by C. L. Wilson
And it was Vadim, the High Mage, the visionary, who had devoted the last thousand years of his life to that aim so grand, so glorious that even now his enemies doubted he could ever succeed. Those doubters would soon bow down before his greatness. His ultimate triumph was at hand, and in just a few short bells, he would claim his prize.
Vadim smiled coldly at his too-proud captive. “What secrets, Lord v’En Celay? Are there so many that you don’t know the ones of which I speak?” Not waiting for a response, he purred the answer himself. “The child, Shan. The one you stole from me two decades ago. The one you and our lovely Elfeya somehow managed to convince me had no magic in her, though she’s been claimed as truemate by the Feyreisen himself. My child, Shan.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cold kiss. Bright steel. Sharp bite.
Black blood. Red death. My friend
Fey’cha.
—The Blade, a warrior’s poem by Evanaris vel Bahr
“I have worked a thousand years for victory, and you have tried to rob me of it.”
A whip of Earth lashed out, opening a slice of skin across Shannisorran v’En Celay’s back, adding another runnel of blood to the countless wet trails already there. The man who had once been named Lord Death barely flinched. Over the years, pain had become a familiar friend. If Vadim Maur flayed the very skin from his bones, Shan doubted he would do more than groan even while his body writhed. Except for Elfeya. It was agony for her to watch his punishment, and her agony wounded Shan in ways the High Mage’s worst blows never could. When he would have slipped forever into the hazy, sweet freedom of madness, she kept him anchored. The irony of it had not escaped him over the last centuries. In the true dichotomous nature of shei’tanitsa, she was both Shan’s greatest blessing and greatest curse.
Vadim Maur knew it and used that truth to his best advantage.
A lash made of Earth was both painful and bloody, unlike Fire, which cauterized the wounds even as it made them. Elfeya had never liked to see Shan’s blood running over his skin, not even before the Mage Wars, when most wounds had been slight nicks inflicted while he taught Fey younglings the complexities of the Dance of Knives.
«It looks worse than it feels, Elfeya.»
Love and sorrow flowed through him, healing and wounding all at once. «I know, beloved.» It hurt her to do nothing, not even take the edge off his pain, but they had long ago agreed that she should never attempt even the smallest bit of magic in the High Mage’s presence.
Not that it would matter much longer. The child’s true nature was stirring. The bonds he and Elfeya had placed on her were weakening just as the fear of her own magic they had regretfully instilled in her was waning. There was precious little time before she revealed what Shan and Elfeya had struggled so long to hide.
Rain Tairen Soul had claimed the girl as his truemate. He must protect her now that Shan and Elfeya no longer could. Shan had never known Rainier vel’En Daris well, but his father Rajahl had been a good man and a fierce warrior, a blade Shan had trusted at his back. Gods willing, his son would be the same, strong and fierce enough to face the Mages and win.
A sharp knife ripped into Shan’s side, and he convulsed in sudden, breathless pain. Vadim had tired of toying with him and had begun the torture in earnest. Elfeya’s silent scream made Shan’s soul howl.
He felt a distant, troubled stirring. An awareness forged between himself and the child by Vadim Maur’s darkest evil. Shan could usually block the link but he’d never been able to sever it, even when he knew firsthand the horrors it inflicted. He pulled back, holding the pain to himself and Elfeya alone, but the torture had only just begun. The pain would get far worse, and then he would not be able to keep his agony and rage from spilling over.
Oh, child, I am sorry.
The king’s carriage bounced over the cobbled streets. Inside the royal conveyance, Ellie sat alone, huddled in one velvet-cushioned corner, furious at the Fey for their ways, furious at Rain for not telling her. Furious at herself for not thinking enough to ask.
Every Fey tale she’d ever read was a story of balances. For every light, there was a shadow. For every smile, there was a tear. For every gift, a sacrifice.
If she did not complete the truemate bond, Rain would die. And Bel, with his too-ancient eyes and carefully hidden hope, would strike the killing blow, destroying both his best friend and his own salvation. Rain and Bel both accepted the possibility without question and without complaint.
