63. Ellowyn
Chapter 63
Ellowyn
T he square buzzed with anticipation and conversation. A small platform stood at the north end where the shopping district came to a dead-end at Kaos’ unused and vacant temple—we’d combined temples years ago, so all worship occurred in the House of Fate. There were vendor carts along the outside of the square, selling everything from coffee to roasted lamb hocks and everything in between. The sheer size of the crowd was overwhelming, it appeared as if everyone in Hestin came to watch the Bonding Ceremony.
The acolytes from Fate’s temple were stationed at the sides of the platform, able to witness the Bondings performed by Fay, but not participate. It was clear that Lord d’Refan wanted to protect this information as much as possible. Even our family—though we were the technical leaders of Hestin—were not allowed on the platform. We had our own box, elevated from the crowd to provide a better view, but it was a hastily prepared structure.
Those that Alois brought with him to be Bonded—the Mages with the Sickness—stood off to one side of the platform in a line, the volunteered Vessels, including Peytor, were contained in a small corral.
Like cattle.
The comparison unnerved me, and I shivered despite the heat. My parents hired a few Air Mages to keep a continual slight breeze throughout our box, but it didn’t do much to dispel the stagnant humidity and heat in the air. I could already feel sweat dripping down my back and was certain my makeup would slowly melt off my face throughout the morning.
Mother would be so pleased about that .
She and Father sat together on one side of the box, not speaking, eyes trained on the platform. Any citizen bystander would think they were simply anticipating the ceremony as much as anyone else, but I could see their slight tells. My mother clutched my father’s arm tightly, and Father’s fists were balled to the point his knuckles were white.
I sat in the back of the box, behind Mother and Father, away from prying eyes. There wasn’t enough space for Matteo and Finian, and they had reluctantly joined the crowd near the front. The platform was empty aside from a large, low table and a stack of cloths.
The buzzing of the crowd hushed as Alois climbed the stairs at the back of the platform, the General and Fay right behind him. A few Mages spread out on the perimeter of the stage, a few others going to the pen where the Vessel volunteers were kept. I tried to catch Peytor’s eye, but he was pointedly not looking at our box, and was most likely searching for Finian in the crowd.
I truly hoped this wouldn’t drive a stake through their relationship. They both deserved happiness. Or whatever version of happiness they could get.
Lord d’Refan came to a stop in the middle of the platform, and the General stopped just behind his right shoulder. Fay continued to where the large table was positioned, and she took out a book from the waistband of her black linen dress, intently studying it as the Warlord spoke.
What is with all the black clothes?
“Welcome, people of Hestin! I am honored to be here with you today, not just as your leader, but as a concerned citizen of the Northern Territories,” his voice boomed unnaturally across the square, clearly enhanced by an Air Mage. “I’m sure word has already reached here about the growing rebellion and their baseless, vicious attacks against not just towns and villages allied with us, but those who are left vulnerable and unprotected in the Borderlands.” The crowd was quiet, hanging on to his every word.
“Just recently, an attack on Isrun left the residents there starving and barely holding on to their livelihoods. Luckily, a brave villager escaped and rode straight for Vespera, where he was intercepted by General d’Alvey. He immediately took a group of Mages to this village in the Borderlands and, after witnessing the horrors and atrocities the rebels committed, put an end to their unlawful occupation, saving the village and its residents.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, and I found myself leaning forward in my seat, intent on catching every word of the story.
“One of those residents, was this woman here, Fay,” Alois said as the crowd quieted once more. “A diamond in the rough, she was a Healer in her village, taught in the ancient ways of Blood Magic and runes, a practice we previously thought lost to time.”
Whispers canted through the crowd at his announcement, and I saw Fay’s back stiffen slightly at the attention.
“After General d’Alvey’s brave and daring rescue, she decided to return with him as a token of gratitude, to share her talents with us and our allies. As such, she will be performing the ritual for a new Bond. A Bond that cures Mage Sickness!”
