by C. L. Wilson
“Nei, do not apologize.” Rain could barely restrain himself from reaching for that hand and putting it back on his skin. His fingers itched to do so, and he clenched them into fists. He craved her touch, ached for it as only a Fey warrior could. But admitting to his need was the same as admitting a weakness, something a Fey rarely did willingly. “I was merely surprised. You may touch me if you like.” But she didn’t lay that sweet hand upon him again. He cursed his own unguarded reaction that had cost him such a small but much-desired pleasure and wondered how he might contrive to get it back. He bent his head to her, his gaze intent as he willed her to touch him again. To his disgruntlement, she did not.
Laughter sounded in his mind. Laughter he recognized but had not heard in any form for centuries.
«Bel?» He turned to his old friend in disbelief. Though to most, the solitary Fey would still appear blank as a wall, Rain knew better. Bel’s dark eyes glinted with amusement, and the grim stoicism of his face was less pronounced. There was even the faintest crinkling at the corners of his eyes—humor struggling to find expression.
«If you could see yourself, Rain. Pouting like a tzicaida whose lunch just got away.» The corner of Bel’s mouth actually twitched. «You could always just command her to put her hand back on you.»
Despite his amazement over Bel’s incredible rediscovery of levity, Rain scowled. To issue such a command would be to admit he could not win his desire any other way. It would be the same as admitting defeat, another thing no Fey warrior would ever willingly do. Nei, he was tairen enough to be crafty, to lure his shei’tani into giving willingly that which he desired, without revealing to her how badly he desired it. «You babble like a child, Fey.»
«Aiyah, but then the babblings of a child so often hold truth, My King.»
«What has happened to my fierce friend Bel?»
«Your shei’tani, thank the gods.»
Rain’s scowl was immediate, the hand reaching for a Fey’cha instinctive, though before Rain could pull the blade free, Bel’s quick denial sounded in his mind.
«Nei, nei. Nothing like that! By the Flame, Rain, no Fey would dare.» In an odd tone, torn between shock and something that almost sounded like hurt, Bel added, «Red, Rain? You would pull red against me?»
Rain’s gaze darted to the scarlet Fey’cha handle his fingers still clutched. With an oath, he snatched his hand away. «Forgive me, Bel.» All Fey steel was tempered in Fire and imbued with magic as a result, but red Fey’cha daggers were doused in tairen venom as they were forged, making them deadly poison, even to Fey. Fey did not pull red against other Fey. To actually attack another Fey with red was a banishing offense. «These…feelings…drive me mad. I cannot think.»
«Peace, Rain. This is a difficult time for any Fey, you more so than others.»
Rain nodded curtly and lifted a hand to run his fingers through his hair, only to stop when he realized what he was doing. To continue showing his distraction was yet another sign of discipline unraveling. He forced his hands down and extended an arm to his shei’tani. “Come. We are through here. I will escort you and your family home.”
When Ellysetta would have linked her arm through his in the Celierian fashion, he stopped her. “Nei. In time of need, I would lose time untangling my arm from yours.” He took her hand, straightened her fingers, and laid them on his wrist, bathing in the pleasure of her touch and ignoring the sound of Bel’s laughter in his mind the whole while. “This is the Fey way. My hands and arm are free should I need to call steel or magic to your defense.” In a flash, he had an unsheathed black Fey’cha in his hand. “You see?”
She eyed the naked blade with obvious worry. “You think there will be trouble here? In the palace?”
His lips thinned. “Trouble has begun here before.” He regretted the fear that sprang to her eyes, but he could not lie to her. Outside the Fading Lands, danger was never far from the Fey. She must learn that and be wary enough to watch for it. Still, she was his truemate, and it was his duty to keep her from harm and worry. “Will there be trouble today, shei’tani? I doubt it. But we must always be on guard.” He sheathed the blade and extended his arm to her again. “Come. Let us walk. I will send the Fey to bring your sisters to us.”
