by C. L. Wilson
Somehow, some way, Dorian had managed it. If it had been for any other purpose, she’d be luminous with pride, ebullient with the proof of her royal husband’s irrefutable power. But not for this. As always, he stirred himself most not on behalf of his own family, his own wife, but for those gods-cursed, soul-scorching Fey.
Annoura downed the rest of her wine in one angry gulp, then shuddered a little as the warmth washed over her in waves. She’d have to be careful. She hadn’t eaten much today, and the deceptively sweet blue wine would quickly go to her head.
Wouldn’t it be amusing if the girl got drunk and made a fool of herself? From nowhere, the memory of Jiarine’s wicked laughter popped into Annoura’s head.
She stared at the empty glass in her hand. A small blue drop of liquid still clung to the rim. She scooped it up with a diamond-dusted fingertip and licked it slowly from her skin as she watched Rain Tairen Soul squiring his woodcarver’s daughter from one group of nobles to another, watched the obsequious smiles and the fawning that had already begun.
The dinner gong rang. Annoura handed her glass to a passing servant, forced a serene smile to her face, and offered her hand to Dorian. Together, shining like stars beneath the palace chandeliers, they led their guests to dinner in the banquet hall adjoining the ballroom and took up their seats at the head table.
As they waited for their guests to be seated, she called the wine steward responsible for serving the head table to her side. He was a discreet man, one she’d brought with her years ago from Capellas. “Do be sure to keep the Feyreisa’s wineglass full,” she murmured to him. “And when keflee is served, brew her a special cup from my private stock. Use the new blend in the purple silk bag.” She smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t want to offer anything but the best to the Fey’s new queen.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sing and dance the razor’s edge, men.
Weave your magic fierce and strong.
Let your steel drink deep of blood, Fey.
Loose the tairen in your souls.
—Call to Battle, a Fey Warrior’s Song
As the night deepened over Norban, Wilmus Able, pubkeeper of the Hound and Boar, stood behind his bar, deftly drying the last of the day’s freshly washed shot glasses and humming the tune of an old Fey warrior’s song he’d learned as a boy.
“Hmm hmm hm hmmm hmm.…loose the tairen in your souls. Yah!” With a grin, he tossed several of the shot glasses in the air and began juggling them just like the Fey warriors he’d worshipped in boyhood used to juggle their razor-sharp blades. The glasses went up smoothly and stayed up as his hands remembered the long-ago rhythm.
Ah, Light! The visit by those two Fey today had stirred up a host of memories he’d all but lost. Hard times, but good ones. Some of the best days of his life. How could he have forgotten those years, his youthful love of the Fey? He added a fifth and sixth glass to the four already flying in great loops above his rapidly moving hands, and grinned proudly. “Eh, now, Wilmus, old man. You haven’t lost your touch.’ Deed you haven’t.”
Behind him, the hinges of the front door squeaked as someone entered the pub. Drat that Mary Betts, Wilmus thought with a spurt of irritation, embarrassed to be caught juggling. Useless girl never remembered to lock up after leaving. “Sorry,” he called. He kept his eyes on the airborne glasses, catching the first four as they descended and setting them on the counter. “We’re closed.”
Silence answered. A draught of chill air swirled around him. He frowned in confusion as his breath fogged before him. Oddest damn thing. He caught the fifth shot glass out of the air and flicked a glance at the mirror hung over the bar. His face went white.
“Light save me.” The sixth glass dropped past his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor at his feet.
Mother and Daughter moons rose over the treetops of Greatwood Forest. Their dual brightness illuminated Carthage Road so clearly, Sian and Torel didn’t need to rely on Fey vision as they loped down the rutted dirt track.
Somewhere in the miles of forest behind them, an unearthly scream ripped the night, then abruptly fell silent.
Sian’s smooth stride faltered. “Did you hear that?”
“Lyrant,” Torel said. “They scream like a dying man.”
“You sure?” Sian cast a cautious look around, pupils widening as he tried to pierce the darkness of the surrounding forest. “Sounded human to me.”
Torel rolled his eyes. “They scream like a dying human man. I thought you said you weren’t afraid of the woods after dark.”
