“I told you a Spirit weave wouldn’t fool him for long.”
The voice came from an empty part of the room. Kolis leapt to his feet, Mage Fire blooming in his hands just as five-fold weaves and several red Fey’cha flew from the empty room around him. His Mage Fire dissolved, and he staggered as the blades sank into his chest.
Five Fey and a mortal materialized inside the room.
“You!” he exclaimed, staring in disbelief at the mortal’s face. “But you’re…” His words slurred as the tairen venom raced through his body. His eyes rolled back and his body collapsed.
Prince Dorian—the new King Dorian XI—eyed the twitching corpse coldly. “Dead?” he finished. “So they tell me.” He flicked a glance at the Fey. “Get this piece of krekk out of my palace.”
Leaving the Fey to dispose of the body, Dorian exited his father’s bedchamber and strode down the hallway to a warded room where Gaspare Fellows and the dahl’reisen sent by Dorian’s father were watching over his unconscious mother, the queen.
The dahl’reisen looked up when he entered. The spiral of shadowy Azrahn in his palm winked out, and he nodded. “It worked, Your Majesty. The Marks are gone.”
Dorian closed his eyes and bowed his head in weary relief and murmured a brief prayer of thanks that at least he’d been able to save one person he loved. He sat on the edge of the bed beside his mother and took her hand as the dahl’reisen removed the weave keeping her unconscious.
His mother’s lashes fluttered, then slowly lifted. Her delicate silver brows drew together in hazy confusion when she saw him. “Dori?”
Tears sprang to his eyes. “Yes.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “It’s me.”
“You’re alive!” She sat up, flinging her arms around him. “Thank the gods. They said your ship went down.”
“It did, Mama. The Danae saved me. The Tairen Soul’s trip to Elvia brought us the allies we needed to defeat the enemy at Great Bay.”
“Oh, Dori!” Abruptly, tears filled Annoura’s eyes, and her features twisted with a mix of elation and grief. “Dori… oh, Dori, he’s gone. He’s gone.”
“I know, Mama.” Dorian put his face against his mother’s neck as he hadn’t done since childhood. They both wept, mourning the loss of the husband and father who’d been the center of their lives.
Eld ~ Boura Fell 9th day of Seledos
Damn them! Damn them! Damn them for their incompetence!
Vadim Maur snatched the silverglass mirror off his bedchamber wall and smashed it against the stone. It exploded with a satisfying crash, sending shards and splinters of glass flying in all directions. He grabbed the carved chaise in the corner of the room and slammed it into the wall until it broke into kindling. The small private desk and chair suffered a similar fate a few chimes later.
Vadim stood in the center of the wreckage, panting with exertion and trembling with rage.
Did he have to do everything by himself?
Kolis Manza was dead. Prince Dorian—the new king—was not. Annoura and the unborn child who were to have been Vadim’s power in Celieria were lost to him. And working in league with the dahl’reisen, the new King Dorian had instantly begun a purge of not only his court but the entire city. Centuries of planning and careful cultivation were unraveling with increasing speed.
And to top it all off, Ellysetta Baristani had escaped capture. Again.
Of all the bitter disappointments—of all the gross ineptitudes—that was the worst.
His Mages had failed him. All of them. Nour had failed. Manza had failed. Keldo had failed. Dur and the Mharog had failed. Every Primage and Sulimage he’d entrusted to bring his great plan to fruition had failed.
“Damn them!” If they weren’t already dead, he’d kill them himself for their bungling.
Throughout history, High Mages of Eld had held their Dark throne through a combination of strength, cunning, and ruthlessness. But no amount of cunning or strength could disguise the string of failures that had dogged his footsteps from the moment he’d fixed his eye upon Ellysetta Baristani. Or keep the whispers already circulating in the Mage Halls from gaining strength and credence. Primages who had been waiting for him to falter would seize upon the survival of Prince Dorian, the loss of Celieria’s throne, and not one but two failed attempts to capture the Tairen Soul and his mate as proof that Vadim Maur no longer enjoyed Seledorn’s Dark favor.
