Chapter Eighteen #3
“But what if she’s telling the truth? Even if the Fey and the dahl’reisen are in collusion, what reason besides Mage-claiming would they have for killing Celierian peasants?”
She gave a short laugh. “The treaty, Dorian. Think about it. Under your leadership, Celieria has prospered and grown strong. We have become the leading power in the mortal world. Yet the moment we consider signing a treaty that would give us independence from the Fey, Celierians begin dying in the north and Rain Tairen Soul appears after a thousand-year exile to stir up fears about a reconstituted Mage threat . . . a threat no one but he seems able to sense.” She moved closer and took his hands.
“Fear is power, darling. As long as we fear the Eld, the Fey can keep Celieria under their thumb, reliant upon them.”
Dorian had lived his life amidst the intrigues of the palace.
Courtiers smiled and pledged friendship and loyalty while plotting behind one’s back.
Everything Annoura said made sense, and if it were any other ally but the Fey, he would unquestioningly believe them capable of such machinations.
But trusting the Fey was so ingrained in him, it was practically instinct now.
Even when confronted with proof that threw all his beliefs into doubt, he didn’t want to think them capable of deception.
Annoura caught his face in her hands and stared earnestly into his eyes.
“I know how difficult this is for you, my love, but your country needs you to be strong. You must put aside your personal feelings for the Fey and consider what is best for Celieria. Banish the Fey from the Council Chamber so they can’t manipulate our minds,” she urged.
“Have the guard bring Gaelen vel Serranis from Old Castle, bound in as much sel’dor as we can find, and let him stand for questioning by the Council.
Let us discover all the facts, not just the ones the Fey want us to know.
And then let the lords vote their conscience. ”
The loud murmur of voices fell silent when the door to the king’s private antechamber opened again. All eyes focused on King Dorian and his queen as they approached the raised dais and took their seats in the matching gold and silver thrones.
“Lord Corrias,” Dorian commanded, “escort Lady Marissya, Lord Dax, and the rest of the Fey to their rooms and see that they stay there.”
“Dorian, nei!” Marissya protested.
He ignored her. “Send a runner to Old Castle. Have them bind vel Serranis in every ounce of sel’dor we possess, then bring him here, to this chamber, for questioning. The Council will reconvene in half a bell to hear the Dark Lord’s testimony.”
Her devotions in the luminary complete, Ellysetta knelt once more at the altar rail while Greatfather Tivrest held his golden scepter over her head and intoned the second blessing.
When he was done, she rose and followed him to the large, heavily carved and gilded door that led to the Solarus.
Behind her, the faint clap of Fey boots sounded against the nave’s marble floors as her quintet came to stand beside the entrance to the sacred chamber.
Greatfather Tivrest harrumphed his disapproval of their presence and glared at them from beneath thick, dark brows. “You shall not enter the Solarus. Your comrade has checked it.”
“And I will check it again before the Feyreisa sets foot inside,” Bel insisted. His cobalt eyes held the archbishop’s glare steadily until Tivrest stepped aside in grumbling defeat.
“Enter, then,” he muttered. “But only one of you as before. Touch nothing, complete your search, and get out.”
Bel bowed and entered the Solarus. Ellysetta stood waiting in the protective circle of her remaining quintet while Bel conducted his investigation. Several long chimes later, he returned. “The room is clear.”
“Beylah vo, Bel.” She laid a hand on his.
“Thank you for everything.” Against her calf, she felt the distinctive tingle of magic as her bloodsworn Fey’cha re-formed in secret.
Taking a deep breath, she followed Greatfather Tivrest into the sacred chamber.
Selianne and Lauriana followed close behind, and the great golden door swung shut.
“All right, then, Dark Lord. You’ve been summoned to the Council.” The large, heavyset prisonmaster of Old Castle approached the holding cell containing his newest and most infamous guest. “Get in there, men, and make sure he don’t flaming move.”
Carefully, their faces set and pale, a dozen guards armed with pikes and swords inched into the cell and warily surrounded vel Serranis.
“Corbin,” the prisonmaster barked, “bring those chains.”
