by C. L. Wilson
She didn’t answer right away. Blessed gods, what a nightmare. All Rain Tairen Soul’s talk of Eld, death, and dark magic last night must have frightened her more than she’d known.
The door rattled with the force of Bel’s staccato knocking. “Answer me, Ellysetta, or I will come in. Are you harmed? Should I call the Feyreisen?”
Before Ellie could answer, she heard her mother’s voice. “What it is? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” Ellie called, hoping to allay their concern. She threw off the covers, dragged a robe over her nightgown and opened her bedroom door to let Belliard and her mother see for themselves. “I’m fine,” she repeated. “It was just a nightmare.”
Lauriana tugged the belt of her robe. “Another bad one?” she asked cautiously. It hurt Ellie to see the fear, so long absent, back in her mother’s eyes.
“I’m sure it’s just all the excitement from the last few days.” Heightened emotions had always served as a catalyst to nightmares—and other things—in the past.
Lauriana didn’t ask what the nightmare had been about, and Ellie had long ago learned not to offer the information. Even when she’d been young, there were things she dreamed that no child should.
Her mother scowled and cast a dark look at Belliard. “I told your father nothing good would come of this. I told him letting these Fey remain beneath our roof was a bad idea, that the last thing you needed was to be around a bunch of magic-wielders, but did he listen?”
“Mama,” Ellie interrupted. “You know you can’t blame my nightmares on the Fey.”
Her mother took a deep breath and clamped her lips closed. Ellie could all but see her carefully tucking her fears away and forcibly reasserting her normal, steady calm. “You should dress, Ellie. There’s much to be done today. And wear something nice. We’ll be meeting the queen’s personal dressmaker this morning so you can be measured for your wedding gown, as well as half a dozen of the queen’s street merchants who’ll supply the rest of what you’ll need, and then we have an appointment with the Archbishop himself to plan your wedding ceremony.” Lauriana gave Ellie a brisk kiss, sniffed at Belliard, and walked back down the short hall to her own bedroom.
The Fey remained where he was, his cobalt eyes intent and searching. “Will you tell me what you dreamed to cause such fear? Perhaps there is something I can do to help.”
Considering the subject of her dream, she was even more loath to discuss it with him than with her mother. Telling Belliard about her nightmare could lead to unwelcome questions about Selianne. “I’ve had nightmares all my life, especially when I’ve had too much excitement in a day, as I have for the past few days. They mean nothing except that I don’t get as much sleep as most Celierians.” She forced herself to hold his gaze, but her smile refused to cooperate. It trembled traitorously until she gave up the attempt at false bravado and shrugged. “But thank you for your offer to help, Ser vel Jelani.”
After a silent, searching moment, Belliard bowed. “I am Bel to you, kem’falla,” he reminded her in a gentle voice. “My soul and my steel are pledged to your protection.”
“Beylah vo is the Fey way of saying ‘thank you,’ isn’t it?”
“It is.”
She touched the back of his hand. “Then beylah vo, Bel. I appreciate your concern.”
His fingers covered the spot she’d touched, and he gave her an odd little half smile. “You do that with so little effort, I can scarce fathom it.”
“Do what?”
“Share the warmth of your soul.” He tucked away his wonder, and his expression grew serious. “Not all magic is evil, kem’falla, despite what your mother believes. To the Fey, magic is a gift from the gods. Only the manner of its using can despoil it.” His gaze shifted to a point past her head, and his eyes lightened once more. “Indeed, most magic is a thing of natural wonder and beauty.”
She turned to follow his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.
“What is that?” On the nightstand beside her bed, perched on a tasseled velvet pillow, a bright, spiraling weave of multicolored magic danced within a small, perfect crystal globe.
“A Fey courtship gift,” Bel said. “I had thought all poetry had been scorched from Rain’s heart by the Wars and Sariel’s death, but I see I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“The gift is more than what it appears. As with all Fey courtship gifts, it is also a symbol. The deeper and more layered the meanings, the finer the gift. Rain has given you his magic, kem’falla, the essence of himself. An eternal fivefold weave of it, embraced forever in a fragile Celierian-made vessel. Strength wedded to vulnerability, magic to mortal craft, him to you. It sings so many different songs. It is a very fine gift, indeed.” Bel turned his shining gaze upon Ellysetta. “And you, kem’falla, are the greatest gift of all. You breathe life back into the dying ember of our king’s soul.”
