by C. L. Wilson
Celieria City ~ The Royal Palace
Lady Jiarine Montevero, lady-in-waiting to Celieria’s Queen Annoura, leaned closer to the clear glass mirror and dabbed a thin layer of fresh white powder over the dark circles beneath her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well since the disappearance of Queen Annoura’s Favorite, Ser Vale—the sinfully handsome, vivid-eyed courtier Jiarine knew and served as Kolis Manza, the Elden Mage to whom she had surrendered her soul in return for wealth, power, and noble advancement.
Eleven days without sleep—worrying not so much about Master Manza’s fate as her own—was beginning to show on her face, and she could not afford for that to continue. Queen Annoura of Celieria did not tolerate less than perfection amongst the Dazzles of her inner court. Ser Vale might return, and he would not be pleased if she’d lost her increasingly favored position in Annoura’s inner circle due to something as foolish as lack of attention to her appearance.
Jiarine pinched her cheeks, then deftly added a blushing hint of color from a pot of pink powder. She was wearing her hair its natural dark color today. She’d just received word that the queen was feeling peevish this morning. When that was the case, her inner court knew to abandon their hair powders and choose rich, dark shades of clothing, the better to set off the queen’s silvery pale beauty and improve her mood.
Muttering a curse, Jiarine kicked the hem of the pale blue gown she’d already put on, then removed this morning. “Fanette!” she called to the young lady’s maid she’d sent into the next room to press her deep sapphire gown. “Hurry up with that gown, girl! Her Majesty does not tolerate tardiness.”
Turning back to the mirror, she reached down into the cups of her tightly laced corset and plumped her breasts so the rouged nipples peeped out over the lacy tops. She knew how to use her assets to the best advantage, and there were several influential lords who liked to see a hint of rose when Lady Montevero leaned their way.
If Master Manza didn’t return, Jiarine had her own plans for advancement. Starting with becoming the next Lady Purcel. The old wheezer was rich as a king, and though his breath stank like a barracks privy and his lecherous hands loved to pinch and grope any young woman fool enough to walk within reach, she’d happily ride his withered old rod straight into his grave in return for access to his coffers and control of his lands. Besides, he was so old, it wouldn’t be hard to arrange a timely death for him in the event frequent and enthusiastic copulation didn’t do the trick. And thanks to that weave-driven night of lust two weeks ago, Purcel had already sampled Jiarine’s wares and knew they were to his liking.
The bedchamber door opened. “Finally! What in the Dark Lord’s name took you so—” Jiarine’s voice broke off at the sight of the two unfamiliar men who stepped into the room. She grabbed the first thing within reach—a cushion—and held it to her chest. “Who are you? How dare you! Get out this instant!”
Both were dressed as nobles, but she had lived at court for the last three years and recognized neither of them. The taller of the two was a handsome, lean man with forest green eyes. The shorter one was built like a barrel-chested longshoreman from the wharf. His pale blue eyes, surrounded by stubby black lashes, swept over her with undisguised interest.
When neither man obeyed her command to leave, she raised her voice and screeched, “Fanette!”
“Silence, umagi.” The tall one spoke, his voice a cold commanding hiss that slapped her like a brisk, hard hand across the face.
Jiarine froze and fell silent. Every drop of blood drained from her face as the skin above her left breast turned cold as ice. Streams of glacial cold spread quickly through her body. Oh, gods. Something had happened to Vale. Her lips trembled. Her fingers clenched tight around the pillow. The question burst out before she could censor it. “Where is Ser Vale—Master Manza?”
“I said be silent,” the tall Mage snapped. “You may speak only when I give you leave.”
She flinched and clamped her jaw shut. She’d come to know Mages well enough to have learned that obedience, instant and unquestioning, was the best tool of survival.
“Sulimage Manza will not be returning. I am Primage Nour, the new holder of your leash. Now get on your knees and show me the proper respect.”
The pillow fell from her hands. She dropped to her knees and bent forward, touching her forehead to the floor near his feet. Her breasts swung free, the rouged tips rubbing the carpet, but she didn’t dare move to tuck them back into the confines of her corset.
