by C. L. Wilson
He stretched out his senses, seeking the pull of Fey magic, the natural affinity that drew him to others of his kind. He sensed the concentration of the Fey in the palace, and another concentration in a humbler district of the city. Gaelen turned and staggered towards the West End, clinging to walls, forcing his feet to move step after dragging step.
He followed his senses into the heart of the West End until he reached a barrier that shone to his eyes with a faint lavender glow. Spirit weave. He examined the weave, recognizing the redirection pattern meant to keep unwanted mortals out. Beyond the barrier, he saw a faint lavender glow on a rooftop, then another atop a building just across the street. Fey warriors, cloaked in Spirit to hide them from mortal eyes. Guarding something. Guarding someone.
He stepped back into the shadows and marshaled his strength, managing a loose weave to hide his presence from them. It wasn’t a strong weave—the sel’dor shrapnel in his body prevented that—but it was enough to make their eyes skim past him without seeing unless they knew just where to look.
Leaning back against a brick wall, he considered his options. He detected some fifty or more Fey guarding the small house. He was so weak, he would never survive a direct assault on the Fey. He patted the pocket of his torn and bloodstained tunic, feeling the bulge of the two sorreisu kiyr he’d removed from the dead Fey. They’d died, presumably, in the service of the Tairen Soul’s mate, which would have forged some small tie to her. He would use that to draw her out, away from her guards, and then strike. But where?
A cool, fresh scent teased his nostrils. Water, clean and pure. The Velpin. Sudden thirst overwhelmed him. The river’s magic-purified waters would cleanse him and soothe the worst of his wounds. The Fey magic permeating the Velpin’s depths would revitalize his flagging strength. He would draw the woman to him there. He lurched to the left and shuffled painfully down a tiny side street, out of the path of the warriors and towards the cool renewal of the river.
Ellysetta wrapped her arms around her waist and tipped her head back to look up at the square of starlit sky that shone down through the crowded buildings. Dizziness assailed her, and her vision blurred. A second set of stars seemed to superimpose themselves over the first, wavering. She smelled something rank, something awful.
Sudden nausea gripped her, and she fell to her knees, retching violently in the grass beneath her mother’s carefully tended orange tree.
When her stomach had emptied itself, she knelt there, panting.
“Ellysetta.”
Bel touched her shoulder, and she turned on him, snarling like a wild animal. He actually backed away from her. “Leave me alone,” she snapped.
“You are ill.”
“No doubt you’ve already told Rain.” Her tone was ugly, and she didn’t care. A terrible anger had come to life inside her.
“He has blocked himself. I cannot reach him.” Bel never took his eyes off her. “I thought you and I had become friends. Can you not talk to me?”
“Hasn’t there been enough talk for one night?” Awkwardly, her bones aching as though someone had taken a stick to her, she rose to her feet. A breeze blew across her face, and she became aware of a faint chill on her skin. She lifted a hand, touched her cheek, and brought away cooling wetness. Tears. She was weeping and had not even realized it.
“Ellysetta,” Bel insisted, “the Fey blame you for nothing, nor will we even if you don’t accept Rain’s bond. And we want nothing more from you than that which you are willing to give. The gods weave as the gods will, and we Fey accept what comes our way. You are a blessing to us all.”
She ignored him in favor of the new need that drove her. Thirst. She was so thirsty.
Bel took hold of her shoulders, shaking her. “Ellysetta. Talk to me.”
He was in her way. She frowned at him and he was gone. Gods, she was so thirsty she could drink a river.
“She’s in pain,” Adrial cried, struggling to free himself from Rain’s grip, “and they won’t let me go to her!”
“You haven’t the right to go to her,” Rain answered. “And if you’d killed a brother Fey, you would have lost her forever. Adrial, think. It’s the bond madness driving you. Believe me, I know. Find your center and hang on with both hands. Talisa is safe. Marissya is with her.”
Rain didn’t release the younger man until the glow of magic had left Adrial’s eyes, and even then he remained watchful, not releasing the full measure of his power just in case he needed to summon it quickly.