His expression grew somber. “If your nightmares persist, you must promise to tell me or your shei’tan. Not all dreams are harmless.”
Ellie nodded. That was a truth she’d learned for herself long ago.
A few blocks from the warded and guarded Baristani home, a knock rapped on the front door of a small weaver’s shop.
“A moment!” Maestra Tuelis Sebarre, recently ringed master weaver, pulled her hair into an untidy knot and clattered down the stairs from the private apartments above her shop. What in the Bright Lord’s name was someone doing pounding on her door at a quarter before seven bells? It was not as if normal folk ever woke possessed with a sudden and driving need to purchase a length of fine cloth.
Maestra Sebarre unlatched but did not unchain her door and frowned irritably through the three-inch crack at the man standing on her stoop. Dazzling white teeth flashed in a dark, well-oiled beard threaded with gold rings. He was a fine-looking man, with lovely bright blue-green eyes, but Tuelis was no fool woman to judge a man by a pretty face. She looked at the cuffs of his blue sea-captain’s coat. The weave was fine, smooth, tight, and unslubbed, the threads of obvious quality, and the jacket cuffs showed no signs of fraying about the edges. A merchantman, then, and successful enough to keep himself in good thread.
“What can I do for you, ser?”
“You are Maestra Sebarre, the weaver?”
“I am.”
“You have a daughter named Selianne?”
Wariness froze her. “Why do you ask?” Immediately on the heels of wariness came dread, clenching Tuelis’s innards in an iron fist. “Has something happened to her?”
“What?” The captain evinced utter shock, then humble contrition. “Oh, no, dear lady. Forgive me for giving you a start. I simply meant to ascertain that I had the right Maestra Sebarre.” The man executed a deep, courtly bow. “I am Captain Batay. I sail a merchantman out of Sorrelia. Forgive such an early intrusion, but my ship sails at noontide today. At dinner last evening, I heard tales that you could work magic with a loom. There are nobles in Sorrelia who’ll pay a fine price for quality fabrics, and I still have enough room in my hold for a dozen bolts or so. I thought I’d seek you out and glance over your wares, Maestra.” The handsome smile widened. “If you’d care to let me into your shop, that is.”
Tuelis didn’t unchain the door. “Who was it sent you my way?”
“A gentleman who’d purchased a parlor suite from a local woodcarver, a Master Baristani, who used your fabric for the cushions.” When the chain still remained firmly in place, the Sorrelian’s smile disappeared. “Forgive me. It’s obvious I’ve intruded with my too early call. The gentleman gave me another master weaver’s name as well. A Master Frell. I will try him instead.”
Tuelis bit her lip. A dozen bolts would bring a sizable sum of cash. Careful as she was, being a woman alone now that her husband was dead and her daughter Selianne wed and gone, Tuelis was too much a businesswoman to let such an offer slip past. Especially if the business would then go to Frell, the smirking bloat toad. The Sorrelian was well dressed, after all, and
he knew that Sol Baristani used Tuelis’s cloth for his upholstery. “My pardon, Captain Batay. Of course, you may come in.” The chain rattled as she unlatched it and opened the door.
“My thanks.” The captain entered the small shop.
Tuelis closed the door behind him. “What would you like to see first? Brocade? Velvet? Or something finer? I’ve just finished a bolt of spider-silk in a Celierian blue so rich you’d think I’d woven the sky itself.”
“To be honest, Tuelis, my pet, what I really want to see is your obedience.”
“What?” she gasped in affront. Captain Batay turned to her, his dazzling smile now cold and dreadful. Tuelis fell back a step, pressing a hand against her chest where a long-forgotten ache began to throb. “No! Oh, no!” The sea captain’s striking blue-green eyes darkened to deep, shadowy pits that flashed with red lights.
