“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Rowan muttered.
“We were hoping to dull the effects of the weave.” Kiel was looking decidedly green around the gills. Giving a rattling moan, he lurched to his feet and stumbled rapidly towards the bathing rooms down the hall.
Rain smothered a laugh. “Well, I would suggest you seek out Marissya for a healing, but I think you all deserve to suffer a while longer.”
After trading a few more insults, he sobered. “Give Adrial another bell or two, then wake him up,” he said. “Ravel’s quintet guards Ellysetta, and she’s protected by a twenty-five-fold weave, but I want you there as soon as you’re fit. Something attacked her last night.”
“What?” Bel shot to his feet. To their credit, Rowan and Kieran—and even Kiel, who had just stumbled back from the bathing rooms—also flashed to stone-cold lethalness in an instant, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons. “Why did you not tell us immediately?”
“She is unharmed,” Rain assured them. “And there was nothing you could have done even if you had been there. The attack came through her dreams.”
“Mages?” Kieran asked.
Rain nodded. “Most likely. The shields did not protect her, and neither Ravel nor any of his men sensed anything until she woke screaming.”
“We will wake Adrial and go to her immediately.” Bel’s face was an expressionless mask.
If Fey men sensed emotion the way empathic Fey women did, Rain knew he would be feeling Bel’s shame and self-reproach washing over him in waves. The warrior was Ellysetta’s bloodsworn champion—willingly bound bylute’asheivato defend her against all harm—yet he’d not been at her side when she’d been attacked.
“Nei, let Adrial sleep, and do not torment yourself.” Rain reached out and clasped his friend’s shoulder. “There is nothing you could have done, my friend.”
“I should have been there.”
“As should I,” Rain replied. “But I was miles away on a beach atGreat Bay, fighting her weave and trying desperately to keep my distance lest I dishonor myself entirely.”
Bel’s eyes narrowed. “I know you are not taking this as lightly as it seems. Your mate was attacked. Where is your rage?”
Flags of color warmed Rain’s cheeks. A Fey warrior should be deathly furious over an attack on his mate, yet Rain’s calm would not wane.
“She would not let me keep it.” His hands spread before him, palms open in a gesture of surrender. The blood of millions lay upon those hands, and yet at this moment he could scarcely see the stain. “Last night, my song sang to her, and she spun the first thread between us.” While trying to soothe the terrors of her nightmare, he’d sung tairen song to Ellysetta. The music had resonated in her soul, as a tairen’s song resonated in its mate’s, and in one perfect moment of communion, Ellysetta had forged the first shimmering filament of oneness between them.
Even now, the memory of that joy brought tears to his eyes.
Bel stared. “Tears,” he murmured. “From eyes that have not wept in a thousand years.” His cobalt gaze moved over Rain’s face, searching for every tiny difference. “The bond truly does begin.”
“Aiyah,” Rain admitted softly.
Rowan, Kieran, and Kiel crowded closer. Their usual Fey-stoic masks fell away to reveal a mix of awe and envy. No warrior had truemated in a thousand years, not since before the devastation of the Mage Wars, and there was nothing a Fey warrior longed for more. But the gift ofshei’tanitsabonding was so rare, the usual lot of a warrior was to live and die without ever finding the woman born to complete his soul. It was the reason Fey warriors strived for centuries to master the intricacies of magic and swordsmanship, the reason they vied to be the best, the bravest, the most honorable of all warriors—hoping, always, to prove themselves worthy of the gods’ greatest gift.
“What does it feel like?” Rowan asked.
Rain rolled his shoulders, searching for words. These were his friends, his blade brothers and the warriors sworn to defend Ellysetta with their lives. Although Rain’s feelings were very personal and intimate, the wonder of theshei’tanitsajourney was a treasure that courting Fey had always shared with their unmated blade brothers.
“Peace,” he said at last. “Like waking in a field of soft grass on a warm spring day and knowing for the first time exactly who you are and what your purpose is in the world. And humbleness, as if you were standing before the Bright Lord with all the dark ugliness of your soul laid out before you, and despite everything, he showers you with light until every last stain fades away.” A smile spread slowly across his face. “Flame, too—especially under the effects of her weave—but I’ll say no more about that. Some things should remain private between a Fey and his mate.”
The warriors, who had been nodding in silent awe and trying not to show their envy, now grinned and laughed.
Bel put a hand on Rain’s shoulder. “May the gods light your way, Rain, and your journey end in joy.”
“Beylah vo, my friend.” Rain exchanged a warrior’s arm-clasp with Bel and pulled him close for a brief, tight embrace. Of all the Fey, there was none he loved so much as Bel. A week ago Rain had feared for his friend. The darkness that eventually consumed all untruemated Fey warriors had been so close to claiming him. But Ellysetta—miraculous, unexpected Ellysetta—had wiped centuries of death from Bel’s soul with one effortless touch of healing warmth, and now Bel had joy once more.
One after another, Kieran, Kiel, and Rowan followed Bel’s suit, exchanging arm-clasps and embraces, thanking Rain for sharing his felicity and offering their own well wishes in return.
By the time he left them, they were moving with brisk purpose, shaking off the weariness and excesses of last night. Only Adrial was still sleeping, but Rain doubted the others would let him do somuch longer. Ellysetta had been attacked, and fierce Fey honor would demand that the warriors of her primary quintet take their place at her side, protecting her from all harm.
Kolis Manza, apprentice to the High Mage of Eld, groaned as he came back to consciousness. His head was splitting. His mouth tasted as though he had swilled raw sewage. He hawked and spat a foul-tasting glob of spittle on the floor.
Bright Lord’s lice-infested balls. That little witch’s Spirit weave had been beyond powerful.