He needed a decisive victory—fast. And this time he had no intention of sending a lesser Mage to bungle the job. He would oversee the next stage of this battle himself.
Vadim released the privacy wards sealing his room and summoned a trusted umagi to clean up the mess while he returned to the war room. Vargus and the other Primages were still there, several of them talking in quiet whispers. They fell silent when he entered. Vargus watched him with trepidation, the others with carefully constructed blankness.
“Vargus, pack your bags. You and I will be heading to Boura Dor tomorrow to oversee the next phase of our attack from there. And Garok?” Vadim turned to the Primage he suspected of leading the rumblings against him in the Mage Council. “You, Fursk, and Mahl are coming too.” He named the other two Primages who were most loyal to Garok. “I have an important job in need of your great talents.”
To his credit, Primage Garok’s expression never changed. “Of course, Most High.” He executed a smooth bow. “It is our honor to serve.”
Vadim hid his satisfaction behind a cold mask. When he achieved his great victory, he would be on hand to take the credit. His greatest detractors, unfortunately, would either perish as heroes supporting their Mage or die as incompetent fools, depending on the outcome of their battles.
When cunning and strength were not enough for a High Mage to hold his throne, it was time for ruthlessness. In particular, the swift and decisive elimination of all who opposed him.
Celieria City ~ The Royal Palace
Annoura, Dowager Queen of Celieria, sat alone on a stone bench in the private palace garden that had been Dorian’s favorite. Winter had come, and the trees had all lost their leaves weeks ago. It seemed fitting, somehow, to be here now, alone in a barren winter garden.
A sealed letter lay in her lap. Her name was written on the front in a familiar script. Dorian had sent the letter to Dori, in Great Bay, before his death. The ink was a bit smudged from seawater. When Dori’s ship went down, the letter was tucked in an oilskin pouch strapped to his waist. Her son had come very close to dying. If not for the Danae water spirits who had rescued him from his sinking ship, he would have drowned at the bottom of Great Bay.
The Danae had saved him, and he had returned to Celieria City with Gaspare Fellows, a dahl’reisen from Cannevar Barrial’s land, and the Fey, to save her. After all she’d done, after all her hatred and accusations, the Fey and a dahl’reisen had still come to save her. That was a humbling realization. But not nearly so humbling as the realization that her Favorite, Ser Vale, had been a Mage, one who’d nearly claimed her soul.
She had harbored, in her innermost circle, an Elden Mage who had planned the execution of her entire family in order to claim her soul and rule Celieria through her and the royal son she carried in her womb.
She ran the pads of her fingers across the folded parchment of Dorian’s last letter to her. She was afraid to crack the seal, afraid what harsh truths might lie inside, but eventually, she mustered the courage. The blue wax broke in two. She unfolded the parchment and began to read.
My Dearest Annoura,
I hope this letter finds you well. The battle has not yet begun. We wait in growing tension and dread, which I suspect is the enemy’s intent. But the waiting is a boon as well, for it has left me with much time to think.
There is a saying here along the borders: A man never sees more clearly than when he looks death in the eye. As I sit here in this cold, dark castle, on yet another cold, dark night, waiting for war, I know it is true, for I see more clearly than I have in a long time.
I have thou
ght a great deal about the difficulties that have beset our kingdom, and this war that has sprung upon us with so little warning. I have my suspicions, which I have written in a letter to our son and asked him to share with you. I will not dwell on those suspicions here. This is not a communication from a king to his queen, but a letter from a man to his wife.
When a Fey warrior meets the woman who completes him, his soul’s truemate, he knows in an instant. And in that instant, whether she will have him or no, he binds himself to her, heart and soul with the words “Ver reisa ku’chae. Kem surah, shei’tani,” which means “Your soul calls out. Mine answers, beloved.” And he spends the days of their courtship—the rest of his life, if necessary—proving himself worthy of the magnificent gift of her love.
I know how those Fey feel, my darling. That was how I felt the first moment I met you. How I still feel, today.
