“I think…” I shook my head, unsure exactly what it was that I was thinking, unable to bring it from that realization into words. “I believe I can feel the warmth of it. And in doing so, the utter contradiction that is the feel of a human.”
Rhys and Rider straightened where they’d been kneeling near the dragon, their gazes going into sharp focus at my expression.
I swallowed. “It’s a sort of hollowness within the humans. That must be… Well, it feels like that emptiness must be where the deadening comes from.”
Chevelle’s voice was quiet beside me, his frame too still. “You’re certain that it is something inside them that’s the cause?”
I bit my lip and thought about the few humans I’d been exposed to before Veil had taken me to the encroachment. I thought about the feel of one, a solitary being, and the way that directing even a single human drove knives of pain through my skull. And I had been unable to stay near the seething mass of humans that had waited beyond the barrier of fey lands, even without reaching out with my power.
I sighed. “I’ve no idea what Asher spelled into me. There’s no way to know that’s not what’s making me…” My words trailed off because I wasn’t entirely certain what I felt.
Chevelle stepped closer. “He did not spell this into you. This is a pure gift from your mother’s line.”
I nodded even though I was unconvinced. We would never truly know what all Asher had set into motion, what other darkness he’d set free.
Chevelle stared at me. “I know. I would feel it.”
The tightness in my chest eased, if just a bit. Chevelle was right. He would know if my gift wasn’t pure because of the magic Asher had spelled into him.
The dragon was resting, so I slipped back into its mind. I might never have used my gift on a magical creature before, but I had felt my own magic. I had felt Chevelle’s. I understood that what Asher had spelled into me was different, and that was separate from my own natural skill.
I had met the sensation of the dragon’s ponderous energy with those expectations already in place. What I felt when I returned to the creature was so outside of those expectations that I gasped.
The others surrounded me instantly, Rhys and Rider searching out an unseen enemy, but Chevelle’s attention only on my face. “What is it?” he asked.
“He’s reaching for the source. I can feel it.” I shook my head in disbelief. “He can access the base energy even from here.”
18
Veil
Veil and his court fell upon the ancient boundary dividing fey and elven lands just as the spellcasters they’d been chasing drew up short, but it was not the magic of the boundary that had stopped the spellcasters. It was the head of the light elves and her Council guard waiting on the other side.
Juniper Fountain, daughter of Elerias and adversary to all things fey, stood front and center, her crown of braid and gilt robes shining brightly in the late-day sun. The magic inside of her was radiant, and though Veil could not reach it with his own power, he could feel how it touched the flora around them. Beside her was a line of golden-haired warriors, women and men with hard expressions and ready bows. Veil flew into the clearing with his wings spread, unable to bite back the smile from the thrill that was a fey hunt. He let his gaze roam the line of the elven guards then inclined his head toward Junnie at her ferocious stroke—flanking her and that guard was a string of wolves that stretched from tree line to tree line on either side.
Junnie did not spare Veil more than a glance. Her bow was drawn, and what was surely a poison-tipped arrow was aimed right at the scattered mass of spellcasters between elf and fey.
Veil let his gaze fall onto their prey. The smattering of trapped changelings stared back, some at the horde of eager fey, some at the line of wolves and light elves. Veil recognized a few of the changeling’s faces, but even as he watched, their shapes flickered in and out of form, dancing between what their magic could hold and what their spelled traps were drawing from that energy. He wondered if the spellcasters had succeeded in their attempts at Hollow Forest and whether they had created a channel so that they might devour more energy from the source.
He wondered how fast that energy could be replenished. He wondered if this battle would be as satisfying as the last.
Veil’s booted feet touched down on the well-worn ground before the boundary, his silken shirt long since torn away in the ravaging of the hunt. His chest was bare, and the sun was warm upon his amber skin, the wind light against his feathered wings. He felt alive with energy and anticipation, intoxicated by the power of it.
“Your time has come,” he told the changelings before him. His voice was nearly a purr, his eagerness plain. Behind him, a wild cackle rose, then a groan of pleasure and the murmur of assent. Veil wet his bottom lip. It was swollen and tasted of blood. “This day, you will pay for your crimes against the fey. You who are so low as to not even warrant the trials of court, the play of the fates. Before the sun falls, your time will end.”
He let his smile make the promise that it would not be pleasant, that the changeling fey responsible for the deadening of the land would not be allowed to pass their energy back into the source.
They would not be allowed to have any single say in the matter, even if they were to spell the words to life.
Two wolves moved forward, not wild beasts but the ancients Finn and Keaton. Their eyes were on the fey lord, watching. Veil had never known the twins in life, but he had heard the legends. He knew that Freya could not reach these creatures because they were more elf than beast. He knew that Junnie could. She could not read them directly, though, because although her connection to canines was strong, none of Elerias’s line could touch the minds of other elves. The power needed to transcend the elven form, to fall into something other, was difficult to grasp even for Veil. But he understood that he had felt something similar.
The thought had him glancing down his fey line, meeting momentarily the gaze of Liana. Her skin had shaded to a cool steel gray, and Veil had the unpleasant realization—somehow, he kept letting it fall from his mind—that she was also a changeling.
