“Dorian also promised him two prestigious estates in the south,” Marissya said. “He’d be the second-largest landholder in Celieria. That’s quite an incentive for a man like Lord Morvel.”
“Well, I hope greed still holds the power to lure him after last night.” Rain grimaced as he considered the possible fallout from Ellysetta’s weave. “The last I saw him, he was hustling his wife away from the table, and she was shedding clothes as she went. Ah, gods.” He rubbed his face. “I pray they made it to their rooms before...”
Marissya nodded. “He would not be one to forgive a public humiliation.”
Grimly the three of them looked at one another in silence. It wouldn’t take the nobles long to realize that magic, not simply an overindulgence in pinalle and keflee, had compelled their actions. While the Fey might shrug off a night of uninhibited, weave-driven mating with laughs, groans, and a few blushes, most Celierians were much more tightly laced about such matters. Worse, unintentionally woven though it had been, Ellysetta’s magic had overridden the wills and inhibitions of Celieria’s most powerful nobles, individuals who reigned as kings on their own estates. Last night, those kings had danced like puppets on strings beneath the unyielding dictates of her weave.
“We must assess the damage and mend what bridges we can,” Rain said. “I don’t want blame to fall on Ellysetta. If you are questioned, imply the weave was mine. Who’s to say it wasn’t my own need that drove her in any case?”
“I’ll speak to Dorian,” Marissya promised. “If he didn’t realize the weave was Ellysetta’s, there’s a good chance none of the other lords will have either.”
Rain’s jaw tightened at the mention of King Dorian’s name, and he gave a curt nod. He knew he should approach Dorian personally, king to king, but Marissya was far more levelheaded when dealing with her nephew than Rain could ever be.
The man could have ended this entire political struggle by invokingprimus—King’s First Right—to keep the borders closed to the Eld. It was what a strong king would have done. But Dorian had surrendered too much of his power to Celieria’s noble Houses. He sought consensus when he should have provided leadership; and despite Rain’s warning about the growing darkness in the north, without hard proof of a reconstituted Mage presence, Dorian refused to override the will of the Council of Lords.
“Teleos pledged his support,” Rain said, “though I doubt any lords who distrust us will change their votes because of him.” Teleos had too much Fey blood in his ancestry for the comfort of most pure mortals, and it showed in his Fey eyes and faintly luminescent skin. “Lord Barrial is—at least, was—in our corner, and he seems to be well liked by most of the other lords. If last night’s weave didn’t turn him against us, he may be a very useful ally. Did you see thesorreisu kiyrhe was wearing last night?”
“Aiyah,” Dax said. “We were wondering about that ourselves. He’s not a regular at court, and that’s the first time Marissya or I have seen him with the crystal.”
“I’ll ask for a meeting with him and see what I can learn.” Rain leaned back in his seat and sipped the warm keflee. “For now, let’s focus on finding a way to convince these other lords that the Eld still pose a threat—or at the very least make an alliance with the Fey seem more lucrative than one with the Eld.”
Sunlight filtering through her closed eyelids filled Queen Annoura’s gaze with a wash of red, like a sea of watery blood. She peeledone eye open, then groaned against the stabbing light and dragged a pillow over her face. Gods’ mercy, she ached all over. From the tips of her toes to the crown of her head, every muscle, every sinew, every inch of skin felt sore and raw.
A rumbling snore sounded in her ear, and she turned her head just enough to find her husband Dorian sprawled out beside her, naked, one arm and leg flung possessively across her.
She glanced down and found her own body spread-eagled with vulgar abandon atop the tangled bedsheets. Had the servants come in and seen her like this? Celieria’s queen, naked and flung open like a starfish, bared to any gawking fool? Grabbing one edge of the silk sheet, she pulled it over herself and hissed as even that slight pressure irritated raw, whisker-burned skin.
Good gods, what a night.