Behind him, his burly young assistant hurried forward, sel’dor chains rattling and clanking as he half carried, half dragged them to the cell and dropped them in a large, black pile near the door. Taking the first set of heavy ankle chains, he cautiously approached the prisoner.
“What are you waiting for? Put them on him.”
The younger man swallowed and drew even closer. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and he carefully knelt down before the Dark Lord and reached out to clasp the first sel’dor manacle around the dahl’reisen’s booted left ankle.
At the first touch of the black Eld metal, the dahl’reisen’s leg shot off a tiny explosion of sparks.
Corbin cried out and fell backward, releasing the manacles.
The sel’dor chains fell through the prisoner’s booted foot and landed on the straw-covered cell floor.
Above it the dahl’reisen’s boot shimmered and sparked, wavering in and out of existence.
“Gods scorch the Fey!” the prisonmaster exclaimed.
He spun on his heel, snatched up a sel’dor chain from the pile, and whipped it towards vel Serranis’s body.
The prisoner’s torso gave off another shower of sparks as the chain passed straight through his body.
“Our prisoner’s a flaming Spirit weave. We’ve been tricked! ”
Throwing down the chain, he ran down the hall, calling to the guards. “Send word to the king! Vel Serranis has escaped!”
Bel turned to face the cathedral nave. He dragged a long breath of air into his lungs, testing the scents and tastes with every one of his Fey gifts.
“I know you’re there, vel Serranis,” he said to the empty air. “We’re alone now. Show yourself.” He took another, even deeper breath and turned to his right, facing the altar.
Scarcely a man-length away, the air began to shimmer. The white and gold marble of the great altar, covered with its blue watered-silk altar cloth, wavered. A faint shadow solidified into the fully armed, black-leather-clad figure of Gaelen vel Serranis.
“Spit and scorch me,” Kieran muttered.
“How did you manage it?” Kiel demanded. “How did you break free of the sel’dor?”
“He didn’t,” Bel answered. “He never let the sel’dor touch him.”
Gaelen cast Bel an approving glance. “Perhaps there is hope for you yet, vel Jelani.”
“How did you do it?” Kieran demanded.
His uncle shrugged. “When the Feyreisa burned herself, I used the confusion to kick the real manacles under the carriage and spin a couple of convincing weaves. The manacles the guard picked up were Spirit, as was the Gaelen vel Serranis those Celierian buffoons took into captivity.” He arched a brow at the astonished quintet.
“My place is at the Feyreisa’s side. Surely you didn’t think I would let a few overreaching mortals keep me from fulfilling my bloodsworn bond? ”
“I’m surprised you didn’t sneak into the Solarus with her, then,” Kiel said.
Gaelen shook his head. “The Bright Bell is a sacred rite, and far more ancient than even the Celierians realize. As I am neither Ellysetta’s beacon nor her priest, my presence would have been a defilement.”
Bel coughed something that sounded like “Tairen krekk” and arched disbelieving brows. “And the ward on the door that made your weave start to fail when you tried to pass through it didn’t have anything to do with your decision?”
“Well,” Gaelen acknowledged with a wry grin, “there was that.”
Inside the cathedral’s sacred chamber of meditation and spiritual purification, Ellysetta took stock of her surroundings.
The large, circular room was as big as the entire first floor of the Baristani home, and it was constructed entirely of white marble.
Scenes of Adelis and the other twelve gods bestowing their gifts upon the peoples of the earth had been etched in gold on the marbled walls.
The room’s sparse furnishings consisted of a small golden prayer bench positioned before an ornate devotional carved into one wall, and a circle of cushion-topped benches surrounding a raised white marble altar in the center of the room, directly beneath the room’s towering domed ceiling.
Six marble columns circled the perimeter.
Gilded mirrors tiled the dome’s interior, reflecting back every ray of light so that the smallest candle could have illuminated the entire Solarus and a full chandelier would have set the room ablaze.
As it was, six small golden lamps made the room bright as day.
“Go to the devotional, daughter, and recite the six devotions of Light while I bless the chamber. Once that is done, we may begin your soul’s purification.”
