King of Sword and Sky (34 page)

He saw numerous warriors and half a dozen
chatok
shift in their places and knew they were among the first few who would walk for the door after the first strike of the gong.

"Before you decide, my brothers, consider this. We are few. The enemy is many. Loris v'En Mahr will soon be traveling to Elvia to meet with the Elf king, Galad Hawksheart. It is my hope the ancient alliance between our peoples can be renewed and Loris can convince the Elves to join us in this fight; but no matter what comes of his mission, the Eld will strike, and the Fey must be ready to stand against them.

"And before you decide, consider this also." Rain's hands went to the circlet of silver sword blades twined by golden vines and Amarynth leaves perched on his brow, the non-ceremonial sign of his kingship. "I ask nothing of you that I do not first ask of myself." Lifting the crown from his head, he placed it gently on the gilded tairen's chair, then stepped down into the training field beside his brother Fey.

Jaren v'En Harad approached the warriors' gong and struck the first blow.

Of those who had gathered on the field, only six thousand remained when Gaelen struck the final blow to the gong. A fourth of those were Ellysetta's
lu'
tans
and the other
rasa
whose souls she had restored. Not the overwhelming numbers Rain had hoped for, but more than he'd truly believed would stay.

Half the
chatok
had departed as well. In a quiet ceremony of disapproval, each had waited for his time to ring the warriors' gong, then made a point of exiting in proud silence rather than striking a blow.

When it was over, Jaren nodded at the gathered Fey. "This is a good beginning. I had not expected so many to stay."

"Nor I, but it's still not nearly enough," Rain said. "And I've cost you half your most skilled
chatok."

"You but winnowed out those who have made their pride a funeral shroud." Jaren met Rain's eyes. "Our world has changed, Feyreisen. I have watched great Fey cities die, seen our forests fade back into desert, and listened to my
shei'tani
weep for the children her womb will not bear. It seems to me when the ways of the past lead only to death, then change is the only hope for life."

"What if that change leads only to more death?" Rain asked.

Jaren smiled sadly. "Great change always does. That's why it's so hard to embrace. But we are not a people born to hide from danger." He put a hand on Rain's arm. "Lead with courage, my king. Make them remember what it is to be Fey."

The
chatok's
smile became a bold slash of white teeth, and his face lit with a fierce, proud light. In an instant, Jaren was transformed from a man weighted with weary sadness to a proud, deadly warrior of the Fey, fearless and fierce.
"'We are the steel no enemy can shatter. We are the magic no Dark power can defeat. We are the rock upon which evil breaks like waves.'
Keep reminding our brothers of that—make them believe it—and the Eld could outnumber us two hundred to one and still not defeat us."

Ellysetta's stomach curled in nervous knots as she approached the Hall of Truth and Healing, the serenely beautiful building on Dharsa's central mount where the
shei'dalins
gathered to work their magic and perfect their craft.

The air of the hall was filled with the soothing sounds of splashing fountains, and lush blossoms, hanging plants, and potted greenery turned each room into a paradise of peace and beauty. Scores of
shei'dalins
—their devastating beauty unveiled, their unbound hair spilling down slender backs— laughed and smiled from every corner, chaise, and chair.

Tiny, dark Jisera v'En Arran, Eimar's mate, crossed the room, hands outstretched, to greet her warmly. "Feyreisa, welcome to the Hall of Truth and Healing. Venarra is expecting you."

She led Ellysetta through a series of connected rooms, and as they walked, Jisera whispered on a quiet weave of Spirit, «
I can feel your unease, little sister.»

Ellysetta gave her a startled look, but didn't try to deny the truth.

The
shei'dalins
earnest expression was filled with compassion and understanding. «
I know Venarra can seem cold, but that is only because she feels things so strongly she must discipline her emotions like a warrior. When you get to know her better, you will see her heart is fierce but full of love.»

