Lord of the Fading Lands (31 page)

For the next two months, he'd pursued her with such single-minded dedication and romance, she'd been utterly overwhelmed. He'd made it clear he wanted her for his queen, and made it equally clear that his desire had nothing to do with politics or power. When he left the shores of Capellas, she went with him, his ring on her finger. She'd never once looked back, never once missed the cold beauty of her homeland.

"You should be more than a queen." The voice pulled her back from her memories. "You should be an Empress. The Fey should bow to your rule, not you to theirs.”

Yes, that was what she'd always wanted. Glory for herself and Dorian, the power to rule with wisdom and benevolence. He'd always been content with Celieria alone, but she was Capellan enough to want more.

"You can have all the power you desire. All you have to do is give yourself to me”

A hand slid up her waist. A rich, male scent, cool and darkly sweet, filled her nostrils. She frowned in confusion. That wasn't Dorian's scent; it was another's. Fingers cupped her breast and squeezed through the stiffened layers of her bodice. Not Dorian's hand.

"Give yourself to me, sweetness," the voice crooned again. Her flesh swelled at the sound, aching, eager to obey. But the speaker wasn't Dorian.

Her eyes flashed open and she looked up into Vale's face, beautiful, sexual, ruddy with passion. He was holding her in his arms, his hips tilted in and up, pressing his sex against hers through the thick layers of her skirt, touching her with an intimacy no man but Dorian ever had. Shock shattered her strange hypnosis. She wrenched herself out of his hands and shoved him away.

"Oh, gods." She cupped her hands over her mouth. Her blood was still pounding, her breasts and womb aching, all but weeping. Her whole body was on fire, screaming for release, but she couldn't—wouldn't—do this. "Oh, gods, what am I doing? What was I thinking?”

"Annoura?" Vale reached for her.

She lurched back, evading his hands. "Don't call me that!" Only Dorian called her that. Only he had the right. "You must go! Now!
Now!"
she shrieked when he reached for her again. No matter how hurt and angry Dorian had made her this morning, she still loved him. Even if that weren't the case, she was his queen, and this was
treason.

Vale drew back instantly. "I'm sorry. Forgive me." His face had lost its color. "The brew went to my head. I'll go, of course." He bowed low, and for the first time his movements were stiff and graceless rather than the dance of sensual masculine beauty that had always so enticed her. "Forgive me, My Queen. I never meant to cause you such distress.”

"Just go," she cried. "Get out of my sight!”

Straightening, he pivoted on one heel and strode out.

Oh, gods, oh, gods. The keflee pot was still steaming its treacherous seductive fragrance. She snatched it up in a burst of fury and threw it against the wall. Dark liquid splattered, spreading out in a huge, ruinous stain, a blot as dark as the one on her honor. The smell became an overwhelming stench. She ran for the garderobe, leaned over the privy shaft, and vomited in violent, racking heaves until nothing remained in her stomach but emptiness and bile. Frantic to rid herself of every last vestige of the hideous potion, she rinsed and scrubbed her mouth and teeth again and again until she could no longer taste the slightest hint of keflee.

When she was done, she dragged in a long, shuddering breath and tried to calm herself. The task was an impossibility. Vale's brew was still inside her, still working its vile magic upon her. Every move was a torment, every swish of silk an acute torture.

She needed Dorian. Now.

Pausing only to straighten her hair and appearance—there was nothing she could do about the wild glitter in her eyes— she exited the chamber through the main door. She sailed past the crowd of courtiers lingering in the sunlit atrium nearby and walked as swiftly as she dared to Dorian's office. He was still there, his steward with him.

"Leave us," she commanded.

The steward cast her a startled look, then glanced uncertainly at her husband. Dorian eyed the flush of color on her cheeks and signaled the steward to obey.

"What is it, my d—" Dorian's voice broke off. His hazel eyes widened as she strode towards him, ripping at the laces of her bodice as she went. "Annoura?”

