“Share the warmth of your soul.” He tucked away his wonder,and his expression grew serious. “Not all magic is evil,kem’falla, despite what your mother believes. To the Fey, magic is a gift from the gods. Only the manner of its using can despoil it.” His gaze shifted to a point past her head, and his eyes lightened once more. “Indeed, most magic is a thing of natural wonder and beauty.”
She turned to follow his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.
“What is that?” On the nightstand beside her bed, perched on a tasseled velvet pillow, a bright, spiraling weave of multicolored magic danced within a small, perfect crystal globe.
“A Fey courtship gift,” Bel said. “I had thought all poetry had been scorched from Rain’s heart by the Wars and Sariel’s death, but I see I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“The gift is more than what it appears. As with all Fey courtship gifts, it is also a symbol. The deeper and more layered the meanings, the finer the gift. Rain has given you his magic,kem’falla, the essence of himself. An eternal fivefold weave of it, embraced forever in a fragile Celierian-made vessel. Strength wedded to vulnerability, magic to mortal craft, him to you. It sings so many different songs. It is a very fine gift, indeed.” Bel turned his shining gaze upon Ellysetta. “And you,kem’falla, are the greatest gift of all. You breathe life back into the dying ember of our king’s soul.”
His expression grew somber. “If your nightmares persist, you must promise to tell me or yourshei’tan. Not all dreams are harmless.”
Ellie nodded. That was a truth she’d learned for herself long ago.
A few blocks from the warded and guarded Baristani home, a knock rapped on the front door of a small weaver’s shop.
“A moment!” Maestra Tuelis Sebarre, recently ringed master weaver, pulled her hair into an untidy knot and clattered down the stairs from the private apartments above her shop. What in theBright Lord’s name was someone doing pounding on her door at a quarter before seven bells? It was not as if normal folk ever woke possessed with a sudden and driving need to purchase a length of fine cloth.
Maestra Sebarre unlatched but did not unchain her door and frowned irritably through the three-inch crack at the man standing on her stoop. Dazzling white teeth flashed in a dark, well-oiled beard threaded with gold rings. He was a fine-looking man, with lovely bright blue-green eyes, but Tuelis was no fool woman to judge a man by a pretty face. She looked at the cuffs of his blue sea-captain’s coat. The weave was fine, smooth, tight, and unslubbed, the threads of obvious quality, and the jacket cuffs showed no signs of fraying about the edges. A merchantman, then, and successful enough to keep himself in good thread.
“What can I do for you, ser?”
“You are Maestra Sebarre, the weaver?”
“I am.”
“You have a daughter named Selianne?”
Wariness froze her. “Why do you ask?” Immediately on the heels of wariness came dread, clenching Tuelis’s innards in an iron fist. “Has something happened to her?”
“What?” The captain evinced utter shock, then humble contrition. “Oh, no, dear lady. Forgive me for giving you a start. I simply meant to ascertain that I had therightMaestra Sebarre.” The man executed a deep, courtly bow. “I am Captain Batay. I sail a merchantman out of Sorrelia. Forgive such an early intrusion, but my ship sails at noontide today. At dinner last evening, I heard tales that you could work magic with a loom. There are nobles in Sorrelia who’ll pay a fine price for quality fabrics, and I still have enough room in my hold for a dozen bolts or so. I thought I’d seek you out and glance over your wares, Maestra.” The handsome smile widened. “If you’d care to let me into your shop, that is.”
Tuelis didn’t unchain the door. “Who was it sent you my way?”
“A gentleman who’d purchased a parlor suite from a local woodcarver, a Master Baristani, who used your fabric for the cushions.” When the chain still remained firmly in place, the Sorrelian’s smile disappeared. “Forgive me. It’s obvious I’ve intruded with my too early call. The gentleman gave me another master weaver’s name as well. A Master Frell. I will try him instead.”
Tuelis bit her lip. A dozen bolts would bring a sizable sum of cash. Careful as she was, being a woman alone now that her husband was dead and her daughter Selianne wed and gone, Tuelis was too much a businesswoman to let such an offer slip past. Especially if the business would then go to Frell, the smirking bloat toad. The Sorrelian was well dressed, after all, and he knew that Sol Baristani used Tuelis’s cloth for his upholstery. “My pardon, Captain Batay. Of course, you may come in.” The chain rattled as she unlatched it and opened the door.
“My thanks.” The captain entered the small shop.
Tuelis closed the door behind him. “What would you like to see first? Brocade? Velvet? Or something finer? I’ve just finished a bolt of spider-silk in a Celierian blue so rich you’d think I’d woven the sky itself.”
“To be honest, Tuelis, my pet, what I really want to see is your obedience.”
“What?” she gasped in affront. Captain Batay turned to her, his dazzling smile now cold and dreadful. Tuelis fell back a step, pressing a hand against her chest where a long-forgotten ache began to throb. “No! Oh, no!” The sea captain’s striking blue-green eyes darkened to deep, shadowy pits that flashed with red lights.
She managed one, two racing steps towards the door, but Captain Batay moved with inhuman swiftness. His bronzed hand, circled with deceptively beautiful blue cuffs, slapped against the door. In her mind, a cold, insistent voice called her name, demanding submission. The pain in her chest grew sharper, and a foreign yet horribly familiar black malevolence consumed her,engulfing her in an icy darkness she hadn’t felt since her early childhood in Eld.
Tuelis had one final, desperate thought before her consciousness fell to total subjugation.Selianne! Dearling, what have I done?
Several bells later, bright, late-morning sunlight streamed through the curtained windows of Rain’s palace suite, casting ribbons of warmth across his skin. Rain lay in his too soft Celierian bed and stared blindly at the velvet canopies overhead. He’d only just awakened from the few snatched bells of restless sleep granted a courting Fey, and his mind whirled with a mix of shock and wonder that had nothing to do with theshei’tanitsaneed humming through his veins.
For the first time in a thousand years, he had not dreamed.
Not of the Wars. Not of the dead.
Not of Sariel.
