Ellie blinked at his chilling rudeness, and beside her, Ravel took a threatening step forward that made Ser Sonneval’s eyes widen.
“Nei, Ser Ravel, it’s all right.” Ellysetta lifted a hand to forestall any trouble.
Around her waist she wore the black Fey’cha dagger that Bel had given her when he’d bloodsworn himself to her service. Her fingers closed around the silk-wrapped hilt, and the feel of Bel’s bloodsworn blade in her hand filled her with reassuring confidence.
“It is happy indeed that we live in such enlightened times,” she continued, “that a woodcarver’s daughter can wed a king and a banker’s daughter can wed a Ser.”
Ser Sonneval paled, then flushed as the blades in her remark struck home. Beside him, Kelissande’s eyes blazed with scarcely contained fury.
Keeping her expression composed and polite, Ellie finished coolly, “On behalf of my family, I offer you our felicitations, Kelissande. May you find all the happiness you deserve in your marriage.”
Ravel stepped forward, his face carved from stone. “Mistress Minset, Ser Sonneval, I must ask you both to leave. The Feyreisa’s devotions begin soon, and the Fey will be warding the isle.”
As he spoke, two dozen warriors spread out along the perimeters of the isle to spin protective weaves that would keep anyone from entering or leaving the isle as long as Ellysetta was there. Since canon law forbade anyone to enter the Grand Cathedral bearing weapons, the Fey had insisted on erecting their barricades of magic to protect Ellysetta each time she was there, and though he spluttered in outrage and threatened to tell the king, not even the Archbishop himself had been able to stop them.
“She truly hates me,” Ellie murmured as Kelissande and her betrothed took their leave.
“She’s never liked anyone to best her,” Selianne said. “The way she was crowing before you got here, you’d think she was wedding a lord, rather than a mere Ser. He’s as poor as a dorn, of course—the seventh son of a small southern lord—but he’s of noble blood. He liked the size of her brideprice, and her father liked the blueness of his blood. Personally, I think she couldn’t stand the idea of your wedding the Fey king, and this was the best she could do to trump you.” Selianne rolled her eyes. “It’s a shame you’ll miss her wedding. It’s sure to be a grand event.”
“I’d have missed it anyway,” Ellie replied dryly. “I sincerely doubt Kelissande Minset would invite me.”
“Ah, but you’re the Tairen Soul’s bride now. Of course she’d invite you.”
“Then I’m even sorrier to miss the spectacle of Kelissande Minset currying my favor.” They both laughed at the preposterous idea.
The sound of Selianne’s laughter and the familiar sight of her bright smile and dancing eyes sent a wave of love rushing over Ellie. She’d missed this so much these last few days: giggling with her very best friend in the world. They’d spent so many years growing up together, sharing confidences and laughter, hopes and fears. Outside of her own family, there was no one in the world she loved more.
Selianne’s smile faded as tears glistened in Ellysetta’s eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Ellie shook her head and blinked back the tears before they could fall. “Nothing bad, Sel. I was just thinking how much I love you. I know how difficult this has been for you—I know you’d rather have seen me wed Den Brodson than Rain—but I’m so very glad you’re here with me, standing as my Honoria.”
“Oh, Ell.” Selianne flung her arms around Ellie’s waist and hugged her tightly. “You’re my sister in every way that counts. Where else would I be but at your side?” They both cried a little, then stepped back to laugh and wipe at their tears. “Come on,” Selianne said, linking her arm through Ellysetta’s, “we’d best get inside. Greatfather Tivrest looks ready to pop a vessel.”
As the women stepped across the cathedral threshold, Den Brodson, Ellysetta’s former betrothed, stalked down the cobbled streets of the West End, his jaw clenched in brutish determination.
Enough was enough!
The urchin he’d paid last night had brought him word that Batay, the Sorrelian merchant ship captain, had returned to the Inn of the Blue Pony, and now it was time Den and the good captain had a little heart-to-heart talk. The bare-fisted kind of talk, if necessary. Den’s knuckles popped with a series of satisfying cracks as his thick fingers curled tight.