The bodice string snapped in her hands. The stiffened fabric parted. "Dorian ... " She ripped at the sleeves of her gown, almost sobbing as she struggled to pull the loose fabric free and shove it down in a puddle at her feet. She stepped out of the pile of silk, clad only in a sheer chemise, corset, silk hose, and heels. He started to rise from his chair, but she pushed him back down and straddled him. "Dorian, tell me you love me. Tell me now”

Bewildered, he said, "Of course, I love you. You know I do." He frowned. "What's wrong, my dearest?”

"Nothing. Everything." She clutched his face in desperate hands and kissed him, rocking her hips against his until she felt his body begin to harden in response. When his arms came up around her, she closed her eyes to hold back the tears of relief. "Love me, Dorian. Right here, right now Love me and make everything all right”

Yanking off Ser Vale's silk doublet to cool his overheated body, Kolis stalked down the palace hallway. Fury vibrated in his bones and his blood thundered in his veins. Dark Lord steal his soul! He'd almost ruined everything. The keflee had been potent indeed, laced with a Feraz additive intended to drive her into his arms. He'd had to drink it too, thanks to her suspicious nature, and the effects were far stronger than even the most concentrated keflee could have been. He'd thought that drink would be enough to cloud her senses and get her to accept the first Mark. Instead he'd come close to destroying months of work in one rash, unthinking act. If he lost the queen—if she banished him from her court—the High Mage would be enraged. He opened the door to the small suite Annoura had given him when Ser Vale had become one of her Favorites. A flash of bright color caught the edge of his vision and he turned to see the trailing edge of a woman's skirts disappear around his bedchamber door. Temper bit hard. Lust bit harder. "Come here," he commanded.

Fabric rustled. Jiarine Montevero stepped out of his bedchamber into the small parlor of his suite. "It didn't go well, I presume." Her lips twisted. "I told you it wouldn't. It's too soon. She still loves him. You must break that before you can break her.”

"I said come." The temperature in the room dropped sharply.

Jiarine turned pale. The sardonic triumph fell from her like an untied veil. She hurried towards him. When she drew close enough, he grabbed her arm and pinned her against the wall, grinding his hips against hers. His hands plunged into her bodice and tugged her generous breasts free of their confinement, finding the nipples and squeezing them until she cried out.

"You find my failure amusing,
umagi?”

"No!" she gasped, groaning as he twisted her flesh. "Never."

"Whom do you serve, Jiarine?”

She gasped again and offered up her mouth, her throat, those lush, lovely breasts. "You, master. Only you.”

His head ducked. He took a nipple in his mouth and bit down. She moaned, her hand clenching tight in his hair, a shudder rippling through her. The hot, sweet smell of surrender burst from her in a heady rush, sweeping across his heightened senses. He traced his fingers over the creamy skin of her left breast. Trails of carefully masked magic followed behind. Six shadowy Marks grew visible on her flesh, six small points of darkness forming a circle over her heart. Six Mage Marks that ensured his absolute power over her.

"I own you, my sweet
umagi.
Let me hear you say it.”

"You own me, my lord, body and soul. I live only to serve you." Savage triumph roared through him at the completeness of her willing, even eager, surrender. He spun her around roughly and flipped up her skirts. Beneath them, she wore the pleasure girl's undergarments he'd given her months ago, slippery red satin, slit from crotch to anus for his convenience. Plump, shaved flesh pouted through the edges of the fabric, and the scent of musk wafted up in rich waves. His cock jumped in response.

"Then find a way to break her for me, pet. You've had a year, and still she resists. You must do better." He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, forcing her back to arch. The motion shoved her bare breasts against the chamber's fabric- covered walls. Her nipples, already tight, became diamond- hard points as the textured fabric rubbed against them.

She was sobbing, hips squirming. "I will, master. I promise.”

"Good. You won't like the consequences if you fail me.”

He kneed her thighs apart, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. There was no time for niceties—not that he'd ever been a tender lover, and not that Jiarine had ever minded. Her body slammed against the wall from the force of his penetration. She gave a soft, choked cry, then a raspy, muttered plea for more as her hot, wet flesh clasped tightly around him. Sweet, succulent Jiarine. Such a pleasure in so many ways. So willing to take whatever he had to offer, no matter how brutally he offered it. Obligingly, his hips drew back, then rammed forward again.

