Eolyn (31 page)

C
hapter Thirty-Eight

The morning after Ernan and Khelia’s
forces arrived at the pass of Aerunden, Tahmir appeared in front of Eolyn’s tent with a fresh pair of horses. The sun had not yet risen over the eastern hills, and the maga’s muscles ached after the long journey from Selen, but Tahmir’s company renewed her spirit. They mounted the horses and retreated from the broad expanse of tents that now comprised the rebels’ war camp.

The pass of Aerunden occupied the southeast apex of a long valley that stretched north until it opened abruptly onto rolling plains. A verdant forest cloaked the surrounding hills. Upon their arrival, Ernan had remarked with satisfaction how the trees would conceal their scouts and archers. But all Eolyn could see was sweet magic flowing from the living woods. Just above the entrance to the pass rose a low ridge capped by a flat grassy knoll. Eolyn planned to cast her sacred circle there, should the King meet them here in Aerunden.

“All the windows of Ernan’s destiny are converging,” Tahmir said as he rode next to Eolyn. “He will confront the Mage King in this valley.”

“When?”

“Soon. You will hear the movement of the royal army, even before your brother’s scouts report their approach.” Tahmir scanned the surrounding hills. “Where would be the best place for Tzeremond to cast his circle?”

Eolyn closed her eyes and listened to the trees. After a few moments, she nodded toward a low rise on the northern side of the valley. “That will be his first choice. Magic runs from the heart of that mound into the valley, and it provides a view of the entire field of battle. We should inform Ernan. He can set up a guard to defend this hill and impede Tzeremond’s access.”

“No.” Tahmir shook his head. “Better that we know where he will be.”

“If you plan to fulfill your father’s oath during battle, you won’t be able to do it there. The mage’s circle will be well defended. In the tradition of Moisehén, the moment the circle is broken, the battle is lost. The King will place all of his lines in front of it, and a special guard around it. It will be impossible to reach Tzeremond.”

“My  warriors and I will find a way. Would you accompany me up that slope, Eolyn? I want a closer look, to know all the details of how his circle will be cast.”

They dismounted at the base of the hill. Tahmir sent the horses back to camp.

“We will descend on the other side, and mark a path behind the ridge on foot,” he said. “That will be the surest route for approaching him once the battle begins.”

They took their time, weaving back and forth across the face of the small mountain until the Syrnte warrior felt confident in his knowledge of every tree, bush, and stone. A morning mist clung to the herb-littered floor, and the leaves hung thick with the sweet aroma of late summer. A chorus of birds floated on the air; angry squirrels chucked from safe perches. These melodies made Eolyn’s heart burn with the desire to return home, to the safe places and carefree adventures of her childhood in the South Woods.

“Do you remember, Tahmir, when you first taught me to ride?” she asked. “I was so afraid then. I thought that in any moment I would be found out and my life would end in flames. Now I look back, and the troubles of the Circle seem trivial compared to what we face today.”

“Your burden has never been trivial.” He took her hand in his as they walked.

“I remember every detail of those afternoons: the slant of the sun across the fields, the smell of tilled earth, the heat of the horse’s bodies. I wish those moments had lasted forever.”

“Your people speak of time as if it can be sliced up and eaten like bread. For the Syrnte, time is not that way. We experience no beginning and no end. We have only the now, and our shifting visions of past and future.”

“Yet you know birth and you know death. If I ask you to tell me about the first time we met, you would speak of the pageant in Moehn.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I would speak of the first dreams I had of you, or of the first afternoon we rode together, or of the first time we made love. I could even speak of moments we have not yet lived, and in the end I would confess that until an eternity has passed, I will not truly have known you at all.”

Eolyn paused, troubled by his words. “So have we loved each other, or not?”

Tahmir smiled and took her face in his hands. His dark eyes, rimmed by thick lashes, harbored tiny flames of the golden sun. “What would your Doyenne say?”

