Eolyn (20 page)

They all stared at her, stunned looks on their faces.

Renate shifted in her seat and took a pensive sip from her tea. “So then, Sarah, what do you suggest?”

The prompt startled Eolyn. Too late, she realized what she had just said. Did Renate truly expect her to propose a course of action? Or was the mistress simply seeking to close the trap?

Retreating from Renate’s discerning gaze, Eolyn studied her hands. Her tapered fingers, trained since childhood for sorcery, had lain useless now for more than a year. Since she joined Corey’s Circle, not a single invocation had been crafted through them, except on Midwinter’s Eve.

She realized how tired she was of standing still, of waiting until she found Achim, of expecting the world to change of its own accord. She could not continue like this any longer. She had to do something, and she wanted to do it here.

Drawing a shaky breath, she lifted her gaze to her companions.  “Well, I do have an idea. There exists a simple, very subtle form of Primitive Magic that we have already exercised within the Circle, though not with the focus required for the task I have in mind.”

“Are you suggesting we invoke magic?” Milena asked. “A bunch of women? Inside the King’s City? You must be mad.”

“It sounds deliciously risky,” Adiana countered, “and far more entertaining than watching the King have his pleasure with someone else.”

“The High Sacrament will be conducted in private,” Renate said pointedly.

Adiana rolled her eyes. “By the Gods, they really do want to take
all
the fun out of it, don’t they?”

“Sarah,” Renate said. “Please, continue.”

“In essence, what it involves is capturing a thread of desire that runs hidden in the fabric of Moisehén. We have all felt this thread, a longing in the hearts of our people, during every one of our performances. We can take their dream and weave it into movement and song.”

“So.” Adiana’s brows furrowed in doubt. “You want us to do another dance?”

Eolyn looked to Renate. A tremor had invaded the young maga’s hands. She felt she could not continue unless Renate gave a clear signal as to where her loyalties lay. 

“I know this magic to which you refer.” Renate set the tea down in front of her. “It is the power to reflect and amplify a dream by transforming thought into movement and letting movement flow into thought. I have taught all of you how to do this, though I have not revealed to you the many potent ways in which it can be used.”

“Sounds like a dance,” Adiana said.

“If it were invoked during the celebration of Primitive Magic, it would be just another dance,” Eolyn conceded. “But we are meant to accompany the Middle Mages during the Fire Ceremony. If we implement this magic then, it will mingle with the power of those mages, be strengthened and reflected back to the people with greater force. Each person will be visited by a vision. Collectively, they will remember the ignored powers of Aithne, and they will see the magas as they once were.”

There. I’ve done it.

Although Eolyn claimed the spell was Primitive Magic, Renate would know only a High Maga could weave such disparate forces into a single potent image. Eolyn kept her head bent, afraid of what she might see in the mistress’s gaze. If Renate betrayed her trust now, Eolyn would be on the pyre by morning.

“I don’t like it,” Milena decided. “What you describe sounds far too obvious to go unnoticed by the High Mages.”

“Therein lays the brilliance of it.” Rishona spoke for the first time. “It will culminate in an ephemeral instant, hardly distinguishable from a collective memory. Syrnte witches practice a similar magic.”

“Nothing more will happen,” Eolyn assured them, “except that an image will be sealed into everyone’s minds. Against that image, the High Ceremony and the Midnight Sacrament, even if managed entirely by Tzeremond’s mages, will simply not make sense. Their interpretation of the rite will have no meaning for our people.”

“Tzeremond and his mages would not detect the coming of this spell, nor would they recognize it while implemented.” Renate’s gaze, dark and full of caution, remained steady on Eolyn. “But if effective, they will know what happened afterwards, and they will hunt down the perpetrators.”

“I don’t care,” one of the women said. “What do we really have to lose at this point? The Circle will be disbanded after Bel-Aethne. Rishona has foreseen it. And when that happens, our place in this kingdom will be lost. If we do not take our risks now, while we are still together, then when?”

“I, for one, am tired of whispering in fear,” another agreed. “If I have this power to which Sarah refers, I wish to exercise it.”

