Sword of Shadows (17 page)

Eolyn found Borten and Mariel
where she had left them, on the banks of the Tarba. Mariel sat grim faced and silent. Borten paced restlessly, hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the western horizon.

She fluttered down as Hawk, her descent more of a fall than a proper landing. The muscles in her chest and back burned with fatigue. Her legs failed to hold her weight, and her feathered stomach hit the ground with a thud, forcing a squawk from her throat.

Using what strength remained to her, she recaptured her human form and lay panting on the grass, hair undone and falling about her shoulders in ragged tresses, wrist throbbing from the injury she had sustained as Wolf.

Uttering a guttural curse, Borten marched over, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her to her feet. Eolyn cried out in pain, her body revolting against the sudden movement, but the knight paid no heed. He dragged her away from Mariel, his long stride indifferent to Eolyn’s awkward stumble as she struggled to keep pace.

At last Borten released Eolyn with a harsh shove that landed her at his feet. “If you ever run off like that again, I swear to the Gods I will kill you myself!”

Eolyn lifted a hand to ward off his anger. “I’m sorry, Sir Borten. I was not thinking.”

“No, you were not.” His face was red with fury, veins bulged at his neck. “You had best learn to think, Maga Eolyn, or that fool’s impulse of yours will be the death of us all.”

She nodded, unable to find the breath for more words. The earth was lurching beneath her like an angry river. Her shoulders sagged, her stomach contracted violently, and she spewed bile upon the grass. Gasping, she dragged herself away from the pool of vomit, sat weary upon her heels, and hid her face in her hands.

“It’s gone,” she moaned. “All of it. The kitchen, the dormitory, the stables, the herbarium, my study. All burned to the ground. Renate is dead. Adiana and the girls have disappeared.”

Borten paced in front of her, feet falling heavy against the grass. After a moment, he stopped and let go a long exhale. Kneeling next to her, he offered a flask of water that she used to rinse the bile from her mouth.

“And Moehn?” he asked, his voice taking on a gentler tone.

“I did not go to Moehn.” She managed a weak smile. “I am foolish, but not that foolish.”

Borten’s expression softened. He reached forward, drew a few unruly tresses away from her face, and brushed a tear off her cheek.

“Any indication of who did this?”

Eolyn nodded, her heart sinking into despondency. “I saw their colors, a burgundy flame against a sand-colored field. They are Syrnte warriors.”

“The Syrnte?” Borten’s brow furrowed. “How? They would have to march through Antaria and Roenfyn before crossing Selkynsen, where they would have met with the Mage King. We should have, at the very least, heard about this invasion long before they arrived.”

Eolyn shook her head. “There’s another way. An old route that runs along the northwest flank of the Paramen Mountains.”

“I’ve never heard of such a road,” Borten said doubtfully. “How did you come by this knowledge?”

“Ernan intended for me to escape that way with his Syrnte allies, in event his rebellion failed.”

Borten studied her, curiosity flickering behind his eyes. “Your brother’s rebellion did fail. Why, then, did you not flee with his allies?”

The blood was returning to her cheeks now, and the midday sun warmed her skin. “Because, as you have well learned Sir Borten, I am rarely inclined to listen to men-at-arms.”

He rolled his eyes and looked away. A grin broke upon his face. Borten stood and proffered his hand to help Eolyn up.

She steadied herself on her feet and brushed the soil from her skirt. Still dizzy and nauseous, Eolyn took hold of Borten’s arm as they started back toward Mariel.

“I ignored my brother’s wishes because my place is here, among our people,” she said. “When I received the staff of High Magic, I promised Dragon I would restore the tradition of the magas to Moisehén. I could hardly succeed in that task were I living on the other side of the Paramen Mountains. I would never flee this kingdom, even if it meant facing death on the pyre.” She stopped and brought her fingers to her lips. “Borten, we must find out what has happened to Adiana and the girls.”

He shook his head. “It is too late for those left behind at the
Aekelahr
. Even if Adiana and the girls were taken alive, they are likely dead by now. At best, they have been badly used and are well beyond our aid.”

