“If he’s stealing souls from the Well, then we must cut off his access to it—or find a way to separate the kitlings from the Well of Souls,” Gaelen said. “Azrahn is the only way.”
“Nei!” Gil, Tajik, Rain, and Dax roared as one.
“Azrahn is the enemy’s tool, not ours,” Tajik said.
“What we’re talking about here is the manipulation and theft of souls,” Gaelen snapped back. “What tool should we use to combat soul theft if not the soul magic?” He threw up his hands and stalked a short distance away. “Bright Lord save me from pompous fools.”
“Pompous!” Tajik snarled. “Is it pompous to live with honor?”
“What honor is there in the destruction of everything we hold dear? I’d rather live as a reviled outcast and keep my people safe than die a noble corpse along with everyone I love.”
“And that’s precisely the thinking that led you down the Shadowed Path to begin with! Honor is the anchor that holds us to the Light.”
“Oh, aiyah, an anchor indeed,” Gaelen snapped. “But what happens when you’re thrown overboard, still chained to that great scorching anchor? You flaming drown, that’s what—along with every other brother chained to it with you.”
“Dahl’reisen rultshart!” Tajik’s red hair all but caught fire. He lunged for Gaelen, whose eyes flashed to blue ice just before he lunged too.
“Enough!” Rain stepped between the two of them, his arms outstretched, palms flat against the chests of the two snarling warriors. “Scorch you both! Save your fury for the Eld.” He glared at Gaelen. “Azrahn is the forbidden magic. You accepted that when you returned to the Fading Lands. You will either live by our laws or be banished once more. Is that clear?”
Gaelen’s eyes narrowed. “It’s clear.”
“Kabei.” Rain shoved him away and turned to Tajik. “Dull the edge of that blade, vel Sibboreh. The Mage Wars would have happened with or without Gaelen, and your sister would still be dead. Do not forget: His own sister was the first to die.”
A muscle jumped in Tajik’s jaw. With a sullen nod, he turned away and stalked to a corner of the courtyard.
After a brief silence to let tempers settle, Marissya said, “Separating the kitlings from the Well wouldn’t work in any case. If you sever that connection before they’re born, you’d sever their souls from their bodies. They’d die.”
Ellysetta’s brows drew together. “Then isn’t birth the obvious answer?” She glanced at Rain. “The Mage hasn’t ever attacked tairen once they’ve hatched, has he?”
“Not in this manner,” he acknowledged, “but this clutch was laid only three months past. It’s far too soon for hatching. Tairen spend twelve months in the womb and eight months on the sands. No kitling with less than six months in the egg has ever survived.”
“Can’t a shei’dalin’s healing weave speed things up?” She turned to Marissya. “It’s only a matter of a few months. Surely, if the most powerful healers can regrow severed limbs or hold a dying person to life, they ought to be able to accelerate the gestation of an unborn child.”
Marissya shook her head. “It’s not that easy, Ellysetta. Not even the most powerful shei’dalin can pull an infant’s soul from the Well before its time, no matter how mature the child’s body may be. As long as a soul lives more in the Well than the world, we can do nothing.”
Ellysetta rubbed her tired eyes. “We should consult the scrolls again. Now that we know what we’re looking for, perhaps we can find clues we’ve overlooked before. Marissya, can you call the shei’dalins to help us? We need as much assistance as we can get to search.”
“Of course. I’ll ask Venarra to summon them first thing in the morning.”
Ellysetta glanced up. The eastern sky was already light. “That should be about now,” she said with a wan smile.
“You and Marissya need to sleep first,” Rain said. “We’ve waited for centuries to find the answer to this problem; we can wait a few more bells.” He turned to the fierce white tairen. “Steli-chakai should lair in the Hall of Tairen.”
«Agreed. Steli will sing to Shei’Kess,» the tairen growled.
«Perhaps the Eye will reveal what secrets it still keeps.»
“I won’t hold my breath,” Rain muttered. In a louder voice, he said, “Beylah vo, Steli-chakai.” Rain tore down the privacy weaves, and Steli leapt into the air, leaving the Fey to head for their own chambers.