“The woods didn’t flaming well scream, now, did they?”
“You going to quiver at every twig snap?”
“Get scorched.”
Torel’s teeth flashed. “We’ve thirty miles to go, my blade brother. Race you?”
Sian grinned. “Beat you!” He took off, long Fey legs sprinting rapidly, dust rising up in his tracks.
Torel swore and leapt after him. One day. One day he would stop falling for that.
Celierians did use too many forks.
Sitting in the place of honor beside King Dorian at the head table, Ellysetta stared at the intimidating collection of flatware surrounding her plate. There were at least ten forks of varying sizes and shapes to the left of her plate, plus six knives and four spoons on the right, and another selection of spoons, forks, and small knives spread in a decorative fan at the top of her plate. Six crystal goblets shimmered in the Fire-lit glow of the chandeliers. Three decoratively folded napkins in gold, silver, and Celierian blue stood sentry over a stack of four plates of graduating sizes, topped with a small cobalt and gold bowl.
Were the chefs actually intending to serve enough food to use each of the utensils, goblets, and dinnerware set out before her? Her stomach hurt at the mere thought of it.
She glanced to her right and watched Rain’s long, elegant fingers pluck his gold napkin from its place, unfold it, and lay it in his lap. Throughout the banquet hall, others were doing the same. She reached for her gold napkin, intending to follow suit.
“And how are your wedding preparations going, Mistress Baristani?”
Ellie jumped and sent one of her goblets toppling. The crystal made a loud pinging noise as it rolled against the selection of small knives at the top of her place setting. Several heads lifted, dozens of eyes looked her way. She made a hurried grab for the fallen goblet, but Rain beat her to it, righting the glass and feathering a cool, reassuring touch across the back of her hand as he smoothly handed her the gold napkin.
“You will address her as My Lady Feyreisa,” the Tairen Soul corrected softly. “Or Lady Ellysetta.”
Bright flags of color spotted the pale cheeks of Lady Thea Trubol, senior lady-in-waiting to the queen, who sat directly across the table from Ellie. “My apologies, Lady Ellysetta.”
Ellysetta forced her nerves to calm before unfolding her napkin and draping it across her lap. “There is no need to apologize, my lady,” she said. “And as far as the wedding plans, they are going as well as can be expected. My mother and Lady Marissya have done most of the real work, and the queen has been very generous in sending her craftsmasters to aid us.”
“Weddings are exhausting events, are they not?” Lord Barrial remarked. As an eligible widower, he’d been partnered with the equally eligible Lady Thea for dinner. “Having recently survived my daughter’s wedding, I can honestly say it required more strategic planning and careful execution than most sieges I’ve led.”
“That explains my battle fatigue,” Ellie answered without thinking, then bit her lip. Had that sounded ungracious? Luckily, both Lord Barrial and the king thought she’d been joking and laughed with good humor. A servant appeared at her elbow and poured pale blue chilled wine in one of her six goblets.
“Celierian pinalle,” King Dorian informed her. “Have you ever tasted it?”
“No, Your Majesty.” She’d never had anything stronger than the much-watered red demi-wine served at weddings and funerals in the West End.
The king smiled. “It has quite a heady kick, so sip it slowly.”
Nodding, hoping to calm her nerves, Ellie reached for the goblet and took an experimental sip. The pinalle was lovely: refreshingly cool, sweet and tangy. Following the iced chill and the fruity sweetness came surprising warmth, the heady kick King Dorian had mentioned. Her roiling stomach relaxed. She took another sip. “It is very good, Your Majesty,” she murmured, because the king was still looking at her as if he expected her to say something. “Thank you.” After a third sip, she put the goblet down.
“The queen tells me your father is quite a brilliant craftsman. Woodworking, I believe?”
“Yes, sire,” she managed to reply. “He’s a Master woodcarver.” She couldn’t believe the king of Celieria was sitting beside her, shining like the sun, asking after her father’s abilities. It was with a surreal sense of disbelief that Ellie noted King Dorian had warm, thickly lashed hazel eyes, and a pleasant smile that showed a slightly crowded set of white teeth.
