by C. L. Wilson
It took her a full bell of painstakingly trying to piece together the proper combination of unraveling weaves before she managed to open the large trunk containing Lord Death’s blades and leather weapons belts. She stuffed the blades and harnesses in her canvas bag, along with two daggers the length of her forearm for herself—after all, who knew what dangers lurked in the world above?
When it came to unlocking the case containing what she hoped was Lord Death’s crystal, however, she ran into trouble. The first six wards she managed to identify from her memories and unravel using Lord Death’s Spirit-weave commands. The seventh set her back on her heels. She’d never seen this particular pattern before. And that meant, Lord Death had given her no spell to unweave it.
“Dark Lord take it!” she hissed. The High Mage must have changed the final ward before leaving Boura Fell. The threads before her were more complex, more tightly woven, than any she’d encountered yet. She had no idea where to even begin taking this one apart, and, according to Lord Death, one wrong move would kill her.
These wards are deadly. If you unweave them incorrectly, the magic will turn upon you and you’ll die an agonizing death.
Melliandra glared at the glowing threads of confounding magic. She hadn’t come this far to fail. Without that crystal, Lord Death said he couldn’t defeat the High Mage. She wasn’t entirely sure she believed him, but she couldn’t take the risk.
She needed that crystal now.
If she left without it, there was no guarantee she’d ever have a second chance to get it. Worse, the Mage Halls were rife with rumors about the new fortress being constructed above ground and the speculation that the High Mage intended to make that his new palace. If he moved, he would no doubt also move his most prized prisoners and the most promising offspring of his breeding program as well. Both Lord Death and Shia’s son would be taken away to a place she could not go.
She would lose everything. Her chance to kill the Mage. Her chance to save Shia’s son. Her one chance at freedom.
Melliandra gripped the table so hard her knuckles turned white. No. No, she would not fail. She would get Lord Death’s crystal, or she would die trying.
All wards can be undone. All it takes is patience, magic, and enough time to map out the solution and implement it.
Lord Shan’s words echoed in her mind as she cleared a spot on the table, sat down, and began to examine the seventh and final deadly ward keeping her from the key to her freedom. She’d paid very close attention as Lord Death’s Spirit weaves had guided her through the releasing of all the previous wards. She’d especially noted how her body felt as the Spirit weave commanded her to summon and wield her magic. If she could figure out this pattern, she might—just might—be able to unravel this one on her own.
The Pale ~ North Slopes of the Feyls
Pale, thin, windburned, three of the soldiers of Eld who had set out last autumn on a mission assigned by the High Mage of Eld trudged through the deep snow blanketing the northern slopes of the volcanic Feyls mountains. Only three of the original party of twenty remained. Four had been buried under an avalanche of snow only a few days past. One had fallen while climbing a cliff face. Two more had fallen ill and been left behind. Three had been separated from the rest and died in a snowstorm. The rest had died in a series of unfortunate accidents. Neither the frozen ice wastes of the Pale nor the northern slopes of the Feyls were hospitable to outsiders.
But three had nearly reached their destination, and for what Master Maur required, even one survivor was enough.
The three stood halfway up the mountain at the base of the shifting, iridescent radiance of the Faering Mists. Snow covered the ground, and their breath made clouds of mist that coated their bearded faces with fine layers of ice crystals.
One of the three knelt to build and light a fire in a small, rocky hollow that offered at least some protection from the wind howling through the tall peaks. As he did so, a dark, pervasive consciousness pressed down upon him. His muscles froze. His lungs contracted, forcing him to breathe in short pants.
The paralysis lasted for only a moment, but that was long enough for his mind to be ripped open and thoroughly plundered. His head lifted of its own volition, turned slowly to scan his surroundings. He caught sight of his two companions and realized the same commanding power had gripped them.
«Your location will do. Set the chemar in a secure place where the portal can open without interference. The first Mages will arrive in four bells.»
