Dorian’s expression, which had begun to soften, went suddenly cold and distant. He pulled her hands away from his face and stepped back several paces to fix her with a hard look. “You’ve just overplayed your hand, my dear. This isn’t about me and my perceived strength or weakness. This is about you. He’s wounded your pride, and you can’t stand it.”
“Dorian!” Annoura gasped in unfeigned shock. He’d never spoken to her in such a manner. “You know me better than that!”
“I do know you, my love. You are the reason my heart beats in my chest, but I am just as acquainted with your weaknesses as I am your strengths.”
His jaw had tightened. His lips had thinned to an implacable line. Annoura could have screamed in frustration. The familiar expression was the one she’d been trying to avoid: intractability. This was Dorian the King, an immovable rock of authority and command.
“Like it or not, my dear, the Fey are my kin. But even were that not the case, their centuries of service, friendship, and goodwill to Celieria would compel me to consider the concerns of their king with all due respect and grave attention.” Each word was fired from his mouth like a bolt from a crossbow. Sharp, clipped, unyielding. “I will afford him the opportunity to make his case to the Council. I will make every effort to smooth his way and encourage the lords to give him a full and fair hearing. And as injurious to your pride as it may be, I will welcome the Tairen Soul’s mate as his queen, regardless of her humble birth—and so will you. For in the eyes of the Fey, a queen is exactly what Ellysetta Baristani is. She is a bright and shining light born to bring peace to their king’s heart. And I am Fey enough to understand that, even if you cannot.”
“Dorian!” Annoura wanted to wail and gnash her teeth.
“Go tend to your business, Annoura. Leave me to tend mine.” He stepped around her, avoiding her outstretched hands, and took his seat.
She stood there in impotent frustration as he reached for his spectacles, thrust them into place, and picked up the parchment he’d been reading before her arrival. The pamphlets she’d brought fluttered to the floor. The illustration of the puppet king and squeaking mouse queen stared up at her in silent mockery.
“Close the door when you leave,” Dorian instructed without looking up.
Her hands clenched in fists. She would not be made the fool. Shewould not be mocked and dismissed—not by the pamphleteers, not by the common rabble who gobbled up their insulting leaflets, not by Dorian, and especially not by the Fey or some woodcarver’s slut.
She was Annoura, Queen of Celieria.
If Dorian would not stand up to the Fey, she would do it herself. As long as she had breath in her body, the Fey would not usurp the power of Celieria’s throne or force their will upon Celieria’s people without a fight. And one way or another, she would put that upstart peasant Ellysetta Baristani in her place.
In Celieria City’s West End, having replaced the distinctive trappings of Captain Batay with the unremarkable garb of a simple merchant, Kolis Manza stood amidst the throngs of curiosity seekers gathered across the street from the Baristani family home.Test her magic,his master had said.Find a way.
Determined not to fail, Kolis had not taken his rest last night, but had instead spent several bells poring over book after book of spells and charms from the High Mage’s private library. While many spells could force a response from even latent magic, few could do so while penetrating Fey shields and remaining undetected by watchful Fey warriors. Luckily, the Master’s long association with the Feraz witchfolk had borne useful fruit, and in an old, handwritten text of Feraz witchspells tested on the High Mage’s pets over the years, Kolis had found what he was looking for.
He put his hand in his coat pocket and grasped the small waxtalishe’d prepared last night in Eld. The spell was so simple, its uses had been long overlooked by serious scholars of magecraft: a simple pressure spell designed to gradually amplify emotion and elicit a magical response, targeted at Ellysetta Baristani by one of the strands of hair Den Brodson had so helpfully produced this morning.
With his eyes on the Baristani house, Kolis began to chant the witchwords under his breath.
If one more person made a sneering remark about the “humble coziness” of her family’s home or the “new” Ellysetta Baristani, Ellie wasn’t going to be responsible for what happened. Her brows drew together in a thunderous scowl. Despite vague memories of disturbing dreams, she’d woken in an exceptionally happy mood this morning, and Rain’s courtship gift of Stones had made her laugh with delight, as no doubt he’d meant her to. That lightheartedness was long gone. Now, it was all she could do to keep from screaming.
The Dark Lord take this whole exhausting, frustrating, sanity-scorching idea of a wedding!She cast a blistering glare at the frenzied mob of seamstresses, florists, caterers, printers, decorators, wine merchants, cobblers, and stuffy wedding advisors surrounding her. They had descended upon her parents’ house just after breakfast and turned Ellie’s peaceful morning into a war zone of raucous pre-wedding activity. Every half bell, a knock would sound on the door and a new throng of visitors would pour in. Couriers bearing packages, friends wanting to extend their congratulations, neighbors just being nosy, merchants, craftsmen.
The mad, unceasing rush of people and the constant barrage of questions—each merchant had at least a hundred questions, all needing a decisionnow!—had long since taken their toll on her sanity and had wiped every last vestige of good humor from her mood.
Twenty gowns, Lady Marissya had decreed. Twenty! Plus an enormous monstrosity of a wedding gown that required an entire wagonload of fabric and had taken most of the morning to fit. The queen’s dressmaker, Maestra Binchi, who had been noticeably more respectful and accommodating this morning, had already departed with her half-dozen seamstresses to begin work on the wedding gown, but another three court modistes and their respective gaggles of assistants were still industriously dedicating themselves to turning Ellie into a human pincushion.
“My lady, please stand still.” Kneeling at Ellie’s feet, one of the seamstresses blew a strand of limp brown hair out of her eyes and attempted—but failed—to sound patiently polite. The seamstress’s lips were pulled taut in a grimace that Ellie concluded was supposed to be a deferential smile.
“Iamstanding still,” Ellie replied through clenched teeth. An awful, squeezing pressure had begun building in her head earlier, as if her skull were caught in a tightening vise. The voices around her formed a merciless, pounding drum, echoing inside her head, beating at the shreds of her control.
«Las, Ellysetta.»Bel’s cool voice sounded in her mind.
Peace?Peace,he said? Over the top of the opaque curtain of Spirit the Fey had woven to protect her modesty, Ellie sent Bel a glare so scorching, his leathers nearly caught on fire. The fierce warrior blinked in surprise and wisely retreated.
“Ellie.” Oblivious to the brewing tempest, Lauriana approached with a selection of flowers in her hands. “For your bridal wreath, which roses do you prefer? Maiden’s Blush, Sweet Kaidra, or Gentle Dawn?” She held up one of each velvety bloom, faint pink, creamy ivory, and pale yellow edged with the barest hint of orange.
“I don’t care, Mama.” Ellie tried desperately to hold on to her temper. “You choose.”
«Ellysetta.»Rain called to her in a voice of insufferable calm. But, of course, he would be calm. He’d beengonethis whole wretched morning. She ignored him.
“Hmm. I like Maiden’s Blush, but the pink might clash with your hair. Sweet Kaidra is lovely, of course, but it may be a little too bland. Gentle Dawn... well, there’s something about yellow roses that I’ve always liked and the orange is a shade that will suit you, I think. Come now, kit, give me your honest opinion.”
“Whichever you choose will be fine, Mama.” Ellie could feel her jaw muscles locking in place. Days from now, she was sure they would find her, dead from this wedding torture, her lips still frozen and her teeth bared in a grim parody of a polite smile.
“All right, Ellie,” Lauriana replied evenly. “I’ll make the decision, since you don’t care to. Gentle Dawn it is.” Her skirts swished with violent little movements as she stalked away.