She managed one, two racing steps towards the door, but Captain Batay moved with inhuman swiftness. His bronzed hand, circled with deceptively beautiful blue cuffs, slapped against the door. In her mind, a cold, insistent voice called her name, demanding submission. The pain in her chest grew sharper, and a foreign yet horribly familiar black malevolence consumed her, engulfing her in an icy darkness she hadn’t felt since her early childhood in Eld.
Tuelis had one final, desperate thought before her consciousness fell to total subjugation. Selianne! Dearling, what have I done?
Several bells later, bright, late-morning sunlight streamed through the curtained windows of Rain’s palace suite, casting ribbons of warmth across his skin. Rain lay in his too soft Celierian bed and stared blindly at the velvet canopies overhead. He’d only just awakened from the few snatched bells of restless sleep granted a courting Fey, and his mind whirled with a mix of shock and wonder that had nothing to do with the shei’tanitsa need humming through his veins.
For the first time in a thousand years, he had not dreamed.
Not of the Wars. Not of the dead.
Not of Sariel.
How was it possible? Rain sat up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He remembered last night, holding Ellysetta beside the riverbank and wondering at the flood of peace that almost made him weep in her arms.
Cautiously he checked the internal barricades that held back the sorrows of all those millions of souls whose weight he carried on his own. The barriers were still in place, and behind them, the torment of a thousand years still throbbed—yet the familiar pain seemed muted now, the burden lighter.
Ellysetta had healed his soul, just as she’d healed Bel’s. Not completely—that would have been beyond miraculous—but to a greater degree than Marissya’s substantial shei’dalin powers or even tairen song had managed over the years. And she’d done it without even trying, in one brief moment of communion.
Who was she? No simple Celierian, that was certain. But if not that, then who? What?
He sent a thread of Spirit across the city. «Bel?» He didn’t even have to ask the question. Bel knew him too well.
«We are on our way to the cathedral to meet with her family’s priest and the Archbishop. She is well.»
«I must meet with Dorian this morning. I will join you when I can.» And because he could not help it, Rain sent another thought along a different path. «Shei’tani.» He felt her sudden alertness, sensed the moment of fear followed by the hesitant happiness. She didn’t like that he could send his thoughts to her, and yet she was glad he did.
«My lord?» It was a tentative mental touch at best, a whisper unbacked by power. It barely reached him. Yet because it was her whisper, it sounded in his mind with the force of a gong. His body clenched, his need for her deep and strong and instant.
He felt the jumbled heat of her emotions and knew that half a city away his desire was lapping over, making her nerves sing with awareness, demanding a response. Innocently, doubtlessly unable to prevent it, she did respond. Nectar-sweet, liquor-potent, her own awakening desires reached out with a delicate hand and gripped him with the strength of steel. He staggered from the impact of her untutored, unshielded emotions. He flung out his hand, fingers curling around the bedpost to steady himself, and sucked in a deep, ragged breath. Gods have mercy. Within him, the tairen stretched and dug its claws deep. He felt it reach for her, felt her quick flare of fear as she sensed it. He slammed down his mental barriers, groaned as he pitted his will against the tairen’s and battled it back into submission.
«I will come to you soon, shei’tani,» he sent when he could, accompanying the thought with the mental projection of a kiss that he placed with warm promise on her lips.
How did he do that? Ellie touched her lips. The Spirit kiss had felt every bit as convincing as the real thing. She could even smell Rain’s fresh, distinctive scent and feel the warmth of his arms pulling her close.
“I hope the meeting with Father Celinor and the Archbishop doesn’t take too long,” she said. She glanced at her mother as they walked down Celieria’s busy streets. “I promised the girls I’d meet them in the park for a game of Stones.”
“I still don’t know why you made that promise, Ellie,” Lauriana chided. “You knew how busy we were going to be today.”
“I knew,” Ellie agreed. “But I suspected I’d need a break after dealing with the queen’s craftsmasters. And I was right.”
