Queen of Song and Souls

by C. L. Wilson

  Silence fell over the chamber. Rain and the rest of Ellysetta’s quintet shared troubled glances. They all clearly wanted to refute Gaelen’s claims, yet they could not dismiss the former dahl’reisen’s suspicions.

  “Rain was the last Fey to call a Song in the Dance,” Gaelen reminded them. “We all know how that turned out. If not for the tairen, he would not have survived.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. None of them could dismiss the possibility that Ellysetta’s Song would end in devastation. They’d all seen the same dire prognostications in the Eye of Truth.

  Bel cleared his throat. “Hawksheart can obfuscate and manipulate all he wants; it will get him nowhere. We may be the seven he chose to hear his revelations, but that doesn’t mean we must act on them alone. Once we send word back to the Fading Lands, not even Tenn and his supporters will be able to stop the Fey from demanding that all the force of the Fading Lands be focused on rescuing Lord Shan and his mate.”

  “Flames scorch that pointy-eared rultshart,” Rain muttered beneath his breath. He scowled at them. “That’s exactly what he was counting on, because he knows it’s exactly what I cannot allow to happen.” Rain shoved a hand through his hair. “I need the Fey protecting Celieria and the Fading Lands—not rushing into Eld to confront the Mages on their own ground. We’re too few—and what ever the Mages used in Teleon and Orest to open those portals, they surely have seeded all over Eld. The moment we march deep enough into their forests, they’ll simply surround and slaughter us.” He spun on a heel and began to pace.

  “Nei. We cannot let the truth about Lord Shan and his mate go any farther than the seven of us.” His jaw hardened and his eyes went flinty. “And at this point, we must accept there is nothing we can do to save them. For now, they stay where they are.”

  Eld ~ Boura Fell

  “Hurry,” Melliandra ordered. She gave the chains that bound the beautiful black-haired woman a hard yank, and the prisoner stumbled forward. “Move your feet!” she snapped without pity. “Lives depend on it—including yours!”

  The woman looked at her with dazed eyes, then quickly looked down and shuffled faster. Sel’dor chains rattled and clanked on the hard ground beneath the tattered remains of the woman’s once beautiful red gown.

  Stupid, stupid woman. She’d been too stubborn for her own good, spitting defiance at the High Mage and the umagi who served him when a wiser woman would have groveled and begged for mercy to appease them.

  Well, they’d taught her. After the beatings and the rapings had reduced her fiery defiance to shattered, dull-eyed submission, they’d bound her in manacles and chains. None of the thin, decorative sel’dor bands and earrings for this Fey shei’dalin. No. The thick, heavy sel’dor shackles usually reserved for dahl’reisen prisoners were clamped tight around her ankles and wrists, and the long, sharp spikes fitted along the interior of the shackles drove into the flesh and bone just above her joints to cause her constant, agonizing pain. A matching collar filled with a hundred tiny sel’dor needles bound her throat so tightly that every swallow and gasping breath forced the needles deeper into her flesh.

  Melliandra hardened her heart. There was nothing to be done. She wasn’t about to let those pain-dulled brown eyes draw her in like the tender blue eyes of the now dead Shia. Melliandra’s life was already too dangerous and complicated, and if the High Mage ever discovered how she was working against him, death would be the least of her worries.

  “Here.” She threw a filthy woolen blanket at the woman. “Cover yourself. If the guards get one look at you, it won’t go well for either of us.”

  The woman struggled with the cumbersome scrap of smelly fabric until Melliandra growled a foul curse and yanked the blanket out of the woman’s hands and tugged it roughly into place herself. She draped the folds to cover the woman’s silky hair, tattered gown, and the telltale shining skin of her manacled arms.

  “There,” she muttered when she was finished. Melliandra peered at her critically until she was satisfied not one flash of shining Fey skin was revealed. “That will have to do. Now come!” She grabbed a fistful of blanket and hidden chain and gave a yank. “There’s not much time.”

  She dragged the unresisting woman down the corridor. The stench of smoke and scorched flesh hung heavy in the air; and in the refuse pit two levels down, the darrokken were howling. Savage screams echoed the creatures’ howls, and the sound sent chills up Melliandra’s spine.

