«Do you believe in their honor so deeply you would risk your life to prove it?»
«Aiyah,» Gaelen answered without hesitation.
«And do you trust them so completely you would also risk Ellysetta’s life?»
Thick black lashes shuttered the piercing ice blue of Gaelen’s eyes for a brief moment as he cast his gaze downward. «Perhaps not,» he admitted.
«Neither would I,» Rain agreed. «So do not speak of it again. The Fey have survived and fought the Eld for millennia without knowing who was Mage-claimed. Tempting as it may be to know which mortals have been turned, I will not fight off the wolves by inviting a lyrant into our midst.» He straightened from the table and directed his attention to King Dorian. “The day grows late. We have accomplished much today, but now Ellysetta and I must depart.”
“Will you not stay the night, at least?” the king asked.
“There is no time. We must travel swiftly if we are to have any chance of reaching Danael and Elvia in time. I must take my leave of you. My lords.” He nodded to the assembled war council. “Cann.” To the brown-eyed border lord, he offered a warmer smile of friendship and a handclasp. “Be well, my friend. And good luck…with everything.” He let his eyes say the words his lips did not.
“Same to you, Rain.”
“We’ll join you as quickly as we can. Until then, keep your blade sharp and at the ready.”
Cann gave his trademark wolfish smile. “Always.”
King Dorian walked Rain to the council room doors. Bel, Gaelen, and Tajik followed close behind. “Assembling the armies and preparing the supply wagons will take a few days, but we should begin the march to Kreppes by the end of the week.”
“Kabei. I will leave one hundred warriors behind to aid your fleet and protect the Points and Celieria City. The Fey already stationed on Lord Barrial’s lands will do what they can to speed the preparations in Kreppes. Ellysetta and I will meet you there as soon as our business with the Danae and Elves is completed. I pray we will not come alone.”
They had reached the entrance to the council room. As Dorian released the privacy seal on the chamber and started to open the doors, the sound of a voice raised in anger made him pause.
“What do you mean, I can’t go in there?” a deep, familiar voice demanded in outrage. “I am a Great Lord of Celieria and one of the Twenty! You dare deny me entry?”
“I’m sorry, Great Lord Sebourne. King’s orders,” a thinner, less bellicose voice replied, but a thread of steel underlay the polite response. “The king has convened a special council, my lord. The chamber is closed to all others.”
Great Lord Dervas Sebourne, the border lord whose son Colum was wed to Cann Barrial’s daughter Talisa, gave a rude snort. “Council? What council? There are no special councils convened without the knowledge of the Twenty!”
“I am sorry, my lord. I am not at liberty to say.”
“Why, you little—”
“Sebourne!” King Dorian shoved open the council room doors and strode out into the chamber where guests scheduled to testify before the council gathered before their appearances.
The Clerk of the Council was normally seated at a gleaming hardwood desk near the front of the chamber, working quietly and guarding the entrance to the council room. At the moment, however, he was pressed against a wall, standing on his toes, his neck cloth clutched in Great Lord Sebourne’s very large fist.
“Release him at once! What is the meaning of this?”
Sebourne shoved the clerk to one side, sending the thin young man staggering into a nearby bank of files. His gaze shot to the king. “‘What is the meaning of this’ is precisely the question I have for you, Sire. Is it true you have called a council without notifying the Twenty?”
“You forget yourself, sir,” Dorian exclaimed. “The king of Celieria is not the servant of the Twenty, nor must he beg permission to see to the duties of the monarchy.”
“What duties could include a select handful of lords and yet be of no concern to the Twenty?” Sebourne shot back. His scathing gaze raked past Dorian and shot towards the open doors, only to freeze at the sight of the Fey. “Ah, I see.” His brows rose with mockery and a sneer pulled back the corner of his mouth. “I should have known. For whom would you subvert the lawful ruling order of this country except the Fey?”
“Sebourne!” Dorian exclaimed. “You will beg my pardon this instant and apologize to the Feyreisen for your rash remarks.”
