by C. L. Wilson
At the front of the building, the Warriors’ Gate leading into the compound was a broad, barrel-arched corridor with a series of four inner gates that symbolized the four-hundred-year journey undertaken by every boy who grew to become a lethal, disciplined Fey warrior within these walls.
The first gate was Shalin, the boy, carved from fresh-scented fruitwood that portrayed dozens of scenes from the first hundred years of a Fey youth’s warrior’s training. The second was Cha, the blade. Forged of shining steel, its gleaming surface was etched with the symbols of the advanced sword moves taught to Fey warriors during their second hundred years. The third gate, Faer, which meant “magic,” was woven entirely of hundredfold weaves of power, symbolizing the mastery of magic that was the focus of the third century of a Fey’s training.
And finally, Chakai, the champion, a carved silverstone gate as thick as a Fey was tall and spiked with hundreds of sharp steel Fey’cha blades. Across its weighty, unyielding surface, impossible to move except through magic, the Warriors’ Creed was written in blazing five-fold weaves.
Gaelen, Bel, Tajik, Rijonn, and Gil stood beside Rain on the stone-paved road leading up to the gate. All of them stared up at the looming entrance, flanked on each side by two massive silverstone Fey warriors who looked down as if in grim warning upon all who entered.
“You are certain you want to do this?”
Rain glanced at Gaelen. That had to be at least the fourth time the former dahl’reisen had asked the question since breakfast two bells ago. Though Gaelen looked as cocky as ever, his oft-repeated question revealed just how thin that facade of self-assurance truly was.
“I am certain,” Rain answered, as he had each of the previous three times. “Are you?”
The former dahl’reisen arched one black brow. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” He gave a dismissive snort. “There are none within who could give me cause for concern, even on their best days.”
“Good,” Rain said. “Because I’m sure there will be more than a few eager to try. You broke your honor. They will not let you off gently.” He turned to lead the way through the Warriors’ Gate. Tajik, Rijonn, and Gil followed on his heels.
Gaelen hesitated just long enough to earn a knowing look from Bel.
“You are Fey once more,” Bel said with quiet reassurance.
“Give them time to remember that, treat them with the respect your blade brothers deserve, and they will welcome you.”
Gaelen adjusted his weapons belts and set his jaw. “Let them keep their welcome—and their disapproval. If they allow pride to prevent them from learning what skills I have to teach, they deserve their fate.”
“True,” Bel agreed. “Cloaking one self in blind pride is as foolish as donning glass armor for war. I’m glad you recognize it for the danger it is.”
Gaelen gave vel Jelani a sour look. “You are as subtle as a rultshart in rut.”
Bel responded to the insult with a grin. “Humility isn’t a poison draft,” he said. “It wouldn’t kill you to try a sip.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Just think of the joy on your sister’s face when she sees you leading the warriors of the Fey into battle like the hero you once were.” With a speaking lift of his brow, Bel turned and jogged after Rain, Tajik, Gil, and Rijonn.
Gaelen stood there, gaping after him. Without a backward glance, Bel thrust a hand behind his back, spun a fly out of Spirit, and sent it buzzing straight into Gaelen’s mouth.
Vel Jelani was most definitely a master of Spirit. The bug felt entirely too real, right down to the wild flutter of its wings and unpleasant taste. Gaelen spat instinctively before he had the sense to unravel Bel’s weave. His eyes narrowed as soft laughter trailed back to his ears. “You will regret that, vel Jelani.” Setting his jaw, he loped after the Spirit master through the long, arching tunnel of the Warriors’ Gate.
Rain, Tajik, Rijonn, and Gil emerged from the Warriors’ Gate and crossed the small first courtyard where, in days before the Wars, when the Fey had flourished, young recruits would gather at the beginning of each season to be evaluated and assigned a chatok who would guide them through their Cha Baruk. Six steps led from the courtyard to the arched doorway that opened to the Walk of Honor, a long, continuous corridor that bordered the Academy’s large, central training field. There, inside the walk, statues of famous warriors and chatoks lined the gleaming marble corridor, while polished Fey steel and the sorreisu kiyr of long-dead heroes hung on the walls.
