The old woman watched her with a knowing smile. “Such beauty and power in your soul. They would take you without the San’iloman’s leave, if they could.”
Tasha slipped her arm through Adiana’s. “No one is going to take her.”
The old woman laughed. Her long hair was neatly braided and coiled. She wore a white robe with a jeweled belt, and a flowing cloak of many colors. Gold adorned her head and throat; earrings hung in a cascade of rubies over thin shoulders.
“Who are you?” Adiana asked.
“I am Donatya, priestess of Mikata and servant of the San’iloman. You will come with me.” She nodded to Tasha at her side and Catarina, who slept in the litter. “The children remain here.”
“No!” Tasha cried. “You will not separate us again.”
Donatya narrowed her eyes and nodded to the guards.
One of the men pulled Tasha away from Adiana, another bound the musician’s hands. Tasha fought against her captor, kicking, clawing and screaming, until Donatya stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face.
“Silence!” she said. “The Syrnte do not tolerate disobedient children. Any more fuss from you, and I will cut out your tongue.”
Tasha whimpered and gave Adiana a pleading look.
“Be a good girl, Tasha, will you?” Adiana said quietly. “Take care of your sister.”
Tasha shook her head in denial, biting her lip to keep from speaking. Her legs were bound and she was put back into the litter, the curtain closed behind her, while they led Adiana away.
There was music and song in Moehn that night, but not in this place. Donatya and the guards brought Adiana to small copse of trees well outside the ruined walls of the town.
Adiana recognized the knoll. They had picnicked here on occasion with Lord Felton and his family, the adults sharing sweetmeats and bitter ale while the children tumbled in the grass. Ghemena had run wild with Markl and his motley street urchins, their laughter rising toward a bright summer sun.
The happy memory ignited a sharp pain in Adiana’s gut. Those days felt like a distant dream now. Perhaps none of it had ever really happened.
Torches illuminated their path. At the crest of the low rise was a large circle marked by a strange luminous wall. Inside the translucent blue flames, Adiana saw movement. As they drew close, lumbering beasts came into focus, pacing on all fours, ebony claws on their long glowing limbs. They lifted their formless faces in unearthly howls.
Adiana cried out in terror, recognizing the monsters from her vision. In their midst, stood Rishona bright as the full moon, an obsidian blade lifted in one hand. At her feet, a girl heavy with child wept inconsolably, the tangled mass of her hair trapped in the unyielding grip of the San’iloman.
Adiana cowered, resisting the forward momentum of her escorts. Rishona struck with such speed that Adiana did not understand what had happened until a river of blood flowed from the girl’s throat and she collapsed convulsing to the earth. The San’iloman stepped away from her victim, and the beasts fell upon their prey, ripping open her belly and consuming all they found within.
Adiana’s knees buckled. She fell to the damp earth. Vomit spewed from her churning stomach. All power of movement abandoned her limbs. The guards took rough hold of her arms and dragged her to the edge of the circle, where Rishona stepped through the curtain of fire.
“What is this?” Rishona cast a glance toward Adiana before assessing Donatya with a harsh gaze. “I did not ask for her. I sent for the children.”
Donatya responded with a respectful bow, then drew close to Rishona and whispered in her ear, all the while keeping a hawk’s eye on Adiana. Rishona’s expression softened as the priestess spoke. A smile touched her lips. When Donatya finished, the San’iloman looked upon Adiana as if seeing her for the first time.
“Sweet Adiana,” she said, “who would have foreseen that you would be the bearer of such a great gift?”
Taking hold of the musician by a fistful of hair, Rishona pulled Adiana toward the circle. Her hands bound and useless, Adiana kicked and screamed, digging her heels into the earth and refusing to be ready quarry. A mailed hand came down hard on the side of her head, sending stars through her vision and renewing the taste of blood on her lips. She lost her footing and was dragged inexorably forward.
