by C. L. Wilson
Vadim moved around the room, murmuring a cleansing spell. When he was finished and satisfied that the room held no residue of previous spells, he grasped the small golden ewer that rested on the wide lip of the catch-basin, and filled it. “Water pure, the path to cleanse,” he murmured as he poured the water into the altar bowl.
From a deep left-hand pocket of his Mage robe, he withdrew a tiny vial filled with still-warm blood he had recently taken from a particular guest of his lowermost dungeon and uncorked it. “Blood to bindings call.” He dribbled a thin stream of the dark red liquid into the bowl. As it broke the water’s surface, the blood diluted rapidly, tiny red streamers shooting through the clear water until the bowl was filled with cloudy pinkness. With a razor-sharp black dagger, he slit the palm of his hand and added his own blood to the mix. His Mage senses grew sharp and he felt the dark, binding threads of magic that tied him to the blooded captive.
He tugged on the thin gold chain about his neck and withdrew the sparkling, dark, rainbow-hued Tairen’s Eye crystal that had been resting against his chest. The stone was not warm from contact with his skin as any other pendant would be but instead remained defiantly cool to his touch, rejecting him as its owner had done for centuries.
“Tairen’s Eye to forge the bridge.” He lowered the crystal into the water until it was completely submerged. The pink, bloodied water grew clear again as the Tairen’s Eye crystal at the bottom of the bowl began to glow and pulse like a heartbeat. Vadim dipped the small golden goblet into the altar bowl and drank. The pulsing beat of the crystal grew loud in his ears as his heart matched the rhythm.
“Azrahn these souls enthrall.” The High Mage of Eld closed his eyes. He stretched his open palms over the golden bowl. Azrahn gathered at his fingertips and spiraled upwards, a spider-silk-thin filament of darkness that pulsed with red lights keeping time with the beating crystal. Threads of Spirit joined it, wrapping the Azrahn in a protective shield, hiding it from Fey senses. The weave traveled up the tiny pipe that rose from the antechamber’s ceiling, through hundreds of layers of rock, into the fresh night air of Eld, then raced south towards Celieria with dizzying speed. His senses raced with it, shooting over forests, rivers, and towns until he reached the glowing brightness of Celieria’s capital city.
And there, as his body stood vacant and chilling half a continent away in Eld, High Mage Vadim Maur began softly to croon, “Are you she, girl? Are you the one? Show yourself.”
Well into the night, Ellie drifted in a fretful sleep, tossing and turning as she dreamed of flames and magic and horrible battles where blood flowed in rivers. The scenes changed. Shadows dimmed her vision, and a cold, frightening fog covered the world. Within the fog, something stalked her, calling to her, beckoning with familiar malevolence.
Fear gripped her, the certainty that whatever she did, she must never reveal herself to that crooning evil. Hide deep and well. Do not let him find you.
A strong breeze from her open bedroom window blew across her face. In a half-waking state, she imagined a shadow falling across her. She tensed with sudden fear, then sighed her relief as a tender hand brushed hair from her eyes. Her eyelids fluttering with the effort to open, but a kiss feathered across her brow and a soft-spoken caress of words soothed her. Deep, restful sleep finally overtook her and she sank into it willingly.
Crouched on the floor beside her bed, surrounded by a weave of Spirit to make himself invisible, Rain Tairen Soul watched over his truemate as she slept.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ellie woke to yet another pounding headache and the feel of something soft yet bristly brushing against her cheek. Her eyes opened, and she rose up on one elbow to find a vibrant blue feather on her pillow. It was easily as long as her forearm, with a tuft of navy down at its base and iridescent pink glimmers along its edges. The feather had come from a kolitou, a very rare species of bird that lived in the most inaccessible reaches of the Tivali Mountains bordering Elvia to the south. Hundreds of years ago, before craftsmen had perfected the delicate metal pen nib for writing instruments, the kolitou feather had been the quill of choice for kings due to its rare beauty and the danger involved in acquiring it.
Ellie had no idea why the feather was on her pillow, though she had a fairly good idea who had put it there. Climbing high enough to locate a kolitou aerie was risky for men, but it wouldn’t be difficult for a Tairen Soul.
