Eolyn (3 page)

Anxious to undo her transgression, Eolyn obeyed.

After cleaning the table, she went outside and found the old woman on a bench, cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. Aromas of dormant herbs floated in the air. Inviting the girl to take a seat, Ghemena gave her a cup of water with a neatly placed sprig of mint.

“I want to show you something,” the hag said. “Watch me.”

Folding her hands around the wooden vessel, Ghemena closed her eyes, lifted the liquid to her lips, and uttered a short verse in an odd language.

Ehekaht naeom tzefur. Ehukae.

Steam began rising off the water.

“How did you do that?” Eolyn’s curiosity shoved her caution aside. “How did you heat up the water?”

“Did you not see? Give it a try. I believe you can do it just like me.”

Folding her hands around the cup, Eolyn repeated the verse as best she could, but the water did not heat up.

“That was very good,” Ghemena said, “but it is not just a matter of imitation. Stand up straight with your feet firmly on the ground.”

Eolyn did as she was told, gripping the cup and keeping her eyes closed tight.

“Wait, child. Open your eyes. Give me that cup. Take off your shoes and stockings.”

Eolyn pressed her bare feet against the damp earth. A vaguely familiar warmth coursed through her legs, opening her senses and bringing every subtle sound of the season into her awareness. 

Ghemena returned the cup of tea to Eolyn’s hands. “That’s it. Now relax and close your eyes. And breathe.”

Cold air filled Eolyn’s lungs, pressing sharp against her ribs. Eolyn felt as if she no longer stood in the same spot, as if Ghemena’s garden were replaced by another that looked the same but worked very differently.

“What do you feel at your feet?” Ghemena asked.

“The ground,” Eolyn said.

“Yes, but tell me what it feels like.”

“It is solid and still.” Eolyn spread her toes over cool soil. “But also in motion. How can that be?” She opened her eyes. 

“Keep your eyes closed.”

Eolyn obeyed.

“Now take a deep breath and tell me: What do you feel in the air?”

Eolyn drew in the evening air, paying attention to its passage down her throat, its expansion inside her chest, its departure in a warm and humid cloud. “It carries life, like…like an invisible thread.”

“Very good. Now tell me about the water.”

“It is still. Yet it flows in the cup, and…beneath my skin.”

A tremor invaded Ghemena’s words. “And finally your heart, Eolyn. What do you feel in your heart?”

This was the easiest question of all. “Warmth. My heart is warm, like the hearth in your home.”

“Excellent, my girl. Now here is what I want you to do. Pull together all the elements you just told me about, the earth at your feet, the air in your lungs, the water in your cup, and the fire in your heart. Imagine all of that coming together into a single brilliant point of light. When you see that light, repeat the verse just as I said it.”

The night thickened with Eolyn’s effort. The task was not easy. The air could be smothered by earth or the fire extinguished by water. Eolyn recognized this and worked with care until a small white glow illuminated her interior. She opened her eyes and exhaled the verse.

Ehekaht naeom tzefur. Ehukae
.

The cup responded with a soft rise of steam.

“Very good!” Ghemena exclaimed.

The sound of chirping insects and shifting herbs returned. Eolyn looked around as if seeing the garden for the first time. She felt different inside. Warmer. Complete. As if she had found something she had always sought, something that had always eluded her.

“Come and sit with me, Eolyn,” Ghemena said. “Let’s enjoy our tea together.”

C
hapter Three

Everything Queen Briana crafted
during her life was destroyed on the twelfth night after her death. The Mage King Kedehen forbade Akmael from observing the rite, but the prince disobeyed his father and found a narrow window to spy on the vigil.

At sunset, the High Mages assembled in a castle courtyard. Queen Briana’s belongings were laid on a large stack of firewood: dark velvet dresses and fine linen undergarments, ribbons that had bound her thick black hair, jewels that had adorned her throat, embroidered slippers, curtains from her apartments, tapestries, even the bed sheets. On top of these were placed countless objects of magical intent: her medicine belt and potted herbs, a large box of crystals, a store of carefully separated spider silks, a shallow silver dish she might have used as a seeing tool, collections of furs and insects, glass vials filled with mysterious liquids, a few remaining books, and her ebony staff.

When the pyre was complete, the wizard Tzeremond stepped forward. Despite his many years, Tzeremond’s carriage remained tall and his aspect striking. Close cropped, charcoal gray hair accentuated gaunt features. He struck his rowan staff three times against the ground.

Ehekahtu
, he cried.

Naeom ehaen avignaes, reohoert…

The High Mages took up the chant. Kedehen joined the invocation over his dead wife’s belongings, his expression as dispassionate as the stone foundation upon which the castle rested.

As the chanting reached its peak, Tzeremond raised a bony hand and sent a blinding shaft of light into the pyre. The wood ignited, converting Briana’s possessions into floating wisps of ash.

Smoke reached Akmael’s hiding place, stinging his eyes and throat. He felt as if he were witnessing the murder of his mother all over again. His chest constricted, and he fought to control the rise of bile from his stomach.