“Surely you are not suggesting we leave their fates to the whims of those marauders?”

Borten turned to face her, setting his hands on her shoulders. “Their fates are already decided. We are only two people, you and I, with a young and confused girl as our ward. We have our own survival to think about. There is nothing we can do for Mistress Adiana or your students.”

She stared back at him in disbelief. “How can you possibly expect me to—?”

“Our task is a greater one now. Eolyn, if you listen to me only once in your life, then let it be in this moment. You must escape Moehn and get word to the King.”

“Well, I can get word to the King right away. All I have to do is—” Her hand went instinctively to her breast, where she had worn Akmael’s gift close to her heart for so long.

“Ghemena,” she whispered. What hope was left for her students crumbled into a void.

“What about Ghemena?” Borten asked.

“I gave her a device before we left, an amulet crafted by Queen Briana that would have allowed her to come to us on a moment’s notice. Nothing would have kept her from using it. Nothing except death itself.”

The silence that followed was long and bleak. Wind blew hard across the rolling plains, shaking the folds of Eolyn’s skirt, whipping through her loose tresses. High overhead, white clouds chased each other toward the east

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Eolyn searched Borten’s face, heart threatening to shatter under the weight of her grief. “Tell me that Ghemena, at least, might still be alive.”

“Those men who have claimed Moehn will make for the Pass of Aerunden with all haste,” Borten said. “They will take control of the pass, and kill or turn back any peasant they find along the way. It could be days before the merchants of Rhiemsaven realize the oxcarts are no longer arriving from Moehn. Even if they send word to the King at once, it will be at least another two days before their fastest messenger reaches the City. By then, the Syrnte may well have an army assembled in the valley below the pass.”

The full horror of their situation dawned on Eolyn. “You think they mean to take the entire kingdom.”

“They did not break open that ancient pass to raid a handful of peasant farmers and go home. Moehn is but a stepping stone to the precious mines of Selkynsen, the iron hills of Moisehén, the wells of magic that spring from East Selen.”

“So we are at war once again,” she said, hardly believing her own words.

“You must take flight, Eolyn.”

“Flight?”

“Like you did now. As a hawk or an eagle. Go to the King’s City and warn our liege.”

“It’s not that easy. Shape shifting requires a great deal of magic. I could not sustain the illusion for that long.”

“What about your staff? Can you fly on that, as the High Mages do?”

“Yes.” She responded with a thoughtful nod. “But I would have to go by night, and even then it could be dangerous. The Syrnte may be able to detect my aura in the dark.”

“How long would it take for us to reach the pass if we flew?”

“About a day. A night, rather. Two, at most. But Borten, I could not take you or Mariel along.” The words felt like burrs on her tongue. “My staff will carry only me.”

His face fell. He took a few paces away from her and stopped, hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes fixed on the rolling clouds.

After a moment, Eolyn approached and set a tentative hand upon his arm.

“I don’t want to leave either of you here,” she said, “not with that army and those creatures lurking about. Mariel is the only student I have left. Her life is my own. And you…” A lump rose in her throat. She blinked and looked away. “I won’t go like this, unless you tell me there is no better way.”

Borten drew a deep breath and cast her a sideways glance. “I don’t suppose you can turn us both into owls that we might fly at your side?”

She shook her head.

“Or mice and take us along in your pocket?” A faint smile played upon his lips.

“No, Sir Borten. Mariel is in no state to undertake shape shifting, and you know far too little of the language of plants and animals. If I change either of you into another creature, I would lose you to their world.”

“I see.” He studied her a moment. “I cannot have you cross the province alone and without protection.”

“It would only be one night, perhaps two, before I reach the border.”

“It does not matter. I will not abide any uncertainty as to whether you’ve escaped alive. We will travel together to the western arm of the Taeschel Mountains, and find a place south of the pass where you can make the flight into Selkynsen safely.”

She nodded, torn between the urgency that tugged at her spirit and the relief that she could count on Borten for a few more precious days.

Chapter Seventeen

When Mechnes sat down
for the evening meal with his officers, he sent for Adiana, that she might play with the musicians he had brought from Ech’Nalahm.