“Let me go in, let me see her.”
“Adrial—”
“She’s calling for me.” The torment in Adrial’s eyes was plain to see. “Teska, Rain.”
It wouldn’t be long before Lord diSebourne learned of the fight outside Lord Barrial’s chamber. Adrial hadn’t been exactly subtle in his approach, and palace walls were notoriously thin, especially when it came to intriguing gossip. Still, if Talisa was calling for Adrial, and the husband wasn’t here to prevent it, who was Rain to keep a shei’tan from his mate?
“Quickly, then,” Rain murmured. “And if diSebourne comes, you go out the window. He can’t find you with her. Be patient until we can find a way to get out of this without starting a war. Just as I had to stand in Dorian’s court to appease his nobles, you must honor their laws and customs, too.”
Their eyes met, two shei’tans, both unbonded but tied forever to foreign truemates. Adrial nodded and slipped into the room. Rain waved Rowan inside as well, in case Adrial might need the calming influence of his older brother. The others went to work erasing evidence of the confrontation before melting away into the shadows. Talisa’s quintet followed Rain into Lord Barrial’s chamber, closing, bolting, and warding the door behind them.
Talisa lay on a plum silk fainting couch, her cheeks wan, her eyes closed. Marissya sat beside her, healing hands splayed and glowing, but Dax was holding his truemate’s shoulders, which Rain knew was a sure sign that Marissya was unwell. Dax only did that when his shei’tani needed his strength to augment or bolster her own.
Lord Barrial was pacing the room like a caged tairen. He halted abruptly when he saw Adrial come in and hurry to Talisa’s side. “What’s he doing here?”
“Talisa called him,” Rain said.
“Talisa—” Cann stared at his daughter. “I never knew she could do that.”
Rain saw Talisa’s eyes open, saw the relief on her face when Adrial knelt and clasped her hand in his. “Chances are, neither did she. Though I’ll wager that over the years you’ve had instances when you’ve known that she was hurt or in trouble.”
“Yes, but I’ve always had a sort of link to the ones I love,” Cann said.
Rain nodded, unsurprised. “We call it Spirit, one of the two mystics. All Fey have at least a rudimentary control Spirit.”
“I’m Celierian, not Fey.”
“If Dural vel Serranis is your ancestor, you’re Fey enough. Serranis blood has always been strong. It’s even produced Tairen Souls in the past.”
Marissya sat back.
“Well?” Cann asked her. “What is wrong with my daughter?”
“What’s wrong with my shei’tani?” Adrial echoed.
“There is nothing wrong with her.” Marissya said. “The pain she feels belongs to another. As does mine. I should have known, but it’s been so long since I felt it.” The shei’dalin drew a deep breath and met the dawning realization in Rain’s eyes. “Dahl’reisen. An incredibly strong one.”
“Gaelen?” Rain asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t bear to open myself enough to find out. I’ve built as strong a block as I can, and still I feel his soul tearing at me.”
“What possible reason would he have to come here?” Cann asked, frowning. “Surely he knows the Fey are here and that Marissya would sense him.”
Rain thought of the two Fey slain when he’d sent them north and the rumors of dahl’reisen raids along the Eld-Celieria border. If Gaelen had joined forces with the Eld, there was one person i
n Celieria he could use to cause the Fey irreparable harm.
«Ellysetta.» Rain reached for her, then realized his block was still in place. He tore the weave down and tried again. His heart stopped. He could not sense her.
Bel groaned and picked himself up off the ground. His ears rang and his vision was blurry from the force of his head cracking against the stones that paved the narrow courtyard.
Let that be a lesson to you, Belliard vel Jelani. When the Feyreisa says leave her alone, listen to her.
Grimacing, he shook his head and leaned over for an instant until the dizziness passed. Ellysetta’s thrust of Air had been quick and brutal, plowing into him like the whip of a tairen’s tail, flinging him across the courtyard and slamming him into the wall on the far side.
It had been stupid of him to grab her. A boy who had yet to pass his first level in the Dance of Knives would know better.