The crouching Elden soldier acknowledged the order. «Understood, Master Maur. It will be as you command.»
Eld ~ Boura Fell
The air in the treasure room had grown stifling. Sweat trickled down the sides of Melliandra’s face as with painstaking care, she slipped that last threads of the seventh magic ward free.
Relief overwhelmed her, and she buried her face in her hands. Shaky breaths shuddered in and out of her lungs as a series of fine tremors shuddered through the muscles she’d kept locked into place for who knew how many bells while she unraveled the weave.
When her body stopped shaking and her racing heart slowed back to a normal beat, she reached for the brass latch on the case. Half expecting poison darts to shoot out the moment she pressed the release catch, she moved to one side and held her breath again until the catch popped open with nothing more dire than a snick of sound.
The case opened, revealing drawer after velvet-lined drawer of jewels. Rings. Pendants. Jewelled cuffs and armbands. Torques and ropes of shining crystals.
She had no concept of riches. No umagi born and raised in a Boura did. But the gleam and sparkle of the chest’s contents dazzled her eyes, and the hum of power that rose up from the jewels roused a spark of avarice in her heart. These glittering baubles were, if not the source of Vadim Maur’s power, at least the tools he used to amplify it. Her fingers itched to gather them up, to take them all with her. Surely something so powerful would come in handy one day.
She reached for a large, faceted blue crystal that she could almost swear was calling her name, but before she could touch the glittering gem, the memory of Lord Death’s stern lecture sounded in her mind. You do not know what you will find in this room. There will be objects of great power, including many objects of terrible Darkness, things that can consume the souls of the unwary. Touch nothing except what you know belongs to me.
She’d already broken her word by taking the two daggers for herself. But those blades had not vibrated with magical energy as these jewels did. They had not called to her in seductive voices, begging her to take them.
Her hands curled into fists, tucking her wayward fingers tight against her palms.
Get the crystal you came for, Melliandra, then close the chest, she told herself sternly. Quickly before you do something stupid.
The scold helped. She tried her best to ignore the call of the blue crystal while she peered through the drawers, looking for the stone Lord Death had drawn in her mind. She found it and many more like it in the third drawer. Dark red cabochon crystals, most gleaming with rainbowed lights.
To verify which stone belonged to Lord Death, she invoked a final Spirit weave, one that filled the air with a song of intense, exotic beauty. One of the largest of the crystals in the drawer suddenly flared with a whirling burst of brightness deep in its center. That was it. That was the one she’d come for.
She snatched Lord Death’s crystal from the velvet, then shoved the all the drawers back into place and slammed the chest doors closed. She didn’t even breathe until the latch clicked back into place and the seductive call of what lay inside the case fell silent. As swiftly as possible, reversing the actions she’d taken to unravel Vadim Maur’s protective weaves, she restored the wards around the case. Then, and only then, did she let herself cup the gleaming crystal in her palms, release the song weave once more to make the lights inside the stone shine and dance, and crow in silent victory.
She’d done it. She’d done it!
Eld ~ Boura Dor
With his communications in the spell room complete, Vadim Maur returned to Boura Dor’s command center. The three adversaries he’d brought with him from Boura Fell were gathered in the corner, talking quietly amongst themselves. He called them over.
“Primage Rutan has gathered an assembly of Mages by the Well of Souls. I want you three to go with them. I have decided that you, Garok, should take command, with Rutan reporting to you. This mission is vital and should be led by the most experienced and powerful Primages available. Rutan will give you the details when you join him.”
The Primages bowed and murmured. “As you command, Most High.”
Vadim watched them depart with satisfaction. Once Garok learned what the mission was, he his cronies would pursue victory with every bit of might and determination they possessed, because a triumphant return from where they were headed would earn each of them the greatest jewels they’d ever fastened to their sashes—and a standing in the Mage Council that would catapult them into direct line for Eld’s Dark throne. Unfortunately for them, Rutan and a score of his most trusted Mages—all of whom Vadim had personally raised to the blue—had orders to ensure that Primages Garok, Fursk, and Mahl did not return from this mission alive.
