Lord of the Fading Lands

by C. L. Wilson

  “And I never liked them then, either.”

  She’d sighed and shaken her head. “It’s best you keep that truth to yourself. If we’re to have any hope of keeping the borders closed, we must be patient and diplomatic—and tactful. Even when we would rather do otherwise.”

  Rain hadn’t been fooled. She’d said “we” but she’d meant him. Unfortunately for Celieria, patience, diplomacy, and tact were traits he’d never possessed. He’d always been too quick to anger, too impatient with the shortcomings of others—mortals, in particular. And those traits had only grown worse since the Wars.

  Rainier vel’En Daris, the young Tairen Soul, had lost countless dear friends, his family, his mate, even his own sanity, to save Celieria once before. Rainier vel’En Daris Feyreisen, the Defender of the Fey, would not risk another drop of precious Fey blood to protect ungrateful fools who willfully blinded themselves to the truths and wisdom of the past.

  And he would scorch the world ten times over before exposing Ellysetta to the evil of Elden Mages.

  Feeling a sudden need to be at his truemate’s side, Rain leapt into the sky and winged west, towards the humbler homes of Celieria’s artisans and craftsmasters. The Fey guarding the Baristani home saw him coming and opened their protective weaves to let him pass. He Changed with fluid ease, streaming through Ellysetta’s bedroom window and regaining Fey form at her bedside, wrapped in Spirit weaves to hide his presence from mortal eyes.

  She was sleeping, but not peacefully. Her head thrashed on the pillow, and her breath caught on a sob of fear that roused his every protective instinct. He flung out his senses, testing all the magical and sorcerous routes he knew, but once again he found nothing. The source of her distress, whatever it was, lay beyond the detection of his Fey senses.

  He slipped into the narrow bed beside her and wrapped his arms around her. “Las, shei’tani. Do not fear. I am here.” She turned towards him, burying her face in the hollow of his throat, and her tense muscles started to relax. In sleep, she trusted him as a shei’tani should.

  He breathed in the flowery scent of her bright hair and closed his eyes. For the remaining bells of the night, he lay there holding her in his arms. The tairen in him lay quietly, still there, still hungry for its mate, but content to bide its time, at least for this night.

  Ellysetta’s nightmares did not return, and Rain filled her sleeping ears with whispered words, things a man only said to his mate. Some of the words made her moan a little, others made her smile. And when he finally left her just before the dawn, her fingers clung to him and she gave a little cry of protest in her sleep as he slipped away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Just after sunrise, the bell on the butcher shop door jingled. Den looked up from his place behind the service counter, and his scowl smoothed in surprise as he recognized the new customer. A faint chill rippled up the back of Den’s neck. With a quick glance at his father, Den wiped his hands on his white butcher’s apron and said, “Can I help you?”

  Batay, the Sorrelian merchant ship captain, smiled. “I hope so, Goodman Brodson. If I may have a moment of your time?”

  “Papa, do you mind?” The shop was filled with customers waiting for service. The Brodsons were getting out of the butcher business and had put the last of their stock on sale.

  Gothar Brodson eyed the gold braid on the man’s coat and nodded. “Go on, then.” As Den slipped his apron off, Gothar murmured, “Ask him about the merchant ship business. I’ve a fancy to buy a ship or two.” He grinned and slapped his son on the back.

  Den veiled the flash of anger in his eyes and stepped out from behind the counter. “We can talk outside,” he told the Sorrelian.

  Fifteen chimes later, Den returned to his place behind the butcher shop counter. Captain Batay’s request had been odd, but Den had managed to find what the man asked for. Upstairs in the Brodson home above the butcher shop, on the lint brush Den’s mother had used to tidy the blue suit he’d worn the night he had put his claiming mark on Ellysetta Baristani, Den had found three long, curling strands of flame-colored hair.

  Why the Sorrelian needed Ellie’s hair, Den didn’t know. But the man had left with a smile on his face and a glass vial containing the three strands of hair in his pocket.

