“Something of him already does, Fanor,” Ellysetta said softly, her hand resting upon Rain’s shoulder. “In you.” The moment the Elf had said those three magical words, “I forgive you,” she’d felt a portion of Rain’s terrible pain ease. For that alone, she felt herself warm to Fanor.
“Of course.” The softening of Fanor’s expression faded and he was once again all Elf, inscrutable and mysterious. He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
CHAPTERTWELVE
My daughters, don’t crave a myth,
that shines, out of reach as the pale moon above.
Don’t dream of eternal golden chains;
ours are sweet years of love.
Fey sing of strange wondrous bonds,
being woven, they whisper, by fate’s terrible hand.
Ours is the grace of choice, honor of vow,
the precious gift of time we spend.
To the Daughters of Celieria,a poem
by Lady Denna Miron, Celierian poet
Celieria ~ Old Castle Prison
Great Lord Sebourne scowled with bad temper and held out his arms as his valet slipped a sumptuous, gold-embroidered waistcoat over the freshly ironed and perfumed silk tunic. The Great Sun had risen, signaling the end to his five days of incarceration in the west tower of Old Castle Prison. The prison master of Old Castle would arrive soon to set him free, but Lord Sebourne was determined not to set foot outside this cell looking anything less than his most powerful and resplendent self.
No trumped-up incarceration was going to bringthisGreat Lord of Celieria to heel; and, by the gods, that spineless puppet of a king and his cadre of bootlicking Fey lovers would soon know it!
In anticipation of his pending release, his valet had arrived well before sunrise to bathe, shave, oil, and powder the Great Lord to pampered perfection. And now, as the Great Sun began its morning ascent into the sky, Lord Sebourne donned his finest court garb: silks, satins, rich and exotic furs, heavy gold rings set with radiant jewels.
“This Great Lord of Celieria is no man’s lackey,” he muttered irascibly as his valet finished buttoning the waistcoat and tugged a heavy gold-link belt into place around his waist. Each link was set with a jewel the size of a hen’s egg.
“No, my lord,” the valet agreed in a placid voice. Nimble fingers snapped the golden belt clasp closed.
Sebourne turned his head to stare out the window. The sun was nearly touching the silhouetted rooftops of the city, but there was a chill in the air. Winter was definitely on its way. The chill grew colder, and he frowned at his valet. “Did you leave a window open in the other room after my bath?” Prison this might be, but even Dorian had known better than to incarcerate a Great Lord of Celieria in some tiny little cell with no privacy. In addition to the main room, there was a small, private bedchamber and garderobe. “There’s a draft.”
“My lord?” The servant glanced up from his work with a puzzled frown. “No, my lord. The windows are all firmly shut, and it’s warm as springtime in here.”
“Nonsense. Springtime? In what country—the ice wastes of the Pale?” Lord Sebourne harrumphed. “Put another log on the fire to cut the chill.”
The servant was clearly disbelieving, but nonetheless he murmured, “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” and rose to put another log on the fire blazing in the hearth.
Just before the valet reached the fireplace, he stopped in his tracks and stood there, motionless.
“Brom?” Lord Sebourne stared at the valet. “What’s the matter with you, man?”
Before he could say another word, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of something moving to his right. A man. “Ah, come to release me, have you? It’s about time.” He turned to face the prison master of Old Castle.
But the man who stepped out into the center of the room was not the prison master. A long-bound corner of Lord Sebourne’s mind cracked open and spilled a lifetime of suppressed memories into his consciousness. Suddenly Brom’s unnatural stillness made perfect sense. Lord Sebourne himself froze as at last he realized it was no draft from the window that had chilled him to his soul.
Lord Bolor—or rather the Elden Mage passing himself off as Lord Bolor—moved towards Great Lord Sebourne with surprising speed. He caught the Great Lord and clamped a hand around his throat before Sebourne could do more than take two steps back and open his mouth in a silent cry.
“Who are you?” Sebourne croaked against the tight hold. “What do you want?”
The Mage leaned close, a cruel curve tilting up one corner of his mouth. “You know who I am—or rather what I am—and you know why I’ve come. It’s time to pay your family’s debts, Great Lord Sebourne. Your masters in Eld require your service.”