They had reached a small sitting room filled with cushioned chairs. Jisera escorted Ellysetta inside, gave her an encouraging smile, and departed. Ellie fought the urge to cling as she watched Jisera's departing figure.

A sound behind made her turn.

Venarra stood in an arched doorway. She was clad in red silk from neck to toe, which set off her dark eyes, dark hair, and pale skin to perfection. Ellysetta was glad for the silvery drape Rain had spun from her
lu'tans'
steel, and the five blades of her quintet hanging at her hips over the violet velvet gown she wore beneath. The steel gave her a measure of confidence, just as Bel's dagger had back in Celieria when she'd faced Queen Annoura and the nobles of the Celierian court.

After several moments of silence, Venarra said, "Walk with me." She led the way through a second, spiral-columned archway to a small, private garden. Abundant flowers and blossoming trees filled the air with perfume. Birds and butterflies flitted from branch and bloom.
Faerilas
burbled from wall fountains shaped like tairens' heads.

"As the
Shei'dalin,
it is my duty to see that you are properly trained in the
shei'dalin
arts. I had thought—given the words that passed between us yesterday—that you might prefer to have someone other than me instruct you, but Marissya tells me your power overwhelms even her." She glanced at Ellysetta. "Marissya is our most gifted
shei'dalin,
but I am stronger at seeing past the strength of a weaver's threads to the actual pattern of a weave. She believes I am the one best suited to train you and teach you the discipline you need to hold your power in check."

Venarra bent her head and paused to pluck a spray of honeyblossom. A tinge of rose touched her pale cheeks. "Her faith may be misplaced. As you saw yesterday, I am not always as disciplined as I should be."

Ellysetta wished she were less able to put herself in other people's shoes. The cold anger she wanted to hug close was already melting in the face of Venarra's slight blush and shamed admission. "You were afraid for your truemate."

"I still am. I don't trust what is inside you. Some Mage-claimed are innocent—I know that—but it doesn't stop the horrors they wreak in their master's name."

Ellysetta bit her lip. "I know."

Venarra looked up. "I think perhaps Jisera would be the better
shei'dalin
to conduct your training. You restored her brother's soul. Like Rain, she sees only the good in you, while I cannot look past the potential for evil. I cannot pretend otherwise, and you will not be able to open yourself to me as you must."

Before Ellysetta could answer, the sound of running feet grew near. "Venarra!" A trio of
shei'dalins
burst into the garden.
"Shei'dalin,
come quickly!"

Venarra sprang towards them. "What is it? What's happened?"

Ellysetta ran close on their heels, following the four of them as they hurried to one of the healing rooms near the front of the hall. A warrior stood shaking by the door, his hands and chest streaked with blood, his face ashen.

"She fell," he wept. "She stumbled at the top of the century stairs. I didn't know until it was too late."

A Fey woman—her skin entirely drained of its Fey luminescence—lay motionless on the healing table. Her hair was matted with blood, her neck and limbs twisted. Jisera and several
shei'dalins
were already with her, their hands splayed and glowing, but when Jisera looked up at Venarra her eyes were grim.

At the look, the warrior began to weep. "
Nei
. Please…
nei."

Venarra caught his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.
"Las"
she said. The word tolled like a bell, and the warrior instantly calmed. "I will not let her die."

What followed was a healing like none Ellysetta had ever seen. Venarra leaned over the broken Fey woman and power gathered in her. The black eyes turned to molten amber, glowing like suns, and the fierce control that made her seem so cold fell away, revealing a face of such intense, overpowering love that Ellysetta wanted to weep. Venarra lit up bright as a Lightmaiden of Adelis, a golden-white aura swirling around her. She put her hands on the dying woman's chest and sent that brightness into the limp body. Her eyes closed. "Stay, beloved," she said, and her voice was a song, a prayer, an order, a plea, a command so strong even Ellysetta felt its compelling power. "Stay for your
e'tan."