There were gasps and shouts from the crowd, the people excited about even a minute chance of healing.
“Now, it’s not a permanent solution, and not one everyone will be able to receive—we are short Vessels, after all—but we will do our best to make sure that every Mage has the opportunity at this new Bond. Which is why we have opened Vessel sign-ups! If you are interested in becoming a Vessel for one of our sick Mages so they can heal and return to the frontlines in our fight against the Keeper and her rebels, please see one of the Mages stationed around the square.” Small fires lit in the air above each of the Mage’s heads, indicating their locations.
There was some movement in the crowd as a few people moved to these spots, intent on putting their name on the list before even seeing the ritual.
“We will perform as many of these Bonds today as possible but will be calling others to Vespera throughout the next few weeks to receive their own Bonds. Thank you, again, for your support in our war against the Keepers!” With one final wave, Lord d’Refan stepped aside and sat in a chair at the far end of the platform.
A Mage from the line at the side stepped up to the table where Fay stood, and she gestured for him to lay down. She asked him a few questions about his symptoms and magic—her voice also magnified by the Air Mage—before gesturing for a Vessel.
The Vessel—a girl in her early twenties—was brought to the stage, and she was laid down next to the Mage on the large table. Fay asked the girl a few questions as well and went over what would happen and the possible side effects, admitting that she’d only done this once before, and the side effects were mild, but anything was still possible.
The girl’s face paled a bit, and it looked as if she was trying to leave the table, but a second Mage was there, pressing her shoulder down. The girl shook as Fay made a quick cut on the girl’s left forearm before dipping her finger in her blood and tracing a pattern on the Mage’s right arm. She repeated the same process with the Mage’s blood on the girl’s arm, before swiftly cutting her own arm and using her own blood to trace over the patterns on each of their skin.
There was a gasp from the girl on the table and a small cry before the Air Mage cut off the sound projection. The girl started to shake and convulse before passing out. The Mage, now the girl’s Bonded, seemed relatively unaffected, if a bit pale. He sat up and looked quickly at the girl to his left before focusing back on Fay as she gave him what appeared to be instructions.
The Mage nodded before scooping up the girl’s unconscious form and making his way slowly to the abandoned temple. An acolyte met him at the doors and led him inside.
They must have a recovery room set up in there .
Lord d’Refan stood as Fay cleaned the table, preparing for another Bond.
“The first Bond!” he shouted, and his exclamation was met with shouts and claps.
Instead of watching the crowd, though, I kept my gaze trained on Fay. Her brow was furrowed, and she was muttering to herself as she studied the drawing in her book. The cut on her arm was still flowing freely, and drops of blood were spattering down her dress.
I guess the black makes sense now .
She ran her hand through her curls, tugging them absently, her gaze unfocused.
The General tried to ask a question, but she just shook her head, chewing her lip slightly .
Another Mage and Vessel were ushered onto the stage, and the ceremony was repeated. Each time, Fay’s brow lowered further and her movements grew jerkier.
Something was wrong .
Eventually, after nearly two hours of continuous work, she motioned to the General and he nodded his head. The General strode to Lord d’Refan and bent to whisper something in his ear. Lord d’Refan looked at Fay before nodding his head and saying something to the Mage at the back of the platform.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this will be our last ceremony of the day.” There was a ripple of disappointment in the crowd at his announcement.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Peytor had yet to be called to the stage, and there were still plenty of Vessels to go ahead of him.
Maybe we overthought what would happen .
“But we have a very special ceremony next.” Excitement replaced the crowd’s previous disappointment, and Lord d’Refan shot a quick serpentine smile toward our box. I saw my parents shift uneasily at his perusal and my heart rate increased.
A Mage from the line sat on the table, waiting for his Vessel to appear, and my whole body stiffened when I saw who was to be his Vessel.
Peytor was led by two Mages up to the stage, a look of pure torture and defiance on his face.
No .
I gasped and leaned forward in my chair, but my mother snapped her head back at me.