Almost a week had passed since the Sorrelian captain had approached Den, promising to help him take back his bride. Thus far, however, the Sorrelian’s promises had amounted to nothing but hot air. Though Den had spent most of last week gamely playing errand boy on behalf of Batay and his mysterious master, he was no closer to reclaiming Ellie Baristani than he had been the day King Dorian had declared Den’s betrothal null and void.
“Light save you,” Den’s friend Garlie Tavitts had exclaimed last night over a pint of ale, “your pa’s rich as a king now. Go find another girl. Why’d you need to tangle with the Fey?”
Garlie didn’t understand. No one did. The Fey gold paid to break the betrothal belonged to Den’s pa, not to him. And Den was tired of being his father’s lackey. Ellie and the money he planned to earn with her magic were Den’s chance for a personal fortune all his own.
But this wasn’t even about the money anymore. Now it was about pride and respect and victory. Rainier vel’En Daris had stolen something that belonged to Den. Every sewer rat in the West End knew if he dared steal so much as a crust of bread from Den Brodson, Den would chase the thief down and stomp his jaffing liver out. And that went for honey-tongued Sorrelian sea captains, too. Den Brodson was no pinchpocket’s mark.
It was time for some action.
Den shoved open the doors of the Inn of the Blue Pony and stalked inside. After a curt consultation with the innkeeper, he made his way to one of the private dining rooms down the back hallway and rapped twice on the door before opening it. The now-familiar face of Captain Batay smiled from across a scarred wooden table. A partially eaten meal sat before him. He was drinking from a glass filled with bloodred wine.
“Ah, Goodman Brodson, please come in.” Captain Batay set his wineglass on the table and waved Den in.
Den hesitated. One look from the Sorrelian captain, and every ounce of Den’s righteous fury evaporated as ice ran down his spine. He stood there, shocked and confused, trying to banish the fear that suddenly clung to the back of his neck.
What the flaming Hells was wrong with him? Batay’s smile held nothing but welcome. His vivid blue-green eyes contained craftiness, to be sure, but if the captain were not a crafty man, he would be little help to Den in his efforts to reclaim his wayward bride. Still, Den couldn’t quite stop himself from glancing over his shoulder as he stepped into the inn’s private dining room and closed the door.
“The innkeeper said you’d come by last night looking for me and that you’d received the note I left for you,” Batay said as Den drew near. “Did you bring what I asked for?”
Despite every one of his earlier intentions to set the tone of this meeting and claim a position of power, Den found himself approaching the dining table like a supplicant and meekly pulling the small wooden music box from his pocket. The box had two paste jewels embedded in its carved top and played a tinny rendition of the overture from the symphony Rainier’s Song. Den had thought the tune ironically appropriate.
“Excellent,” the captain said. “That will do nicely.” He held out a hand, and Den gave him the music box.
“What makes you think she’s even going to open the gift?” Den asked.
“She will, I assure you. She will feel compelled to open it.” The Sorrelian reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an empty glass vial.
“If it even reaches her to begin with,” Den said. “It’s not like those Fey are going to let me give her anything.”
Captain Batay placed the vial on the table and reached underneath his coat. “When the gift is ready, I will make arrangements for it to be delivered.”
Den
shrank back as the Sorrelian drew a long, wicked-looking black dagger from the sheath at his side. The double-edged blade was narrow and wavy, the long hilt tightly wrapped with black and red silk cords. A large black jewel clutched in golden prongs glittered in the pommel.
“What’s that for?” Den asked in a voice that cracked.
“Relax, Goodman Brodson. I just need a little of your blood.”
“Why?”
“So many questions. You weren’t so curious when I first offered my help.”
“You weren’t asking for my blood then.”
“But now I am.” Captain Batay smiled. “Just a drop or two.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’m afraid our association is at an end. The door is there.” He pointed. “Close it behind you on your way out.” He set the knife down on the table and returned the empty vial to his pocket. The captain raised his glass, drank deep of the ruby wine, and raised his brows when Den remained where he was. “If you want to free your bride from the Tairen Soul, Goodman, you may stay. But the price for staying is your blood.”
Den thought of Ellysetta’s abilities, of the riches that would be his. Of the wealth, the power. Of the satisfaction that would come from beating the arrogant Tairen Soul at his own game. The demon-souled Fey sorcerer had stolen Den’s prize. Den was going to steal her back.
