by C. L. Wilson
“I’m sorry.” She wiped at her eyes and sniffled.
“As am I. Please, let’s speak of it no more. You obviously weren’t thinking clearly to make such an offer. Agreed?”
Selianne nodded with obvious reluctance. “If that’s what you want, Ellie.”
“It is.” With a forced smile, Ellysetta hugged her friend and tried not to flinch. Selianne’s embrace felt oddly oppressive. Just my imagination, Ellie thought. As was the trick of light that made Selianne’s eyes seem to flicker with black shadows, reminding Ellie unpleasantly of her young attacker. Still…
“Sel,” she whispered hesitantly, “is everything all right with you? You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you?”
Selianne pulled back. “Me? I’m not the one marrying the man who scorched the world.”
“It’s just that Rain warned me that Mages could control anyone born in Eld.” She bit her lip. When Selianne didn’t respond, she added, “Your mother was born there. She didn’t leave until she married your father. According to Rain, she could be used to hurt you…and me.”
Any hint of shadow in Selianne’s eyes was gone now—as was her earlier guilt—replaced by horror. With a quick twist, she broke free. “Did you tell him about her?”
Ellie’s jaw dropped. “Of course not! I would never do that!”
“Then how would he know it?”
“He doesn’t. I didn’t mean that.” How had this gotten twisted around? “He wasn’t talking about your mother specifically. He was talking about the Eld in general, and how the Mages can control them from childhood.”
“Ellie, my mother loves me. And you too, for that matter. She’d die before doing anything to hurt either of us.”
“I know she loves you, Sel. That’s not what I meant. I—”
“I think you’d better not say anything more. It would break my mother’s heart to know you could even think something so vile. She’s not some…some slave of the Mages.”
“Sel…please…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything bad about your mother.”
Selianne sniffed. “We’d better go. Your mother and the Archbishop are waiting.”
Ellie’s brows climbed halfway up her forehead. “Selianne, you little prig. I just forgave you for suggesting I should abandon my honor and my family and run off with some sea captain. And now you’re all in a twist because I’m worried the Eld might try to hurt you and your mother to get to me?” She laughed in disbelief. “I was stabbed yesterday. Can you not understand why I might be a little more suspicious than usual?”
Selianne’s irritation fled. “What an idiot I’m being. I swear I don’t know what’s come over me.” She shook her head. “I’m supposed to be your friend and beacon, and here I am being an obnoxious ninnywit. I’m sorry. Friends?”
“Of course. The very best.” They hugged again, a tight squeeze, and this time Ellie sensed nothing but genuine concern and love in the embrace. When they broke a part, she saw her mother gesturing with escalating ill temper. “I guess we’d better go,” she said. “Greatfather Tivrest is getting impatient.” Ellie signaled to Bel, and the privacy weave dissolved. She and Selianne hurried to join Lauriana and the Archbishop.
The initial devotions of the Bride’s Blessing were a lengthy, sonorous affair, full of prayers and hymns and meditation. Fortunately, everything proceeded smoothly. When they were done, Ellie gave Selianne and her mother quick hugs and hurried home to meet Rain and Master Fellows.
Lauriana stayed after Ellie’s departure in order to discuss the upcoming services and the wedding schedule with the Archbishop. To her surprise, Selianne was waiting for her when she left the cathedral a full bell later. “Selianne? What are you still doing here?”
The young woman Lauriana had known since childhood twisted her hands together in the same way she and Ellie always had when confessing a misdeed. “I needed to talk to you, Madame Baristani, and I couldn’t do it in front of Ellysetta and the Fey.”
“Talk to me about what, Selianne?”
“About Ellie, Madam Baristani, and about the Fey.” Selianne clasped her hands. “I’m very worried for her. Very worried.”
Rain wasn’t alone when Ellie returned home. Marissya and Dax were with him, and a vehement argument—one that clearly had begun quite a while ago—was in progress. The three of them fell silent when Ellie walked in, but the tension in the room remained so thick it set her teeth on edge.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” Rain said. He stalked off to one corner and stood there, arms crossed, glaring out the window.