I pray the gods will see me safely through the coming war, but should I perish, I do not want my last words to you to be those bitter sounds we exchanged at the North Gate. I would, instead, leave you with the truth I discovered that day in Capellas so many years ago. The truth that even now gives me courage to face whatever comes. That truth is this…
I love you, Annoura. I will love you forever, my good and valiant queen, my beloved wife, my soul’s eternal and truest mate. Ver reisa ku’chae. Kem surah, shei’tani.
Yours eternally,
Dorian
The parchment fluttered to the dead winter grass. Dorian’s wife pulled her knees up close to her chest like a child, covered her face with her hands, and let the harsh, broken sobs of loss and despair shake through her body.
Celieria ~ Edge of Verlaine Forest
9th day of Seledos
Rain woke to find himself lying on a cot beneath the fabric dome of a tent whose walls billowed gently in the winter wind. His head was on fire. Every muscle and bone in his body ached. He lifted his left arm and frowned at the sight of the spiraling Shadar horn strapped to his forearm, its pointed tip buried in the vein at his elbow.
What the flames? He reached for the ties cinching the horn to his arm.
“Don’t touch that.” The familiar voice rang with cool command.
Rain turned his head to frown at the white-haired Sheyl, who was standing beside a table on the far side of the tent.
“It’s the only thing holding you to sanity.”
He blinked at her in confusion. “What do you mean? And what are you doing here? “
“I am here because Farel called me when you were struck by a Mharog blade. We used the Shadar horn to draw the poison from your blood, but when we tried to remove the horn, you nearly killed the dahl’reisen helping me tend you. Farel says the bond madness is upon you—and that it hasn’t just begun.”
His mind was still so fuzzy, her words only half registered. “It began over a month ago. Not long after the first battle for Orest.” He put a hand to his head and massaged the ache at his temples. “Ellysetta has been helping me keep my barriers strong.”
Ellysetta.
He sat up so quickly his head spun. «Shei’tani!» He sent the call along their bond threads, but received no answer. She was still alive—he wouldn’t be if she weren’t—but something was preventing him from reaching her. His imagination flooded with all number of horrifying possibilities.
“Where is Ellysetta? What happened to her?”
Sheyl regarded him with a mix of compassion and regret. “She slew the Mharog. But in doing so, she took his poison—his Darkness—into herself and nearly extinguished her Light in the process. We had you together at first, but even unconscious, she kept trying to weave all her strength to you. We had to separate you in order to keep her alive.”
Rain flung the coverlet aside and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. “I must go to her.”
Sheyl started towards him. “Wait. You’re still not in any shape to—“
His head snapped around, and he shot her a glare so fierce she clamped her mouth shut and didn’t say another word as he pushed himself to his feet.
As he rose, the bulky horn knocked against his body, shifting in its straps, and the tip started to pull out of his arm. Instantly, voices in his head began to scream and the heat of unfettered Rage rose so fast he thought the top of his head would explode. He shoved the horn back deep into his arm and drew a shuddering breath when the madness faded.
“Let me do that.” Sheyl crossed the remaining distance between them and strapped the Shadar horn securely back in place. “There’s no need to rush to her side. The shei’dalins are with her. They’ve been working through the night to hold her to the Light.”
His head reared back. “Shei’dalins? There are shei’dalins here—near the dahl’reisen?”
“They came through the Garreval with warriors of the Fey. But do not fear. Once the Fey drew near, Farel and the dahl’reisen headed north to set up a separate camp to avoid causing trouble. They shielded their camp, and so far, the shei’dalins have shown no sign of sensing their presence.”
“Help me get dressed, then take me to Ellysetta.”
Sheyl sighed but acceded to his demands. Since there was no possibility of fitting his war armor over the Shadar horn, she helped him into a pair of black leather breeches and pulled a soft, loose-fitting, linen tunic over his head.
When she was done, Sheyl walked to the entrance of the tent and held the flaps open. “Come on, then. I’ll take you to your mate.” Her lips twisted in wry grimace. “Now that I think about it, you’ll probably do more with one touch to bring her back to us than a full day of shei’dalin healing has managed.”
