by Gwynn White
An eye roll from Feloran. “If I wanted to work in a museum, I would have taken up Greenoak’s offer to run the Bibliophile. Or maybe I should seek out the Silver-Tongued Oracle. Perhaps it will have a job for me managing its shrine. It’s bound to be more interesting than polishing Lila’s firebirds.”
Feloran had a point; Lila had loved firebirds, represented in the hundreds of ornaments she had collected. Jorah had insisted they be cleaned each day and returned to the exact spot she had left them.
That didn’t stop him from clipping Feloran lightly on the side of his head. “Stop trying to force me to get over the loss of my mate.”
They had reached the entrance hall that opened into Lila’s parlor, where she had entertained her never-ending flow of friends daily.
Jorah hadn’t stepped into the room since her death.
Feloran threw up his hands. “A year, Jorah. A whole year. Maleficent’s butt, isn’t that long enough?” He waved at a vase of golden, orange, and yellow nasturtiums on the circular table in the middle of the entrance hall. “Lila wouldn’t have wanted this. She celebrated life. Not death.”
The flowers brought back a rush of memories—that was why he had insisted that Feloran keep the vase filled. As teens, he and Lila had sneaked off to explore their love—and their bodies—in the secret places of Ryferia, where nasturtiums had tumbled in wild profusion. Lila had always kept a vase of the gold, yellow, and orange blossoms on that table as a reminder of how long they had loved each other. The thought of not having them there filled him with a bone-crushing ache.
He narrowed his icy blue eyes at Feloran to mere slits of reptilian fury.
Feloran scoffed, then flung open the door to the parlor. “My lord and master at your service,” he said, presumably to Sabrisia. “Don’t let him hog all the fruitcake.” And then he swept past Jorah and vanished back into the house.
Jorah suppressed a smile, then straightened his back for his unwanted encounter with Sabrisia.
Long, emerald-colored hair streaming around her sharp face, her body dressed in a silk dress that swirled with blues and greens, Sabrisia eyed him with the usual superciliousness she reserved for everyone who wasn’t fae. That included him. “Such wild behavior from a servant. You should have him whipped.”
Jorah grimaced at the notion of hurting any of his servants, let alone his friend. “And end up being punished with rats’ tails in my soup? I think not. What do you want?”
Her perfectly plucked eyebrow twitched. “Seems I know where he gets his manners from.” She gestured to a chair. “Are these for sitting on?”
“If you must. I guess you’ll also be wanting tea.”
A smirk. “Jorah, I despair of you.” But she glided over to the table and waved her hand at the teapot. The air tingled as the tea responded to her water magic and poured itself into two cups. She handed one to him. “You can get your own cake.”
“Water magic no good for heaving chunks of cake around?” He fluttered the air with his mind, levitating a piece of cake toward her.
She snatched it out of the air. “No. But it works superbly for rearranging the molecules in bodies. Yours would look lovely spread onto that pretty silk carpet.”
Jorah sneered. “Last time I looked, water fae burned beautifully. Don’t tempt me.”
A wave of Sabrisia’s hand. “Dragons. Always so tetchy. Why the mighty Maleficent created your kind, I will never know. She was obviously having a bad day.” But she sat, making no further mention of testing her magic against him.
He perched on the edge of a sofa, holding a cup of tea he didn’t want, and looked at her expectantly.
She took a sip, placed the cup back on the saucer, and slid it onto the table next to her. “You recently met with Niing.”
He knew where this was going. Desperation must have made Niing contact the council for the first time since Nethric had divided them. His skin itched with guilt over his old friend. “I did.”
She fished into her purse and pulled out a scroll of parchment. “He has sent this. It arrived today at the council chamber. Hedrus suggested I might like to bring it to you.”
Hedrus, the earth fae who currently held the chair in council meetings.
Jorah held out his hand, and she passed it over. He fumbled with his stupid teacup as he quickly read its contents: Princess Aurora’s official invitation for him to fight in a trial for her hand.
Another smirk from Sabrisia. “Asked for by name! The great Lord Jorah Thalyn. Have you been charming the damsels lately?”