With Mama and Selianne beside her, Ellysetta walked across the room to the carved devotional, knelt on the golden bench, and began to recite the devotions she’d learned as a child.
Behind her, Greatfather Tivrest slowly circled the room, pausing near each of the columns to murmur a prayer and wave his scepter at the chamber walls.
Ellysetta’s skin prickled with a now-familiar tingling sensation, and the words of the devotion caught in her throat.
The archbishop was weaving magic.
“Gaelen vel Serranis has escaped from our custody.” Dorian made the announcement with a heavy heart.
Around him, the buzz of outrage was already rising to fill the Council Chamber.
Any hope of questioning vel Serranis directly was gone, as was the faint hope Dorian had still harbored that he could discover the truth.
He glanced at Annoura, who was watching him with pride and approval.
She gave an encouraging nod, urging him to reveal the rest, as they had agreed he must. “In the interest of a fair and open debate,” he continued, “I must inform you that Gaelen vel Serranis admitted to slaying Celierian villagers in the north. According to the Fey, he alleged that the ones he killed were Mage-claimed.”
The Lords of the Council burst into noisy debate and accusations. The Bell of Order rang several times, its peals drowned out by the din. After several chimes, when the volume of the shouting began to die down, Dorian granted Lord Sebourne the floor.
Sebourne turned to his fellow lords and Great Lords.
“Since their arrival, the Fey have tried to make us doubt our northern neighbors and cast blame upon them for the murders that Gaelen vel Serranis has admitted to committing. They have sought to fill our minds with fears of Mages and threats to our freedom, while all the while their own exiled people were the true threat.” He cast a slow, speaking gaze around the chamber.
“Everyone knows the Mage Council was destroyed in the scorching of the world. What few Mages have survived were scattered to the winds, and there has been no sign of coordinated Mage activity in Eld ever since.”
He waited for the raucous chorus of supportive cries and applause to die down before continuing.
“If you still have doubts, then ask yourself this: How is it vel Serranis can allege that his victims were Mage-claimed when everyone knows Mage-claiming leaves no visible sign of its existence?” He let that sink in for a moment, then answered his own rhetorical question.
“No, my lords, the victims of vel Serranis’s murderous rampage were not Mage-claimed, they were just innocent peasants, simple, uneducated people who had the unhappy misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
These dubious accusations by the Fey are just the latest in a series of attempts to manipulate Celierian opinions and keep us frightened of nonexistent threats from the Eld.
I urge you, my fellow lords, do not give in. ”
He turned to pin first Lord Barrial, then Teleos, with an unwavering look.
“And if you find yourself still wanting to believe in the protection of the Fey, remember this: Our crops are failing this year.
The late freeze destroyed the spring harvest in the north, while the floods wiped out half the wheat and corn in the south and east. The Fey, for all their vast magic, have done nothing to help us.
Across the river, however, Eld has prospered.
From our watch towers, we see daily caravans bursting with produce heading to market.
“Even if you don’t trust the Eld, even if you cling to the old ways, can we, as responsible lords, turn our back on the opportunity to purchase food for winter? Do you think our starving tenants will care if the only meal on their table comes from Eld rather than Celieria?”
He spread his arms wide. “The Eld of non-Mage families are just people, like Celierians. Simple, mortal folk. They have come to us in peace and offered the hand of friendship. Can we not accept that they simply wish to live and prosper, as we do?”
“This is the opportunity to counter the influence of Fey magic upon us!” one of Sebourne’s followers called out.
Lord Morvel stood up in agreement. “Lord Sebourne is right. Why do we concern ourselves with the memories of some centuries-old feud? The real question is, what is best for Celieria? Even if we did not need food for winter, where’s the harm in giving the lords of Celieria an opportunity to profit from the export of our trade goods to a new market? ”
The doors to the Council Chamber burst open. A familiar voice called out, “To the contrary, Lord Morvel, Lord Sebourne could not be more wrong. The Eld are not your friends, and to think of them as anything but an enemy bent on your destruction is deadly delusion.”
The lords shifted in their seats to stare at the newcomer, and a loud murmur of voices—some exultant, some outraged—rose up to fill the chamber.
Rain Tairen Soul had returned.