  Death was no stranger to Boura Fell, but today its visit had been like none she’d ever witnessed, coming not at the hands of Mage Fire or Azrahn, nor at the untender hands of torture masters like Goram and his hammer, but instead from tongues of flame, dancing on the lethal music of a magic beast’s roar.

  Wild, vengeful, hotter than the Seventh Hell, the clouds of boiling flame had blasted up the stairwells and the refuse shaft that ran from the uppermost level of Boura Fell to its darkest depths. The fire seared and scorched everything in its path, catching more than one unwitting Mage and umagi in its fiery jaws.

  For one sweet, glorious moment of savage joy, she’d thought the Fey Lord had won his victory. She’d actually dared to hope Lord Death had slain the High Mage of Eld.

  But abruptly, the Fire had died and the shattered screams of a man gone mad had replaced the roar of the beast and its flames.

  And the six icy Marks on Melliandra’s chest still remained.

  Vadim Maur, father of the Dark bloodline from which she’d sprung, still lived.

  Lord Death was the one screaming now.

  His mate was the one dying now.

  And Melliandra’s only hope was to save her.

  Elvia ~ Navahele

  “We cannot just leave Shan and Elfeya there!” Tajik cried.

  “We don’t even know where ‘there’ is,” Gaelen pointed out.

  “Then we find a way to locate them,” Ellysetta announced. “And we put together a plan to rescue them.” Her jaw firmed, and her chin lifted as she met Rain’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Rain. I know there is far more at stake than just two lives, but we have to do this. I’ve already lost one mother to the Mages. I’m not about to lose another.”

  Rain crossed his arms and steeled himself for pain. Refusing to launch a rescue mission to save Shan and Elfeya was one of the hardest decisions he’d ever made. But he knew it was the right choice—the only choice.

  “Shei’tani, I know you want this—I know you need this—but I cannot allow it. As your shei’tan, I would give anything—risk anything—to bring you peace. But I am the Feyreisen, Defender of the Fey, and we are at war. In this matter, I must put the needs of the Fey first.”

  “My parents are Fey!” she cried. “And they are clearly in need of defending!”

  “Please…teska…try to understand. I must make my decision as the Tairen Soul who is their king—and I need you to make your decision as its queen. We must both put what’s best for all our people above our own desires and consider all the lives at stake, not just these two—no matter who they are.”

  She flinched and he hated himself for it. His admonition was more than a little unfair. She had always put the needs of others before her own. And now this thing she needed so much, he had to refuse.

  An angry, mutinous light sparked in her eyes. “How many does it take, Rain? How many people must suffer for how many years before their lives become important enough to save?”

  It was Rain’s turn to flinch. “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then explain it to me.”

  Irritation spiked within him. Did she think he liked making this choice? Did she honestly think he would make it if there were any other solution available to him? “Whom should we send, Ellysetta? Your quintet? And leave you unprotected and vulnerable here, outside the Fading Lands, when we all know the High Mage is waiting for just such an opportunity? Should I go myself? The Eld bowcannons nearly killed me in Orest, but I’m sure I could fly straight into the heart of enemy territory u
ndetected, locate your parents in a Mage stronghold, and rescue them without aid.”

  Color flooded her cheeks and she drew back in affront. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

  “Am I?” he countered. “If not me or your quintet, who else should go? Shall I pull warriors off the Celierian borders? The battles have already begun, and we’re already seriously outnumbered, but I’m sure Dorian would understand our need to pull back a few of our troops. How many should I withdraw, do you think?”

  “I’m not suggesting you pull men off the borders.”

  “Then whom does that leave, Ellysetta? The lu’tan? Their oaths to you supersede any loyalty to me or the Fading Lands. If you ask, they will joyfully die by your command. Are you ready to send them to their deaths? Because, of a certainty, if you direct them to blunder blindly through Eld in the hopes of finding where the Mage is holding your parents, they will die.”

  “Of course I don’t mean that!” she exclaimed. “You’re twisting my words. You’re not being fair.”

