CHAPTER FIVE
Shrouded in the luxurious folds of his purple robe of office, High Mage Vadim Maur sat on the imposing throne of Eld, his body cradled in the cupped black hands of Seledorn, Lord of Shadows, whose colossal body, graven in sel’dor ore, towered over him like the vengeful god he was.
Massive black dragon wings, the carved stone polished to a glossy sheen, soared up from the god’s back and curved forward to form a great, dark protective dome over the Mage’s throne.
The symbolism of the throne was clear: Seledorn cradled the High Mage in his hands and sheltered him in the haven of the god’s divine might.
The sentiment was one in need of reinforcement.
Vadim’s spies in the Council and the Mage Halls had carried back the whispers that had begun to circulate among the Mages in the days since his incarnation.
As gifted a Mage as Nour had been, there were a handful of others who possessed a greater command of Azrahn, and with Vadim now inhabiting Nour’s body, those Mages had begun planning to overthrow him.
But the Mages were greatly mistaken if they believed Nour’s limitations had lessened Vadim’s ability to hold on to power.
He was still Vadim Maur, the greatest High Mage in the history of Eld.
He was the High Mage who had engineered his own Tairen Soul after centuries of breeding and experimentation.
And soon… very soon… he would claim that Tairen Soul and bring her back to Eld to serve as the host vessel for his next incarnation.
He’d feared her lost when she fled to Elvia and slipped beyond his reach—but now she was back.
Though she was still somehow blocking him from her dreams, the great, vast, dark potential of her drew his senses like a lodestone.
Her closeness brought his magic simmering to the surface, sending tiny sparks of dark power coursing through his veins until his whole body tingled with electric anticipation.
When the new moons rose over Dark Night, the thirteenth of Seledos, it would be Vadim Maur, Tairen Soul, who sat cradled in the hands of Seledorn, god of darkness, and the world would cower before his greatness.
“My Mages!” he cried to the thousands assembled in the vast cavern of Boura Fell’s throne room.
Blue-robed Primages had gathered closest to the throne, followed by red-robed Sulimages.
Several dozen select saffron-robed Apprentices and even a handful of promising green-clad Novices had been granted permission to squeeze in to the nooks and crannies at the back of the cavern.
“My Mages, long have we dwelled here in the darkness, recovering from the devastation of Demyan Raz’s lost Wars.
Long have we toiled in secret, patiently rebuilding our numbers, silently growing strong again—even stronger than we were before.
“Many of you had barely donned Novice green when Rain Tairen Soul scorched the world. You do not remember a time when Eld was a power to be reckoned with, when Mages walked freely aboveground, and the lesser beings of this world sought our counsel and good favor.”
He let his gaze pass slowly round the chamber, resting longest on the older Mages—both those who had been his supporters and, more importantly, those who had not.
“The eldest among you remember what it was like to be a Mage in the Council of Demyan Raz. He was blinded by his own ambitions. He underestimated the power of the Tairen Souls. I have not.”
He watched the faces of those he least trusted for some flickering look, some smirk to betray their true feelings, but he found nothing.
Not because they trusted him; he wasn’t fool enough to think that.
No, they were simply skilled adversaries, well versed at hiding their thoughts and pretending loyalty.
“Some of you were with me that day when Lord Death—the Fey warrior who had never once tasted defeat in over two thousand years—threw down his swords and surrendered to me without a fight. So, too, will I conquer Rain Tairen Soul, and the Fading Lands will soon follow.”
He saw the heads beginning to nod, as those who had been with him remembered his daring plan and their triumphant return to Eld with Lord Death and his mate in tow.
Experienced Primages long into their fifth incarnations had sneered at the young Primage Vadim, dismissing his idea as ridiculous nonsense.
Those Mages, who had trembled when Lord Death stepped onto a battlefield, thought it impossible that such a great and fearless warrior could be taken alive—let alone brought to heel in such a simple way.
And yet he had, and Lord Death’s capture had catapulted Vadim high into the ranks of the Mage Council and ultimately earned him the coveted purple of Eld’s highest office.