There was an old Celierian proverb: Mind what you pray for, the gods may grant it. She had prayed for someone else, anyone else but Den. She’d been hoping for a nice, quiet man like Papa. Instead, the gods had sent her the man who’d scorched the world.
The Feyreisen terrified her. He wore the promise of death like a cloak, and dread magic all but crackled around him. Yet even as her heart quailed, he drew her as no man ever had. Already, after only two brief meetings, he was like an addictive potion in her blood. She hungered for the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, the tingle in her skin when he was near. She didn’t believe it was mind control, as Selianne feared. After all, what could Ellysetta Baristani possibly have that the King of the Fey would want?
She wasn’t fool enough to think Rain Tairen Soul loved her just because he claimed she was his truemate. The man whose consuming, tragic love for the Lady Sariel was still celebrated throughout Celieria would not lightly cast aside the memories of his dead wife and set in her stead a young, unremarkable mortal stranger.
But Ellie also knew enough about the legends of the truemate bond to know it only formed where deep, abiding love could blossom. The temptation of knowing a love so deep, so complete, so unconditional, was a powerful lure that appealed straight to her deepest, most secret desire. Plain, awkward, simple Ellie dreamed of love. Not the gentle, friendly love that could eventually grow between two people joined in an arranged marriage, but the boundless, passionate love that only happened in Feytales.
She brushed the pink-shimmered kolitou feather across her face, remembering the feel of Rain’s hands doing the same. Impulsively she kissed the feather, then tucked it with care into the top drawer of her dressing table and hurried to get dressed.
Outside, Fey minds murmured to one another in approval. It was a fine first gift, and the Feyreisa had accepted it. The courtship had begun.
At half past seven bells, as the Baristani family broke their fast in their tiny kitchen, a knock sounded at the front door.
“I’ll get it,” Sol said. He swiped at his lips with his napkin before tossing it on the table.
Curious as to who would call so early in the morning, Ellie followed him to the front door. She and her father both froze in surprise at the sight of a royal messenger standing on the doorstep, impeccably garbed in expensive gold-embroidered livery.
The man gave a brief bow. “You are Sol Baristani, master woodcarver?” he asked.
Her father swallowed and cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Father of Ellysetta Baristani?” The messenger’s gaze flickered to Ellie before snapping back to her father’s face.
Papa’s gaze did the same. “Yes,” he said, a little more slowly this time.
The messenger clicked his mirror-polished black heels and bowed again, a half bow rather than the previous quarter. “Then it is my honor, privilege, and duty, Master Baristani, to present you with this summons to the royal palace.” He held out a rolled parchment tied with a blue satin ribbon and sealed with a large glob of gold wax bearing the crest of the royal family of Celieria. “You and your family are to make your appearance by ten bells today.”
Papa cracked the royal seal and unrolled the parchment. His eyes scanned the contents rapidly. “There is no reason noted for the summons.” He looked up at the messenger. “Why is our presence requested?”
“It is not my place to know, Master Baristani. I have been instructed to wait for you to prepare yourselves, and then to convey you to the palace. A coach has been provided.” He waved at the covered coach waiting in the street. It was a massive vehicle, pain
ted a rich Celierian blue buffed to a high gloss. A team of six matched grays stood patiently in their harnesses. The royal coat of arms was emblazoned in gold on the sides of the coach.
“I see. Then shall I assume this request is more in the way of a royal command?”
The messenger bowed again.
“Well.” Papa rubbed his chin the way he always did when gathering his thoughts. “Give us a bell or so to ready ourselves. You are welcome to wait in the house.”
The messenger eyed the Fey warriors standing like dark shadows behind Ellie’s father and declined. “Thank you, Master Baristani, but I shall await your convenience outside.”
Papa closed the door and turned to Ellie. “First the Fey, now a royal summons. I can’t help believing they are related, Ellie girl.”
She said nothing. What was there to say?
“Lauriana! Come quickly, my dear.” Sol strode into the kitchen in search of his wife. The sudden commotion of chairs scraping back from the table marked the moment when he announced the surprising news. Her parents and sisters rushed out of the kitchen.
