Even as doubt crowded his thoughts, the Underworld responded. Faded faces emerged on the edge of his awareness and flowed past him. Akmael recognized the River of Hunger, of which Tyrendel had spoken. The dead were rushing toward a soul bearing light. Perhaps that soul was Eolyn’s. Caught between hope and anxiety, Akmael let their impulse carry him forward, floating in their midst, his spirit as still as a midwinter night.
A pale star came into focus at the center of a vortex created by the Lost Souls. Akmael recognized Eolyn’s aura, though much of the color had already bled out of it. He beat back the urgency that crept into his heart, for fear any strong emotion would be noticed as a sign of the living.
Amorphous tentacles of hunger had trapped her, but she broke free, dragged herself away from the frenzied mass, and vanished. The vortex lurched after her, sucking Akmael into its core. He crashed into the place where she had disappeared. An obsidian barrier shattered under the impact of his living spirit.
Just beyond his reach she cowered, her face pale, her eyes wide inside darkened hollows.
Eolyn,
he called.
She backed away, stumbled, and fled.
A hungry murmur spread through the Lost Souls, like a violet shadow creeping across the evening sky. They had recognized his living soul, a fount that could satiate their hunger like no other.
Blinding them with a shaft of light, Akmael took off after Eolyn. Her diminished strength was no match for his speed. He descended upon her and invoked a ward to halt her retreat.
No!
She pounded her fists against the invisible wall.
Ghemena, help me! For the love of the Gods!
He reached out to calm her, but she scuttled away, convulsing in panic. Akmael steadied his spirit.
Eolyn
.
Another seizure took hold of her. Trepidation weighed down his heart. She responded as if he were some creature of the Underworld, a Lost Soul or worse, a Naether Demon.
Eolyn, I am Akmael, High Mage and King of Moisehén. I have come to help you. See me now.
It was no use. The confusion of that desolate place had ensnared her. Like a caged animal, Eolyn flung herself against the confines of the ward. When they did not give, she wilted, her soul inundated with sorrow, her flame all but spent. Akmael’s hope faltered. His own magic would soon fail. He could not bring her back if she did not overcome her terror and recognize him.
Behind him the vortex resumed its shape. The dead were returning. There was precious little time left. He spied the tether crafted by Tzeremond and grasped it with his spirit. If he could not recover her whole, perhaps he could break the cord and push her over to the other side.
He had known it might come to this, and yet he hesitated. To set her free would diminish his power and terminate any hope of returning to his own body. Nor could he follow her, as he had tethered his spirit to the world of the living before descending. A prisoner of the Underworld, he would perish here, becoming one of the Lost Souls, or worse.
It is the only way.
He pulled the glowing thread taught. The thought of letting her go, this time forever, rent through him, hollowing out his soul and shattering his heart. Retrieving one of the pulsing shards, he set its sharp edge against the tether.
Ehekahtu
Naeom denae daum
Erenahm rehoernem ekaht
Behnaum enem
Ehukae Ehekahtu
Magic flowed into the blade. Light sparked as he set the shard upon its mark.
Akmael
.
Her voice stayed his hand.
Eolyn rose up and touched him, her spirit warm against the frigid night.
It’s you.
The dead paused in their approach.
A sapphire flame ignited between them. From what source, Akmael could not fathom. He watched, mesmerized, as Eolyn caught the dancing light in her tapered fingers. The Underworld trembled and the dead retreated while Eolyn coaxed the flame into a scarlet and purple blaze. Her aura ignited in blinding colors, wrapping Akmael in brilliance. A fountain of light escaped them, rushing into the black sky and rupturing the vault of the Underworld. Illumination flooded the landscape. The Lost Souls screamed and fled.
Eolyn faltered, as if overwhelmed by her own power. The vault began to close, heralding the return of the endless night. Akmael caught Eolyn and drew her close. Binding her spirit to his, he commanded the trees to pull them out.
Air rushed harsh into Akmael’s lungs as the vines released him.
Eolyn struggled to her knees, only to be overcome by a hacking cough. She vomited fine white ice that melted into the sun-warmed earth. Sweat broke out upon her skin, and she shivered uncontrollably. Instinctively, she sought the heat of his embrace.
“Akmael,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “What have you done? The dead are not to be brought back.”
“You were not dead.”