Rain walked past the statues, feeling the weight of their inanimate stares, and unpleasant worms of doubt uncurled anew in his belly. He’d walked this corridor more times than he could count, activating the Spirit weaves that recounted the triumphs and sacrifices attributed to each of the great Fey until he could repeat each tale from memory.
Honor had been no mere word to the Fey enshrined here. They’d considered it an immutable truth, clear and uncompromising. They’d died for it, selflessly, leading by example. What was he doing, bringing a dahl’reisen to join their honored company?
Bel and Gaelen caught up just as he passed through the door leading to the training yard. Rain turned his head to meet Gaelen’s eyes, expecting to see his doubt reflected in the former dahl’reisen’s gaze. Instead, he found shock and something even more surprising…humility.
“It welcomed me,” Gaelen whispered. “As I passed through it, the Warriors’ Gate said, ‘Greetings, Gaelen vel Serranis, warrior of the Fey, Champion of Light,’ just as it did when I completed my Cha Baruk. Just as if I’d never trodden the Shadowed Path.”
Bel clapped a hand on Gaelen’s shoulder and smiled, and Rain closed his eyes in relief. The tension that had been gathering in his shoulders and belly flowed out like waters released from a dam. The Mists had welcomed Gaelen. Now, the Warriors’ Gate had welcomed Gaelen. It was as if all the great magic of the Fading Lands were trying to reassure Rain that Gaelen’s honor truly had been restored, that the shadows of his past had been wiped away as if they’d never been.
He took a deep breath and strode through the door onto the Academy’s training ground.
Open to the sky above, the yard was a vast expanse of bare ground surrounded by covered, colonnaded walkways. From one corner to another, the warriors had gathered. Thousands of them. Ellysetta’s lu’tans and every unmated warrior in Dharsa—even a few dozen of the mated ones.
All eyes turned towards Rain as he and Ellysetta’s quintet entered and made their way to the end of the field, where a gallery of gilded chairs sat under a rounded marble roof.
Long ago, when Feyreisen had been numerous, the Defender of the Fey and his Tairen Soul brethren would visit the Academy each month and sit in those chairs to observe the training of the Fey warriors who would fight at their sides. Today, as they had been for the last thousand years, the chairs were occupied by the venerable chatok, the mentors, of the Academy. They stood as Rain approached.
“Welcome, Feyreisen.” Jaren v’En Harad, the oldest of the chatok and Lord of the Academy, bowed and waved one arm towards the large, central chair carved with tairens’ heads that had an unimpeded view of the field.
Rain hesitated for the briefest moment before moving forward to stand before it.
The grounds were silent, all eyes upon him. “You have heard by now that the Mages have returned. Celieria needs our aid.” His eyes roved over the gathered warriors, seeing the knowledge reflected back in their grim, stony faces.
“Evil has risen in Eld once more. It casts its shadow over our neighbor. Celieria cannot survive without our help, and so we must give it. Because, as the words written on the Bor Chakai remind us each time we pass through the Warriors’ Gate, fighting is what Fey were born to do.”
He looked around at the faces of the Fey, most of whom had fought in the last Mage Wars, and saw the same memory, the same realization on many of them. They knew exactly what he was asking of them, exactly what grim evil they would face if the Mages had grown strong again
, but they knew that facing such evil was the task the gods had set upon them.
“But we have grown too few, my brothers. We will not long last against an Eld army even a quarter of the size we faced in the Mage Wars. That is the reason I gathered you here today.” Rain crossed his arms and widened his stance, instinctively bracing for the storm about to erupt around him. “I’m certain you’ve all heard how the Feyreisa restored a dahl’reisen’s soul—and not just any dahl’reisen, but the Dark Lord, Gaelen vel Serranis, himself.” All eyes went to the tall, icy-eyed warrior standing to Rain’s left. “He has spent most of the last thousand years fighting Eld on the borders. I asked him here to teach those of you who are willing to learn from him.”
