Free Eolyn by Karin Rita Gastreich

the specter of the battered girl from Selkynsen loomed in his mind. The smell of her burning flesh returned to his memory.
    “How do you survive here the winter through?” he asked. “What do you do for food and warmth?”
    “We always greet the season with plenty of supplies. What we can’t grow in the garden or harvest from the woods is brought to us by a forester named Varyl. He comes only twice a year, but he brings everything we need. The South Woods has always been kind to Ghemena and me. I do not fear winter. I love its crystal breath and the starkness of its colors.” Eolyn paused in her gait to expose the blade of the sword. She held it to her ear. “I bet this sword will have a different song in winter. I bet she will ring like the ice.”
    Akmael smiled and took the weapon from her hands. He coaxed a hum from its blade with a few idle slices through the air.
    “She will sing only for you if you keep flattering her like that,” he said. “Why is your tutor so opposed to you learning the sword? All the magas of her time understood the arts of war.”
    “That’s not true! Only a small number of magas have ever been warriors, even during the last great conflict in which they all perished.”
    Akmael let out a breath of disapproval. So many lies the hag was telling her!
    “Ghemena was not part of the warrior class,” Eolyn continued. “She never condoned war, not even when the magas rose up against Kedehen. She supported the magas because they were her sisters, but she has no tolerance for war. She believes anyone who learns to speak with the sword will die by it.”
    “Better to die on a blade than on the pyre.” The King’s men weighed the honor of one death against another without a second thought, but Akmael could tell by the look on Eolyn’s face that she did not find his comment amusing.
    “I don’t understand how magic can be applied to warfare,” she said. “Magic should be used to create not to destroy. And in war one always has to destroy. How is it possible for a mage to become warrior?”
    “It is easy enough.” Akmael balanced the sword in his grip. “You learn the arts of war and then you learn the arts of magic. Then a mage warrior like Sir Drostan teaches you how to integrate the two. For example…”
    Advancing toward a nearby tree, Akmael evoked a soft hissing ring from the blade. He ran up the trunk vertically while deflecting the advances of an imaginary enemy and returned to the ground in a short flight.
    “Tricks like that give you a great advantage over your opponent. You can also alter the path of flying objects.”
    He threw the sword toward the trunk of young pine, willing it to swerve before driving solidly into the target.
    “A skilled warrior mage detects the fears of his enemy and turns them to his advantage.” Akmael strode over to the pine to retrieve the weapon. “A warrior mage trained in High Magic can use his staff to invoke a death charge.”
    His words stopped short when he turned back to Eolyn.
    She stood deathly still amidst the falling leaves, her feet pressed tight upon the earth, her eyes wide and frightened. All the color had drained from her face.
    “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
    “Are you going to be one of them?” she whispered.
    “One of whom?”
    “Are you going to be a Rider for the King?”
    “No. No, Eolyn. The Riders are not mages. They’re just knights.”
    “They destroyed my family, you know. And my village. I only escaped because I happened to be in the woods that day. That’s how I came to be here with Ghemena.”
    A chill took hold of Akmael. The trees creaked in a passing breeze and then stood silent.
    “There must have been traitors there,” Akmael said. “The King only sends his Riders to villages that harbor traitors.”
    “There were no traitors where we lived, only farmers.”
    Frost spread over the forest floor, painting fallen leaves misty white.
    “Children can’t be traitors,” Eolyn said,