Lady of Light and Shadows

by C. L. Wilson

  Gathering his strength, he spun a swift query on a weave of Spirit and sent it arrowing south towards Celieria. The answer that returned several chimes later came from a young Spirit master Rain did not know well.

  «The Feyreisa is at the cathedral. The twenty-five-fold weaves have gone up. Marissya and Dax are with the mortals in the Council. Those weaves have gone up as well. Marissya said if you contacted us, we should tell you to hurry.»

  «I come,» Rain returned with grim curtness. The weave dissolved as soon as the last crisp word was sent. His hands clenched into fists.

  Ellysetta was safe, secured behind a powerful weave and protected by more than one hundred of the Fading Lands’ strongest warriors. The Council, however, was another matter. He’d promised her he would not let Celieria fall to the Eld. After his terrible betrayal last night, he was determined not to fail her again.

  He had to get back to Celieria City. Now. Without delay.

  Rain bent his knees and sprang into the sky. A frenetic cloud of gray mist and magic swirled around him. The familiar exultation of the Change shattered his senses, unmaking Rain, the Fey, scattering him to the clouds, then gathering him back up again as Rain, the Tairen Soul. Below him, the startled farmer in whose field he’d slept looked up from his plow, and in a small fenced pasture near his fields, a herd of cattle scattered in instinctive fear of the predator overhead.

  Rain circled the farm and the penned cattle. The Great Sun was already nearing its zenith, and he was still hundreds of miles away from Celieria City. He would need to fly as fast as he could to get there in time.

  He swooped down on the cattle pen once, twice, three times, thinning the small herd until his tairen belly was full, and then he swooped a fourth and final time over the haystack where he’d slept. Earth magic spun out, reaching deep into the rock below the field, finding what he needed and spinning it into his gift.

  «The Tairen Soul thanks you, Goodman,» he called out to the farmer. «I offer payment for your cattle and Fey blessings on your house.»

  Ropes of Air spun out behind him, generating a powerful tailwind that sent him racing across the Celierian skies at three times his normal speed. He swept through misty clouds like a gale, leaving them swirling madly in his wake.

  Behind, in the field he’d just left, the farmer and his family laughed and danced around a haystack with exuberant delight and threw fistfuls of haystraw into the air. Haystraw Rain had just transformed into purest, gleaming gold.

  Following opening remarks given by Lords Sebourne and Teleos and half a bell of ineffectual salvos fired by half a dozen lesser lords, Lord Morvel, one of Celieria’s twenty Great Lords, took the floor to address the Council. He began by reminding his peers of his initial, magnanimous gesture of goodwill and acceptance towards the Fey—and the reason for his subsequent change of heart. Then he proceeded to expound upon the many economic benefits of demilitarizing the northern borders and expanding Celierian trade.

  From her silver throne, Annoura listened to Morvel’s bombastic posturing with half an ear and kept a surreptitious eye on the door to the chamber, watching for any sign that Gaelen vel Serranis’s capture had been accomplished.

  “The borders have been all but silent for the last hundred years,” Lord Morvel concluded, his voice carrying easily across the length of the marbled chamber. “The Eld have extended the hand of friendship. Celieria must not cling to the narrow-minded exclusionism fostered by the fear mongering of the Fey and a few misguided Celierian lords.”

  A murmur of agreement rose up from several quarters of the room. “Really, Morvel?” Lord Barrial stood up in dissent. “The borders have been silent for a hundred years? Life must be quite idyllic over there in the east. Remind me to visit you when next I go on holiday.” Several lords laughed. Lord Barrial waited for them to quiet, then continued in a more serious vein. “Unlike my very fortunate friend Lord Morvel, in my lands we still see regular raids from the north. The Eld I know are not kindly guardians of Light, but fierce and deadly enemies. Even with constant patrols and the help of the dahl’reisen, I lost more than thirty villagers last year along the Heras River—men, women, even children.”

  “Grim news indeed, Lord Barrial,” Queen Annoura interrupted. “But how can you be certain the raiders are Eld? Witnesses from other estates say dahl’reisen are to blame.”

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I doubt dahl’reisen are behind the raids on my lands,” he replied. “Gaelen vel Serranis himself made it very clear not two months past that he could have walked past my safeguards and murdered me or any member of my family at any time of his choosing. And he has not done so.”

