“So long as Celierian custom dictates that Fey steel must remain outside the cathedral while the Feyreisa stands within, Fey custom dictates that all haven-seekers will have to wait until she departs.” Bel held the priest’s shocked gaze without wavering. “As we honor your customs, you shall honor ours.”
“I’m sorry, Father,” Lauriana apologized in an aggrieved tone. “There is no reasoning with them when it comes to Ellie and what they perceive as ensuring her safety. I’ve concluded it’s best to just humor their requests and ignore them as much as possible.” She glowered at Bel.
“The Archbishop will not like this. He will not like this at all.”
Ellysetta cleared her throat. “Perhaps, Father, you should introduce us to the Archbishop. The sooner we’re done, the sooner the cathedral can return to normal.”
The priest ran a hand through his hair, leaving the thick waves of gold-streaked brown in disarray. “Yes, well, I suppose you’re right, Ellie. Follow me.”
Ringed by her quintet, Ellysetta followed Father Celinor and her mother down the nave towards the large, ornate altar, towering alabaster luminary, and dual pulpits at the center of the cathedral. Behind the altar, a large wedge-shaped portion of the cathedral was reserved for seating clergy and choir, and several doors led to clerical offices and ceremonial chambers.
As they neared the altar, one of the doors opened and a stocky older man emerged. He wore the spotless, ankle-length white tunic and sleeveless, gold-trimmed blue robes of a Church of Light Archbishop. A scowl rode low on his brow.
“Celinor, I distinctly saw Fey warriors weaving magic outside my window.”
“Greatfather, Mistress Baristani and her mother have arrived. The Fey escorting her would not remove their weapons without weaving magic around the Isle of Grace.”
Bel bowed to the Archbishop. “The weaves are shields of protection, to ensure the safety of the Feyreisa, which you would not permit Fey steel to do,” he explained.
If anything, Bel’s comment only made the Archbishop’s scowl deepen. “I do not approve. Rest assured, as soon as this meeting is over, I will request an audience with the king. I will not have cursed Fey magic stand between this church and the faithful.”
Ellie bit her lip. For years now the Church had been growing less and less tolerant of magic in all its forms, a direct result of the sharp increase in the numbers of northern priests moving into positions of power in the Church’s hierarchy. But until now, she’d never heard any priest in Celieria City—let alone the city’s most senior cleric—openly condemn Fey magic as cursed. As the king himself wielded Fey magic, such a statement bordered on treason.
Bel executed a stiff bow. His eyes had gone flat and cold. “As you will, Excellency. But not even King Dorian can prevent the Fey from protecting our queen.”
“Yes, well…er…” Father Celinor rubbed his hands together briskly. “Let’s get on with the introductions, shall we?” He coughed and cleared his throat. “Ellysetta, Madam Baristani, it’s my honor to introduce you both to His Excellency, Greatfather Tivrest, Archbishop of Celieria. Greatfather, this is Mistress Ellysetta Baristani, the Tairen Soul’s betrothed, and her mother, Madam Lauriana Baristani, wife of master woodcarver, Sol Baristani. As I mentioned to you earlier, their family has been in my West End congregation since I first assumed my appointment there ten years ago.”
“Greatfather.” Ellysetta and Lauriana sank into deep curtseys.
“Madam Baristani, Mistress Baristani.” The Archbishop laid a hand on each of their heads and murmured a blessing, then extended a loosely clenched fist for them to kiss the ring of office on his right thumb. When they straightened, he graced them both with a tight smile. “Well, Mistress Baristani, for the last two days you’ve caused quite a stir in the city, and I see the commotion is going to continue.”
“So it seems, Greatfather,” Ellie murmured.
“Hmph.” The Archbishop straightened his robes. “First things first. The Bride’s Blessing. The king has already informed me of your need for urgency. Though I emphatically do not approve of subverting Church protocol for personal whim, precedence does exist for…accelerating some of our lengthier ceremonies. It is not the preferred choice—the longer the devotions, the stronger the bond—but it can be done. I have agreed to perform the seven-day version of the Blessing. Six days of devotion, followed by the Blessing on the seventh day.”