How had something as tediously banal as a palace dinner gone so wrong? Her hands clenched in fists around the bedsheets as the memories flooded back, clear and sharp as glass. The palace dinner. Dorian’s unexpected and very unwelcome coup in convincing Great Lords Barrial and Morvel to offer marriage ties between one of their sons and Ellysetta Baristani’s young sisters. Rain Tairen Soul squiring his common-born mate around the palace as if she were the Queen of Queens.
The affront had been too much. Annoura’s simmering resentment had bubbled over, and her desire to put the woodcarver’s daughter in her place had turned to bitter determination. A whispered word in a trusted ear ensured that a never-ending flow of heady blue wine poured into the girl’s glass and a special brew of intensely potent keflee found its way into her cup.
Get the girl drunk, ply her with the overwhelming aphrodisiacal effects of the keflee, and watch her make an unmitigated fool of herself before the heads of every noble House in Celieria: that had been Annoura’s plan.
Only it hadn’t worked out the way she’d intended.
Rather than Ellysetta Baristani humiliating herself before thecourt, every other person in the banquet hall had done so in her stead. Celieria’s most powerful nobles had fallen upon each other like ravening wolves. Lords and ladies, Great Lords, even she and Dorian—all helpless to resist the driving sexual hunger.
“Spirit weave,” Dorian had gasped into her ear as their hands had reached helplessly for each other. It was only thanks to Dorian’s Fey blood that he’d been able to withstand the call of the magic long enough to get them to the privacy of his bedchamber—but even so, he hadn’t been able to counter the weave or reduce its power. He, like she, had been a puppet dancing to the magic’s capricious command. They’d made love with fevered intensity for more than seven bells. Orgasm after orgasm, each one more shattering than the last. Every climax followed by an even deeper, more insistent burn.
Annoura’s throat closed up tight at the memory of it, and her heart pounded like a mallet in a chest that felt as if heavy stones were squeezing all the air from her lungs. As a princess of the Capellan royal House, she’d been sternly reared to assume command of any situation and never relinquish it. Yet last night, with a single weave of magic, the Fey had robbed her of every last illusion of control. She’d been powerless. Enslaved. Dominated and controlled by the magical will of another.
She sat up and drew her knees to her chest. Helplessness was not a feeling she understood, nor one she knew how to deal with.
Behind her, Dorian stirred. She felt the mattress shift as he moved, felt his hand touch her hip, his fingers curl possessively around her waist.
“Annoura?” His voice was raspy, thick with sleep. “Come back to bed,kem’san.”
She flinched at the Fey endearment and cast a glance over her shoulder. “Come back to bed?” she echoed in disbelief. “Surely you cannot want more mating after last night?”
He chuckled wryly and peeled open an eye. “Doubt I could summon the energy even if I did, my love. I just like the feel ofyou in my arms. It’s been too long since we woke together.” His hand stroked her waist, his thumb tracing a line up her spine.
Despite her aching soreness, she felt the nascent tingle of desire bloom in the wake of his hand. She’d never been able to deny him. Not from the first moment they’d met. Her eyes had locked with his, and from that moment on, she’d wanted him—his kiss, his love, his hands upon her, the joy of his smile making her feel as if she could fly.
Now, for the first time in her life, an ugly thought crept in.Had Dorian been working Fey magic on her all these years?
The possibility couldn’t be ignored. Powerful Fey blood ran in his veins. Ten generations ago, his ancestor Dorian the First had wed Marikah vol Serranis, sister of theshei’dalinMarissya and twin of Gaelen vel Serranis, the murderousdahl’reisenknown as the Dark Lord. That marriage had introduced powerful Fey magic into the royal Celierian bloodline. Even now, diluted by ten generations, Dorian’s Fey heritage ensured he would live a life three times that of a normal Celierian. He was exceedingly healthy—common mortal ailments had never afflicted him—and he could weave Air and Spirit, though according to him he possessed less than a tenth the mastery of his magical kin.
