Chapter Nineteen #2
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss in her palm. “I doubt it. Eld don’t treat their prisoners kindly. A thousand years of
torment would be too much for anyone to bear.”
“You did,” she whispered.
“Only because the tairen would not let me die.” He drew a breath. “Nei, I’m sure the ones who bore you could not have been long in Mage hands.”
He stroked her hair, half of him wishing now that he had not taken her to the Bay of Flames. “I’m sorry, shei’tani. I had hoped the Bay of Flames would bring you peace, not more worries. I wanted our last days before I left for Orest to
be a joy.” A time of memories that would last in the event war broke out before he could return. “I meant to take you to my
shellabah, as I promised you in Celieria I would.”
She tilted her head back, her eyes shining in the dim light filtering past his shade weaves. “But our bond isn’t complete
yet. You said you would take me to your shellabah on the first night of our union. Let’s wait until then. So I’ll have something to look forward to when you come back to me.”
His lips found the soft skin of her neck, and he nuzzled the warm pulse point there, loving her scent, her taste, the feel of her satiny skin against his mouth. “Bas’ka,” he agreed. “We will wait until then. It shall be my last courtship gift to you.”
“I will be very cross if you disappoint me.” Her arms slid around his neck, and she pressed her body to his. “Tell me you
love me.”
“I love you.” He dragged his mouth down her neck and across her shoulder. His hands spanned her slender waist and slid up
her ribs to cup her small breasts. “More than I have words to express.”
She caught his face and bent to take his lips with hers. “Then love me, Rain, for what time we have left.”
The silky bed linens whispered against her skin as he bore her down among the soft cushions and coverlets. His skin gleamed
lustrous silver and his eyes glowed with warmth and passion. “I will love you much longer than that, kem’reisa.”
Despite the shei’dalins’ best efforts over the next few days, their searching turned up no clues to long-lost weaves that might speed a child’s birth
from the Well of Souls, and the day of Rain’s departure for Orest dawned without any sign of victory in the battle to save
the kitlings.
As the warriors leaving the Fading Lands prepared for their departure, Rain walked alone to the king’s armory.
There, in the silence of the chamber broken only by the melodic splashing of faerilas pouring into a private bathing pool, Rain undressed and set aside his leathers and steel and even his gleaming rainbow-lit
Soul Quest crystal and the carved Tairen’s Eye signet ring he’d worn since becoming Defender of the Fey.
Naked, he walked to the edge of the bathing pool and went down on one knee, his arms extended, palms up, as he softly sang
the words of the ancient prayer all warriors invoked before battle.
When he rose, he plunged into the falling stream of faerilas and gasped.
This fountain—like all those in the palace—was fed directly from Dharsa’s Source.
The water was icy cold and rich with potent magic.
It froze and seared him and set his magic afire inside his flesh.
He stood beneath its flow until his body shone with the purified force of his considerable power, and then stepped out of
the pool and dried himself with a swift weave of Air. Six steps brought him to the altar niche, where thirteen fresh, unlit
candles in various shades of earth and sky had been laid out in a pattern of divine power. He passed his hand over the candles,
loosing a faint weave of Fire as he spoke the name of each god or goddess. One by one, the wicks burst into pale yellow-orange
flame, and a heady mé-lange of fragrances filled the air.
Rain knelt before the altar and sang the invocation of the Feyreisen. “Light of the world, shine your grace upon this Fey.
Grant me the wisdom to guide my brothers in battle, the strength to drive back the enemy, and, if it is your will, the courage
to die bravely and with honor. Light be victorious.”
Last, he sent up silent a plea of his own, If I fall, let my life be the sacrifice that frees Ellysetta from the Mages. If I fall, help her to lead our people with strength
and wisdom so the Fading Lands may thrive once more. And the hardest wish for any Fey who wanted his shei’tani bound to him and him alone . . . “If I fall . . . let her live to find love and joy with another.”
The candles flickered, and with one final word of prayer and thanks, he blew them out and waved the aromatic smoke from the
extinguished wicks over his face and bare skin, closing his eyes and filling his lungs with the warm fragrance.
He’d performed a similar ritual in his youth, before he’d marched out to war. Then, the smoke and faerilas had filled him with a sense of peace and purpose. He’d been so young back then, so unaware of the true horrors war could
bring.
Now he knew better. Now he knew how damning even victory could be.
