Sword of Shadows (6 page)

Dragon has called me to a different destiny
, she had insisted.
A woman cannot be both Queen and High Maga.

So Akmael had let Eolyn go and agreed to a political match with Taesara of Roenfyn. The princess was pretty enough, and Moisehén had acquired valuable territories thanks to this new alliance. But Taesara was dull and delicate, lacking in passion and fearful of magic. For all her grace and beauty, this daughter of Roenfyn could not inspire the desire ignited by a single glance from his beloved Eolyn.

A squeak of rusted hinges interrupted Akmael’s thoughts.

Eolyn and Renate appeared, closing the door to the Queen’s room. Entrusting her staff to Renate, Eolyn approached Akmael.

“I have given our Lady Queen an infusion of chamomile and mint to calm her stomach and restore her appetite.” Eolyn drew a shaky breath, but kept her dark eyes steady upon his. “It would seem the damp climate does not agree with her, and she…Well, my Lord King, it appears that the Queen…”

Eolyn bit her lip and looked away. 

“The Queen is with child.” Renate’s sharp tone was a fine match for that hawkish face. “She is about two months along, my Lord King. This is the primary reason for her indisposition.”

“Praise the Gods!” Felton clapped his hands in joy.

Akmael watched Eolyn. She did not return his gaze but instead studied her hands as they worked restlessly against each other. The memory of their recent nights stirred inside, like wind through the high branches of an ancient fir, beautiful and poignant. Ephemeral in time, enduring in the imagination.

“We would recommend the Queen return to the King’s City as soon as possible,” Renate continued, shoulders stiff and back straight as an arrow. “Preferably by litter. She should not mount a horse again, not until the baby comes to term. Do you not agree, Maga Eolyn?”

Eolyn blinked at the sound of her name and nodded. “Yes, of course. Our Lady Queen requires a warmer climate and the comfort of her home.”

Akmael turned to Felton. “Have a litter readied by morning, and send a messenger at once to the City to advise the royal physician, High Mage Rezlyn. He is to meet us in Rhiemsaven. We will send her by royal barge from there to Moisehén.”

“As you wish, my Lord King.”

“Lady Gwen should assist Lady Sonia in readying the Queen and her attendants,” Akmael continued. “Advise Sir Drostan to inform the rest of our party. We will depart at dawn.”

Felton bowed and started down the hall, muttering his list of tasks and marking them on chubby fingers.

“And Lord Felton,” Akmael called after him.

Felton looked at the King as if caught in the middle of a very important thought.

“I hope you understand my decision to cut short our visit is no reflection on the hospitality shown by you and Lady Gwen,” Akmael said, “which has been generous and most appreciated from our first day here. We will visit Moehn again, as soon as circumstances permit.”

“Yes, of course, my Lord King.” Felton grinned and bowed low. “It has been our greatest honor to receive you, and to be the first to hear this most glorious news. May the Gods grant you a son, a fine and healthy baby boy!”

Akmael turned back to Eolyn and Renate. The High Maga had retreated to her own thoughts, while the older woman watched him with arched brows and an unabashed stare.

“It would seem the Queen disposed of the herbs we sent the other day,” Renate said. “An unfortunate decision, as they would have been of great help to her now.” 

“We will gather additional medicines this afternoon and have a fresh bundle sent by evening.” Eolyn spoke as if trying to soften Renate’s accusatory tone. “The Queen must make use of them, otherwise it will be a hard journey from here to Rhiemsaven.”

“I will see it done,” Akmael replied.

Eolyn nodded. Her hand drifted to her throat and found the silver web at its base, a jewel of magic that he had given to her long ago. “I suppose we are finished here, then. If it pleases you, my Lord King, Renate and I will take our leave.”

“Maga Renate is dismissed,” Akmael replied, “but I would have a word with you alone, Maga Eolyn, before you depart.” 

Renate set her lips in a firm line, and directed a questioning gaze at her companion.

Eolyn’s shoulders deflated, but she laid a hand on the old maga’s arm and said, “Find Sir Borten and have him prepare the horses, would you, Renate? You can wait for me in the courtyard. I won’t be a moment.”

Renate gave a stiff bow and departed.

Akmael drew close to Eolyn. She did not retreat, nor did she move to touch him. In her fingers she cradled the jewel woven by his mother, the silver web that had brought them together as children in the South Woods. It seemed a lifetime ago, a world forever lost.

A quiet sob broke on her lips. “I have been such a fool.”