Perhaps life was more precious to mortals because they had less of it to enjoy, but she didn’t want even one more person dying on her behalf. Certainly not Rain or Bel.
The carriage slowed as it pulled up before the Baristani home. A moment later, the door opened, and Bel helped her descend the narrow steps. She paused in the street to look up at the welcoming lights shining from the windows of her family home. Her parents were still awake, and the Fey hadn’t yet woven their twenty-five-fold weaves around the house.
As she approached the front door, the familiar reek of onions and bacon made Ellie’s back stiffen. She knew that odor.
“You look a fine slut, Ellysetta Baristani, all dressed in your fancy silks and satins.” Den Brodson stepped from the shadows.
Fey blades hissed out of their sheaths.
“No…it’s all right.” Ellysetta waved her guards back. They didn’t cover their steel, but neither did they dismember Den on the spot. What a shame the Fey hadn’t included an anti-Den thread in the Spirit weaves that kept the rabble-rousers out of the neighborhood. Since his parents lived nearby, he must be able to pass through the weave at will. She lifted her chin and met her former suitor’s sullen glare. “What do you want, Den?”
“The bride your dishonorable, betrothal-breaking rultshart of a father promised me would do, for starters.”
Ellysetta bit back a searing retort. With her strangely heightened senses, she could feel his anger, his hatred. His dark, acid emotions set her on edge. She struggled to remain calm. The evening had already been difficult enough without her adding to the disturbance. Still, she’d had more than enough of Den Brodson and his groundless claims. “My father is a fine and decent man. The betrothal was broken legally, in a court of law, and your parents are wealthy beyond their dreams because of it.”
“My father was bribed, his mind twisted by that Fey sorcerer’s tricks. There was nothing lawful about it.”
“Your father saw more gold than he would earn in a thousand lifetimes, and he grabbed it,” she corrected sharply. “There was no sorcery involved.”
“You bear my mark!”
“No longer.” She turned her head to show him her unblemished throat. “And I only bore it because of your deceit, so don’t bray on about Fey sorcerer’s tricks.”
Den growled a nasty oath and spat on the ground. “Their magic may have removed the mark, but we both know who claimed you first, Ellie.”
“Why did you want me as your wife in the first place? It’s not as though you ever harbored any feelings for me, except the thrill you got in bullying me when I was a child.”
“What do you know of my feelings?”
“Enough to know that you had no tender ones for me.”
“I would have treated you kindly.”
“Meaning you’d only have beaten me twice a week instead of daily.” Her unsettled emotions coalesced into anger, and she glared at him. “You’re a greedy little bully of a man, Den Brodson, with precious few kindnesses in you—if there are any at all. You’ve never loved anyone in your life, least of all me.”
“Love?” He barked an ugly, mocking laugh. “Is that what this is all about? You think the Tairen Soul loves you?”
If he’d meant to hurt her with that, he’d failed. “No, I know he doesn’t love me. But he needs me, Den, and that’s enough for now.”
“He doesn’t need you. He needs your magic and he needs your womb, Ellie, to breed more Tairen Souls for the Fey. The fact that you come with them is just a little incon
venience he’ll have to deal with to get what he wants. Keep that in mind on your wedding night.”
She laughed with genuine amusement. “Was that supposed to hurt my feelings, you pompous little bloat toad? Half the women in this city—including most noblewomen in court—would kill to have Rain show them a fraction of the devotion he showers on me. Do you honestly believe any woman would choose you when she could have the king of the Fey?”
His face darkened, and he took a threatening step towards her. “Petchka. No woman talks to me that way.”
He was on his back in the street before he moved another inch. Kieran knelt over him, a razor-sharp red-handled blade held at Den’s throat, icy menace gleaming from blue eyes that normally shone with laughter. “Little sausage, I’ve lost all patience with you. If you live past the next minute, you will never come near the Feyreisa or her family again. Do you understand?” When Den nodded very carefully, Kieran gave him a slight smile that was even more frightening than the deadly look in his eyes. “Kabei, a wise decision. A first for you, perhaps?” Without taking his eyes off his captive, Kieran asked, “What would the Feyreisa like me to do with this annoyance?”