  “Ah, yes,” she murmured. “Gaelen vel Serranis, the Dark Lord. The same Fey who once thrust this country into a cataclysmic war that nearly destroyed the world. You would have this Council believe he is some tragic, noble guardian of the north, when all evidence speaks to the contrary. I have to wonder, Lord Barrial, if your blind faith in this Fey—who by all accounts is a murderous war criminal—has anything to do with the fact that you’re his kinsman?”

  The news brought the lords of the Council to their feet, voices raised in outrage.

  King Dorian lifted the Bell of Order from its velvet cushion and rang it forcefully. Lord Corrias snapped to attention beside the king’s throne. “Silence!” he called. “By the king’s command, there will be silence in the chamber.”

  “Lord Barrial,” Dorian commanded when the lords quieted, “please explain to the Council, as you have already explained to me, the exact nature of your kinship to Gaelen vel Serranis—a man who, I might add, is also my kinsman.” He shot a look at Annoura, who arched a brow without remorse.

  Lord Barrial bowed. “Thank you, sire.” Turning back to address the Council at large, he said, “Her Majesty is correct. It appears Gaelen vel Serranis is indeed my kinsman. Though like our king, I am not his direct descendant. I recently discovered that a man the family archives record as Jerion Dural—whose grandson Pollis became the diBarrial from which my line descended six hundred fifty years ago—was in fact Dural vel Serranis, cousin to Lady Marissya and Gaelen vel Serranis.”

  Annoura listened with only half an ear. A young clerk serving as a runner to the Council was hurrying along the perimeter of the chamber, clutching a small sealed envelope. She watched his progress from the corner of her eye. The note passed from the clerk’s hands to her Master of Affairs.

  “When did you learn that your ancestor was Dural vel Serranis?” Dorian prompted.

  “Just a few days ago, sire.”

  Lord Sebourne leapt to his feet. “Was that before or after the Fey tried to steal my son’s wife, Barrial? What have you agreed to?”

  “Leave my daughter out of this,” Cann shot back, “and don’t you dare impugn my honor or my loyalty.”

  “You’ve done that yourself! From the beginning, you’ve supported Fey interests over those of Celieria. What have they bribed you with? Eternal life?”

  “Must a border lord of Celieria now be bribed to defend the march? I do my duty, Sebourne! What of you and your cronies? Or has the glint of Eld gold erased all hope of reason?”

  Sebourne’s supporters once more leapt into the fray, pointing fingers and hurling accusations. Teleos and half a dozen others jumped up to rally round Cann.

  Annoura’s Master of Affairs handed her the clerk’s note. She cracked the seal and glanced at the three simple words scrawled on the parchment: We have him.

  She glanced back at Vale, whom she’d invited to serve in place of one of her regular attendants, who’d fallen ill. He was watching her, his vivid eyes intense. He gave a faint nod.

  The bell rang again. “Silence and be ordered!” This time Dorian barked the command himself. “Lords, take your seats and be silent!” When the nobles subsided into grumbling compliance, Dorian turned back to Cann. “Lord Barrial, where does your allegiance lie?”

  Cann stiffened his spine. “Where it always has. With you, sire, and with
Celieria.”

  “Have you now or ever accepted any form of payment or reciprocity from either dahl’reisen or Fey in return for political favors?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Have you now or ever put Fey or dahl’reisen interests above those of Celieria?”

  “Never, my liege. I am, first and foremost, a Lord of Celieria.”

  “Lord Sebourne, since you leveled the accusation, I will ask you directly: Do you have any evidence to prove Lord Barrial is in the service of the dahl’reisen or the Fey?”

  Scowling, Sebourne muttered, “No, sire.”

  “Then the only thing the revelation of Lord Barrial’s ancestry proves is that he and I are distant cousins. I will hear no further accusations against him without evidence. Not even by intimation.” Dorian’s gaze came to rest on Annoura.

  She arched a brow. “Then perhaps we would be best served directing our questions to Gaelen vel Serranis, himself.” She turned cold eyes on Marissya v’En Solande. “Since my guard just arrested him here in the city, in the company of Ellysetta Baristani and the Fey.”

  The Council Chamber erupted.

