The cool evening was filled with faeries, their soft natural light swirling softly about the great city as each flitted home from their various tasks in the outlying woodlands. They formed a glowing cloud about the city center, illuminating the streets below and the delicate buildings in their collective light.
“It seems busier than usual,” Cavan murmured on Dwynwyn’s shoulder.
Dwynwyn nodded, her wings beating in slow, graceful arcs. “The Fae of Eventide and Bay Narrows have been called into Qestardis. The queen fears for their safety.”
“Then our doom may be closer than I knew.” The sprite sighed. “Did not the queen dispatch the militia?”
“She did,” Dwynwyn replied. She turned slightly in her path to avoid a rushing pixie, then returned to her course. The great tower grew closer with each beat of her wings. “One legion from Kien Magoth moved toward Eventide this morning. A second legion from Kien Werren reinforced the Sentinels to the south.”
Cavan scoffed. “One legion each! Does the queen expect two legions to stop Lord Phaeon and his fleets?”
“No, Cavan. The queen expects them to die. We cannot stop Lord Phaeon. I know this. The queen knows this. Moreover, Lord Phaeon knows it, too.”
Beyond the wall tower, the great Sanctuary of Qestardis came into view. The cobalt blue minarets of shaped crystal reached with graceful majesty above the city shining below them. The formed domes of amber color glowed above the great Hall of Audience. Dwynwyn drifted carefully through the increasing mass of faeries, pixies, and sprites as she drew closer to the keep.
The sentry faeries moved aside at Dwynwyn’s approach. Once past them, the Sanctuary came clearly into view. She saw the wide balcony adjacent to the Audience Hall and moved quickly toward it.
“Mistress,” Cavan said quietly. “If our cause is lost, why has the queen ordered two legions to their death?”
Dwynwyn sighed. “She has done it for me, Cavan. They will die so that I might have time to find something new that may save us, some combination of truth that has not been anticipated by Lord Phaeon nor our Queen Tatyana nor either of our respective courts.”
Dwynwyn alighted on the balcony as gently as a feather. The sentries guarding it recognized her at once, bowed, and moved aside to admit her.
Cavan whispered in her ear, “So their lives buy you time. Do you know where you may find such a valuable truth?”
“No, Cavan,” Dwynwyn whispered back. “I do not.”
9
Tatyana
The Sanctuary brought some measure of peace to Dwynwyn’s troubled thoughts. She could not help but feel comforted here, even in the most distressed of times, for the very nature of this place precluded anything but peace.
She stepped through the archway into the enormous open space beyond. The trunks of goldwood trees, nearly fifteen hands in diameter, rose in ordered columns high overhead. The boughs, nearly out of sight in a soft glowing haze, arched gracefully into a woven lattice as delicate as any lace created by faery hand. Each trunk had been carefully nurtured and coaxed to form shapes from the history of the Qestardan faeries. The legacy and sundering of the Circle of Seven was depicted there in living, delicate detail. Sprites flitted about each of these trees, constantly correcting their shape for growth and nature, lest the tale itself be lost. Dwynwyn knew that there were duplicates of these in shaped stone lining the Avenue of Delights below the Sanctuary Gates, yet these living monuments always spoke to her of a continuing history of which she was a part.
A delicate carpet of grass ran between these trunks, the height and shape of each blade prescribed by royal decree. Flowers and shrubs lined this grassy path, their flowers open in perpetual brilliance, with alternating morning, evening, and nighttime flowers each taking their turn during the revolutions of each day. Thus each part of the day brought a different aspect to the Audience Hall. Nighttime was, in fact, Dwynwyn’s favorite time here, with the blue night flowers smattered with brilliant white Bride’s Lace. To the second sight of the Seeker, it seemed as though the stars themselves were flowering in the garden at the behest of Queen Tatyana, although such a connection was lost on all other faeries. To them, it simply seemed a pleasant effect for the time of the day.
Dwynwyn made her way gently down the garden. Looking up, she could see that the amber panels set among the lattice of the dome had faded to clear—no doubt at the queen’s command—and the stars appeared overhead now. Queen Tatyana was powerful indeed, but she did not command the stars. Indeed, the limits of her powers were altogether too obvious now.