He slammed down his teacup and stood. “Thank you for delivering my mail. I will send Niing my reply when I have time.” He flashed a smirk, even snarkier than one of hers. “Seeing as you enjoy carting other people’s messages around, I’ll give it to you to attach to the pigeon’s leg.” He started for the door. “Feloran will see you out.”
She rose and sailed over to grab his arm. “Not so fast, dragon. Hedrus mentioned that you had told him that your bride-to-be is a dryad.” Her eyes narrowed to pinpricks. “A powerful one, too.”
Sabrisia would hate Princess Aurora on principle; it always irked the water fae to be anything but the best, the most powerful, and the most beautiful in any room. It was why she hated him; on his worst day, he would always cap her power.
Still, little did she know that for him, beauty had nothing to do with the tilt of her brow, the cut of her clothes, or how carefully her makeup had been applied.
But her words irritated him enough to stop him in his tracks. “She is not my bride-to-be. And if Hedrus had taken you into his confidence instead of just using you to merely deliver his mail, he would have told you that I have no intention of going.”
Another clang sounded as someone pulled the knocker on his front door.
He narrowed his eyes to slits. What did they think his lair was? A marketplace?
Feloran materialized from the ether and swung the door open. “My lord, welcome.” His ears twitched as he stood aside to let the visitor enter.
Hedrus himself.
The aged earth fae pulled his brown cloak tighter around his shoulders as he stepped into the entrance hall. Eyes as sharp as sunlight darted around. “Your master, Lord Thalyn, is he in? I expect he is with Lady Sabrisia.”
“Here,” Jorah said, leaning against the doorjamb. “Seems Niing’s nonsense has really stirred the pot. Two exalted visitors on one day. I’ll be getting above myself if this continues.” He gestured to the parlor. “I suppose you will be wanting tea, too.”
“Tea!” Hedrus scoffed. “I’ll take an ale.”
Feloran clicked his fingers, and a jug of ale and three mugs appeared on the table. Jorah poured out two mugs—Sabrisia spurned his offer, and therefore the convenient use of her magic—and sat opposite Hedrus, resigned for a long meeting, if Sabrisia had anything to do with it.
“I—the council—want you to go to Ryferia.” Mug in hand, Hedrus got straight to the point, as he usually did.
“As an emissary, with pleasure.”
“Not as an emissary. As a contender in the trials,” Hedrus said. Jorah opened his mouth to object, but Hedrus barreled on. “This is our chance to reclaim Ryferia. Our opportunity to destroy those foul Guardians and the alchemists who concoct the herbs to power them.”
A not-so-subtle warning, Jorah let his talons slip from their hiding place. “I am not available for marriage.”
Hedrus held up his hands placatingly. “But you are available to help the Magical.” He stated it as a fact. After years of serving together on the council, Hedrus knew there was little Jorah wouldn’t do to help the Magical—at least the ones in Warrendyte.
Sensing a trap, Jorah answered warily, “Of course. You know that.” The memory of Keahr and Zandor’s desperate faces came unbidden into his mind. He hardened his jaw against it. But the callousness of the act didn’t sit well with him. “I will even extend whatever help I can to the Magical in Ryferia—short of marrying their nymph princess.”
&nbs
p; Hedrus glanced around the room at all of Lila’s things. He guessed what Hedrus was thinking—exactly the same as what Feloran had voiced. Jorah wasn’t ready to entertain any more of that view.
But Hedrus knew and respected him enough not to take a direct approach. He even held up his hand to stop Sabrisia from spouting something.
“Jorah,” Hedrus said, “I would not ask this of you if I did not believe it was in the best interests of the Magical everywhere. But I honor you in your loyalty to your mate. So, I would make you a compromise.”
Jorah sat forward in his seat, hoping Hedrus came up with something viable that allowed him to appease his conscience on both scores: his duty to Niing and his need to honor Lila’s memory.
“Marry her in name only,” Hedrus said, “for just long enough to destroy the Guardians and the alchemists who brew their potions. Don’t forget their records. This curse must be expunged. Then you can withdraw, and we will send an emissary to Ryferia to represent our interests.”