Sebourne drew himself up to his full height. The rich velvet of his fur-lined robes swirled about him. “The Hells I will. Those immortal rultsharts can go flame themselves before they hear a word of apology from me. What are you up to now, Tairen Soul? Come to enslave more weak Celierian minds?”
«You sure you don’t want me to kill diSebourne after all?» Gaelen muttered on a private weave as Great Lord Sebourne continued his bombastic tirade. «I could do the father, too, while I’m at it. I’ll wager plenty would thank me besides the vel Arquinas brothers.» The lethal tonelessness of his Spirit voice made it clear he was not joking.
For one fraction of a moment, Rain savored the suggestion. To be honest, the idea of cutting off the air to Sebourne’s lungs and watching his face turn purple did harbor a certain savage appeal. The arrogant rultshart was the kind of man who made Rain grateful mortals were short-lived. Then honor reared its head, and with a sigh, he declined. «Not without cause, Gaelen. Besides, it looks like Dorian has reached the end of his patience this time.» He flicked a glance at the Celierian king, whose fists were clenched as tightly as his square jaw.
Dorian’s chest expanded on a deep breath. His spine straightened, and his shoulders seemed to broaden nearly half again their width.
“Apparently, Lord Sebourne, you have misinterpreted my tolerance these last months, mistaking my compassion for the emotional distress your family suffered this summer as a sign of weakness. Because clearly you have forgotten who is the Great Lord and who is the king.” Dorian leaned forward, faint green sparks of Earth magic flashing in his eyes. “How dare you insult your king, question his motives, and bark at him like an unruly dog because he did not beg your permission to call a meeting of his lords?”
Surprise and the first hint of wariness flickered across Sebourne’s face, but prideful temper soon eclipsed it. “An unruly dog, am I? Because I dare to speak my mind? Because I dare object to my king being led about by the Fey like a trained monkey on a leash?”
“Enough!” Dorian smacked a palm on the desk. Green sparks shot out from the point where palm hit wood, and the desk shuddered. The inkwell and lamp rattled across several fingerspans of desktop, and a stack of papers toppled off the edge onto the floor. “Guards!”
Boot heels clattered against marble floor as the King’s Guards standing outside the gathering chamber rushed to their sovereign’s call.
“Escort Great Lord Sebourne to Old Castle and secure him in the west tower.” To Sebourne, Dorian said stiffly, “Perhaps a few days of solitude will cure what ever maggot has possessed your brain before you bring your entire House to ruin.”
Sebourne’s eyes narrowed, glittering like shards of glass. “You will regret this,” he hissed between clenched teeth. When one of the guards stepped closer and reached out as if to take his arm, the border lord froze him with a glare. “Lay that hand on me and you will lose it.” With brittle pride, he adjusted his clothing and smoothed back his hair. After one final glare for Rain and the Fey, he marched away in the center of a half dozen King’s Guards.
When the Great Lord disappeared from view, the king’s shoulders slumped and he pinched the bridge of his nose in a weary gesture. “He is right. I will regret that. He has been waiting for any excuse to divide the lords and set his followers against me.”
“He gave you little choice,” Rain said. “Your ancestor Dorian the Second would have tried and executed him for sedition.”
“Perhaps, but I blame myself for his insolence.” Dorian grimaced. “I’ve let Sebou
rne and his cronies grow too bold. I should have reined them in months ago.”
“Perhaps boldness alone is not the only reason for his behavior, kem’jita’taikonos,” Gaelen suggested. “You should let me check him for Mage Marks before we leave.”
“To what end?” Dorian crossed his arms. “If he is unMarked, it doesn’t make him any less of a challenge to my rule. If he is Marked, who among his followers would believe it? They’d just say it was Fey illusion spun on their weak-minded fool of a king, my kingdom would split in two, and the Mages would simply find some other lord to use against me.” He expelled a weary breath. “No, I’m better off to continue as we did today—trust the war council you cleared this morning, and consider all others potential agents of Eld.”
“And Sebourne?” Rain asked.
“Once he has time to cool off and come to his senses, I’m sure he will beg my forgiveness. I’ll keep him under watch. He will not catch me off guard.” Forcing a smile, Dorian held out a hand. “Beylah vo for everything, Rainier Feyreisen. I am indebted to you.”