“You want us to accept…him…as our chatok?” Outraged exclamations sprang from the lips of the gathered Fey.
“I do,” Rain said. “Bel, Tajik, show them why.”
The two warriors exchanged a brief glance, then shimmered into invisibility.
“An invisibility weave,” scoffed Tael vel Eilan, one of Tenn’s youngest cousins. “Any Spirit master here could do as much.”
“Could he?” Rain arched a brow. “Let’s put that to the test.” He cast a cool gaze over the assembly. “Which among you claim a master’s level in Spirit?” Thousands of hands rose.
“Excellent. Then among you, you should have no trouble discovering where my two friends went.” He waited, but the warriors lowered their hands and glanced around in confusion, clearly unable to discern where Tajik and Bel had gone.
“You cannot find them? But invisibility is a simple weave. Any Spirit master should easily be able to detect them.”
He let a full chime pass, giving the warriors ample time to find their prey, then pinned Tael with a challenging glance. “It seems this Spirit weave is not so simple after all. Perhaps you can tell me where my friends are? Nei? Shall I show you? Very well. My brothers, reveal yourselves.”
As quickly as they had shimmered into invisibility, the two warriors reappeared. Tajik was standing behind one of the Spirit masters, Fey’cha held at his neck.
Bel was at Tael’s side, holding the younger Fey’s steel in his hands.
The young warrior clutched the empty space where his Fey’cha harnesses and meicha belts should have been. “How…?”
Bel thrust Tael’s weapons belts back into his hands. “Arrogance is no substitute for experience, Fey. You might consider that perhaps—just perhaps—a Fey who survived most of the last thousand years battling Eld along the Celierian border might have a thing or two he could teach you about magic—and survival.”
Leaving the young warrior flushed red and fumbling to don his stripped weapons, Bel returned to stand at Gaelen’s side.
The former dahl’reisen cast Bel a sidelong glance and a faint smirk. “I’m touched, vel Jelani. I had no idea how much you cared.”
Bel grimaced and rolled his eyes, which made Gaelen laugh softly.
Rain raised his voice to address the gathered warriors. “That Spirit weave was a technique Gaelen taught these warriors in less than a day. Can you imagine how such a skill might serve you on the battlefield?”
The lu’tan were nodding, but many of the gathered Fey still looked skeptical, and several outright hostile.
“Fancy weaves don’t change the fact that he walked the Shadowed Path,” one of the Fey called out. “His presence besmirches the honor of all chatok who have taught within these walls.”
“Changed times call for changed attitudes,” Rain replied. “War is coming. Our ancient enemy has risen again, and grown strong while we have grown weak. I will not turn away a Fey who was once counted among our swiftest and surest blades.” Rain let his gaze travel the length and breadth of the training ground. “What punishment the gods passed upon him for his crimes has been paid, and he has been given new life so that he may serve the Fading Lands once more. The guardians of the Mists judged him worthy—even the Warriors’ Gate welcomed him as a blade brother and a champion of the Light. Will you do any less?”
He waited for his words to sink in, then said, “In a moment, the warriors’ gong will ring.” As was the custom for any training day in the Academy, each of the Academy’s chatok would strike a blow to call the chadin to order. “Those who refuse to learn from one who was once dahl’reisen may leave before Gaelen strikes his blow”—he turned to regard the gathered mentors of the Academy—“as may any chatok who refuses to accept him into their honored company. I will not hold you in any less esteem for your decision. I know this is a difficult thing I ask, and I know it will be troubling to many. If you choose to remain, that choice will serve as your sworn and binding oath that you will give Gaelen vel Serranis the respect any other chatok commands.”
He saw numerous warriors and half a dozen chatok shift in their places and knew they were among the first few who would walk for the door after the first strike of the gong.
“Before you decide, my brothers, consider this. We are few. The enemy is many. Loris v’En Mahr will soon be traveling to Elvia to meet with the Elf king, Galad Hawksheart. It is my hope the ancient alliance between our peoples can be renewed and Loris can convince the Elves to join us in this fight; but no matter what comes of his mission, the Eld will strike, and the Fey must be ready to stand against them.