The Great Sun had just risen when Sian vel Sendaris and Torel vel Carlian, the two Fey warriors dispatched by Belliard vel Jelani to seek information about the Feyreisa's origins, arrived in the small northern city of Norban. They'd made good time, traveling light and moving fast, resting one bell for every three they ran and shaving seventy miles off the journey by running cross-country from Vrest to Hartslea before picking up the North Road for the remaining distance. They had actually arrived the night before and waited just outside the village, watching until the shadows of night retreated and the residents began to stir.

Sian and Torel entered by the main road, meeting scores of surprised and suspicious stares with stone-faced calm, and began to systematically work their way through the city. From home to home, shop to shop, they searched for answers to the mystery of the Feyreisa's past. They did not ask about a red- haired infant abandoned in the forests two dozen years before. Instead, they inquired after Pars Grolin, a journeyman smith with bright red hair to whom the Fey owed a debt of gratitude. He might, Sian told the people he questioned, have been traveling with his small daughter.

It was the truth, though it had been stretched a bit. Fey honor prevented warriors from telling outright lies, but tairen craftiness allowed them to dance on the blade's edge of truth when necessary. There really had been a red-haired journeyman smith named Pars Grolin, and he really had traveled through Norban. About seven hundred years earlier. Sian and Torel simply avoided mentioning specific time- frames. And—who knew?—maybe Pars really had brought his daughter with him on one of his travels.

Though it pained them to do so, Sian and Torel attempted to shake hands with each individual they met, using skin-to-skin contact to probe the minds of Norban's citizens and follow any memories aroused by the mention of bright red hair and small girls. Many of the Celierians refused to touch the Fey, either from fear or distrust, and Sian and Torel resorted to probing the minds of those doubters with careful weaves of Spirit.

The warriors' progress through the town was slow, and they did not go unnoticed.

Ellie spent a much quieter morning than the one she'd suffered through the previous thy. She woke to find the top of her nightstand draped with a diamond necklace fit for a queen, the stones large and of obvious quality, the chains so delicate she could break them without effort. The message of the gift, she surmised, ran something along the lines of "wear the trappings of a queen if you must, but know you can shed them any time you choose.”

To the consternation of Lauriana and all the tradesfolk, Rain arrived very early and made himself both visible and threatening as he stood at her side, arms crossed over his chest, fingers touching the scarlet hilt of his deadly Fey'cha. When any of the tradesfolk became the least bit pushy or rude, he would fix glowing eyes upon the offender and growl deep in his throat. Three seamstresses had to be carried out after they fainted in fright. And even though Ellysetta chided them for their wickedness, the Fey warriors laughed silently among themselves and cast bets on how long it would be before the next young lady keeled over and how many would swoon before lunchtime.

The morning passed quickly, and soon Lillis and Lorelle returned from their studies and clamored for their promised afternoon in the park. At least five dozen children were waiting when the four of them arrived. Ellie recognized barely half of the waiting youngsters; the rest were children she had never met, a mix ranging from the well-dressed offspring of merchants and simple-gentry to ragged street urchins and every social stratum in between. Each child clutched a Stones pouch and sported a wide-eyed, hopeful look as the Fey king entered the park.

Ellie bit her lip to stop from laughing. Word of the earlier Stones match with the Feyreisen had obviously spread through the West End and beyond. "I hope you're feeling up to another match, Rain," she murmured. "Because I don't think they're here to play with me.”

Rain looked utterly taken aback. "Do you think they just decided to gather here on the off chance I would show up?”

"Oh, no. I think they had forewarning." She tilted her head towards Lillis and Lorelle.

"Ah." He seemed to gird himself. "Well, I suppose
we
shouldn't disappoint them." Holding out his wrist for Ellie's fingers, he escorted her to the Stones grid.

There were too many children to include all of them in a single round of Stones, so Rain divided them into groups by producing a handful of small coins that, once divided among the children, changed color to separate them into teams. Rain shed his weapons, and the games began—though only after Ellie made certain the rules prohibited all use of magic.

