Akmael unsheathed Kel’Barú
, allowing its long silver blade to capture the vermilion glow of the rising sun. Wind filled cliffs and crevices with dark whispers of troubling dreams. Far below, the Tarba River roared through a narrow canyon along which the Pass of Aerunden had been cut, a rough road wending precariously over steep descents, fit for mules, but most unaccommodating to his royal procession.

“My Lord King.” Sir Drostan approached and paused at a respectful distance. “Our preparations are complete. We depart at your command.”

Akmael nodded. Though massive in frame, Drostan had begun to show his age in the lines around his eyes. Silver streaked his red beard.

“What do you know of this place?” Akmael asked. “Of the people who built it?”

They had camped among the foundations of an old fortress. Dense brambles smothered intersecting trails of stone. A single tower leaned precipitously toward the gorge below, the keystone of its arched doorway weakened by a fracture through the heart.

“Judging by the workmanship, I would say the tower was built by the early Kings of Vortingen, perhaps during the conquest of Moehn,” Drostan said. “Or before that, even, in the great battles against the People of Thunder. Whatever its history, it has long since been forgotten.”

The gusts picked up, and Kel’Barú responded with an unusual hum, a bright tone layered over its typically mournful cadence.

Eolyn
, it murmured.
Eolyn, Eolyn, Eolyn.

Drostan raised his brow. “It would seem the sword knows its destiny.”

Akmael frowned and shook his head. For years, he had tried to divine Kel’Barú’s song without success. He had never encountered a weapon like this, a sword he could not understand. “Even a mage cannot see into the future. How then can a weapon? No, I do not believe Kel’Barú suspects our destination. It only repeats Eolyn’s name, as it has from the moment they were separated.”

Like an echo of my own heart
.

“Maga Eolyn will not want this sword,” Drostan said quietly.

“It was her brother’s weapon.”

“That is why.”

“This is the only sword that has ever spoken to her,” Akmael said. “It belongs with Eolyn, though I have long tried to convince it otherwise.”

“Maga Eolyn has no interest in tools of death. Even if she did, this is a Galian sword, infused with strange wizardry. Such weapons have no place in our traditions. They are unpredictable. Suspect. Leaving it with the maga could invoke dangers unknown.”

Akmael sheathed the weapon. He had thought through this matter at length and would not be dissuaded. “This sword is her inheritance. What to do with it will be her decision.”

They walked down the slope to a milling party of robed ladies, armored knights, and attentive servants. The banners of Vortingen snapped overhead, silver dragons dancing against a purple night. In their midst, Queen Taesara waited, pale and slender as a summer lily. She greeted Akmael with a gracious smile and deep curtsey. Together, they mounted their horses and spurred the procession forward, descending from Faelon’s Ridge onto the high, wind-swept plains of Moehn.

Three days they rode through rough-hewn landscapes. The villages were mere clusters of earthen homes, the people humble in dress and aspect. Cultivated fields seemed haphazardly thrown across the rolling hills. Wheat and lentils grew among scattered saplings, as if in constant battle against an ever-encroaching forest. Deer grazed amidst the sheep. Pigs and chickens ran across the road, squawking and squealing. Dogs snapped at the horses. Barefoot children stared, wide-eyed and bold, at the passing royals.

Taesara wrinkled her nose. “This is an unkempt place. Half-wild and most unwelcoming.”

Her displeasure distracted Akmael from his thoughts, which had drifted, once again, to Eolyn.

“There is a certain beauty to it.” Akmael responded more out of courtesy than a real desire to engage Taesara in conversation. “An unrestrained spirit, reminiscent of East Selen.”

“It is ragged,” she replied. “And dirty.”

He looked at his young queen, her small chin held high, her wheat-colored hair tucked under a delicate veil and jeweled cap.

Noticing his stare, Taesara offered Akmael a thin smile.

He said nothing and looked away.