Darkness spun around her. Thunder ran through the earth. She heard shouts of men and the clatter of metal. Violent hands, familiar in their cruelty, tore Adiana away from the San’iloman and threw her to the ground, well outside the wall of flame.
“You do not have leave to make use of this woman!”
Adiana spat blood out of her mouth, gasping for each precious breath. An unsettling scent filled the air, of spices and death and burning fields.
Mechnes
.
That voice belongs to Prince Mechnes.
“I do not require your leave, uncle,” Rishona said. “The creatures have called for this woman. They hunger for her like no other. She is the key to our prize.”
“Prisoners and slaves do not choose their meals,” Mechnes growled.
“The more magic we give them, the better they will serve us. And she,” Adiana felt Rishona’s predatory focus, “is a vessel of Primitive Magic.”
A tense silence followed, broken by Mechnes’s audacious laugh. Adiana heard the approach of his heavy gait and winced as he lifted her face to the torch light.
“A vessel of Primitive Magic.” There was amusement in his eyes, a sardonic grin on his face. Adiana thought the Gods especially cruel in that moment, that they would give this evil man such a handsome countenance. He released her as suddenly as he had taken hold of her. “I do not require a demon to tell me that. You, Rishona, have the young magas, and any other woman or child of this province that you desire. Those creatures will be satisfied with what we offer, or they will remain forever in their cold prison.”
“Uncle—”
“Take this woman to my quarters.” Mechnes told one of his men. “She is to be bathed and bound in the usual fashion, and left undisturbed until I return.”
“I am your Queen!”
Rishona’s angry declaration brought all movement to a halt.
Looking up from her miserable state, Adiana saw Prince Mechnes and the San’iloman, eyes locked on each other and jaws set, their rage hot and foul like sulfur put to flame.
Without shifting his gaze from his niece, Prince Mechnes said in deliberate tones, “You have your orders, man. Do as I say.”
Adiana was pulled up from the ground and thrown over a broad shoulder. As they carried her away, she caught Rishona’s expression wavering in uncertainty.
The San’iloman straightened her shoulders and said to Donatya, “Bring me the girls, then. And make haste. We cannot leave this portal open much longer.”
Moments passed before the meaning of these words hit Adiana.
“No,” she said as if coming out of a trance. Then louder, “No! Not them. Not Catarina and Tasha. Take me instead!”
No one paid her any heed. The soldier who carried her continued his steady pace away from the circle of fire.
Frantic, Adiana looked around as best she could, trying to remember where they had left the litter, hoping to catch a glimpse of the children.
“Tasha!” she cried. “Catarina!”
Their voices came to her as if from a great distance, anxious and garbled.
“Stop!” Adiana wailed, all her fear and fury channeled into this one desperate entreaty. “Oh, for the love of the Gods, stop! You cannot permit this. Take me! Spare the girls, I beg you.”
“Silence that woman!” Mechnes roared.
A soiled rag was stuffed into Adiana’s mouth.
Tears burned in her eyes. Every muscle cramped. Her entrails revolted as if about to be torn from her body. With bound hands she beat against her captor’s back, but each blow fell impotent. Exhausted by the horror of her helplessness, she paused and listened again for the girls.
So few sounds came to her now. The steady thump of her captor’s gait. The hiss of torches. The distant music and laugher that floated toward them from the town.
The labored rhythm of her own breath.
Sweat soaked her bodice and formed rivulets that ran down her strained neck. She tried to look back toward the circle of fire, but already they were unbearably far away, moving at an angle that did not permit her to see.
Please,
she begged, hoping the Gods would hear this one silent prayer,
spare them this. Let me go in their place. Please…
Catarina’s and Tasha’s screams ripped open the night, shrill with terror, cut short by the bitter silence of death.
A tremor shook the earth, accompanied by the deafening roar of bloodthirsty beasts. The soldier lost his footing, stumbling and cursing as Adiana slipped from his grasp. She did not feel the impact of hitting the ground, but remained limp and numb to the world around her.