Before taking his arm, she adjusted a golden chain at her waist and curled the fingers of her left hand around the black hilt of a blade sheathed at her hip. Only then did she place the fingers of her right hand on his wrist in the manner he had taught her. If there were to be danger, she and her Fey’cha would be ready for it. Even as the gesture took him aback—no Fey woman would ever lift a blade against a living creature—gentle amusement and pride mingled inside him. His Celierian shei’tani might be foreign and far too young, but her spirit was fierce. She would not cringe from the possibility of trouble; she would meet it with steel.
As Rain, Ellysetta, and her parents made their way through the palace, Rain looked more closely at the dagger in his shei’tani’s grasp. His brows climbed skyward as he recognized the identifying mark carved into the black pommel. “You have made a conquest, I see.”
She blushed faintly. “Belliard gave it to me,” she admitted. “In some sort of Fey ceremony. He said I should always look to you to be my first protector, but that he would always be my second. It’s all right that I accepted the knife, isn’t it?”
“Aiyah,” Rain agreed, frowning. Bel had blood-sworn himself to her?
«That’s what I was trying to tell you, Rain. She touched me and wished me joy, and now my heart weeps again.»
«What?» What Fey warrior wouldn’t blood-swear himself to a woman who could lift the weight of centuries of death from his soul with a single touch? But who was his shei’tani that she would have such power? Even Marissya—the strongest of the Fey shei’dalins—could not work such a miracle.
Rain turned to Ellie’s parents. “Is there a history of magic in your families? Fey blood, perhaps?” Fey had intermarried with Celierians in the past.
Sol shook his head. “No, Laurie and I are both pure mortal. Simple folk from simple stock.”
“Not so simple. You have produced a Tairen Soul’s shei’tani. That has never been done before in all of Fey memory.”
The Baristanis looked at each other, then back at him. “Oh, no,” Sol informed him. “Ellie’s our daughter, but she’s not of our blood.” The woodcarver quickly related the tale of how he and his wife had found the infant Ellie in the woods of Norban, a week’s journey north of the Celierian capital.
“There was no sign of a parent? Nothing to identify where she came from?”
Sol shook his head. “Nothing except a note asking someone to take her. She was just there, sitting under a tree. I don’t think she’d been there very long when Laurie found her. She was awake, but she wasn’t crying.” He smiled fondly at his adopted daughter. “She was a solemn little waif with big green eyes and the brightest hair you’ve ever seen. Laurie and I didn’t think we could have children, so we took her in. Not that we had much to offer. Poor as mice we were. My hands had been crippled in an accident. I didn’t think I’d ever carve again.”
“But your hands have healed.”
“Yes,” Sol agreed, grinning and flexing his fingers. “Better than ever.”
“And the little girls with the brown hair? Are they adopted also?”
“No. Lillis and Lorelle are ours. Ellie’d been with us almost fifteen years when we were blessed with the twins. She was almost as happy as we were. She’d been wanting her own little sisters to love.”
“You enjoy good health?”
“The best. Hardly ever even get the sniffles.”
“And good fortune.”
“We do well enough. We’ve never been rich, but we’ve never lacked for anything either. And now that we’ve received a royal commission, we’ll not lack for money to dower our girls. We’re simple folk with simple needs. And we’re happy. That’s all that really matters in the end, isn’t it?”
“Aiyah,” Rain murm
ured. “Happiness is a fortune beyond compare.” He glanced at Bel and the other Fey and saw comprehension dawning in their eyes. «Bel, send two men to Norban. Perhaps someone there knows more.» Bel nodded, and Rain turned his attention back to Sol and Lauriana. “So, you took in an abandoned child. After that, your hands, which were crippled, were healed. Your wife’s womb, which was barren, bore fruit. You have enjoyed excellent health and happiness, and you’ve never lacked for anything you truly needed. And when you needed a little more, you received a royal commission. Have there been any other small miracles since you took her in? Any other dreams that have come true?”
“We’ve always said she was our good luck charm, but surely you’re not implying that Ellie…No. These are coincidences. Nothing more.”
“Any one on its own might be a coincidence. But taken all together, with Ellysetta also being a Tairen Soul’s shei’tani, it can be no coincidence.” The slender hand covering his wrist jerked. Rain caught it in a loose grip before she could pull away.