He stared back at the spellcasters, the mass of changelings giving everything they had not to show their fear, not to invite the horde upon them. Veil’s eyes rose again to Junnie across the boundary.
“You will have them,” he said, “as soon as we are done.”
Despite his promise, the corner of her mouth turned down, and she loosed her arrow. It flew straight and true and into the heart of a changeling fey at the center of the group. A dozen more arrows took flight, and the field erupted into chaos and smoke. Blackness and sulfurous ash exploded through the air, the wild calls of fey met with the silence of the waiting elves on the other side. Between them launched a multitude of spells and traps, each tied to the dark energy that could sap all that was inside the fey.
The thrill of the hunt crested and sang through Veil’s blood. He pulled the energy deep inside himself and strode forward with a grin.
19
Frey
Rhys and Rider had returned to the study to research their ideas after we’d spent time examining the energy of the dragon. Chevelle and I sat alone in our rooms, having a private dinner while we contemplated what we’d learned. The deadening of the fey magic would have a disastrous effect on all kinds if it kept spreading, and as much as I didn’t want to, it seemed the only way to fight it was going to require us to use the same malevolent methods the spellcasters had used. I worried what risks we would take that were impossible for us to see, what might happen once we unleashed our own magic to fight the spread.
I bit into an apple, thinking about how Junnie had refused the fruit earlier. The light elves created something soft and sweet, so unlike the bitter tang in the varieties grown in Camber. It was not simply our magic—every part of our tastes and customs differed. And yet, all of us would suffer at the hands of the cursed plague. It would happen whether the starving fey were allowed onto our lands or not. Th
e humans had affected the magic at the boundary, which meant it was likely that the deadening could affect elven magic as well, even if we didn’t know how.
I set the apple down, the outline of my bite mark etched into its flesh. It so reminded me of Ruby and the way her teeth would leave those sharp, jagged lines and the way the fruit became discolored from her venom.
Chevelle slid the apple out of my sight and gave me a look.
“Right,” I told him. “I’ll find something productive to do.”
His lip quirked as he went back to whatever he was scribbling onto parchment. I closed my eyes to the scratch of his quill, finding the dragon with my mind.
The dragon was there, waiting not for me, I thought, but for the coming night. The sun was not yet low in the sky, so I urged him to take a sweep of the castle grounds. I could have used my bird, but I wanted to test our connection more. Since we’d had a chance to study his magic, it would be safer for me to fly the beast farther out, to risk that I might lose him beyond reach. It did not feel as if I could.
The dragon soared over the mountain, high enough to not cause alarm but low enough that I was able to take in the features I’d grown so accustomed to seeing from the eyes of my hawk. We roamed in large, slow circles, widening the range to a distance I’d not been able to reach with other creatures. My hawk had been with me since I was a child, and my connection to her was the strongest I’d ever felt. I’d been able to find her far down the mountain, even when I’d been bound.
The dragon was different—he had magic. It was ancient and more connected to whatever the talent was that ran through my line. And he was fast. The dragon was so massive and his wings so swift that when pressed, the ground passed beneath us with near-dizzying speed. Soon, we were soaring over Camber, over the town that spread through the dark mountain rocks scattered with thin budding trees.
Summer had come. The fey festival had likely already drawn to an end. I thought of Veil, imagining his words when he would next see me. I received your gift, he would say with that displeased set of his jaw.
I let myself wonder if he’d been able to hold his expression and what the reaction had been from the gathered crowd. And then, because I could not seem to stop myself, I urged the dragon forward, toward the boundary between elven and fey lands.
I would not cross it. I didn’t believe it was capable of severing the link between me and the dragon—my fear stemmed more from what they might do to the returned beast. They had chased the dragons off for a reason.
The thought brought me up short, because Veil surely knew I would realize the dragonstone he’d taken was missing. Certainly, it had not been a clue. I shook off the idea, diving harder into the dragon’s flight. It would be dark soon, and I did not want to fly too near fey lands after sunset with the dragon.
There was a low grass clearing where the mountain valleyed off toward the flatter, forest-covered lands. A river cut through, and some of that water had been diverted by the ancients to create the boundary after the fey wars. It had been a punishment as well as protection, and the spells remained in place, secured by the ancients Finn and Keaton.
As we neared the clearing before the boundary, a cloud of dark smoke came into view. It was widening as we drew nearer, filling the sky with something that was not the hazy gray of fire smoke but a darkness like the night sky.
The black of spellcasting.
We dove toward the site, and a broken assembly of figures came into view. A low mass of shifting shapes leapt back and forth through the stream, over rocks, and into and out of the vapor. Wolves. So many wolves. A line of Council guards stood steady, their arms raised with bows, their golden hair and gilt robes shining in the late-day sun. Beyond them, across the border and past the cloud of darkness, was a chaotic mob of fey.
I bit back a hateful curse.
The dragon’s wings drew hard against its body, propelling the beast toward the fight. I felt no fear or hesitance from the dragon, and though I did not want to risk the animal, I could do nothing else with the danger below. I had to save Junnie.