“If you need more time, Greatfather, you must say so,” Lauriana urged. “I would never forgive myself if any rush on our part weakened the effects of the Blessing.”
The Archbishop missed the silent plea shining in Lauriana’s eyes. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Madam Baristani. Seven is a godly number, full of protection and strength.” He turned to Ellysetta. “Who will stand as your Honoria, Mistress Baristani?” Every bride was accompanied at the Blessing by her mother and her Honoria, a married female relative or friend, who served as her attendant and guide in the purification ceremony.
“Oh, no question there, Greatfather,” Lauriana answered before Ellysetta could speak. “Selianne Pyerson. Ever since childhood, she and Ellie have been close as two feathers on the same wing.”
Ellie’s eyes rounded. “Oh, um, Mama, I don’t know if she can.” She flicked a glance back towards Bel and the others and lowered her voice. “She’s a bit…intimidated…by the Fey.”
“Aren’t we all,” Mama muttered under her breath. Then a bit louder, “I’ll send a boy round with a note later today. I’m sure she’ll be honored to stand by you.”
Ellie opened her mouth to protest again, then saw Bel watching. If she continued to protest, she’d just call undue attention to Selianne. She swallowed the objection quickly and forced a smile. “There’s no one else in the world I’d rather have. We always vowed that whoever married first would serve as the other’s Honoria.”
“Excellent,” the Archbishop said. “I’ll need all three of you to meet me here at twelve bells on Kingsday for the initial consecration. You will continue to come at the same time every day until the six devotions are complete. On the seventh day, you will be ready for the Bright Bell. Please arrange to arrive no later than eleven bells, so you can begin the Bright Bell precisely at half eleven, when the Great Sun is approaching its zenith and the powers of the Solarus are at their height. If you are even a single chime late, the ceremony will have to be postponed for another day. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Greatfather.”
“Good. Now, about the wedding ceremony itself…”
Rain strode down the corridor to King Dorian’s private office on the second floor of the palace, where Dax and the king were waiting for him to join them. Annoura was in court, as was Marissya, protected for the moment by her own quintet rather than her mate. This meeting with Dorian was one Dax and Marissya had prompted, and Rain had reluctantly agreed to. If dahl’reisen had begun murdering Celierians in the north, the Fey must help put an end to it.
A pair of Royal Guardsmen flanked the door to the king’s office. They bowed as Rain approached and granted him entrance, closing the door behind him. The office was a spacious, wood-paneled room, designed more for comfort and efficiency than pomp. Tall windows overlooked a view of the south gardens, their partially open, slatted wooden shutters admitting plenty of light while obstructing unwanted observation from below. A matching pair of golden leather armchairs faced the large, heavily carved desk that dominated the room.
King Dorian, standing near one of the windows, smiled pleasantly as Rain entered. “Greetings, my Lord Feyreisen. I hope you have found your palace accommodations acceptable.” Rain gave a brief nod. “I regret putting you through that circus in the courts yesterday, but it was necessary. We are a country of laws, and even noble visitors must live by them. I trust the girl, your shei’tani, is fine and suffered no ill effects from the excitement?”
Rain’s spine stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “She is well. I would not leave her were it otherwise.” The implication was a grave
insult.
Dorian blinked in bewilderment. “Yes, of course. I meant no offense.”
«Celierians consider it polite to ask after the health of one’s mate,» Dax murmured silently. «It was the same, before the Wars.»
Rain had a vague memory, long forgotten, of a similar incident many centuries past. «I remember now. I didn’t like it then either. They should take better care of their mates, so the question of their mates’ health need never be in doubt.»
With Dax’s laughter rippling through his mind, Rain shook off his irritation and got straight to the purpose of the meeting. “I have come to discuss the situation in the north. Dax and Marissya tell me you believe dahl’reisen have begun murdering Celierians.”