“And before you decide, consider this also.” Rain’s hands went to the circlet of silver sword blades twined by golden vines and Amarynth leaves perched on his brow, the non-ceremonial sign of his kingship. “I ask nothing of you that I do not first ask of myself.” Lifting the crown from his head, he placed it gently on the gilded tairen’s chair, then stepped down into the training field beside his brother Fey.
Jaren v’En Harad approached the warriors’ gong and struck the first blow.
Of those who had gathered on the field, only six thousand remained when Gaelen struck the final blow to the gong. A fourth of those were Ellysetta’s lu’tans and the other rasa whose souls she had restored. Not the overwhelming numbers Rain had hoped for, but more than he’d truly believed would stay.
Half the chatok had departed as well. In a quiet ceremony of disapproval, each had waited for his time to ring the warriors’ gong, then made a point of exiting in proud silence rather than striking a blow.
When it was over, Jaren nodded at the gathered Fey. “This is a good beginning. I had not expected so many to stay.”
“Nor I, but it’s still not nearly enough,” Rain said. “And I’ve cost you half your most skilled chatok.”
“You but winnowed out those who have made their pride a funeral shroud.” Jaren met Rain’s eyes. “Our world has changed, Feyreisen. I have watched great Fey cities die, seen our forests fade back into desert, and listened to my shei’tani weep for the children her womb will not bear. It seems to me when the ways of the past lead only to death, then change is the only hope for life.”
“What if that change leads only to more death?” Rain asked.
Jaren smiled sadly. “Great change always does. That’s why it’s so hard to embrace. But we are not a people born to hide from danger.” He put a hand on Rain’s arm. “Lead with courage, my king. Make them remember what it is to be Fey.”
The chatok’s smile became a bold slash of white teeth, and his face lit with a fierce, proud light. In an instant, Jaren was transformed from a man weighted with weary sadness to a proud, deadly warrior of the Fey, fearless and fierce. “‘We are the steel no enemy can shatter. We are the magic no Dark power can defeat. We are the rock upon which evil breaks like waves.’ Keep reminding our brothers of that—make them believe it—and the Eld could outnumber us two hundred to one and still not defeat us.”
Ellysetta’s stomach curled in nervous knots as she approached the Hall of Truth and Healing, the serenely beautiful building on Dharsa’s central mount where the shei’dalins gathered to work their magic and perfect their craft.
The air of the hall was filled with the soothing sounds of splashing fountains, and lush blossoms,
hanging plants, and potted greenery turned each room into a paradise of peace and beauty. Scores of shei’dalins—their devastating beauty unveiled, their unbound hair spilling down slender backs—laughed and smiled from every corner, chaise, and chair.
Tiny, dark Jisera v’En Arran, Eimar’s mate, crossed the room, hands outstretched, to greet her warmly. “Feyreisa, welcome to the Hall of Truth and Healing. Venarra is expecting you.”
She led Ellysetta through a series of connected rooms, and as they walked, Jisera whispered on a quiet weave of Spirit, «I can feel your unease, little sister.»
Ellysetta gave her a startled look, but didn’t try to deny the truth.
The shei’dalin’s earnest expression was filled with compassion and understanding. «I know Venarra can seem cold, but that is only because she feels things so strongly she must discipline her emotions like a warrior. When you get to know her better, you will see her heart is fierce but full of love.»
They had reached a small sitting room filled with cushioned chairs. Jisera escorted Ellysetta inside, gave her an encouraging smile, and departed. Ellie fought the urge to cling as she watched Jisera’s departing figure.
A sound behind made her turn.
Venarra stood in an arched doorway. She was clad in red silk from neck to toe, which set off her dark eyes, dark hair, and pale skin to perfection. Ellysetta was glad for the silvery drape Rain had spun from her lu’tans’ steel, and the five blades of her quintet hanging at her hips over the violet velvet gown she wore beneath. The steel gave her a measure of confidence, just as Bel’s dagger had back in Celieria when she’d faced Queen Annoura and the nobles of the Celierian court.