Eld ~ Boura Fell
Accompanied by half a dozen servants, Vadim Maur walked down the corridor that housed the luxurious cells reserved for his most magically gifted female captives.
For many years, Elfeya v’En Celay had resided here, garbed in delicate silks and left to await his pleasure as he sought to mate his great mastery of Elden magic with her countless Fey gifts. That attempt had come to naught, except that he’d discovered truemated Fey did not breed with any but their bound mates.
That limitation was not true for unmated Fey. Though the unmated Fey females he’d captured during the Wars had been too fragile to survive more than a few de cades in captivity, the males were both hardy and fertile. Over the centuries, his captive Fey and dahl’reisen males had successfully impregnated thousands of Celierian and Elden females, and in an effort to bring additional magic into the bloodlines, he’d even released a number of their offspring back into the Celierian populations in the magic-infused lands near the borders.
All along the borders, the unwitting descendants of Vadim Maur’s centuries-old breeding program lived their lives, Celierian and Eld mortals crossbred with a mix of Fey, Elvish, and Mage bloodlines, propagating amongst themselves with the genetic drives he had manipulated into their flesh, building the pool of increasingly gifted prospective breeders, females for his dahl’reisen studs, males for those rare females whose genetic makeup had left them too gifted to tolerate the touch of dahl’reisen flesh. In his office, entire volumes of books documented the specifics of the bloodlines he had bred and crossbred over the centuries.
Three of this generation’s strongest females were just entering the last quarter of their yearlong pregnancies. The fetuses in their wombs were powerfully gifted, showing signs they possessed each of the five Fey magics. And that meant it was time for Vadim to work the miracle of soul manipulation once again.
He stopped before one of several gilt-chased doors. The guards on either side hurried to unlock it for him, and with a wave of his hand the heavy door swung inward, revealing the lush wonderland inside. In what had once been an enormous cavern carved out of the rock, live trees and grasses grew along gentle hillocks bordering a stone pathway. Sun-bright Fire burned in sconces overhead that traveled the domed ceiling daily in an imitation of the Great Sun’s daily trek across the heavens. A soothing breeze rustled through the trees, and in the distance, water fell gently into a clear pond.
He had discovered long ago that serenity improved the number of live births amongst his breeding females, while privation resulted in a higher level of miscarriages and stillbirths. So he had learned to provide serenity through pleasant surroundings and a strong Mage spell that erased all memories of his prisoners’ previous lives and supplanted them with the desire to enjoy their tiny slice of paradise, please the High Mage above all others, and willingly mate as directed.
Vadim followed the path to the tree-shaded pool, where he knew he would find the three women he had come for. A young black-haired child clothed in servant’s rags was with them. A tray of food on the grass nearby explained her presence, but he was not pleased to find her sitting beside them, her eyes closed as one of the pregnant women sang and ran a comb through the girl’s dark hair.
A leaf crackled beneath his feet. The servant girl’s eyes flew open, and he saw a glint of familiar silver before she scrambled to her feet. That child again. The affront to his bloodlines. Sired by one of his own descendants—those silver eyes made the shameful truth undeniable—but born utterly without magic.
“What do you think you’re up to, girl?” he snapped.
“Forgive me, Master Maur. They always seem happier when they have someone to take care of. I didn’t think anyone would mind.” The words were submissive, those telltale eyes downcast, but there was a tone in her voice that raised his hackles. Just her presence raised his hackles.
“You thought?” His lip curled. “When I want thoughts from you, I’ll put them in your worthless skull myself.” He grabbed her chin, pinching her face between his fingers. Her silver eyes flashed up—just for an instant, but that was long enough for him to see the hard glitter of hatred. His nostrils flared. He summoned power and stabbed it into her with merciless force. She gave a choked cry and dropped to her knees. “Slaves do not think. They serve. Silent and unseen. And don’t dare to think those eyes of yours grant you any special worth in Boura Fell. Magic is the sole coin of this realm, and you have none. Now get out. If I find you in here again, you’ll be the next sacrifice to the Guardians of the Well.”