“Could we also make the King impotent?” Adiana asked. “I mean, now that it’s clear I won’t get to sleep with him.”

“We will not stop the High Ceremony,” Eolyn replied firmly. “We will only render it meaningless.”

Adiana sighed. “What good is magic if you can’t make a man impotent?”

“No more jesting,” Eolyn said quietly. “This is very serious. We must all be in agreement if we are going to do this. And we must have Renate’s blessing.”

The announcement of this final condition generated an expectant silence. All eyes now turned to the mistress.

Years ago, it was said, Renate had betrayed her sisters to save herself. Eolyn had no doubt she was capable of betraying the women assembled here. But if the mistress chose to walk down that path, Eolyn would not let her do it without giving her this burden, without forcing her to remember that it was her assent that led them to the pyre.

Renate pursed her lips and gave a quiet nod.

C
hapter Twenty-Four

During the days before Bel-Aethne
, Mage Corey attended a string of engagements. True to his word, he kept Eolyn at his side. Only on two occasions did he leave her in Tahmir’s care, once when he met with Master Tzeremond and again for an audience with the King.

Eolyn soon learned that gatherings of mages were governed by unspoken rules. Wizards of equal rank were kept together. Women, while present, were shielded from any meaningful discussion of magic, commerce, or other affairs of the kingdom. Eolyn never deciphered how they communicated the appropriate moment, but no sooner would Corey bring his lips to Eolyn’s ear with a reminder to watch her tongue, than she would be herded away with the rest of the women, often by the perfumed consort of the highest ranking mage.

Thus Eolyn came to know a very different community of ‘daughters of Moisehén’, bred to serve the needs of their mages and purged of all desire for a magic of their own.

By the eve of Bel-Aethne, Eolyn had met a number of men from Tzeremond’s Order, yet Achim did not appear among them. She began to suspect he never would. Perhaps he had not completed his training, though it was difficult to imagine. Perhaps he had traveled back to the South Woods in hopes of finding her, though surely he would return for this important event. Perhaps he had passed prematurely into the Afterlife. Yet Eolyn could not help but believe she would have sensed his departure. The mystery occupied her thoughts, sometimes keeping her awake at night.

A crescendo of activity filled the final days before the great festival. In the central square, carpenters worked in a constant clatter to erect galleries from which the King and his attendants would observe the ceremonies. The people of Moisehén flocked from the farthest reaches of the kingdom, crowding inns and setting up camps outside the city. Avenues and alleys filled with the pungent aroma of roasted meat and fresh ale. Vendors sang like summer frogs, peddling traditional adornments of the season: white lilies, fragrant pine branches, decorated masks, and hooded cloaks. Laughter and chatter rolled freely through the streets.

On the second evening of the three-day festival, people packed the city square in anticipation of the Fire Ceremony. Men and women wore colorful cloaks and decorated masks. They held lilies and pine branches in a sea of white and green. Children darted among the adults, pushing and shoving for favored spots next to the single promenade that connected the palisade on the north with the tent from which mages and dancers would emerge on the south. The low platform led to a sacred circle cast the day before, during the celebration of Primitive Magic.

As the afternoon sun slanted golden red against the high rooftops, trumpets sounded, indicating the opening of the castle gates. The winding path from the fortress was long and steep, so several minutes passed before the King and his retinue completed their ritual descent. They rode into the square on magnificent horses, much heavier in build than the sleek runners Corey owned. Each mage wore a forest green cloak richly embroidered with gold and jewels. They did not cover their faces with common masks, but used a play of shadow and light that blurred their features as well as their auras.

Spying the scene from the entrance to their tent, Eolyn wondered whether the spell that created those masks bore any resemblance to the invocation of a maga’s ward.

Adiana pressed her warm cheek against Eolyn’s.

“We cannot see the King’s face,” she said, “but look at his bearing. He wears power with absolute confidence, even in these early days of his reign. What they say about him is true. He is the worst kind of king, the handsome kind, the charismatic kind. They will love him even as he exploits them all for his own gain.”