«Bel?» Rain’s voice whipped at the insides of Bel’s aching skull. «What’s happening? I can no longer sense Ellysetta.»
«She’s here with me.» He glanced at the spot where she should have been, and froze.
Ellysetta was gone.
A mile from his prey’s house, when he was certain he was clear of detection by Fey sentries, Gaelen released the weave that hid his presence. He slumped against a wall, gasping as sweat rolled down his face. The sel’dor shrapnel burned like live coals in his flesh. He was spent, with nothing left to keep him standing but sheer force of will.
He didn’t even have the strength to hold his torment in check. Though he wasn’t fully broadcasting his pain, too much of it was slipping though his mental barriers. The warriors wouldn’t sense it. Empathy was solely a Fey woman’s gift, or curse, as was more often the case.
Marissya, forgive me.
She would know he was here. She had to feel him by now, and the pain would grow worse the longer he remained. He had to get to the Velpin, restore what strength he had left, and kill the High Mage’s daughter before the Fey could find and slay him.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he started off again. He followed the Velpin’s sweet scent unerringly through a maze of narrow cobbled roads and alleys, each shambling step bringing him closer to the promise of relief until, at last, the street opened to a grassy park and a tree-lined embankment overlooking the river. Stone steps led down to a ledge where the local women could do their wash.
Clutching at the wall, he eased his battered body down the steps. But he was too tired, his strength sapped. His dragging feet tangled. He tripped on the last step and toppled forward, plunging into the river. His head struck the side of the ledge, and his ironic last thought as the water closed over him was that at least the stench would be gone when his body was brought to Marissya.
Why was she standing in the middle of the West End’s river park in her nightshift?
Ellysetta turned in small, dazed circles, stunned by the feel of the soft grass beneath her feet and the cool night breeze, fresh with the scent of the river, on her face. The last thing she remembered was the initial warning pangs of a seizure, the strange double vision that had made her sick, and the terrible thirst.
She pressed a hand to her heart, frowning. She didn’t feel the same as she usually did after an episode of demon possession. Her head ached—that was typical—but her body ached too, a hundred burning pains like tiny hot pellets scattered beneath her skin. She closed her eyes, and unfamiliar images flashed in her mind. Tall, waving grass, two girls racing towards her, laughing, arms outstretched. One looked like the shei’dalin Marissya, but younger. The other was oddly familiar as well, and the sight of her bright, pale eyes and happy smile made Ellie’s heart swell with joy. Then the scene changed to something horrible.
Ellie’s eyes snapped open and she fell to her knees, sobbing.
«Rain, help me!» The call was as much instinct as conscious thought.
«Ellysetta! Where are you?»
Relief nearly left her prostrate as the reassuring sound of his voice filled her mind. «By the river, in the park near my home. Something’s happening to me.» She flinched as more images crowded her mind. «I’m afraid.»
«Stay there. I’m coming.»
«Hurry.»
«As fast as my wings can fly, shei’tani.»
From the river, she heard a faint splashing, a weak cough, and she crawled forward on her hands and knees, pulled towards the source of the sounds like steel to a lodestone. «There’s someone here. By the river. I’ve got to—»
«Nei! Stay where you are.»
Dimly she heard the fierce roar of a tairen, saw a gout of flame scorch the night sky in the distance. But it was the dark figure in the water that claimed her attention, overriding her will and pulling her inexorably to his side. A man. As she stumbled nearer, she could see the cuff of his black tunic caught on a mooring hook, could feel his grim desperation as he struggled to keep from drowning in the river’s steady current.
«It’s a man. He’s hurt. In pain…oh, gods, so much pain.» There was no way she could pull him out of the water. The best she could do would be to free his arm from the mooring hook and pull him to the relative safety of the embankment steps. She grabbed the dark-clad arm, surprised to feel leather beneath her fingertips. Celierians didn’t wear leather tunics. That was when she saw the glint of steel flashing beneath the surface of the water. Blades crisscrossing a leather-clad chest. «He’s Fey!»