“Why are you just standing there, Ellie?” Mama demanded, herding the twins up the stairs. “We’ve barely time enough to get decent, let alone fit for an audience with the king.”
“I’ll be right up, Mama.” Ellie waited until her family had hustled upstairs before she met Belliard’s impassive gaze. “This is the Feyreisen’s doing, isn’t it?” she asked. His head inclined slightly. “Well, I wish he’d given us a little more notice. I have nothing suitable to wear for a visit to the royal palace.” Was that almost a smile that twitched at the corner of the stone-faced Fey’s mouth?
“The Fey can provide you a gown worthy of a queen.” He gestured, and Ellie’s plain homespun dress became a dazzling court ball gown of shining ivory fabric, cascading with blond lace fine as a spider’s web, and sparkling with thousands of tiny jewels.
Stunned, Ellie touched the jewel-encrusted bodice and the billowing skirts. It was incredible. It was dazzling. It was…she frowned…an illusion? Though she could feel the cool, slippery satin beneath her fingers, the hard pebbles of each tiny jewel, even the crush of a corset pulling her waist in tight, something told her the dress wasn’t real.
“It’s beautiful,” she told Belliard. “But it’s not real, is it?”
His eyebrows actually inched higher. She had managed to surprise him. “No, it is made of Spirit, but you should not be able to detect the difference between my weave and a real gown.”
“Spirit?”
“The magic I used for the weave. It is a mystic, not an elemental, magic. It works on the mind, not the physical. My command of Spirit is exceptional.” There was a stiff tone to his voice, something that sounded very much like bruised masculine pride.
“I’m sorry.” She tried to make amends. “It’s a wonderful job, really. All my senses are telling me it’s real.” Without thinking, she reached out to pat his hand, and the Fey’s board-stiff back went even stiffer.
Behind Belliard, blond Kiel coughed loudly into his hand while the brothers Adrial and Rowan studiously inspected the ceiling. Brown-haired Kieran’s tiny smile was now wide and gleaming with white teeth, and his blue eyes danced with open amusement.
The gorgeous gown winked out of existence.
“I do not command Earth,” Belliard told her in stilted tones. One might have thought he was confessing to some terrible, humiliating affliction, like having the uncontrollable urge to dress in women’s clothing and dance beneath the light of the Mother on All Spirits’ Eve. “Kieran”—he gestured to the brown-haired Fey—“controls Earth admirably. A gown made of Earth is real. He can make for you what I cannot.”
Ellie could never bring herself to hurt this proud, solitary Fey’s feelings by rejecting his offer and accepting that of another. She’d already unwittingly hurt him quite enough. She shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but no. I’m not Ashleanne the hearthminder, wearing her Fey gift-father’s gown to the ball. I’m just plain Ellie Baristani, woodcarver’s daughter. I would feel silly and uncomfortable trying to be someone I’m not.” She turned to climb the stairs.
“Ellysetta Baristani.” Belliard’s voice caused her to stop and turn back around. “Even should you clothe yourself in rags and dirt, you would bring honor to the Fey.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. Those were quite possibly the nicest words anyone had ever said to her. “Thank you.”
He was so proud, so sad in his aloneness and the dark sorrow that drowned all light in his eyes. She had thought him frightening and incapable of gentle feelings, and he had just proved her utterly wrong. Sorry for her part in hurting him, wishing she could take the shadows from his eyes, she reached out to touch his face, her fingertips gentle against his cheek and jaw. “I pray the gods grant you the peace and happiness you deserve,” she whispered, meaning it with every fiber of her being. Her flesh tingled, and he flinched beneath her hand, his eyes widening.
To her amazement, Belliard vel Jelani dropped to one knee, bowed his head, and in a shaking voice declared, “Of my own free will, Ellysetta Baristani, I pledge my life and my soul to your protection. None shall harm you while in life or death I have power to prevent it.” He drew one of the small, black-handled knives from the straps across his chest and slit his palm. Fisting his sliced hand, he held it over the blade and allowed six drops of blood to fall on the shining steel. “This I do swear with my own life’s blood, in Fire and Air and Earth and Water, in Spirit and in Azrahn, the magic never to be called. I do ask that this pledge be witnessed.”