“What are you saying? That she’s Fey?” Sol asked.
“Fey? Possibly. Magic? Most definitely.”
With a yank, Ellie pulled her hand free, crossing her arms and stuffing her hands in her armpits where he could not reach them. “I’m not magic. There’s not a magic bone in my body. If there are miracles here, it’s the work of the gods, not me.”
“Do not fear what you are, shei’tani. It is a wondrous thing.”
“No. I’m Celierian. Just plain mortal like my parents. I’m no different than they are.”
“Las. Peace, Ellysetta. I do not mean to upset you.” The frightened, almost frantic look in her eyes reminded Rain of the desperate fear that radiated from an animal as he swooped upon it in tairen form. “I don’t understand why you would fear your magic so.”
“What Celierian wouldn’t?” That bitter question came from Lauriana. “How many magic-blighted forests do we have, thanks to you and the rest of your kind? How many dark places to trap unwary travelers?” Her mouth turned grim. “Sol and I both knew what it meant when we found Ellie abandoned in the woods. She was born in the dark lands, infected with magic left over from the Mage Wars. But neither of us could bear to leave a child to die, so we took her in and did our best to raise her in the Light and keep her safe from magic and magical creatures.” She gave her husband a hard look.
“You were compassionate, indeed, to take her in despite your fears,” Rain replied. “But rest assured, she possesses no mere remnant of magic, dark or otherwise. Her power is bright and shining and very strong.” It had to be, or she could never have reached Bel’s heart.
“Arrogant Fey rultsharts. Think they can come in and take whatever they want. Thrice-damned soul-scorched sorcerers.” Den Brodson sat at the bar of the Charging Boar pub and glared into his nearly empty pint of dark ale. “Another pint of Red Skull, Briggs,” he growled as he downed a swallow of what was already his third pint in half a bell.
“Make that two.” The smooth, accented voice behind him brought Den’s head around for a quick, assessing glance. The newcomer, a foreigner wearing a blue sea captain’s coat, smiled slightly and gestured to the barstool beside Den. “May I?”
Den shrugged. “As you like.”
The man straddled the barstool. “I couldn’t help overhearing your story. The young woman claimed by the Tairen Soul—she was yours?”
“My betrothed. At least she was until that damned Fey sorcerer stole her from me.” Den flicked another appraising glance over the foreigner, noting the man’s oiled curls, woven with gold rings, and the dark blue tattoo in the shape of crossed swords high on one sun-bronzed cheek. “What’s it to you?”
“A matter of interest. And perhaps a problem I can assist you with.”
“What makes you think I need any help?”
The man held Den’s gaze steadily, and for a moment, Den glimpsed something hard and dangerous in the man’s vivid blue-green eyes. Then the man blinked, and said mildly, “Perhaps I misunderstood you earlier. I thought you wanted the woman back.”
“I do.”
“Then do not be foolish. A powerful immortal has claimed your woman, and the courts have upheld his claim. You cannot possibly hope to stand against him unaided.”
Briggs approached with two pints in hand. The foreigner pulled a money purse from an inside pocket of his coat and extracted a gold coin. “Shall I buy this round?”
Den shrugged again, his eyes watchful. “I never turn down a free pint.”
The man smiled, revealing impressively white teeth. He tossed the coin to Briggs, then held out a hand to Den. “The name’s Batay. Captain Batay. I sail a merchantman from Sorrelia.”
“Den Brodson.” Den shook the captain’s hand. “And just how, exactly, do you think a Sorrelian merchantman can help me best Rain Tairen Soul?”
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Goodman Brodson?”
Without taking his gaze from the Sorrelian, Den called over his shoulder, “Briggs, is the back room open?”
“It is,” the bartender replied. “Help yourself, Den.”
Den led the Sorrelian to a small, private room at the back of the pub. As the door closed behind them, he turned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well? How can you help me?”