Almost smiling, Vadim turned back to the table in the center of the room. “Ah, Vargus, you’ve got that tracker up. Excellent.”
The tracker was on a wide view, showing the Feyls, the Rhakis, and more than half of the Fading Lands. A pinpoint of light in the center of what should have been total darkness made his brows snap together. He lunged for the tracker, spinning the command to zoom in on that small flicker of light. When it did, he nearly screamed in triumph.
His hand closed around Vargus’s neck, and he bent low to hiss his commands in the startled Primage’s ear. “Contact Boura Fell. Get me every dahl’reisen in our service, all of my Black Guard, and every available Primage from Fell, Maur, Gorin, Kovis, and Loc. I want two thousand at least.”
Vargus cleared his throat. “Most of the Primages are already here, Master Maur, as you commanded them to be. There aren’t two thousand Primages left in the Bouras.”
“Then get me all you can. I’ll take Primages and Sulimages—even yellow-robes if that’s all there is. Pull every Mage off the Heras from Odol to Kovis. This is more important than protecting against anything that might come up the river. And get me that Celierian brute of mine… Brodson. I want them all here before twelve bells tomorrow, armed and ready for battle.”
He straightened and spun on his heel. “Kron, I’ll need that spell room of yours again.”
A bell later, Vadim’s consciousness was once more soaring through the night on threads of Azrahn, only this time it headed south, into Celieria.
Celieria ~ Allied Encampment
Ellysetta dreamed again of a ruined building and a secret, windowless room housing the dark mirror that began to glow silver-blue like Lord Hawksheart’s mirror pool in Elvia when she approached. As the phosphorescent surface began to swirl, the face of the stranger who somehow seemed so familiar appeared in the mirror’s depths. Blond hair billowed gently around the stern, Fey-beautiful masculine face.
She lifted her hands. Magic swirled around her fingertips in a bright glow, threads of gold and black weaving in a pattern she’d never seen before. The eyes of the man in the mirror went bright. He began to speak, but she couldn’t hear the words.
Suddenly, a dark shadow enveloped her and the world went dark. When she could see again, the scenes from vivid and familiar nightmares raced before her eyes. Herself, bound by heavy chains and clad in a green, boat-necked gown, standing beside a cowled Mage. Her sisters, Lillis and Lorelle, trapped in a pit and screaming for her to help them as a pack of snarling darrokken closed in for the kill.
And then, the most terrifying scene ever to haunt her nightmares: Rain, chained to a wall, as a knife drove deep into his chest. Rain, his dying eyes fixed upon her, as a sword severed his head. Lillis and Lorelle, their eyes black as night, dancing in the shower of his blood.
Ellysetta’s eyes flew open, and she came awake with a gasp. She sat up and lifted her hands, expecting to see them covered in Rain’s blood. Instead, she saw the spotless white linen of her nightgown with its soft lace cuffs. With a shuddering gasp, she buried her face in her hands. She wasn’t in some dark Mage fortress. Her sisters weren’t Mage-claimed and Rain wasn’t dead.
A dream, she told herself. It was only a dream.
But when she reached for Rain, needing to verify his safety, her searching hand encountered only cold, empty space.
Alarmed, she spun a swift Fire weave to light a candle lamp. The soft glow of light blossomed, revealing the rumpled pile of furs where Rain had been sleeping and the barren rack where he kept his steel at night. His war armor was missing—and so was he. «Rain? Where are you?»
Even before she finished the worried call, the tent flaps parted and he ducked inside, glowing silver and gold in his war steel. “Forgive me, shei’tani,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I was just outside, trying to let you sleep as long as I could.”
Relief that he was here, and unharmed, left her drained. “It’s time?”
“Aiyah. The rest of the camp is already packed.”