One of these, named Kahlil, a dark skinned young man who hailed from the southern reaches of the Syrnte Empire, rose to his feet when Adiana entered flanked by guards. The force of his astonishment hit Mechnes like the raw wind of a desert storm.

Adept at concealing his thoughts from Syrnte magic, the musician buried the impact of Adiana’s appearance deep in his spirit before the Syrnte Lord could capture it with clarity. Adiana’s memories of Kahlil, however, spilled like jewels from a merchant’s purse. Mechnes gathered them up one by one, and examined each with great curiosity.

Thus he learned that Adiana had known Kahlil some years before, when the Syrnte musician followed Rishona and Tahmir into the heart of Moisehén. Her memories of him were disturbing in their vibrance, full of laughter and song. The two had forged a strong bond of mutual admiration, though there was, fortunately, no evidence of romance.

Still, the tightness around Kahlil’s lips and the determined effort he made not to let his gaze linger on Adiana’s bruises was enough to arouse Mechnes’s concern. His years in the company of musicians had taught him something of the workings of their hearts—irrational in motivation, unpredictable in action. Within moments, the threads of Kahlil’s possible futures coalesced in Mechnes’s
mind, causing him to frown. He did not relish the idea of sentencing his best composer to a miserable death because of some foolish act of heroism.

Mechnes resolved to speak with Kahlil regarding Adiana before allowing them to meet again.

The music did not disappoint, providing lively accompaniment to the banter of his officers. Toward the end of the last course, the mournful tones of a flute invoked the melody of
Ihm mah’lid,
a classic Syrnte ballad of love and loss. Kahlil’s voice rose rich and sorrowful; Adiana’s accompaniment on the psaltery was passionate, impeccable.

She understood this song, Mechnes realized, and had played it before.

He wondered what other Syrnte ballads Kahlil had taught her.

Under the spell of the performance, his men fell silent. Hands grew idle at their cups. Gazes drifted toward private thoughts until only the sound of sweet longing filled the tent. A moment after the last chords were played, the officers broke into hearty applause.

The conversation spent and the hour grown late, Mechnes sent them all away.

All of them, of course, save Adiana.

She set aside the psaltery and remained in her chair, back erect and hands folded on her lap, refusing to meet his gaze.

This small defiance amused Mechnes. He refilled his wine and drew up a chair to sit in front of her.

“You played well, with your old friend Kahlil.”

She looked at him, startled. “He told you about the Circle?”

“He has told me nothing. He did not know you were in my possession until this evening. But I have ways of knowing, Adiana. The gift of
Saefira
was given to me when I was a boy. It allows me to see the thoughts, desires, memories, and futures of those with whom I have established a close bond.”

“You saw into his thoughts?”

“I saw into yours.”

Such a beautiful pallor to her skin, when fear surged through her breast.

“There is no bond between us,” she said.

“In that you are mistaken. I have broken open your spirit and made it mine.”

“I am not broken.”

“You are not ready to embrace to your new life; that is a different thing. But I can see into your heart now. I know what you want to do, and what you likely will do, in your attempts to escape the inevitable. Your place is with me now, Adiana. You had best look forward to your future and forget the past. There are worse fates, after all, than being the favored musician of a Syrnte Prince.”

He stood and approached her, ran his fingers over her feather-soft tresses. Producing a cloth of dark silk, he covered her eyes and secured the mask with a knot. “Play for me.”

She accepted the lute he gave her and invoked a simple but skillfully executed melody.

Mechnes was glad for it. He needed a way to maim her—to prevent any attempt at escape—without compromising her beauty, grace or talent. Blinding could be a simple solution. A few drops of venom from the midnight
naja,
and her world would be cast in darkness. Though it might destroy the stunning color of her eyes, a sacrifice Mechnes preferred to avoid. Come morning, he would consult with his physician, Xhoremy, about the matter.

Adiana finished her song, set aside the instrument, and tried to remove the blindfold.

Mechnes stayed her hand. “No.”