Rain escorted Ellysetta back to their palace suite and spun shades against the brightening dawn so she could sleep for a few bells. As he slid beneath the cool silk of the bed-sheets next to the warmth of her slender body, she turned and snuggled against him.
“Rain?”
“Mmm?” He nuzzled the soft spirals of her hair and breathed in her sweet scent.
“Do you think the Fey who bore me could still be alive in Eld?”
His body went still. “For their sakes, I hope not, shei’tani.”
Her palm lay over his chest, the fingers stroking lightly across his skin. “Do you think they could have been captured during the Mage Wars?”
Her caught her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. “I doubt it. Eld don’t treat their prisoners kindly. A thousand years of torment would be too much for anyone to bear.”
“You did,” she whispered.
“Only because the tairen would not let me die.” He drew a breath. “Nei, I’m sure the ones who bore you could not have been long in Mage hands.”
He stroked her hair, half of him wishing now that he had not taken her to the Bay of Flames. “I’m sorry, shei’tani. I had hoped the Bay of Flames would bring you peace, not more worries. I wanted our last days before I left for Orest to be a joy.” A time of memories that would last in the event war broke out before he could return. “I meant to take you to my shellabah, as I promised you in Celieria I would.”
She tilted her head back, her eyes shining in the dim light filtering past his shade weaves. “But our bond isn’t complete yet. You said you would take me to your shellabah on the first night of our union. Let’s wait until then. So I’ll have something to look forward to when you come back to me.”
His lips found the soft skin of her neck, and he nuzzled the warm pulse point there, loving her scent, her taste, the feel of her satiny skin against his mouth. “Bas’ka,” he agreed. “We will wait until then. It shall be my last courtship gift to you.”
“I will be very cross if you disappoint me.” Her arms slid around his neck, and she pressed her body to his. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” He dragged his mouth down her neck and across her shoulder. His hands spanned her slender waist and slid up her ribs to cup her small breasts. “More than I have words to express.”
She caught his face and bent to take his lips with hers. “Then love me, Rain, for what time we have left.”
The silky bed linens whispered against her skin as he bore her down among the soft cushions and coverlets. His skin gleamed lustrous silver and his eyes glowed with warmth and passion. “I will love you much longer than that, kem’reisa.”
Despite the shei’dalins’ best efforts over the next few days, their searching turned up no clues to long-lost weaves that might speed a child’s birth from the Well of Souls, and the day of Rain’s departure for Orest dawned without any sign of victory in the battle to save the kitlings.
As the warriors leaving the Fading Lands prepared for their departure, Rain walked alone to the king’s armory.
There, in the silence of the chamber broken only by the melodic splashing of faerilas pouring into a private bathing pool, Rain undressed and set aside his leathers and steel and even his gleaming rainbow-lit Soul Quest crystal and the carved Tairen’s Eye signet ring he’d worn since becoming Defender of the Fey.
Naked, he walked to the edge of the bathing pool and went down on one knee, his arms extended, palms up, as he softly sang the words of the ancient prayer all warriors invoked before battle. When he rose, he plunged into the falling strea
m of faerilas and gasped. This fountain—like all those in the palace—was fed directly from Dharsa’s Source. The water was icy cold and rich with potent magic. It froze and seared him and set his magic afire inside his flesh.
He stood beneath its flow until his body shone with the purified force of his considerable power, and then stepped out of the pool and dried himself with a swift weave of Air. Six steps brought him to the altar niche, where thirteen fresh, unlit candles in various shades of earth and sky had been laid out in a pattern of divine power. He passed his hand over the candles, loosing a faint weave of Fire as he spoke the name of each god or goddess. One by one, the wicks burst into pale yellow-orange flame, and a heady mé-lange of fragrances filled the air.
Rain knelt before the altar and sang the invocation of the Feyreisen. “Light of the world, shine your grace upon this Fey. Grant me the wisdom to guide my brothers in battle, the strength to drive back the enemy, and, if it is your will, the courage to die bravely and with honor. Light be victorious.”
