CHAPTER THREE

EVERYTHING QUEEN BRIANA crafted in her life was destroyed on the twelfth night after her death. King Kedehen forbade his son Akmael from attending the rite, but the boy found a nearby corridor with a narrow window from which he could spy on the vigil. At sunset the High Mages assembled as Master Tzeremond cast a circle in a castle courtyard. All of the Queen’s belongings were laid inside on a large stack of firewood: dark velvet dresses and fine linen undergarments, ribbons that had bound her thick black hair, jewels that adorned her pale throat, embroidered slippers, curtains from her apartments, tapestries, even the bed sheets. On top of these were placed countless objects of magical intent, her medicine belt and multiple potted herbs, a large box of fine colored crystals, a store of carefully gathered and separated spider silks, a shallow silver dish she might have used as a seeing tool, collections of furs and insects, glass vials filled with mysterious liquids, a few remaining books, her ebony staff. No detail escaped unnoticed. When the task was finished, Master Tzeremond raised his commanding voice.

Ehekahtu.
Naeom ehaen avignaes, reohoert.
Faeom dumae ehekaht daum.
Ukahe.

The High Mages took up the chant, Akmael’s father included. Though Kedehen’s face remained hidden in the shadows, Akmael imagined his father’s countenance as solid and dispassionate as the stone foundation upon which their castle rested. Only in the presence of the Queen had Kedehen’s hard black eyes occasionally softened. Long ago the Prince learned that this was not so much a sign of affection, as it was an expression of his father’s unfulfilled desire to feel affection.

Master Tzeremond stood on the north side of the circle. Despite his many years, Tzeremond’s carriage remained tall and his aspect striking. Close cropped, charcoal gray hair and a pointed beard framed his gaunt features. Raising his rowan staff, he sent a blinding shaft of orange light from the palm of his hand into the heart of the Queen’s belongings. The pyre ignited in an instant, converting what was left of Akmael’s mother into floating wisps of ash. The acrid smoke reached the Prince’s hiding place, stinging his eyes and throat. He fought to control the rise of bile from his stomach. It was as if he were witnessing the murder of his mother all over again, except these assassins were bent on terminating the very essence of her existence. Akmael could see Master Tzeremond’s keen amber eyes illuminated by the yellow flames. The wizard smiled as if the Queen’s death were somehow his personal triumph.

Only two items escaped the pyre that night, both of them secure in Akmael’s possession. One was an amulet woven with threads of silver silk, the other an armband etched with images of Dragon. The Queen had instructed Akmael not to wear the armband until he began his study of High Magic, so he kept it well hidden in his chambers. The silver web, however, he wore from the day he received it with the singular devotion of a loving son.

Months passed following the Queen’s death and the destruction of her belongings before Master Tzeremond caught sight of the jewel at the boy’s collar. Interrupting Akmael’s morning lessons, the wizard grabbed the medallion and tried to yank it from the boy’s neck. The fine silver chain held strong. Akmael bit his tutor’s hand, kicked him in the shin and darted into the castle interior.

Not long afterwards, the Prince received a summons from the King. Knowing he would be punished for disrespecting the wizard, Akmael stalked down the winding halls that led to his father’s chambers. He paid no mind to the guards that saluted him or to the servants that bowed and scurried out of his way. All he cared about was his mother’s meager inheritance, which he was prepared to defend at any cost. When he arrived, he found King Kedehen seated at the long table where he often met with his Council. Next to him stood Master Tzeremond and Sir Drostan.

“Show me the medallion, Akmael.” Kedehen’s tone was sharp and his expression severe. He watched Akmael with intense eyes set in a war-hardened face. His chestnut brown hair had not yet grayed, and his beard was short and well kept. Akmael admired his father’s imposing build and forceful presence. It was said Kedehen was the greatest warrior yet born to the line of Vortingen. Someday Akmael would be like his father, respected and feared by all the people of Moisehén. But until then, he was bound by duty to obey.

Akmael approached and drew out the silver web, though he did not remove it from his neck. Made of tiny quartz crystals woven into the shiny silk of a Dark Moon Orb Weaver, the medallion fit in the palm of the boy’s hand. As Kedehen took the delicate jewel in his strong fingers his expression changed, a subtle softening around the eyes that Akmael had not seen since before the death of his mother. “What kind of magic did you say this is, Master Tzeremond?”

“I do not know, my Lord King. I have searched for its image in our records but have not found it anywhere. I recognize the Queen’s handiwork though. The object was crafted by her.”

“Indeed,” the King murmured, turning the web carefully over in his hand. “When did your mother give this to you, Akmael?”

“On my tenth birthday. Almost a year before she died.”

“Did she tell you how to use it? Any spells, chants or rites that came with the gift?”

“No, Sir,” the boy answered truthfully. “Just this and the silver chain. That is all.”

“Drostan,” Kedehen called to his best knight. “You knew the Magas better than any of us. Come have a look at this object and tell me what you think.”

A mage warrior trained under the masters of the Old Orders, Sir Drostan had served the King faithfully in the great war against the Magas. Now he sat on the Council of High Mages and tutored Prince Akmael in the arts of war. Akmael was a tall boy, but Sir Drostan towered over him as he bent to examine the web. His jaw worked beneath his thick red beard, and the faint smell of sweat and leather rose from his body. After a moment he straightened and stepped away. “I have not seen anything like it, my Lord King. Not among any of the Magas I knew, not at any time during the last days of the Old Orders.”

