Eolyn (7 page)

“I’m sorry the Riders destroyed your village, Eolyn. I’m sorry they took away your family. If there were a magic in this world that would allow me to undo what was done, I would.”

At last Eolyn stopped crying. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to recapture her spirit with unsteady breaths. She lifted her earth brown eyes to his. Short sniffles interrupted her words.

“I’m sorry about your mother, Achim. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry you lost her. I would bring her back, if I could. I would bring her back for you.”

C
hapter Nine

Eolyn flattened a scrap of paper
crafted from plant fibers and bay leaves. Taking a piece of charcoal from the edge of the hearth, she wrote a wish in sacred symbols. Then, with the hot fire warming her face, she folded the paper three times and offered it to the flames.

“May the Gods see honor in my desire,” she said. “May my hopes for the future guide the sun back to Moisehén.”

The fire accepted the note, curling and tarnishing its edges until the wish burst into a small white flame that faded quickly to red.

Sitting back, Eolyn wrapped herself in a coarse blanket and huddled next to Ghemena. They would keep vigil in front of the hearth all night, drinking hot berry wine, sharing stories, and singing songs as the sun made its perilous journey back from the Underworld on Midwinter’s Eve.

“Ghemena, why have you never told me about the war?”

The old maga stiffened. “I have spoken often of the war.”

“You’ve told me bits and pieces, but mostly you talk about everything
except
the war. You’ve told me how Aithne and Caradoc discovered High Magic and how Caedmon became the first mage warrior. You’ve told me about the invasion of the Thunder People and the Foundation of Vortingen. I know how the Old Orders came to be, and I’ve learned the legends of the Clan of East Selen. I know about the banishment of the Naether Demons and the magic of Syrnte witches. You’ve even told me about the fire wizards of Galia, whom I’m sure I will never meet, but you’ve never really talked about the war that destroyed our sisters.”

Ghemena closed her eyes. She had grown thin this past year, and the lines on her face had deepened. When she looked again at Eolyn, it was through a misty gaze. “Why do you ask this of me now?”

Eolyn shivered and drew the blanket tighter about her shoulders. “I fear that my own future may hold war. I had a dream of smoke and fire, and of bodies scattered across a blackened plain. Achim was there, covered in soot and blood. A great ivory sword came down upon him, and then he was gone.”

Ghemena clucked her tongue. “That was only a dream.”

“What if it was a vision?”

“Divination is a reckless form of magic. You should not give yourself over to it.”

“You use your cards,” Eolyn countered.

“I resort to those Syrnte toys because I’ve no one else to consult when making decisions.” Ghemena’s voice was bitter and thick with emotion. “In the old days, the cards were nothing more than an entertaining relic. I spoke with real people when choosing my path, companions and mentors who did not allow my hopes and fears to cloud my judgement.”

“Then talk to me, Ghemena,” Eolyn said. “If you’d rather I listen to a person than to my dreams, tell me about the war. Maybe if you explain to me what happened and how, I will have the wisdom to choose another path when my time comes.”

Ghemena narrowed her eyes and turned her gaze back to the fire. “We cannot stop war. We can only run from it. Run and hide.”

Eolyn’s throat tightened. “Surely you don’t believe that, Ghemena? You’ve always told me that magas have a choice.”

After a long moment, the old maga gave a weary shake of her head. “Pay me no mind, Eolyn. A long time ago, I saw my world go up in flames. Now sometimes I rant without reason. It is true what you say: A maga’s life is never bound to a single path, not even in war. I will tell you the story you want to hear, but first you must refill my wine.”

Ghemena had a gift for making hot berry and primrose wine. Eolyn loved the way its sweet aroma stung her senses whenever she poured a glass. She also served a thick slice of nut bread for each of them before snuggling back into the warmth of her blanket.

“The conflict that dragged us into war began around the time I was appointed Abbess of Berlingen,” Ghemena said. “One of the
Aekelahrs
of the Old Orders—a place of learning led by Master Tzeremond—accepted a prince of the line of Vortingen as a student of magic. This decision violated an important prohibition. Mixing magical power with royal power was considered dangerous. It meant too much dominion in the hands of one family. The Old Orders understood this, and the prohibition against royalty practicing magic was respected by all generations of the House of Vortingen, until the arrival of the fourth son of Urien, Prince Kedehen.”

“The one who is now King of Moisehén?”

“Yes. But he was not king back then. Indeed, he had little hope of ever becoming king, or anything else of importance for that matter. It is a terrible thing, Eolyn, to be the fourth son of a king. A fourth son is worth less than his sisters, for while a princess inherits nothing she can at least forge useful alliances with her marriage and children. But what can a fourth son bring to a royal family that it does not already have? And what does he gain from being the spawn of a king if he receives no inheritance? Princes not destined for the crown often seek to prove their worth by becoming great warriors, merchants, or explorers. But Kedehen would have none of that. Kedehen wanted to learn magic.”

“And only Tzeremond would take him in?”

“No other
Aekelahr
would accept him under the prohibition. When Tzeremond opened his doors to Kedehen, everyone fell into an uproar. Mages and magas summoned special councils and attempted to dissuade Tzeremond from his folly. The wizard held firm though, and the prince advanced rapidly under his instruction as the debate wore on.

“In the end, everyone tired of the matter and desisted. We realized Tzeremond would not be turned from this path except by force, and we did not want to send mages into battle against each other. Kedehen was the fourth son, after all. With three healthy brothers between him and the throne, it would take a great coincidence of fate for the crown to fall to him.”

Ghemena punctuated the words
coincidence of fate
in sour tones. The flames of the hearth flared in her gray eyes, and the skin around her pursed lips paled.