Last, he sent up silent a plea of his own, If I fall, let my life be the sacrifice that frees Ellysetta from the Mages. If I fall, help her to lead our people with strength and wisdom so the Fading Lands may thrive once more. And the hardest wish for any Fey who wanted his shei’tani bound to him and him alone…“If I fall…let her live to find love and joy with another.”
The candles flickered, and with one final word of prayer and thanks, he blew them out and waved the aromatic smoke from the extinguished wicks over his face and bare skin, closing his eyes and filling his lungs with the warm fragrance.
He’d performed a similar ritual in his youth, before he’d marched out to war. Then, the smoke and faerilas had filled him with a sense of peace and purpose. He’d been so young back then, so unaware of the true horrors war could bring.
Now he knew better. Now he knew how damning even victory could be.
He approached the alcove that held the armor of the king, then stopped. The moment he donned the golden steel, the Fading Lands would be at war and there would be no turning back until the Eld surrendered or the light of the Fey was extinguished.
He could almost hear Johr’s voice, full of hard edges and fierce challenge: You think you have the right, Fey? Are you certain?
He recalled the day Johr had donned the armor. He’d summoned all the Tairen Souls of the Fading Lands into this room to bear witness. There were twenty of them then, ranging in age from Rain’s own youthful two hundred years to Johr’s almost sixteen hundred. Rain had stood in the same spot he was now, his body trembling with a mix of excitement, dread, and anticipation. Gaelen vel Serranis had just wreaked his dark vengeance upon the Eld, and the world had gone mad.
He and his brothers had watched Johr strip away his leathers and steel. They’d sung with him the songs of prayer and purification as he’d cleansed himself in the waters of the Source and lit the sacred candles as Rain had just done. Magic—Johr’s own great tairen power—had swirled around him, draping his nakedness in great, blinding swaths of light as he stepped resolutely toward the alcove where the king’s armor awaited.
“You think being king is about power?” Johr had asked them. He’d stood so tall, his shoulders broad, his face carved from stone. His eyes had whirled tairen-bright, pupil-less, their normal brown transformed to glowing amber that burned like molten steel. “Power is nothing. Kingship is about choices. Hard, bloody, damnable choices. One day, any one of you may be the Feyreisen. When the time comes for you to make those decisions, will you be wise enough to make the right one?” His searing eyes had scorched them.
“Think long and hard, my brother-kin. We are creatures born for killing, but war is a poison draft. No matter why you drink it, the cup holds death—and not just for your enemies. So be sure—be soul-scorching sure of two things before you take the smallest sip: first, that you have no better alternative, and second…”
His voice had trailed off. He lowered his head as though the effort to keep himself standing tall was too great.
“And second?” asked one of the younger Tairen Souls, a Fey barely older than Rain.
Johr drew a breath. Slowly, he lifted his head and drew his shoulders back, square and strong once more. “And second, be sure that once you tilt the cup, you are Fey enough to drain it though its poison rots your flesh, lays waste your lands, and leaves everyone you love writhing in bitter anguish.”
His power had blazed, and the armor in the alcove had dissolved, re-forming on the king’s body, fitted to him as though the steel had been forged to his form. He’d stood there for one last, silent moment, a shining Fey prince clad in black, scarlet, and gold, his eyes as bleak and grim as Rain had ever seen them. “To war, my brothers.” Johr lowered the battle helm upon his head. “To victory or death.”
“To victory or death!” they’d cried.
And so the Mage Wars had begun.
Now, standing alone in the king’s armory on the brink of a second Mage War, Rain found Johr’s ringed name symbol on one of the black leather plates. “If you can hear me, Johr Feyreisen,” he murmured, rubbing a thumb across the sigil of the previous Fey king, “guide me now as you did when I first found my wings.”
When Rain emerged from the king’s armory and stepped into the Hall of Tairen, Bel and Gaelen were waiting. Bel glanced at Rain’s plain black leathers and silvery steel, but all he said was, “The warriors have gathered.”
Gaelen’s ice blue eyes narrowed. “You still believe this can end in any way but one?”
Rain adjusted his meicha belts. “Nei, I am not so big a fool.”
“Then why this?” Gaelen’s hands spread to indicate Rain’s old leathers.
