by C. L. Wilson
“I meant no insult,” Farsight said mildly. “It was a true observation, one that does your mate credit.” His golden-brown skin shone with a rich luster in the evening light, making the translucent green of his eyes all the more vivid. “And you, Tairen Soul, are different from what you once were. You have learned humility and regret. You truly are learning to be a king rather than just the madman who scorched the world…and slew my father.”
“Your father?” Ellysetta repeated. Her brows furrowed as fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. Elves…Eadmond’s Field…Fanor…She drew a breath. “You are Fanor…son of Pallas Sparhawk.” Her hand caught Rain’s. «The Elf bowmaster who fell at Eadmond’s Field…the one for whom you created that first memorial on the lake…Rain, Fanor is the young son who filled his last memories.»
“Does my mate speak true?” Rain asked.
The Elf inclined his head. “Bayas, Pallas Sparhawk was my father. I had seen but three winters when he fell to your flame. I had few memories of him…until I visited the Lake of Glass, where I met him again and felt his love for me and for my mother.” The Elf’s lashes lowered to hide his eyes.
Ellysetta felt the old demons of guilt and remorse that had haunted Rain for centuries rise up and sink their teeth into him once more. She laid a hand on his arm, offering what peace she could, knowing it was nowhere near enough.
“Sieks’ta, Fanor, son of Sparhawk,” he said in a gravelly voice. “There is nothing I can do to repay your loss. If I could take back that day, I would.”
“I think I believe that now.” Fanor drew in a deep breath. “When I touched that weave you spun for my father, I felt his presence in a way I never have before. It was as if you’d spun a bit of his soul into your weave. And perhaps you did.” Bittersweet emotion shone in the shadowed depths of his eyes—a sort of melancholy acceptance and a fragile sense of peace, as if some lifelong wound had finally begun to heal. “Perhaps, Rainier Feyreisen, those who perished to your flame did not die so utterly as I have always believed. Their Light did not return to the Source, it’s true, but I think perhaps at least some part of it still lives…in you.”
Rain’s gaze fell. “The gods will it should be so,” he said in a low voice.
The Elf drew up his knees and rested his arms atop them. “I never wanted to forgive you for what you did—not even after I stood in your weaves at the Lake of Glass and felt my father for the first time in a thousand years—but I should have done so long ago.”
“The resentment you harbored is understandable. You were a child who lost his father to my flame.”
“And you were a Fey called to do a terrible deed because that was what the Dance required,” Fanor countered. “I should not have blamed you for fulfilling the will of the gods. All Elves know those who call a Song in the Dance rarely have a choice of the tune. It’s what they do afterward that reveals their true mea sure.” He shook his head. “Anio, I clung to my anger out of grief, and I think you cling to your guilt from the same. Perhaps it is time for both of us to forgive what you did.”
Rain closed his eyes and leaned his head against the thick, ribbed trunk of the fireoak tree at his back. “Some things are not so easy to forgive.”
“Perhaps not, but I do forgive you. If you truly do carry what remains of my father’s Light, then I am glad. His was a bright soul, and something of him deserves to live on.”
“Something of him already does, Fanor,” Ellysetta said softly, her hand resting upon Rain’s shoulder. “In you.” The moment the Elf had said those three magical words, “I forgive you,” she’d felt a portion of Rain’s terrible pain ease. For that alone, she felt herself warm to Fanor.
“Of course.” The softening of Fanor’s expression faded and he was once again all Elf, inscrutable and mysterious. He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
My daughters, don’t crave a myth,
that shines, out of reach as the pale moon above.
Don’t dream of eternal golden chains;
ours are sweet years of love.
Fey sing of strange wondrous bonds,
being woven, they whisper, by fate’s terrible hand.
Ours is the grace of choice, honor of vow,
the precious gift of time we spend.
