Queen of Song and Souls

by C. L. Wilson

  He’d been taking a chance, holding out for the capture of Ellysetta Baristani. But if he didn’t incarnate into a new vessel soon, he risked losing the ability to do so altogether. And no matter how much he wanted Ellysetta Baristani’s power for his own, that was not a risk the High Mage of Eld was willing to take.

  Two bells later, with much of his strength returned after a lengthy visit to the healers, Vadim Maur stood before the thick, reinforced sel’dor-and-steel door of the torture chamber he reserved for Mages who displeased him. The hinges groaned as the two guards outside the door pulled the weighty thing open. Light from the passageway torches cast a thin, fragile illumination in the chamber’s gloom, revealing the shivering form huddled on the chamber’s cold floor.

  “Get up, Kolis.”

  The huddled figure flinched but did not respond.

  Vadim gestured, and two of the guards hurried into the chamber to grab the High Mage’s apprentice by his arms and drag him out into the warmer, less frightening light of the flame-lit hallway. The stench of sweat and worse rose up from the apprentice’s limp body, making Vadim’s nose wrinkle in disgust. He uttered a spell that blocked the odors and reached out to lift the apprentice’s face. The remnants of mucus, blood, and vomit clung to Manza’s skin.

  “Kolis.” The High Mage snapped his fingers in the younger man’s face, but still received no response.

  Vadim ground his teeth together and released the younger Mage’s chin. Perhaps the tortures he had devised for his apprentice had been a bit more severe than necessary. But then, he’d not expected to need Kolis so soon.

  Vadim stared in distaste at the bodily fluids clinging to his hand, then wiped them off on the uniform of the nearest guard. “Clean him up and take him to the healers. I want him fit for use within the week.”

  Celieria

  Except for Bel, who came to cut the sel’dor shrapnel from Rain’s body, neither Elf nor Fey intruded as Ellysetta spun her healing weaves on Rain and pulled him back from the brink of Rage. Instead, with swift, silent efficiency, the Elves healed the worst of the wounded Fey, while the able-bodied cleared the battlefield. The Fey Fired the bodies of the dead and gathered the sorreisu kiyr of the slain lu’tan, to be given into Ellysetta’s keeping. Forty lu’tan had perished in the battle with the Eld.

  Several bells later, as dawn broke over southern Celieria, the worst of Rain’s Rage had passed. With Ellysetta’s help, he had rebuilt the fragile walls of discipline in his mind. Together, they rejoined the others and offered greetings to the Elves.

  Tall and slender—clearly not mortal—the Elves shone faintly gold in the pale morning sunlight rather than glowing with silvery luminescence like the Fey. Sleeveless tunics of iridescent bronze scale mail lay over embroidered shirts and leggings in varying woodland hues of green, ecru, and brown. Bows and quivers filled with arrows were slung across their backs. They wore their long, rippling hair pulled back off their faces with a series of small beaded leather ties, baring ears that swept back to a distinctive, tapered point.

  Rain cast a narrowed gaze over the Elves’ faces. They were strangers. None he had ever met before. Their obvious leader had hair the burnished gold hue of amberleaf trees in the fall. The beaded ties in his hair fluttered with a collection of bird feathers. And his eyes—those distinctive, too-piercing Elvish eyes—were the clear, translucent green of a sunlit forest pond.

  Those eyes met Rain’s with uncanny directness.

  Ellysetta’s fingers tightened around his. The Elf’s attention switched to her, and she shivered as if she could feel his gaze prying into her soul.

  But that was what it always felt like to be Seen by an Elf. As if your skin had been peeled back and your mind and soul had been opened up for inspection. All of the Elves possessed the talent to some degree, but with certain of their number, the effect was decidedly pronounced.

  This Elf seemed one of the latter.

  “Las, shei’tani.” After a grief-racked night of her weaving peace upon him, he was grateful to return the favor. He ran a thumb over the back of her hand in a soothing caress, but with each subtle stroke, he could feel her tension rising higher. She was afraid of the Elf. Or, rather, unnerved by his presence and disturbed by his gaze. “This Elf is a Seer, like Hawksheart. It is his power you feel.”

  “He is probing me?”

  “Not with deliberate force.”