Outside, a small city of tents had sprung up in what appeared to be a large clearing in the Verlaine Forest. The ground and the perimeter of the trees were black with char. A light drizzle fell from a dark, overcast sky, and the smell of scorched wood and earth hung heavy in the damp air. Skinned deer and small game were roasting over campfires.
“How long was I out?” Rain asked as they walked.
“All night and most of the day.”
A loud, roar rumbled across the sky, and Rain looked up. “The tairen are here?”
“Three of them,” Sheyl confirmed. “They came with the Fey from Kreppes and burned a path through the forest to reach you. Farel says they arrived only a chime or two after you fell. They burned out the rest of the Eld. No one wanted to risk moving you or the Feyreisa, so the dahl’reisen and your Fey just set up camp around you.”
His Fey. He could just imagine how well things must have gone when Bel, Tajik, and Gil set eyes on a small army of dahl’reisen. Clearly, the Brotherhood’s service to Ellysetta had prevented—or at least delayed—the usual lethal vengeance Fey law demanded for any dahl’reisen who came within a mile of a shei’dalin, but Rain wasn’t looking forward to the justifiable tongue-lashing he was sure Bel, Tajik, and the others had in store for him, especially when they found out he’d let the dahl’reisen bloodswear themselves to Ellysetta.
The hearth witch led him through a maze of Fey tents to the far side of the encampment.
“She is there.” Sheyl pointed.
Even without the glow of powerful shields around it, a single glance would have told him which tent held Ellysetta, because stretched out on her belly, wings tucked against her sides, Steli-chakai had her whole body curled around the tent like a mother tairen protecting her nest of unhatched kits. Her tail had completed the circle around the tent, and the tip of it rose and fell in a rhythmic motion near Steli’s shoulder.
“I will take my leave of you here,” Sheyl said. “There are dahl’reisen in need of healing and I promised Farel I would come as soon as you woke. When your mate is recovered, Farel would like you to meet with him at the dahl’reisen camp. There are others who wish to serve, if you will allow it.”
The driving need to reach Ellysetta pounded at him like hammers, but Rain paused long enough to nod his assent. “I will meet with him, and thank you both for all that you have done to help
us. Ellysetta and I are in your debt.”
“You offered sanctuary to our families. All debts are already paid in full.” Sheyl laid a hand on his arm. “Go to your mate. May the gods hold you both to the Light.”
“Beylah vo,” Rain said, and bolted for the tent without a single backward glance.
The great white tairen had ripped the stakes from the ground on one side of the tent and poked her head beneath the heavy fabric walls to keep a concerned maternal eye on Ellysetta. A mournful, crooning tairen song hummed in her throat.
As Rain neared, Steli’s crooning stopped, and her tail stilled. The white tairen withdrew her head from beneath the tent flap and great blue, pupilless eyes turned upon him, whirling with distress.
«Ellysetta-kitling does not wake. Steli sings, but she does not hear.»
Rain laid a hand on the tairen’s furred cheek. «I will sing, too, Steli-chakai. Perhaps, between the two of us, we can rouse her.»
The white tairen rumbled her assent and lifted her head so Rain could enter.
Inside the tent, six shei’dalins and the five warriors of Ellysetta’s primary quintet stood huddled around a table in the center of the space. They parted as Rain approached, revealing Ellysetta’s motionless form.
The sight of her stopped him in his tracks. He’d never seen her so close to death. Her natural, Fey luminescence had drained away, leaving her skin a pallid gray-white. Against it, her wealth of flame-colored curls seemed lurid, almost garishly bright. Dark rings shadowed the skin beneath her eyes, and her lips had taken on a bloodless blue tinge.
“Shei’tani,” he whispered, and he moved without conscious thought, crossing the remaining distance between them to take her hand in his. Her fingers lay cold and limp in his palm. He pressed them to his face, his lips, as if mere contact and desperate love could breathe warmth back into her flesh. On the threads of their bond, sent with a warming wave of his own essence, he called, «Ke sha taris, Ellysetta. Ke sha eva vo.» I am here. I am with you.