Free Eolyn by Karin Rita Gastreich Page B

back to Moisehén.”
    The fire accepted the note, curling and tarnishing its edges until the wish burst into a small white flame that faded quickly to red.
    Sitting back, Eolyn wrapped herself in a coarse blanket and huddled next to Ghemena. They would keep vigil in front of the hearth all night, drinking hot berry wine, sharing stories, and singing songs as the sun made its perilous journey back from the Underworld on Midwinter’s Eve.
    “Ghemena, why have you never told me about the war?”
    The old maga stiffened. “I have spoken often of the war.”
    “You’ve told me bits and pieces, but mostly you talk about everything except the war. You’ve told me how Aithne and Caradoc discovered High Magic and how Caedmon became the first mage warrior. You’ve told me about the invasion of the Thunder People and the Foundation of Vortingen. I know how the Old Orders came to be, and I’ve learned the legends of the Clan of East Selen. I know about the banishment of the Naether Demons and the magic of Syrnte witches. You’ve even told me about the fire wizards of Galia, whom I’m sure I will never meet, but you’ve never really talked about the war that destroyed our sisters.”
    Ghemena closed her eyes. She had grown thin this past year, and the lines on her face had deepened. When she looked again at Eolyn, it was through a misty gaze. “Why do you ask this of me now?”
    Eolyn shivered and drew the blanket tighter about her shoulders. “I fear that my own future may hold war. I had a dream of smoke and fire, and of bodies scattered across a blackened plain. Achim was there, covered in soot and blood. A great ivory sword came down upon him, and then he was gone.”
    Ghemena clucked her tongue. “That was only a dream.”
    “What if it was a vision?”
    “Divination is a reckless form of magic. You should not give yourself over to it.”
    “You use your cards,” Eolyn countered.
    “I resort to those Syrnte toys because I’ve no one else to consult when making decisions.” Ghemena’s voice was bitter and thick with emotion. “In the old days, the cards were nothing more than an entertaining relic. I spoke with real people when choosing my path, companions and mentors who did not allow my hopes and fears to cloud my judgement.”
    “Then talk to me, Ghemena,” Eolyn said. “If you’d rather I listen to a person than to my dreams, tell me about the war. Maybe if you explain to me what happened and how, I will have the wisdom to choose another path when my time comes.”
    Ghemena narrowed her eyes and turned her gaze back to the fire. “We cannot stop war. We can only run from it. Run and hide.”
    Eolyn’s throat tightened. “Surely you don’t believe that, Ghemena? You’ve always told me that magas have a choice.”
    After a long moment, the old maga gave a weary shake of her head. “Pay me no mind, Eolyn. A long time ago, I saw my world go up in flames. Now sometimes I rant without reason. It is true what you say: A maga’s life is never bound to a single path, not even in war. I will tell you the story you want to hear, but first you must refill my wine.”
    Ghemena had a gift for making hot berry and primrose wine. Eolyn loved the way its sweet aroma stung her senses whenever she poured a glass. She also served a thick slice of nut bread for each of them before snuggling back into the warmth of her blanket.
    “The conflict that dragged us into war began around the time I was appointed Abbess of Berlingen,” Ghemena said. “One of the Aekelahrs of the Old Orders—a place of learning led by Master Tzeremond—accepted a prince of the line of Vortingen as a student of magic. This decision violated an important prohibition. Mixing magical power with royal power was considered dangerous. It meant too much dominion in the hands of one family. The Old Orders understood this, and the prohibition against royalty practicing magic was respected by all generations of the House of Vortingen, until the