“The battle…”
“It is over.”
“My brother.” Her choked sob ended in a fit of coughing.
He hushed her and cradled her in his arms. “He is alive.”
“I saw you kill him.”
“I wanted to slay him.” His voice was grim with the implications of the task he had left undone. With any luck, one of his men had finished it. “I should have. But I could not do it because of you.”
Her breath steadied, and her fingers drifted to his face. She traced the line of his brow, his nose, his lips. “Akmael, are my eyes open?”
“Yes.”
“The world is covered in shadows. I cannot see you.”
“Your sight will return.” He spoke with more confidence then he felt. Blindness was one of many prices that could be paid for venturing into the Underworld. He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Rest, Eolyn. You are safe and cared for.”
Placing his palm upon her forehead, he invoked an ancient spell of East Selen, one of the first taught to him by Briana. In an instant she fell asleep, releasing her limbs to his embrace. He gathered her in his arms and picked her up off the ground.
The Valley of Aerunden was quiet, battle cries and clashes of metal replaced by the moans of the wounded and dying. A handful of his men had gathered on the ridge. Covered with blood, dirt, and sweat, they stood waiting for his next command.
Tzeremond remained huddled on his knees, his hands now secured behind his back, Drostan’s blade steady at his throat.
A rush of footsteps behind Akmael broke the quiet. Drostan cried out a warning. Akmael heard the crude sound of metal ripping through mail and flesh. He turned just in time to see Ernan collapse at his feet. The rebel leader’s fine ivory sword fell from his grasp. A pool of blood spread quickly from beneath his body.
A soldier with thin blond hair withdrew his weapon from the corpse and knelt.
“Forgive me, my Lord King,” he stammered, “for drawing my sword at your back. He intended to kill you.”
It was Borten, the young man who had slain Akmael’s father. With a mixture of relief and misgiving, Akmael looked from Borten to Ernan’s corpse.
It is done, then
.
Already he could hear Eolyn’s lament. She could forgive him many things, he knew, but this she would never pardon. “Rise, Sir Borten.”
The young man obeyed, sheathing his sword.
He is a knight to have at your side,
Akmael’s father had said. And so he was. “It seems you have proven yourself worthy for the King’s service.”
“My Lord King.” He bowed again.
Akmael could tell from Borten’s expression how much the words moved him. “Take my horse, and deliver the maga safely to High Mage Rezlyn. Tell him she has returned from
Ahmad-dur
. He is to ensure that she recuperates in full. I will have no one else attend to her. And stay with her, Borten, until I arrive.”
Borten nodded. Akmael entrusted Eolyn’s exhausted body to him.
As the knight departed, fatigue overtook Akmael. Every muscle ached. His cuts stung and his bruises had begun to throb. He felt drained of strength and magic. Thank the Gods the battle had ended, and ended in his favor.
Bending down, he retrieved Ernan’s sword. Corey had spoken of this weapon, a work of Galian wizards. In truth it was finer than he imagined.
Eolyn
, it sang, sad and mournful.
Send me with Eolyn.
He tested its balance and ran his fingers along the length of the blade. “We’ll see about that, my friend. I’ve a mind to keep you for myself.”
Tzeremond’s high-pitched wail broke through Akmael’s thoughts. A bolt had penetrated the wizard’s torso.
A woman emerged from the forest—Syrnte, judging by her coloring. In an instant, three of Akmael’s men were upon her, forcing a crossbow out of her grip. She struggled against their hold even as they drove her to her knees.
Achme talam nu!
she cried.
Bechnem ahraht neme, Salahm machne du!
The arrow in Tzeremond’s chest ignited. The air filled with his agonized cries and the acrid stench of burning flesh.
One of the knights buffeted her across the face.
Mechahne!
she wailed, tears and blood streaming down her cheeks.
Mechahne achnam!
Talam nu ahram! Tzeremond!
A muffled scream sounded from the heart of the mountain. A tremor passed through the earth. Akmael gripped his sword as a menacing shadow bloomed underneath the wizard. Tzeremond’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell lifeless to the ground. As quickly as it had appeared, the dark stain upon the grass melted away.
The woman went limp and sank to the earth.
“Forgive me,” she sobbed. “Mother, Father, forgive me…Death was not enough for him. It was not enough to for me.”