After a moment of silence, the king prompted, “My queen has commissioned a piece from your father, I believe.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Manners, Ellie. Remember your manners. “We were very honored to receive her request.” She reached for the pinalle and took a quick gulp.
“Will you be remaining in Celieria long after your wedding, Lady Ellysetta?” That question came from Lady Thea. Ellie turned her head quickly, eager to escape conversation with the king before she made a fool of herself.
“The Fey depart after the prince’s betrothal,” Rain answered before Ellie had the chance.
Lady Thea smiled at Ellysetta. “I envy you. Legend has it the Fading Lands are a paradise beyond compare.”
“I am looking forward to it,” Ellie admitted. “I can’t wait to see Dharsa and Fey’Bahren and the ivory towers of Cresse and Tairen’s Bay on the southern coast where Fellana the Bright first met Sevander vel Jiolan.”
Rain gave her a look of surprise. “The legend of Fellana and Sevander is older than time. I would not have thought anyone in Celieria still remembered it.”
“A small collection of Fey poetry survived the burning of the western libraries,” Ellie replied. “The books are kept in the museum now, but the curator allowed me to make copies of them. ‘Fellana’s Tale’ was one of the poems in the books.”
“Who is Fellana?” Lady Thea aked
“According to the poem,” Ellie answered, “Fellana was a female tairen who fell in love with a Fey king named Sevander. She wanted to live her life with him, so she asked a powerful Elden Mage to transform her into a Fey woman. He agreed, but only on the condition that Fellana would seal her tairen soul into a dark crystal and give it to him. She loved Sevander so much that she did as the Mage asked, and for several years, she and Sevander lived happily. They had a child together, a boy named Tevan.”
“I take it their happiness didn’t last?” Lady Thea prompted.
Ellie smiled. She wasn’t the only one who loved Fey tales, apparently. “No, it didn’t. What Fellana didn’t know was that the Mage intended to use her tairen power to destroy Sevander and the Fey. With the crystal’s power to aid him, he gathered a vast army and invaded the Fading Lands.
“When she discovered how she’d been tricked, Fellana and Sevander gathered their own army of Fey and tairen and confronted the Mage. They killed him in a terrible battle, but not before Fellana and Sevander were mortally wounded. On her deathbed, Fellana gave her son Tevan the dark crystal containing her soul so that the tairen part of her would be with him always. And when he put the crystal around his neck, he found he could transform into his mother’s true form. And Tevan, son of a Fey and a tairen, became the first Tairen Soul.”
“So Tairen Souls only exist because of the Mages,” Lord Morvel noted from Rain’s right.
“The tale is a myth,” Rain replied. “Spoken of only in very ancient Fey poetry written before the dawn of the First Age. But it is interesting to note that even then, in the time before memory, Elden Mages were an evil, corrupt lot seeking conquest over the Fey.”
“Then it’s a good thing you destroyed all the Mages a thousand years ago,” Queen Annoura replied coolly, “and that we’ve seen no sign of their revival since.”
Ellysetta saw Rain’s fingers tighten around the stem of his wineglass. She caught his other hand in hers. He sent her a disgruntled look, but held his silence.
“Now we have only to worry about murderous dahl’reisen like the Dark Lord, Gaelen vel Serranis,” Lady Thea agreed. “Though, of course, some say he’s a myth too.”
“No.” Beside her, Lord Barrial took a long gulp of pinalle. “The Dark Lord is no myth. He definitely still exists. And while I remain skeptical about his involvement in the recent troubles on the borders, I don’t doubt that many of the legends about him are true. A more deathly, frightening being I’ve yet to meet.” He glanced at Marissya, who sat out of earshot at the far end of the head table, then looked at Rain. “No offense to the Fey, or to Lady Marissya.”
“I am well aware of what Celierians say about Gaelen vel Serranis,” Rain said.
Ellie shivered. Although most believed that Marissya’s brother, Gaelen vel Serranis, had died in the Mage Wars, Celierian legend proclaimed that he—or his ghost—still roamed the borders, hunting for Eld and stealing the souls of the unwary.
“You say you’ve met him?” King Dorian inquired. “He’s still alive?”
