And Dorian had betrayed her.
She’d loved him, given him everything, but he’d chosen his Fey kin over her, and now he was cutting her out of his heart.
Annoura drew herself up, locking her emotions—such weak, useless things—behind a curtain of steely self-control. Her expression hardened into the impassively regal mask she had spent a lifetime perfecting.
“Your Majesty,” she responded. Her tone was pure silk but without a drop of inflection. She sank into a flawless full court curtsy, so deep her forehead nearly touched the floor, then rose with smooth grace in an elegant rustle of silk and starched lace. “May the gods watch over you in the north and see you safely home again. And may victory be yours, my king.”
His eyes flickered then—an awareness that some threshold had been crossed, and that things between them would never be the same. “Annoura…”
She waited in silence, cool and composed, her hands clasped lightly at her waist.
His brows furrowed. For a moment, she thought she saw a slight softening in his demeanor, but then his jaw clenched and he looked down on the pretext of adjusting the buckles holding his chest plate in place. “Never mind. I will see you again before I depart.”
Annoura’s last flicker of hope winked out. Strange how quietly even great love could die.
“Of course, Sire.” She inclined her head and turned to leave. Marten started towards the door with her, but she waved him away. “Go to His Majesty, Marten. I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself out.”
Head high, emotions trapped in a tight web of discipline and pride, she walked the short distance down the corridors of Celieria’s royal palace from Dorian’s suite of rooms to her own. Never had the walk seemed longer.
Inside her suite, the Dazzles of her inner court were lounging about, sharing titillating gossip and nibbling on sweetmeats. They all rose and dropped into curtsies and deep bows when she entered, and uttered a chorus of respectful greetings. “Your Majesty.”
“Ladies. Sers.” Her voice didn’t quaver in the least. She took pride in that. The accomplishment was no mean feat. “Please leave me. I am weary and need to rest. I am not to be disturbed. Is that understood?” With the news of her pregnancy, she knew none of them would think her request odd.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.” The ladies and young lordlings of her court bowed and curtsied some more as they exited her rooms.
Jiarine Montevero was the last to leave. “Your Majesty? Shall I call the physician?”
What cure was there for a broken heart? “Thank you, Jiarine, but no. I’ll be fine. All I need is a few bells of undisturbed rest. Tomorrow the court sees off His Majesty and our army. I have informed my guards that I am not to be disturbed by anyone for any reason. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. That will be all.” Though she kept her tone gracious, the dismissal was unmistakable.
Jiarine curtsied. “Of course. Rest well, Your Majesty. And please send for me if there is anything at all you need.”
“Yes, thank you.” Annoura turned on her heel and waved Lady Montevero away. The tears she’d vowed not to shed were burning her eyes, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out. Especially in the face of Jiarine’s sincere concern.
She stood stiffly until she heard the click of her parlor door closing, and then the dam burst. The tears of a lifetime came pouring out in great, racking heaves.
Outside the door of the queen’s chambers, Jiarine’s steps faltered at the anguished sounds filtering through the heavy door. She considered turning back, but the Queen’s Guard had already moved to block the door, and their expressions made it clear they intended to enforce the queen’s command for privacy.
Awareness tickled the back of her neck like a chill wind, and she turned to find the Primage Gethen Nour—she could never think of him as Lord Bolor—standing in the hallway. He met Jiarine’s gaze, then turned and walked with casual purpose down the hall to one of the small parlors where courtiers often gathered while awaiting the queen’s plea sure. No sooner had he entered than half a dozen young ladies exited the same room.
Jiarine steeled her nerves and forced herself to walk towards the parlor. Her heels clapped a measured beat on the marble tiles.
The moment she entered the room, Master Nour caught her by the elbow and dragged her into the corner, out of sight of any passersby.
“Well?” he snapped.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I never had the chance to ask her.” For days now, he’d been pressing her to arrange a private audience with the queen, but Annoura had rebuffed each of her attempts. “As soon as she returned from the king, she dismissed her entire court. She is crying like I’ve never heard her cry before.” Jiarine marveled at the unexpected surge of sympathy she felt for Annoura, then stifled it quickly and marshaled her thoughts before Master Nour decided to pry into her mind.