He was the youngest High Mage ever to sit on Eld’s throne. And if several of the older, more hidebound Primages who’d opposed his appointment had ended up mysteriously dead in the process, well, they’d served as a cautionary tale. Such was the price of progress in the Magedom of Eld.
“We tested the strength of the Fey at Teleon and Orest, and found them far more vulnerable than we thought.” He pinned his gaze on the Mage he suspected of fomenting most of the dissension currently rippling through the Council’s ranks.
“Their numbers are few, their allies fewer. If not for the tairen, both cities would belong to the Empire of Eld. Best of all, our use of the chemar proved a resounding success.”
The real victory of Orest and Teleon, though, was that Ellysetta Baristani had left the safety and protection of the Fading Lands.
With his four Marks upon her breast, it was only a matter of time before he completed the claiming of her soul.
First, however, he had a kingdom to conquer… and a trap for a Tairen Soul to set.
“Now the armies of Celieria are divided, their mortal allies still weeks away. They and the Fey are ripe for the plucking. The victory I have long promised you is upon us.” Vadim rose from the throne and spread his arms wide.
“At last, my Mages, we are ready to reclaim our rightful place in the world. At last, the time has come to unleash the full might of Eld and seize first Celieria, then the world for the glory of Seledorn, God of Shadows!”
Celieria ~ Kreppes
The night was deep. Alone in his bed, dark but for the light of the waning moons shining in through the windowpanes, Dervas Sebourne lay sleeping.
Still, unmoving, more statue than man. Outside, the bell tower of Kreppes rang the first small silver bell of the night, and that sound heralded the arrival of the first day of winter, and the first day of Seledos.
Lord Sebourne’s eyes opened.
It was time.
He rose quietly and dressed in silence, with slow deliberation. Leather trousers, boots, no chain mail, the sun-and-moons pendant he’d worn all week. A leather vest lined with steel plate was his only armor—nothing to alert the King’s Guard of his intent.
He donned the same weapons he’d worn since receiving the king’s pardon: a sword sheathed at his left hip, a long dagger sheathed at his right.
But just in case someone needed a quick silencing, he strapped on two small wrist-bows, each loaded with a poison dart and covered by the wide cuffs of his surcoat.
He slipped a vial of extra darts for the wristbows into his surcoat pocket before slipping out of his bedroom and closing the door noiselessly behind him.
* * *
None of the soldiers standing guard in the hallways paid Dervas much mind as he walked out of the east wing into the courtyard.
They were used to the folk in this castle taking midnight strolls along the battlements.
The week of waiting for war to begin had worn the nerves of even the staunchest soldier.
He made his way towards the shadowy cleft between the fortress and the inner wall that surrounded it. Six of his personal escort, armed as he was, were waiting.
“The others?” he asked in a toneless whisper.
“Dispatched to their locations, my lord,” his captain replied. The other six men of his guard had their own tasks to perform this night.
“Then it is time.”
They entered the central building where the king was housed.
When the battle began, the wide stone floor would be carpeted in rows of sleeping men at night.
But for now, all the troops that did not fit in the overflowing barracks spent their nights in one of the encampments outside the fortress walls.
In the otherwise empty hall, six King’s Guard stood on duty. Two near the hallway leading to the east wing, two by the hallway to the west, and another two at the top of the stairs. All six watched Sebourne and his men with unblinking eyes as they entered.
“You two, come with me,” Lord Sebourne said to his men in a carrying voice. “The rest of you stay here. I won’t be but a few chimes.”
Leaving four of his guard to wait in the main hall, he and the other two jogged up the stone steps to the second level and the hallway that led to the king’s chambers.
The four guards downstairs sat on a table near the guards on the right of the room.
Three of Sebourne’s men started a game of toss blade with a sheathed dagger—an old Celierian warrior’s game fashioned after the Fey Cha Baruk, the Dance of Knives.
The fourth man started an easy conversation with the closest guards.
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m starting to wish the flaming Eld would just attack already,” he said. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since we got here.”
A clatter made both the guards and Lord Sebourne’s man glance around to find two of Sebourne’s fellows chasing after the sheathed dagger, which had skittered across the hall towards the other two King’s Guard.