Dwynwyn saw the courtiers at the central dais. They surrounded the concentric circular steps of shaped granite that led up in steps to the throne. Queen Tatyana held open court here three times during the governmental seasons: morning, afternoon, and night. Each of these sessions was heavily attended, but this meeting, in the darkening evening, was neither regular nor crowded. The names of the few gathered in the room were well-known to each other. So, too, was the purpose of their gathering in this, the most cherished place in all Qestardis. Their voices, however, carried through the hall with a loud fervor that might have been understood in the farthest reaches, even if the hall had been completely filled.
In the center of it all, Queen Tatyana sat on the Qestardi throne. Her robes shimmered in their own light, accenting the ebony tones of her smooth skin. Her almond-shaped eyes looked sleepily over the assembled masters of her domain. High, sharp cheekbones gave her a cool, severe look, although those who knew—and few there were who could truly make such a claim—knew her to be warm and compassionate. Her long black hair was pulled back into her ornate crown, exposing the high hairline of her forehead. Her long delicate hands rested on the throne’s armrests, but Dwynwyn noticed that they were moving nervously over the intricate carvings of the throne.
“The reports from Kien Yanish are that Lord Phaeon landed earlier this day at Langar,” spoke Kivral, the Voice of the Watchers. He was a pixie whose clear voice rang through the hall. “He asked only passage for himself and his aides to Qestardis. This was granted as per your orders, Highness.”
“From Langar?” Queen Tatyana spoke the words with detachment. Her voice was a sultry deep song, even in times of trouble. “Then he intends a land campaign against us from the northwest?”
“No, Your Grace,” answered Newlis, Voice of the Warriors. “He does not land in force at Langar. His main fleet remains at anchorage across the Kulani Strait at various bays from Sail’s Rest to North Haven. He will land either at Eventide or east along the seawall, and then march north. It is the quickest way for his army to both occupy and fortify our land while deposing Your Grace.”
“This fortification would not be necessary if the Famadorians were not marching against us from the Vendaris Hills,” snapped Krival.
“Which, of course, is why Phaeon purchased their attack in the first place,” Tatyana intoned coolly. “It is his armaments that are in the hands of the Famadorian warriors, his gems paid for their food. Such knowledge does not alter the truth of our condition, Voice Krival.”
“You speak truth, Grace,” the pixie replied.
“Lord Phaeon sees a lesser truth, Your Majesty,” said Evys, a dryad hovering near the trunk of one of the trees. Dwynwyn recognized her as the Voice of the Forest. “His thoughts are not those of Qestardis and his truth is foreign to us. He comes to establish his truth over our own. Were destruction his objective, his fleets would be sailing the waters of Estarin Bay this same night.”
Krival shook his head sadly. “He wishes to replace the soul of Qestardis without destroying its body. Conquest is always better when one does not destroy the thing one is trying to take.”
Queen Tatyana’s eyes flashed. “Where is the value in Qestardis if it is not in its soul and its truth? Lord Phaeon may as well bring the walls of Qestardis down to dust if he were to rob us of our heritage and our truth. Voice Newlis! Where is this conqueror Phaeon now?”
“He awaits your pleasure in the
Hall of Wisdom, Queen Tatyana . . . do you wish him admitted?”
“I do not wish it!” Tatyana snapped, and then drew in a long, deep breath before she continued. “It is a terrible truth that is imposed upon me. Can you offer me no hope, Voice of Warriors?”
“Your Majesty.” Newlis sighed. “In war there are always events of nature which defy known truth. In evaluating the war before it’s fought, it is impossible to know any outcome with certainty. So much is dependent upon the chance small things that are unseen and unaccounted for until viewed afterward.” Newlis straightened and looked his queen squarely in the eye. “Yet there are times when a truth is so abundant as to defy such unknowns. I cannot defend Qestardis from the Famadorian armies of the north and the incursion of Phaeon from the south. As I weigh it, Your Majesty, the preponderance of success lies on Lord Phaeon’s side of the scale. I would give my life as I stand before you to make it otherwise.”