He placed a hand on her throat and tightened his fingers ever so slightly. “This does not please me, Jiarine. You’ve had five days to arrange for the queen to meet me alone, away from her guards, yet at every turn, you have some reason why you cannot give me what I want. I begin to think you are deliberately thwarting my will.” His fingers tightened more. “Your time is up, Jiarine. We will give her a bell or two to calm herself; then you will take me to her. You will make up some excuse to get us past the guards.”
She bit her lip. She hated him—hated him—and though she was too afraid of his wrath to deliberately thwart him, she hadn’t pushed as hard as she otherwise might when the queen repeatedly refused to grant him an audience. Still, if he pressed to night, he would fail—and fail badly—and she would pay the price.
Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Lord Bolor, you do not understand the queen’s moods. Believe me when I tell you that would be a mistake. If I defy her command, she will dismiss me from her service.”
He moved closer, crowding her back against the wall. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and fit. If it weren’t for the calculating look in his eyes and the hint of cruelty in the set of his lips, he would be truly handsome. He stroked a finger gently along her jaw. The tender gesture made her stiffen in fear. His eyes were icy cold, as was the sibilant whisper that sliced across her nerves like a serrated blade.
“If you defy my command, I will punish you much more severely than that.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. If she worshiped the gods, she would have prayed to them now, but she had turned her back on them long ago. “My lord, please. I’m not defying you. I’m trying to help you. If you press her now, you will ruin everything. She could well dismiss us both from court in a fit of pique. Tomorrow, when she is calmer, I will arrange for you to meet her—without her guards, and away from the Fey and the palace wards.”
Master Nour’s eyes narrowed, and she knew her last remark hit its mark. He’d been complaining all week about how the Fey were making a total nuisance of themselves, spinning detection spells upon almost every fingerspan of the palace so that the barest hint of strong magic set off alarms and brought guards running. He had even taken to meeting his umagi outside the palace walls to avoid detection when he spun his will upon them.
“Very well. You will bring the queen to me.” He leaned closer, crowding her against the wall and pressing his lips to her ear. “Tomorrow, umagi, and do not fail me again, or I promise you will spend your last hours of life screaming for mercy.” His fingers lightly caressed her jaw.
The pointed clearing of a throat behind them made Nour freeze. He straightened and turned to glare at the small, exquisitely garbed Master of Graces standing in the corridor not half a man length away.
Jiarine could have kissed Gaspare Fellows. Never had she found him so welcome a sight.
The same could not be said of Master Fellows. He was looking at the pair of them as if he’d found Nour’s hand on her breast instead of her jaw.
“Lady Montevero. Lord Bolor.” Disapproval
crackled in each syllable of their names. As the arbiter of all things fashionable and mannerly in the court, Master Fellows held the unique position of being able to dictate propriety to all but the most powerful courtiers. It was a responsibility he took quite to heart.
“Master Fellows.” Jiarine forced a smile. “How delightful to see you. And how is your precious Love doing today?”
The Master of Graces was clad in expertly tailored forest green satin breeches and waistcoat with an amber-lined demicape slung rakishly across one shoulder. A small, fluffy white cat wearing a matching diamond-studded green satin ribbon sat perched on his other shoulder like a Sorrelian sea captain’s talking bird. The feline looked at Master Nour and hissed, her thick fur standing up on end.
“Love!” Master Fellows scolded. “That’s quite enough.” But the kitten would not be soothed or silenced. She hissed again and swatted extended claws in Nour’s direction. Master Fellows apologized. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Bolor, Lady Montevero. I don’t know what’s gotten into my little Love. She’s been quite beside herself lately.”
The Primage’s eyes narrowed.
Alarmed, Jiarine smoothly inserted herself between the two men. Despite Master Fellows’s ofttimes pretentious ways, she’d always held a secret admiration for him. He was a self-made man, and even though she knew he did not approve of her, he nonetheless always treated her with impeccable courtesy.