Rain clasped Dorian’s arm, feeling for the first time a genuine affinity for the mortal king. Perhaps he had judged the man too harshly in the past. They were both kings leading countries divided in a time of war, struggling to do what was right for their people. Neither had an easy road before him.
“If it is within my power to convince Hawksheart and the Danae to aid us,” he vowed, “you have my oath I will. Farewell, Dorian vol Serranis Torreval. Until we meet again, may the gods Light your Path and keep you safe from harm.”
As night fell over the city, the Fey who had arrived without announcement left in secret. Impenetrable invisibility weaves surrounded all but the one hundred lu’tan left behind to aid in the defense of Celieria.
In the queen’s apartment, Annoura stood at the open glass doors that led to her private balcony. A strong downdraft from the palace roof gusted through the door, setting rich draperies swirling and carrying with it the rich, earthy aroma of tairen. Her fingers tightened on the door frame, and her free hand splayed across her belly.
So, the Tairen Soul and his witch queen had left. She should have felt a mea sure of relief, but all she felt was agitation and a disturbing sour note of fear. She and Dorian had been happy until Rain Tairen Soul and that girl had entered their lives. And now here she was, her husband’s kingdom at war, pregnant with a child conceived through Fey magic—gods only knew what sort of monster it might turn out to be—and a husband who seemed determined to distance himself from her even when she needed him most.
A husband who’d suspected she might be in the service of the Mages.
After the Fey departed, Dorian had come to tell her about their suspicions of Mage-claiming in the palace. He’d shared what they’d learned from the Elden Mage, and informed her she would govern Celieria City in his absence. He’d also said she should trust only himself, Dori, and the lords of his war council, because only they had been checked and verified clear of Mage Marks.
The chime he’d said that, of course, she’d suspected the truth.
“My gods,” she’d breathed. “You had them check me, didn’t you?”
The guilt on his face gave her all the answer she required, and they’d had a row to end all rows. She’d screamed like a fishwife. He’d roared back like a surly bear. They’d said bitter things, angry things, ugly, hateful things. And he’d stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
He’d not come to visit her since. Not to apologize. Not to set things right between them. Not even just to sit beside her in silence and wait for her to unbend, as he often did after one of their arguments.
Three times, she’d started to send him a note, and three times pride kept her from it. He would come on his own, or not at all.
And so far, he’d chosen not at all.
Her hands tightened on the frame of the glass-paneled doors. All because of the Fey.
Silk rustled behind her. “You should close the door before you catch a chill, Your Majesty.”
Annoura turned to Jiarine Montevero. Dear Jiarine. Dorian had not come, but Jiarine had hardly left her side. “You are a good friend, Jiarine. The kind even a queen can confide in.”
Eld ~ Boura Fell
Vadim Maur peered into the shimmering dark red liquid that filled the wide, shallow bowl of a Drogan Blood Lord’s chalice. The discarded, bloodless body of an infant lay at the bottom of a small refuse cart nearby, its tiny throat slit from ear to ear, its skin a pallid gray-white. The rings of power on Vadim’s hands glittered with red lights as he passed his palms over the chalice and murmured, “Daggorra droga.” Around the mosaic-tiled confines of his private spell room, the sconces flared, and shadows danced like living silhouettes against the walls.
Within the rune-inscribed cup, the infant’s still-warm blood swirled with opalescent hues. Dark red became a shimmering silver. Shimmering silver changed to a shadowy translucence in which the wavering visage of Primage Gethen Nour slowly took shape.
Or, rather, the visage Primage Nour now wore. A mortal’s face—weak and without magic.
Oh, by Celierian standards, he looked fine and powerful enough. As the newly invested Lord Bolor, he was the picture of a well-dressed, sharp-eyed nobleman: handsome, fit, and clearly secure in his wealth and power. His brown hair had been powdered a deep, lustrous copper and pulled back in a queue at the nape of his neck, and his pale Mage skin had turned bronze, as if tanned by the sunlight he had rarely seen in all his centuries of life. Though his eyes were the same hard green, they bore no hint of the dark Azrahn that would have alerted the Fey in Celieria City to his presence.