  “Fair?” He swooped on the word like a tairen on its prey. “This is life, Ellysetta, a Fey’s life. It’s almost never fair. It’s hard. It’s thankless. We take what joy we find and treasure it so dearly because we know how rare such blessings are. Every Fey warrior and shei’dalin born in the Fading Lands learns very early in life that, like it or not—fair or not—there will be many days when they must decide between a bad choice and a worse one. Today is such a day.”

  He crossed his arms and leveled a hard look upon his shei’tani and her quintet. “I will not send a single blade brother into Eld without some idea of where he’s going and what he can expect to find when he gets there. Do you hear me? I will not issue such a command. There are too few Fey left in this world to risk a single precious life for such madness.”

  “So we do nothing?” Tajik cried. “We just leave my sister there to suffer?” His hands were clenched, and his lean, muscular body was trembling with scarcely contained fury.

  Gaelen was right, Rain realized. They should have taken Tajik’s memories. The warrior was teetering on the brink of full-fledged Rage, and that did not bode well for any of them.

  “Calm yourself—and I mean now, Fey,” he snapped, hoping a little brisk, plain speaking would pull Taj back from his Rage. “We’re at war, and I need cool heads and clear thinking—not warriors Raging out of control. You’re a general of the Fading Lands. Start acting like one.”

  Tajik’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped.

  “Your first duty is your bloodsworn bond to protect Ellysetta, followed by your general’s duty to protect the Fading Lands. If we don’t defeat the Eld, every fellana—every sister, mother, daughter, shei’tani, and e’tani—everyone will suffer the same fate as Elfeya. Do you think for one moment that she and Shan would want that? Do you think they would want you to abandon your lute’asheiva bond and leave Ellysetta unprotected while you go after them?”

  Tajik’s nostrils flared and color rose and fell in his face, but he couldn’t hold Rain’s gaze. With a bitter, snarled oath, he pivoted on one heel and stalked to the far side of the room.

  Jaw set, mouth grim, Rain seared each of the other warriors with a burning look. “We must win this war, no matter the cost. And you must protect Ellysetta with your lives until we do. When we defeat the Mages, we will find Shan and Elfeya and set them free. Until then, this subject is closed.” His hand sliced across the air and he leveled a stony, unequivocal glare upon the six warriors. “Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear, Rain,” Bel and Gaelen said simultaneously. The other warriors agreed more slowly—and more grudgingly—but they agreed nonetheless.

  That left only Ellysetta.

  “Shei’tani?” Rain prompted.

  Her lips compressed and for a moment he thought she would spit defiance in his face. But then she nodded and looked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Melliandra pushed open the door of the cell housing Lord Death’s mate and stepped inside.

  The red-haired Fey woman lay frail and broken on the black stone of her cell. A large wound gaped grotesquely in the center of her pale, motionless chest, and scarlet blood ran across her ashen skin to gather in a dark, glistening pool beneath her body. Vadim Maur’s umagi had struck a death blow and left the corpse to be hauled away by the refuse collectors.

  Fortunately for the red-hair, Melliandra was the refuse collector for the lower five levels of Boura Fell…and she had tended the red-hair’s mate enough to know not to come alone.

  Beside her, the rag-shrouded Fey gave a gasp and began babbling in her native tongue.

  “Hush!” Melliandra hissed. She rushed to close the cell door and spun around to glare at the Fey. “Keep your voice down, dim-skull! They’ll hear you!”

  But the woman had fallen to her knees beside the red-hair, and she was rocking and weeping and chanting in a broken voice, “Elfeya falla, Elfeya falla….” The imprisoned shei’dalin’s shaking hands hovered over the dying Fey’s body. For a moment, Melliandra could have sworn she saw a weak golden glow around the healer’s hands, but then the woman cried out and snatched her hands back to her chest.

  “Ninnywit. You can’t weave with those bands on,” Melliandra chided. Not even the red-hair—who was as powerful a healer as any ever seen in Boura Fell—could work the sort of significant healing magic required to snatch a life back from the jaws of death when bound by so much sel’dor.