At last the Town of Moehn appeared, crouched low over brooding hills. Horns sounded from the ramparts, and Akmael’s trumpets responded in kind.

A crowd gathered outside the gates, commoners mixing freely with nobility. Children threw wildflowers. Peasants sang and danced in circles. The reception was heartfelt, if improvised. As Akmael and his retinue approached the dilapidated towers, Lord Felton, a portly old man with a white beard, separated from the crowd.

“Gods be praised!” Felton cried, sustaining his weight on a sturdy cane. “Our Lord King has arrived! Long live the King! Long live King Akmael!”

The people repeated Felton’s call, and Akmael dismounted to greet them. Felton embraced the king heartily, unable to contain his excitement. Generations had passed since a King of Moisehén had visited the humble province of Moehn.

The patriarch called his family forward and presented them to Akmael one by one. As Felton’s list of relatives lengthened into nieces, nephews, and grandchildren, Akmael was distracted by a movement in the crowd, like a sliver of light slipping through the forest canopy.

Eolyn.

His heart leapt as she came into view.

The maga had changed little in the years since they last saw each other. Dark red curls tumbled over her shoulders, a refreshing display of sensuality among so many caps and veils. Her burgundy gown accentuated the fine curve of her breasts; a sash embroidered with emerald leaves adorned her waist. She held a staff of polished oak and water crystal. A smile spread through her dark eyes when they met his, an open expression of joy and friendship.

“My Lord King.” Queen Taesara touched his elbow, her voice a shade unsteady.

Akmael turned as if awakened from a dream.

Despite Taesara’s regal bearing, the wear of their journey showed in her stiff shoulders and drawn face. She signaled her lady-in-waiting, Sonia, who brought forward Princess Eliasara. The Queen took the rosy-cheeked baby, and Akmael presented them to Lord Felton and his family.

As they fussed over Eliasara’s beauty and good health, Akmael stole another glance toward Eolyn, but the maga had already disappeared. To Akmael’s disappointment, she did not arrive at Felton’s table for the evening meal. He considered asking after her, but decided it better to hold his peace.

I’ve waited three long years to see her again. I can wait one more night
.

* * *

“They’re coming!” Ghemena burst through the kitchen door, ash-brown hair disheveled and eyes bright with excitement.

Renate caught the girl firmly by the arm, a fierce scowl on her hawk-nosed face. “Child! Can you not remain presentable for at least one hour on this one day?”

Ghemena grimaced as Renate yanked her locks out of their tattered braids and began combing through the tangles.

“I saw them,” the girl said. “Twenty-five riders under the King’s banner. Sir Borten had me count them all!”

Activity around the hearth halted. Everyone turned an expectant gaze toward Eolyn.

The maga caught her breath. Preparation for this moment had been unrelenting, a constant stream of work and activity from dawn until dusk. Her muscles were sore, her thoughts strained. A dull ache had settled between her brows and inside her heart..

If only I had a little more time
.

She shook off the thought and wiped her hands on her apron. “Very well. We are done here, for the moment.”

Eolyn’s students darted out in a flurry of giggles and excitement. Maga Renate left on their heels with sharp rebukes and calls to order. Adiana paused in the doorway, watching them go as she pinned her flaxen hair into a loose knot.

“Are you ready for this?” The musician from Selkynsen set her clear blue eyes on Eolyn.

Eolyn forced a smile as she refreshed her face with cool water. “As ready as I can be.”

They hastened to join Renate and the girls beside a young fir at the center of the
Aekelahr
. Sir Borten and the guards gathered nearby. Just as they finished assembling, the Mage King rode through the open gateway, the royal guard assuming formation around him. Eolyn recognize Sir Drostan, his carriage still imposing despite his many years. Lord Felton accompanied them, plump face flushed over his thick white beard.

Eolyn steadied her pulse and stepped forward. She went over words of welcome in her head, hopeful the demands of protocol would conceal the turmoil she felt inside.