He approached the alcove that held the armor of the king, then stopped. The moment he donned the golden steel, the Fading Lands would be at war and there would be no turning back until the Eld surrendered or the light of the Fey was extinguished.
He could almost hear Johr’s voice, full of hard edges and fierce challenge: You think you have the right, Fey? Are you certain?
He recalled the day Johr had donned the armor. He’d summoned all the Tairen Souls of the Fading Lands into this room to bear
witness. There were twenty of them then, ranging in age from Rain’s own youthful two hundred years to Johr’s almost sixteen
hundred. Rain had stood in the same spot he was now, his body trembling with a mix of excitement, dread, and anticipation.
Gaelen vel Serranis had just wreaked his dark vengeance upon the Eld, and the world had gone mad.
He and his brothers had watched Johr strip away his leathers and steel. They’d sung with him the songs of prayer and purification
as he’d cleansed himself in the waters of the Source and lit the sacred candles as Rain had just done. Magic—Johr’s own great
tairen power—had swirled around him, draping his nakedness in great, blinding swaths of light as he stepped resolutely toward
the alcove where the king’s armor awaited.
“You think being king is about power?” Johr had asked them. He’d stood so tall, his shoulders broad, his face carved from
stone. His eyes had whirled tairen-bright, pupil-less, their normal brown transformed to glowing amber that burned like molten
steel. “Power is nothing. Kingship is about choices. Hard, bloody, damnable choices. One day, any one of you may be the Feyreisen.
When the time comes for you to make those decisions, will you be wise enough to make the right one?” His searing eyes had
scorched them. “Think long and hard, my brother-kin. We are creatures born for killing, but war is a poison draft. No matter
why you drink it, the cup holds death—and not just for your enemies. So be sure—be soul-scorching sure of two things before
you take the smallest sip: first, that you have no better alternative, and second . . .”
His voice had trailed off. He lowered his head as though the effort to keep himself standing tall was too great.
“And second?” asked one of the younger Tairen Souls, a Fey barely older than Rain.
Johr drew a breath. Slowly, he lifted his head and drew his shoulders back, square and strong once more. “And second, be sure
that once you tilt the cup, you are Fey enough to drain it though its poison rots your flesh, lays waste your lands, and leaves
everyone you love writhing in bitter anguish.”
His power had blazed, and the armor in the alcove had dissolved, re-forming on the king’s body, fitted to him as though the
steel had been forged to his form. He’d stood there for one last, silent moment, a shining Fey prince clad in black, scarlet,
and gold, his eyes as bleak and grim as Rain had ever seen them. “To war, my brothers.” Johr lowered the battle helm upon
his head. “To victory or death.”
“To victory or death!” they’d cried.
And so the Mage Wars had begun.
Now, standing alone in the king’s armory on the brink of a second Mage War, Rain found Johr’s ringed name symbol on one of
the black leather plates. “If you can hear me, Johr Feyreisen,” he murmured, rubbing a thumb across the sigil of the previous
Fey king, “guide me now as you did when I first found my wings.”
When Rain emerged from the king’s armory and stepped into the Hall of Tairen, Bel and Gaelen were waiting. Bel glanced at
Rain’s plain black leathers and silvery steel, but all he said was, “The warriors have gathered.”
Gaelen’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “You still believe this can end in any way but one?”
Rain adjusted his meicha belts. “Nei, I am not so big a fool.”
“Then why this?” Gaelen’s hands spread to indicate Rain’s old leathers.
“War is coming—I know that is as inevitable as it was a thousand years ago—but the moment the Eld see the Feyreisen’s golden war steel on the ramparts of Orest, the first battle will begin.
Let us position our men, secure our allies, and plan our defenses before throwing down the gauntlet.
” When Gaelen continued to look askance, he sighed.
“If all I do is buy time for Ellysetta to save the tairen, that will be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
Bel answered for him. “Hope.”
All of Dharsa came out to see the warriors off, and tears mingled with the voices raised in exultant song. Though Rain wore
no golden steel, no one in Dharsa believed the departing Fey would return before open war began. And most still remembered
how few had returned the last time the Fey strode off to war.
Garbed in flowing purple silks and flanked by Bel, Gaelen, and Steli, Ellysetta stood on a garland-draped platform and watched
the column of Fey warriors march past, Rain at the lead. She sang with the other Fey, her voice rising pure and sweet, and