Two bells later, the Fey woman who had been teetering on the cusp of death walked out wrapped in the protective strength of her mate's arms, and Venarra, exhausted and drained, slumped against the healing table. The other
shei'dalins
passed by her, touching her arm and sharing a bit of their own strength with her until the
Shei'dalin's
pale skin began to glow with faint luminescence once more.

"What just happened?" Ellysetta asked. "What did you do?"

Venarra glanced up wearily, but Jisera answered for her. "She held Carina's soul to the Light until the rest of us could heal her body." Jisera laid a hand on Venarra's shoulder and sent a soft pulse of golden light into the
Shei'dalin.
"She was too far gone for the rest of us to reach. Without you, my friend, she and Daran would both be dead."

When Jisera and the others were gone, Ellysetta asked, "Can Jisera teach me to do what you just did?" She remembered her mother, remembered trying desperately to hold her to life even as Lauriana slipped farther and farther away. If she could have spun Venarra's weave then, perhaps Mama would still be alive.

"Eventually," Venarra said. Already, she'd shaken off the soft edge of weariness, and her cool reserve had slipped back into place. "Assuming you learn to control your magic well enough."

"Can she teach me to do it as well as you?"

Venarra raised a brow. "Why do you ask?"

Instead of answering, Ellysetta said, "Marissya thinks you are the one who should teach me, correct? That you are the one most able to help me control my weaves?"

"Aiyah"
the
Shei'dalin
agreed slowly.

"Then if you are willing, I would like you to teach me."

"Why?"

"Because when the war comes, I want to be the best
shei'dalin
I can be. If I can save even one life the way you just did, that matters more than any amount of personal distrust between us."

Venarra eyed her consideringly. "I am a harsh instructor. I expect perfection from my students."

Ellysetta squared her shoulders. "I will work until I give you that perfection."

A long silence stretched between them, and then Venarra nodded. "Very well. Come sit here beside me and give me your hands." Venarra patted a spot on the table beside her. "The first lesson you must learn is how to open your mind to mine, and then I will show you how to anchor yourself so you don't get lost in your healing."

Celieria City

Gethen Nour stood over the body of the cook Lord Darramon had hired to accompany his traveling party west to the Garreval. "Come here,
umagi,"
he commanded, and Den Brodson stepped forward. Nour seized his skull and held him tight as the memories of the dead cook poured from Gethen's mind into Brodson's.

When he was done, Brodson stood there, dazed and swaying. Powerful magic swirled in the Primage's hands, and Brodson's face began to shift like a lump of potter's clay. The partially flattened nose was reshaped, the lips grew thinner, the jaw less square. Brodson's brown hair grew long and straight and paled to yellow-blond. His stocky body shrank to wiry leanness. When Nour's weave was complete, nothing remained of Den except his pale blue eyes staring out from the dead cook's face. The cook's eyes had been a different shade, but there was no help for that. Though the Elden transformation magic could change every other aspect of a person's appearance, the eyes always stayed the same.

"Here." Nour handed Brodson an amber amulet. "Wear this. It will give you some protection against Fey mind weaves and allow me to hear your thoughts and observations so that I am kept apprised of your progress. Any other form of communication would be too risky. And here." Nour pressed his index finger hard against Brodson's left temple and murmured a Feraz witchspell that left the
umagi
trembling. "If you do run into the Fey, whisper the command I just gave you. It will wipe out your own memories for three bells, and leave only the cook's."

Brodson nodded, lifting his new hands to his newly formed face.

"Quickly," Nour snapped. "Put on his clothes and get back to the caravan."

Den stripped the body, shivering at the bloodless wound that split the skin of the dead man's chest. The Mage's black blade had plunged into the cook's heart, and not one drop of blood had spilled. The crystal in the pommel of Nour's wavy black dagger was now shimmering with red lights.

A bell later, clad in the dead man's clothes, Den was in the back of the cook wagon, secreting the bag of
chemar
stones Master Nour had given him in the small trunk that held the cook's personal belongings.