“I was the one who overstepped my bounds. Forgive me, Eolyn. It was not my intention to—”

“I am not speaking of these nights, recently passed.” Her hand found his, their fingers intertwined. “I walked away from you, my love. I turned my back on this gift the Gods had given us, because I was frightened—so very terrified—and of what? Of you? All you ever did was love me.”

“I was not so perfect in my affection.”

“You were my only Caradoc. I see that now, and it is too late.”

Her words would have filled him with pleasure just a few years before. Now, they only fed the growing void of his soul. He touched her cheek and drew her into his embrace, inhaling the honey-and-wood scent of her hair.

A verse came to mind from his childhood, one of his mother’s songs. He recited it now as he held Eolyn close. “Caradoc waited for his one true love, withstanding the tides of tempest and sun. Caradoc defied the cruel threats of time, and received his Aithne when her journey was done.”

Eolyn laughed into his chest, a bright sound that invoked images of sun-flecked woods. She withdrew and looked at him with a mischievous grin. “That mage had no crown upon his fair head. A King needs an heir before he is dead.”

The improvised verse amused Akmael, but even as he allowed himself a smile, the merriment drained from Eolyn’s features.

Her gaze drifted toward Taesara’s room, and she murmured, “I would have born your children with love. Just as she will do, I could have done. That, and so much more.”

Akmael felt something rupture inside, an old wound that would never heal.

“I should leave,” she said, but her lips met his instead.

Their kiss was impassioned yet brief. Abruptly, Eolyn withdrew, stepping out of his reach. She recovered her breath and straightened her shoulders.

“May the Gods grant you a son, my Lord King.” Her tone was formal, but Akmael sensed the undercurrent of deep and difficult emotions. “May they see you safely back to the City, and give you, the Queen, and all your children a long and happy life.”

He stepped toward her. “Eolyn, please—”

“Don’t.” She lifted a hand to halt him. Then, in a rustle of burgundy skirts she was gone, light footsteps echoing down the oak paneled stairs. Only her essence lingered behind, wrapping misty tendrils around memories that could not be forgotten and dreams that would never be fulfilled.

Chapter Six

The trunk gave way
with a loud snap. Men shouted and scrambled out from under the giant fir, axes in hand. The tree shifted then hovered at an angle, viridian branches wavering against the gray sky as if caught by surprise. From one moment to the next, its balance was lost. Wind hissed through the needles, a quiet rush gathering into a thunderous roar until the fir hit the ground with a deafening crash, sending up a splatter of mud and a fragrant cloud of wet needles. The branches heaved then settled, like the final expiration of some great beast.

Silence followed, broken by triumphant cries as the men set upon their quarry and began dismembering it, limb by verdant limb.

Mechnes nodded with approval and turned to Rishona, who sat next to him on her ebony horse. The San’iloman had her eyes closed as if in prayer. Charcoal lashes rested over pale cheeks. A richly embroidered midnight blue cloak covered her head. She drew a sharp breath and opened her eyes. “That must be the last one. There can be no more.”

“Of course, San’iloman,” Mechnes said. “Your instructions were very explicit. No more trees will be cleared from this glade.”

“No. I mean, it must be the last tree to fall in all the forest along this road.” Rishona embellished this statement with an expansive sweep of her arm.

Mechnes puffed his cheeks in a slow exhale, looking east and west along the winding path. In places, the abandoned route was still intact, and they had ridden quiet hours over flat stones placed by the slaves of some long forgotten civilization. But for the most part, the ancient pass had degraded into a muddy trench overgrown with trees and brambles. As they pushed ahead, he had left crews along the route to finish breaking open this backdoor into Moisehén.

“We have five thousand men to get up this road,” he said. “We cannot bring them single file, trudging knee-deep in muck.”

“We do not need five thousand to take Moehn,” Rishona countered. “We don’t even need five hundred.”

“We will need five thousand and more to defend Moehn and finish our conquest, if this Mage King is everything you say he is.”

Anger flushed across Rishona’s cheeks.

“We are done here,” she said to the overseer, a tall man with a wiry build. “Have everything ready, just as I requested, by sunset.”

“As you wish, San’iloman.” He bowed low.

Rishona spun her horse back toward camp.

Mechnes kept pace beside her. Their personal guard followed close behind. He could taste the salty heat of Rishona’s fury, its bristling aroma a welcome change in the bland climate of this mountain pass.

The sodden ground sucked at the horses’ hooves. Mechnes cursed when his animal stumbled. This terrain reminded him of the steamy jungles of Jhiroco, where he had lost many men in an arduous, though victorious, campaign. At least these forests were not plagued by the same stifling heat. Nor did he expect anything comparable to
the fierce resistance of the Vurduren from the hapless peasants of Moehn.