Ellysetta ruthlessly banished the remnant terror from her nightmare. They were riding to war. She wouldn’t add her fears on Rain’s already overburdened shoulders. She rose without hesitation and spun her own armor and steel into place. “Then let’s go, shei’tan.”
In less than a handful of chimes, her lu’tan spun the bulk of the tent and its furnishings back to the elements, and condensed the rest into small, lightweight parcels for easy transport.
And then the Fey army began its march towards Orest and war.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tairen roar a battle call
As warriors gather one and all.
Face the foe that now steps forward
With Fey’cha red and glinting sword.
To save the magic Fey of lore
Answer now the call to war.
Call to War, by Tevan Fire Eyes, Tairen Soul
Celieria ~ One hundred miles south of Orest
10th day of Seledos
At midday, as the Fey army halted to rest and eat, Rain and the commanders of allied forces gathered in a magic-warded tent several miles east of the main militia. Fearful of the Mage using her eyes to spy upon the allies, Ellysetta remained behind with the other shei’dalins.
When Rain introduced Farel and his men to the other commanders, the air in the tent became decidedly chilly. The cool reception was not unexpected. Deeply ingrained Fey beliefs would not change in the blink of an eye, and thanks to the Mages’ relentless subversions and the dahl’reisen’s own murderous actions along the borders, the Celierians were no more eager to welcome dahl’reisen among their ranks than their immortal neighbors.
“I understand your reluctance to trust the dahl’reisen,” Rain told them. “A week ago, I shared it. But I have since learned that the dahl’reisen who form the Brotherhood of Shadows are not so honorless, nor so irredeemably soul-lost, as I have always believed their kind to be. They saved Ellysetta and me not once, but twice, without any thought for their own safety or even their own survival.”
He swept a hard gaze across the gathered commanders. “That is not, however, the reason I have welcomed them. Simply put, we need them. Our numbers are few while our enemy’s are great. We cannot win this fight without them.” He turned to Bel. “Bel, show them what we are up against.”
Lavender Spirit sparked in Bel’s eyes, setting them aglow as he raised his hands and began to weave. The Fey scouts dispatched earlier in the day from the allied camp had sent back images of Orest and its surroundings, and Bel had pieced the images together to create a large, three-dimensional map of Orest.
The city was crawling with Eld, Feraz, and what looked like Sorrelian and Imrhi mercenaries. Hundreds of thousands of them. Throughou
t Upper and Lower Orest, and lining the north shore of the Heras, batteries of bowcannon were trained on the Faering Mists and the surrounding areas, their barbed missiles glinting evilly in the sunlight.
As the faces of the commanders grew grim, Rain continued, “These last few days have taught me that as much as I value Fey honor and customs, there is something I value more. That something is the safety and survival of the people I love. If protecting my kingdom, my people, and my mate from Elden evil means I must accept aid from unconventional quarters, then so I shall. Farel and his warriors have bloodsworn themselves to Ellysetta. They wish to fight in defense of the Fading Lands and its allies like the Fey warriors they once were, and I shall allow it. And should they perish in that fight, I shall honor their sacrifice no less than I honor the sacrifice of any other warrior of this alliance.”
He gave them a moment for that to sink in, then said, “If there are those among you who do not feel as I do—if you cannot, for whatever reason, allow yourself to fight in the same army that welcomes these dahl’reisen—then you may leave now. Return to whatever place it is you call home and go with my blessing and my thanks for your service. And I will pray to the gods that you spend the rest of your days in peace and that the evil those of us who remain are about to face will never find its way to your doorstep.”
He looked from one grim face to the next, hoping to impress upon them both the depth of his sincerity and his belief that this was not just the right course to take, but the only course. “The dahl’reisen and I will excuse ourselves for ten chimes so that you may discuss your concerns openly amongst yourself and make your decision. If you choose to leave, do so before we return. Those who remain, I expect your full commitment and support to all members of this alliance, regardless of what personal feelings you may harbor.”