“Just a drop or two?”
“That’s all I require.”
Den held out his hand.
The second of Ellysetta’s six devotions passed with surprising calm, and though Ellysetta wouldn’t exactly say the cathedral was overflowing with happiness, there was at least a certain level of acceptance instead of the dread and disapproval that had hung over yesterday’s initial service. Greatfather Tivrest conducted the devotions in a sober, sonorous voice. When they were done, Mama and Selianne left together—without Fey escort—to visit Madame Binchi’s shop on Queen’s Street for their dress fittings, while the Fey escorted Ellysetta back home.
Bel and the rest of Ellysetta’s primary quintet were there waiting, looking worse than she’d ever seen them, and the brief lightening of her spirits she’d enjoyed after sharing Selianne’s company faded in an instant.
“I’m so sorry,” she told Bel miserably when Ravel’s quintet had departed. She felt near tears at the sight of the five warriors who’d become such dear friends. They looked so weary and wan, and she’d done that to them. She and her weave. “I swear I didn’t mean to do it.”
Bel only shook his head and smiled gently. “Las, kem’falla, we know that.” Far more forgiveness than she deserved shone from his cobalt eyes. “Your magic is awakening, and that is never a tidy process.”
“Bel is right, Feyreisa,” Kieran said, smiling as he glanced down at the tiny white kitten perched on his shoulder. Love had decided that Kieran’s shoulder was a much more comforting place than her hideout under the icebox. She stuck out her chin for a scratch and regarded the Fey Earth master with a look of pure feline adoration. Her stubby tail flicked his ear, her tiny claws curled into his leathers to secure her place, and despite the powerful magic shields still in place around the house, she was purring so loudly, Ellie could hear her all the way across the room. “You are not to blame in any way.”
“Aiyah,” Kiel agreed. “Besides, no one was hurt, and no real harm was done.”
“I’ll wager there’s many a man who’d pay for such…invigoration,” Rowan pitched in helpfully, “if you catch my meaning.” He grinned. Rowan had a sense of humor that Ellysetta was coming to realize was pure mischief. He was the kind who would poke monsters with a stick and laugh when they roared. “In fact,” he added, “our lads Kieran and Adrial started a few new Fey legends in the brothel district last night.”
“Kieran Blue Eyes, they called him,” Kiel said, sidling up to Kieran’s side and giving him a simpering, syrupy look of adoration. “One look had them swooning.”
Kieran flashed his charming smile, fluttered his now-famous blue eyes, and caught Kiel when he pretended to faint. Love, unamused, swatted at the blond Fey.
“And baby brother was Adrial the Unstoppable,” Rowan added proudly. “He had them swooning, too, but for a different reason.” The Fey waggled his brows and grinned again with wicked, roguish humor.
Ellysetta covered her blazing cheeks with her hands and sank weakly on the arm of a settee. “This is not helping.” She couldn’t believe they were laughing about what she’d done. She didn’t find anything funny about it at all.
Adrial apparently didn’t either. Instead of laughing with the other Fey, he had retreated to the other side of the room and stood there, staring into space and trembling as if some great emotion gripped him.
“Adrial?” Concerned, she went to him. His Fey-pale skin was even whiter than the others’, his brown eyes dilated and unfocused. She reached up and pressed a hand to his forehead. His skin felt clammy, and she gasped as blinding despair battered her senses. Adrial lurched away from her, and the emotion faded.
“Don’t touch me.” His voice was weak, thready.
Ellie was aware of the sudden alertness of the other Fey warriors in the room, but she ignored them, focusing her attention on Adrial. “You’re ill,” she said. “You should be in bed.”
“Nei.” He rubbed his face with trembling hands. “I’m all right. I’ll be fine.”
“Adrial. Little brother.” Rowan approached. His laughter was gone, replaced by worry. “Listen to the Feyreisa.” He reached out to grasp his brother’s arms, but Adrial threw him off.
“Nei.” White sparks flashed in Adrial’s eyes. “Don’t touch me, Rowan. I said I’m fine.”