People parted to allow passage of the royal procession. Eolyn sensed gray tendrils of fear curling up from the onlookers, a shimmering mist that drained in a constant stream toward the King and his High Mages.

Tzeremond’s students do not simply harvest the energy of the earth
, she realized.

They fed on fear and used it to enhance their power. Ghemena had warned her about this. Kedehen had cultivated terror among his people during long, brutal years. Now the new king enjoyed the fruits of his father’s labor. Bel-Aethne was but a temporary salve on this ever-open wound, a momentary distraction from the corruption that consumed the once splendid traditions of Moisehén.

As the King took his seat, Adiana drew Eolyn into a tight hug. She kept her voice low. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Yes.” Eolyn had never been more certain of anything in her life.

“Then I am with you.” With a brief kiss, Adiana slipped away to join the musicians.

Eolyn checked the intricate lacing of her mask and pulled her burgundy hood over her head. Adiana’s song already floated clear and high when she took her place beside Corey. A thrilling sense of purpose rose inside her. The women had followed her lead. Renate had kept their secret. Eolyn felt as if all the events of her past had conspired to create this moment, in which she would at last crack open the door of lasting change.

As Corey took up her hand, a spark passed between them. He stiffened and cast a glance toward her. Despite the mage’s mask, Eolyn saw tension behind his silver-green eyes.

Doubt clouded her resolve. Corey had never been anxious before a performance.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He did not respond, but studied her as if considering some difficult decision. A knot took hold of Eolyn’s heart.

Did Renate tell him?

If she did, why had he not intervened?

Before Eolyn could shape her misgivings into words, Corey tightened his grip and escorted her out the tent. They followed the others in procession, keeping stride with Adiana’s song.

Love that burns in my heart

Night no longer grows dark

Come, my Aithne, my Caradoc

Embrace me

Eolyn and Corey fell into a complex choreography, where the interaction of each couple merged into the seamless pattern of the whole. Eolyn had planned to invoke her subtle magic here, early in the dance, but she hesitated, wary of what she sensed in Corey’s demeanor.

The people crowding the square joined their voices with Adiana.

See the white moon shining

Hear the black sky in song

The raging love of a river’s passing

The warmth of a sun that has not gone

Our union illuminates the midnight sky

Conquering eternity with this eternal moment...

Caught by the spontaneous power of those voices, Eolyn and Mage Corey paused in their dance. Magic surged through the crowd, dissolving the mist of fear and leaving in its wake a bright solidarity. They raised their blossoms and pine branches high, moving them back and forth in unified rhythm.

Though she could not see the High Mages, Eolyn sensed the pallor that descended over their muted auras. A shadow of foreboding deepened about Master Tzeremond. Only the King’s colors remained unchanged. If the response of the people moved him, he did not reveal it.

Mage Corey touched Eolyn’s hand in a subtle signal to continue.

“What is happening?” she asked.

Corey drew her close and murmured into her ear. “This is the magic of the people of Moisehén. A sleeping river that binds them. A power that has not stirred for decades.” They spun away from each other and came close again before he added, “Tzeremond will not be pleased.”

Adiana brought the hymn to a close. The mages and dancers formed two concentric circles, with the men on the inside. Rishona’s rich voice now rose into the air. The mysterious language and sinuous melodies of her people evoked a sense of deep longing in Eolyn’s heart. It had been bold of Renate to propose that a Syrnte woman sing during the Fire Ceremony. Yet Eolyn could not imagine another person who matched so well the essence and majesty of the Sacred Fire.

As the music gathered force, each mage sent an arc of bright flame from the palm of his hand into the center of the circle. They integrated their powers into a single swirling core of light. The whirlpool spread swift upon the ground before contracting into a glowing pillar that billowed high above the square, evoking cries of wonder from the people.

In the gathering twilight, the mages crafted an awe-inspiring choreography, splitting the brilliant light into multicolored images that portrayed the many legends of Aithne and Caradoc. The mythical lovers danced through flames and unveiled the mysteries of magic. They fled from Thunder, responded to the call of Dragon, and forged their passion into a thousand fire-bearing branches.

