“It was not widely known. Feroden thought he would never be called to wear the Crown of Vortingen. He traveled far outside Moisehén and eventually reached my homeland, where he became enamored of our way of life and won Tamara’s hand in marriage. Then word arrived that his second brother had perished and the Crown awaited him. Feroden did not wish to leave the Syrnte. But his loyalty to the bloodline of his fathers prevailed. He knew his younger brother could not assume the crown, having chosen the life of a mage. He offered Tamara the opportunity to divorce him with honor and remain with her people, but Tamara would hear nothing of it. She vowed to accompany Feroden to the end of her days, and found her vow fulfilled much sooner than anticipated.”
“What do you mean?”
“Feroden’s caravan was attacked on the way to Moisehén. No one was spared, and the many generous gifts of my father were plundered. It was only through the good grace of a forester who happened upon the scene afterwards that my sister’s remains were returned to our family. My father cursed the instigators of this crime and vowed before the Gods of our land that our family would avenge it.”
“And you are bound to carry out his oath? You couldn’t have seen more than a few summers when all this came to pass.”
“It is our way. Years later, Rishona received a vision in which she saw the perpetrator of this disgrace, the man who gave the orders to murder Feroden and all who accompanied him.”
“The Mage King?”
“No. Kedehen had no knowledge of the plot to take his brother’s life. It was Master Tzeremond who dispatched the assassins.”
“Tzeremond.” The name fell from her lips in a soft hiss.
Eolyn turned away from Tahmir and drifted to a young oak at the edge of the stream. She laid a hand upon the rough bark and stared into crystalline waters running over smooth pebbles. “Always Tzeremond. And you would kill King Akmael to get to him?”
“I will do what I must do.”
Eolyn’s heart sank under the revelation of this circle of vengeance, marked while one man was a boy and the other not yet born. “How the threads of the past have come together, only to cast shadows on the future. What does your Syrnte awareness tell you now, Tahmir? What direction must I take from here?”
“You know I will not answer that question.”
“Tahmir, I can’t…” Her voice trailed off in confusion. She looked to him for help, but Tahmir’s expression was firm, impassive.
How little I know of him
, she realized.
How very little he had allowed her to see.
Eolyn sank to the ground, supporting herself against the solid weight of the young oak. “I can’t.”
What was it she could not do? Touch Tahmir as she had before? Seek the warmth of his company under the midnight moon? Drink the wine of his pleasure with the same abandon? Stop loving him altogether? She did not know, for she could not see beyond this moment, in which the fabric that once bound them was being torn asunder.
Tahmir approached and knelt beside her. He pulled her into his warmth. He caressed her face with tender kisses. His hands traced the curves of her body, reviving memories of pleasures they had discovered in each other’s arms.
But Eolyn could not respond. The river of her passion had run dry.
With a quiet sigh he relented, wrapping his arms around her and simply holding her close.
“You need not give up all your dreams, my love,” he murmured. “You must only discard the illusions that no longer serve you.”
C
hapter Thirty
Akmael had not seen Tzeremond
dedicate such zeal to a task since he destroyed the last belongings of Queen Briana. His mages ravaged the camp abandoned by the Circle, but found no remnant of the maga’s passing—no comb, no veil or purse that could be connected to her. The Master set his best diviners to work with the finest seeing wells, but no trace of the witch was revealed. Thick branches of fir were imbued with the power of flight, facilitating prolonged forays over the landscape by the High Mages, but to no avail. Middle Mages were instructed to question the plants and animals, the rivers and stones, but everything responded with silence.
When Sir Drostan informed Akmael that Tzeremond’s rage had spilled over into renewed purges, the King openly rebuked the wizard for the first time. Their impassioned disagreement played out in front of the Council, providing Akmael a useful opportunity to gauge the loyalties of the High Mages. The court physician Rezlyn, the diplomat Tzetobar, Sir Drostan, and Thelyn refrained from falling in line behind Tzeremond. Of these, only Drostan inspired Akmael’s complete trust.
In the end, Tzeremond yielded to the King’s will, but the damage was already done. Wearied by the reign of Kedehen and disheartened by the violence under their new King, the people of Moisehén simmered in discontent. Akmael hoped to quiet their fury and avoid an outright rebellion by securing Eolyn in the coming weeks. If they were not appeased by seeing her at his side, at least he could use her power to subdue them.
In either case, he intended to find her before Tzeremond. Of late, the wizard’s prudence was too easily blinded by dogmatic wrath. Akmael feared for Eolyn’s safety, should she fall first into Tzeremond’s hands.
It was late at night, and more than half a moon had passed since Bel-Aethne, when Akmael retreated to his chambers and retrieved the silver web from its hiding place. Not more than a year before, he had nearly destroyed the gift of his mother, enraged because it had failed him. Instead of carrying him back to the South Woods and Eolyn, the medallion had flung him across the provinces of the kingdom, landing him in a dozen small villages, none of which bore any sign of his childhood friend.