They arrived at camp a short distance away. Rishona dismounted amidst red and gold tents. Her demeanor was authoritative, her smile pleasant as she bade Mechnes to follow and the others to remain outside.

Raised on a platform of wood, the pavilion of the San’iloman was large and richly furnished. At its center stood a long table spread with maps. To the back of the tent was her bed, concealed by a misty curtain of silk and adorned with colorful pillows. Blue flames flickered in large copper plates, providing much needed heat.

Rishona’s servants waited with food, drink, and dry clothing, but they scattered upon her orders. Once they were alone, Rishona turned on her uncle.

“You are not to question my wisdom or my will in public,” she said. “Ever.”

Mechnes could not help but smile at the sight of his niece pretending to give him orders. “With all due respect, San’iloman, I am your military advisor. It is my duty to speak my mind when the weight of my experience contradicts your naïve instincts.”

She moved to strike him, but he caught her arm and forced it until she gasped.

“It is a little early in the day to start these games, my Queen,” Mechnes said. “But if you desire a spark of conflict to brighten this weary morning, I am more than willing to please you.”

Rishona’s eyes turned hard as stone. “All I ask is some discretion. I will not have our disagreements heard by those who would spread malicious rumors against me. Nor will I have our men, who have struggled long and hard up this wretched pass, fall victim to any suspicion that our unity of purpose is wavering.”

He brought her body tight against his, let his breath fall upon her silky skin. “My purpose has not wavered.”

A shiver passed through her shoulders. Rishona arched against him and tilted her face toward his, inviting Mechnes to enjoy the sweet taste of her lips.

“We cannot bring down any more trees,” she murmured when he finished.

Mechnes released her. “We must open up this road if we hope to bring a proper army through it.”

“We risk undermining the power of this forest. We need its magic for everything that is to come.”

“This is a very big forest.” Mechnes drew out one of their maps and passed his hand over the moss green crescent that swept north toward East Selen and south along the foothills of the Paramen Mountains. “And a very small pass.”

Rishona stared at the map, lips protruding in a familiar, charming frown. She rubbed her arms to ward off the damp chill. Noting her discomfort, Mechnes retrieved a dry cloak and placed it around her shoulders.

“I hope you are right,” Rishona said. “Every time we bring down a tree, I feel strength torn out of the earth. It’s as if a barrier is being broken. I fear we went too far by clearing the valley where my parents died.”

“You are a Syrnte Princess, Rishona. Your magic derives from the air.”

“Yes, but the creatures we hope to summon were not banished by Syrnte magic. They were imprisoned by the mages and magas of Moisehén, and they must be summoned by the same powers. I will need air to anchor my spirit, but without the earth I cannot control them.”

Mechnes narrowed his eyes. “If you have doubts regarding your ability to manage these beasts, you should have mentioned them before now.”

“I have no doubts.” Her retort was sharp and quick. “I know how to gratify the Naether Demons and bring them into our service. But there are many elements involved, and they must be integrated carefully. No one has attempted this before, Mechnes. Or if they have, they failed miserably, and we know nothing of their fate.”

“I’ve poured tremendous resources into this conquest,” Mechnes growled. “I will not be pleased if you fail me.”

Rishona met his gaze. “I will not fail. For tonight, I am most ready. And for what is to come, I have time to prepare.”

*  *  *

At sunset, Rishona emerged from her tent dressed in an ivory robe lined with ermine. Despite the heavy cloak, an evening chill penetrated her veins. She hoped Mechnes did not notice the tremor in her fingers as he assisted her onto her horse.

Donatya, a priestess of Mikata brought from Ech’nalahm, accompanied them. Gold circlets adorned the old woman’s white hair and wrinkled throat. Rubies hung from her flaccid earlobes. The priestess bowed to Rishona and gestured to a small litter.

“Everything is prepared,” she said. “Just as you commanded.”

Rishona nodded but did not let her gaze linger on the translucent curtains that covered the litter. She knew what lay inside: an obsidian knife wrapped in silk, a white owl in a small wooden cage, flasks of fa’hin wine and armen oil, caskets of mara’luni, winter sage, white albanett, and nightshade mushrooms.

All of this, along with her beloved servant, Merina, in a drug-induced stupor.

As they rode out of camp, Mechnes posted guards along the way with orders to let no one pass. By the time the small procession arrived at the modest valley now cleared of trees, only Meches’s most trusted men accompanied them.