To the Daughters of Celieria, a poem
by Lady Denna Miron, Celierian poet
Celieria ~ Old Castle Prison
Great Lord Sebourne scowled with bad temper and held out his arms as his valet slipped a sumptuous, gold-embroidered waistcoat over the freshly ironed and perfumed silk tunic. The Great Sun had risen, signaling the end to his five days of incarceration in the west tower of Old Castle Prison. The prison master of Old Castle would arrive soon to set him free, but Lord Sebourne was determined not to set foot outside this cell looking anything less than his most powerful and resplendent self.
No trumped-up incarceration was going to bring this Great Lord of Celieria to heel; and, by the gods, that spineless puppet of a king and his cadre of bootlicking Fey lovers would soon know it!
In anticipation of his pending release, his valet had arrived well before sunrise to bathe, shave, oil, and powder the Great Lord to pampered perfection. And now, as the Great Sun began its morning ascent into the sky, Lord Sebourne donned his finest court garb: silks, satins, rich and exotic furs, heavy gold rings set with radiant jewels.
“This Great Lord of Celieria is no man’s lackey,” he muttered irascibly as his valet finished buttoning the waistcoat and tugged a heavy gold-link belt into place around his waist. Each link was set with a jewel the size of a hen’s egg.
“No, my lord,” the valet agreed in a placid voice. Nimble fingers snapped the golden belt clasp closed.
Sebourne turned his head to stare out the window. The sun was nearly touching the silhouetted rooftops of the city, but there was a chill in the air. Winter was definitely on its way. The chill grew colder, and he frowned at his valet. “Did you leave a window open in the other room after my bath?” Prison this might be, but even Dorian had known better than to incarcerate a Great Lord of Celieria in some tiny little cell with no privacy. In addition to the main room, there was a small, private bedchamber and garderobe. “There’s a draft.”
“My lord?” The servant glanced up from his work with a puzzled frown. “No, my lord. The windows are all firmly shut, and it’s warm as springtime in here.”
“Nonsense. Springtime? In what country—the ice wastes of the Pale?” Lord Sebourne harrumphed. “Put another log on the fire to cut the chill.”
The servant was clearly disbelieving, but nonetheless he murmured, “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” and rose to put another log on the fire blazing in the hearth.
Just before the valet reached the fireplace, he stopped in his tracks and stood there, motionless.
“Brom?” Lord Sebourne stared at the valet. “What’s the matter with you, man?”
Before he could say another word, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of something moving to his right. A man. “Ah, come to release me, have you? It’s about time.” He turned to face the prison master of Old Castle.
But the man who stepped out into the center of the room was not the prison master. A long-bound corner of Lord Sebourne’s mind cracked open and spilled a lifetime of suppressed memories into his consciousness. Suddenly Brom’s unnatural stillness made perfect sense. Lord Sebourne himself froze as at last he realized it was no draft from the window that had chilled him to his soul.
Lord Bolor—or rather the Elden Mage passing himself off as Lord Bolor—moved towards Great Lord Sebourne with surprising speed. He caught the Great Lord and clamped a hand around his throat before Sebourne could do more than take two steps back and open his mouth in a silent cry.
“Who are you?” Sebourne croaked against the tight hold. “What do you want?”
The Mage leaned close, a cruel curve tilting up
one corner of his mouth. “You know who I am—or rather what I am—and you know why I’ve come. It’s time to pay your family’s debts, Great Lord Sebourne. Your masters in Eld require your service.”
In a narrow alley across from Old Castle Prison, Gaspare Fellows pulled his gray woolen coat close against the morning chill and waited for Lord Bolor to reemerge from within the prison’s old stone walls. His breath made little puffs of fog before his face, and he stepped deeper into the shadows to hide the telltale sign from any observer.
What business, he wondered, could Lord Bolor possibly have in Old Castle Prison so early in the morning?
After Lady Ellysetta had taken Gaspare into her confidence to share her concern that Elden Mages were at work in Celieria City, he had begun looking for suspicious activity. His powers of observation were, in all modesty, considerable—honed by years of noting the smallest details of dress and etiquette exhibited by Celieria’s nobles.