20
Veil
The viscous cloud of darkened ash billowed and swelled, moving around the spellcasters as protection from both elf and fey. It would not hold, Veil knew, but he could not say how many would be lost before the energy of the changelings was diminished enough to bring them down. The shush of an arrow barely missing his ear brought his attention from the cloud of darkness to the telltale markers of a different sort of threat. A shadow crossed the ground, the attention of the fey around him drawn to the sky.
The shadow moved closer with unexpected speed and size, its shape jumping and morphing as it crossed brush and stone. Veil let his gaze find the dark mass overhead, and could swear the beast looked him straight in the eye.
Veil cursed.
The dragon roared.
Fire erupted on the boundary.
Veil leapt into the air, not to meet the newcomer but to gain distance from its deadly fire. Below him, fey screamed, but it was hard to tell whether it was the cry of battle or nearness to the burning, pleasure or pain. Above him, the dragon blew past, its trail of flame colliding with spellcast smoke. Waves of noxious flames, painful and acidic, washed through the air, and Veil flew higher, gasping in search of a clean breath. His gaze followed the dragon’s path, where it rose over the trees just shy of fey lands, turning back to come at the spellcast cloud once more.
When Veil saw it again, there was no doubt. The creature’s glare cut into him, the thing’s eyes glowing red and holding what felt like a promise. Veil did not back away.
The dragon made another pass, lower to the ground but no less violent. The creature did not seem to care for those near the fight who might be burned, but Veil supposed that was because it understood that unlike the fey, the elves were a safe distance away. He supposed it had not a thing to do with the actual dragon, but with the elven lord who watched from within.
He swung back toward his people, calling them away to wait for the next pass. The dragon fire was quelling the smoke, even if it had not dissipated enough to reach the changelings inside. She may have acted heedless of those scattered near the spellcasters, but the dark lord Freya was giving them the chance they needed to fight the source of the spells before more fey were lost.
The dragon sped low once more, its wings shoving down in a massive press of air as its fire collided with the smoke. When it rose again, it released an earsplitting screech that tore through the field, causing even Veil to wince at the nearness of the sound. The dragon rolled through the sky, a trail of smoke hovering after its long, spiked tail. The fey around Veil rushed forward again at the receding smoke and ash. A body fell through the haze, the shaft of an ironwood arrow protruding from its back. The figure shifted, its flesh sliding free of the arrow and reshaping in less than a breath.
But the changeling’s tactic was too late to save it. A dozen fey fell upon it, tearing the body into ragged bits with magic and claws. Veil glanced again down the line. Liana stood barefoot at the edge of the stream, in quiet contemplation of the cloud as a battle raged around her. She seemed to draw a long breath, raising her head to the sky to track the dragon before kneeling to the earth. Her gown was ripped and torn, her skin the color of a midday storm.
The elves on the opposite side of the barrier drew together, edging back as water rose within the stream. The trickle became a torrent, the widening path of that water pushing toward the changeling fey. Veil drew his own power in, collecting it with the gathering of the source within him, waiting and watching—doing everything his instincts rebelled against. His warriors prowled before the cloud of smoke, hungering for spellcasters to emerge. Wind and rain and hail pierced the shape, but very little made it through to their target. A pile of shattered ice lay scattered on the earth, unmelted in the warm air, leaves and vines tangled through broken stone.
The dragon returned, its massive claws nearly dragging the earth even as they were drawn against its
ribs. Its jaw opened wide in a scream, and then fire spilled onto the earth and ash. A hiss of steam rose from the widening flood brought by the elves, the heat of fire and water and acidic smoke stinging Veil’s skin. He drew his wings tighter to his back, leaping forward just as his fey did the same. Liana’s fingers sunk deep into the earth, the elven guard loosed their arrows, and his own warriors walked into fire.
There was a sudden shudder of the earth as tall, thin spikes of blackness rose like blades from the ground beneath their feet. Cries of pain rent the air, and blood spattered onto Veil’s outstretched hands. He threw the strike he’d intended to save, despite not being near enough his target. It was time to break these vile changelings before one more of his kind was laid to waste.
His power slammed into the cloud at the same moment the dragon drove through again. But it was not only the heat of flame that tore into the spellcast smoke. It was ancient magic, warm and deliberate, an energy Veil had not felt since he had been young.
It was the dragon.
Veil worked his jaw, tasting blood, and pressed harder with his own energy. The cloud fell into mist, an ashy haze that struggled to regain roots. The shadowed figures of the changeling fey—the spellcasters—came into view. Beneath the changelings’ feet, the earth was a viscous pool of black, the remnants of their waning spell that would burn through weapon and flesh.
Junnie raised her arm, her guard drawing up and into formation, ready to shoot, to fight. The floodwater split as a wave of writhing fur and sharpened fangs rushed forward, the wolves’ bodies rolling and thrashing as they drove in a mass over the boundary toward the spellcasters.
The fey beside Veil flinched as if wanting to retreat but unable to show fear. They watched in apparent horror as the wolves—at the hands of a single light elf—tore limbs asunder. A horrific sound rose through the clearing as the collective whine of those beasts joined with the dying screams the changelings had spelled to life. Veil’s stomach turned. He did not look away.
The Frey Saga Book VI Page 9
