“I trust your judgment, Kolis. You will find a way. Use that Eld girl you told me about and your otherumagi.” He held Kolis’s gaze steadily.
“I will not fail you, Master.” Kolis bowed again, deeply as befitting an apprentice to his master, as befitting any man before the greatest Mage of Eld.
Ellie was dreaming she was back in the park. Only this time, the girl who was pushed into the river wasn’t Kelissande, it was Ellysetta.
Mocking laughter rang out. A crowd had gathered at the river’sedge, all the tradesmen she’d met today, the king and the queen, the courtiers, even the Fey. They were laughing and pointing at Ellie as she dragged herself out of the river. Maestra Binchi howled and said, “What did I tell you? Sowlet ears.” The Archbishop stood beside Ellie’s mother, and both of them pointed at her, shouting, “Demon-cursed!”
“Did you really think he would ever choose you?” Sariel stood with Rain at her side, one hand clutching his arm possessively. “He’s mine, and he always will be.” Sariel’s midnight hair lightened, turning golden blond. Her face changed, too, and then it was Kelissande who stood at Rain’s side, sneering, “Ellie Lack Grace.”
Ellie stared at the hand on Rain’s arm, and a terrible fury bloomed in her heart. She struck out wildly, raking her fingers across Kelissande’s face, but her hands had become talons. Kelissande’s perfect skin shredded. Blood soaked Ellie’s clawed, hideous hands. She screamed and screamed. Fey leapt towards her, blades bared and deadly. Power flamed in Rain’s eyes and shot from his fingertips as he cried, “Demon-cursed! Servant of the Dark Lord!”
A cold, howling wind swept over her, a maelstrom of darkness that ripped her away and left her alone and shivering in a cold, dead world of shadows. Her own weeping was the only sound in the emptiness. And when that died away, she heard the familiar hissing, malevolent whisper. “Girl...you cannot hide forever. Your true nature will reveal itself eventually.”
Rain stood on the palace rooftop, breathing in the still-warm night air and absorbing the scents and sounds of the city. Eyes closed, senses flowing out on every path, he searched as he had all evening for traces of the “wandering soul” that had attacked Ellysetta. He found darkness and evil, but nothing more sinister than that which existed in every mortal city.
Horse hooves and steel-rimmed carriage wheels clattered onthe cobbles below. He released his weaves and glanced down to watch a noble family alight. Throughout the day, the nobles from the outlying estates had been arriving for Prince Dorian’s betrothal celebrations and the biannual convening of the Council of Lords. By this time tomorrow every room in the palace would be full, every grand residence in the city buzzing with activity, and soon the heads of those noble houses would decide the fate of their country.
Too many, he feared, had forgotten the harsh lessons of the past and the sacrifices of their ancestors. Mortals always did. Rain had not. He remembered Dorian I and Marikah vol Serranis Torreval and the abrupt, shocking brutality of their deaths. He remembered Dorian II and his courage as he led his country through bitter, bloody years of war. He remembered the staggering price that Fey, Celierians, Elves, and Danae alike had paid to live free of Eld corruptions and the domination of the Mages.
Just the thought of Celieria’s lords contemplating friendship with their northern neighbor made the tairen scream in fury and Rain’s hands itch to bare lethal Fey steel. Free men could never hope to live in peace with the Eld as long as a single Mage held power. Every fool who had ever tried doomed himself and his children to be soul-bound by the Mages and enslaved in the service of Seledorn, God of Shadows. Why was it so impossible for mortals to remember that? Had they become so soft, so certain that peace and freedom were gods-given rights rather than hard-won gifts, that they could no longer recognize evil when it stood on their doorstep?
“Mortal lives are short,” Marissya had reminded him earlier. “The ones who remember as we do are dead and gone centuries ago.”
“And these newer generations cannot read?” he’d countered bitterly. “The suffering of our friends and our people during the Mage Wars was well documented—specifically so such evil would never be forgotten. And yet it has been.”
“You must have patience, Rain,” she’d counseled. “Except for my one visit each year, men have lived with little in the way of immortal guidance for centuries. The Elves have kept to their mountains and forests, the Danae to their marshes and groves, and we have sequestered ourselves behind the Faering Mists. You cannot expect the mortals to accept everything we say without question. They never did even when we lived among them.”
“And I never liked them then, either.”
She’d sighed and shaken her head. “It’s best you keep that truth to yourself. If we’re to have any hope of keeping the borders closed, we must be patient and diplomatic—and tactful. Even when we would rather do otherwise.”
Rain hadn’t been fooled. She’d said “we” but she’d meant him. Unfortunately for Celieria, patience, diplomacy, and tact were traits he’d never possessed. He’d always been too quick to anger, too impatient with the shortcomings of others—mortals, in particular. And those traits had only grown worse since the Wars.
Rainier vel’En Daris, the young Tairen Soul, had lost countless dear friends, his family, his mate, even his own sanity, to save Celieria once before. Rainier vel’En Daris Feyreisen, the Defender of the Fey, would not risk another drop of precious Fey blood to protect ungrateful fools who willfully blinded themselves to the truths and wisdom of the past.
And he would scorch the world ten times over before exposing Ellysetta to the evil of Elden Mages.
Feeling a sudden need to be at his truemate’s side, Rain leapt into the sky and winged west, towards the humbler homes of Celieria’s artisans and craftsmasters. The Fey guarding the Baristani home saw him coming and opened their protective weaves to let him pass. He Changed with fluid ease, streaming through Ellysetta’s bedroom window and regaining Fey form at her bedside, wrapped in Spirit weaves to hide his presence from mortal eyes.
She was sleeping, but not peacefully. Her head thrashed on the pillow, and her breath caught on a sob of fear that roused his everyprotective instinct. He flung out his senses, testing all the magical and sorcerous routes he knew, but once again he found nothing. The source of her distress, whatever it was, lay beyond the detection of his Fey senses.
He slipped into the narrow bed beside her and wrapped his arms around her. “Las, shei’tani. Do not fear. I am here.” She turned towards him, burying her face in the hollow of his throat, and her tense muscles started to relax. In sleep, she trusted him as ashei’tanishould.
He breathed in the flowery scent of her bright hair and closed his eyes. For the remaining bells of the night, he lay there holding her in his arms. The tairen in him lay quietly, still there, still hungry for its mate, but content to bide its time, at least for this night.
Ellysetta’s nightmares did not return, and Rain filled her sleeping ears with whispered words, things a man only said to his mate. Some of the words made her moan a little, others made her smile. And when he finally left her just before the dawn, her fingers clung to him and she gave a little cry of protest in her sleep as he slipped away.
Chapter Twelve
Just after sunrise, the bell on the butcher shop door jingled. Den looked up from his place behind the service counter, and his scowl smoothed in surprise as he recognized the new customer. A faint chill rippled up the back of Den’s neck. With a quick glance at his father, Den wiped his hands on his white butcher’s apron and said, “Can I help you?”
Batay, the Sorrelian merchant ship captain, smiled. “I hope so, Goodman Brodson. If I may have a moment of your time?”
“Papa, do you mind?” The shop was filled with customers waiting for service. The Brodsons were getting out of the butcher business and had put the last of their stock on sale.
Gothar Brodson eyed the gold braid on the man’s coat and nodded. “Go on, then.” As Den slipped his apron off, Gothar murmured, “Ask him about the merchant ship business. I’ve a fancy to buy a ship or two.” He grinned and slapped his son on the back.
Den veiled the flash of anger in his eyes and stepped out from behind the counter. “We can talk outside,” he told the Sorrelian.