“Sit down, Ellowyn. Do not draw attention to yourself right now,” she hissed. Father didn’t even look at me, his gaze trained on Peytor.
Peytor stood straight, shaking off the Mages holding onto his arms.
“Today your very own Lord’s son, the heir to Hestin, has chosen to show his allegiance to me and our cause by volunteering for a Bond.” The announcement was sharp, an undercurrent of warning present.
“I would like to say something, first,” Peytor said, his words calm and authoritative, and the crowd stilled as his voice was projected.
Lord d’Refan spun to face him, his expression one of pure fury, but Peytor only turned his hardened gaze toward him.
“This is not my choice,” he said, and the crowd quieted at his statement. “ I did not volunteer, nor did I agree to the deal that was made between my father and the Warlord ,” he spit the name, his eyes never leaving Lord d’Refan’s. “I do not want this and will not take a Bond. If you force me to, you are going against your own agreement with the territories in your alliance. To be frank, my father chose to ally with you, a mistake I will not make once the lordship passes to me. This . . . this forced Bonding is not something I want for my people, even if it’s presented with good intentions. So, no. I will not take a Bond today simply to prove my ‘loyalty’ to a tyrant.”
He stopped speaking and the silence in the wake of his words was deafening.
Hot, proud tears coursed down my face at his admission. He possessed all the poise and confidence I wished I could. To stand there, in the face of a predator and a fate he did not want, and openly defy him was something that I admired. But I also feared for him, and the repercussions.
“Is that so?” Lord d’Refan’s voice was low and lethal, sending shivers up my spine.
He said nothing more, simply snapped at a Mage who disappeared into the crowd.
“Then perhaps your lover would take the Bond in your place?” Peytor’s face blanched as Finian was forcibly dragged up to the stage, the echoes of his protests loud against the quiet of the crowd.
“No, don’t bring him into this! This isn’t his fault! This is on me, it’s me you want!” Peytor protested, lunging at Lord d’Refan, but he was immediately restrained again by the two Mages.
Both Peytor and Finian were forced to their knees on the platform, their eyes wide as they combed over each other, expressions packed with worry.
“Lord d’Aelius,” the Warlord called loudly, his whole body vibrating with barely restrained anger and violence. “Your son has defied me and our agreement, an agreement between two allied territories. And now he denies my Mage a second chance at a Bond by refusing to let his lover ,” he spat the word, “take his place.”
The crowd began rumbling at the announcement, and there was the distinct taste of fear in the air. I held my breath, waiting for my father’s response.
“There are consequences for these actions, as you know, Lord d’Aelius.” My father only nodded, and the Warlord smiled a wicked smile. “Choose. For your flagrant display of treason and disloyalty, one of these boys will forfeit their lives. Choose.”
His words hung in the air and Father tensed.
This shouldn’t even be a decision .
I loved Finian as a brother and a friend, but Peytor was his son , his heir. For a father, this shouldn’t be a choice. But, while Peytor was his son, Finian was practically family—raised with Peytor and I, the son of his best friend and advisor. The pain of the decision weighed heavily on my father’s face, and he sat frozen, staring at the platform as his eyes whizzed from Peytor to Finian and back again.
Peytor’s cheeks were wet as he openly begged and pleaded with Father to choose him and let Finian live.
“Father, please , please . He doesn’t deserve this! It’s me who should be punished, not him. PLEASE.” There was a brokenness to his voice that had tears streaming down my face in rivulets.
My eyes flitted from Peytor to Father then down to Finian.
Finian was pale, but stoic, tears quietly tracking down his face as he kept his gaze trained on Peytor as if memorizing every inch of him. His lips moved, words too silent for me to hear, and Peytor’s red and tear-streaked face turned to Finian, his pleas with Father abruptly halted.
Peytor’s body shook with sobs as he continued to openly weep for the decision put in Father’s lap, but now he strained to get to Finian as opposed to Father. There was a silent conversation happening between to the two men, and the look of pure agony and over-pouring of love from Finian had me shaking with my own silent sobs.