So last night, when he’d interrupted Lady Montevero and Lord Bolor in the parlor outside the queen’s suites, their behavior had caught his interest. There was something not quite right about the way Lord Bolor and Lady Montevero acted when they were together. Lady Montevero had made a point of squiring the new Lord Bolor about the court, so Gaspare had naturally assumed there was some sort of friendship or other intimacy between them. And at first glance, their meeting in the parlor last night had appeared to be an ordinary romantic tryst. That was until Gaspare glimpsed the fear and loathing in Lady Montevero’s lovely blue eyes before she masked her feelings behind a sun-bright smile.
What ever Lord Bolor was to Lady Montevero, he was neither friend nor lover. On that, Gaspare would wager every last one of his finest silk waistcoats.
Love’s reaction to Lord Bolor had only increased Gaspare’s suspicions. The kitten didn’t like Lord Bolor at all—and never had. She reacted to his presence exactly the way Lady Ellysetta said she reacted to magical weaves.
Of course, a kitten’s dislike and a look in a courtier’s eyes weren’t reason enough for Gaspare to take his suspicions to the king. No untitled man—not even one elevated to the position of Queen’s Master of Graces—accused a Lord of Celieria of being an agent of Eld without some sort of proof.
So Gaspare had decided to investigate.
He paid a trusted servant to alert him as to Lord Bolor’s movements in the palace, and when word came before sunrise that the lord had departed the palace, Gaspare followed.
“Mrrow.” The testy complaint rumbled from beneath his greatcoat.
“Quiet, Love.” Gaspare unbuttoned the top buttons of his coat so the kitten could poke out her head and look around. “Now be still!”
Luckily, what ever business Lord Bolor had in Old Castle Prison was soon concluded. The lord emerged from the ancient stone fortress, paused outside the doors just long enough to sweep a cautious gaze up and down the main street, then pulled up the collar of his cloak and walked briskly south, towards the river.
“Time to go, Love. Back in you get.” Gaspare hid the kitten again, refastened the buttons up to his neck, and tugged down the brim of his black hat to hide his face. He hurried into the thoroughfare in pursuit of the nobleman, careful to keep a distance between them so Lord Bolor would not suspect he was being followed.
Lady Talisa Barrial DiSebourne closed the book of poetry and set it on the cushioned seat beside her. She tilted her head back and pressed her cheek to the cold windowpane of the small reading alcove in her father’s library.
If only she could have heeded the poet Lady Denna’s advice, but it was too late for her. Those eternal golden chains had trapped her long ago, binding her heart, her love, her very soul to the Fey warrior she’d dreamed of her whole life.
She’d waited for him until the day of her twenty-fifth birthday. Had she remained unwed a single day more, she would have brought the shame of spinsterhood to her family. Society would have looked at her and wondered what evil curse had kept any good man from offering the honor of his hand in marriage. Her brothers would have found it difficult to find wives of their own. And so she had wed.
And then, when it was too late, he had come. Adrial vel Arquinas. The man from her dreams. A Fey warrior of such breathtaking beauty and fierceness and gentleness that everything within her, every fiber of her being, had known from the instant she’d first laid eyes upon him that he was the purpose of her existence, the soul she’d been born to make whole.
Talisa pressed a hand to her mouth. Just the memory of his velvet brown eyes, the luminous glow of his pale Fey skin, made her want to weep for the joy that could never be hers.
“Adrial.” She spoke his name in a whisper, barely daring to breathe it out loud. His name had become a prayer, a sacrament to her, whispered in the dead of night and times of loneliness as a ward against the gray despair her life had become.
He’d come, the mate predestined by the gods, but mortal laws kept her from him. She was another man’s wife, and Adrial could not claim her. Though it had been like ripping her heart from her chest with her own hands, she’d begged him to leave her and find what happiness he could, and he had heeded her pleading. He’d left with his people to return to the Fading Lands, and even though the Fey had returned to Celieria City last week, Adrial was not among them.
It was time—past time—for her to accept that he wasn’t coming back. Time for her to make peace with her lost dreams and find what happiness she could in her marriage.