The hard leather sole of the Mage’s boot pressed against the back of her neck, driving her face into the carpet until she could hardly breathe. Fighting the instinctive urge to stiffen her spine and push back against the pressure, she forced her body to go limp.
The submission seemed to please her new master. After a moment, the foot on her neck lifted.
She stayed where she was, not daring to do more than take short, shallow breaths. He had not told her to move.
For nearly a chime she stayed there, prone and silent, waiting. Then, at last, the cold command: “You may rise.”
She pushed herself up on her palms and rose to her feet, keeping her arms at her sides, her eyes downcast.
“Raise your eyes, umagi.”
She lifted her lashes, fixing her gaze straight ahead as Vale had taught her four years ago, when she was an ambitious seventeen-year-old girl willfully making her Dark bargain. She’d not realized the true price, but he’d taught her. For six months, he’d led her farther into the shadows of his service, each week claiming a little more than she’d originally thought to give, coaxing her into surrendering the next bit of her soul. Slowly, methodically, he’d seduced her, broken her, subjugated her to his will. He’d trained her to obey him without question and serve him in any capacity he desired. And she’d come to do so willingly, even eagerly at times.
Now he was gone, but the invisible collar of enslavement he’d settled around her neck remained firmly clasped in place. She had a feeling its weight under Nour’s hand would not be half so light as it had been under Master Manza’s.
Master Nour lifted her chin and inspected her face with cold eyes. She was careful not to let her eyes meet his. Master Manza had allowed her certain liberties, but Master Nour did not seem so accommodating. From the corner of her eye, she saw the barrel-chested man staring at her exposed breasts. Master Nour didn’t even glance at them.
The Primage’s expression gave no hint of his thoughts, and when he concluded his inspection all he said was, “Manza always did have an eye for the pretty ones.”
Master Nour turned away, and Jiarine allowed herself one deep breath. The movement made the stocky man lick his thick lips. She knew right then, he was no Mage. He could not possess the rigorous discipline Master Manza had told her was required for Magecraft yet still be so easily distracted by a pair of plump tits. An umagi, then, like her. She flashed him a glare and knew she’d guessed right when all he did was curl up the corner of his mouth in a leering grin.
“Manza claimed you were quite useful to him,” Master Nour said, and both Jiarine and the stocky umagi snapped back into expressionless statues. “I hope I will find you so. Your first task is to arrange an entrée for me into the queen’s court. I will be Lord Geris Bolor, from a small estate near Sebourne’s lands in the north.”
Jiarine took a breath. “Master, may I speak?”
“What is it, umagi?”
“Great Lord Sebourne is a regular at court. Your identity will be too easily discredited.” The words came in a rush. She wasn’t certain how this new Mage would react to an umagi daring to give him advice, but if she didn’t speak and his plans failed, he would blame her. She would rather take the punishment for impertinence than the punishment for failure. “A landless Ser or bastard son of a nobleman would be a better choice, less likely to be questioned by the members of the court.”
“But I will not be a Ser, umagi. Manza went that route and it did not serve him nearly well enough. Lords have opportuniti
es and influences mere Sers do not. Beside, though the news has not yet had time to reach the court, the real Lord Bolor has just met an untimely end, and I am his long-lost son and heir from a secret elopement. I have brought the marriage certificate and birth records and, if necessary, can produce the witnessing priest to prove it.”
The current diBolor was a lord whom Jiarine had met before. He had a wife and two small children. If all that happened to him was disinheritance and reclassification in the Book of Lords as a bastard rather than a legitimate son of title, both he and his young family would be lucky. Somehow, she doubted that would be the case. Most obstacles in a Mage’s path had a way of ending up dead or vanished. She dismissed the innocent man and his family’s fate without a qualm. Better them than her.
“As you will, my Lord Bolor. But if I may be so bold, while you may pass for a lord of title, your umagi here will not.” She cast a haughty glance at the stocky man. “He does not have the look of nobility about him. The wharf seems more likely.”
