Crown of Crystal Flame

by C. L. Wilson

  But the Mages were greatly mistaken if they believed Nour’s limitations had lessened Vadim’s ability to hold on to power. He was still Vadim Maur, the greatest High Mage in the history of Eld. He was the High Mage who had engineered his own Tairen Soul after centuries of breeding and experimentation.

  And soon… very soon… he would claim that Tairen Soul and bring her back to Eld to serve as the host vessel for his next incarnation. He’d feared her lost when she fled to Elvia and slipped beyond his reach—but now she was back. Though she was still somehow blocking him from her dreams, the great, vast, dark potential of her drew his senses like a lodestone. Her closeness brought his magic simmering to the surface, sending tiny sparks of dark power coursing through his veins until his whole body tingled with electric anticipation.

  When the new moons rose over Dark Night, the thirteenth of Seledos, it would be Vadim Maur, Tairen Soul, who sat cradled in the hands of Seledorn, god of darkness, and the world would cower before his greatness.

  “My Mages!” he cried to the thousands assembled in the vast cavern of Boura Fell’s throne room. Blue-robed Primages had gathered closest to the throne, followed by red-robed Sulimages. Several dozen select saffron-robed Apprentices and even a handful of promising green-clad Novices had been granted permission to squeeze in to the nooks and crannies at the back of the cavern. “My Mages, long have we dwelled here in the darkness, recovering from the devastation of Demyan Raz’s lost Wars. Long have we toiled in secret, patiently rebuilding our numbers, silently growing strong again—even stronger than we were before.

  “Many of you had barely donned Novice green when Rain Tairen Soul scorched the world. You do not remember a time when Eld was a power to be reckoned with, when Mages walked freely aboveground, and the lesser beings of this world sought our counsel and good favor.”

  He let his gaze pass slowly round the chamber, resting longest on the older Mages—both those who had been his supporters and, more importantly, those who had not. “The eldest among you remember what it was like to be a Mage in the Council of Demyan Raz. He was blinded by his own ambitions. He underestimated the power of the Tairen Souls. I have not.”

  He watched the faces of those he least trusted for some flickering look, some smirk to betray their true feelings, but he found nothing. Not because they trusted him; he wasn’t fool enough to think that. No, they were simply skilled adversaries, well versed at hiding their thoughts and pretending loyalty.

  “Some of you were with me that day when Lord Death—the Fey warrior who had never once tasted defeat in over two thousand years—threw down his swords and surrendered to me without a fight. So, too, will I conquer Rain Tairen Soul, and the Fading Lands will soon follow.”

  He saw the heads beginning to nod, as those who had been with him remembered his daring plan and their triumphant return to Eld with Lord Death and his mate in tow. Experienced Primages long into their fifth incarnations had sneered at the young Primage Vadim, dismissing his idea as ridiculous nonsense. Those Mages, who had trembled when Lord Death stepped onto a battlefield, thought it impossible that such a great and fearless warrior could be taken alive—let alone brought to heel in such a simple way. And yet he had, and Lord Death’s capture had catapulted Vadim high into the ranks of the Mage Council and ultimately earned him the coveted purple of Eld’s highest office.

  He was the youngest High Mage ever to sit on Eld’s throne. And if several of the older, more hidebound Primages who’d opposed his appointment had ended up mysteriously dead in the process, well, they’d served as a cautionary tale. Such was the price of progress in the Magedom of Eld.

  “We tested the strength of the Fey at Teleon and Orest, and found them far more vulnerable than we thought.” He pinned his gaze on the Mage he suspected of fomenting most of the dissension currently rippling through the Council’s ranks. “Their numbers are few, their allies fewer. If not for the tairen, both cities would belong to the Empire of Eld. Best of all, our use of the chemar proved a resounding success.”

  The real victory of Orest and Teleon, though, was that Ellysetta Baristani had left the safety and protection of the Fading Lands. With his four Marks upon her breast, it was only a matter of time before he completed the claiming of her soul. First, however, he had a kingdom to conquer… and a trap for a Tairen Soul to set.