Dorian nodded. “There’ve been half a dozen attacks in the last two months, and twenty Celierians slain since First Moon this spring. Another ten since harvest last fall. Mostly farmers and village folk along the northern march. The Border Lords had been keeping the situation quiet, but now that the pamphleteers and newspapers have wind of it, all hope of quietly resolving the problem is gone.” He explained about the witnesses and showed Rain the recovered Fey’cha. “Dax has already told me it’s unlikely the blade was left behind by accident.”
“Beyond unlikely,” Rain agreed. “All blades forged in a Fey smithy have a weave spun into them so their owners may summon them back to their sheaths after use. The spell works on any blade within half a mile of its owner. It was either left deliberately as a challenge, or stolen and left to cast suspicion on the Fey.” He examined the dagger and the name-mark forged on it. “I don’t recognize this mark, but it does appear to be a true Fey’cha.” «Dax, send an image of the mark to all the Fey. See if any of them know it.»
Turning his attention back to Dorian, he added, “As for witnesses to a dahl’reisen crime, that, too, is unlikely. Dahl’reisen live outside our laws. If it serves them to manipulate mortal minds, they would likely do so. Not even Marissya would be able to tell the false memories from the true ones. Still, you should bring the witnesses in for Truthspeaking, just in case they are using these rumors of dahl’reisen murders to hide their own crimes.”
King Dorian shook his head. “Sebourne—the lord whose lands were attacked—has already refused. He says the witnesses are terrified of having their minds manipulated by the Fey, and he’s angry enough over the number of murders on his land to support them.” Dorian cast an apologetic glance Dax’s way. To suggest that Marissya would misuse her powers was a grave insult.
“Is there a map that shows where the raids have taken place?” Rain asked.
“Here.” Dorian walked around his desk and opened a narrow door in the corner of the far wall. “We started monitoring the incidents after the first half-dozen deaths last year.” He pulled out a large map of Celieria mounted vertically on a wheeled spongewood backing. A handful of colored pins set with tiny annotated flags were scattered across the northern border. “Except for the fact that most of the raids have taken place in the villages along the Celierian-Eld border, there is no apparent pattern to the attacks.”
Rain examined the collection of pins. The raids had taken place over a thousand miles of border land, ranging from Bolla near the eastern coast all the way to Toulon in the west.
“What would a band of dahl’reisen gain from slaughtering Celierian peasants?” Dorian asked. “That’s what I cannot understand.”
Rain cast a glance back over his shoulder. “Have you considered the possibility that it might not be dahl’reisen? Fey enemies are numerous, and as you know, the greatest of them lies just across your northern border.”
The king’s brows rose. “You think the Eld are behind this?”
“The possibility must at least be considered.”
“But the Eld have no more reason to kill Celierian peasants than dahl’reisen do.”
“Unless they mean to drive a wedge between Celieria and the Fading Lands. Celierians have rarely distinguished between Fey actions and those of the dahl’reisen. The Eld know that. They would use it to their advantage.” Rain turned back to the map, frowning at the large expanse of border. “How many troops do you have on the border?” he asked.
“Two thousand, give or take a few hundred.”
“That’s not enough. You should have triple that number at least.” Rain straightened and turned around. “I can offer two thousand Fey to ward the borders and track the attackers when they strike again.”
Dorian’s jaw sagged in surprise. Fey and mortal troops had not stood side-by-side along the Eld border in nine hundred years. Not since Celieria had reconstituted its military after the decimation of the Mage Wars. Fey had periodically quartered themselves in the border keeps to watch for signs of Eld magic and strengthen the wards put in place at the end of the Wars, but never more than that. The Mages had been defeated, and the Fey had withdrawn from the world.
“Your offer is…quite generous, My Lord Feyreisen, and an unexpected honor.” Dorian cleared his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I do not offer Fey lives or Fey steel lightly,” Rain answered. “I have sensed a growing darkness in Eld. The Mages are at work again. It is one reason why I question whether the dahl’reisen are truly behind these raids of yours.”
“Do you have proof of this Mage activity? Reports from spies?”
Rain raised a brow. “This I do not need. I sense the darkness, and that is enough.”