The soldier recovered his balance, hauled her back onto his shoulders, and continued in the direction of Mechnes’s tent.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Eolyn searched
the shadow-cloaked woods, eyes alert, breath shallow, hand firm on her oak staff.
Borten stirred at her side, rose to his feet, and unsheathed Kel’Barú. The long blade caught a sliver of moonlight.
Several paces behind them, Mage Corey and Mariel were deep inside their own dreams.
Crickets chirped their quiet rhythms, but the trees had ceased all movement. Not even the leaves rustled in the dark.
“What is it?” Borten’s whisper was barely audible.
“I’m not certain.” A feeling, like a breath of wintry air, had raised the fine hairs on Eolyn’s arms.
She remembered a time, not so long ago, when the night forest was a place of warm mystery to be explored with happy abandon. Now she had grown wary of this midnight realm whose power to conceal could favor them as easily as it might betray them.
Mist floated, delicate and gray, just past the broad trunks ahead. A hollow wind moaned through the trees, followed by the rustle of stiff bushes. The shrill call of a spotted owl pierced the heavy silence.
Borten stepped forward and assumed a middle guard, hands firmly on the hilt of Kel’Barú.
“Perhaps we should warn Corey…” Eolyn’s words stalled as the mist was set into motion, swirling in a small vortex that coalesced into a ghost-white beast.
The moment the Naether Demon took shape, it sprang upon Eolyn.
Lunging into its path, Borten swung low and sliced through the luminous flesh. Black maw contorted in an anguished howl, the demon stumbled backwards and then charged again, ripping open Borten’s leg with an ebony claw.
Ehekaht, faeom dumae!
The thunder from Eolyn’s staff threw Borten and the beast apart. Borten recovered and drove Kel’Barú into the demon’s torso. As it fell, a second demon sprang out of the shadows and pummeled Eolyn into the ground, knocking the staff from her grip.
Ehekaht,
she gasped.
Soeh mae.
A desperate spell invoked on instinct, but it worked. A ward sprang up. The demon raged over Eolyn like a winter storm, claws tearing at the magic shield, maw yawning like the abyss of the Underworld.
Eolyn strained against the force of its hunger, uncertain how long her power would hold. Just as she thought the ward would fail, an ancient curse thundered through her awareness.
Saenau
Revoerit
Nefau
A wave of nausea consumed her. Darkness swallowed the light. The creature tumbled away as if toward a precipice, dragging Eolyn with it. Claws tore at her skirt and then slipped away.
The forest came back into focus. Eolyn found herself on her knees, struggling to regain her breath. Borten was helping her to her feet.
Corey held her staff in both hands, aiming the crystal head at the demon as it retreated. A dark cloud flowed from the crystal, barreling toward the beasts and cloaking them in shadow. They cowered together and beat the air, filling the night with agonized howls.
“Eolyn!” Corey’s neck was strained with the force of his effort. “I need a white flame!”
Recovering her focus, Eolyn summoned the purest fire known to Dragon.
Ehekaht. Aenthe rehoert.
A shaft of light crackled from the maga’s palm and hammered into the demons, igniting them in cobalt flames. Corey and Eolyn sustained their magic as long as they could, drawing on the power of the forest. At last the demons crumpled beneath their combined fire.
“Enough,” Corey said, weariness in his voice. “It is enough.”
Eolyn released her spell. Borten strode forward with Kel’Barú, severed the demons’ heads and began to hack their bodies to pieces.
Sweat beaded Corey’s brow. He put his hand on Eolyn’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She fought to steady the tremor in her voice. “I’m winded, that’s all. Where is Mariel?”
The girl appeared and flung her arms around Eolyn. They clung to each other, Mariel weeping, Eolyn murmuring words of relief and comfort.
Corey stepped forward and squatted next to the chunks of glowing flesh left by Kel’Barú. He passed his hand over them as if studying coals in a fading fire. Vapor rose from the remains.
“As cold as ice,” he said in wonder. Then he stood and examined Borten’s arm and leg, both drenched with blood.