C
hapter Forty-Three
Shadows dissipated into a thin gray mist
. Eolyn opened her eyes and saw a large room with stone walls and a vacant fireplace. Light from tall windows illuminated fresh rushes spread over a smooth floor. There was a long table laid out with herbs, tinctures, and candles bearing the scent of lemon grass, primrose, and sage. Warm linen sheets and summer blankets enveloped her. A familiar presence took shape at her bedside.
“Corey.” She drew a careful breath into aching lungs. “It’s good to see you again.”
He started at her voice and looked up from a tome spread open on his lap. A smile filled his face, and his silver-green eyes sparked with relief. “It is good to know you can see.”
He leaned forward to help arrange pillows as she pushed herself up to sit. She felt groggy, her muscles stiff and slow to move. “How long have I slept?”
“Seven days and seven nights, including the time it took to bring you here.”
“Where is here?”
“The King’s City. You came around occasionally to take infusions, but even then you were only half awake.”
“I heard your voice when the wraiths appeared.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to push away vestiges of terrible dreams that flickered like shadows on the edge of her awareness.
“I called you out of your nightmares,” Corey said, “but I did not bring you back from the world of the dead. Do you remember what happened, Eolyn?”
“I think so.” She took another breath, unsettled by the prickly feel of air against her ribs. “Where is Akmael?”
“Attending to the duties of a King, I imagine. I can send him word, if you like.”
Eolyn shook her head. She was not ready for that. Not yet. “And Ernan?”
Corey averted his eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line.
At once Eolyn understood. Black spots hampered her vision. The room wavered.
“Your brother is dead, Eolyn,” Corey said quietly.
“That’s not possible! Akmael assured me he had been spared.”
“After you returned to the world of the living, Ernan attacked the King. He was struck down by one of Akmael’s men-at-arms.”
Eolyn sank back against the pillows, stunned. “It can’t be.”
Only a few weeks had passed since she had found him, this boy resurrected from the dead and transformed into a warrior. A stranger who shared her blood and swore no harm would come to her while he lived. Now, the knights of Vortingen had taken him away forever, just as they had her father. Her eyes burned with tears. “Akmael lied. He lied to me. Again.”
“The King did not deceive you, Eolyn. Ernan was alive when you asked for him.”
She pinned Corey with a hard gaze. “Ernan was my brother, and Akmael let him die.”
“He hardly had a choice.”
“He
always
had a choice!” That Corey would defend the Mage King appalled her. “He had a choice. In everything.”
Corey frowned. He rose and prepared a mild infusion of chamomile and mint, warming the cup with a quiet spell.
Eolyn accepted the tea with shaking hands. “Why has he brought me here? Am I his prisoner now?”
His Briana?
“No. No maga will ever be held inside these walls against her will. At least, not under this King.”
The mist cleared. Everything came into sharper focus. Eolyn studied Corey as a sick feeling spread through her stomach.
“The distance between you and Akmael has been bridged,” she realized. “He is your cousin once more.”
“I have had ample time to reflect on the circumstances of our past, and several opportunities to speak about the future with our King.”
“Was this before or after you became party to Ernan’s rebellion?”
If her bitter challenge surprised him, Corey did not show it.
“I will not ask you to understand,” he said, “much less pardon me. I did what any mage must do to survive in this world. I made the decisions I thought best under the circumstances.”
“And the others whom you betrayed, Corey? What happened to them?”
“I do not know the fates of most.” His voice was grave but steady. “The only one they captured alive was Rishona. She killed Tzeremond, with an arrow through the heart and a nasty Syrnte spell. She summoned a Naether Demon to receive him in the Underworld.”
“A Naether Demon?” The very word inspired terror. Eolyn had confronted one of them during her own descent, limbs long and glowing, claws slashing at her like obsidian knives. Insatiable hunger had flowed from its gaping eyes.
Or had it? From one moment to the next, the creature was gone, and there was only Akmael. She shook her head in confusion. Everything felt like a dream now, an illusion that sprang out of nothing.
“I thought no one could communicate with the Naether Demons,” she said, “that their banishment put an end to all contact with the living world.”
“Apparently the Syrnte have found a way.” Corey did not appear pleased by the prospect. “But the curse left her bedridden, and I suspect it will go badly for her the day those creatures demand recompense.”