  As she hurried to the woman’s side, she dug a grimy hand into one of the hidden pockets she’d sewn in the folds of her skirt. Questing fingers brushed across a hard wad of bundled fabric. She pulled the bundle free and quickly unwrapped the layers of cloth to reveal a selection of crudely cut metal keys strung on a strip of braided leather.

  The keys were copies of the ones she’d lifted from the umagi guards in charge of Master Maur’s most important prisoners in the lower levels. A bit of somulus powder blown into one of the guards’ face while he was sleeping had enabled her to relieve him of his key ring. She’d made an impression of the keys in a small clay tablet and returned the originals to his keeping before he woke from the drug’s trance.

  For weeks, she’d used every opportunity to scrape and file bits of broken blades and dinner knives into keys that matched the impressions she’d made, taking care to tuck all thoughts and memories of her activity in that part of her mind she’d learned to shield from the Mages. She hadn’t finished copying all the keys yet, but she had managed to complete the one used for most of the lockable prisoner restraints.

  Luckily for this newest shei’dalin prisoner, Master Maur had chained her in a set of those manacles rather than the magic-soldered ones that could not be removed by any means but Mage weaves.

  “Let’s hope this works,” she muttered to herself as she fitted the crudely carved key into the keyhole and twisted.

  For one tense moment, the key didn’t turn, but after a bit of jiggling, the manacle on the shei’dalin’s left wrist gave a quiet snick. The shei’dalin hissed as long, sharp spikes of sel’dor slid out of her wrists, leaving round, ugly boreholes that filled rapidly with blood when Melliandra removed the black metal bands.

  The same key worked to release the shei’dalin’s ankle restraints as well, but none of the ones on the strip of leather fit the collar around the woman’s neck.

  Melliandra cast a quick, grim glance at the body of Lord Death’s mate. She’d seen death before, too many times to count, and she knew the red-hair’s soul had already slipped free of her body. A few moments more and only the gods would be able to call her back in anything but demon form. “We’re out of time. You’ll have to weave with that on.”

  The dark-haired shei’dalin didn’t waste time on conversation. She simply dropped to her knees and laid her palms on the dead woman’s chest. Her hands began to glow.

  Melliandra knew the effect sel’dor had on those of Fey blood. There was enough Fey in her own bloodline that she couldn’t touch sel’dor for l
ong without feeling her skin begin to burn. And she knew that for pureblood Fey, the black metal’s touch felt like boiling, corrosive acid poured over their flesh. The sensation was even worse when they spun magic.

  Despite the heavy sel’dor collar that must have felt like a yoke of fire around her neck, the dark-haired shei’dalin merely clenched her jaw and kept weaving until the weak glow Melliandra thought she had seen became a plainly visible orb of warm, shining, golden light.

  «Her mate holds her to the Light, but she is passing through the Veil.» The shei’dalin’s voice tolled in Melliandra’s head, powerful, resonant. She was speaking Feyan, but Melliandra had spent enough time around Master Maur’s Feyan captives to understand her. «She has descended too far into the Well for me to follow. I cannot save her.»

  “But you must!” Melliandra protested. “If she dies, he dies. And I need him. He’s my only hope.”

  Desperate, unthinking, she grabbed the shei’dalin’s hands and held them against the gaping wound on the dead woman’s bloody chest.

  “Save her!” she commanded. “You must save her! You will!”

  Without warning, the world shifted beneath Melliandra’s feet. Energy shot up from her belly and roared through her veins, throwing her so off balance she nearly toppled face-first onto the hard, cold stone floor of the cell. Almost instantly, a familiar sentience turned her way.

  “He knows we’re here!” Melliandra snatched her hands back from Lord Death’s mate, grabbed the other healer by the shoulders, and flung her towards the shadowy corner of the cell. “Don’t move! Don’t speak!” She threw herself in the opposite direction, turning quickly so that her eyes were focused on the rough, carved surface of the black, sel’dor-veined walls. She raced to stuff the memories of her plans and activities behind the invisible barriers in her mind. She barely managed to shove the last thought into hiding before she became aware of the oily darkness, the oppressive pressure of another will bearing down upon her own.