The crack of a slamming door made her jump. She sat up and turned towards the closed library door. She could hear the sound of boot heels beating an angry tattoo against the marble floor as they approached the library.
Talisa swung her legs off the edge of the window seat and rose to her feet. She smoothed a hand over her skirts and hair and pinched her wan cheeks to erase their pallor. The library doors swung inward.
Colum stood framed in the doorway. He’d gone to visit his father after Lord Sebourne’s release from Old Castle Prison, and clearly something had happened. His face was flushed, his hair windblown. A wild light glittered in his eyes.
“What is it?” She gasped. “What has happened?” All she could think of was the war threatening Sebourne and Barrial lands. Had their homes been besieged? “Colum…” She took several steps towards him.
“Pack your bags, Talisa. We leave for home today—and by home I mean Moreland.”
Her jaw dropped. “Leaving? But just last night you said we weren’t going to leave the city. You and Da both agreed the borders were too dangerous and that we needed to stay here.”
“That was before I knew what you were up to.”
She blinked in utter confusion. “What I was up to?” she echoed.
His mouth twisted in a bitter sneer. “Don’t take me for such a fool, Talisa. My father had a visitor this morning before I arrived at Old Castle. Someone who informed him on good authority that your lover—that wife-stealing rultshart of a Fey—didn’t go back to the Fading Lands. He didn’t even go north to your father’s lands, which is where I suspected he’d be waiting for you. The thieving bogrot has been here in the city all this time.”
Her hand rose to her throat, and the sudden, wild acceleration of her pulse pounded against her fingertips. “Are you talking about…Adrial?”
Colum’s handsome face contorted with rage. “Don’t you dare pretend innocence!”
“It’s no pretense!” she shot back. “I haven’t seen Adrial since he and his brother left with the Tairen Soul and the rest of the Fey over a month ago.”
“Lying petchka!” His hand shot out.
Talisa gave a choked cry, but he moved so fast she had no chance to duck his blow. Her eyes squeezed shut in an instinctive reaction and she braced herself for the smack of his hand against her cheek.
The blow never came.
She pried open her eyes to find Colum frozen, his hand a scant breath from her face, his face purple with rage.
“Colum? Oh, gods.” Realization sucked
the breath from her lungs, and she gave a short gasp. “Oh gods, he was right. You are here.” She turned on trembling legs as the air around her began to sparkle with tiny flashes of light.
Seven leather-clad Fey warriors shimmered into visibility, their pale, shining faces grim, their eyes cold and flat and filled with lethal intent.
She barely saw six of the warriors. Her gaze—her entire being—focused on only one: the achingly beautiful face of the man she’d dreamed of all her life, the truemate she’d never thought to see again. Her heart leapt into her throat, and even though Colum was standing frozen a scant arm’s length away, her soul soared with dizzying joy.
“Adrial.” She took one step towards him, her shaking hands outstretched. He closed the rest of the distance in a flash. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight to his chest, pressing her so close she could feel the hard forms of his Fey’cha daggers and hear the beat of his heart in her ear. Abruptly, the tears she’d kept to herself as she cried into her pillow each night burst free, and she began sobbing as though her heart were breaking. “Adrial…oh, Adrial…”
He bent his head, his black hair spilling over his shoulders to envelop her in fragrant dark silk. He smelled of springtime and warm meadows, of fresh sunlight after a long winter’s dark. “Aiyah, I am here, shei’tani. I never left your side…and I never will.”
“Oh, Adrial.” Talisa nearly wept with regret. “You cannot be here. You can’t,” she said, no matter how much she wanted him to stay. Her hands traced the soft, fine-grained skin of his face. She couldn’t stop gazing at him, touching him. “The reasons you had to leave before haven’t changed. I cannot go with you.”
“You cannot stay with him.” Adrial jerked his chin towards Colum’s frozen body. “And you definitely are not going to the borders. It is far too dangerous. The real fighting hasn’t yet begun, but it soon will, and I want you nowhere near what’s coming.”