Four unpleasant bells in the company of haughty dressmakers, cobblers, and clothiers had left Ellie aching to leap into the nearest hermit hole. Who knew wealthy people spent so much time in pursuit of the perfect outfit, or that there were so many decisions to be made for so simple a task? Until today, Ellie had never realized that the number of buttons on a lady’s boot held some particular social significance. Gods! What utter madness! Not to mention the fact that each and every one of the merchants had sniffed at her common appearance and made it clear they served her only because the queen had commanded them. The worst was Maestra Binchi, the queen’s dressmaker, who had sized her up in one cold, calculating glance, sneered, and muttered something about silk purses and sowlet ears.
Lauriana shook her head. “You shouldn’t have let them bother you, Ellie. They may be masters of their own crafts, and serving by appointment of the king or queen, but so is your father now. They’re no better than you or I, even if they do have a bit more gold in their pockets. In fact—though I still think your father made a dreadful mistake—you’re the betrothed of a king now. They should be thanking the gods for the opportunity to serve you.”
Ellie didn’t answer. Mama was very good at ignoring the opinions of others when it suited her. Ellie wasn’t so lucky. She’d felt the dislike of those merchants crawling over her skin until she’d wanted to cry out that she had no more choice about being there than they did.
Ahead, the road curved to the right, and Celieria’s Grand Cathedral of Light came into view. Built entirely of gleaming, hand-carved white marble and gold leaf, the Grand Cathedral stood testament to both the glory of the Bright Lord and the mastery of ancient Celierian, Fey, and Elvian artisans. Situated on the small Isle of Grace in the middle of the Velpin River, it rose up from the clear blue depths of the river like a palace of white clouds and sunbeams. Four gilded, sun-bright bridges radiated from the four corners of the island, connecting the holy site to the more mundane streets of the city.
Thirteen spires adorned the cathedral’s golden roof, one for each of the major gods. The largest of the spires rose up on six marble columns from the top of the central dome. An enormous statue of Adelis, Lord of Light, stood in the center of those columns, arms upraised, holding aloft a golden crystal globe that blazed an eternal beacon.
Every time Ellie saw the cathedral, it both awed and frightened her. Even now, as she crossed the golden northeast bridge and climbed the thirteen steps leading up to the cathedral’s Grand Entrance, her stomach roiled and her palms went clammy. She loved the Bright Lord, but his priests would forever be tied in her memory with the terror of her childhood exorcism.
Father Celinor, the prie
st from her family’s West End church, was waiting in the covered portico just outside the cathedral doors. A young man with bright blue eyes and sandy hair that always seemed mussed, Father Celinor was the first cleric who’d ever managed to get past Ellie’s terror of priests after her childhood exorcism.
“Madam Baristani.” He held out his hands and exchanged the kiss of peace with Ellie’s mother, then turned to her, smiling with genuine affection and welcome. “And Ellysetta.” His fingers squeezed hers. “I never dreamed the Most High had such plans in store for you. This is your opportunity to share the Word of Light with those who have not heard its call.”
Ellie gave a small laugh. “Let me find peace in my new life first, Father. But you may take comfort that the Fey already do follow the Bright Path.”
“Of course.” He patted her hand and smiled. “Come meet the Archbishop.” He glanced at the Fey warriors. “I’m afraid canon law forbids you from entering the cathedral bearing arms. You must leave your blades at the door. There is a room there to the left where you may check them with Brother Vericel before entering.”
“Fey protecting a shei’tani do not shed their steel,” Bel replied.
“Then you must remain here, outside the sanctuary. Not even the King himself may carry weapons across this threshold. The Cathedral is a holy place, a haven of peace.”
Bel exchanged a glance with the rest of Ellie’s quintet. Without another word, all five removed their Fey’cha belts, the curved meicha at their waists, and the twin seyani swords strapped across their backs. They handed the weapons to their Fey brethren. Bel gestured, and all but Ellysetta’s quintet and five other Fey fanned out to surround the cathedral.
“We will observe your custom,” he conceded, “but no one will be permitted to enter or leave this building or island so long as the Feyreisa remains within.”
Father Celinor’s jaw went lax. He hurried to the top of the steps and gaped at the sight of Fey weaving magical barriers at the bridges. “You can’t block access to the Isle of Grace! This is the Grand Cathedral of Light, a haven to all.”