Only two items of Briana’s making escaped the pyre that night, both of them secure in Akmael’s clenched fists. One was an amulet woven with threads of silver silk, the other an armband etched with images of Dragon. The Queen had instructed Akmael not to wear the armband until he began his study of High Magic, so the prince kept it well hidden in a place known only to him. The silver web, however, Akmael wore with the singular devotion of a loving son.

More than a year would pass after Briana’s death before one afternoon, during Akmael’s lessons, Master Tzeremond caught sight of the jewel at the boy’s collar. The wizard grabbed the medallion and tried to yank it from Akmael’s neck. The fine chain held strong. A struggle between teacher and student ensued. Desperate to loosen Tzeremond’s hold, Akmael bit the wizard’s hand. Tzeremond cried out and released the boy.

Akmael darted away through the castle corridors. His feet pounded against the stone floor. Rage coursed through his veins. He wove a crooked path through servant entrances and back halls, down ladders and up stairwells, hoping to lose Tzeremond or anyone else who might pursue him. He scowled at guards who saluted him and servants who bowed and scurried out of the way.

Curse them all!

They made it impossible for a prince to pass unnoticed.

Akmael burst into one of the back courtyards and paused, gulping fresh spring air. Bright afternoon light made him squint. As his anger cleared, he realized the Gods had granted him a singular opportunity. No one was present in this barren space. He glanced up at the high ramparts, but even those guards had their alert gazes turned elsewhere.

Akmael crept across the courtyard, keeping to the shadows as he approached a small wooden door on the northern wall. He slipped inside and shut the door securely behind him.

He had arrived at a long corridor of rough-hewn stone. Silence reigned here, broken only by the slow pulse of the mountain’s heart.

Akmael knew this place well. The passage led to the Foundation of Vortingen, where Dragon had appeared to the very first of Akmael’s fathers and crowned him King of all Moisehén. He crept through the dark passage until it opened onto a grassy knoll. The flat area ended in sharp cliffs lined by scattered and twisted trees. In the center, a circle of pale monoliths reached toward the sky.

Retreating to a copse of trees near the cliff’s edge, Akmael found a hiding place among tall bushes. He leaned against the rough trunk of an old beech and allowed his pulse to steady, all the while clutching the silver web.

I won’t let them take you from me. I’ll die first.

“I know, my love.”

His mother’s voice felt so real and close, it broke Akmael’s heart. Tears escaped his eyes. He slid down the trunk and sat hard on the ground.

I’m so sorry, Mother.

How could she be gone? One moment Briana had been alive, laughing and vibrant. The next, she was sprawled and motionless. Akmael would never forget how the light had faded from her eyes.

Master Tzeremond often said Queen Briana’s murder was a vivid example of the treacherous hearts of the magas.
So incapable of loyalty are they that they kill their own sisters. This is one of the many reasons we no longer allow women to learn magic.

Akmael disagreed with his tutor on many counts, but in this, Tzeremond was right. Although the red-haired witch had arrived dressed as a servant, Akmael’s mother received her as a friend and equal. They had embraced, but their warmth soon turned to discord. Akmael remembered how his presence had ignited the red-haired maga’s fury, how his resemblance to Kedehen made her turn upon Briana.

“You know the danger of pouring the blood of East Selen into the line of Vortingen!” the stranger had cried. “This boy’s power will be unstoppable.”

But the red-haired assassin had been wrong. An unstoppable power would have extinguished the death charge that flew from the maga’s staff toward Akmael. An unstoppable power would have kept Briana from flinging her body into its path.

An unstoppable power would have brought my mother back from the dead.

With a heavy heart, Akmael lifted the silver web off his neck. Made of quartz crystals woven into the silk of a Dark Moon Orb Weaver, the jewel sparkled in the afternoon light. Akmael heard the faint echo of Briana’s laughter and felt the comfort of her presence. A lullaby she used to sing when he was a little boy returned to him.

He flicked the web, and it spun on its axis. The words of his mother’s song took shape on his lips. As the melody wove around the medallion, the copse of trees where he had taken refuge melted away.

Startled, Akmael ceased his song.

He sat in an unfamiliar and dense forest. Afternoon light filtered through the canopy. Water rushed past in a small river littered with large boulders. Somewhere close by squirrels chattered, accompanied by the sweet lilt of a summer thrush.

Pressing himself against the nearest tree, Akmael studied the amulet. Thrilled by the power of the object, he was nonetheless immediately preoccupied with the problem of returning home.

It must be a simple spell. Mother always favored simple spells.

Closing his eyes, Akmael grounded his spirit and imagined the soft grass and tall monoliths of the Foundation of Vortingen. He spun the amulet and began to sing, but his melody was cut short by laughter, high and free, like a song of the forest.

Akmael opened his eyes. He put the silver chain back on his neck and tucked the amulet beneath his shirt. Then he moved cautiously toward the source of the laughter.