  Outside, on the street corner, a ragged pamphleteer’s boy began his morning cry: “Tairen Soul steals local man’s bride! King and Queen cower in fear! Read the shocking truth they don’t want you to know! Only three coppers!”

  Several ragged scraps of paper trembled in Queen Annoura’s hand. Before her, Lady Jiarine Montevero, a former Dazzle and current lady-in-waiting, stood waiting while Annoura read the pamphlets Jiarine had just delivered.

  “There are many of these, you say?” Annoura asked.

  Jiarine nodded. The long, dark curls draped over one shoulder bounced with the motion, and her sapphire-blue eyes shone with earnest concern. “Many times many, Majesty. The presses must have been running all night.”

  Annoura resisted the urge to crumple the leaflets and instead set them aside on the pearl-inlaid surface of her desk. “Thank you, Lady Jiarine.”

  Jiarine’s gaze followed the discarded pamphlets. Her brows drew together in confusion. “My Queen? You cannot mean to ignore this. The pamphleteers have always been a thorn in the palace’s heel, but this time…Majesty, those leaflets border on treason. They call your husband a puppet of the Fey, and you—”

  “I read what they said, Jiarine,” Annoura said, her voice as flat and hard as a marble tile. “You need not repeat it to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Majesty.” The lady bobbed a curtsey but continued earnestly, “It’s just that the people are already nervous because of the dahl’reisen murdering innocents in the north. And now the Tairen Soul has returned for the first time in a thousand years. Suspicions and fears are rising on many estates. The lords are worried. They can’t help wondering if the dahl’reisen attacks and the Tairen Soul’s arrival aren’t in some way connected.”

  The thought had occurred to Annoura, as well. “I understand your concerns, Lady, but I assure you, the king and I are intimately familiar with the state of our kingdom.”

  “There’s even a growing number of historians who are beginning to question whether the Eld Mages were really behind the assassination that started the Mage Wars,” Jiarine persisted. “I know we’ve all been raised to believe that was true…but what if it’s not?”

  Annoura recalled her Steward of Affairs making some mention of the study in one of his reports a few months back, but at the time she’d dismissed it as nothing more than a handful of elderly men who’d addled their brains inhaling too much moldy parchment dust. She still didn’t put much stock in the idea. Give an obsessive scholar a single sentence, and he could extrapolate entire reams of hidden meaning from it—all of it overanalyzed nonsense.

  Then again, obsessive scholars and their myopic passions could serve a useful purpose when it came to discrediting political rivals. Rain Tairen Soul had already proven himself willing to use threats and intimidation to force Dorian’s compliance. Annoura would not stand idly by while her husband’s immortal kinsmen ordered him about like a trained pet. She made a mental note to have her steward find out more about those scholars and their theories.

  For now, however, there was the matter of these pamphlets to deal with. Dorian was no puppet, and she—Annoura glanced back down at the illustrated pamphlet and her teeth snapped together—she was no little mouse queen squeaking in fear and fleeing the tairen’s paw.

  “Thank you, Lady Montevero,” she said. “That will be all.” When Jiarine opened her mouth as if to protest, Annoura cut her off. “You are excused, Jiarine.”

  The lady’s mouth closed and her expression faded to controlled blankness. She sank into a formal curtsey. “Your Majesty,” she said, then took her leave.

  When she was gone, Annoura snatched up the pamphlets, stalked out through a different door, and headed down a series of corridors to Dorian’s pri
vate office. He was seated at his desk, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose as he pored over a stack of documents. She tossed the pamphlets on top of the papers he was reading. “Have you seen these?”

  Dorian’s lips thinned as he glanced at the ragged leaflets. “Corrias showed them to me this morning.”

  Her arms folded across her chest. And he’d said nothing to me? “What are you doing about this, Dorian?”

  “What can I do, Annoura?” He leaned back in his chair, removed his spectacles, and regarded her with weary exasperation. “You know as well as I do that for every pamphleteer I stop, a dozen more spring up. Short of putting the city under martial law, I can’t control what they do. I can only go on as I have been—doing my best to keep Celieria safe and strong.”