Captain Batay smiled. “Not I alone, Goodman. I am but the humble servant of a very powerful man. But first, as a gesture of your goodwill—” He pulled a small oval object from his pocket and held it out. The mirrored surface appeared cloudy at first, but then an image began to form in the misty glass. A wizard’s glass, Den realized, used for scrying and for recording images. “—tell me everything you know about this woman.”
The wizard’s glass was clear now, and the image of Selianne Pyerson, Ellie’s best friend, stared up at Den from the crystalline surface.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My beloved is the sun
And I am the earth that thrives only in her warmth.
My beloved is the rain
And I am the grass that thirsts for her quenching kiss.
My beloved is the wind
And I am the wings that soar when she fills me with her gentle strength.
My beloved is the rock
Upon which rests the happiness of all my days.
—The Elements of Love, a poem by Aileron v’En Kavali of the Fey
That evening, two bells before sunset, Rain presented himself in full ceremonial splendor at the door of Sol Baristani’s humble home. Marissya and Dax accompanied him, along with Marissya’s quintet and another five Fey warriors carrying several chests.
After introducing Marissya and Dax, Rain bowed to Sol Baristani. “This is how I should have begun, Master Baristani,” Rain said. “In the Fading Lands, a man brings gifts to the home of his beloved to ask her family’s blessing on the courtship. The gifts”—his hands gestured towards the three chests the Fey had carried into the room—“are intended to show the suitor’s depth of feeling for his prospective mate. The stronger the bond to his mate, the more clearly he sees her family through her eyes. If my gifts please you, then I have seen you clearly and the bond is true. Please, open them.”
Needing no further prodding, the twins fell upon the chest that bore their name and flung back the lid. Inside, a selection of brightly colored clothes with matching shoes and hair-bows and a collection of porcelain dolls in full court dress elicited squeals of delight.
For Lauriana, Rain had selected a dashing burgundy dress adorned with black lace at the cuffs and collar, matching hat and gloves, a pair of gleaming black boots with sturdy heels and buttons up the side, and a black cape with downy soft fur at the collar. The clothes were sensible, but of superior quality and workmanship, obviously expensive but discreet enough that Lauriana could wear them about the neighborhood without feeling as though she were putting on airs. On the collar of the dress, an exquisite sun-and-moonstone cameo set in gold filigree gleamed with subtle and very feminine elegance.
Despit
e Lauriana’s distrust of the Fey, the stern lines of her face softened when she beheld the gifts meant for her. “It’s all lovely,” she said, running a hand over the fabric before she could catch herself. “Thank you.”
Sol’s chest contained a collection of raw woods, the finest to be found, including a large block of black, almost grainless ebonwood and a slightly smaller block of pale cinnamon-colored fireoak that would gleam like copper flame once it was properly polished. Also nestled inside was a pouch containing a new burlwood pipe and a selection of fine tobaccos that made Sol smile in pleasure when he sniffed them.
“Well,” said Sol, caressing the wood with his master’s fingers, already envisioning the beauty waiting to be revealed by judicious application of his chisels and gouges. “The bond must indeed be true. I don’t believe you could have chosen better for any of us.”
Rain bowed low to show his appreciation of the fine compliment while Ellie’s five Fey guardians nodded approvingly and spread the word to the rest of the Fey that their king had successfully made his amends with his prospective bond-family.
“With these, Master Baristani”—Rain touched the ebonwood and fireoak—“I ask that you make a particular piece.” He carefully formed the image of what he wanted in his mind and, using a narrow weave of Spirit, placed that image in Sol’s mind. “Do you see it?”
Eyes wide with wonder, Sol nodded. “Yes.”
“Can you make it?”
“Yes.” Rain released his weave, and the picture winked out of Sol’s mind. Dazed, Sol touched his temple. “How did you do that?”
Rain explained, at least as well as he could to a mortal with no concept of magic. “It is like drawing a picture, only instead of paper, I use Spirit. All living creatures hold Spirit within them. It is the energy that allows you to think thoughts, to dream, to imagine. Because you possess Spirit, I can communicate with you using it. Fey magic is merely the ability to control the elements and the mystics, to open their natural paths and weave them to our will.”