Rounding a large tree, he saw a girl about his age on the riverbank. She wore a simple russet dress patched in many places. Her hair framed her face in wild curls, like spun copper. Mud sloshed underfoot, but that did not stop her from dancing after butterflies and rabbits and squirrels. Soon she threw herself down on the grass, where she took to watching white clouds race past the tree tops.

Akmael took a step closer. A twig snapped underfoot.

The girl sat up and pinned him with a sharp gaze.

Akmael returned her stare, uncertain what to do or say.

“Good afternoon.” The girl stood and attempted to brush the dirt off her skirt, but the effort was wasted since her hands were covered in mud. “You must be lost.”

“I am not lost,” Akmael replied. Then he added, rather sheepishly, “I’m just not certain where I am.”

“You’re in the South Woods, on the banks of the Tarba River.”

Akmael drew a sharp breath. The silver web had flung him clear across the kingdom!

“My name is Eolyn,” she said. “Who are you?”

Akmael glanced away. “Achim. My name is Achim.”

“Do you have a place to stay, Achim?”

“Of course.” Akmael forced more confidence into his voice than he felt. “I will return home.”

“Do you have to start back right away?”

That seemed a strange question.

“What I’m saying is, would you like to play?” she said.

Akmael shook his head. “I do not play. Certainly not with girls.”

She threw up her hands in disbelief. “How can you not play?”

“I am too old to play.”

“You can’t be more than a couple summers older than me.”

“Yes, but I am not a girl.”

“I have an idea,” Eolyn said. “We can look for the rainbow snail. The snail is supposed to migrate up river during the spring, but I’ve never seen it. Ghemena says it grows as big as one’s hand and has a shell made of pearl that reflects all the colors of the world. Would you like to help me find it?”

I really should try to get home.

Yet even if the amulet took Akmael straight back to the castle, what did he have to look forward to? An argument with his father, the confiscation of Briana’s precious gift, the infuriating satisfaction of old Tzeremond.

“It’s only for a little while.” Annoyance crept into the girl’s tone. “If you don’t like it you can just go home.”

A grin spread across Akmael’s face. He reached down to pull off his boots.

Eolyn jumped and clapped her hands. Unfettered by shoes, she took off at once toward the river. “The first one to find it wins!”

Akmael followed Eolyn along the riverbank, both of them taking care not to wander too deep into the swift and icy current. Spring blossomed throughout the forest. Heavy southern winds were forcing back the frosty breath of the north. Pale herbs pushed up from the musty earth, and delicate pink leaves budded from tall oaks.

The elusive rainbow snail never appeared, but many other creatures danced in the water for their entertainment. Large silver fish jumped over deep rapids, strong bodies flashing in the sun. Darting guppies nipped at their toes. Tiny water dragons clung to the underside of rocks. Whirligigs filled the still edge of the river with frenetic activity. Bright blue shrimp scuttled along the rocky bottom. Eolyn caught several to take back home because, as she enthusiastically informed Akmael, they made for an excellent stew.

Soaking wet before long, the two of them sought a large boulder where they sat while the sun warmed their bodies and dried their clothes.

“I’ll have to go home soon,” Eolyn announced. “It’s about an hour’s walk from here, and it’s not good for a child to be out at dusk this time of year. Ghemena says the wolves and bears are terribly hungry right now.”

“Who is Ghemena?” Akmael asked.

“The woman who takes care of me. She’s like my grandmother but she’s not really. She lives in a cottage nearby. People believe she eats children but it’s not true at all. Neither is the part about the house made of sweet bread.”

Akmael was not sure what to make of this.

“Who takes care of you, Achim?”

He cleared his throat. “My father and my tutors.”

“Where do you live?”

“A long way from here.”

“Well if it’s going to take more than an hour for you to walk home, you should stay with us until tomorrow.”

“That won’t be necessary. I...” He searched for the appropriate phrase. “I travel very quickly.”

Akmael looked away, uncertain why being guarded with her made him uncomfortable. It would hardly be prudent to reveal his true identity to a peasant girl from Moehn.

“Tell me about where you live.” Eolyn pulled her knees up to her chest. Red curls danced about rosy cheeks. Brown eyes sparkled beneath thick lashes. “Is it a forest like this one?”

“Well…” He considered the scattered tree trunk pillars around them. “Yes. It is rather like a forest, except it is made of stone.”

“A forest of stone.” Eolyn lifted her face to a shaft of sunlight. “It sounds beautiful. At Summer Solstice, the trees must be filled with emerald leaves, leaves that fade into ruby and amber at Samhaen. At Midwinter’s Eve, the branches must weigh heavy with diamond ice and snow, and at Eostar, I bet the flowers bloom with petals of opal!”

The girl turned to Akmael as if eager for him to confirm her vision, but he could only stare back in silence. He had never heard his home spoken of with such poetry. He could almost imagine it just as she described.

Sitting up straight, Akmael extended his arm in front of him and focused on the space above his palm. After a moment, particles of light collected over his hand and swirled together. They assembled into a twig of polished brown stone with emerald leaves and sapphire berries.