“Not nothing,” Marissya corrected. “Tell her, Rain. Tell the Feyreisa what her shei’tan has been doing. She has a right to know.”
Ellie stared at Marissya as if she’d grown a second head. The shei’dalin actually sounded…angry. Furious even. And with her veils thrown back, her cheeks hot with color, her appearance confirmed it. If she weren’t seeing the proof with her own eyes, Ellie would never have believed it possible. She glanced at Dax. His head was down, shoulders slumped, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were painfully resigned to suffer through an argument he’d already heard many times over.
“Tell her, Rain,” Marissya barked again. When he didn’t, the shei’dalin turned to Ellie, hands on hips, and said, “He’s been using the Lords of Council for target practice!”
Ellie’s jaw dropped and she stared at Rain with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You didn’t.”
Flags of red darkened his cheeks.
She put her hands to her face. “Oh, gods, you did.”
His jaw clenched. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t start firing off Fey’cha by the dozen. It was only one Fey’cha, and I was making a point.”
“The point had to be made with a weapon?”
“I was trying to explain about the return weave that is spun into Fey weapons when they’re forged, to prove that finding a Fey’cha where a crime has been committed doesn’t necessarily mean dahl’reisen are involved. I thought a demonstration would be more effective.”
“He nearly pinned Lord Bevel’s ears to his chair,” Marissya interjected.
“I used black,” Rain exclaimed when Ellysetta continued to gape at him in horrified disbelief. “That insolent little bogrot was never in any danger.”
“That insolent little bogrot is a lord whose vote we needed in Council,” Marissya retorted. “I asked you to meet with those nobles to befriend them, not alienate them still more. They’re never going to support us, Rain, if you can’t show them more than anger and threats.”
“I tried reason—and that got me nowhere. If they’re all too blind and too arrogant to secure their own safety, then let them choose death! After these continued affronts to Fey honor, this pervasive contempt for our many sacrifices, I no longer care what happens to these fools!”
“Well, I care,” Ellysetta said.
Rain turned towards her in surprise. Dax started to say something, but Marissya caught his arm and shook her head, then turned to watch Ellysetta with an encouraging look. «Speak, little sister. You can make him hear.»
“This is my homeland,” Ellysetta said. “These are my people. My family. My friends. Hate the nobles, if you must, but they aren’t the only ones in danger.”
“Ellysetta—” Rain stepped towards her. Her raised hand halted him.
“No, listen to me. If the Mages are rising again, as you believe, then Celieria is in danger. We have no defense against magic. Without you—without the Fey—we will fall to them. You know that.”
“You speak of Celieria as if you still belong with them and not with us,” Rain said.
“You have all accepted me as if I were one of you, and for that I’m more grateful than I can say, but I am Celierian, Rain. This is my homeland. What happiness can we ever find together if I abandon my country and my people to destruction?”
He went very still. “Are you saying you will refuse our bond if I cannot sto
p the Eld agreement from passing?”
“No, of course not—”
“Because Celierians are free to make their own choices, but that freedom has a price. They must live with the consequences of their choices, just as the Fey do. I have warned Dorian. I have told him that opening the borders will end the alliance between our two countries. I have begged him to invoke primus. He could put an end to this right now, but he will not. Without stone-hard proof, he will not act against the wishes of his Council. They have usurped his power, and he allows them to do it.”
“And if the Council passes the agreement because you made no effort to prevent it, what then?” she returned, refusing to back down. “If you’re right about the Mages reconstituting their power, then abandoning Celieria to them will only give them millions more souls to claim, millions more soldiers to swell the ranks of their armies. Can the Fey afford that?”
The corner of Rain’s mouth lifted in a snarl.
“What I’m saying,” Ellysetta concluded quietly, “is that you must at least try. It doesn’t matter how you feel about the nobles, because this isn’t just about them.” She gave a short laugh. “I’m terrified about tonight’s dinner. I’m terrified that my presence will do more harm than good. I know the nobles will be watching every move I make, and many are likely hoping to find something to mock, something with which to discredit you. But King Dorian asked us to attend, and so I will go, because, no matter what I think, I know you believe the Mages are a very real threat, one that must be stopped. I’ve done my best to adapt, to change how I dress, how I speak, how I act, because I know you’ll need every advantage you can muster to win over the Council of Lords, and I couldn’t bear it if I were the cause of your failure.”