  “Now the armies of Celieria are divided, their mortal allies still weeks away. They and the Fey are ripe for the plucking. The victory I have long promised you is upon us.” Vadim rose from the throne and spread his arms wide. “At last, my Mages, we are ready to reclaim our rightful place in the world. At last, the time has come to unleash the full might of Eld and seize first Celieria, then the world for the glory of Seledorn, God of Shadows!”

  Celieria ~ Kreppes

  The night was deep. Alone in his bed, dark but for the light of the waning moons shining in through the windowpanes, Dervas Sebourne lay sleeping. Still, unmoving, more statue than man. Outside, the bell tower of Kreppes rang the first small silver bell of the night, and that sound heralded the arrival of the first day of winter, and the first day of Seledos.

  Lord Sebourne’s eyes opened.

  It was time.

  He rose quietly and dressed in silence, with slow deliberation. Leather trousers, boots, no chain mail, the sun-and-moons pendant he’d worn all week. A leather vest lined with steel plate was his only armor—nothing to alert the King’s Guard of his intent.

  He donned the same weapons he’d worn since receiving the king’s pardon: a sword sheathed at his left hip, a long dagger sheathed at his right. But just in case someone needed a quick silencing, he strapped on two small wrist-bows, each loaded with a poison dart and covered by the wide cuffs of his surcoat.

  He slipped a vial of extra darts for the wristbows into his surcoat pocket before slipping out of his bedroom and closing the door noiselessly behind him.

  * * *

  None of the soldiers standing guard in the hallways paid Dervas much mind as he walked out of the east wing into the courtyard. They were used to the folk in this castle taking midnight strolls along the battlements. The week of waiting for war to begin had worn the nerves of even the staunchest soldier.

  He made his way towards the shadowy cleft between the fortress and the inner wall that surrounded it. Six of his personal escort, armed as he was, were waiting.

  “The others?” he asked in a toneless whisper.

  “Dispatched to their locations, my lord,” his captain replied. The other six men of his guard had their own tasks to perform this night.

  “Then it is time.”

  They entered the central building where the king was housed. When the battle began, the wide stone floor would be carpeted in rows of sleeping men at night. But for now, all the troops that did not fit in the overflowing barracks spent their nights in one of the encampments outside the fortress walls.

  In the otherwise empty hall, six King’s Guard stood on duty. Two near the hallway leading to the east wing, two by the hallway to the west, and another two at the top of the stairs. All six watched Sebourne and his men with unblinking eyes as they entered.

  “You two, come with me,” Lord Sebourne said to his men in a carrying voice. “The rest of you stay here. I won’t be but a few chimes.”

  Leaving four of his guard to wait in the main hall, he and the other two jogged up the stone steps to the second level and the hallway that led to the king’s chambers.

  The four guards downstairs sat on a table near the guards on the right of the room. Three of Sebourne’s men started a game of toss blade with a sheathed dagger—an old Celierian warrior’s game fashioned after the Fey Cha Baruk, the Dance of Knives. The fourth man started an easy conversation with the closest guards.

  “I don’t know about you two, but I’m starting to wish the flaming Eld would just attack already,” he said. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since we got here.”

  A clatter made both the guards and Lord Sebourne’s m
an glance around to find two of Sebourne’s fellows chasing after the sheathed dagger, which had skittered across the hall towards the other two King’s Guard.

  “Vern, you dorn!” one of Sebourne’s men complained in a loud whisper. “You’re the flaming worst at this game. You can’t throw worth a damn.” The two reached the fallen dagger the same time Lord Sebourne reached the top of the stair.

  “I can throw better than you can catch!” The man called Vern raised his voice on the last word.

  Lord Sebourne and his men sprang into action. The two men on the right of the hall sprang towards the two King’s Guard guarding the eastern corridor. The two chasing the dagger went for the west hall guards. Lord Sebourne and his two companions lunged for the pair at the top of the stairs. Daggers flew. Blades slashed. With their throats slit and chests pierced, the six King’s Guard died in a swift, near-soundless instant.

