a cap and veil, but Sonia had insisted this would arouse the Mage King’s appetite.

  You may not be able to match the maga’s witchery, she had said, but you can make use of her tricks.

  Taesara fully expected her uncle to disapprove, but after a moment he merely snorted and gave a shrewd smile.

  “Only a fool would not want to bed you,” he said.

  “My Lord King is not a fool,” Taesara replied, indignant. “My Lord King is bewitched.”

  Penamor’s lips thinned into a straight line. A note of sympathy flickered behind his hardened eyes. They had made their peace following his outburst in her chambers, but that had not lessened Taesara’s burden. She had to bring the Mage King to her bed soon, and conceive him a son, or all would be lost.

  Penamor touched her cheek. “What you need is a smile to complete your charm. Come, Taesara. It is not as bad as all that. You have two kingdoms at your feet, and the beauty of the Gods in your face. That peasant whore has nothing but her miserable spells and foul potions.”

  “The Syrnte have handed her the kingdom,” Taesara replied. “The people worship her now. The stories we’ve heard—”

  “Lies and deceptions, all invented to make her into something she is not.”

  “Invented? An entire army witnessed—”

  “Tales of war are always exaggerated. Even if there were some substance to what they say, it does not matter. Every lie can be made a truth, and every truth a lie. All it takes is patience, persistence, and a few well-placed words.”


  Taesara held her uncle’s gaze. She could find no flaw with his reasoning, and this at once troubled her and gave her hope.

  A festive atmosphere greeted the Queen’s entourage as they descended from the castle. Laughter and song, music and dance, followed them from the central square to the city gates.

  Happy shouts of praise lifted Taesara’s spirits, though the cobblestone streets were not nearly as crowded as she expected. When they reached the entrance to the City, Taesara saw why. The people of Moisehén had rushed forth to meet their King, their rapturous tide flooding fields beyond the city walls with a sea of celebration.

  Taesara had thought her heart could not sink lower than it had in days recently passed, when the maga’s curse had stolen away her unborn child. But she was not prepared to see the witch riding in triumph at the Mage King’s side, receiving the enthusiastic adoration of their people.

  Women and children crowded the maga, showering her with white lilies until her arms overflowed with fragrant blossoms. Men lifted cups overflowing with ale. “Long live King Akmael!” they cried, and intermingled with this came the equally passionate declaration, “Gods protect the Maga!”

  “May the demons take her,” Penamor muttered.

  Taesara spurred her horse forward, obliging the guards to open a path toward her liege. The people seemed intent on keeping her away, and desperation mounted with every moment that separated her from the King and his mistress.

  At long last, the fact of her royal presence rippled through the chaos, and the people parted to make way. Urging her mount into a canter, Taesara closed the distance until the Mage King’s imposing gaze settled upon her. She stopped abruptly, praying the insecurity that plagued her every breath did not show in the set of her shoulders or the expression on her face.

  “We welcome you, my Lord King, on this most happy day,” she said.

  The King nodded, first to her and then to Penamor at her side. The Battle of Rhiemsaven had left his face thin and without color. Food, sun, and sufficient repose would change that, Taesara knew, but nothing would ever diminish the darkness behind those stony eyes, an ominous look that made her shiver from the very first day they had met.

  “Thank you, Taesara,” he said. “Lord Penamor.”

  “On behalf of Roenfyn, I congratulate you, King Akmael,” Penamor said. “Please know that my liege is most ready to offer any assistance you require, as peace and order are restored to your lands.”

  “King Lyanos’ offer is most gracious,” the King acknowledged.

  Taesara brightened her smile and gave expansive gesture of her arm. “Shall we continue to the City, my Lord King? A feast awaits us in the castle hall. Food, drink, well-deserved rest and revelry for my beloved husband and his loyal men.”

  The maga, seeming to at last understand she was not welcome, signaled her mount to move aside, but the King raised his hand to stop her.

  “Maga Eolyn, have I given you leave to go?”

  “No, my Lord King.” The witch had the presence of mind to appear abashed. She met the Queen’s stare, and then looked to the King. “I meant no insult. I simply thought—”

  “This victory is yours as much as it is mine,” he said. “We will ride through the City gates together.”

  Taesara felt a tremor at the base of her spine, a knot of anger that threatened to explode into screams of rage. She tightened her grip on the reins.

  “Of course, Maga Eolyn,” she said, forcing her smile. “My Lord King is right in this as he is all things. We have heard many tales of your heroism during the battle against the Syrnte. We must let the people pay you due homage.”

  If the Mage King appreciated Taesara’s dignified surrender, he made no indication.

  The maga did not meet Taesara’s eyes as they rode past.

  A bold harlot she may be, but not bold enough to gloat in my presence.

  As Queen’s entourage fell into place behind the King’s guard, Taesara’s uncle drew close. “You are not to allow her to sit at his side during the banquet.”

  Taesara shrugged. She had always found her uncle intimidating, but in this moment, he only amused her. “She will sit at his side, Uncle. And sleep in his bed. Tonight and every night, for many years to come.”

  “Do not speak like that,” he insisted between gritted teeth. “We are far from finished with this matter. I will not see you further humiliated. King Akmael knows the consequences should he so much as dare…”

  Taesara shut out Penamor’s words. She drew a deep breath, watched the waving flags and raised spears, let the shouts of the people fade into the background.