“I’ve already told you, you don’t have to change. You are perfect just as you are.”
“That is Rain, my mate, speaking, not Rain, the Fey king. I’m a woodcarver’s daughter, a commoner without a drop of noble blood in my veins. There are lords who will consider it an insult even to have me in the same room with them. And that makes me a liability.”
He made a sound—half guttural snarl, half bitter curse—and came to her. His hands reached for her, slid over her cheeks into the thick spirals of her hair. Gentle, unyielding pressure tilted her head back, forcing her to look up into his face.
“You are our queen, our Feyreisa. You are the beacon that shines for us all. And if a single one among them offers insult, they will all feel the edge of my wrath.”
Her hands covered his. He would not hear the truth. Not on this. But he could not afford to let anger blind him. Not if he was right about the Mages. “Promise me, Rain. Promise that regardless of what insults the nobles may hurl—at you, at the sacrifices of the Fey, even at me—you will not abandon my people to the Mages.”
“You cannot ask a Fey to ignore insults to his mate.”
“But I’m asking all the same.”
“Shei’tani—”
“Promise me, Rain.” She held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Promise me, shei’tan.”
His eyes closed in defeat. It was the first time she’d called him shei’tan, and the sound of that single, much-longed-for word on her lips shattered his resistance. Husband, beloved, mate of her soul: when she called him that, he could deny her nothing. He bowed his head and brought her hands to his lips for a kiss, then pressed his forehead against them in a gesture of surrender. “I cannot promise to hold my temper, but I will try. And for your sake alone, shei’tani, I will not allow insult to prevent me from fighting for Celieria’s safety.”
A muffled sound came from the direction of the front door. Master Fellows stood on the threshold, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “Now, that,” he declared, “was the grace of a queen.”
Accompanied by Jiarine Montevero and two more of her ladies-in-waiting, Annoura walked through the palace kitchens, personally inspecting the preparations for tonight’s state dinner as she did for every such occasion. As much as it annoyed her to throw a lavish reception for the Tairen Soul and his peasant bride, she would never let it be said that Annoura of Celieria had not entertained her guests to the fullest extent of her considerable palace resources. Opulence and perfection were the hallmarks of her reign. To offer less than that tonight would reflect badly on her.
Duan Parlo Vincenze stood beside her, clad in a pristine white chef’s robe, detailing the final changes to the menu while she and her ladies sampled the tidbits he’d prepared for them.
“Thank you, Duan Vincenze,” Annoura said when he concluded his presentation and she had finished tasting his sample dishes. “You have outdone yourself once again.”
The chef bowed and thanked her effusively and returned to his kitchens as the queen and her entourage moved on to the palace wine cellars. Master Gillam, the man who personally inspected and approved every beverage that found its way to the royal table, was waiting for them by the large, heavy doors that led into the cool cellars. He greeted them with a bow and led Annoura and her three ladies-in-waiting to a small table where he’d set out the suggested wines for this evening’s dinner, six in all, each carefully selected to complement Duan Vincenze’s menu.
Annoura and her ladies tasted each of the wines, and as always happened at these tastings, by the end of the fourth small glass, the women had lost some of their carefully cultivated starch and begun to laugh and share pointed jokes about other members of the court. By the sixth glass, the jokes turned toward the Fey and the Tairen Soul’s peasant-born truemate.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but the Tairen Soul makes me nervous.” Lady Thea Trubol, senior lady-in-waiting to the queen gave a dramatic shiver. “I was there in the court the day the girl’s betrothal was broken, and honestly, ladies, there’s something positively…animal about him. Did you hear he nearly pinned back Bevel’s ears with one of those Fey’cha of his?”
Jiarine snorted. “With a head as big as Bevel’s, how could he have missed?”