“She would say love is not bound by time.”

He brought his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. “So it is with us.”

When they reached the summit, Eolyn paced the grassy clearing until she located the primary conduit to the heart of the mountain. Removing her shoes, she pressed her bare feet against the damp earth and focused on the steady pulse emanating from the core far below. Had she brought along her staff, she might have dared a descent into the darkness to explore the ribbons of magic that radiated toward the battle field, but without oak and crystal to anchor her spirit, the risk was too great.

Eolyn opened her eyes. “If I have understood the annals correctly, Tzeremond will stand here. The magic is not as strong as on the southern side of the valley, but for him, it will be more than sufficient.”

“Who will be with him?”

“Eight High Mages, one at each of the cardinal points, twelve paces from Tzeremond’s position.”

A shadow crept into the edge of Eolyn’s awareness, faint yet unbearable. Her senses filled with an ephemeral mist that smelled like blood. Cries of anguish rose from the empty field. Eolyn covered her face to shut the vision out.

“I am a fool to have come here,” she said. “We are leading these people to disaster.”

Tahmir approached and placed a steady hand on her shoulder. “They would have met their King in battle, with or without you at their side. Your foolishness, as you call it, is their hope, even for those destined to die. You presence will ease their passing.”

“Not if Tzeremond—”

“You need not worry about Tzeremond. He will have journeyed into the Underworld long before he has the opportunity to break your circle.”

“Is that what your visions tell you?” She did not hide the challenge in her voice.

“Battles are difficult to divine,” Tahmir admitted. “Too many windows intersecting at once. But my heart assures me Rishona and I will not fail in this task to which my father appointed us.”

Tahmir pulled her close. Eolyn had always found refuge in his heat and strength, and today was no different. She rested her head against his broad shoulder. The voices of fear dissolved. In the valley below, the long grass bent in undulating waves, its color deepened by passing shadows of white clouds. A small winding stream glinted under the rising sun.

“I must let the creatures of the water know,” she said, “so they have time to evacuate before the battle begins.”

“Eolyn.” Tahmir’s voice reverberated inside his chest. “When this war is over, I want you to come back to my homeland with me.”

His invitation moved her deeply. Nonetheless, she said, “I can’t do that.”

“If you will not come out of love for me, than do it for yourself and your people.” Cupping her chin in his hand, Tahmir brought her eyes to his. “There is a wind in my country called ‘Saefira’, the breath of the sun. Every year at the First Equinox, she appears from the east. When our children are of age, we take them to meet this wind, and she awakens their powers. Saefira would awaken you, too. You have abilities the rigid traditions of Moisehén have not allowed you to discover. My sister has foreseen this. Your power is greater than you imagine, and the Syrnte can show you how to use it.”

Images, beautiful and seductive, filled her mind: of vast plains and wide rivers, colorful caravans and vibrant people. She saw them dancing under the bright sun and chanting by the silver light of stars. The haunting rhythm of their music filled her ears, weaving a dream of endless nights at Tahmir’s side, of the eternal pleasure of his touch, of the protective heat of his embrace.

“I would give much to follow you to your homeland, Tahmir,” Eolyn said. “But when I accepted my staff, I made a vow to bring the traditions of the magas back to this land. If we defeat Tzeremond and the King, the most important part of my work will have only just begun. And if we lose…Gods help us if we lose, but if we lose then I must find some way to start over. In either case, I cannot leave my people.”

He pressed his lips against her forehead. She responded to their searching tenderness, melting into his embrace, returning his caress with her unspoken assent. They would make love on the way back to camp in some unexplored corner of these peaceful green woods, invoking the spirit of the forest and offering their shared ecstasy to the Gods.

“There are many paths to your destiny,” Tahmir murmured. “Not all of them are confined to these hills.”