«Get away from him! Don’t touch him!»
«He’s got to be one of yours. He’s wounded. Bleeding.» Grasping the man’s arm with both hands, Ellie planted her feet and pulled the dead weight of his body out of the main river current to the stone steps leading down into the water. “It’s all right,” she murmured aloud. “You’re safe. We’ll get you help.” She reached out to turn him on his side. His head lifted. Piercing blue eyes, pale as ice, stared up at her, glowing faintly.
«Ellysetta, nei!»
The man’s hands closed around her wrists. His bare skin, wet and cold from the river, touched her own. Agony like nothing she’d ever felt poured into her, and she screamed.
The High Mage’s lash bit into Shan’s side just as something else bit into his soul. Bitter black agony screeched up the link between himself and the girl in Celieria, overwhelming all physical torture with something far, far worse.
Dahl’reisen. Soul lost. An emotional wasteland devoid of all but despair, pain, and the remnants of wrecked dreams. Once it had almost claimed Shan’s soul, but Elfeya had saved him. Now it loomed again, pulling him in, an irresistible well of blackness.
Connected to him as she had been since the day of their bonding, Elfeya’s shriek overlapped his, her fear and pain echoing and amplifying his own.
Rain plummeted out of the sky. He’d begun the Change back to man-form as he started his descent, but the sudden onslaught of pain wrenched away his control. His body melted helplessly into human form and he crashed to the ground, slamming down hard, feeling the jarring crack of bone as several ribs gave way. He let out a short cry, but the pain of his injury was nothing compared to what he felt through Ellysetta. The howling bitter emptiness of the soul-lost, the anger without focus, the dead dreams and grim despair.
Time and reality shifted in a dizzying rush, and suddenly he was a young, fierce Tairen Soul, winging over a battlefield, raining deadly tairen flame upon the enemy, battering their protective Mage-shields. The battle was fierce and bloody. Fey warriors fell by the hundreds, but so too did the enemy. A desperate call alerted him. To the south, a troop of vicious Merellian mercenaries, led by three shrouded Demon Princes, were decimating Celierian infantry and Elvish bowmen at an alarming rate. Rain dispatched twenty-five quintets to aid his embattled allies even as he swooped low to scorch a small knot of Mages. The Mages threw up a shield in time to avoid death and managed to hold it despite the punishing fire he rained down upon them. Hissing, Rain banked left, flew high on an updraft, and circled around for another pass.
That was when t
he Mages’ true battle plan was revealed. Three dahl’reisen demons coalesced into lethal, shadowy life, directly in front of the Fey line Rain had just thinned by his command to aid the Celierians and Elves. Soul-poisoned demon blades cut through the lines of seasoned Fey warriors like farmers scything wheat, and Mages followed in their deadly shadow. Within moments, they had broken through to the tents erected behind the battle lines, where shei’dalins worked to save as many of the wounded and dying as they could.
Sariel was no shei’dalin, but she had some minor healing talent and she could weave peace on any man, a skill that had its own special value in a place of death. A gentle girl, whose laughter was stolen by the ugly brutality of war, she’d not had time for more than a split second of horror and a single brief call before Fire and a black Mage blade claimed her life.
«E’tan!» Husband. Lover. Protector. Friend. Mate, but not truemate. Abruptly, not even that. Not protector either. He was the one who’d thinned the ranks and left the women vulnerable to attack. Left Sariel to face her death.
Trapped in his memories, reliving the madness, Rain watched helplessly as the scene repeated itself. Only this time, as the Mage lifted his black blade, it was not Sariel beneath the knife. This time it was Ellysetta who stared up in horror as the sword descended upon her all too vulnerable neck. Ellysetta who screamed, “Shei’tan!”
Shadows flashed with glints of steel as scores of Fey warriors raced into the small park, weapons drawn. Bel was in the lead. He saw his king, his friend, fallen on the ground, shouting for Ellysetta, eyes locked on some scene visible only to him, a swirling cloud of magic gathering about him like a storm as he summoned the Change.