Rishona dismounted and drew the forest air into her lungs. It was here, along this lonely mountain pass, that her mother, Tamara, and Prince Feroden of Moisehén perished in an ambush a generation ago. Were it not for their deaths, Rishona would now be a princess of Moisehén, her father in command of its fertile lands. But Rishona’s father died, and the Mage Prince Kedehen took the throne. Moisehén plunged into civil war, and in the aftermath of those tragic years, the magas were nearly exterminated.

How much blood must be shed to set these wrongs right?

Rishona removed her shoes and approached the place where her mother had died, where Rishona had first smelled the raw and unforgiving earth. She had forced herself out of Tamara’s dying womb, refusing to follow her mother into the Afterlife. She remembered that day, the shouts and anger, the sound of metal ripping through flesh. The void of loss into which her life had been thrust.

Trees towered over them, their immense shadows shifting in the deepening twilight. Wind whispered through dense branches. The past wrapped around Rishona’s senses.

She heard her mother’s cries, felt Tamara’s terror and agony. Beyond the din of men locked in battle, Rishona heard the desperate squall of a newborn child. The salty taste of fresh blood and bitter afterbirth settled upon her tongue. She knelt, gathered the earth in her hands, and pressed the soft loam against her face. Then she wept long and hard for the betrayal and murder of her parents.

When at last her sobs faded, Rishona returned the tear-drenched earth to its place. She stood and commanded the priestess Donatya to bring the tools of sacrifice.

Using traditional herbs of Moisehén, they marked four cardinal points at twelve paces from where Tamara had perished and Rishona was born. Branches of dried mara’luni were intermixed with these, yielding an eight-point circle. As Rishona and Donatya poured wine and oil along the rim, Mechnes placed his guards around the periphery.

Much good they will do, if this does not go well.

Rishona closed her eyes, felt her heart beating inside the silence of the night. She had called these beasts once before, but never like this. Never to the surface. Did she have the strength to contain them? Did she truly understand what they were about to unleash? It did not matter. There was no turning back now.

She took a place at the center of the circle and began to chant, calling upon all the Gods of the Syrnte, ancient and young, forgotten and remembered. Extending her hands extended toward the earth, she let threads of her spirit reach the void below. At the same time, she lifted her face to the heavens to draw upon the vast powers of the night sky.

Make me one with the goddesses of old. Give their power to me.

At the edge of the circle, Donatya drew back the curtain of the litter and helped Merina out. The servant cradled a white owl at her chest. Her eyes were unfocused, and she hummed an absent tune. She walked on unsteady feet, supported at the elbow by Donatya’s gentle touch, and knelt before Rishona.    

Donatya had counseled against having Merina drugged, claiming that terror was the greatest source of sacrificial magic. But Merina had served Rishona long and faithfully, and the San’iloman could not deny her this one mercy.

Rishona took the owl from Merina. She calmed its fluttering wings, stroked the soft feathers, and kissed the miniature head. Pressing its shivering body over her heart, Rishona accepted the obsidian blade from Donatya.

The San’iloman closed her eyes. Beneath her bare feet, the earth trembled. An agonized howl touched her soul, the desperate hunger of beasts forever condemned.

“Come then,” she whispered. “Return to the light.”

In a single motion, Rishona released the owl and swept the knife forward. Merina looked up as the bird fluttered away. At first, she did not notice the gash left by her mistress’s blade. Then a gurgling gasp escaped her lips. Merina’s hands flew to her throat and found a pulsing river of blood.

Rishona’s heart constricted, but only for a moment. She took hold of the servant and held her close.

“Sweet Merina,” she murmured. “This had to be done. Today the Gods will write your name in the books of the immortals, for you have made a great sacrifice for the glory of the Syrnte and the people of Moisehén.”

Merina’s blood spilled dark over Rishona’s ivory dress. She beat helplessly against the firm hold of the San’iloman, squirming like a rabbit ensnared, passing one hand over her throat in desperate, rapid strokes as her knees slipped against damp earth.

Donatya retreated to the edge of the circle, spread her arms toward the sky, and began her own chant.

Achme talam nu. Bechnem ahraht neme. Salahm machne du.

The rim ignited in high blue flame. A muffled scream sounded from beneath the mountain. Another tremor passed through the earth.

Rishona’s pulse accelerated.

Mechnes barked a sharp command to the guards, who readied their arms.

Mechahne

Mechahne achnam

Talam nu ahram

Merina seized the ivory gown of her mistress in a soundless, desperate plea for mercy.

Rishona set her eyes on the frantic servant. A dark veil fell between them. Sorrow and pity melted under the onslaught of something deeper and richer, the taste of blood upon her tongue, the surge of power in her belly.