Father sat silently, his face blanched of all color, his hands balled into tight fists as he glared daggers at Lord d’Refan.
He needs to stop this! I thought about calling my Destruction Magic forward—it was always whispering and just out of my reach—but instantly pushed down the urge.
What am I thinking? I have no control . . . no focus . Suddenly I wished I had paid Mistress Lautaro more mind while in lessons. I was useless.
All this power, all this potential. And I can’t save my family from this fate .
The thought was sobering, and I tried to shakily push to my feet. My mother’s head snapped to me, her glare murderous .
“Sit down ,” she hissed, “don’t you remember what your father said? We have enough to deal with right now. Just stay. Out. Of. Sight.”
I sank back into my chair, but it was too late. Lord d’Refan’s gaze snapped from my father’s to where I sat, hidden behind them. A slow, warped smile spread across his face, and he raised his hands, asking for quiet once more from the restless crowd.
“On second thought, I have a different idea. Lord d’Aelius, due to your inability to make a decision on my command, I’ve revoked your privileges as Lord. In fact, I’m not convinced that you truly have what it takes to effectively govern an allied territory. Your son’s inability to follow commands and your daughter’s lack of control over her magic blatantly show that you can’t effectively lead, even in your own home.” My father bristled at his words but said nothing.
“You are hereby stripped of your title and position. Hestin, as a valued allied territory, will remain under my jurisdiction and command, its rules and laws up to my own discretion. Effective immediately.” Whispers and shouts rose from the crowd, and the Mages stationed along the perimeter moved closer, the Pleasure Mages sending heady tendrils of calming feelings in an attempt to dissipate and control the growing animosity.
Lord d’Refan turned from our box, not giving my father a chance at rebuttal, and turned his eyes to me. “Ellowyn, please join me.”
I was frozen to my seat as every eye in the square turned toward me. I heard a ringing in my ears, blocking out all other sounds except for the rapid beating of my heart and shallow breaths. My father’s sad eyes were trained on mine, my mother’s were furious. They were saying something, but I couldn’t hear. My father gave me an almost imperceptible nod, something glimmering in his eyes that looked an awful lot like relief and even hope.
The thought that he was relieved I had to make this decision threatened to send my earlier breakfast back up.
My breaths were coming in shallower pants, Lord d’Refan’s stare becoming more murderous the longer I sat without complying. I was jostled out of my panic, enough to move, by a rough hand pulling me from my chair and guiding me from the box.
One of the Mages from the stage roughly maneuvered me out of our box and to the stairs at the back of the stage. The Warlord turned to face me, removing the Mage’s hand before replacing it with his own. His touch burned me, and I tried to shrink away, but he just held tighter.
“Behave. Or I will execute your whole traitorous family, you included,” he hissed in my ear. I went still, my feet numbly following where he dragged me. We stopped just behind the kneeling figures of Peytor and Finian. They were almost close enough to touch, but just out of reach, and the proximity without the comfort of touch nearly brought me to my knees.
“As your acting leader, I must not let the defiance and treason shown today go unpunished. As such, I will be transferring the decision to Ellowyn d’Aelius. She Awakened as both a Creation . . . and Destruction Mage—another secret your traitorous leaders tried to hide from me and you.” My blood ran cold, and I began to shake at his words.
Please, no. Please, no .
“She, like her family, now has the opportunity to prove her loyalty to me and the Northern Territories by choosing one of these traitors to execute by way of her Destruction Magic. Whoever survives will be sent to work in the Northern crystal mines for the remainder of their days.” The crowd murmured words of discontent and disbelief but were still subdued by the potent Pleasure Magic snaking through their ranks.
How I wished they would storm the stage or provide a distraction long enough for me to sneak Finian and Peytor from here.
“Choose, Ellowyn,” he whispered in my ear. “Do not make the same foolish mistakes as your family.”
