Chapter Four #2
“Your time in the world of mortals has addled your wits, vel Jelani.” With blue eyes as cold as a winter dawn and a voice
to match, Tajik vel Sibboreh, the auburn-haired general of the Fey’s eastern armies, approached. “He is the Dark Lord.”
“He was,” Bel answered. “But now he is Fey once more, and he is welcome. He has passed through the Mists, and you will greet
him as the brother he is.”
“Dahl’reisen are no brothers of mine.” In a flash, Tajik pulled a red-hilted Fey’cha and pressed the razor edge of the poison blade to
Gaelen’s neck.
Just as quickly, Bel pulled red on Tajik. Tajik’s men drew their own blades in an instant, training the deadly points on Bel.
Bel ignored them. “Nei, my friend,” he advised softly, holding Tajik’s gaze, “you will not do this. He is my blade brother, and we are both bloodsworn to the Feyreisa. She restored his soul. His dahl’reisen scar is gone. Even Marissya has laid hands upon him and declared him bright and shining.”
Tajik’s gaze flickered to Marissya. “Kem’falla? Is it true?”
Marissya nodded. “Everything is true, dear friend. Sheathe your steel. There is no evil here. Only cause for joy and celebration.
My brother has returned, and Rain has found his truemate—in Celieria, of all places—and she has restored Gaelen’s soul.”
Tajik remained still for a long moment, absorbing Marissya’s words. Then, with a final dark look for Gaelen, he sheathed his
blade and stepped back. Around him, his men followed suit.
“Gaelen vel Serranis,” he said, “the gods have shown you more mercy than you deserve. No matter how it grieves me to grant
you passage into the Fading Lands, I will not stand in your way.” His face hardened to a cold, stony mask. “But be warned:
You chose the Shadowed Path before. You won’t have that choice again. If you break our laws this time, I will personally escort
you into your next life.” His thumb caressed the scarlet hilt of his sheathed Fey’cha.
Gaelen rose to his feet. For once, there was no hint of his habitual, cocky assurance, only sober acknowledgment. “Accepted,
Fey.”
Tajik’s cold eyes swept over Gaelen from head to toe, taking his measure. When he was finished, he grunted and turned to Bel.
“Who is this Feyreisa that she should restore a dahl’reisen’s soul?”
Bel smiled. “Don’t be so suspicious. She is bright and shining like nothing you’ve ever seen before. And she is a Tairen Soul.”
“I don’t like it,” Tajik muttered.
“You don’t like any change, my old friend.”
Tajik grunted again. “Not all change is good. No matter how appealing it may seem at first glance.” On a private Spirit weave,
he added, ?And I’m not the only one who feels that way. Rumors have been flying since we received word that vel Serranis was returning with you. The Massan gathered in Dharsa this morning.?
Bel’s brows shot up. ?Without Marissya or Rain?? The Massan, the council of five powerful Fey statesmen who oversaw the domestic governance of the Fading Lands, did not convene
without the Shei’dalin and the Feyreisen except in times of extreme need. For them to convene now—knowing Rain was on his way—was akin to declaring
a lack of confidence in the Tairen Soul’s leadership.
?Aiyah, without them. So you see, I am not the only one to fear this change.? The faintest hint of warmth softened Tajik’s stern face. “Bel, you and I are cradle friends. I trust you as I trust no other.
Tell me you have no concerns—tell me there is nothing to fear—and I will believe you.”
Bel had been anticipating such questions. He knew his old friend Tajik too well. The problem was that Ellysetta bore two Mage
Marks. To claim no concern would be a lie, and no Fey worthy of his steel would ever lie—but neither was Bel willing to cement
Tajik’s doubts and fears by refusing to answer.
“Tajik, my brother, I will not give you a truth you will be able to judge for yourself when you meet her,” he replied. The
evasion was smooth and perfectly reasonable. “One look upon her face and you will know as I do—without a single doubt—that
she is everything all Fey warriors have sworn to protect. You cannot help but love her.”
The general of the eastern Fey army drew in a breath, then let it out with a nod of acceptance. “Bas’ka, Belliard. As you say, so shall it be. Where is this paragon of all things bright and good?”
Bel clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Rain brought up the rear, and she is with him.”
Tajik grunted. “So we wait.”
“Aiyah.” Bel saw Marissya break from Dax’s side and hurry towards the Mists as one of the Fey emerging took three steps and fell to his knees.
Now the hard part began: the waiting. For each, the journey through the Mists was different, and the passage could last anywhere from several chimes to several bells.
