by C. L. Wilson
“Spirit weave,” Dorian had gasped into her ear as their hands had reached helplessly for each other. It was only thanks to Dorian’s Fey blood that he’d been able to withstand the call of the magic long enough to get them to the privacy of his bedchamber—but even so, he hadn’t been able to counter the weave or reduce its power. He, like she, had been a puppet dancing to the magic’s capricious command. They’d made love with fevered intensity for more than seven bells. Orgasm after orgasm, each one more shattering than the last. Every climax followed by an even deeper, more insistent burn.
Annoura’s throat closed up tight at the memory of it, and her heart pounded like a mallet in a chest that felt as if heavy stones were squeezing all the air from her lungs. As a princess of the Capellan royal House, she’d been sternly reared to assume command of any situation and never relinquish it. Yet last night, with a single weave of magic, the Fey had robbed her of every last illusion of control. She’d been powerless. Enslaved. Dominated and controlled by the magical will of another.
She sat up and drew her knees to her chest. Helplessness was not a feeling she understood, nor one she knew how to deal with.
Behind her, Dorian stirred. She felt the mattress shift as he moved, felt his hand touch her hip, his fingers curl possessively around her waist.
“Annoura?” His voice was raspy, thick with sleep. “Come back to bed, kem’san.”
She flinched at the Fey endearment and cast a glance over her shoulder. “Come back to bed?” she echoed in disbelief. “Surely you cannot want more mating after last night?”
He chuckled wryly and peeled open an eye. “Doubt I could summon the energy even if I did, my love. I just like the feel of you in my arms. It’s been too long since we woke together.” His hand stroked her waist, his thumb tracing a line up her spine.
Despite her aching soreness, she felt the nascent tingle of desire bloom in the wake of his hand. She’d never been able to deny him. Not from the first moment they’d met. Her eyes had locked with his, and from that moment on, she’d wanted him—his kiss, his love, his hands upon her, the joy of his smile making her feel as if she could fly.
Now, for the first time in her life, an ugly thought crept in. Had Dorian been working Fey magic on her all these years?
The possibility couldn’t be ignored. Powerful Fey blood ran in his veins. Ten generations ago, his ancestor Dorian the First had wed Marikah vol Serranis, sister of the shei’dalin Marissya and twin of Gaelen vel Serranis, the murderous dahl’reisen known as the Dark Lord. That marriage had introduced powerful Fey magic into the royal Celierian bloodline. Even now, diluted by ten generations, Dorian’s Fey heritage ensured he would live a life three times that of a normal Celierian. He was exceedingly healthy—common mortal ailments had never afflicted him—and he could weave Air and Spirit, though according to him he possessed less than a tenth the mastery of his magical kin.
Until now, she’d always believed him, always thought her devotion and desire were just natural byproducts of her love for him. But after last night, she had to wonder which feelings were her own and which were the result of Fey influence. Dear gods, could she have been enslaved by Dorian’s magic and never even known it?
“Come back, kem’sharra, let me hold you a while longer.”
She flinched away from his hand and rose from the bed. The long platinum mass of her hair tumbled down her back to just above her buttocks.
“Annoura?”
“The day is already half gone. The court will be wondering why we have not yet put in an appearance.” She stepped over the haphazard pile of discarded clothes she and Dorian had ripped from each other’s bodies last night and reached for the silk dressing robe her maid left out for her each evening. Annoura slid her arms into the sleeves. The thin silk helped make her feel less naked, less vulnerable. More herself.
She tugged the belt into a knot at her waist and turned to face her husband. He was propped up on one elbow, frowning at her.
“You need to think about what you’re going to do now, Dorian,” she said, pleased to hear the familiar sound of command back in her voice. “You cannot let this pass unpunished.”
He sat up, his frown deepening. “What are you talking about?”
“The Tairen Soul’s weave last night. He broke the terms of the Fey-Celierian alliance. He manipulated our minds and our bodies with his magic. You must make an example of him.”
“Rain didn’t spin that weave,” he said. “It was the girl, Ellysetta Baristani.”