He released me and stepped back. My hands were shaking as I gazed at the crowd, willing them to riot. But nothing happened, they simply stared back at me with slightly dazed expressions.
I hiccupped a cry as I shakily brushed the hair on both Finian’s and Peytor’s heads. The Mages released them after the Warlord’s declaration in preparation for the execution.
I collapsed next to them with a sob as we all clung to each other tightly.
“Please, Ellowyn, please. I love you, but I love him. You have to kill me, please ,” Peytor whispered brokenly, his eyes trained on Finian. “There’s more happening, Ell, that I can’t explain. Please just trust me. It has to be me.”
Finian was silent as he caressed Peytor’s face, pressing a small, chaste kiss to the side of his mouth then on his lips. “I love you,” he said confidently. There was sadness in his eyes, but also resolve.
“I-I can’t do this. I can’t,” I said to no one in particular as I felt hands pull me up and push Peytor and Finian apart.
“You must,” the voice said.
The General, I think?
I couldn’t distinguish between voices anymore, my mind was compartmentalizing, distancing my consciousness from the whole situation.
“Do it quickly, he grows restless,” he whispered in my ear before releasing me and stepping back, just out of reach.
Peytor and Finian knelt in front of me, Peytor’s head was bowed, and he was shaking in his grief. Finian, in contrast, raised his chin high, making eye contact with everyone and no one at the same time as silent tears dropped from his cheeks and chin, saturating the collar of his shirt.
How do I do this? How do I pick between my brother and my friend? How do I sentence one to death and the other to a life without their best friend and lover?
“Ellowyn.” The growl was a warning and I pawed at the wetness on my face.
This wasn’t like the fairytales I so stupidly read and believed.
There was no getting out of this.
There was no one coming to the rescue.
No Southern prince on a white horse to save me.
There was only me and an impossible decision, one that would alter more than one life today.
I heard steps from behind me and I panicked.
“Hold on, stop, stop, I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” I screamed at whoever was coming to take both of their lives.
I quickly called the Destruction Magic forward and it pooled in my hands like thick ash with sparks of fire. I never practiced with it, so calling it forward after suppressing it for so long was like ecstasy.
It felt like my blood was burning, my very soul on fire. It whispered promises of retribution and vengeance in my ear—all I had to do was feed it, give into it. I closed my eyes and basked in its words.
Yes. We take everything from everyone who is taking everything from us .
I groaned as I pulled even more of my magic to my palms, ready to unleash the fires of hell upon the Warlord and his Mages, but a hand on my shoulder broke me from my reverie.
“If you do that, girl, you’ll kill everyone here. Everyone. You need to block out its voice. It lies to you. I swear that what it’s promising is not worth it. It’s not worth your soul,” the voice—the General?—spoke softly and confidently. A note of sorrow in his tone.
“Trust me,” he whispered again.
I snapped my eyes open to see the terrified faces of the crowd as they tried to back away from the stage. My magic was no longer in my palms but swirling around my arms and bleeding into the air in small clouds. It had already attached to some of the leaves on the nearby trees, their remnants falling to the stage as ash.
“Deep breath and push it down. You can do this. Block it out. Don’t think about what you’re doing right now, there will be time for grief later. Right now, you need to bend its will to your own. That’s how you control it.” His words made more sense than Mistress Lautaro’s ever did.
I took a deep breath and pushed away the voice in my head, locking my Destruction Magic back in a box in my mind. The act was physically painful, and it felt like I was tearing off my own hand. Slowly, my magic retreated from my arms until it was a small ball in my hands once again.
The General squeezed my shoulder once before taking a small step back.
How did he know?
I shook my head, focusing on my decision.
Peytor or Finian. Would Peytor ever forgive me? Would Finian even survive the mines? He’s softer than Peytor. But Peytor may never look at me again .
I took a shaky breath and stepped forward to the two men who loved me more than anything. I closed my eyes and let my magic go.