He waited until she was gone, then turned back to the women gathered by the pond. They had huddled together and were clutching one another, weeping in fear and confusion.
“Shia, Tailinn, Fania, come here.” They didn’t immediately obey, which only infuriated him more. With a muttered oath, he summoned a rush of Azrahn, only instead of stabbing it into the women as he had the girl, he spun a powerful compulsion weave. Their lovely faces became expressionless, their eyes going flat and vacant.
“Come here,” he repeated, and all three women came to his side with silent, blank-eyed obedience.
He placed his hands on their naked, heavily pregnant bellies and sent his Mage senses inward to test the health and readiness of the fetuses. All three of the pregnancies were proceeding exactly as he’d planned, and all three of the unborn responded to his presence with little cracks of power that made their mothers flinch.
Vadim selected Shia, the Celierian-born woman with the long black hair and pale blue eyes who had been singing and brushing the girl’s hair when he came in. Descended of the vel Serranis line and Vadim’s own Mage blood, Shia was among this generation’s most promising females, so sensitive to the dahl’reisen that Vadim had been forced to render her unconscious before releasing the stud to mate with her. Even then, Shia had nearly roused, whimpering, as the dahl’reisen pumped his seed into her prepared body.
The High Mage snapped his fingers and pointed, and four servants rushed forward with robes and gold silk slippers to clothe Shia. Vadim drew an empty vial and lancet from one pocket and made a tiny cut on her arm. Bright scarlet blood welled out. He filled the vial, capped it, then closed the small wound with a swift weave of Earth.
“Take her to the birthing room and prepare her.”
Leaving his servants to their tasks, Vadim made his way back to his own chambers, to the small, heavily warded room secreted in the heart of his private suite. Though an enormous vault deep in Boura Fell contained enough gold, silver, and gems to buy a kingdom ten times over, this tiny room was where the true treasure of Eld lay.
Vadim released the wards and locks and opened the door. Inside, rows of locked chests and rack upon rack of drawers and shelves were stuffed with every conceivable tool of power, objects Vadim had inherited from his predecessors, along with the enormous personal collection he’d gathered himself. Magical implements men and women of knowledge would conquer worlds to possess. Stones to call particular demons. Rune-etched collars and manacles to contain and control them. Tikis made by powerful Feraz Black Witches for the darkest intent of Mother Night herself. Drogan chalices that, when filled with the blood of an infant, became dark mirrors through which the High Mage and his distant emissaries could communicate without any other form of magic.
One small chest, protected by no fewer than twelve deadly wards, contained his bands of power. Vadim released the wards and opened the chest. Trays of magical rings and armbands gleamed up at him. He spread them out across the counter. Four trays were filled with gleaming Tairen’s Eye crystals set in gold rings; eight overflowed with black selkahr set in platinum.
From a deep pocket in his robes, he withdrew the small vial of Shia’s still-warm blood. He uncapped the vial and poured several drops of the blood into one palm. He touched his tongue to the blood, taking the taste of it into his mouth, then rubbed his hands together until a thin, rapidly drying sheen of red coated both palms.
“Gaz mora khan,” he whispered
. From blood power. His eyes closed as runners of rich, seductive darkness sparked in his veins. The blood on his hands grew warm, heating his palms. The remnants on his tongue assumed a dark honey flavor, rapidly taking on an overpowering sweetness that made his teeth ache.
His eyes snapped open, black now and glowing with the dark red embers of Azrahn. To his Azrahn-enhanced vision, the small treasure room was a well of shadow, set afire with blazing magical lights. The Tairen’s Eye crystals were near-blinding prisms of multicolored light. He splayed his blood-smeared hands over them.
“Vi mora ulchis,” he commanded. To blood obedience. His palms, glowing a dull, dim red, passed slowly over the crystals. A score of the crystals gleamed brighter, minute sparks leaping from them like a shower of embers bursting from a fire. He plucked them from the tray and retested the smaller group several more times until he had whittled the score of crystals down to the four that responded most strongly to his testing spell.