“War is coming—I know that is as inevitable as it was a thousand years ago—but the moment the Eld see the Feyreisen’s golden war steel on the ramparts of Orest, the first battle will begin. Let us position our men, secure our allies, and plan our defenses before throwing down the gauntlet.” When Gaelen continued to look askance, he sighed. “If all I do is buy time for Ellysetta to save the tairen, that will be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
Bel answered for him. “Hope.”
All of Dharsa came out to see the warriors off, and tears mingled with the voices raised in exultant song. Though Rain wore no golden steel, no one in Dharsa believed the departing Fey would return before open war began. And most still remembered how few had returned the last time the Fey strode off to war.
Garbed in flowing purple silks and flanked by Bel, Gaelen, and Steli, Ellysetta stood on a garland-draped plat-form and watched the column of Fey warriors march past, Rain at the lead. She sang with the other Fey, her voice rising pure and sweet, and on a private weave of Spirit, she called, «Be safe, kem’san. Come back to me.»
Just before he rounded the corner and marched out of view, he turned toward her. «I will see you soon, shei’tani.»
Then he was gone. She remained standing on the platform, watching until the last Fey disappeared down the avenue of sentinel trees in Rain’s wake.
When the street was empty and the city had fallen silent, she turned to Marissya and the shei’dalins standing nearby. “Well, kem’fallas, let’s get back to work.”
Rain and the Fey ran flat-out across the Plains of Corunn and the Eastern Desert, but once past the abandoned city of Sohta, the rocky rise and fall of the mountainous terrain slowed their land-eating run to a jog. At dawn of the fourth day, they reached the Faering Mists and the pass of Revan Oreth where the volcanic Feyls merged with the Rhakis mountains.
Though the Mists offered no resistance to Fey departing the Fading Lands, Revan Oreth was little more than a treacherous goat path winding through a canyon of razor-sharp rocks and crumbling cliffs. The Fey took each footstep with special care.
The pass opened into the turbulent heart of Kiyera’s Veil, a gauntlet of mighty, three-hundred-foot waterfalls plunging down from opposing sides of the mountains. Magic teemed in the billowing mist and furious de
luge, a powerful magic that flowed from Crystal Lake, the great mountain-born Source cradled at the intersection of the Rhakis, the Feyls, and the Mandolay ranges. Those waters, which then went on to feed the Heras River, burned Mage flesh the way sel’dor burned the Fey.
Rain and the Fey plunged into the cascades without hesitation. Though the pounding weight drenched them and nearly drove them to their knees, they slogged through the hammering gauntlet of the Veil.
Their reward, when they finally emerged on the other side, was to step into the closest thing the mortal world had to paradise.
Billowing clouds of spray rose up from the clash of falls, and grottoes of fern and moss clung to the steep mountainside, thriving in the cool moisture. Rivulets of condensed mist became small ribbons of water that spilled constantly down the craggy, moss-and-fern-carpeted cliff sides in a delicate web of secondary falls. Rainbows shimmered in every beam of light.
There, at the foot of the majestic torrent of waterfalls and nestled in the wide upper valley carved out of the mountains, Orest, the City of Mists, rose from the rainbows like a sprawling cathedral of black pearl, alabaster, and jade. Girded by steep, impenetrable battlements, the city’s beautiful heart flourished in the sweet breath of the Veil, blooming with mossy tree-and-fern-filled gardens amidst graceful colonnaded walks and domed, glistening pearl gray buildings and bridges that spanned the headwaters of the Heras.
Armored guards clad in the gold, white, and crimson tabards of House Teleos stood at attention on every corner, bridge, and tower wall, guarding Orest like the treasure she was. Before Rain had even stepped outside the misty cloud of spray from the Veil, he was surrounded by a hundred soldiers—all jabbing the business end of their spears his way.
As score after score of drenched Fey warriors emerged from the deluge of the Veil, Orest’s guardsmen found themselves backing up, but before the Fey outnumbered them, a shout brought reinforcements running. Overhead, rising from the rocks and crevices of the sheer cliffs, archers took careful aim at the Fey newcomers.