Those on the Fading Lands side of the Garreval could only sit and wait as their brethren navigated whatever tests the shifting clouds held in store for them.
Marissya healed those whom the Mists had treated unkindly, while Bel and Gaelen walked the wall, waiting with mounting concern
for Rain and Ellysetta to appear. Chimes turned to bells. The Great Sun began its descent towards the western horizon. When
the last of the Fey warriors finally cleared the Mists and staggered towards the gates, Gaelen and Bel exchanged openly worried
glances. The skies above the pass were clear.
Rain and Ellysetta were nowhere in sight.
Within the Mists, surrounded by a thick cloud of whiteness, Ellysetta had lost all sense of direction, all vision, all touch.
She could not see even a finger’s span into the dense, suffocating whiteness. She could not feel the saddle beneath her or
the tufts of tairen fur clutched in her hands. Fear exploded in her belly, robbing her lungs of breath. ?Rain!?
?I am here, Ellysetta. I am with you.?
?I can’t see you! I can’t feel you!?
?Peace, Ellysetta. The Mists were made to confuse and isolate those who dare enter. You cannot detect me with your senses,
but you can feel me through our bond. Talk to me. It makes the passing less frightening.?
She couldn’t imagine talking would make this better. A coldness had begun to creep over her. The white mist seemed to be growing
darker, and she began to hear voices: whispers at first, a soft rumble of disquiet that grew louder as they flew. She couldn’t
make out what the voices were saying, but the sounds carried an undercurrent of tension, like the muffled tones of an argument
heard through thick walls.
?Rain, do you hear that??
?Hear what, Ellysetta??
?The voices. People talking.?
He was silent for a moment. ?The Fey are with us in the Mists. Could they be the ones you hear??
She strained her ears, trying to discern where the voices were coming from. They sounded so near, yet she couldn’t pinpoint
a source. The sound seemed to come from every direction, all at once. ?I don’t think so,? she said. Her heart beat a little faster. ?Whoever it is sounds angry.?
The mists grew darker still, deepening to a thick morass of shadow in which the agitated murmur of voices became a sharp exchange.
She could make out a smattering of words, all spoken in Feyan.
Shei’dalin . . . Mage claimed . . . Nei! . . . tainted . . . bright . . . unwelcome . . . truemate . . . murderer . . . enemy!
Dread curled in her belly. ?Rain . . . I think they’re arguing about me.?
?I will fly faster, shei’tani.? The grim tone in his Spirit voice frightened her. Whatever those voices were, apparently they weren’t good.
She tried to tighten her grip. She couldn’t feel the wind on her face or see Rain’s tairen body beneath hers. If he was flying
faster—if they were even flying at all—she couldn’t tell.
Now the Mists were almost black, and streaks of what looked like lightning ripped the darkness all around her, as if she and
Rain had flown into the heart of a violent thunderstorm.
The sound of the accusing voices grew louder and louder. Traitor! Shadowfolk! Each condemning word was a crashing boom reverberating in her skull. Tainted! Murderer!
?Rain!? Terrified, she screamed for him, but even in her own mind, she could barely hear her own cry above the din.
Mage claimed!
Dark soul!
ENEMY!
“No!” she cried. “I’m not dark; I’m not the enemy!” She felt a terrible pressure in her chest, as if a heavy weight were settling
over her. Icy cold invaded her body. “Please!” she begged. “You must believe me!”
The mist began to thin, and for a moment, Ellysetta dared hope they had passed through the worst the Mists had to offer. Then
she saw what lay before her, and her tiny flicker of hope went out.
Images emerged from the mist, solidifying into a wide, green lane. Tall, majestic trees lined the avenue, and beneath the
shadow of their arching branches, grim-faced Fey warriors stood with blades drawn in silent menace. They were looking at her
in a way no Fey had since that first day when she’d called Rain from the sky: like death longing to slip its leash.
?Rain?? Ellysetta glanced around in sudden panic. She was no longer on his back. She was standing on her own feet in the middle of
the lane. She spun in a frantic circle, searching for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Rain!”
“The accused stands alone for judgment,” a cold voice declared. A woman’s voice, rich with power.
Ellysetta’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach, and fear shuddered through her. Slowly, she turned back around.
At the end of the lane stood dozens of red-veiled shei’dalins, backed by twice as many fearsome, red-leather-clad Fey lords. Each Fey lord had unsheathed one of his seyani longswords and gripped it, point down, before him. The naked steel glinted with unmistakable threat.
The thick veils of the tallest shei’dalin rippled, and the female voice spoke again, stern and commanding. “The accused will approach and be judged.”