The three ladies burst into tittering laughter, and even Annoura smiled. Bevel was an infamous lecher with a lustful appetite for very young, very innocent newcomers to the court. From serving girls to noble Seras not attached to an important family, the more helpless they were, the better he liked them.
“Well, let’s just hope Bevel isn’t idiot enough to chase after the Fey King’s girl tonight,” Lady Thea said. “You know how randy he gets after the first few glasses of pinalle.”
Jiarine burst into a fresh bout of giggles, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “No, no, here’s an even better idea. Wouldn’t it be amusing if the girl got drunk and made a fool of herself tonight? The Fey would never live it down!”
The women all laughed their agreement and finished the last sample of Master Gillam’s selected wines. When they were done, he led them to a smaller table in front of the open keflee pantry door and invited the women to sample the keflee blend he’d chosen to clear heads after dinner. Annoura declined the proffered cup and moved a few steps away from the rich aroma steaming from the keflee pot.
The move brought her closer to the open pantry door, and she froze at the sight of a distinctive purple silk bag sitting on one of the keflee casks. “Master Gillam, where did that come from? That purple bag.”
Master Gillam looked at it blankly. “Why…I…I…Your Majesty, I’m appalled to admit I don’t know.”
Cup and saucer in hand, Jiarine tripped over and peered past Gillam’s shoulder into the keflee pantry. “Oh, that? One of the maids brought it to me yesterday, when you were with the king, Your Majesty. She said she’d found it in your office. It had the look of one of your expensive rare blends, so I had Bili, Master Gillam’s assistant, run it down here last night.” When Annoura didn’t respond, Jiarine frowned. “Your Majesty? Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” Annoura shook her head, shoving back memories of dangerous intoxication and near betrayal. “Oh, no. Thank you, Lady Jiarine. And thank you, Master Gillam. You have everything well in hand,
as always.”
She turned and walked quickly away from the cellars and the keflee pantry and that damnable purple bag of powdered ruin.
In Norban, Sian vel Sendaris forced a genial smile as he waited for the stocky pubkeeper of the Hound and Boar to ruminate over twenty years of memories. A full day of searching and inquiries yesterday had turned up nothing, and today wasn’t shaping up any better.
“No,” the pubkeeper said. “No, I can’t say as I recall a man named Pars Grolin.”
“He was about this tall, with bright red hair and green eyes.” Beside Sian, Torel vel Carlian waved his hand at chin level. “And may have been traveling with his baby daughter.”
“Mmm, no, doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.” He finished drying the pint mug in his hand and set it on the shelf with several dozen others.
“Well, thank you for your time.” Sian reached a hand across the bartop.
The pubkeeper hesitated a moment, then said, “I served in the King’s Army as a lad. About forty-five years ago, when Fey swordmasters still taught the king’s men how to use a blade. Best damned swordsmen I ever saw.” He shook Sian’s hand. “One of them even took the time to teach me a thing or two when he caught me watching the practices.”
A deluge of memories rushed through Sian as he gripped the man’s hand. Images of the pubkeeper’s days in the army, of a dark-haired Fey warrior conducting training exercises, frightening images of war. Sian tried to filter out those images and concentrate on the thread he’d planted about strangers, red hair, and baby girls, but the pubkeeper’s memories of war and the Fey were very strong.
“I was just a kid and a cannon’s mate,” the man continued. “No reason for him to teach me, but he did. Enough, anyways, so I could throw a dagger accurate at twenty paces and parry a sword thrust. And that saved my life in ’43. I’ve had a fond spot for the Fey ever since. More so than most of the folks ’round these parts.”
The handshake ended, and a final flood of images poured from the pubkeeper’s consciousness into Sian’s. Disturbing images of a priest standing in the pulpit, denouncing the Fey as soulless servants of the Dark Lord. Calling for Celieria’s people to turn from the lure of evil that wore a pretty face and cleanse Celieria of the Shadow’s servants. The town square was ablaze with some sort of bonfire, and villagers approached to throw what looked like personal belongings into the blaze. A priest with white-blond hair stood nearby, watching, his voluminous hooded cape swirling in the fire-generated winds.