  A trio of white-robed acolytes emerged from the cleric-hall as Ellysetta rose from the cushioned bench before the altar of Adelis. The young boys filed up a small, spiraling stone staircase to a tulip-shaped balcony overlooking the luminary and began to sing.

  Their voices rose up like silvery beams, carrying freely through the cathedral’s vaulted nave, enhanced and amplified by its carefully engineered acoustics.

  “Stand, Ellysetta Baristani,” Greatfather Tivrest said, “and follow me to the luminary to offer Adelis your final devotions before the Bright Bell.”

  Gathering the folds of her linen skirts, she rose and circled round the altar rail to join the archbishop. As her fingers slid into his, she opened her senses and deliberately allowed his thoughts to flood into her. She even, gods forgive her, dared to skim his mind.

  A barrage of focused, determined thoughts greeted her probing. Shine your radiance upon her, oh, Lord. Banish the darkness from her soul. Guide her in the Bright Path and help her stand fast against the shadows. Shine your radiance upon her, oh, Lord. Over and over the thoughts were repeated, and the only image in the archbishop’s mind was of a bright, blinding light.

  What she’d been expecting, Ellysetta really couldn’t say, but she couldn’t find anything dangerous or threatening in his dedication to saving her soul.

  He led the way to the round, raised platform of the luminary and escorted her up the thirteen steps to stand on the large engraved golden medallion at the luminary’s center, directly below the cathedral’s great golden dome and the spire that housed the statue of Adelis. “Look up, daughter,” he said, “and let the glory of the Bright Lord illuminate your path.”

  She tilted her head back. Above her, the interior of the cathedral’s great dome had been painted to look like a summer sky, and the illusion was nearly perfect. A golden disk gleamed at the dome’s center. As she watched, a pinpoint of light formed at the center of the disk. It widened rapidly, and a beam of light shot down from the center of the dome, enveloping Ellysetta and the archbishop in a shower of golden-white radiance.

  “Kneel, daughter, and say your devotions.”

  Ellysetta knelt in the shining warmth of the luminary and felt her skin soak up the light. It tingled in her flesh, almost like magic. She closed her eyes and turned her face skyward towards the source high above. “Adelis, bless me. Keep me always in the Light. Shine your brightness on my path so I may never lose my way.” Help me, Lord, she added silently. Grant me the courage and strength to defeat the evil that hunts me.

  “Marissya, Dax, Annoura—in my private chamber. Now!” King Dorian surged to his feet and swept towards the private room at the back of the Council Chamber in a billow of ceremonial robes. Fury etched his every step as he stalked away. He barely waited for the door to close before whirling on the three of them. “Is it true?” He glared at his ancestral aunt and her mate. “Have you been harboring the Dark Lord here in Celieria City, beneath my very nose?”

  Marissya reached out. “Dorian, I—”

  “Answer the question, damn you! And don’t bother trying to weave peace on me. It will not work!”

  “He came last night,” Dax admitted. “But it’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not what?” Annoura challenged. “Aiding an enemy of the crown? Abetting the murder of innocent Celierian civilians? Or do you still expect us to believe that the Eld, not the dahl’reisen, are responsible for the Celierian deaths in the north?”

  Marissya and Dax exchanged guilty glances.

  “Oh, gods,” Dorian exclaimed. “He did do it. He did it, you knew it, and yet you said nothing.” He stared at the pair of them as if he’d never seen them before. All his life he’d adored and idolized his legendary Fey relatives. He’d loved them even more than he’d loved his own parents. All his life he’d believed in one absolute: the honor and truth of Marissya v’En Solande.

  “Dorian—” Marissya began.

  “Be silent!”

  “But, Dorian, the ones Gaelen killed were Mage-claimed. He swore it—by Fey oath, under shei’dalin touch.”

  For a moment Dorian’s disbelief wavered. Fey oaths were inviolable and could not be sworn on a falsehood. And a Fey oath sworn under shei’dalin touch ensured that not only the words but the spirit of the oath were honest and true.

  “A dahl’reisen swore a Fey oath?” Annoura sneered. “Under shei’dalin touch? Don’t take us for such fools.”