  Her brows drew together. “It feels deliberate. And very unsettling.”

  “Build a barrier in your mind. Use the strongest weave of Spirit you can in a pattern like this.” He demonstrated a dense, complex pattern of lavender threads. “It won’t stop him from Seeing more than you’d like, but it will help you bear his gaze without discomfort.”

  She did as he suggested and together they approached the blond Elf, who introduced himself as Fanor Farsight of the Deep Woods clan.

  The Elf fixed his penetrating gaze on Rain and said, “Galad Hawksheart, Lord of Valorian, Prince of the Deep Woods, King of Elvia and Guardian of the Dance, sends you greetings, Rainier vel’En Daris of the Fey.”

  Rain inclined his head. “I accept his greetings, and I offer his envoys welcome to our camp and my deepest thanks for your aid last night. Our hospitality is not so fine here as it would be in Dharsa, but we offer you all that we have.” Rain waved towards the center of the makeshift camp. “Please join us and refresh yourselves.”

  “Alaneth. With plea sure, we do accept.”

  Fanor Farsight nodded and he and his Elves followed Rain and Ellysetta into the center of the gathered Fey. Earth masters spun a simple wooden table and stools for their use, and set out a platter of journeycakes while Water masters filled cups with cool water drawn from a nearby stream.

  Fanor was the only Elf to take a seat. The others remained standing in a semicircle at his back, but one of them leaned forward to pluck a journeycake and a cup of water from the table. He took a bite of the journeycake and passed it to the Elf beside him, then took a sip from the cup and passed that on, too. The gesture was an Elvish sign of courtesy, a formal acceptance of Feyan hospitality shared by all the members of Farsight’s party. The last Elf to eat and drink handed the final bit of the journeycake and the near-empty cup to Fanor, who consumed what was left.

  Rain waited for the Elf lord to finish before he leaned forward and put his palms on the table. “I must tell you, Fanor Farsight, I am as surprised as I am grateful that the Elves have decided to join us in this war after all.”

  “You misunderstand, Worldscorcher.” The Elf’s expression did not change. “We know what you wish from us, but that Song ended before it could begin. The aid you seek from the Elves can no longer help you.”

  Rain’s eyes flickered, the only outward hint of the anger coiling in his veins. “If you are not here to join us, then why did you come?”

  “Because my king sent me to escort you and your mate safely to Navahele.”

  “Keita? Why?” Rain’s shoulders drew back.

  “You already know the answer. Your mate calls a Song in the Dance. My king wishes to understand that Song better.”

  Anger rose, swift and furious, threatening to rip the fragile rebuilt barriers in his mind. Ellysetta laid a hand over his, and that warm touch gave him the strength to stifle his Rage.

  He drew a short, hard breath and curled his free hand in a fist. “I do not understand you or your king,” he said in a low voice. “The Eld slaughtered thirteen hundred Fey and nearly five thousand Celierians at Orest and Teleon less than a month ago; as you saw yourself last night, the High Mage hunts my mate to claim her soul; we’re facing a new Army of Darkness; and still you tell me the Elves will do nothing to help us?” Despite his efforts, anger spiked. He flattened his palms on the wooden surface of the table and half rose from his chair. “What will you do when the Fey are gone from this world and there are none left with the strength or will to champion the Light? What good will your Dance be then?”

  Rather than taking offense, the Elf lo
rd crossed his hands over his heart and bowed his head in a polite Elvish gesture. “The Elves have Seen your plight and the dangers that exist for your truemate. Our king understands what hangs in the balance, but the way is not certain. That is why you must come to Navahele.” Farsight turned to Ellysetta. “The Song you call is more powerful than any living Elf has ever Seen. More powerful even than the Worldscorcher’s Song. Many will die; that much is certain. How many will live is yet to be Seen.”

  Ellysetta flinched, and Rain wrapped an arm around her in a protective gesture. “Enough, Elf,” he growled. “You will not frighten my mate with Elvish visions of doom.”

  The Elf looked puzzled. “Tenala. Forgive me. But how did I offer fright, when your own Eye of Truth has already shown a much grimmer future in greater detail?”

  “The future Shei’Kess showed us is only a possibility, not a certainty,” Rain replied with an aggressive thrust of his chin.