C
hapter Thirty-Nine

The disturbance startled Eolyn
out of her sleep. A massive movement of horses and soldiers was upsetting the pulse of the earth. The air rang with the metallic chorus of their weapons. A deep ache ignited behind Eolyn’s temples and spread to the back of her head.

Fighting the sour pit that took hold in her stomach, Eolyn rose, dressed, and sought out her brother.

Hours later, Ernan’s scouts, sent out days before, appeared to confirm that the King’s army marched toward Aerunden. They had two days, perhaps three, at most.

While Ernan and Khelia set their people to work readying their weapons, Eolyn enlisted Rishona’s help for her own preparations. They made extracts of horehound and laurel to mitigate curses of
Ahmad-melan,
and crafted amulets of houseleek and vervain to blunt the enemy’s blade. They gathered white willow and mandrake to ease the pain of the wounded, and laid wood for the sacred fire of Eolyn’s circle: Oak for strength and endurance, Rowan for control and victory, Alder to give guidance to those destined for the Underworld.

Late in the afternoon on the following day, the first of the royal troops appeared at the far end of the valley, purple banners snapping above a cloud of dust. With the sun descending rapidly in the west, they halted their advance at some distance, setting up camp while the rest of the column arrived. Even as night fell, the King’s men continued to file into Aerunden, a long river of bright torches that fed an ever-expanding pool of shimmering light.

Accompanied by Ernan, Khelia, Tahmir, and Rishona, Eolyn climbed the southern ridge to cast the first sacred circle she had ever dedicated to war. Calling upon the power of the earth, she ignited the wood and fed carefully measured portions of juniper, rosemary, and winter sage into the flames. She invoked the memory of her mother and Ghemena to give strength to her magic and peace of mind in the face of death. Kneeling before each of her companions, she painted their hands and feet with dyes prepared from night berries and blue iris root, meant to ward off their enemies in this world and the next.

Ehekaht, Ehekahtu,
she sang,
Naeom cohmae, faeom denae, naeom dumae.

As the ritual drew to a close, the people retired to their tents. Only Ernan lingered, standing beside his sister in silence as they watched the King’s army fill the valley beyond.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “It is not unlike the nights we used to stay up on the farm, searching for falling stars in the moonless sky.”

“There you are wrong, dear brother,” she replied quietly. “This is not like those nights at all.”

He stiffened and withdrew his hand. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “I thank the Gods every day that you were returned to me, and not—as you might have imagined—because of the victory you can help us achieve, but because I missed you, Eolyn, from the moment you were lost.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat was tight. “I missed you too, Ernan, more than you can imagine. Every year after the raid, I stayed up late on Samhaen, hoping to catch a glimpse of your spirit. I left out as much sweetbread as Ghemena would allow, because I remembered how much you liked it, and every morning it was gone. Who could have eaten it, I wonder? It must have been the Guendes. But I thought it was you. I always believed it was you.”

She paused, embarrassed to speak of such childish memories in such a grave moment. But then she felt him smile in the dark, and it brought her comfort.

“Well,” he said, “if the Gods call me home tomorrow, you must lay out sweetbread again. And a mug of ale, while you’re at it. I’ve heard there’s no good drink to be found in the Afterlife.”

“Don’t jest about that, Ernan. I lost you once. I can’t bear the thought of losing you again.”

He stepped close, catching her off guard with the sudden awareness of his ephemeral warmth. “Eolyn, if I do not survive tomorrow—”

“You will survive. Don’t even suggest you won’t.”

“If things go badly for us,” he insisted, “if you see my lines break, you must take your horse and ride as fast as you can to the head of this pass. Tahmir has several of his riders stationed there. They will escort you to safety.”

“Tahmir?” An odd anxiety crept into her heart.

“The Syrnte know a way through the South Woods, a little traveled path that skirts the western flank of the Paramen Mountains and leads to their homeland. You will go with them, and you will not return.”

“You and Tahmir agreed to this plan without consulting me?”

“Promise me you will put yourself in the care of his men.”