Using a similar process, he selected four black selkahr from the other trays, then chose two of his purest, most powerful deep purple amethyst rings to adorn each thumb. Finally, the High Mage opened a separate set of trays below the first and withdrew two armbands of gold chased with ancient Merellian runes.
When he finished, he reactivated the wards guarding the chests and exited the small room.
The darkest bell of night was approaching. The time for great magic was near.
CHAPTER NINE
The Fading Lands ~ Lissilin
The cry cut through Rain like a knife. He bolted upright on the pallet he’d carried up to the rooftop in Lissilin so he and Ellysetta could sleep beneath the stars. The rush of blinding grief left him breathless and trembling. Beside him, Ellysetta gave a low cry of pain and jolted awake as well, clutching the soft sheet to her chest.
“Rain…” Tears thickened her voice. She did not understand what it was she felt, but she was Fey enough, tairen enough, to feel the terrible sorrow in every cell of her being.
He bent his head. His eyes burned with unshed tears. Ah, gods, too late. He should have flown straight through to Fey’Bahren, but he’d let Sybharukai’s reassurances of Cahlah’s improving condition convince him he still had time.
He pressed his palms to his forehead and sang a short prayer of farewell. “Soar high and laugh on the wind,” he whispered.
“What’s happened, Rain?” The tears had spilled over and were running down Ellysetta’s cheeks.
“Cahlah is dead, and one of her kits has perished in the egg.” He thumbed her tears away, kissed her gently before releasing her. “I must go. I’d like you to come with me, though when we reach Fey’Bahren you may have to wait until the worst of the pride’s grief has passed before they will welcome you.”
“Of course I’ll go,” she said without hesitation.
“Beylah vo.” As they dressed, he sent a probe of Spirit downstairs and found Dax awake and worried for his mate, who had suddenly woken and begun weeping for no reason she could explain.
«Sieks’ta,» Rain apologized. «Two of the tairen are dead. Ellysetta and I must have been broadcasting our grief too strongly. Forgive us for disturbing your mate. We are flying to Fey’Bahren. You and Marissya join us there as soon as you can. »
Moments later, he and Ellysetta soared from the rooftops of Lissilin and began winging north, towards the Feyls.
Eld ~ Boura Fell
The High Mage groaned. Naked, bathed in blood, he lay prostrate on the cold stone floor and twitched while the last of the painful spasms that had racked every muscle of his body made its final angry statement.
“Master?” Booted feet shuffled close.
“Do not touch me.” He issued the warning between clenched teeth. The ringing in his ears, caused by his own screams, began to fade, and in its place he heard another sound: a steady dripping, like overturned milk spilling onto a hard surface. But he knew it was not milk. The rich, metallic scent was instantly recognizable.
Blood, thick, still warm, and lots of it. The fluid of life and of recent violent death.
No wonder the servants were terrified. If Vadim had lost his prize after the ferocious, agonizing battle he had just won, his fury would be savage.
“The child?”
“Alive, master.” The voice quavered. “And unharmed.” It was not him the servants feared then. Vadim closed his eyes, focused, summoned every vestige of strength. The battle this time had been worse than any he’d ever fought before, draining every hint of magic from him, every reserve of strength. He’d almost lost. Unimaginable, but there it was. Death had been so near, he’d felt its cold breath upon the back of his neck, an enveloping mist wrapping about him like a shroud.
Without the pulse of magic throbbing within, the full weight of his age fell upon him. His bones ached; his muscles felt weak and flaccid. Will alone roused him from the stone floor, forced his spine to straighten when his body wanted instead to remain bent and hunched like an old man’s. He was the High Mage. He could not afford to show weakness.
He stood. Hair matted with congealed blood impeded his vision. He brushed it back with an impatient hand and inspected the results of his latest efforts.
Shia lay on the birthing table, her lovely face splattered with blood and frozen in a rictus of pain. Her belly was open, torn from sternum to pubis. Long flaps of shredded skin lay folded outward, indicating that the deadly assault had come from within her own body. In the ruins of her womb, nestled in a warm pool of blood and decimated organs, the infant Vadim had so carefully engineered lay quietly, regarding the world from pupil-less eyes that glowed like a Tairen’s Eye crystal.