The shorter man’s brows drew together in a scowl. Master Nour just glanced back at him and then, surprisingly, laughed. “The wharf, eh? I suppose he does look a bit of the roustabout.”
“I suggest you garb him as your servant. But keep him close by. The lords will assume he is your bully boy, and those fists are large enough that they might think twice before challenging your presence.”
Nour’s lips pursed, and he eyed her with new interest. “Perhaps you are more than just another of Manza’s pretty faces after all, Jiarine.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Relief made her spine start to wilt. She squared her shoulders quickly. “Will there be anything else, Master Nour?”
“Yes, there will.” Over his shoulder he barked, “Brodson, leave us. Close the door behind you. Have the maid send word to the queen that Lady Montevero is feeling in-disposed this morning.”
The click of the door latch falling into place rang like the toll of doom in the silent chamber.
The Primage took a step closer. “I think, pet, I should like you to show me how well my friend Kolis trained you to serve him.”
Jiarine risked a glance at the Mage’s face. Then she wished she hadn’t.
For the first time since entering her room, Gethen Nour was smiling, and the sight shot terror through her heart.
Eld ~ Boura Fell
Pain enveloped Shan like a blanket. Every nerve ending burned and throbbed. Elfeya huddled on the periphery of his consciousness, singing his favorite Feyan and Elvish tunes from their long-ago life in the Fading Lands. Her voice helped keep the worst of the pain at bay as they waited for Maur to finish toying with them and let Elfeya heal him.
A sound at the door of his cell drew his attention. Elfeya stopped singing.
«He returns?» There was such dread in her voice. If Maur were back, they both knew the last thousand years of captivity would soon be at an end. In his current condition, there was no way Shan could survive more torture.
Voices murmured in the hall outside, too muffled for him to make out the words. The cell door swung open. Shan started to tense, then hissed as the tug of tightening muscles shifted the fragments of shattered bone in his flesh. He could not move except to tilt his head back in an attempt to see who came in.
There was another low murmur of voices; then the broad shape of the guard stepped outside. Shan caught a hazy glimpse of the newcomer—a slight figure whose face was still cloaked in shadow. The scent of food teased his nostrils, and Shan closed his eyes. Not Maur but an umagi, with food for the High Mage’s favorite toy. The end of his torment wasn’t near after all.
Soft footsteps carried the umagi towards the barbed sel’dor bars of Shan’s cage. Cloth whispered against stone, followed by the scrape of metal as the umagi set a platter on the floor.
“I cannot move to feed myself,” Shan told his visitor.
“Your master enjoyed his work too well.”
To his surprise, a morsel of food touched his lips. He opened his eyes, saw the thin arm stretched through the bars of the cage, holding the food to his mouth.
“Eat,” a soft voice commanded. A female voice. Young. A child’s voice. “Even the strongest Fey needs food.”
Warm, flavorful liquid touched the tip of his tongue. Juice from the small piece of cooked meat. How long since he’d had cooked meat? Shan licked his lips. The taste was extraordinary. It occurred to him that the meat could be poisoned or drugged in some manner, but he was beyond caring. The smell of the food was making him ravenous. He opened his mouth and took the bit of meat, forcing himself to chew slowly to savor its flavor and warmth and texture. Another piece brushed his lips before he was finished with the first, and he ate that too.
“Why do you still live?” the child whispered as he ate.
“He shatters your bones, peels the flesh from your body, yet still you cling to life. Why?”
Shan just closed his eyes and kept chewing without answer. Apparently the food did not contain any drugs to loosen his tongue, because silence was all too easy.
The child held the next morsel of food away from his mouth, then sighed and gave it to him. “You are wary. I understand. They say you have been here a thousand years.”
So long…half his years with Elfeya had been spent here, in darkness and torment. «Ah, shei’tani, sieks’ta. Our bond has been more curse than gift.»