Akmael now believed Eolyn’s ward must have deflected the seeking power of the web, causing him to miss her in space and time. Perhaps with some minor interventions, the problem could be fixed.
He set the jewel on a polished oak table, next to the ceremonial mask he had confiscated from Eolyn when they had brought her to him as a prisoner. The silver web sparkled under the flickering light of the torches, and the folds of her mask seemed to waver with the shadows. After a careful search, Akmael found what he sought: a coppery strand of Eolyn’s hair, glowing with magic and still bearing traces of her exquisite aroma.
With a quiet invocation to Dragon, he wove the hair into the heirloom of his mother, snaking it tightly through the intricate mesh. When he finished, a sudden white glow flashed through the medallion, fusing the strand of hair to the web and rendering it indistinguishable from the other threads.
Satisfied, Akmael stood and lifted the circle by its silver chain. He drew a breath and began a new incantation, one he had worked meticulously by integrating the lullaby of his mother with a spell designed to separate the seam of a maga’s ward.
Ehekahtu
Elaeom enem, eleaom enem
Sepoenem fae
Elaeom enem, elaeom enem
Renoenem mae
Ehukae
As he repeated the verse, the stone walls melted around him and soft loam rose to his feet.
The web had taken him to a forest, ancient in aspect though different from the South Woods. The pale light of the new moon filtered through the canopy. A breeze shifted restless against the trees. He thought he could feel Eolyn’s essence on the wind, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Disappointed though not deterred, Akmael lifted the medallion to try again. Just as he spun the web to begin his invocation, a soft rustle in the underbrush detained him. Eolyn appeared a few paces away in the shape of Wolf, her true identity betrayed by the full spectrum of her magnificent aura.
Akmael caught his breath. The Gods must have favored him, for she did not detect his scent. Stepping into the clearing, she searched the leaf litter with her snout, her awareness focused on some favored smell emanating from the damp earth. Her coarse gray fur blended into the shadows. The faint moonlight glinted against her black eyes. She continued oblivious to him, until in a sudden shift of attention, she paused and looked up. She sniffed at the air, and her muscles tensed. Her ears turned in Akmael’s direction.
Then she growled and bolted into the forest.
Calling upon the shape of Wolf, Akmael charged after her.
Eolyn hurtled through the bushes, managing with nimble turns a rough terrain unknown to Akmael. Branches caught at his fur and scratched his snout. Tangled roots threatened to trip his paws. More than once, Eolyn gained enough distance to lose sight of her, yet Akmael kept tight upon her scent and did not give up.
His muscles began to burn. His tongue hung limp from his jowls. Panting hot clouds into the air, he pushed his limbs to move faster.
Without warning, the undergrowth disappeared. Akmael skidded into a small clearing. The she-wolf paced a confused circle in front of him, her whimpers soft and high pitched. A steep wall of rock had cut her flight short. Upon sensing Akmael, she swung around to confront him and bared her fangs in a vicious snarl.
They stalked each other, heads low and tails ominously still, quiet growls and sharp barks building in a tense duet. Eolyn sprang first, striking Akmael’s shoulders and digging her claws deep into his fur. Her teeth sought his neck. Akmael twisted his throat out of reach, forcing his snout underneath her muzzle and leaving her snapping at his ears instead. Again he ducked his head, barely avoiding the tear of her canines.
He had never seen Eolyn so intent on drawing blood. Wedging his paws up through her hold, he pushed against her muzzle and spread his claws over her face. With a sharp yelp, Eolyn stumbled back, breaking their grapple. Recovering her balance, she lunged low, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Just as her jaws snapped shut, Akmael reared up on his hind legs, leaving nothing for her to take hold of. Coming down upon her back, he caught the nape of her neck with razor sharp teeth and forced her decisively to the ground.
Eolyn went very still, though her muscles remained rigid. After several moments she tried to shift her position, scooting a few inches along the ground. He tightened his grip with a low growl, sending a clear signal that the strength of his muzzle could break her neck.
Again she paused. He felt her pulse against his jowls, rapid and strong. The intensity of their conflict had left her fur warm and damp at the roots. Her rich musk rose about him in waves, saturating his senses to the point of dizziness. His loins tightened with need. Every instinct of Wolf was urging him to claim her, right then and there.
Was such a thing possible?
Did the mages and magas of old partake in the pleasure of the Gods even when they shape shifted?
Eolyn’s muzzle sank between her paws. Her ears twitched and she whimpered quietly. Her pulse slowed. The tension drained out of her haunches and into the midnight earth.
Interpreting this as a sign of submission, Akmael loosened his hold and stepped away.
In an instant, Eolyn rose to her feet, resumed her human form, and kicked him full in the stomach. The force of her strike surprised Akmael. He hit the ground with a yelp, and the shape of Wolf deserted him. His hand went instinctively to where the blow burned against his side.
