Gathering his strength, he spun a swift query on a weave of Spirit and sent it arrowing south towards Celieria. The answer that returned several chimes later came from a young Spirit master Rain did not know well.
«The Feyreisa is at the cathedral. The twenty-five-fold weaves have gone up. Marissya and Dax are with the mortals in the Council. Those weaves have gone up as well. Marissya said if you contacted us, we should tell you to hurry.»
«I come,»Rain returned with grim curtness. The weave dissolved as soon as the last crisp word was sent. His hands clenched into fists.
Ellysetta was safe, secured behind a powerful weave and protected by more than one hundred of the Fading Lands’ strongest warriors. The Council, however, was another matter. He’d promised her he would not let Celieria fall to the Eld. After his terrible betrayal last night, he was determined not to fail her again.
He had to get back to Celieria City. Now. Without delay.
Rain bent his knees and sprang into the sky. A frenetic cloud of gray mist and magic swirled around him. The familiar exultation of the Change shattered his senses, unmaking Rain, the Fey, scattering him to the clouds, then gathering him back up again as Rain, the Tairen Soul. Below him, the startled farmer in whose field he’d slept looked up from his plow, and in a small fenced pasture near his fields, a herd of cattle scattered in instinctive fear of the predator overhead.
Rain circled the farm and the penned cattle. The Great Sun was already nearing its zenith, and he was still hundreds of miles away from Celieria City. He would need to fly as fast as he could to get there in time.
He swooped down on the cattle pen once, twice, three times, thinning the small herd until his tairen belly was full, and then he swooped a fourth and final time over the haystack where he’d slept. Earth magic spun out, reaching deep into the rock below the field, finding what he needed and spinning it into his gift.
«The Tairen Soul thanks you, Goodman,»he called out to the farmer.«I offer payment for your cattle and Fey blessings on your house.»
Ropes of Air spun out behind him, generating a powerful tailwind that sent him racing across the Celierian skies at three times his normal speed. He swept through misty clouds like a gale, leaving them swirling madly in his wake.
Behind, in the field he’d just left, the farmer and his family laughed and danced around a haystack with exuberant delight and threw fistfuls of haystraw into the air. Haystraw Rain had just transformed into purest, gleaming gold.
Following opening remarks given by Lords Sebourne and Teleos and half a bell of ineffectual salvos fired by half a dozen lesser lords, Lord Morvel, one of Celieria’s twenty Great Lords, took the floor to address the Council. He began by reminding his peers of his initial, magnanimous gesture of goodwill and acceptance towards the Fey—and the reason for his subsequent change of heart. Then he proceeded to expound upon the many economic benefits of demilitarizing the northern borders and expanding Celierian trade.
From her silver throne, Annoura listened to Morvel’s bombastic posturing with half an ear and kept a surreptitious eye on the door to the chamber, watching for any sign that Gaelen vel Serranis’s capture had been accomplished.
“The borders have been all but silent for the last hundred years,” Lord Morvel concluded, his voice carrying easily across the length of the marbled chamber. “The Eld have extended the hand of friendship. Celieria must not cling to the narrow-minded exclusionism fostered by the fear mongering of the Fey and a few misguided Celierian lords.”
A murmur of agreement rose up from several quarters of the room. “Really, Morvel?” Lord Barrial stood up in dissent. “The borders have been silent for a hundred years? Life must be quite idyllic over there in the east. Remind me to visit you when next I go on holiday.” Several lords laughed. Lord Barrial waited for them to quiet, then continued in a more serious vein. “Unlike my very fortunate friend Lord Morvel, in my lands we still see regular raids from the north. The Eld I know are not kindly guardians of Light, but fierce and deadly enemies. Even with constant patrols and the help of thedahl’reisen, I lost more than thirty villagers last year along the Heras River—men, women, even children.”
“Grim news indeed, Lord Barrial,” Queen Annoura interrupted. “But how can you be certain the raiders are Eld? Witnesses from other estates saydahl’reisenare to blame.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, I doubtdahl’reisenare behind the raids on my lands,” he replied. “Gaelen vel Serranis himself made it very clear not two months past that he could have walked past my safeguards and murdered me or any member of my family at any time of his choosing. And he has not done so.”
“Ah, yes,” she murmured. “Gaelen vel Serranis, the Dark Lord.The same Fey who once thrust this country into a cataclysmic war that nearly destroyed the world. You would have this Council believe he is some tragic, noble guardian of the north, when all evidence speaks to the contrary. I have to wonder, Lord Barrial, if your blind faith in this Fey—who by all accounts is a murderous war criminal—has anything to do with the fact that you’re his kinsman?”
The news brought the lords of the Council to their feet, voices raised in outrage.
King Dorian lifted the Bell of Order from its velvet cushion and rang it forcefully. Lord Corrias snapped to attention beside the king’s throne. “Silence!” he called. “By the king’s command, there will be silence in the chamber.”
“Lord Barrial,” Dorian commanded when the lords quieted, “please explain to the Council, as you have already explained to me, the exact nature of your kinship to Gaelen vel Serranis—a man who, I might add, is also my kinsman.” He shot a look at Annoura, who arched a brow without remorse.
Lord Barrial bowed. “Thank you, sire.” Turning back to address the Council at large, he said, “Her Majesty is correct. It appears Gaelen vel Serranis is indeed my kinsman. Though like our king, I am not his direct descendant. I recently discovered that a man the family archives record as Jerion Dural—whose grandson Pollis became the diBarrial from which my line descended six hundred fifty years ago—was in fact Dural vel Serranis, cousin to Lady Marissya and Gaelen vel Serranis.”
Annoura listened with only half an ear. A young clerk serving as a runner to the Council was hurrying along the perimeter of the chamber, clutching a small sealed envelope. She watched his progress from the corner of her eye. The note passed from the clerk’s hands to her Master of Affairs.
“When did you learn that your ancestor was Dural vel Serranis?” Dorian prompted.
“Just a few days ago, sire.”
Lord Sebourne leapt to his feet. “Was that before or after the Fey tried to steal my son’s wife, Barrial? What have you agreed to?”
“Leave my daughter out of this,” Cann shot back, “and don’t you dare impugn my honor or my loyalty.”
“You’ve done that yourself! From the beginning, you’ve supported Fey interests over those of Celieria. What have they bribed you with? Eternal life?”
“Must a border lord of Celieria now be bribed to defend the march? I do my duty, Sebourne! What of you and your cronies? Or has the glint of Eld gold erased all hope of reason?”
Sebourne’s supporters once more leapt into the fray, pointing fingers and hurling accusations. Teleos and half a dozen others jumped up to rally round Cann.