“It is nothing,” the knight said.
“Right you are again,” Corey replied. “Remarkably.”
“Corey, please.” Eolyn extracted herself from Mariel’s hold. “Must you be so disagreeable even now?”
“Disagreeable?” Corey arched his brow. “All I meant is that monsters of this sort, fresh from the Underworld, might carry dark magic that could seep into the simplest of wounds and kill a man. We wouldn’t want Borten to suffer a miserable death from poisoning by Naether Demons, would we?”
Eolyn accompanied Borten to a nearby fallen trunk. The knight sat down while she tore back the bloodied fabric that covered his wounds.
“Patience, Eolyn,” Corey said. “The man is still weary from battle.”
Eolyn ignored the mage. The claws had slashed deep into Borten’s flesh, but there was no sign of dark magic. The flow of blood was already beginning to slow.
“Mariel, bring a flask of water, would you?” Eolyn opened her medicine belt and set aside willow, arnica and foxes’ clote. “I must find more herbs in the morning. This is all I have, and the dressing will need to be changed every day.”
Borten put his fingers under Eolyn’s chin and lifted her face to his. “I can collect my own herbs, Eolyn, and dress my own wounds. You have the means to escape, and you should do so now. Every moment you remain here is a wager against your own death.”
“It is only another day’s ride,” she said. “Then I will fly to Selkynsen, and Mariel can—”
“What if those creatures reappear tonight? What if they come in ever greater numbers?” Borten’s tone was impatient, bordering on angry. “What if the Syrnte find us tomorrow?”
Eolyn accepted the flask of water from Mariel and began washing Borten’s wound with more vigor than necessary. “I have made my decision. I do not wish to speak about it any further.”
“Eolyn.” Corey’s voice cut sternly between them. “Stand up, would you? And step away from the knight.”
“Oh, for the love of the Gods, Corey!” She sat back on her heels. “Don’t you start with me as well.”
“I am not trying to intercede in your lover’s quarrel. Stand up, I say. Now.”
The severity of his tone sparked renewed fear, and Eolyn obeyed.
Mariel backed away a few steps, a cautious look on her face.
Borten watched Corey with a wary gaze while fingering the hilt of Kel’Barú.
The mage approached Eolyn, eyes focused not on her person, but on her aura.
“What is that?” He reached out to touch the ethereal colors that defined her spirit. “That shadow…It was not there before. It looks as if someone has punched a hole in your life force.”
His words trailed off. The mage turned back to the slain Naether Demons, now no more than a loose collection of glowing puddles that diminished even as they watched.
“And the shadow fades as our attackers disappear from this world.” He paused and frowned. “Did this happen to you last time they attacked?”
“How am I to know, Corey? I cannot see my own aura.”
“Yes, of course. But the Naether Demons can. They see it from their realm and follow it like moths to a flame, or wolves to the feast. Driven by hunger toward a power that can at last break open their prison of a thousand years.”
Eolyn shook her head. "You are speaking nonsense, Corey. My aura holds nothing that would not have been offered by any maga or mage in all the centuries since the Naether Demons were banished. Indeed, your magic is stronger than mine, and therefore more attractive to them, by the same argument.”
“My magic is not stronger than yours, but even if it were, that is not the point. They don’t just see you Eolyn. They are using you as a portal.”
Eolyn caught her breath. Her hand went instinctively to the silver web at the base of her throat.
“What does he mean?” Mariel’s voice shook
“Any place where souls were torn from their bodies through violence offers the Naether Demons a path into our world,” Eolyn said. “During the Battle of Aerunden, my soul was torn from my body and cast into the Underworld. Akmael restored me to life, but the breach between this world and theirs remains. It follows me wherever I go.”
“No.” Borten shook his head. “That does not make sense. It’s been years since Tzeremond cast that curse. If what you are saying is true, they would have come long ago.”
