“Well, mortal, it seems you will keep your miserable life another day, after all.” He untied the sash from around his waist and wrapped the needles in it carefully, then deposited the small bundle in his own deep pocket. “I do not punish those who please me, and this gift is pleasing indeed.”
The shallow, relieved breath had barely left Den’s lungs before his chest constricted on a new surge of panic when the High Mage lunged and his bony hand closed around Den’s throat.
“Today is my gift to you,” the Mage hissed. “But for life after daybreak tomorrow, there is a price, mortal.” He lifted the Mage blade, twisting the black, razored edge so the light of the sconces made shadows dance across the dark metal. “Accept my Mark. Willingly bind your soul to my service. Or when the Great Sun rises, you will die a death more hideous than any you can imagine.”
Den whimpered.
The Mage smiled, pressed the point of his dagger to Den’s wrist, and sliced. Blood welled from the cut and slid down Den’s arm like scarlet teardrops. The Mage lifted the wrist to his lips. Den flinched as a pale tongue flicked out, tasting his blood. “Answer me, boy. Surrender your soul or die. The choice is yours.”
Den’s hand shook. His entire body trembled. How had this happened? How had his plans gone so awry?
The Mage’s grip tightened, pointed nails digging into the soft skin of Den’s inner wrist. “Speak, mortal! Do you accept myMark? Of your own free will, do you bind your soul to my service?”
Den’s dreams of living in luxury in some remote part of the world, growing fat on the profits of Ellie Baristani’s magic, shattered like broken glass. There would be no palatial estate. No soft-skinned, buxom serving wenches to tend his every need. No lords lining up to seek his favor. There would be no Ellie Baristani on her knees before him, kissing his feet and begging for his forgiveness, whoring herself to please him.
His eyes closed. His shoulders heaved with helpless, silent sobs.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Yes, master,” the Mage’s hissing voice corrected.
“Yes, master.” Tears gathered in Den’s throat and burned at the back of his eyes.
“Then say it. ‘Of my own free will, I accept your Mark and bind my soul to your eternal service.’”
Den heard himself, weeping brokenly, repeating the damning words. Hot tears ran down his frozen cheeks. The cold press of the Mage’s mouth clamped against his wrist and pulled sickeningly as the Mage sucked Den’s blood from the sliced vein. Then came the colder press of that taloned hand gripping the skin above his heart. A sickly sweet aroma filled the air, overpowering, like barrels of rotting fruit. Pure, frigid ice, sharp as a knife, plunged deep into his chest. A will, heavy as stone, pressed down upon his.
He was in a black river, gasping for breath and fighting desperately to stay afloat, while a terrible weight slowly and relentlessly dragged him down. His head bobbed under. The thick, black, oily liquid of the river—so cold, so horribly sweet—enveloped him. His lungs burned as the air in them ran out and the need to breathe became overpowering. He fought, struggled, tried to kick his way to the surface, but the weight anchored him down, dragging him deeper and deeper.
His world was total darkness. No light. No hope. No hint ofwarmth. His lungs were on fire. If he breathed he would drown. If he didn’t breathe, he would die.
His mouth opened on a deep, desperate, despairing gasp. Oily blackness flooded in, filling his lungs, filling him.
With one last, choking, weeping cry for his lost life, Den Brodson surrendered.
Chapter One
Celieria ~ The Garreval
Seven days after departing Celieria City, the Fey reached the end of the mortal world. As the small caravan of wagons and loping Fey crested the top of a last, rolling hill, Ellysetta’s breath caught in her throat. A great fertile plain stretched out below, miles of land sectioned into hedgerow-partitioned fields, all greening with well-tended crops against a dramatic backdrop of majestic mountains thrusting up from the earth like a solid wall.
“Oh, Papa,” Ellysetta breathed.
“’Tis the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen,” Sol Baristani agreed in a whisper as he sat beside his daughter on the wagon seat, a lit match held, forgotten, over the tobacco-filled bowl of his favorite pipe.
Together, father and daughter stared in awestruck wonder at the majestic peaks filling the horizon.
At first glance, the mountains almost appeared to be a single range, but Ellysetta knew from the countless histories she’d read that they were actually two separate mountain ranges. The fierce Rhakis arrowed down from the north, nearly colliding with the stately swells of the Silvermist range. Only a scant mile separated the two, an infamous pass known as the Garreval, gateway to the Fading Lands.
Misty clouds swirled across forested cliffs and steep highland pastures of the Silvermist mountains. The clouds hovering over the Rhakis were less gentle, dark with rain and boiling into lightning-shot thunderheads as the sharp peaks continued northward towards Eld. Those soft clouds and fierce storms merged into a dense, shimmering fog that filled the pass between the two ranges, and Ellysetta gave a small shiver at the sight.
The Faering Mists. The magical barrier that surrounded the Fading Lands, impenetrable to all but the Fey.
The match Sol held over the tobacco-filled bowl of his pipe burned down unnoticed until the heat burned his fingers. “Sweet brightness!” he yelped. Hissing, he shook the match out, tossed the blackened remains over the edge of the wagon, and blew on his stinging fingers.
Ellie turned, trying to stifle her laughter as she reached for his hand. This wasn’t the first time her father had seared his hands on a matchstick. It wouldn’t be the last. His attention was too easily caught by some real or imagined beauty—often while he held a lit match in his hand, thanks to his fondness for his pipe.
“I’m all right, Ellie-girl,” Sol protested when she took his hand.
