Chapter Eighteen
Sing and dance the razor’s edge, men.
Weave your magic fierce and strong.
Let your steel drink deep of blood, Fey.
Loose the tairen in your souls.
Call to Battle, a Fey Warrior’s Song
As the night deepened over Norban, Wilmus Able, pubkeeper of the Hound and Boar, stood behind his bar, deftly drying the last of the day’s freshly washed shot glasses and humming the tune of an old Fey warrior’s song he’d learned as a boy.
“Hmm hmm hm hmmm hmm. . . . loose the tairen in your souls. Yah!” With a grin, he tossed several of the shot glasses in the air and began juggling them just like the Fey warriors he’d worshipped in boyhood used to juggle their razor-sharp blades.
The glasses went up smoothly and stayed up as his hands remembered the long-ago rhythm.
Ah, Light! The visit by those two Fey today had stirred up a host of memories he’d all but lost. Hard times, but good ones.
Some of the best days of his life. How could he have forgotten those years, his youthful love of the Fey?
He added a fifth and sixth glass to the four already flying in great loops above his rapidly moving hands, and grinned proudly.
“Eh, now, Wilmus, old man. You haven’t lost your touch. ’Deed you haven’t.”
Behind him, the hinges of the front door squeaked as someone entered the pub.
Drat that Mary Betts, Wilmus thought with a spurt of irritation, embarrassed to be caught juggling.
Useless girl never remembered to lock up after leaving.
“Sorry,” he called. He kept his eyes on the airborne glasses, catching the first four as they descended and setting them on the counter. “We’re closed.”
Silence answered. A draft of chill air swirled around him. He frowned in confusion as his breath fogged before him. Oddest damn thing. He caught the fifth shot glass out of the air and flicked a glance at the mirror hung over the bar. His face went white.
“Light save me.” The sixth glass dropped past his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor at his feet.
Mother and Daughter moons rose over the treetops of Greatwood Forest. Their dual brightness illuminated Carthage Road so clearly, Sian and Torel didn’t need to rely on Fey vision as they loped down the rutted dirt track.
Somewhere in the miles of forest behind them, an unearthly scream ripped the night, then abruptly fell silent.
Sian’s smooth stride faltered. “Did you hear that?”
“Lyrant,” Torel said. “They scream like a dying man.”
“You sure?” Sian cast a cautious look around, pupils widening as he tried to pierce the darkness of the surrounding forest. “Sounded human to me.”
Torel rolled his eyes. “They scream like a dying human man. I thought you said you weren’t afraid of the woods after dark.”
“The woods didn’t flaming well scream, now, did they?”
“You going to quiver at every twig snap?”
“Get scorched.”
Torel’s teeth flashed. “We’ve thirty miles to go, my blade brother. Race you?”
Sian grinned. “Beat you!” He took off, long Fey legs sprinting rapidly, dust rising up in his tracks.
Torel swore and leapt after him. One day. One day he would stop falling for that.
Celierians did use too many forks.
Sitting in the place of honor beside King Dorian at the head table, Ellysetta stared at the intimidating collection of flatware surrounding her plate.
There were at least ten forks of varying sizes and shapes to the left of her plate, plus six knives and four spoons on the right, and another selection of spoons, forks, and small knives spread in a decorative fan at the top of her plate.
Six crystal goblets shimmered in the Fire-lit glow of the chandeliers.
Three decoratively folded napkins in gold, silver, and Celierian blue stood sentry over a stack of four plates of graduating sizes, topped with a small cobalt and gold bowl.
Were the chefs actually intending to serve enough food to use each of the utensils, goblets, and dinnerware set out before her? Her stomach hurt at the mere thought of it.
She glanced to her right and watched Rain’s long, elegant fingers pluck his gold napkin from its place, unfold it, and lay it in his lap. Throughout the banquet hall, others were doing the same. She reached for her gold napkin, intending to follow suit.
“And how are your wedding preparations going, Mistress Baristani?”
Ellie jumped and sent one of her goblets toppling.
The crystal made a loud pinging noise as it rolled against the selection of small knives at the top of her place setting.
Several heads lifted, dozens of eyes looked her way.
She made a hurried grab for the fallen goblet, but Rain beat her to it, righting the glass and feathering a cool, reassuring touch across the back of her hand as he smoothly handed her the gold napkin.