“They have not had assistance until now,” Corey said. “The Syrnte are feeding them magic, and with each meal they grow stronger.”
For several moments, no spoke.
Then Borten drew a decisive breath, rose, and strapped Kel’Barú around Eolyn’s waist.
“Borten, what are you doing?” she asked.
He took hold of the silver chain, lifted it over her head, and pressed the medallion into her palm. “Go to the King. Place yourself under his protection. There is nothing more we can do for you here.”
“But I can’t—”
“He is right, Eolyn,” Corey said. “The safest place for you is in the City, with Akmael and all his mages.”
“If I return now, I would be taking this danger into the heart of the Fortress of Vortingen.”
“We cannot be certain of that,” Corey said. “The ability of these beasts to find you may be tied to the proximity of the Syrnte. But even if it weren’t, you are not the only one who carries this burden. Akmael also descended to the realm of the dead. The Naether Demons may be stalking him even as we speak.”
Cold terror took hold of Eolyn.
Borten set heavy hands on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. “If the King is taken unawares, if he is slain, we are ruined. He has no heir. Moisehén will collapse into civil war, and all the Syrnte will have to do is wait until we’ve ravaged our own fields and destroyed our own people, before claiming what little remains.”
Eolyn broke away from him. “I know, Borten! Do you think I cannot see what this means? That I do not fear for our King and our people? My heart weighs so heavy, I can hardly bear it. I understand I must go back. It’s just that I…”
Her voice faltered. The memory of Borten’s kiss returned fresh as a summer breeze, painful as a twisting knife.
“I want everything to be different,” she whispered.
Borten’s expression softened. He studied her with sadness in his eyes.
“I would have a word alone with Maga Eolyn,” he said.
Much to Eolyn’s relief, Corey gave no disparaging remark or scowl of displeasure.
“Come, Mariel,” was all the mage said. “Say farewell to your tutor.”
Mariel was biting her lip and blinking back tears. She flung her arms around Eolyn. “Tell me we will see each other again. Tell me no harm will come to you.”
“Remember what I’ve taught you, Mariel,” Eolyn said, for she would not make false promises in uncertain times. “Do as Borten asks. If the year should pass and I have not returned, petition for your staff in the spring.”
“Maga Eolyn, don’t—”
“You are a maga in the tradition of Aithne and Caradoc. Dragon will look after you, and give you a tutor.”
Tears streamed down Mariel’s cheeks while Eolyn kissed her forehead.
Mage Corey placed a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“When you arrive at the City,” he said, “you must seek out High Mage Thelyn. Ask him to show you the royal library, and to take you to Tzeremond’s quarters.”
“Tzeremond’s quarters?” Even now, the mere mention of that wizard’s name could make Eolyn’s heart skip a beat. “Why?”
“He had a collection of books, ancient and precious. Annals of women’s magic, works handwritten by the great wizards, magical secrets gathered from distant places. We know this library is hidden somewhere in his chambers, but we have never been able to decipher the ward. You must find the entrance, Eolyn. Instinct assures me there are weapons within that can be used against the Naether Demons.”
She nodded. “I will do my best, Mage Corey.”
“I dare say your best might save this kingdom.” Corey’s expression was a rare mix of sympathy and admiration. He paused before adding, “There is one more thing I would ask of you. Leave your staff with me.”
Eolyn hesitated. Doyenne Ghemena had once told her never to entrust her staff to another mage. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Borten’s sword will not help us if the Naether Demons should reappear, and the Syrnte have their own magic. I can do much without a staff, but it will be better for us if I have one.”
Eolyn looked to Borten, but he only shrugged. “It is your decision, Eolyn. I do not know the implications of leaving your staff behind.”
Reluctantly, Eolyn retrieved the staff from where it lay. Despite her uncertainty, she would go with greater peace of mind if they had this instrument to protect them.
She proffered the polished oak to Corey, who set both hands upon its smooth surface. They stood for a moment, eyes locked on each other and staff held between them, while their magic met and resonated in a low hum.