She stiffened as he enclosed her delicate fingers in his grip. Her stillness reminded him of the hermit crabs on the shores of Antaria, hiding from the sun inside their colorful shells. A fisherman’s boy had shown him how to draw them out, blowing until their spiny forelegs and bulbous eyes unfolded like chitinous flowers.

Would Adiana blossom in the same way, he wondered, given one warm breath?

He pressed her fingers to his lips, studied the rise and fall of her bosom. Her breath quickened as he kissed the palm of her hand, and stopped when he tasted the satin-smooth skin of her wrist.

With a choked sob she pulled away, stumbling as she fumbled at her blindfold. She managed to tear it off before reaching the table, where she sagged, ashen-faced, one hand clutching her abdomen.

“Please,” she gasped, “let me go to the children.”

He approached with a conciliatory tone, hands spread in a gesture of appeasement. “I thought we made an agreement, Adiana. You were to please me—and all my men—if I set your girls free.”

She recovered her breath and straightened her shoulders, confronting him with her clear blue gaze. “Then let me see them set free.”

“You will,” he said, noting her surreptitious reach for a stray knife. “Tomorrow, when the San’iloman arrives, they are to be entrusted to her.”

“From one gaoler to another? That is not freedom.”

“What greater freedom can there be for a child, than to be made the ward of a queen?”

“They are not meant to be wards, they are meant to be magas. Free women, bound to no one, living in the tradition of Aithne and Caradoc.”

Mechnes chuckled. No wonder Kedehen had done away with the magas and all their allies. No king in his right mind would tolerate such nonsense. “Who is to say they will not learn magic from the San’iloman? Those girls are merely trading one teacher for another, and advancing their station for it. Not only is their new mistress more richly appointed, she has a much greater chance of surviving this war.”

Adiana lunged at him, blade flashing in the torchlight.

Mechnes caught her with ease, forcing the knife from her grip and turning her hard against the table. Plates and cups clattered as she hit the surface with a sharp cry. Immobilizing her with one hand, he indulged in a generous exploration the curve of her back and the satisfying rise of her rump.

The smell of her fear added a provocative spice to that aroma of summer winds and wild roses. Mechnes pressed tight against her, that she might feel the threat of his manhood through the ineffective shield of her russet skirts.

“I want no more violence between us,” he said quietly. “Do you understand?”

She responded with a sullen silence that he decided to accept as a yes.

“Get up.” He released her.

Adiana dragged herself away from the table. Bits of food clung to her flaxen hair, and wine stained her dress. Hatred smoldered in her eyes, but this did not concern Mechnes. He had seen the spark of her desire when caressing her fingers with his lips, before she fled that moment of truth and buried it under a dutiful sense of revulsion. He intended to take that spark and fan it into an insatiable fire.

“Tomorrow you will be bathed and given fresh clothes,” he said. “You are to meet the San’iloman. Just as you recognized Kahlil, you will recognize your new queen. You knew her once, as a fellow artist named Rishona.”

“Rishona?” Adiana frowned. “Tahmir’s sister, Rishona? She’s the Queen of the Syrnte?”

“And of Moisehén.”

“And she allows all of this?” Adiana opened her arm in a low sweeping gesture. There was such honest confusion in her tone that Mechnes could not help but smile.

“Allows it, and commands it.”

“If her intention is to finish what Ernan started, there is no need. We live in peace with the Mage King; the magas are being restored to Moisehén.”

“The San’iloman is the daughter of Ferien, the third son of Uriel. She is Queen of Moisehén by right of birth, and has come to claim her crown.”

Mechnes allowed Adiana a few moments to assimilate his words.

“I must speak with her,” she murmured.

“If you try, it will be your death. Her guards are quick and ruthless. Any action in her presence that violates protocol will be met with their blades. I am warning you, Adiana: do not address her directly. If she speaks to you, you may respond, but do not meet her gaze. And for the love of any Gods you care to worship, never attempt to touch her.”

“She will recognize me.” Adiana’s voice was resolute, her gaze steady as a lake on a windless day. “She will remember our friendship.”

“Yes, she will.” Mechnes signaled for his guards, that they might return his prisoner to the cold solitude of her cell. “But you are a fool if you believe that will have any influence on your fate.”