“You will address her as My Lady Feyreisa,” the Tairen Soul corrected softly. “Or Lady Ellysetta.”
Bright flags of color spotted the pale cheeks of Lady Thea Trubol, senior lady-in-waiting to the queen, who sat directly across the table from Ellie. “My apologies, Lady Ellysetta.”
Ellysetta forced her nerves to calm before unfolding her napkin and draping it across her lap.
“There is no need to apologize, my lady,” she said.
“And as far as the wedding plans, they are going as well as can be expected. My mother and Lady Marissya have done most of the real work, and the queen has been very generous in sending her craftsmasters to aid us.”
“Weddings are exhausting events, are they not?” Lord Barrial remarked.
As an eligible widower, he’d been partnered with the equally eligible Lady Thea for dinner.
“Having recently survived my daughter’s wedding, I can honestly say it required more strategic planning and careful execution than most sieges I’ve led. ”
“That explains my battle fatigue,” Ellie answered without thinking, then bit her lip.
Had that sounded ungracious? Luckily, both Lord Barrial and the king thought she’d been joking and laughed with good humor.
A servant appeared at her elbow and poured pale blue chilled wine in one of her six goblets.
“Celierian pinalle,” King Dorian informed her. “Have you ever tasted it?”
“No, Your Majesty.” She’d never had anything stronger than the much-watered red demi-wine served at weddings and funerals in the West End.
The king smiled. “It has quite a heady kick, so sip it slowly.”
Nodding, hoping to calm her nerves, Ellie reached for the goblet and took an experimental sip.
The pinalle was lovely: refreshingly cool, sweet and tangy.
Following the iced chill and the fruity sweetness came surprising warmth, the heady kick King Dorian had mentioned.
Her roiling stomach relaxed. She took another sip.
“It is very good, Your Majesty,” she murmured, because the king was still looking at her as if he expected her to say something.
“Thank you.” After a third sip, she put the goblet down.
“The queen tells me your father is quite a brilliant craftsman. Woodworking, I believe?”
“Yes, sire,” she managed to reply. “He’s a master woodcarver.
” She couldn’t believe the king of Celieria was sitting beside her, shining like the sun, asking after her father’s abilities.
It was with a surreal sense of disbelief that Ellie noted King Dorian had warm, thickly lashed hazel eyes, and a pleasant smile that showed a slightly crowded set of white teeth.
After a moment of silence, the king prompted, “My queen has commissioned a piece from your father, I believe.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Manners, Ellie. Remember your manners. “We were very honored to receive her request.” She reached for the pinalle and took a quick gulp.
“Will you be remaining in Celieria long after your wedding, Lady Ellysetta?” That question came from Lady Thea. Ellie turned her head quickly, eager to escape conversation with the king before she made a fool of herself.
“The Fey depart after the Prince’s betrothal,” Rain answered before Ellie had the chance.
Lady Thea smiled at Ellysetta. “I envy you. Legend has it the Fading Lands are a paradise beyond compare.”
“I am looking forward to it,” Ellie admitted. “I can’t wait to see Dharsa and Fey’Bahren and the ivory towers of Cresse and Tairen’s Bay on the southern coast where Fellana the Bright first met Sevander vel Jiolan.”
Rain gave her a look of surprise. “The legend of Fellana and Sevander is older than time. I would not have thought anyone in Celieria still remembered it.”
“A small collection of Fey poetry survived the burning of the western libraries,” Ellie replied. “The books are kept in the museum now, but the curator allowed me to make copies of them. ‘Fellana’s Tale’ was one of the poems in the books.”
“Who is Fellana?” Lady Thea asked.
“According to the poem,” Ellie answered, “Fellana was a female tairen who fell in love with a Fey king named Sevander. She wanted to live her life with him, so she asked a powerful Elden Mage to transform her into a Fey woman. He agreed, but only on the condition that Fellana would seal her tairen soul into a dark crystal and give it to him. She loved Sevander so much that she did as the Mage asked, and for several years, she and Sevander lived happily. They had a child together, a boy named Tevan.”
“I take it their happiness didn’t last?” Lady Thea prompted.
Ellie smiled. She wasn’t the only one who loved Fey tales, apparently. “No, it didn’t. What Fellana didn’t know was that the Mage intended to use her tairen power to destroy Sevander and the Fey. With the crystal’s power to aid him, he gathered a vast army and invaded the Fading Lands.