«Nei,» she answered instantly. Love, deep and endless, poured across the unbreakable threads of their truemate bond, and with the love came her unshakable certainty, her pure and shining truth. Long ago she’d made her choice and bound her soul wholly and without reservation to his, and nothing—not even the living hell of their last thousand years—would make her regret it. «I would not trade even these centuries of torment if it meant one less day with you. You are all the joy I need. So long as we live, we have hope.»
“They say he’s never broken you in all that time,” the child said. “You must be very strong…and how your defiance must vex him.” Dark glee curled like an invisible smile in the girl’s voice. “They all fear you, you know. Even him. I can smell it on them when they set foot down here.”
Despite himself, Shan’s curiosity was roused. Who was this child? Why was she here?
He took a slow, deep breath and embraced the burn of broken ribs as his lungs expanded. “What do you want?” he growled.
“Your help.”
“My help?” He gave a soft, hoarse laugh. “Have you looked at me, girl? What help could I give in this state?”
“You will heal,” she answered. “They say you always do, no matter what he does to you. What’s important is you are not Marked. You can do what none of the rest of us can.”
“And what’s that?”
The child leaned forward, pressing her face to the sel’dor bars and lowering her voice to a whisper so soft he had to strain his ears to hear it.
“Kill him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Fading Lands ~ Fey’Bahren
“You should have warned me.”
Rain smiled. “You should have known. It was the obvious outcome.”
Swimming was over, and Steli, who seemed to have adopted Ellysetta as her own kit, now held Ellysetta firmly between her forepaws and, like tairen mothers throughout the ages, was diligently licking her kitling dry. The tairen’s deep blue eyes gleamed happily, though Rain thought he detected a hint of mischief mixed in with the happiness.
Ellysetta accepted the maternal attention with patience and good grace, once she recovered from her initial shock. By the time Steli finished and blew puffs of warm air to complete the drying, Ellysetta was nearly purring. She leaned against Steli’s neck and stroked the tairen’s soft white fur. “Thank you, Steli.”
Around them, tairen lay basking on the broad, flat drying rocks that encircled the lake. The slow flap of drying wings sent warm breezes circulating through the chamber and rippled the lake’s glassy surface. The familiar warm scent of tairen filled Rain’s no
strils. It wasn’t the clean, light fragrance of the Fey, but something deeper and more complex. Fey smelled of blossom-filled meadows and spring breezes. Tairen smelled of the earth, rich and full of life.
Steli rose to stretch and yawn before settling back down and lifting her own wings to dry. Ellysetta ran her hands through her hair and winced as her fingers snagged on a tangle.
“If you come here, I will brush it for you,” Rain offered.
She glanced up, startled, then smiled when she saw a brush appear in his hand. “Magic can be convenient.” She walked over to sit beside him.
“Rain?” she asked as he methodically worked the brush through her curls. “What do you think I heard during the Fire Song?”
He paused in midstroke. “I don’t know, shei’tani. Sybharukai says you have the scent of old magic about you. Perhaps that allows you to sense what the rest of us cannot.”
She turned around. “What’s ‘old magic’?”
He sighed. “I don’t know that either. Sieks’ta. I should have answers, but all I have are the same questions as you. Sybharukai says the tairen will follow us to Dharsa and sing pride-greetings to the Eye of Truth in the hope it will give us more information than it has in the past. The Eye is tairen-made. Perhaps the pride can convince it to cooperate.”
“If that’s the case, why didn’t they do the convincing last time, when you asked it for help and it sent you to me?” There was a fierce light in her eyes. She hadn’t forgotten that the Eye of Truth had hurt him. Now he realized he probably should have kept that information to himself.
“Apparently, it wasn’t the right time.” The tairen were like that—mysterious and unpredictable—and Sybharukai often knew much more than she let on.
“But this is the right time?”
“So it would seem.”
Ellysetta’s lips pursed, but she nodded and turned back around. He plied the brush again.
“Rain?”
“Aiyah?”
“What happens if I can’t do what everyone thinks I can? What if the kitlings still perish, the Fey remain barren, and the magic continues to die in the Fading Lands?”