  Sebourne and his two companions headed down the now-unguarded second-floor corridor while his other four men quickly dragged the limp corpses of the King’s Guard into an empty chamber.

  Dorian sat at the small camp desk he’d unpacked and set up in his bedchamber. He would have used the larger desk in the adjoining chamber, but his valet, Marten, was sleeping on the chaise in there.

  “Just think of me like a faithful hound, guarding his master’s door,” Marten had said with a smile when Dorian objected. Had there been a dressing room, Marten would have slept there on a cot, as he did in Celieria City; but Kreppes was an ancient castle, built for war, not fashionable living, and it lacked many of the amenities of newer abodes.

  Dorian sanded the damp ink of his third letter to Annoura in as many days. She hadn’t answered him yet. Though some part of him had hoped she would, another part hadn’t really expected her to. Still, in the small bells of the night, when he couldn’t sleep, it comforted him to write to her, to pour out his heart to her as he so often had in their many years together, to imagine her face softening in a smile as she read his tender words.

  When the ink was dry, he folded the letter and lit a stick of Celierian blue sealing wax off the flame of his candle lamp, holding it over the folded flap. As the drops of melted wax splashed on the folded vellum, forming a small pool of Celierian blue, he heard the bedroom door open.

  “I’m sorry if I woke you, Marten,” he said without looking up. He pressed his letter seal into the pool of wax and held it for a moment to let the impression set. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You didn’t.” The voice didn’t belong to Marten.

  Dorian’s head whipped around. “Sebourne? What are you doing—” His words cut off abruptly. His hands clapped to his throat, found the small dart, plucked it free. Poison. Potent and fast-acting. Already his muscles were failing, and he couldn’t seem to take a breath.

  “Avenging my son,” Sebourne hissed. He stared into his king’s stunned and disbelieving eyes and rammed his sword home, driving the blade up underneath Dorian’s ribs to pierce his heart. “Your kingdom belongs to Eld now. Before this week is out, your son will be as dead as mine. Your wife and the child she carries will be servants of the High Mage, and I will be Lord Governor of Celieria, the newest province in the Empire of Eld.”

  Cannevar Barrial knew he should sleep. His body was aching. His eyes were raw and bleary. He would be no use to the king or the allies if the enemy struck when he was too tired to lift a blade. He knew that, but except for a few chimes of restless dozing, true, restful sleep had eluded him all night.

  His mind was filled with too many memories of Talisa. He could hardly close his eyes without seeing her tear-stained face, her despair, without reliving the shocking moment of her death, when she’d leapt between her husband and a red Fey’cha blade to save her lover. Even now, Cann could feel the strike of the blade as if it had hit his own heart rather than his daughter’s back.

  Ah, gods. He sat up and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to rail against her death. To believe it had never happened. But he was too much a man of the north. Too much a lord of the borders. He’d seen too much death—and worse—to wallow in grief-stricken denial.

  He rose from the soft, feminine bed covered with plush, furlined silk comforters in shades of wintry blue and tender spring green. Severn and Parsis had thought him a fool for taking Talisa’s suite after offering his own to King Dorian, for torturing himself with her memory. Only Luce had understood. Luce, Cann’s wild, sweet, fey child, with eyes that saw more than most. Almost a man now, and so like his mother. Luce realized that his father needed these memories of Talisa’s life to make peace with the memory of her death.

  He crossed the room to stand beside Talisa’s delicate carved dressing table. The table was all-girl, painted creamy white and laid out with brushes, combs, perfumes, and all manner of womanly mysteries. His hand closed around the pot of perfumed cream Parsis had given her for this past year’s Feast of Winter’s End. Cann unscrewed the lid and lifted the jar to his face, breathing in the delicate aroma of Talisa’s favorite flowers—the scent he would forever remember as hers. Bright, warm, sweeter than a spring morning. His eyes squeezed shut. His heart squeezed tight. But as he breathed the scent, he could see her face, alight with laughter, as she and the other maidens from Kreppes and the surrounding villages had danced around the Spring Tree, weaving brightly colored ribbons around the pine pole’s carved scenes of winter, trailing flowers in their wake as they went. Such a good day. Such a happy, happy day.