“I see.” Dorian drew a deep breath. “Well, unfortunately, the Council of Lords will require more than just Fey intuition before they authorize tripling the number of troops along our border, or quartering foreign warriors—especially Fey warriors, given the current suspicions about the dahl’reisen. Besides, the Eld would view a troop buildup as an act of open aggression.
“You must understand,” he added when Rain’s expression darkened, “our relations with the Eld have settled considerably in the last decades. In fact, the Elden ambassador was here not a fortnight ago seeking to recommence direct trade between our two countries. He spoke quite eloquently, and the terms he offered were very appealing.”
Rain’s hands fell to the silk-wrapped handles of the curved meicha at his hips. His fingers curled tight around the grips. “You let the Eld ambassador set foot on Celierian land?” he growled. “You’re contemplating trade with those black-souled vermin?” The windows of Dorian’s office rattled in their panes.
The king cast a confused glance in Dax’s direction. “We’ve been trading with them indirectly for more than three centuries…ever since the Great Plague threatened the mortal world. They possess the only supply of keio, one of the ingredients required for the cure. We still purchase it yearly through Sorrelian intermediaries, along with a few other goods.”
«Dax… » Rain hissed with silent fury.
«You had only just regained your sanity. Marissya and I both agreed it was best you did not know. Thousands—hundreds of thousands—had already died. Millions more would have. There weren’t enough healers to have stopped it.»
«And after…when I no longer teetered on the brink of insanity?»
«They’d been trading for years by then, with no ill effects…and there remained occasional threats of the plague returning. We didn’t see any harm in letting it continue.»
Rain shook his head in disbelief and turned his attention back to Dorian. “You Celierians with your short life spans. The Mage Wars are naught but a distant dream to you, a conflict that happened so many generations in the past it has no bearing on the present. But the Fey fought those wars. We died by the thousands, hideously, in those wars. We remember.” He speared Dax with another hot glance. “At least most of us do. We still mourn our dead. The Eld are not to be trusted. Ever!”
“Rain—” Dax held out his hands. “There has been no trouble with the Eld since the Wars. Perhaps Dorian’s advisors are right…perhaps it is time to heal the wounds.”
“Your own mate’s sister died at their hands. Her brother becam
e dahl’reisen—forever banished from the Fading Lands—because of what he did in vengeance. You dare say this to me? Trade with the black-souled practitioners of Azrahn?”
“It is because of Marikah, because of Gaelen, that I do feel free to speak,” Dax returned. “They are gone from the Fey forever. Nothing can bring either of them back to us. But the Mage Wars were a millennium ago. And the Mages were all but destroyed. You saw to that. The other Eld, those not from Mage families, they don’t practice Azrahn.”
“It only takes one.”
«Know your enemy, Tairen Soul. Opening the borders to trade gives us an opportunity to introduce our own eyes and ears into Eld. They can find the proof Dorian needs.»
«Never will I willingly put another Fey life within reach of Eld evil. The darkness is there. It grows. Opening the borders does not help us. It endangers us all the more.»
“Dax is right,” Dorian said. “The Mage Wars were a thousand years ago—provoked by a senseless assassination that snowballed into full-scale war thanks to Gaelen vel Serranis’s excessive vengeance.”
“The assassination,” Rain answered with clenched jaw, “was not senseless. It was retaliation by the Eld for a wound your ancestors delivered two thousand years earlier. The Eld don’t forget. And they count on the fact that you do!”
“I think perhaps you lack objectivity in this situation. You suffered a great many personal losses in the Wars. You hate the Eld. You’ll never see them as anything but enemies.”
“Because that is all they will ever be!”
“My advisors,” Dorian said, “see this opportunity as a way to provide a needed boost to our economy. As do many of the nobles on the Council of Lords.”
“Your advisors,” Rain retorted, “and your nobles are greedy fools. When an evil man dangles a heavy purse before you, beware. Have you never learned that?”
“When his children are hungry, a desperate man will do desperate things,” the king countered. “The last year has not been easy. Droughts and floods ruined most of last year’s crops. Even with the help the Fey provided to manage the weather, our stockpiles of food are nearly depleted. If this year’s harvests are not plentiful, there will be starvation come winter.”