Annoura stared in shock. “But she’s Celierian!”
“So am I, my dear. So is Teleos. That doesn’t mean we can’t weave magic.”
She caught herself before asking him if he’d ever woven magic on her. “Then you must make an example of her. She is still your subject, after all.”
“What purpose would that serve save to anger the Fey? The terms of the alliance don’t prohibit one Celierian from spinning a weave on another.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “Besides, I’m quite sure the girl didn’t know what she was doing. She’s a complete innocent. You have only to look at her to see it shining from her. I will not mortify that poor child by holding her up to the retribution and ridicule of the court for something she did after we got her drunk on too much wine.”
Annoura went stiff. “We got her drunk?” Had Dorian overheard her quiet command to her steward? Worse, did he know about the frightfully potent keflee?
“We were the hosts last evening, Annoura. The condition of the guests dining at our table is our responsibility.”
He didn’t know. Relief at his ignorance warred with outrage over his indifference. She glared. “That’s it? You’re just going to let this pass?”
He looked surprised. “Why would I not? What harm, really, was done to anyone?” His mouth curved in a slow smile. “You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy at least some of last night. And I can promise you there were at least half a dozen older lords who’d probably pay the girl a king’s ransom to…er…invigorate them that way again.” His smile became a roguish grin, but the expression faded quickly when she didn’t respond in kind. “Come now, my dear, you’re being entirely too tight-laced about this. It was an accident.”
“It was dangerous, Dorian! If she can do that, what else might she do?”
His face hardened. “The answer is no, Annoura. You will not attempt to punish the girl. If I know the Fey, they will find a way to accept responsibility for what happened so that any blame falls on them, rather than her.” He stalked around the bed to the crumpled pile of last night’s clothes and yanked on his wrinkled breeches. “And that, my dear, should made you very happy, considering your numerous attempts to discredit them.”
“Dorian!” She gaped at him in disbelief. How had he turned this around and made her out to be the villain? No matter what she’d done to foment last night’s weave, she was a victim of it! Her will had been usurped. Her pride and dignity trampled. The queen of Celieria had been enslaved by magic—and her husband the king would do nothing to avenge her! He saw it all as some humorous joke, some titillating farce.
Dorian tugged his full white silk tunic over his head, leaving the neckline gaping open to show faintly bronzed skin and the dark hairs sprinkled across his chest. He left the rest of his clothes where they lay. “Last night was a pleasure beyond words—at least for me. I regret you don’t share the sentiment. I will take my leave of you.” He bowed with perfect, studied grace. It felt like a slap across her face.
“Dorian.” Despite herself, she took a step towards him, one hand extended in supplication, but he was already walking out.
When the door shut behind him, her hand curled into a shaking fist. The Fey. Always, when he was asked to choose between the Fey and his own wife, he chose them. Never her.
The betrayal bit deep. She’d turned her back on her own family for him. She’d been raised for the sole purpose of wedding a royal husband and directing the strength of his kingdom to
further the power of Capellas. Only she hadn’t done that. She’d loved Dorian too much to see him become a pawn of her parents. She’d established her seat of power in his court, to be sure, but she’d used every ounce of her will to make Celieria strong enough never to need or fall prey to Capellan might. Thanks to her, Celieria now led the world instead of Capellas—and her parents had never forgiven her.
All she’d ever wanted in return was for Dorian to extend the same loyalty and devotion to her, but now she finally realized he never would. For Dorian, the Fey would always come first.
With that realization, the love she’d always felt for him died a little, and a cold, stony seed of resentment took root in her heart. Fear and betrayal hardened to anger and new determination. Dorian might cling to the old ways and hug close his childish trust in the Fey, but she would not. Annoura of Celieria, born a princess of Capellas, now the most powerful queen in all the world, would not allow the Fey and their cursed magic to lead Celieria about on a leash.
The Eld had offered an alternative—economic and military supremacy that did not include the Fey. More importantly, they possessed magic strong enough to thwart even Fey weaves should Dorian’s immortal kin object to Celieria’s independence.