Before Ellysetta could answer, the front door of the Baristani home opened, and Sol stepped outside. “What’s going on here?”
Ellysetta drew a deep breath. “Nothing, Papa,” she said. “Den just thought it might be a nice night to make trouble. Kieran has convinced him otherwise.” She met Kieran’s gaze. “Release him,” she ordered. “If he comes here again, take him to the palace and let the king’s justice deal with him.” She turned on her heel and climbed the stairs to enter the house, trying desperately to quell the fear rising inside her.
For one frightening moment when Kieran had asked what should be done with Den, a terrible voice deep inside her had responded, kill him.
“There’s no way Dorian can invoke primus now without risking open rebellion. Krekk!” Rain spun away and paced to the high, arched windows overlooking the carefully manicured acres of fountains and gardens at the rear of the palace. “I’ve been a poor Feyreisen. Too caught up in my own misery to do my duty.”
“Nei, Rain,” Dax countered. “If anyone is responsible for the deterioration of our relations with Celieria, Marissya and I are. We’ve come every year since the Mage Wars and never realized what was happening. We were too complacent, thinking vol Serranis blood in Celieria’s royal family would ensure our alliance.”
“You are not the Defender of the Fey. I am. The responsibility is mine.” His jaw clenched. “You and Marissya should leave tonight. Take a hundred men and go. Ellysetta and I will follow as soon as we can complete the marriage rites.” He gave a curt, humorless laugh. “At least her father agreed we could hold the ceremony tomorrow.”
“We’re not leaving until you do. We—” Dax frowned suddenly and turned to his truemate. “Marissya, you are not well?”
The shei’dalin had retreated to a chair in the corner of the room. She was rubbing her temples, her skin paler than usual. “There are too many strong emotions around me tonight. It has been very difficult to block them, and I haven’t managed as well as I’d like.”
Dax was at her side in an instant, curving his arm around her waist. “Shei’tani, why did you say nothing? Come lie down. You should rest.”
She patted his arm and smiled wearily. “There will be time enough for rest when we reach the Fading Lands.”
Concerned by the shei’dalin’s pallor, Rain added his insistence to Dax’s. “There is time now, Marissya. We can do nothing tonight to alter our course.”
“I don’t think I could sleep even if I tried. There’s too much anger, too much sorrow. Such pain…” She closed her eyes.
Rain and Dax exchanged a worried look.
«Marissya!»
«Rain!»
The blasts of Spirit hit Dax, Marissya, and Rain simultaneously, the urgency unmistakable: Talisa’s quintet calling for the shei’dalin, Rowan summoning his king. Rain, Dax, and Marissya bolted for the door and raced down the palace corridors towards Cannevar Barrial’s chamber.
The High Mage brought his whip down in a brutal blow, shredding flesh from bone.
Shan’s body arched, every muscle seized in agony. His scream was a roar that echoed off the carved rock walls of his prison. Beside him, sobbing, Elfeya screamed too.
Despite his best efforts, pain blasted beyond his control, screeching down the link that tied him to the unfortunate girl in Celieria.
Clad in a simple blue-gray nightshift, Ellysetta paced her room. Jeweled hairpins lay scattered like rain across her dresser, and her hair tumbled down her back in an unruly mass of curls and braids. Her silk ballgown lay crumpled in a heap in the corner, the golden Fey crown tossed carelessly atop it.
Kill him.
Except during her childhood exorcism, when pain had driven her to the brink of madness, she’d never consciously had such a desire in her life. Where had it come from? How could she ever have even thought such a thing, so coldly and with such frightening venom?
Kill him.
Dear gods, if her father hadn’t come outside, she might have given voice to the thought, and Kieran would have obeyed her. Den would be dead. At Kieran’s hand but by her command.
She pressed her hands to her temples. Her head hurt again. It was throbbing with a steady, squeezing pain that set her teeth on edge.
Without warning, agony slashed across her nerves, flinging her to the floor. She clapped her hands over her ears to block out the screaming, but the horrifying sound came from within and would not be silenced.