Love the kitten hissed furiously, jumped off Kieran’s shoulder and went racing for the kitchen. A globe of light sprang up around Ellysetta as Bel, Kiel, Kieran, and the five warriors of her secondary quintet leapt forward to surround her.
“Then why are you summoning Air?” Kieran asked.
Adrial frowned. “I…” The sparks in his eyes faded. “Was I?” He pressed the heels of his palms to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. “Perhaps I should lie down.” He allowed Rowan to lead him to the couch.
“Talk to me, Adrial,” Rowan urged. “You’ve blocked me out. I can’t reach you with Spirit. You must talk to me.” He spared a brief, fierce look at Bel. “We need Marissya.”
Bel nodded, and his eyes lost focus as he reached across distance with a weave of Spirit. He was calling Marissya. “She comes,” he said a moment later.
«Shei’tani.» Rain’s voice sounded in Ellie’s mind, strong and clear, but with an underlying tone of concern. «We are on our way. Stay away from Adrial.»
Stay away? She looked at Adrial and bit her lip. But he was in such pain. Her every instinct demanded that she help him. She stepped towards Adrial, only to find her way blocked by Belliard.
“Nei, Ellysetta. You must not defy the Feyreisen on this. Until we know what ails Adrial, you must not go near him.”
“But—”
«Ellysetta, obey me!» There was no hint of the kind, courting suitor now. Only pure, autocratic king, accustomed to obedience, demanding it without question.
She flinched and glared at Bel, mostly because Rain wasn’t there to be glared at, but also because she knew Bel had told on her. “I only want to help.”
“You can help most by doing as your shei’tan tells you.” Bel glanced at Rowan and Adrial, then added silently, «Ellysetta, listen to me. You saw Adrial summoning Air without realizing it. He wields Earth, too, and some Fire. He could hurt you, badly. The shei’dalin in you wants to help him. But you are also the Feyreisa. You cannot put yourself at risk.»
With every muscle in her body protesting, Ellie backed away from Adrial. She hated the Fey’s rigid belief that the Feyreisa must be protected from all harm, hated watching Adrial’s pain and being refused even the chance to try to help him. The one thing she’d always been good at was easing the wounds and emotions of those she loved.
“Talk to me, Adrial,” Rowan urged again.
“I can’t think.” Adrial pressed his hands over his eyes. “It’s so flaming hard to think. My mind is going in a thousand different directions.” He leaned his head back against the couch and gave a soft, despairing groan. “Last night it was as if there was someone else in my mind, and now it’s as if part of me, part of my soul, is missing. I keep searching but I can’t find it. I’m lost. Gods, I’m so lost.” His eyes opened. Hollow, devastated eyes. He grabbed his brother’s tunic. “Help me, Rowan.”
Rowan was weeping. “I will, Adrial. I’ll help you. On my soul, I swear it.”
Ellie was weeping too. She had done this to him. Whatever now tortured Adrial, it had entered his soul because of her, because she in her ignorance and drunken daydreams had spun a weave that left him vulnerable.
It was too much. She couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. Adrial’s pain was ripping at her, tearing her heart. She stared hard at him, took a deep breath, and for the first time in her life, deliberately tried to use her magic. She thought about the shining threads she’d seen Marissya weave. Imagined glowing ribbons of light and power, weaving together in a net of healing magic. Imagined the net settling over Adrial. She concentrated, trying to turn the images into reality.
Nothing happened.
She tried to remember what she’d done last night, emboldened by pinalle and keflee, but it was all still so hazy. She hadn’t intentionally woven magic, she’d just let her mind wander. Ellie cleared her thoughts and tried letting her mind wander now. She took deep, calming breaths and thought soothing things, calming thoughts, trying to project them onto Adrial.
Again, nothing happened.
What good was magic if she couldn’t use it on demand? Frustration and empathetic pain beat at her. Adrial’s Fey-beautiful face was carved with lines of anguish, his warrior’s body shaking as he clung to his brother and wept, pleading for someone, anyone, to help him.
Biting her lip, desperate to repair the harm she’d somehow done him, Ellysetta closed her eyes and prayed. “Gods, please, help him. Make it stop. Take away the pain.”