Triumph swelled, filling him with renewed vigor. He reached for the child, laughed as it hissed and batted at his hands with tiny fingers curved like claws. “No, no, my lad.” He plucked the child from its mother’s corpse. “What a fine, strong boy you are. What a fine, strong Mage you will make.”
Cradling the child against his chest, Vadim walked to a connecting room. There, a dozen servants waited beside clear, thermal-heated pools. Several of them followed Vadim into the water and silently bathed the gore of the recent magic rites from the High Mage and the tiny baby he reluctantly handed to them.
When they were finished, he stepped out of the thermal pools and let the servants dry him with warmed, scented cloths and slip a thick, plush robe over his body to ease the chill these sessions always left in his bones. Those shivers helped mask the other tremors in his hand as he sat in a cushioned chair by a steaming brazier. The servants placed the swaddled babe back in his arms.
Already the magic had begun to subside in the child, and his eyes had reverted to their natural appearance, a clear pale blue rimmed with cobalt. Shia’s eyes.
A surprising trace of regret touched the High Mage. Shia had been uncommonly lovely, and she had served him well. In addition to the many hours of personal pleasure she had provided him, she had birthed half a dozen gifted offspring sired by his most powerful studs.
He ran a thin finger down the baby’s smooth cheek. “Your name, child, will be Tyrkomel. Mother’s death.”
After the Mage and his prize had left the birthing room, the umagi servants of Boura Fell entered to strip and cleanse it with brisk efficiency. Three women hosed down the bloody table and floors. Two men shuffled in to wrap the torn, cooling body of the dead woman in canvas and haul it outside to the waiting refuse cart.
The ragged, dark-haired girl stood beside the handles of the cart. She flinched when the canvas parted to reveal the frozen face, silky black hair, and staring pale blue eyes of the corpse within.
A soft cry—quickly stifled—choked in the girl’s throat. When the two servants turned back to the birthing chamber, her slender, grimy fingers reached out, trembling slightly as they brushed Shia’s lustrous hair. A rusty knife flashed. A lock of long, shining black hair came away in the girl’s hand.
Clutching it to her chest, she ran. One of the servants gave an angry shout when she came out
and found the refuse cart abandoned, but the girl didn’t stop. She hurried down a series of dark stairs and narrow, winding corridors that were barely more than tunnels burrowed into the rock. Bare, filthy feet scrambled over age-worn rock down to the lowest level of Boura Fell, where the most dangerous prisoners were kept and the refuse pit reached bottom.
There, in a shadowed alcove beneath the stair, she huddled in darkness, rocking and stroking the lock of hair. She didn’t make a sound—she’d learned long ago to keep silent—but inside her mind she sang in a hoarse, sobbing voice the words of Shia’s favorite song. When she heard the snarl and furious barks of the ferocious darrokken in the refuse pit fighting over the newest morsel tossed down into their midst, the girl plugged her fingers in her ears and raised the voice in her mind to a shout. Not her. Not her. Not the sweet, soft, blue eyes with the tender hands. Meat and bone. That was all. Meat and bone.
The girl pressed the strand of Shia’s hair to her lips, breathed in the scent, forcing herself to visualize the happy, smiling face of only a few bells ago. There. That was her. Shia. Sweet, kind Shia with the gentle hands who loved to brush the girl’s hair and sing pretty songs about sunlight and soft rain and warm, fragrant winds that smelled of flowers instead of dark magic and death. She’d even given the girl a name and called her by it when she came…Melliandra.
The girl breathed and sang and rocked until the growling fury of the darrokken faded. In the silence, her body went still. Umagi did not rebel. Umagi only served. Their thoughts and memories and even their souls were not their own. But she would not share Shia—not with the High Mage who’d slain her.
Years ago, she’d learned how to hide small thoughts from him. Little things at first—the crust of bread she’d slipped in her pocket, the loose button she’d palmed from one of the pillows in his room. Over time she’d grown bolder, learned to hide more—like how much she hated him and wished him dead.