“Very well,” Tatyana said evenly, then turned to the Voice of the Sanctuary. “Weldin, please call on Lord Phaeon and beg his entrance into the Hall of Audience.”
The well-groomed sprite bowed in the air and then flew straight toward the northern doors, a sharp line of glowing dust trailing behind him.
“So, it seems that we must hear Lord Phaeon’s terms after all,” Tatyana intoned. “Or we must discover something new that will tip your very heavy scales back into our favor . . . Ah, Dwynwyn, I see you have returned.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dwynwyn said, folding her wings around her and bowing low.
“How goes your search?”
“It continues, Your Majesty.”
Tatyana merely nodded in response.
The doors at the northern end of the Hall of Audience slammed open with a resounding boom. The startled advisers each jumped in shock and surprise at such an abrupt intrusion into the peaceful hall.
“I see Lord Phaeon wastes no time,” Tatyana observed.
Lord Phaeon marched with a quick military stride down the length of the hall, his four aides following in strict formation two steps behind. His eyes never once left Queen Tatyana or her throne as he moved. The towering trees and the delicate lace of the canopy overhead were of no interest to him. The grasses under his booted feet bent and broke with his every step, a deliberate insult since he could more easily have flown over them. His leather armor slapped against him in a precise rhythm as he moved; a deliberate sound to fill any hollow and quiet that might affront him.
Dwynwyn eyed him warily. His hair was a golden color, falling in long, waving locks down to just below his neck. His skin was tanned under a campaigner’s sun, but Dwynwyn could see that given enough time it would assume a natural color far lighter than those of the Qestardi. The man’s ears curled upward and forward slightly at their tips, something she guessed had to do with his Argentei lineage. His pearly white wings were tightly folded behind him. He was, indeed, a beautiful specimen for a faery.
Like the sirens, Dwynwyn thought: beautiful and deadly.
Lord Phaeon strode through the councilors without giving them a single glance. He stopped abruptly at the foot of the dais, then made a quick bow.
“Lord Phaeon, you are expected.” Tatyana smiled.
“I should have thought myself expected for a long time, Queen Tatyana,” Lord Phaeon said, his tenor voice smooth in the Sanctuary air. “Must we fuss with polite protocol or may we get to the business at hand?”
Tatyana’s eyes narrowed. “I observe that being politic is no longer fashionable in Argentei.”
“Nor is it required in conquest.” Phaeon shrugged. “Sister Tatyana, we can banter words all night, but it does not change the truth of your position. The Famadorian armies are prepared to take your land from the north. They are well equipped, I can assure you—”
“I would think so, since you equipped them.”
“Of course, but do not interrupt!”
Tatyana nodded her consent.
“They are also up to the task. The centaurs are reasonably well organized for Famadorians and make excellent warriors: fast and ruthless. My own armies are in a position to oppose them—and our armies combined could defeat them, increasing the landholdings of Qestardis manyfold northward beyond the Vendaris.
“However,” Lord Phaeon continued, absently adjusting a troublesome strap on his breastplate, “as I am sure your advisers have informed you, if the landing of my armies is opposed by your laughably inadequate legions, you will either so weaken your northern border as to invite the Famadorian hordes to take your capital or—”
“Or your own legions will land on my unprotected flanks and steal my nation from under me anyway,” Tatyana concluded impatiently. “You speak the obvious, Lord Phaeon. Why this tedious discourse?”
Lord Phaeon fixed his strap, turning his gaze back on the queen. He smiled crookedly. “Why? To propose a union, Your Majesty.”
Tatyana shifted on her throne.
Phaeon’s tone grew colder. It was not a request. “Your Majesty will abdicate the throne of Qestardis to me. I, in return, will take your daughter, Princess Aislynn, to wife, thus reassuring the populace of the continued line of the Seven Lords. Argentei and Qestardis will remain two separate nations so far as the rest of the Seven are concerned, but they will have one ruler—myself. You get to keep your precious heritage intact and I get to challenge the other five kingdoms in turn.”