With a winning smile, she clasped Master Fellows’s elbow and steered him out of harm’s way. “Master Fellows, I’m actually quite glad to see you. I’m planning a small tea to welcome one of the queen’s newest Dazzles to court, and I wanted to ask your opinion on the matter of the table linens. Lady Zillina insists that I must use satin, but that strikes me as entirely too formal for an afternoon tea. Am I in the wrong?”
As she and Master Fellows turned the corner, Jiarine risked a final glance over her shoulder. Master Nour was gone.
Southern Celieria
Elves were exceptional runners by mortal standards, but they didn’t hold a candle to the Fey. At a warrior’s run, the Fey could have crossed the five hundred miles of southeastern Celierian farmland in three days. With the Elves slowing them down, it took them the better part of five.
They made camp their last night in Celieria beside a small stream, where the thick, arching branches of a fireoak tree would provide shelter.
“If one of the Fire masters will build a flame,” Fanor Farsight said, “there are fish in that stream. I’ll sing us up a few for supper.” Not waiting for their response, he walked to the mossy edge of the stream and lay on the bank.
“I’ll just get that fire, shall I?” Tajik muttered with a scowl as curiosity sent the other Fey wandering over to the stream’s edge.
“Watch this,” Rain murmured to Ellysetta as they joined the others near the stream.
Fanor put one hand in the cold, clear water and sang a hypnotic Elvish tune. Within a chime, a fat river trout swam into his hands, its sides gleaming with flashes of gold and green scales. Fanor’s fingers closed about the fish and flipped it up, out of the stream.
Gaelen caught the airborne fish with swift, instinctive Fey reflexes.
“Still it, but do not kill it,” Fanor advised, and Gaelen spun a simple weave to calm the flopping creature.
Fanor sang to the stream four more times, and four more fish swam into his grasp to be flipped up into the waiting hands of the Fey.
Fanor rose to his feet and stood before the Fey. He sang another soft, achingly beautiful song, each note ringing with pure, perfect pitch. Then he closed his eyes, splayed one hand, and tiny globes of white light shot from his fingertips and enveloped each fish. When the light and the last notes of his song faded, it was clear the fish were dead.
“What did you do just then?” Ellysetta asked. The Elves had hunted small game each night when they made camp, but this was the first time she’d watched one actually catch and kill his prey. The others had simply shown up with meat already prepared for roasting.
He smiled at her puzzlement. “We are all connected, Ellysetta Erimea. You and I. Every rock, plant, and animal. We all spring from the same Source, and to that Source we all return. These fish came when I asked, so I thanked them for offering their bodies to nourish ours and sent their Light back to the gods.”
He stepped across the springy grass to the fire now blazing in a circle of river rocks at Tajik’s feet. The Fey deftly gutted, scaled, and spitted the fish over Tajik’s flames, and Fanor disposed of the offal by burying it at the base of a tree and singing another Elvish song. “What part of their bodies we consume will now become part of ours, and what we do not consume will become part of the earth. And so they are not gone. They are merely transformed.”
Ellysetta found herself disturbed by the idea that Fanor’s fish had willingly delivered themselves up to be slain and eaten. When Bel offered her a chunk of steaming fish on a broad leaf, she thought squeamishness might rob her of her appetite, but the first whiff of hot food made her belly rumble. Hunger overrode any pretense of delicate sensibilities. She tucked a bite into her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss as the succulent, flavorful fish practically dissolved on her tongue. Her eyes flashed open again almost instantly.
Fanor smiled. “Life is meant to be savored, Ellysetta Erimea. And death is not without purpose.” His smile faded. “Most of the time, at least. There are some deaths that are simply an end, with no hope of renewal and no return of life to its Source.” His glance, gone suddenly shadowed and brooding, shifted to rest on Rain. “Death by tairen flame, for instance,” he added in a low voice.