“Witnessed,” Kieran agreed, his smile gone.
“Witnessed,” the other three Fey echoed with like solemnity.
The blade in Belliard’s hand flared bright for an instant. He rose to his feet and offered Ellie the knife, hilt first. “Your shei’tan will always be your first protector,” he told her, “but know that I will always be your second. So I have sworn. So it is witnessed. Take this Fey’cha as proof of my oath and keep it with you always. If you ever have need of me, simply let a drop of your blood touch the blade. No matter where I am or what I am doing, I will know you need me, and I will come.”
She took the knife with hands that shook. “I don’t pretend to know all your oath entails, but I know you have done me a great honor. I will strive to be worthy.” She turned to hurry upstairs.
When she was gone, Belliard turned to his brother warriors. Tiny, nearly imperceptible tremors were shaking his body. He touched his cheek, still feeling the warmth, the very subtle yet incredibly strong power that had moved from her fingertips to him.
He had so much death on his soul that all but the strongest women among the Fey had avoided touching him centuries ago, unable to bear the pain of his sorrow, the ruthlessly self-enforced emotionlessness, and the dark burden of the lives he’d taken to protect the Fey. Even the shei’dalins only touched him when they needed to heal wounds he gained in battle. Yet this child, this incredible child whose soul called a tairen’s, had reached out to touch him and sent a flood of healing warmth and love so strong that it burned straight through the block of black ice that encased what remained of his gentle Fey emotions.
He looked at Kieran, Kiel, Rowan, and Adrial. They could not feel what he felt, but they could hear his thoughts, and as Fey warriors they would understand. «My heart weeps again,» he told them, nodding when their faces mirrored his astonishment. «She is more powerful than any of us suspected.»
Aloud he added, “She’s no Celierian. On this I would stake every blade I own.”
Queen Annoura strolled down the stone walkways that wound through the palace’s vast, manicured gardens. She’d woken early to greet the Tairen Soul and attend to the most pressing of her day’s correspondence while breaking her fast. Duty would call her to service again soon, but she refused to forgo the pleasure of her regular morning walk.
The members of her Queen’s Court followed a few paces behind, noble young Sers and Seras chosen
as much for their beauty as for their family connections. Annoura was no insecure queen forced to fill her court with Drabs in order to look beautiful by comparison. She was herself a Brilliant, and she insisted on surrounding herself with nothing less than Dazzles to set off her own beauty to its best advantage.
Of course, she also had her inner circle of Favorites, the small knot of courtiers selected as her confidants for their wit, shrewdness, political connections, and loyalty. Chief among her current circle was the delicious, sultry-eyed Ser Vale, a breathtakingly handsome nobleman whose palpable aura of sensuality made Annoura envy ladies for whom infidelity was not an act of treason. He’d joined her court as a Dazzle late last fall, but his entertaining wit and keen intelligence had raised him swiftly to her inner circle.
He walked beside her now, elegant as always, his hair powdered the same pale blue as his form-fitting silk breeches and matching gold-and-silk-embroidered velvet doublet. He wore an alluring scent today, something deep and mysterious, teasing Annoura with hints of wicked, forbidden pleasure.
He was not at all impressed with the news of the Tairen Soul’s truemate. “A woodcarver’s daughter, My Queen? A commoner?”
“The Fey do not share our appreciation for the purity of noble bloodlines, Ser Vale, you know that. The Tairen Soul claims she is his truemate, and he will not give her up.” She kept her voice low, her words private between them. “The girl is betrothed to another and bound by a claiming mark, yet he insists we set aside her lawful marriage contract.”
“It is an outrage against Celierian sovereignty. The king will, of course, refuse.” There was earnest surety in his voice and in his thickly lashed blue-green eyes.
“No,” she said. “I doubt that he will.”
“You cannot mean it!” Vale stopped in his tracks, drawing the attention of the surrounding courtiers. “Surely His Majesty would not truly allow this…this Fey sorcerer to install a peasant—one of your own subjects, no less—as his queen? To raise up a common woodcarver’s daughter as the equal of you, Queen Annoura of Celieria, in whose veins flows the world’s most noble royal blood?”