Kedehen nodded. “Then you may keep the gift, Akmael.”

Akmael could hardly believe his luck. Was it really going to be that simple?

“My Lord King—” the wizard objected.

“It is but a jewel, Master Tzeremond,” the King reasoned. “It will do the Prince no harm. Even if it did have some hidden power, I cannot believe the Queen would sabotage her son’s glory from the grave. You know what she sacrificed to bear him. You understand the choice she made.”

“I respect your faith in her intentions, my Lord King, but I cannot share your confidence. She was a witch after all, and a true daughter of East Selen.”

“Yes.” Kedehen set one solid hand on his son’s shoulder. “And thanks to her, the legacy of East Selen is now mine. If this object so concerns you, Master Tzeremond, then continue searching your records. Should you find evidence the medallion contains subversive magic, advise me and we will take the necessary actions. Akmael, you are free to go.”

The Prince was sorely tempted to shoot a look of triumph at Master Tzeremond, but his father had already condoned one act of insolence, and Akmael dared not risk another. Not yet, anyway. He thanked the King, tucked the medallion back into its hiding place and took his leave. If the old wizard set his mages to the task of discovering the meaning of the silver web, their work must have borne little fruit, for Akmael was not threatened with its confiscation again.

Three more years passed while the jewel lay quiet against Akmael’s heart, until one night he woke up fighting for his breath and clutching at his mother’s gift. Another variation on the same nightmare had driven him out of his sleep, the appearance of the maga warrior, the death charge from her staff, his mother taking the impact. This time the King’s Riders had risen from the Queen’s corpse and chased Akmael across smoldering fields until he lost himself in a forest so black he could neither see nor breathe. He had escaped from the dream gasping, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Pushing back the thick covers of his bed, he slipped into the cool air and passed barefoot through the shadows of his room to a large window overlooking the city. A waxing moon hung heavy in the night sky and illuminated the broad expanse of slate rooftops below. The thick panes of glass responded to his warm breath with a misty glow.

He had long since lost count of the number of times this nightmare visited him. Each variation played out a little different from the last, but all of them began with the same terrible event, the death of his mother. During his lessons Master Tzeremond always returned to this story as a concrete example of the treacherous hearts of the Magas. “So incapable of loyalty are they that they would kill their own sisters. This is one of the many reasons we no longer allow women to learn the arts of High Magic.”

Akmael fumed inside every time Master Tzeremond talked about her death. The wizard had not witnessed the event and always mixed up the facts. He claimed the maga warrior was the sworn enemy of the Queen. Yet Akmael’s mother greeted the red haired witch with affection, receiving her as an equal even though she arrived dressed like a servant. It was Akmael’s presence that turned the warmth of their initial embrace into discord. It was his resemblance to the Mage King that ignited the maga warrior’s deadly fury.

“You know the implications of pouring the blood of East Selen into the line of Vortingen!” the stranger berated the Queen. “This boy’s power will be unstoppable!”

But the maga warrior must have been wrong, for an unstoppable power would have prevented what happened next. An unstoppable power would have neutralized the death charge that flew from the Maga’s staff toward Akmael. An unstoppable power would have kept his mother from flinging her body into its path. An unstoppable power would have brought the Queen back from the dead.

His heart heavy from the memory, Akmael lifted the silver chain off his neck. He held the amulet against the moonlight that streamed through the window and flicked the edge of the ring, causing the web to spin on its axis. Each tiny crystal came to sparkling life. The image relaxed him, dispelling the shadows that had pursued him out of his nightmares. A melody rose like a thin mist in his mind, a lullaby of his mother’s that often returned to him in uncertain moments. He had never sung this particular chant while spinning the amulet in this manner, however, and as the words of the lullaby took shape on his lips, the stone walls around him melted into a completely different world.

Caught by surprise, Akmael ceased his song. Only the tenuous light of the moon had followed him from the castle, and now it filtered down through a thick forest canopy. Water rushed past him in a small river littered with large boulders painted in the ghost white colors of the night. Somewhere close by an owl called, followed by the throaty chorus of a large pack of wolves.

Pressing himself into the shadows of the nearest tree, he held the amulet up in a shaft of moonlight to have a closer look. Thrilled by the power of the object, he was nonetheless immediately preoccupied with the question of how to get back to his room.

Perhaps it was a simple spell, he thought. Spinning the amulet away from him had brought him here. Maybe if he spun the amulet toward him while singing the same song, it would take him home. He tried this and it worked. The forest melted away and the solid stone walls of his room returned.

It did have magic! Akmael’s heart filled with excitement and he wrapped his fingers tight around the treasure. It was a transporting device!

But what had determined his destination? Could he control where he went and when? Did it have to be done by the light of the moon or could it work by day?

Overcome with curiosity the boy lifted the silver web to invoke its spell again, but caution stayed his hand. The web had taken him to a dark and unfamiliar forest where wolves wandered dangerously close. After a moment of careful thought Akmael decided to wait until the next day, when he could explore the potential of the device under the full light of the sun. He could take food with him, and a weapon perhaps, and a proper cloak in case his return were delayed.

Securing the gift around his neck once more, Akmael slipped back under the thick covers where the pleasure of his discovery kept him warm and without nightmares until dawn. For the first time since he began his apprenticeship with Master Tzeremond, the Mage Prince had discovered a piece of magic over which the wizard had no control.




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