While Dorian would do everything he could to see the Eld trade agreement defeated, Annoura was going to make sure that it passed.
CHAPTER THREE
Ellysetta’s morning passed with excruciating slowness. Each time one of the queen’s craftsmasters arrived she waited for the tittering whispers and sly, knowing glances that would indicate he’d heard about the weave at last night’s dinner—or, worse, heard she was to blame. To her surprise, the dreaded mockery never came. The craftsmasters went about their business with the same veiled arrogance and brisk dispatch as before. Either they had no idea what had happened, or they were taking great care not to show it.
Worse than the shame of last night’s weave, though, were the horrifying memories of the nightmare that had followed.
The pit of darkness. The rats, swarming around her, crawling over her, shredding her flesh from her bones with their sharp teeth and claws while the Shadow Man taunted, “Show yourself, girl.” The vast battlefield thick with the corpses of everyone she knew and thousands more she didn’t. The immense army, so huge it stretched beyond the limits of her vision, covering the world like an ocean of foul darkness. The chilling, sibilant voice hissing, “You’ll kill them all. It’s what you were born for.”
Horror after horror, the Shadow Man had shown her. Bel and her quintet, slaughtered, Mama, Papa and the twins, slain—their bodies a gruesome feast to be fought over by crows.
Worst of all had been Rain. Dead at her feet. The glow of Fey life extinguished forever, his beloved eyes gone milky in death. Even the memory of it made her shudder and cry out.
Just as she’d done last night.
That one, anguished scream of denial had been her undoing. A lifetime of hiding shattered in an instant, and she’d revealed herself—and her magic—to the Shadow Man.
Vividly she remembered the icy clutch of his hand clamped around her throat. His chilling triumph, as he crowed, “I see you…Ellysetta,” and threw back his black cowl to reveal his face.
That face was her own.
She was the general of the Shadow Man’s armies, the instrument through which he rained destruction on the World.
«Feyreisa.»
She was the evil creature who’d led the armies of darkness to slaughter her friends and family.
«Kem’falla.»
He’d claimed he was showing her the future. And even now, in the bright light of day, she was terrified he’d been telling the truth.
«Ellysetta!»
“Ellie?”
The sound of two voices calling her name in sharp unison snapped her back to the present. She shook off the specters from her nightmare and glanced up to find Mama and Ravel standing beside her, watching her with deep concern.
She suddenly realized the room seemed stiflingly hot, and the seamstresses surrounding her were fanning their flushed faces and wiping beads of perspiration from their brows.
«You are weaving Fire, Feyreisa.» Ravel watched her with an unblinking violet gaze, and she could see the subtle tension gathered in him.
That was when she felt the tingle of magic simmering inside her skin and realized the Air and Fire masters from Ravel’s quintet were actively weaving to dissipate the room’s quickly rising temperature. Ellie gave a quiet gasp, and the hum of magic within her fell instantly silent.
“Ellie,” Mama said again, “are you all right?”
Ellysetta glanced at her mother and forced a smile. “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was just lost in thought.” She flicked a glance at Ravel and repeated, «Sieks’ta. I didn’t realize what I was doing.»
Mama didn’t look convinced, but didn’t pursue the subject, and for the rest of the morning, Ellie worked hard to keep her thoughts from wandering. She was mentally exhausted by the time Ravel and his quintet escorted her and her mother to the Grand Cathedral of Light for the second of the six devotions required before Ellysetta could receive the sacrament of the Bride’s Blessing and marry Rain.
Outside the Baristani house, there was no sign of the protestors who’d gathered there in anger at the Fey presence. They’d been dispersed by the Fey and kept away by a redirection weave erected this morning in a four-block radius around the house. Beyond those barriers, however, the crowds had grown much larger and visibly more agitated. The Fey crowded close and raised dense, glowing shields around Ellysetta and her mother.
“Must they do that?” Lauriana muttered, glowering at the visible threads of the weave.