  Dorian’s jaw clenched. The brief moment of uncertainty was wiped away. “Annoura’s right, Marissya. As you’ve told us many times before, dahl’reisen have set themselves beyond the bounds of Fey honor. Any oath of theirs is meaningless. And even if it weren’t, the Fey would never let a dahl’reisen lay hands on a shei’dalin of the Fading Lands and live.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless all that has been a lie, too.”

  “Fey don’t lie,” Dax stated, glaring. “We may not tell you everything we know, but what we do reveal, you can be assured is truth.”

  “How can I believe that now? You’ve both just been caught in open deception.”

  “Gaelen did swear a Fey oath, Dorian,” Marissya interjected. “And he did swear it under shei’dalin touch—my touch. Ellysetta restored his soul. He is Fey once more.”

  Dorian gaped at her. “That’s not possible.”

  “Until last night, I would have agreed with you. Such a miracle is beyond a shei’dalin’s power—certainly beyond mine. But apparently, it’s not beyond the power of a Tairen Soul’s truemate.” She took a step towards Dorian. Tears shimmered in her blue Fey eyes. “Last night, for the first time in a thousand years, I stood in my brother’s presence. I embraced him. And I touched him with these hands”—she held up her hands—“while he swore a Fey oath that what he told us was true.”

  Doubt crept into Dorian’s eyes once more. She looked so earnest, filled with such profound joy, he wanted to weep himself.

  Annoura grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the shei’dalin. “Leave us, Fey!” she barked. “I will speak to my husband alone. Without your sorcery influencing him.”

  “Without my—?” Marissya choked back whatever words were on the tip of her tongue. She took a deep breath and visibly controlled her temper. “Dorian,” she said in a much calmer voice, “kem’jita’taikonos.” Grandson of my sister’s line. The appellation tugged at Dorian’s emotions. She hadn’t called him that in a very long time, not since he’d ascended the throne after his father’s death. “Everything I’ve told you is true. I would never lie to you, and I would never try to manipulate your thoughts. Everything I’ve ever done has been to protect and help you, as I protected and helped your fathers before you. As I hope to protect and help your sons after you.”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Dorian muttered, turning away from Marissya’s outstretched hands and entreating eyes. “Please, do a
s my queen says. Leave us.”

  Marissya’s fingers curled in loose fists, and her arms fell back to her sides. Dax put a hand on her shoulder. “Come, shei’tani.” He gestured. The door leading back to the Council Chamber opened, and he escorted her through.

  When they were gone, Annoura caught Dorian’s hand. “You know you cannot believe anything the shei’dalin said. She lied about the Dark Lord. She hid him from you, here in your own palace, the seat of your power. The place you call home. She did that even knowing her brother was murdering Celierians in the north. You can’t afford to fall for her shei’dalin tricks.”

  “But what if she’s telling the truth? Even if the Fey and the dahl’reisen are in collusion, what reason besides Mage-claiming would they have for killing Celierian peasants?”

  She gave a short laugh. “The treaty, Dorian. Think about it. Under your leadership, Celieria has prospered and grown strong. We have become the leading power in the mortal world. Yet the moment we consider signing a treaty that would give us independence from the Fey, Celierians begin dying in the north and Rain Tairen Soul appears after a thousand-year exile to stir up fears about a reconstituted Mage threat…a threat no one but he seems able to sense.” She moved closer and took his hands. “Fear is power, darling. As long as we fear the Eld, the Fey can keep Celieria under their thumb, reliant upon them.”

  Dorian had lived his life amidst the intrigues of the palace. Courtiers smiled and pledged friendship and loyalty while plotting behind one’s back. Everything Annoura said made sense, and if it were any other ally but the Fey, he would unquestioningly believe them capable of such machinations. But trusting the Fey was so ingrained in him, it was practically instinct now. Even when confronted with proof that threw all his beliefs into doubt, he didn’t want to think them capable of deception.

  Annoura caught his face in her hands and stared earnestly into his eyes. “I know how difficult this is for you, my love, but your country needs you to be strong. You must put aside your personal feelings for the Fey and consider what is best for Celieria. Banish the Fey from the Council Chamber so they can’t manipulate our minds,” she urged. “Have the guard bring Gaelen vel Serranis from Old Castle, bound in as much sel’dor as we can find, and let him stand for questioning by the Council. Let us discover all the facts, not just the ones the Fey want us to know. And then let the lords vote their conscience.”