The attack didn’t last long, a handful of seconds at the most, and when it ended, Ellysetta scrambled to her feet and ran, racing down the stairs, past her startled quintet, and through the kitchen to the tiny walled garden at the back of her parents’ house. There she stopped, hemmed in, heart pounding. Desperately she dragged in deep gasps of cool night air and shivered as the clammy sweat that had broken out across her body evaporated.
Calm down, Ellie. Calm down and get control of yourself.
It was hopeless, of course. Once an episode started, nothing could hold back the violent seizures that ensued. Demon possession, the priests had proclaimed when she was a small child. Something not right in her soul had left a doorway for evil to gain access.
The sounds of fighting reached Rain’s ears long before he turned down the final corridor. He rounded the corner at a dead run to find Lord Barrial’s door barred by Talisa’s quintet, and scorch marks from blasts of Fire on the walls around them. Rowan lay dazed against one wall, and Adrial stood in a crouched fighting stance in the center of the hallway, teeth bared in a snarl, red Fey’cha in each hand.
Rain absorbed the entire scene in an instant and launched himself at Adrial. A five-fold weave spun from his fingers, knocking the venomous blades to the ground and melting them to harmless slag even as Rain slammed into Adrial. They landed hard on the marble floor. Adrial’s collarbone snapped and he grunted in pain, but Rain still pinned him with both muscle and magic. Fey warriors were taught from early adolescence to fight through pain, through debilitating and even mortal wounds, to keep fighting until their hearts no longer beat.
A sudden driving pain and shrieking roar in his ears made Rain gasp, and he almost lost his hold on Adrial. When had the younger man learned to do that? Quickly Rain wove a block, tight threads of Spirit barricading his mind from illusionary and mental attack.
Immediately Adrial struck again.
The air around Rain thickened, and a breathless feeling invaded his lungs. Adrial was weaving the oxygen out of the air around his king. Rain narrowed his eyes and growled a warning. “Careful, Fey, or you’ll make me do something you’ll greatly regret.” He rebuffed Adrial’s weave with a firm, steady push of his own. It wasn’t an easy task. The Fey’s mastery of Air was as strong as Rain’s own, perhaps even stronger since Adrial had spent his years honing his primary talent while Rain had worked to master five. But despite
that mastery, Adrial was wounded, his concentration scattered by the recent shei’tanitsa claiming.
Gaelen groaned. His head was pounding and he couldn’t be sure if the most recent fall had knocked him unconscious or merely dazed him. He opened his eyes and stared up at the narrow slice of starlit sky visible between the hulking buildings on either side of the dark alley. The twin stars of the Great Serpent constellation still shone almost directly overhead. He’d been merely dazed, then.
He took a breath and wished he hadn’t. Something was rotting in the darkness, and it wasn’t just him. He rolled over onto his hands and knees. A soft, bloated lump squished beneath one palm. All at once, his stomach revolted and his body convulsed in wracking heaves.
The spasms passed, the agony slowly faded, and his head drooped down between trembling shoulders. He panted in deep, uneven gasps.
If the Eld could see him now…the Dark Lord, weak as a babe, puking his guts up in a rank little alley. That would give those soul-twisted Mages a good laugh.
Gaelen started to wipe his mouth, then thought better of it when he caught wind of the better-to-remain-nameless muck coating his hands.
Gods, this was ridiculous. Pathetic. When he found the High Mage’s daughter, his stench would bring her guards down on him long before he got within range of attack.
He rose to his feet, wobbled, and slapped a hand against the dark wall to steady himself. His feet shuffled forward and he staggered out of the alleyway into the dimly lit streets of one of Celieria’s lower-class districts. Keeping to the shadows, he made slow progress through the narrow, winding streets. Old memories and instinct would have steered him towards the royal palace and Marissya, but he resisted the temptation of seeing his sister one last time. She was in the palace under guard of her chakor and close to a hundred Fey. In his current state, there was no way he would reach her alive to issue a warning. Nei, his first task must be to slay the High Mage’s spawn.