“It’s for our protection, Mama,” Ellysetta replied. “Rain did warn us that he wouldn’t be taking any more chances with our safety.”
“Though I commend the sentiment,” her mother huffed, “I don’t approve of the methods. Magic causes more problems than it solves.” Her jaw clenched. “And if these Fey think they’re going to follow me around everywhere I go, surrounding me in some great, shining sorcerous bubble, they can think again.” She scowled at the warrior closest to her. He merely gazed back without expression.
A few chimes later, they reached the golden bridges that connected Celieria City to the holy Isle of Grace, the small island in the middle of the Velpin River upon which the magnificent Grand Cathedral of Light was built. All white marble and gleaming gold-leafed roofs, the cathedral rose like a palace of sunbeams and clouds from the isle’s exquisitely manicured lawns and gardens.
Selianne Pyerson, Ellysetta’s best friend, who had agreed to serve as her Honoria during the Bride’s Blessing, was already waiting when they arrived.
Ellie hurried up the thirteen marble steps to greet her friend with a hug, a smile, and a searching look. “How are you, Sel?”
Fortunately, Selianne seemed happier today than she had at yesterday’s devotions. The darkest shadows of worry in her deep blue eyes had faded, and the smile she gave Ellie when they embraced was warm and genuine. “I’m fine, Ellie. Well,” she amended with a grimace and a flick of a glance at the sword-bristling warriors swarming over the isle, “as fine as can be expected under the circumstances.” Her eyes narrowed on Ravel and his quintet, and the hand clutching Ellie’s tightened. “Those aren’t the same Fey that were with you yesterday.”
“Don’t worry,” Ellie rushed to reassure her. “They’ve sworn the same oath not to read your thoughts or eavesdrop on our conversations. You can trust them,” she added when Selianne continued to look skittish. “Fey don’t lie, and they won’t betray a sworn oath.”
“If you say so, Ellie,” Selianne muttered, but she didn’t look very reassured.
Her fear was understandable. Sel was terrified the Fey—or, worse, Rain—would discover that Sel’s mother was Eld rather than Sorrelian as everyone believed. Considering Rain’s especially vehement loathing of his ancient enemies, even Ellie feared what he might do if he ever
discovered the secret.
Before Ellie could say anything else, a mocking voice announced from behind her, “Well, well. Ellie Baristani. Fancy seeing you here.”
Selianne grimaced and bent close to whisper, “Sorry…I meant to warn you.”
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Ellie turned to find her childhood nemesis, Kelissande Minset, standing just inside the cathedral entrance. She was staring straight at Ellie, her summer-blue eyes positively glacial while her lips curved in a cloyingly sweet, mocking smile. A handsome young nobleman stood at Kelissande’s side, looking haughty and rather brittle.
“Kelissande,” Ellie greeted.
Daughter of one of the wealthiest bankers in the city, Kelissande was dressed as finely as a noblewoman. Her gown was an elegant confection of blue watered silk, sapphires and diamonds dripped at her throat and ears, and on her left hand she wore a huge new diamond ring circled by several rows of small sapphires in varying shades of blue. Kelissande’s gaze swept over Ellie’s equally elegant saffron silk gown, and her smile tightened. “I see the Fey have been improving your wardrobe.”
Ellie returned a smooth smile, knowing Kelissande Minset could find no fault with Ellie’s appearance. “Actually, it was the queen who was kind enough to ask her dressmakers to attend me.” She saw Kelissande’s fingers clench and changed the subject. “I didn’t realize you attended services here.”
“Kelissande just got betrothed,” Selianne said. “She and her intended, Ser Challen Sonneval, were meeting with Greatfather Tivrest to plan their own wedding. Ser Sonneval, may I introduce my friend Ellysetta Baristani, who was herself recently betrothed to the Tairen Soul.”
“Ah.” The young nobleman finally spoke. His voice was a bored drawl, thick with affected court accents. “I had heard talk about the Tairen Soul and a woodcarver’s daughter.” Cold brown eyes swept over Ellie from head to toe. “Interesting.”