Eolyn scanned the faces of the entranced onlookers.

Now is the time.

Between the dancing flames of the Middle Mages and the deep imagination of her people, she began to work her spell in the silent tongue of Dragon.

Ehekaht
.

Naeom veham.

Naeom eh nom zehlam.

Ehukae
.

Spreading outward at her bidding, the magic of dance wove into the hidden dreams of the audience. Eolyn felt the vision take shape. Swaying robes of deep burgundy. Healing hands and graceful limbs. Flowing hair and hawk-like eyes. Indomitable freedom and fearsome magic.

The fleeting mirage captured the old rites, in which the Fire Ceremony was invoked by a balanced coven of men and women, lending a rich texture to the sacred flame that for all the skill of the mages present, could not be produced without women’s magic.

The spell faded. A low shudder coursed through the column of fire. Eolyn opened her eyes, troubled by the ominous rumble.

The character of the shifting light altered, becoming more ardent. Mage Corey’s shoulders tensed. The other mages exchanged nervous glances. Several tried to pull away without success. Eolyn caught her breath as she realized the flame was holding them against their will.

Without warning, the red-hot core exploded upward. A rush of hot air threw the mages violently to the ground. The Sacred Fire roared into the shape of a flaming dragon, arched its burning neck, and bore directly down on Mage Corey.

Eolyn had no time to consider her actions. She flung her arm forward and shouted,

Ehekaht, faeom aenre dumae!

Magic surged through her feet and burst from her palm in an arc of clear blue light. The indigo flame intercepted the dragon’s head not more than a few inches from Corey’s face. Flaring up, it engulfed the red serpent and consumed its writhing neck. The creature was transformed into a nebulous ball of blue and red flame that imploded with a thunderous bellow and then faded into a single dying spark.

Absolute silence followed.

With horror, Eolyn realized what she had done and where she had chosen to do it.

Mage Corey removed his hood and mask in a single motion, his expression incredulous.

Though she dared not raise her eyes, Eolyn knew the King had risen to his feet. She sensed the acid gaze of Tzeremond. She understood there would be no escape.

“Bring her to me, at once.” The King did not raise his voice, yet the command was heard by everyone.

A shuffling murmur took hold of the crowd. Some pushed away from the square. Others stood frozen in place. But most strained forward to catch a glimpse of the hooded and masked woman who through some miracle had acquired the gift of magic.

Guards materialized out of the shifting mass of people. They surrounded Eolyn, their unsheathed swords hissing with death.

Mage Corey scrambled to his feet. “Fools! Those blades won’t do you any good.”

He forced his way through the guards and grabbed hold of Eolyn, one hand firm on the back of her neck and the other palm hard against her forehead. Eolyn struggled against the uncomfortable grip, but he held fast and forced her gaze to meet his. “
Ehekahtu naeom maleh
.”

She went still with surprise. His invocation made no sense.

“There you are, men,” Corey said. “I’ve bound her magic.”

Yet he had done no such thing.

Corey slipped his hand around Eolyn’s arm in a grip so tight it hurt. “You’ll want me by your side, however, if you plan to make it to the castle alive.”

The captain cast a nervous glance toward Eolyn. Sheathing his sword, he gave Corey a curt nod. “Very well, Mage Corey.”

The King had already departed the square on horseback with his attendants, leaving the guards to navigate the restless crowd as they tried to open passage for the new prisoner. Their efforts fell impotent against the will of the onlookers, who pressed ever harder for a glance at the maga.

Eolyn had never been surrounded by such a mass of people. Their faces blurred. The heat became suffocating. Just as she was certain the crowd would overwhelm the handful of armed men and tear her apart, a chill rippled through the square and silenced their clamor. A path opened, snaking toward the rise of the castle road. At its center, not more than ten paces in front of Eolyn, stood an ancient woman with wise eyes and a toothless smile. She held a single lily in her hand, which she set carefully on the ground before vanishing altogether.

Eolyn did not know if anyone else saw the apparition, but in the old woman’s wake, everyone released their lilies. Flowers showered in from all directions and accumulated in a heavy, scented snow at her feet.