  “Banas,” the Elf agreed, “but the possible outcomes of her Song are far fewer than they were when Ambassador Brightwing extended my king’s first invitation this summer. Lord Hawksheart regrets you did not come then.”

  “Well, our apologies for his regret, but tell him we will make our way to Elvia once we’ve been to Danael. Celieria needs allies willing to fight at her side, and time is of the essence.” Navahele was on the other side of the continent. If they traveled there first, there would be little hope of Danae aid reaching Celieria before the Eld attacked.

  “We Saw your intent, but Lord Hawksheart bids you come now, without delay. We will escort you safely to Navahele. Lord Hawksheart will summon the Danae to meet you there once his business with you is concluded.” Farsight lifted a hand and several hundred more Elves emerged from the surrounding vegetation, bows in hand.

  Rain regarded the small army of Elves. Mad though he was becoming, he wasn’t a fool. That show of force meant Hawksheart’s request was a command, and one he was prepared to enforce. Rain closed his eyes against an instinctive surge of anger. He’d never taken well to commands of that sort, even without Rage and bond madness urging him to rebel. “As you insist,” he growled. “We will accompany you to Navahele.”

  “A wise decision,” Farsight agreed. He stood. “If you and your mate will come with us. The rest of your warriors may await your return here.”

  His eyes flashed. “Unacceptable.” A change of travel plans he might accept, but he would not let the Elves endanger Ellysetta. “The weaves of my shei’tani’s lu’tan help protect her from the influence of the Mage when she sleeps. Surely you and Hawksheart already know this. We go nowhere without them.”

  Fanor considered it, then nodded. “Very well. Your mate’s dreams will be safe from the Mage once we enter Elvia, but until then, the lu’tan may accompany us. Only her quintet may cross our borders, however,” he added. “Deep Woods is home to too many wild creatures who would consider the presence of so many unfamiliar Fey warriors an act of aggression. Blood would be shed.”

  Rain bowed his head. So long as Ellysetta was safe, he wouldn’t push his fragile control enough to argue. “Bas’ka. We are agreed.”

  Fanor spread his hands. “Then let us depart.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Celieria ~ Celieria City

  “Why must you go yourself?” Queen Annoura paced the luxurious confines of Dorian’s private chambers, glaring at him as his valet strapped and buckled him into the burnished steel plate and mail of his armor in order to check the fit. Dorian had just informed her that he would personally be riding out with his army tomorrow to defend the northern border against Eld. “What can you do in the north that the border lords cannot?”

  Dorian cast her a sharp glance. “I can lead as the monarch of this kingdom. I can defend my people—as every ancestor who ever wore Celieria’s crown always has.”

  “It’s ridiculous!” She threw up her hands, then planted them on her hips. “You could be killed! And then where will Celieria be?”

  “In good hands. Your son is not incompetent, madam. He is young, but he’s been well trained, and my advisers are honorable men who will guide him true.”

  “Yet he is heading into danger as well—by your command. It’s insanity!”

  “It is war, Annoura.” Dorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly taming his emotions. “Dori is as safe as I can make him—and I pray the gods will watch over him—but he understands that Celieria needs us now, no matter the cost to ourselves. You should be proud of our son, Annoura. He will make a fine king.”

  “And what of this son?” Annoura wrapped her arms around her still-flat belly. “Should he grow up an orphan simply because his father abandoned him to chase some fool notion of honor and glory?” She still hadn’t forgiven Dorian for once more choosing the Fey over her—or having them check her for Mage Marks without her knowledge. She doubted she ever would.

  Dorian lifted his chin while his manservant strapped into place the metal neck guard that would protect his vulnerable throat from enemy blades and arrows. “Defense of those entrusted to my care is not foolish glory-hounding, Annoura.”

  “Am I not entrusted to your care? Yet you leave me on a whim to fight a senseless war started by your Fey kin.” She stamped a foot. “There would be no war if it were not for them!”

  Dorian held up a hand. “Marten,” he said to his valet, “please excuse us. The queen and I need a few chimes of privacy.”

  The valet bowed smoothly. “Your Majesty.” He turned and bowed just as smoothly to Annoura. “Your Majesty.”