“No! No, I will promise no such thing, because I will not abandon my people, and you will not fail.”

Ernan drew a long breath and turned to the valley, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword. She wanted to remember this image forever, the cut of his profile against the shadows, his scent of leather and summer grass. She hardly knew her brother, and now he threatened to leave her again. Something deep inside rent in two. Eolyn stifled the sob that rose in her heart.

Ernan glanced upwards as if searching the stars. Then he set his gaze upon her. “Eolyn, dear sister, if I said anything in these days past that offended or upset you, I apologize. I know where your loyalty lies. I know what you want for yourself and for our people. I have never doubted you, or the destiny that brought us here. Not for a moment.”

Eolyn understood her brother was not being entirely honest, but it did not matter. Tomorrow he would march toward fields of death with her memory in his heart. He would seek out his vengeance, thinking to honor her, hoping to venerate their mother. He needed this reconciliation, and she would not deny it to him.

“I know, brother,” she said. “Nor have I ever doubted you. If it is within my power to bring you to victory tomorrow, then I will see it done.”

Ernan nodded. Unsheathing Kel’Barú, he proffered the blade to her. “I would be greatly honored, Maga Eolyn, if you would speak to my weapon tonight, and keep it by your side while you make your final petition to the Gods.”

This was an old tradition on the eve of battle in Moisehén. In all probability, Akmael was offering his own sword to Tzeremond at this very moment. Eolyn accepted Kel’Barú with a bow of respect. “The honor is mine, brother. I will care for your sword and commend it to Dragon.”

Ernan embraced her and departed.

Kneeling at the center of her circle, Eolyn laid the sword in front of her. Kel’Barú’s pale blade reflected the river of stars that illuminated the clear sky. The grass felt cool and soft against her knees. Evening songs of frogs and crickets floated out of the trees in a soothing cadence. Under any other circumstance, this night would have inspired the tranquility of the infinite. But the sun would set over bloody fields tomorrow, and the moon would rise over ravens and wolves.

On the north side of the valley, Eolyn could see the purple blue flames of Tzeremond’s fire. She imagined the old wizard kneeling beside it, observing the same rites and invoking the same spells as she, honoring the same traditions shaped by so many generations before them.

How can a people with so much in common be so divided?

Akmael would be making his way down that hill now, his expression severe, his dark gaze focused. Upon entering the camp, he would greet his men with words of encouragement, perhaps an occasional handshake or clap on the shoulder. Before retiring to his tent, he would look toward the northern ridge and observe the fire where she knelt. He would wonder if she were blessing the sword intended to kill him.

A deep shudder took hold at the base of Eolyn’s spine and traveled up through her shoulders. She covered her face with her hands.

“I cannot do this, Kel’Barú,” she confessed in tears. “I cannot ask you to slay Akmael.”

The blade shifted as if moved by some unseen hand.

“But if I do not ask you to slay him, I may be sending my brother to his death.”

The wizard’s weapon lay in silence. For all its enchantment, Kel’Barú was more a loyal dog than a sentient being. It could not give advice or comfort. It could only wait to hear her bidding while humming quiet songs of warriors killed and battles won.

Eolyn drew a shaky breath and took the sword in her hands. The magic of the weapon shifted, connecting to her spirit and will. She pressed the flat of the blade to her lips, then raised it toward the heavens.

Kel’Barú’s song grew more complex, reaching toward the stars, culminating in a spellbinding cadence of joy and valor. Captivated by its power, Eolyn responded with her own voice, offering Kel’Barú everything she could: her love, her fear, her gratitude and resentment, her hopes and disappointments, her uncertainty and her conviction.

Ehekaht,
she prayed,
this is my petition to the Gods. Bring victory to Moisehén. Whatever the path, whatever the cost, whatever the price you require in blood, return the magic of our ancestors to my people.

Hear the plea of your servant.

Help me fulfill my vow.