Eolyn felt the icy sick hand of the visions she had the day her village was destroyed. 

“He killed them,” she whispered. “He killed them all to be king, didn’t he?”

“Perhaps,” Ghemena said. “If he did, the truth has long since been buried in places too dark to be found. Within a few years of the death of King Urien, all three of Kedehen’s brothers had followed their father into the Afterlife. The first fell victim to form of dysentery so rare even the court physician could find no cure. The second was assassinated by his best knight, and though more than a hundred people witnessed the murder, the man went to his execution swearing innocence. The third prince, who had traveled far beyond the mountains to the land of the Syrnte, fell prey to thieves on his way home to assume the crown. With that, the unthinkable became reality. Kedehen, Prince and High Mage, stood ready to assume the Crown of Vortingen.

“Mages and magas from both Orders met in special councils once again. We signed petitions urging the Prince to abdicate. We summoned Tzeremond with instructions on how to advise his student, this time under threat of expulsion. All our efforts failed. Kedehen assumed the throne, and within weeks of his coronation, the magas rose up in rebellion.”

“So the magas did start the war.”

Ghemena pinned Eolyn with a sharp gaze. “Is that what your friend told you?”

“No. I mean, yes, but you just said—”

“No one starts a war. War grows like a slitherwort vine, choking everything and feeding on conflicts so deeply mired in history that many cannot remember the original argument by the time they meet in battle. The magas did not start the war. Unfortunately, we did not finish it either. We had many excellent warriors, women and men alike. Countless mages joined our cause against the King. We fought valiantly, but in the end we lost, and we lost miserably. After that the purges began.”

“As punishment?”

“Not just punishment. Tzeremond taught that female magic is an aberration, an insult to Dragon. He had instructed Kedehen in this doctrine, and after the war used his influence to persuade the King this land would not be safe until every last witch was destroyed.”

“How is it possible to believe female magic an insult to Dragon? Aithne, a woman, was the first person to discover magic. It was she who accepted Dragon’s offer without hesitation, while Caradoc doubted Dragon’s message and faltered under Thunder’s wrath.”

“Tzeremond taught a different view of history and assigned truth to a different set of legends. His was a small group of mages, radical in bent and considered unimportant in the grander context of the Old Orders. Before all this began, no one would have thought Tzeremond’s
Aekelahr
destined to become the seat of such power. Anyone who suggested such a thing would have been laughed out of the room.”

“Did you know Tzeremond?”

Ghemena drew a breath between her teeth. “Oh yes. We knew each other from the time he was a student of Middle Magic.”

“What was he like?”

“Handsome, if you can believe it.” Ghemena’s gaze drifted inward. “He had a unique color to his eyes, a piercing amber brown that could leave a young maga like me very unsettled. And he was a skilled mage. But even then he feared the power of the magas. It was this fear that led him into hate. He never understood…”

Ghemena brought the steaming cup to her lips. Her fingers were trembling.

“It is enough,” she said. “I’ve told you enough for one sitting.”

“But I want to hear more, Ghemena.”

“It wears me down to speak of these things. I am an old woman. I must save my energy for greeting the renewed sun in the morning.”

“At least tell me how you came to be here. How did you escape the purges?”

She sighed. “By the grace of the Gods, Berlingen was left untouched during the war. We had shortages of food and medicines, but we were not dragged into direct conflict with the King. When the magas surrendered, we expected peace to be restored and the Old Orders rebuilt.

“Then news came of the massacre at East Selen. The rumors were frantic and garbled. First it was said none had survived. Then we heard Briana of East Selen was captured and raped. Others claimed she had betrayed her kin and given herself freely to Kedehen. We didn’t have time to sort out the truth before they came for us.

“Kedehen’s men attacked in the middle of the night. I woke up with noise like thunder crashing through my head. I thought I was having a nightmare. There were screams, and awful sounds of metal slicing through flesh. Everything was in flames. I ran around like a mad woman. All I wanted to do was save something, anything…The library, the books. Suddenly, my nephew Varyl appeared and dragged me away. To this day I’m not certain how we escaped. If it wasn’t for him, I would have died with all the rest.”

“Varyl? You mean the forester who brings us supplies?” Eolyn had not known Varyl was Ghemena’s nephew. He seemed a bitter man with his ragged beard and raspy voice. Though he faithfully brought supplies every spring and autumn, the stocky forester had never so much as directed a word at Eolyn.

“He was once a Knight of Vortingen. After the war ended, he came to Berlingen to rest and heal. I was his only family at the time. Everyone else had died in the war. When we were attacked, he helped me escape.

“It was my idea to flee to the South Woods. I thought I could hide here until the terror ended of its own accord. But as the years passed, I listened to the trees and to the Guendes. That’s how I knew Tzeremond and Kedehen did not stop until they had killed everyone. So here I am. And here I will be, I suppose, until my death.”

“But you won’t die here, Ghemena,” Eolyn said. “Someday when I am a High Maga, we will return to Moisehén together and rebuild everything as it once was.”

Ghemena shook her head. “That day will not come, Eolyn. When you return to Moisehén, you will do so alone. You will not be part of any Order. You will be just one maga in a hostile land, struggling to preserve a dying craft.”

Eolyn set down her wine. A sharp pain settled like a stone inside her belly. “Then how am I to survive?”

Ghemena stared into the fire, her expression solemn.

“Ghemena, answer me.”

“As the sun returns after Midwinter’s Eve,” Ghemena murmured, “so you will return to Moisehén, alone and through a world of darkness, fear, and death. Your path will not be easy. I have warned you of this from the beginning. But if you succeed, your magic will bring a new dawn to the troubled lands of our people.”