  “You cannot be seen as a puppet of the Fey. If the lords lose faith in you, you lose your ability to rule. You know that. The nobles are unsettled enough as it is. First the dahl’reisen begin slaughtering peasants; then he comes—Rainier v’el En Daris—for the first time in a thousand years, carrying unfounded tales of Mage power growing in Eld. The timing is suspicious. Can’t you see that?”

  Dorian rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So I should alienate the Fey—and terminate more than a thousand years of alliance—just because Rain Tairen Soul has come back into the world? What if he’s right? What if the Mages really have regained power?”

  “There’s not a shred of proof to support that.”

  “Which is why I refused to invoke primus when he asked me to. I’m letting the lords decide whom they trust most, just as you advised.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and walked over to one of the shuttered windows to look out at the manicured gardens below. His spine was straight, arms folded across his chest, feet slightly apart as if bracing to survive a blow.

  Annoura knew that stance. Intractability wasn’t far behind. And Dorian, when he dug in his heels, was impossible to budge. Time for a change of tactics.

  She crossed the room to his side and laid a hand on his arm, tugged gently but insistently until he turned to face her. His expression was closed, hazel eyes distant. She framed his face in both hands and gazed up with a look of compassion and sympathy, stroking the hair at his temples with gentle fingers.

  “Dorian,” she said softly, “beloved, heart of my heart, I know this is difficult for you. I know how much you love them—Lady Marissya, Lord Dax, even the warriors who accompany them each year.” He’d told her so many times, and she’d seen the reverence in his eyes whenever he spoke of the shei’dalin. In the first years of their marriage, before she felt secure in her husband’s affections, Annoura had actually been jealous of the effect Marissya had on him. Her hands grew tense for a moment before she forced them to continue their gentle stroking. “But the Tairen Soul is a stranger to us, a dangerous one at that. Celieria is entrusted to your keeping, my love. You must do what’s right for us, regardless of what the Fey want.”

  “That is what I’m doing, Annoura.”

  “I know,” she soothed. “I know. But the people—and the Lords of the Council—must be made to see it also. And up until now, all they’ve seen is you giving in to the Tairen Soul’s demands. You broke a lawful betrothal on his behalf. You’ve allowed him to install a common peasant as his queen and ordered our court to dance attendance on her.”

  Dorian’s expression, which had begun to soften, went suddenly cold and distant. He pulled her hands away from his face and stepped back several paces to fix her with a hard look. “You’ve just overplayed your hand, my dear. This isn’t about me and my perceived strength or weakness. This is about you. He’s wounded your pride, and you can’t stand it.”

  “Dorian!” Annoura gasped in unfeigned shock. He’d never spoken to her in such a manner. “You know me better than that!”

  “I do know you, my love. You are the reason my heart beats in my chest, but I am just as acquainted with your weaknesses as I am your strengths.”

  His jaw had tightened. His lips had thinned to an implacable line. Annoura could have screamed in frustration. The familiar expression was the one she’d been trying to avoid: intractability. This was Dorian the King, an immovable rock of authority and command.

  “Like it or not, my dear, the Fey are my kin. But even were that not the case, their centuries of service, friendship, and goodwill to Celieria would compel me to consider the concerns of their king with all due respect and grave attention.” Each word was fired from his mouth like a bolt from a crossbow. Sharp, clipped, unyielding. “I will afford him the opportunity to make his case to the Council. I will make every effort to smooth his way and encourage the lords to give him a full and fair hearing. And as injurious to your pride as it may be, I will welcome the Tairen Soul’s mate as his queen, regardless of her humble birth—and so will you. For in the eyes of the Fey, a queen is exactly what Ellysetta Baristani is. She is a bright and shining light born to bring peace to their king’s heart. And I am Fey enough to understand that, even if you cannot.”

  “Dorian!” Annoura wanted to wail and gnash her teeth.

  “Go tend to your business, Annoura. Leave me to tend mine.” He stepped around her, avoiding her outstretched hands, and took his seat.