Jorah sat back to consider the offer. On the surface, it appeared to solve his problems. But . . . how honorable was it? That depended on what the nymph sought in a husband. What woman, looking for love, called a death trial to find a husband? None he knew of. And at no point had any of the Ryferians suggested that the nymph wanted love.
That had to mean it was all political expediency.
Niing had said she wanted to remove the Guardians. Well, that part was easy, once he stood by her side as king of Ryferia. None of those Untalented would stand in his way of destroying their privilege and restoring the Magical to their proper place in the natural order of things.
In such a marriage, he would have no trouble pulling down the Guardians and leaving.
Part of him rebelled against the destruction of the alchemical records; he had spent much of his youth in Niing’s burrow and had grown to respect and value the alchemy Niing had taught him as part of his lessons.
Still, if alchemy threatened the Magical, then it had no place in the world. Jorah would destroy Niing’s burrow in a blast of fire if that was what it took to keep his people safe.
He fixed Hedrus with a cold stare. “I accept your terms.”
Sabrisia cleared her throat. “Actually, I think Lord Tithan Vale might be a better choice.”
Tithan Vale, another water fae? If she’d thought so, why hadn’t she spoken sooner? Hedrus’s eyebrows rose, and Jorah turned to her.
Sabrisia sniffed nonchalantly. “I hear Raith Krall is going to fight for the little dryad’s hand.”
Raith Krall? Trojean’s sniveling incubus brother? His brows knotted. It made sense that the pool of magic in Ryferia would attract the incubus.
If Raith won the trials, he would undoubtedly rip down the Guardians to feast on the Magical there. Initially, they would fight him, but an incubus was not to be trifled with. Their physical beauty, their smell, the way they moved—everything about them—was designed to numb their prey’s senses. Trojean had even lured a griffin-shifter into walking straight into her mouth.
And not only did they kill their prey, they also absorbed their power. A few key kills, and Raith would be hard to defeat. With a whole kingdom to feast on, he would be invincible. Not even the combined strength of all the Magical in Warrendyte would stop him.
Raith—brother to Lila’s murderer—would rule the world.
From the worry creasing Hedrus’s face, he seemed to have come to the same conclusion.
“There are rumors that he’s following in his dearly departed sister’s footsteps,” Sabrisia said. “Mad with gluttony.”
Rumors.
Jorah had never put stock in those, but still his fire burned in his chest. A succubus had killed Lila. Not in a thousand lifetimes could he let her brother continue her rampage. Lila’s memory wouldn't stand for it. He’d deal with Raith Krall like he had with Trojean. Lila would rest peacefully once that parasite was erased from existence, never to terrorize another innocent Magical again. “I will handle Raith Krall.”
Sabrisia smiled. “No, you won’t. Your rage would blind you”—she took a languorous sip of tea—“and besides, robbing you of your rightful vengeance and giving it to Tithan would be far more rewarding.”
Jorah turned to Hedrus. “The council won’t stand for this. I’m the Ryferians’ choice.”
“Go. Fight. Win,” Hedrus said. “There is no doubt in my mind”—a glance at Sabrisia—“or the minds of every reasoning council member that you will win, whether it be against a Magical opponent or a rabble of Untalented princes.”
“Water contests that, and as I take the chair after the solstice, the council will need Water’s support to function,” Sabrisia said, setting down her teacup. “And there’s only one deal on offer today.”
Hedrus opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Jorah gritted his teeth. Hating the power he held, Sabrisia had long sought issue with him. Coupled with that, Niing’s invitation, combined with the quarterly rotation of the chair, must have presented her with an ideal opportunity to increase the power Water held over Warrendyte. Such power plays amongst the fae were not uncommon. Usually, order was only restored after a blood-letting. Even Hedrus sported a ragged ear, ripped off in a fight during a council meeting years before. Such were the affairs of the rapacious fae.
He narrowed his eyes and waited.
She took her time pouring another cup. A wave of her hand, and a tiny vortex stirred the liquid. A small show of magic, it didn’t impress Jorah.