  When he was gone and the door was closed behind him, Dorian lifted his hand. A faint glow lightened his palms, and Annoura knew he was spinning a privacy weave around the room. Dorian wasn’t a master of magic by any means, but the blood of Marikah vol Serranis, his ancestor Dorian I’s wife and queen, was strong enough that even after a thousand years, her mortal descendants still possessed third-and fourth-level talents in certain magical branches. Dorian’s weave could be pierced by any master of magic, but it was effective enough against the eavesdropping ears of his mortal subjects.

  When the glow around Dorian’s hand faded, he turned to her. His hazel eyes—which once had regarded her with such dazzling warmth and love that she’d felt like the most cherished woman in the world—now pierced her with cool reserve.

  “The Fey did not start this war, Annoura, but Celieria will finish it.” He spoke each word in a clipped voice. “The Eld declared war on my kingdom. Without warning—with the ink on their trade agreement offer still damp and their ambassador’s heels barely clear of Celierian soil—they invaded my kingdom, slaughtered thousands of my subjects, and laid waste to two of my cities in an unprovoked act of aggression. And now—” He clamped his lips shut, spun abruptly away, and marched to the window.

  “And now what?” she pressed.

  Dorian shoved aside the delicate lace curtain to gaze out over his kingdom. “And now it is time to show the Eld that Celieria is not so easy a mark. I do not forget their equally outrageous attack on the Grand Cathedral or the murder of Greatfather Tivrest and Father Bellamy. Such treachery will not go unanswered.”

  Annoura took a breath. Long had it been since she’d seen him looking so fierce, so stern and determined. “Dorian, stop and think this through. Celieria has lived in peace with Eld for the last three hundred years. They wanted to further that peace until Rain Tairen Soul returned to the world. We have no reason to believe the Eld would ever have attacked us if it were not for the Fey. Now, once more, Celieria is caught in the center of a war between magical races. Our best and only hope is to remain neutral—let the Eld and the Fey destroy one another. Celieria’s involvement can only end in our destruction.”

  His brows drew together and his lips compressed in a sure sign of rising temper. “Your senseless dislike of the Fey has impaired your judgment, Annoura. The Eld did not attack the Fading Lands. They attacked Celieria. My kingdom. It pains me that you would ever think I should allow their murder
ous aggression to go unanswered.”

  Seeing that spark of genuine anger in his eyes, she backtracked quickly. “You’re right, Dorian. If the Eld attack Celieria again, they should be met with force. But why must you be the one to lead our armies along the borders? Surely the border lords can see to our northern defenses without you there to guide them.” She moved forward, reaching for his arms. Fingertips met hard steel. She reached for his hands, but he stepped back. “I love you. Can you not understand that I don’t want to see you hurt—or worse, killed? I want you here, safe, with me. With our baby.”

  He made a sharp, slashing gesture. “Stop, Annoura. It’s not love of me that drives you; it’s hatred of the Fey. Do you think I haven’t noticed all the little ways you’ve been testing me these last months? Trying to make me choose between my kin-ties to the Fey and my love of you. I’ve had enough. The Fey are my blood kin—but more than that, they are this country’s staunchest ally. The sooner you accept that, the better for all concerned.”

  “Dorian—”

  “This discussion is over. I leave for the borders at twelve bells tomorrow. I am Dorian the Tenth of Celieria. It’s long past time I began to live up to the honorable name of my forebears.” He waved his hand to dispel the privacy weave and called, “Marten!”

  The door opened, and Dorian’s valet stepped inside. “Your Majesty?”

  “The queen is leaving. See her out; then come finish getting me strapped into this thing.”

  Annoura stood there, trembling with a mix of despair, fury, and disbelief over the way Dorian was dismissing her from his presence—as if she were a mere courtier whose company had grown wearisome. She wanted to cry out for him to love her again, but pride wouldn’t let her beg—especially not in front of a servant.

  She’d loved him more than she’d ever thought herself capable of loving anyone. And for a Capellan princess raised in a lion’s den of deceit, intrigue, and political maneuvering, the sheer vulnerability of forming such a strong emotional attachment had been one of the most terrifying—albeit exhilarating—experiences of her life.