Queen Tatyana stood suddenly from the throne, her voice quivering with rage as it boomed through the hall. “How dare you dictate such terms to me? Me! I am the daughter of the Seven! I will not barter away my daughter or my throne!”
“Your throne is already lost, madam!” Lord Phaeon snapped back. “Your ancestors are dead, your armies will soon be dead, and you may join them for all I care! It is all past and gone . . . you alone have not yet realized this truth! Marriage of your daughter to me and the abdication of your throne is all that may save any of these things you hold so precious and valuable to your so-called heritage.”
“What is my daughter to you, Argentei?” Tatyana spoke through clenched teeth.
Phaeon laughed in derision. “Your daughter? Why, nothing at all, madam, I assure you! I could not care less for your daughter. I’d bed you if I thought it would produce an heir and keep the rabble cowed.”
Phaeon glanced once at the shocked expressions around the room and then shrugged again. “Your daughter, however, should do well enough from what I have heard. Oppose me and you and your nation die. Consent and you may live. Either way . . . you are mine.”
With that, Phaeon turned and marched confidently from the hall.
10
Aislynn
Aislynn, Princess of Qestardis and Daughter of the Eternal Light, sat at the window of her tower rooms and sulked. Her rooms were in the upper reaches of the southeast tower of the Sanctuary, connected by crystal halls to her mother’s residence and those chambers reserved for the extensive royal family when they came calling. The exterior landings and access shafts* for the royal concourse were all scrupulously guarded by the Qest-hai, the personal guard of the Qestardi queen and her family. Under their careful eye, the servants of the queen flitted through the apartments bearing in their glittering arms every possible item that might delight the whim of the royals.
Aislynn’s own rooms were situated in the most advantageous part of the tower and were richly appointed. Her bedchamber was soft and luxurious. The bedframe had been shaped from ash trees whose boughs crossed into a canopy overhead, and the mattress was that perfect combination of plump and firm that gave her the best of rest. Its coverlet was a silken cloud filled with goose feathers. Next to her bedchamber, her sitting room was no less lavishly appointed. Several fainting couches—her favorite type of furniture—were carefully situated about the oval room. A long window seat against the southern curve of the wall was almost completely concealed in pillows. Her windows looked out over Estarin Bay, their view chosen for its serenity and beauty.
It was among
those pillows that Aislynn sat. Her dark face was drawn into a studied frown. She hugged her knees to her chest, arranging her wings into what she believed to be the epitome of heartbroken form. She was basking in intense misery.
Far below her, the gentle waves of Estarin Bay broke against the rocks at the base of the tower. The comforting sound had been a constant lullaby to her since she was a child. Now she wished it would be silent and leave her alone to be tragic.
“Mistress Aislynn!” called the high-pitched voice. “I bear ominous news!”
Aislynn rolled her large, almond-shaped amber eyes. How could she be truly devastated with the servants flitting about? “What is it, Starlit?”
“I’m most distressed to inform Your Glory that . . . oh! Mistress, this sitting room is completely out of order! I’ll see to it at once!”
Aislynn glanced around. It was true: pillows were cast all about the room. The princess had earlier been experimenting with being tempestuous before turning to melancholy. Now Starlit was darting about the room, glowing more than usual with her exertion, and struggling to put the pillows back to order.
Aislynn surreptitiously kicked another pillow from the window seat to the floor when Starlit was not looking. She then turned back to the window and sighed as best she could. “You said you had news, Starlit?”
“Oh, yes, Your Glory! Lord Phaeon has come to the Sanctuary!”
“Indeed?” Aislynn said with measured interest. The news certainly had a dreadful element to it that might assist her quest for gloom. She had known Lord Phaeon, Lord of the Argentei, for uncounted years as she matured. He was a fool whose view of truth was far different from that of the Qestardan Fae. He saw only that might and conquest were the destiny of the Seven. He took what he wanted because that was his truth. Aislynn detested him as much for what he stood for as for his insults to her mother, and considered him barely better than the Famadorians no matter what his birthright caste. Still, she could not see how the news affected her. She had nothing to do with the brute. “I can only hope that he leaves, soon, as well.”
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