On their third game, Ellie and a boy she didn't know—a street child, by the unkempt look of him—raced to claim a contested square. Laughing, she reached the square first. A split second later, he plowed into her at full speed, knocking them both off their feet.

"Ow!" She landed hard. Her elbows cracked on the unforgiving surface of the Stones grid. The boy's knee caught her in the belly and drove the air from her lungs. As she lay there, gasping for breath, she caught a brief glimpse of the boy's eyes beneath his grimy mop of hair.

For one strange, surreal moment, she could have sworn the child's eyes were black, glowing with tiny red sparks.

She blinked, and the image was gone. The boy's eyes were brown and filled with fear. He didn't even bother to look over his shoulder at Rain, who was bearing down on him. He just scrambled to his feet and ran as if pursued by the Hounds of the Seventh Hell.

"Shei'tani?"
Rain dropped to one knee and reached to help her up. "Are you hurt?”

"Just winded," she wheezed. She held out her hands and stared in shock. Red blood—quite a bit of it—covered one hand. She looked down at her waist, and light-headedness assailed her. Her side had been laid open by the slash of a knife, the wound deep enough that her skirts were already dark with blood.

The boy had stabbed her.

Rain swept her into his arm and barked out a rapid spate of orders. "Fey!
Ti'Feyreisa!
Bel!
Kaiven chakor!
Catch that boy. Quickly, before he gets away. The rest of you, to me!”

Ellie's quintet raced after the street boy. Moving in a blur of speed, another dozen Fey snatched up Lillis and Lorelle and carried them off to safety. The rest formed a tight protective ring around Rain and Ellysetta.

Ellie stared up at Rain's pale, drawn face and blinked as his image wavered. Had the boy poisoned as well as stabbed her?

"I've got to stop the bleeding before I take you to Marissya," Rain told her. He clasped a hand over her wounded side, and a bright glow of green Earth flowed from his fingertips. Her skin tingled, then began to sting. She hissed as the sting became sharp needles of pain lancing through her side. It felt as if he were tugging the torn edges of her flesh together.

Rain swore with quiet bitterness when she flinched. "Forgive me, Ellysetta. I was not thinking to stop the pain, only the blood." Cool lavender Spirit joined Earth, overriding her protesting nerves with an illusion of normalcy. Then it was only the tumult of his emotions that beat at her. With inexplicable surety, she not only sensed each emotion distinctly, she
knew
exactly what motivated each of them: fury over her wounding, shame that he'd let it happen and that he'd caused her further pain.

Fear that the wound might be worse than mere rent flesh. Ellysetta cupped a hand to his face. "I'm all right," she assured him.

He grasped her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. "Of course you are," he agreed. Against her palm, she felt his lips tremble, and in her mind she heard his quiet, shocked thought:
so dear, in so short a time.
The thought wasn't sent on a thread of Spirit, it was simply
there,
in her mind. He kissed her again on the lips, quick and fierce, then clutched her close to his chest and stood.
"Fey!"
he cried. "
Bote lute'cha!”

The remaining Fey circled tight around Rain, red Fey'cha gripped menacingly in their hands. Moving as one unit, they raced towards Celieria's palace and Marissya's healing hands.

The boy ran like a rabbit.

Bel swore as he skidded around a corner and smashed into a fruit seller's cart. Fruit went everywhere, apples and oranges rolling across the narrow cobbled lane. Bel stumbled on a raft of apples and went sprawling. He tucked in his head and shoulder and turned the sprawl into a diving roll, coming up on one knee in time to see the boy duck down a small alleyway.

The rest of the quintet vaulted past Bel and cleared the river of rolling fruit in great, air-powered leaps.
«Down the alley on the right!»
he commanded. What advantage the Fey had in speed, the boy negated with his intimate knowledge of the city's many side streets and alleyways and what appeared to be an innate ability to avoid capture—learned, no doubt, from years of evading the authorities after picking pockets and thieving. The boy led them on a wild chase, twisting through a labyrinth of uneven roads and narrow alleys, ducking through shops and darting through merchant stalls, always managing to spin away just before the Fey's weaves could reach him. Rowan and Adrial took to the rooftops to try to cut the boy off while Bel and the others remained in pursuit on the ground.