The swirling tea stilled. She must have seen his disdain.
“I, and the other water fae, could be persuaded not to object to you going to Ryferia,” she said, looking up at him with a cold glint in her eyes, “if you swear a death bond. If you fail, your life is forfeit.”
A death bond? Jorah tapped the table next to him with a cruelly sharp black talon. Sabrisia surely hoped he’d either die in the trials or refuse to marry the princess if he won—a win-win for her. But he had no intention of letting her win anything.
“So severe a penalty just to bolster your political strength?” Hedrus demanded, face aghast.
Sabrisia raised a languid shoulder. “The water fae demand it.” A wave of her hand at Lila’s glass ornaments. “They want you to understand the urgency of the situation.”
Jorah glanced over at Hedrus.
The earth fae bowed his head. “Jorah, it pains me . . . but you know how much the loss of Ryferia irks. Every council member, not just Water, wants assurances that Ryferia and Warrendyte will be reunited and that the Untalented are made to pay for what they have done. Your period of mourning . . . it has made the council wary.”
Jorah didn’t doubt that. He had been less than gregarious—even for a dragon—since Lila’s death. He could see how some of the council could doubt his will in a matter relating to marriage.
Hedrus fixed him with a sharp gaze. “Yet, Earth, Air, Fire, and Spirit know you are the best man for the job.”
Jorah snorted that Hedrus hadn’t bothered to mention any of the other Magical. It was an old argument—the fae considered themselves above everyone else.
“And you know the shifters, the faeries, and the other rest of the Magical will always throw their lot in with you.” Hedrus must have recognized Jorah’s irritation.
Jorah sat back in his chair. The simplest solution was to refuse to go, but his honor niggled each time he remembered Lila—Raith could not be left to reap Ryferia as Trojean had Lila.
And then there was Niing, and Peckle, and not to mention the air fae and her pony’s pleading voices. Their situation was dire, but with the possibility of an incubus being unleashed on Ryferia, their lives were at stake. If nothing else, he had to do what he could to help them.
As much as it grated him to grant the death bond, he didn’t intend to fail in the trials in Ryferia. Not against a parasite, Untalented princelings, and one nymph princess.
“I will kill Raith. I will win the nymph’s hand in marriage. I will
destroy the Guardians. And when that happens, you will free me of all obligations to the Ryferians.”
“That is what I propose,” Sabrisia said.
Hedrus sighed and slowly nodded. Both he and Jorah had been outmaneuvered, but they hadn’t lost yet. Not by half, for a dragon would always be more calculating, more cunning than a mere water fae.
Jorah held out his hand to Hedrus; he wouldn’t give Sabrisia the satisfaction. “Then let’s seal it.”
The old fae offered him his hand in turn, but Sabrisia cleared her throat and rose. Hedrus froze.
Calmly, she strode right up to Hedrus, who stepped away and made space for her. With a predatory smile, she held out her hand to Jorah.
Jorah eyed her with disdain as he took it.
No sooner had their skin touched when a fiery plume encircled both of their wrists. Now, even if Jorah wanted to, he would not be able to pull his hand away from hers.
Sweat beaded on her brow and even Jorah winced as the fire burned the contract deep into both of them. Only once the pain faded did their hands part.
“The Silver-Tongued Oracle is our witness,” she said. “Let it be done as we have pledged.”
Jorah caught Hedrus’s worried frown. “I’ll pack my bag for Ryferia.”
FOURTEEN
Raith
As Raith hid behind the heavy velvet drapes framing the balcony in Father’s bedchamber, fear climbed up his throat like a bird beating against a cage.
An outsider prying into his life would think he had grown up fearless. He, Trojean, and Carian had swum in the most dangerous swells of the sea; they had climbed the tallest trees; they had thrived on challenge. To that voyeur, they would have seemed afraid of nothing.
Nothing but Father.
Trojean, who would walk over fire with a grin on her face, would shrink in terror at the sound of Father’s cane cracking against the stone floor. It would soon be against her back. But as she got older, her fear had seemed to wane.