  He breathed the perfume again, trying to fix that memory in his mind. When he thought of her, he wanted to remember that—not the other sight that hurt so much.

  A sound filtered through the closed door of Talisa’s room. Cann didn’t even consciously recognize it, but a lifetime on the borders made his body go tense all the same.

  In that one instant, his weariness evaporated, and his grief found itself tucked unceremoniously into a tight box, utterly removed from his current consciousness. Cann the grieving father gave way to Great Lord Barrial, the fierce and wily wolf of the borders. He set the perfume pot down, his hands automatically seeking the grip of his swords but finding only empty air in their stead.

  “Krekk.” His weapons lay atop a bedside table, next to the rack holding the armor he now cursed himself for removing. The studded leather he’d slept in would do precious little to stop an axe, pike, or arrow strike in a full-on battle.

  “We’ll wake you at the first sign of trouble,” his sons had promised when they convinced him to shed the armor. But trouble was here, and they had not come.

  And that was troubling in its own right.

  Cann raced across the room in swift silence, grateful for the plush furs on Talisa’s floor that muffled the sound of his footsteps. The latch on the door began to lift just as he reached the bed. He dropped down behind the bed and slipped one of his daggers from its sheath. He wasn’t half as good with the throwing daggers as the Fey, but at a distance as short as the one between him and the door, he didn’t miss.

  The door cracked opened.

  A voice whispered, “Da?”

  Parsis. Cann let out a breath. “Here, Parsi.” Wary habit kept him crouched where he was, dagger pulled back for a throw.

  Parsis poked his head around the edge of the door. Once he saw his father, he stepped quickly inside. Severn came in on his heels, closing the door behind them.

  Now sure it was his sons and no one else, Cann rose to his feet. Both of them here, fully armed and armored, could only mean one thing. “So, it’s begun?”

  “The king is dead but not by Elden hands. The attack came from within.” Parsis’s eyes were dark. “It’s Sebourne, Da.” He moved swiftly across the room to his father’s side and reached for the armor hanging on the rack.

  “Sebourne?” That was a shock Cann had not expected. He slipped into the chest plates Parsis held out. “You’re sure?”

  “Luce saw Sebourne’s men kill some of the King’s Guard.”

  “Where is Luce?”


  “Gone to lower the shields and sound the alarm.” Sev knelt to fasten the greaves to his father’s legs.

  With the night shields up, they couldn’t spin a weave to alert the allies. Sebourne would know that and take precautions to keep those shields up, which mean Luce was headed for danger. As his sons helped him into his armor, Cann sent up a quick prayer for Luce’s safety and a quick curse for Sebourne’s insanity.

  “Grief must have driven Sebourne mad.” Arrogant, hottempered, and power-hungry though he was, Cann had never known Sebourne to harbor treasonous sentiments against the king. But grief could do strange things to a man. “Who the jaffing Hells let him close enough to the king to kill him?”

  “I don’t think they let him, Da. Luce said all the guards in the main hall were dead. And Sebourne’s men were taking care to hide the bodies.”

  The boys fastened the last of his armor in place and handed him his weapons. He buckled his sword belt, slung his quiver on his back, and settled the band of black Fey’cha across his chest. Sev handed him his Elfbow. He strung the bow quickly, curling his left ankle around one end, bending the long, recurved body of the bow across his back, and settling the loop on the end of the bowstring into place. Bow in hand, he nodded to his sons. “Let’s go.”

  His sons pulled their swords, and together they slipped out into the hall.

  * * *

  The halls of the fortress’s central keep were eerily quiet. All of the King’s Guard stationed in the central tower were missing from their posts, with only a few drops of blood an occasional sign of disturbance to hint at their fate. Cann and his sons, followed by the King’s Guard who had been stationed in the east wing, padded through the silent corridors.

  In the king’s suite they found the bodies of Dorian X and his valet, Marten, both unmistakably dead. Cann shared grim looks with the others. Even with the eyewitness accounts of his sons, this irrefutable proof of Sebourne’s treachery left him stunned.