Vadim leaned over the chalice, careful to keep his disfigured face concealed in the shadowy folds of his hooded cloak. “Report,” he commanded his former apprentice.
Gethen’s image shimmered in the cup of blood. The Primage’s lips moved and his voice emerged, liquid and distorted, but still intelligible. “Our plans are progressing as scheduled, Great One. All the pamphleteers belong to us now, as do two of the more respectable news journals. One hundred lords and four of the Twenty belong to us, with another fifty lords and two Great Lords who have allied themselves with the ones we control. My umagi in the king’s army have assembled their teams and are ready to serve when you give the command.”
Vadim nodded. “Excellent. And what progress have you made with the queen?”
A telling silence lasted for several moments before Nour said, “I have made every attempt to ingratiate myself, but she has been difficult to approach. I think her volatile temperament may have something to do with this morning’s revelation.” Nour’s visage shimmered in the Drogan chalice. “Celieria’s queen—and every other Lady of a noble House—is with child. Even those who by age or physical infirmity should have been incapable of conception. It seems there was a dinner this summer—”
As the Primage spoke, Vadim recalled Kolis’s report of a palace dinner where Ellysetta Baristani had spun a carnal weave so strong that every man and woman in the banquet hall had fallen upon one another in ravening lust. Apparently, that weave had contained much more than mere Spirit.
“The queen carries in her womb an infant heir to the throne of Celieria, an umagi is her closest companion, yet still you have not claimed her?” Irritability made Maur’s voice crack like a whip. “Kolis would have had her bound and kneeling in service by now.”
Nour’s lip curled. “Kolis was the queen’s lapdog.”
“Then you’d best learn to wag your tail,” the High Mage snapped. “I didn’t send you to Celieria to bring me excuses. I sent you to bring me results.”
The Primage lifted his chin. “And results are what you shall have, Most High,” he said, “but as it happens, my delay in Marking the queen may actually have worked in our favor.”
“Oh?” Vadim crossed his arms and arched a skeptical brow. “And why is that?”
“Because Manza was right. The Fey have found a way to detect Mage Marks. And the king has
allowed them to begin checking his nobles—including the queen.”
“The Fey? They are there in the city?”
“The Tairen Soul and his mate arrived this morning,” Nour explained. “They were granted a private audience with the king, and shortly after, the king called a select group of lords into council. I regret to say none of my umagi were among them, and all have remained tight-lipped. I cannot tell you the specifics of what was discussed, but the king’s army is preparing for deployment within the week.”
Vadim didn’t need specifics. He could well imagine what had been said at that meeting. His enemies knew their messages were being intercepted—both the mortal couriers and the messages sent on the Fey Warriors’ Path. No doubt Rain Tairen Soul and his mate had traveled to Celieria City to pass on the information they had extracted from Vadim’s old friend Zon.
No matter. When Vadim’s Army of Darkness swept across the land, even the most legendary of Fey warriors would find victory a fleeting dream.
“The Fey checked each member of Dorian’s war council for Mage Marks,” Nour continued, “and they checked the queen, too…without her knowledge. Needless to say, she was not pleased. So, you see, Great One, it’s fortunate that I haven’t been able to Mark her yet. Our secret is still safe, and we can use the queen’s anger to our advantage.”
Vadim waved an impatient hand. Celieria’s queen could wait. She wasn’t half so important to Vadim as Ellysetta Baristani. “How many Fey are guarding the Tairen Soul’s mate now?” Pain spiked in his belly. His next incarnation was upon him, and the mere thought of claiming Ellysetta Baristani and her extraordinary gifts made his soul rage for release from the fragile bonds of its current, rotting form. “Is the Tairen Soul with her? How many chemar have you managed to place near her?” He calculated rapidly. It would take three hours to get an attack force through the Well of Souls, but if he sent one of the dahl’reisen with them to spin that very useful invisibility weave, they might yet achieve what Zon and his men had failed to accomplish in Orest.