Akmael dismounted and strode toward her, stopping abruptly at arms length.

A faint tremor shook Eolyn’s heart, like the ring of crystal in the instant before it breaks. Everything she had planned, the welcome, the introductions, the formal greetings for all his men, fled under his dark gaze.

She glanced away, embarassed. “My Lord King.”

Akmael made no reply.

He had changed little these past few years. A neatly trimmed beard marked his square jaw. Wind sifted through his black hair, inspiring visions of the South Woods: the song of the river, the whisper of trees, the heat of the sun rising off Lynx’s ridge. His aroma of polished stone and timeless magic filled Eolyn with nostalgia, and for the briefest of moments, she saw in him the boy she once knew, the one who had played by the river in a time when innocence and magic were all that mattered.

Akmael’s stony expression softened.

Eolyn lifted a hand to touch his cheek.

“Where’s the Queen?” Ghemena shoved herself between them, shattering the moment. She thrust a bouquet of wildflowers into Akmael’s face. “I was supposed to give these to her. Where is she?”

“Ghemena, hush!” Eolyn pulled the child back, upset not so much by Ghemena’s impertinence as by the fact that she herself had not noticed Taesara’s absence. “You must not address the King so.”

“But where is she?”

“Our Queen is indisposed, Lady Ghemena.” Akmael bent on one knee to speak with the girl. “But you may entrust me with the gift you have prepared for her.”

Ghemena assessed him with a wary gaze, a scowl on her face. “I’m not a lady.”

“Ghemena!” Eolyn scolded, but Akmael was smiling. It was rare to see him smile, or at least, it had been in times past.

“Then what shall I call you?” the Mage King asked. “Maga Ghemena?”

“Yes, that’s right!” Ghemena’s expression brightened. “Except, I’m not a maga. Not yet. But I will be someday. And it’s much better to be a maga than a lady. That’s what Mistress Adiana says. She says magas are glorious and ladies are
impsipid
. Mistress Adiana says Maga Eolyn could have been a lady once, but she refused because she knew better!”

Stunned by this unbidden reference to her past, Eolyn looked to Renate, who shot a furious glance at Adiana, who simply rolled her eyes and shrugged.

Akmael lost his smile.

Years ago, when Eolyn had refused to marry him, Akmael’s fury had been unbearable. She had hoped by now his anger had faded, imagined it so, given all his support for her coven. But she could not be certain, and this was not the moment she wished to find out.

“Mistress Adiana has a unique perspective on the past,” he said. “Come then, Maga Ghemena. Tell us what you have prepared for our Queen.”

It was a fragrant bouquet, carefully crafted for long life and fertility. The girl pointed out each herb and explained its properties. Clove, ginger, and summer savory to bring passion to Taesara’s nights. Chamomile and lady’s mantle to preserve her beauty; juniper and rosemary to protect her children. And at the center, a long stem of purple carorose, that she might soon be granted a son.

“But it won’t work now,” Ghemena grumbled, “because I was supposed to give it to her, and teach her the spells besides.”

“I will see she receives your present,” Akmael assured her, “and that she knows how to use it.”

The Mage King stood.

Eolyn responded to his expectant stance with an invitation to see the grounds.

Renate and Adiana ushered the girls back to the kitchen, while Sir Borten accompanied Eolyn and the King.

They walked through lush gardens and past humble buildings. Eolyn pointed out the library, the herbarium, the stables and the guards’ quarters, the latter built on the opposite end of the
Aekelahr
from where the women and the girls slept.

As they approached the half-built wall, Akmael and Borten fell into a lengthy conversation over the state of that modest fortification. The wall had been a thorn in Eolyn’s side from the day Akmael ordered it built.
Indeed, she had written the King on countless occasions, urging him to rescind his command. Yet all her objections had been ignored, and now her beloved coven was being enclosed in stone.

A maga’s home must be open to the wind, else how can she feel the call of her Gods?

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