  Her anger was dissolving under an unexpected lightness of being. The burden of the Mage King was being passed on to that woman, and Taesara was surprised to discover she no longer cared. She wanted nothing more of this violent man, of his strange kingdom, or of these terrible sorrows.

  I will go from this place, and take Eliasara with me.

  Roenfyn might judge Princess Taesara unfit to marry again, but they would give her refuge nonetheless. She and her daughter could devote their lives to a quiet cause among the Sisters of Humility, or the Servants of the Poor. No longer would they be plagued by the ambitions of men and sorcerers. No longer would they live in fear of the poisonous reach of the Witch of Moisehén.

  “Taesara!” Penamor’s rebuke broke through her thoughts. “Are you listening?”

  The world came back into focus: the chaos of voice and song, the stench of horse and sweat, the heavy gait of a thousand men, banners of silver and purple fluttering in the wind.

  “Yes, Uncle,” she said. “I am listening.”

  But his words no longer held any power over her.

  Chapter Fourty-Four

  Mage’s Council

  They arrived at night and in secret, transformed into creatures that slipped through shadows unnoticed, their gathering protected by formidable wards. Thelyn, Corey, Rezlyn, and Tzetobar met in an intimate circle that dated back to the private councils of Tzeremond, though their number, in these days, was much diminished.

  “Of course there is a risk of war,” Tzetobar conceded quietly. “But Roenfyn’s soldiers are inferior to ours, and they have no magic. King Lyanos will be especially wary, now that that we have defeated the greatest commander of the eastern kingdoms.”

  “They could ally with Galia or the kingdoms of the Paramen Mountains,” Corey replied. “There are still many exiles who wish to avenge Kedehen’s legacy and claim this kingdom as their own.”

  “Roenfyn fears Galia as much as they fear us, perhaps more,” Thelyn countered. “I find it difficult to imagine they would grant Galian wizards safe passage across their lands.”

  “That still leaves the Mountain Warriors,” Corey replied, “some of whom supported the insurgent Ernan.”

  “I suspect the Mountain People have lost interest in our affairs,” Thelyn said. “They united with Ernan because of their desire to see women’s magic restored. That goal has been achieved.”

  “Women’s magic has not been restored.” Impatience marked Corey’s tone. “The bans were lifted, but no exile has returned. After four years, we have but one High Maga and two girls who cling to her shadow. A tenuous spark, at best.”

  Thelyn shrugged. “We have made an honest effort.”

  “Khelia and her people will judge us by our successes, not by our efforts.”

  “Success will come.” Tzetobar lifted his hands to stall their argument. “Maga Eolyn will start a new Aekelahr inside this City, with our full support and the protection of the King. That has already been decided. What is under discussion is whether she should be granted the Crown as well.”

  After a long and heavy silence, Thelyn said, “I don’t see how we have a choice.”

  “We can choose to be the voice of prudence,” Tzetobar said.

  “At what cost?” Thelyn gestured to include everyone present. “Look at us. There are more High Mages in Moisehén than there have been in a generation, and yet ou
r numbers on the Council dwindle. Will King Akmael throw us out as well, if we oppose his desire to anoint a new queen? And if he does, who then will be the voice of prudence when the Mage King seeks to use his power in ways that are truly unacceptable?”

  “This is unacceptable,” Corey said. “Dissolving the contract with Roenfyn is an insult to Taesara and her people, and we will pay for it.”

  “Perhaps.” Thelyn sat back, eyeing his friend. “Though Roenfyn is hardly our greatest threat.”

  Corey drew a sharp breath. “Spare me your riddles, Thelyn, and get to the point. I’ve no patience for games this night.”

  “I merely repeat what I have already said to the company here assembled, what I concluded from my study of the annals recovered from Tzeremond’s library. If the Naether Demons now have the power to escape their confinement, and all evidence indicates they do, then our best hope for protection is a perfect integration of male and female magic, a true resurrection of the traditions of Aithne and Caradoc.”

  “It is one thing to espouse the integration of male and female magic,” Corey replied, “quite another to wed a maga to a king. A maga cannot be bound to any man. All of you know this. The path of Aithne is incompatible with the burdens of a Queen of Vortingen. Besides, this kingdom needs a prince. Queen Taesara has proven her fertility. The same cannot be said of Maga Eolyn.”

  Tzetobar cleared his throat and exchanged a quick glance with Rezlyn.

  “What?” Corey demanded, pinning them both with a hard gaze. “What is it that you have not shared with me?”

  “You must understand, Mage Corey.” Tzetobar assumed a conciliatory tone that only raised the mage’s ire. “We have both been under oath, I to the King, and High Mage Rezlyn to Maga Eolyn, whom he tended after the battle at Rhiemsaven.”

  Realization hit Corey like a cold wind. He stood, fists clenched. “Eolyn is with child?”

  “The King’s child,” Rezlyn said.

  “You’re certain it’s his?”

  “It would be treason now to suggest otherwise,” Tzetobar said. “Before the King departed for Rhiemsaven, he drafted a new will. One copy was left in my care, the other with Maga Eolyn. He recognizes her son as his own and names him heir to the throne of Moisehén.”