“Ta.” Lord Barrial slipped into his native border dialect before remembering himself. “I mean, yes. He is alive, and I have met him. Twice, actually. Once when I was a lad of five, during the Elden raid that caused my parents’ deaths. Then again this year, just before my daughter wed diSebourne.”
“What is he like?” Lady Thea whispered.
Lord Barrial stared into the pale blue depths of his goblet for a few silent moments. “Cold,” he replied at last. “When he’s near, the world grows cold and your breath mists before your face, as if his presence sucks all the warmth from the living. That’s the only sign that tells you he’s nearby. Other than that, you don’t see, sense, or hear him, unless he wants you to.”
“Bah,” Lord Morvel scoffed. “Nothing but nonsense and ghost stories, Barrial. Quit trying to scare the ladies.”
Lord Barrial gave his fellow border lord a hard look. “You don’t believe, Morvel, because you don’t want to believe there’s a presence on the border greater than yours. But Gaelen vel Serranis is real.”
Morvel huffed. “Never once in all my years have I seen anything to make me believe that some soul-damned ghost warrior roams the borders in search of Eld prey. It’s a silly story made up by parents to keep their children from wandering too far from the safety of their own keeps.”
“Morvel, I saw him gut the ten Elden raiders who had killed my parents and were about to kill me. I saw his face, his eyes a blue as pale and cold as glacier ice, and his dahl’reisen scar. Running from the center of his forehead, bisecting his right eyebrow, and ending here just below his right ear.” Barrial’s hand traced the path of the scar on his own face. “It was the Dark Lord.”
“You were in shock from seeing your parents killed. You saw what you wanted to see.”
“And how do you explain the second appearance, three months ago when he appeared in my own gardens, the night of Talisa and Colum’s prenuptial dinner?” Lord Barrial retorted. “It was definitely vel Serranis. He walked through the wards around my keep as if they weren’t there, and he was real enough to make even my dahl’reisen nervous.” Lord Barrial leaned forward, his brown eyes narrowing. “Do you have any idea, Morvel, what it takes to make a dahl’reisen nervous?”
“Bah,” Lord Morvel snorted. “They’re probably in on it too—same as they’re probably behind all this killing that’s been going on. They can charge a much higher fee for their services by keeping Celierian fears alive.”
Ellie glanced at Rain. Did Lord Morvel not care who was sitting beside him? But Rain
raised his goblet and drank a deep draught of pinalle as if the border lord’s insulting remark rolled right off him.
«The dahl’reisen are beyond the honor of the Fey, shei’tani.» he told her silently. «They are capable of much that the warriors of the Fading Lands would find abhorrent.»
Despite his mild words, she could sense the curl of anger tightening within him. The men Morvel discussed so contemptuously were people Rain would have known, perhaps even loved. Dahl’reisen or not, she knew he did not like to hear them disparaged.
Lord Morvel continued in the same oblivious, insulting vein. “Your visitor was probably just another dahl’reisen cloaked in Spirit to make him look like vel Serranis, and the cold was probably caused by someone weaving Fire and Air.”
“It was the Dark Lord, not some other dahl’reisen masquerading as him in order to bilk me of my gold. Flaming souls, Morvel, they’re Fey!” Lord Barrial met Rain’s gaze briefly in an unspoken apology. “They can make their own damned gold if that’s what they’re after. And for your information, there are twenty-five dahl’reisen living on my lands, and I only pay the two who’ve been with my family for the last three centuries.”
Beside Ellie, Rain went still. She glanced at him in surprised inquiry.
«Twenty-five is no arbitrary number, Ellysetta. It is five sets of five, a combination capable of weaving vast power.»
She swallowed, sensing enough concern in him to know what he had left unsaid. If twenty-five dahl’reisen had come to Lord Barrial’s land, there was a reason for it. And if Gaelen vel Serranis was behind it, there was reason to fear.
“It was the Dark Lord,” Lord Barrial continued. “He told me darkness was rising and said I should guard my children and wear my crystal.” He looked at Rain. “Those were his exact words: ‘Darkness is rising.’ He was warning me the Mages have returned to power.”