“You have lost nothing of your strength and skill,” he said, “but don’t you think that move was a little unfair?”
“You lied to me!” she shot back.
Akmael could not help but smile. “I did not lie.”
“You said—”
“It is not what I said.” Akmael pushed himself to his feet, feeling the sting of the scratches she had left. She had given an excellent chase and a worthy fight. He was lucky his ears were still intact. “It is what I did not
say—what I never told you—that has infuriated you.”
“All those times you tried to talk me out of studying magic when you knew someday you would be King and with a wave of your…” She moved her hands through the air as if searching for the proper word. “Your
scepter
you could bring down the laws of this land and create new ones!”
“It is not that simple.”
“Of course it’s that simple!”
“I am a mage, not a seer. I had no way of knowing under what circumstances your abilities would come to light. My father would have suffered little debate in sending you to the pyre. Indeed, they would have transformed you to ashes before I knew you had been apprehended. Even if I did hear of your arrest, I could not have impeded the course of events. As a prince, my will counted for nothing.”
“Well, as King, it counts for everything.”
“The power of the Crown is inextricably bound to Tzeremond’s Order. This is the legacy I inherited from my father. It could take years for me to unravel.”
“So you were impotent then and you are impotent now.”
“That is not what I said.”
“I don’t believe you Akmael! How do you expect me to believe a word you say after what you tried to do to me in the city?”
Akmael hesitated. He could not deny the hunger he had felt, the dark intentions that had risen in his heart. “I am sorry, Eolyn. You must understand; I have lived all my life in a place where shadows were confused with light, and light with shadows. I misinterpreted what I felt when I saw you. I was a student of Tzeremond. How else could I have reacted in the presence of a woman of your power?”
“Did you do the same to the girl they brought you on the third night of Bel-Aethne?” she countered. “Did you strike terror in her heart before forcing her into your bed?”
“No.” He had cast a temporary illusion over that girl, giving her red hair and earth brown eyes. But she had been no substitute for his Eolyn. “It was not like that.”
Eolyn lunged at Akmael, hand raised to strike him. He caught her wrist in a vice-like grip that gave pause to her fury. In the silence that followed, Akmael measured the heat under Eolyn’s skin, the rhythm of her pulse, the condensation of her breath against the cool night air.
“Eolyn.” He did not bother to hide the note of surprised hope in his voice. “Are you jealous?”
She wrenched free of his hold. “Your magic is a disgrace! You have allowed your abilities to be twisted to foul ends. Dragon did not grant us these powers to invoke fear or take advantage of those weaker than ourselves. And our festivals are meant to celebrate the heritage of Moisehén, not to reinforce your authority, much less your sexual prowess.”
“That may be the case, but your question about the third night of Bel-Aethne…It did not arise out of concern for the proper interpretation and practice of magic. Did it?”
Eolyn lifted her chin. “There is no place for jealousy in a maga’s heart.”
Akmael caught her lips in his. In an instant the spark granted to them as adolescents was reignited. He wrapped his arms around her, inhaling her honey and wood aroma, intertwining his fingers in her silky hair, exploring every delicate contour of her face and throat. The force of his passion pushed her back against the raw trunk of a large tree. His hands traveled insatiable over the landscape of her body, at once familiar and new.
A broken sob escaped her lips, followed by a soft moan. She sought his kisses and drank with abandon. Her breasts rose toward his touch, straining against the confines of her tunic. Akmael wanted nothing more than to tear through that thin fabric, to bind her to him in intimacy and release himself inside her earthy heat.
His lips came to rest against her forehead, his breath hot upon her skin. He could hear the blood rushing through her veins. She remained quiet in his embrace, her breath deep and steady, her aspect one of uneasy resignation.
“If you truly remember our childhood friendship with fondness,” she murmured, “you will release me from this spell you have cast.”
“There is no magic in Moisehén that can invoke this.” She had to acknowledge that in this much, he spoke the truth. The mages of Moisehén had recognized long ago the impotence of their magic in matters of the heart. “Spells of passion and desire are the domain of the Gods, to be crafted only by them. This feeling that binds our hearts is their gift. To deny it would be an insult.”
“Then how do you propose we accept it?”
He lifted her face to his. “Come back with me.”
“As your prisoner?”
“As my Queen.”
Sadness filled her aura. “Don’t you see, Akmael? It’s the same thing.”
He released her and stepped away.
“Corey told me how your mother lived,” Eolyn continued, “how she died. Confined to the East Tower, locked behind doors sealed by magic. Was it to keep her in, or to keep Tzeremond out?”
“My father cared for his Queen. He never allowed any harm to come to her. It was a maga who killed her in the end, not the Mage King, or the wizard whom you so detest.”
Eolyn stiffened and cast her gaze toward the forest, arms folded tight across her chest. “He would have destroyed her, if the maga had not come. And he destroyed what he could afterwards. Corey said Tzeremond burned everything she left behind, that none of her magic survived.”