Eolyn furrowed her brow. It seemed unthinkable to condemn anyone, even that old wizard, to such a malevolent end. What could have driven Rishona to employ such dark magic? Eolyn set her tea aside. “I want to see her.”
“You cannot.” The words were spoken quietly, but they felt like a slap in the face. “Rishona has been taken to Selkynsen, where she will be held until a Syrnte delegation arrives with a suitable ransom.”
“Ransom?”
Corey shrugged. “Akmael thought to execute her at first, but given that Syrnte ambitions make them prone to war upon any excuse, we thought it best not to force hostilities.”
“And Tahmir?” She dreaded the answer, but she had to know.
“No one has seen him since Aerunden. Rishona believes he is dead.”
“I knew it,” Eolyn whispered. “I felt something…in the battle.”
Corey’s expression softened. He left his chair and sat next to her on the bed. “I have burdened you with too much in the first moments of your awakening.”
“All of my friends are gone. All of them, slain or scattered.”
Corey took her hand gently. “Not all.”
He drew back the loose fabric of her sleeve until his fingers came to rest on the intertwining images of Dragon wrapped around her arm. The intimacy unnerved her. She tried to pull away, but he held firm.
“We must speak about this,” he said.
Eolyn averted her eyes, her body tense as a viper ready to strike.
“Akmael gave it to you, did he not?” Corey asked.
Angered, she wrested her hand from his grip and pulled her sleeve over the jewel with force. “
Achim
gave it to me. After I met Akmael, I tried to remove it with as many spells as I could invent, but it has not budged. I will find a way, though. I will not be bound to him or his murderous line of kings!”
“Did the jewel stir upon your skin during the months we spent in East Selen?”
“Tahmir told you about that?”
“Surely you do not still believe he was my spy?”
Corey’s tone was calm and unflinching, and under his steady gaze the fire of her anger wavered.
What is the use of resisting anymore?
The rebellion had ended. Ernan and Tahmir lay dead. Her friends were banished. If she was not a prisoner now, they could declare her one whenever it pleased them. What difference would it make anymore, to conceal the truth?
“On Midwinter’s Eve,” she murmured. “At the foot of the Old Fir. It spoke with the tree of your ancestors, though they used a dialect I could not understand.”
He nodded. “I am glad to hear it. The jewel is an heirloom of our Clan. Queen Briana entrusted it to her son before she died, though she did not tell him its meaning. And it does bind you to Akmael, although not in the way, perhaps, that you fear. It binds you to me, as well. It binds you to the entire clan of East Selen.”
He paused a moment before adding, “All two of us, as it were.”
“I don’t understand.”
“East Selen is not a clan of the blood,” Corey said, “at least not entirely. If it were, we would be no different from the royals, plagued as they are by rivalries and intrigues, by the denial of love and passion, by betrayal and—”
“You haven’t avoided any of that.”
Mage Corey let go a sigh and retreated to his chair. “This period in which you have come to know us has not been the brightest in our history.”
“So you understood the meaning of this jewel from the first time you saw it?”
“It is your invitation. The armband clings to you in silence because you have not yet made your choice. Should you accept, it will stay with you forever, reinforcing your magic and protecting you as one of our own.”
“And if I decline?”
“It will return to the roots of the Old Fir from whence it came, until a new invitation is made to another.”
“Then I decline.” Eolyn pulled up her sleeve and spoke fiercely to the silver band. “I do not wish to be a part of it. Any of it. I decline!”
The jewel remained motionless against her arm.
After a moment, Corey cleared his throat. “It would appear she is not convinced of the conviction behind your words.”
Eolyn cried out and drove her fist into the bed cushions. She wanted to fling herself upon Corey and claw out his eyes, but she did not have the strength. “Why do you do this? You betrayed my brother. You delivered me to Ernan
knowing
I would inspire him to march to his doom. Our friends are scattered and dead because of you, and still you insist on dragging me into your games. Why won’t you just
let me be
?”
Corey remained still as a serpent on a sun-warmed rock. She was reminded of the first time they met, of the last time they embraced. What a strange bond the Gods had granted them, that this sense of mutual understanding should persist despite the many deceptions that marked their relationship.
When at last the mage spoke, his voice was subdued. “I hold on to you, Eolyn, because you give me hope.”