The child burst out of the alley, darted under the wheels of a moving wagon, and hotfooted it down yet another narrow side street. He skidded to a halt when the cobbles in front of him bulged upward and a wall of Earth erupted out of the ground to barricade the road. Rowan and Adrial leapt down from a rooftop, breaking their descent with a cushion of Air. Bel and the others blocked the other end of the street.

The boy feinted right towards the back door of a baker's shop, then dodged to the left, pelting down a dank, narrow alley—little more than a moss-and-slime-covered footpath— between buildings. Bel charged after him, closing the distance between them. The boy was tiring, but the Fey were scarcely winded. The end of this chase would not be long in coming.

The boy knew it, too. He cast a wild-eyed glance over his shoulder and put on a burst of desperate speed, heading down yet another side street. He spun around a lamppost and launched himself down a short, narrow alley.

"Got you, boy!" Bel growled. The youth had made a mistake. This alley offered no outlet. Three solid brick walls hemmed the boy in, and Kieran wove Earth to weld shut the back doors that opened to the alley. There would be no more dodging through back rooms and kitchens, and no more escaping Fey weaves. "Now throw down that blade of yours and come with us. The Feyreisen has some questions for you." Bel moved in, arms spread wide, his palms open. He didn't want to kill the boy, only catch him and bring him in for questioning. After that, the King's justice could decide what to do with him. If the child decided to get difficult, Bel would simply weave the Air out of his lungs to render him unconscious.

The child spat out a filthy oath. Suddenly his thin body went poker stiff. He clutched at his throat and chest and gave a gurgling cry.

"Boy?" Bel abandoned caution and ran towards him. Only then did he sense the weave. Air and Earth, and something else Bel couldn't quite make out, something masked by the other weaves, but it set his teeth on edge.

Blood vessels burst in the boy's wild eyes, turning them into pools of scarlet framing terrified brown irises. His lips went purplish blue. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the damp filth of the alley ground.

Bel didn't need to check the boy's pulse to know he was dead.

His eyes scanned the alleyway, seeking the path of the weave that had killed the boy. The murderer had already erased his tracks, leaving nothing, no fragment of a weave to trace back to its source.

"The knife, Bel," Kiel reminded him. "Rain will want the blade that cut his mate.”

Bel knelt to rifle the urchin's ragged clothes. He found a sheathed blade tucked in the boy's waistband. "Spit and scorch me," he whispered as he recognized the distinctive, black-silk-wrapped hilt of a Fey'cha. What was a street urchin who'd attacked the Feyreisa doing with a Fey'cha? The name-mark etched into the blade's pommel chilled Bel's blood.

Without warning, the knife grew hot to the touch. Swearing, Bel released the weapon and leapt back just as it burst into intense, blue-white flame. The boy's body began to burn, too. "Murder!" The scream came from the mouth of the alley where a crowd of Celierians had gathered. A woman pointed at Bel and cried again, "Murder!"

Kolis Manza turned away from the crowd across the street, a satisfied smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. That should keep the Fey busy for a while. Let them deal with the accusations of murder now, on top of all the suspicions of
dahl'reisen
raids and the new, dark distrust quietly spreading among the lower classes and the religious zealots.

He walked three blocks down to the Inn of the Blue Pony and entered unobtrusively by way of the back door and servants' stair. Young Birk, friend of the dead urchin, was waiting obediently for him. Wordlessly, the boy handed him the long, wavy-edged dagger the now-dead Beran has tossed to him before leading the Fey on that wild chase through the city streets. The black metal blade was dry, but the dark jewel in the hilt throbbed a rich, satisfied red, testifying to its recent taste of Ellysetta Baristani's blood.

"Excellent, boy," Kolis said. "You did well." Even Beran had served his purpose—though he'd nearly killed the girl rather than merely nicking her as he'd been ordered.