The Fey all went still as stone. Ellysetta saw the grim mask snap into place on Rain’s face, hiding the sudden swell of guilt and self-loathing that seared him. His emotions were still so raw, his discipline so fragile, since the night of the Eld attack.
She frowned at Fanor and opened her mouth to defend her truemate, her fingers feathering across the back of his hand in the lightest of touches.
«Bas’ka, shei’tani,» Rain said privately. «It’s all right. You don’t need to keep protecting me.»
She bit her lip and fell silent. She had been protecting him since the Eld attack, hovering around him like a mother tairen with one kit. He’d been getting stronger by the day, meditating each time they stopped to rest, using his magic only sparingly, constantly performing mental exercises to restore and strengthen his internal barriers. But she couldn’t forget the sight of his face soaked in blood, or his eyes filled with horror and fear that he might once more have committed an unspeakable act.
“Aiyah,” Rain told Fanor. “Death by tairen flame is an end from which there is no return. Mage Fire is another.”
“Perhaps Tairen Souls and Mages are more alike than the Fey care to consider,” Fanor suggested.
Gil reached for his Fey’cha. Tajik grabbed his wrist. “Don’t be a fool, Gil.” His gaze never left Fanor. “The Elf is merely testing us.”
“Elves have their own fair share of blood on their hands,” Ellysetta said. They were all on their feet now. “I’ve read the histories. Elvish armies slaughtered hundreds of thousands in the Feraz and Demon wars.”
“Bayas, but none who die at Elven hands are truly gone. They all return to the Light, to be born again into this world.”
“Then perhaps that is why the gods created Tairen Souls—because some evil is so foul it should be wiped from all existence.” She would not let Fanor Farsight impugn Rain even obliquely without challenge.
But Fanor was through with subtleties. “As it was at Eadmond’s Field?” His gaze pierced Rain as deeply as an arrow shot from an Elf bow. “Did all the souls who perished there deserve to have their Light extinguished for all time?”
Rain absorbed the blow with only a small flinch, but inside, where Fanor could not see, Ellysetta knew his soul howled in pain. His lashes fell to hide the shame burning in his eyes. “You know they did not. My act was a crime so great, only the gods could grant me f
orgiveness.”
“And is that why you returned to the Lake of Glass to spin memorial weaves for those who died there?”
Rain looked up again in surprise.
“Bayas,” the Elf confirmed. “I Saw the weaves you spun at Eadmond’s Field, so I went there before journeying to meet you.” The Elf tilted his head to one side, a quizzical expression on his face, as if he were trying to solve the puzzle that was Rain. “Why did you do it? Did you think a few memories woven in Spirit could atone for the innocent lives lost to your flame? Did you hope such a gesture of compassion would make the gods look more kindly upon you and your mate? Or make the children of those immortals who fell less likely to seek vengeance now that you have returned to the world?”
“I did it because it needed to be done.”
Beside Rain, Ellysetta bristled. “He suffered more torment than any one person ever should for what he did,” she told the Elf with a scowl. “And he survived, with Light still shining bright in his soul.” Her hands curled into fists. Her mate had once shared the merest fraction of his torment with her, and that small taste had nearly shattered her. She would not stand idly by while anyone—let alone this…this Elf!—criticized him. “He has already earned his forgiveness. The gods found him worthy, as have the tairen. So you will not judge him, Fanor Farsight. You haven’t the right.”
“Las, shei’tani.” To the Elf, he said, “I cannot undo what was done. That is a torment I will carry with me forever. But what I did at the Lake of Glass, I did because I wanted to make certain those who fell were not forgotten.”
Farsight eyed Rain thoughtfully. “Elvish Sight shows events clearly, but emotions are more difficult to ascertain. I did not See your remorse,” he admitted. “Nor how bright your mate truly is.” He glanced at Ellysetta. “No wonder the Shadow lies so dark upon her. It fights hard to extinguish its greatest foe.”
Rain’s spine stiffened and sudden aggression emanated from him like waves of heat from a volcano. “Watch your words, Elf,” he commanded. “My shei’tani is bright and shining and I will not tolerate anyone saying otherwise.”