  She stood there in impotent frustration as he reached for his spectacles, thrust them into place, and picked up the parchment he’d been reading before her arrival. The pamphlets she’d brought fluttered to the floor. The illustration of the puppet king and squeaking mouse queen stared up at her in silent mockery.

  “Close the door when you leave,” Dorian instructed without looking up.

  Her hands clenched in fists. She would not be made the fool. She would not be mocked and dismissed—not by the pamphleteers, not by the common rabble who gobbled up their insulting leaflets, not by Dorian, and especially not by the Fey or some woodcarver’s slut.

  She was Annoura, Queen of Celieria.

  If Dorian would not stand up to the Fey, she would do it herself. As long as she had breath in her body, the Fey would not usurp the power of Celieria’s throne or force their will upon Celieria’s people without a fight. And one way or another, she would put that upstart peasant Ellysetta Baristani in her place.

  In Celieria City’s West End, having replaced the distinctive trappings of Captain Batay with the unremarkable garb of a simple merchant, Kolis Manza stood amidst the throngs of curiosity seekers gathered across the street from the Baristani family home. Test her magic, his master had said. Find a way.

  Determined not to fail, Kolis had not taken his rest last night, but had instead spent several bells poring over book after book of spells and charms from the High Mage’s private library. While many spells could force a response from even latent magic, few could do so while penetrating Fey shields and remaining undetected by watchful Fey warriors. Luckily, the Master’s long association with the Feraz witchfolk had borne useful fruit, and in an old, handwritten text of Feraz witchspells tested on the High Mage’s pets over the years, Kolis had found what he was looking for.

  He put his hand in his coat pocket and grasped the small wax talis he’d prepared last night in Eld. The spell was so simple, its uses had been long overlooked by serious scholars of magecraft: a simple pressure spell designed to gradually amplify emotion and elicit a magical response, targeted at Ellysetta Baristani by one of the strands of hair Den Brodson had so helpfully produced this morning.

  With his eyes on the Baristani house, Kolis began to chant the witchwords under his breath.

  If one more person made a sneering remark about the “humble coziness” of her family’s home or the “new” Ellysetta Baristani, Ellie wasn’t going to be responsible for what happened. Her brows drew together in a thunderous scowl. Despite vague memories of disturbing dreams, she’d woken in an exceptionally happy mood this morning, and Rain’s courtship gift of Stones had made her laugh with delight, as no doubt he’d meant her to. That lightheartedness was long gone. Now, it was all she could do to stop from screaming.

>   The Dark Lord take this whole exhausting, frustrating, sanity-scorching idea of a wedding! She cast a blistering glare at the frenzied mob of seamstresses, florists, caterers, printers, decorators, wine merchants, cobblers, and stuffy wedding advisors surrounding her. They had descended upon her parents’ house just after breakfast and turned Ellie’s peaceful morning into a war zone of raucous pre-wedding activity. Every half bell, a knock would sound on the door and a new throng of visitors would pour in. Couriers bearing packages, friends wanting to extend their congratulations, neighbors just being nosy, merchants, craftsmen.

  The mad, unceasing rush of people and the constant barrage of questions—each merchant had at least a hundred questions, all needing a decision now!—had long since taken their toll on her sanity and had wiped every last vestige of good humor from her mood.

  Twenty gowns, Lady Marissya had decreed. Twenty! Plus an enormous monstrosity of a wedding gown that required an entire wagonload of fabric and had taken most of the morning to fit. The queen’s dressmaker, Maestra Binchi, who had been noticeably more respectful and accommodating this morning, had already departed with her half-dozen seamstresses to begin work on the wedding gown, but another three court modistes and their respective gaggles of assistants were still industriously dedicating themselves to turning Ellie into a human pincushion.

  “My lady, please stand still.” Kneeling at Ellie’s feet, one of the seamstresses blew a strand of limp brown hair out of her eyes and attempted—but failed—to sound patiently polite. The seamstress’s lips were pulled taut in a grimace that Ellie concluded was supposed to be a deferential smile.