“Arrogant Feyrultsharts. Think they can come in and take whatever they want. Thrice-damned soul-scorched sorcerers.” Den Brodson sat at the bar of the Charging Boar pub and glared into his nearly empty pint of dark ale. “Another pint of Red Skull, Briggs,” he growled as he downed a swallow of what was already his third pint in half a bell.
“Make that two.” The smooth, accented voice behind him brought Den’s head around for a quick, assessing glance. The newcomer, a foreigner wearing a blue sea captain’s coat, smiled slightly and gestured to the barstool beside Den. “May I?”
Den shrugged. “As you like.”
The man straddled the barstool. “I couldn’t help overhearing your story. The young woman claimed by the Tairen Soul—she was yours?”
“My betrothed. At least she was until that damned Fey sorcerer stole her from me.” Den flicked another appraising glance over the foreigner, noting the man’s oiled curls, woven with gold rings, and the dark blue tattoo in the shape of crossed swords high on one sun-bronzed cheek. “What’s it to you?”
“A matter of interest. And perhaps a problem I can assist you with.”
“What makes you think I need any help?”
The man held Den’s gaze steadily, and for a moment, Den glimpsed something hard and dangerous in the man’s vivid blue-green eyes. Then the man blinked, and said mildly, “Perhaps I misunderstood you earlier. I thought you wanted the woman back.”
“I do.”
“Then do not be foolish. A powerful immortal has claimed your woman, and the courts have upheld his claim. You cannot possibly hope to stand against him unaided.”
Briggs approached with two pints in hand. The foreigner pulled a money purse from an inside pocket of his coat and extracted a gold coin. “Shall I buy this round?”
Den shrugged again, his eyes watchful. “I never turn down a free pint.”
The man smiled, revealing impressively white teeth. He tossed the coin to Briggs, then held out a hand to Den. “The name’s Batay. Captain Batay. I sail a merchantman from Sorrelia.”
“Den Brodson.” Den shook the captain’s hand. “And just how, exactly, do you think a Sorrelian merchantman can help me best Rain Tairen Soul?”
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Goodman Brodson?”
Without taking his gaze from the Sorrelian, Den called over his shoulder, “Briggs, is the back room open?”
“It is,” the bartender replied. “Help yourself, Den.”
Den led the Sorrelian to a small, private room at the back of the pub. As the door closed behind them, he turned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well? How can you help me?”
Captain Batay smiled. “Not I alone, Goodman. I am but the humble servant of a very powerful man. But first, as a gesture of your goodwill—” He pulled a small oval object from his pocketand held it out. The mirrored surface appeared cloudy at first, but then an image began to form in the misty glass. A wizard’s glass, Den realized, used for scrying and for recording images. “—tell me everything you know about this woman.”
The wizard’s glass was clear now, and the image of Selianne Pyerson, Ellie’s best friend, stared up at Den from the crystalline surface.
Chapter Eight
My beloved is the sun
And I am the earth that thrives only in her warmth.
My beloved is the rain
And I am the grass that thirsts for her quenching kiss.
My beloved is the wind
And I am the wings that soar when she fills me with her gentle strength.
My beloved is the rock
Upon which rests the happiness of all my days.
The Elements of Love, a poem by Aileron v’En Kavali of the Fey
