Queen of Song and Souls (32 page)

"Very thoughtful, Master Fellows," Jiarine said, "but as a matter of fact—"

"Please, Your Majesty," Gaspare said quickly. “To put my worries to rest, won't you have a little something?" He stepped towards them, and with a sigh of farewell to his impeccable reputation as the man who never put a foot wrong, Gaspare Fellows, the Queen's Master of Graces, tripped on his own feet. The plate of food and red wine went flying.

Directly into Her Majesty.

"You idiot!" Jiarine shrieked. "You fool! Look what you've done!"

"Oh, Your Majesty!" Gaspare all but fell over himself a second time to apologize. "Please forgive me. I'm so sorry! So very, very sorry!" He whipped out a spotless handkerchief to wipe up the mess.

"Master Fellows!" the queen exclaimed. "Enough! That's enough! You're only making it worse!" She batted his hands away.

"Your Majesty—" he began again.

"Not another word, Master Fellows. Not one. I am returning to the palace. Jiarine, you will attend me." Still veiled, but smeared from bodice to hem with red wine and food stains, the queen gathered her royal dignity, lifted her soiled skirts, and marched stiffly back to the palace. With a final hostile look at Master Fellows, Jiarine hurried after her.

Gaspare trailed behind them, trying his best to look inconsolably embarrassed and apologetic. Not that it was difficult. He'd just shattered his reputation and pride for love of queen and country. But the moment Her Majesty and Lady Montevero entered the palace, Gaspare went directly to the first Fey warrior he could find and warned him, "Whatever you do, please make sure someone watches the queen at all times."

Elvia ~ Elfwood

Ellysetta stifled a groan and rubbed her backside, spinning a light healing weave as she hobbled over to the campfire. After they'd crossed the Elva River this morning, Elves had been waiting with
ba'houda
horses to speed the rest of their journey to Navahele. As smooth as the
ba'houdas'
gait had been, Ellysetta wasn't used to riding—let alone riding for bells at a stretch—and she'd developed aches in spots she didn't even know she had.

Rain watched her with a mix of concern and amusement. "If it hurts that badly, you should spin healing on yourself," he suggested. He and her quintet—except for Bel, who'd claimed first watch—were ringed around the fire, preparing for sleep. "Or let me spin a Spirit weave to take away the pain." Though every warrior with the appropriate talents learned emergency battlefield healing weaves—basic patterns used to stanch mortal wounds and keep injured warriors alive long enough to get to a
shei’dalin
—few had ever mastered more than that.

"I'm too tired to weave, and you should still be conserving your strength."

"I can spin a healing weave on you, Ellysetta Erimea," Fanor offered, but before he could get the words out, her pain vanished in a tingling glow of powerful lavender magic.

"Rain," she chided.

His arms tightened around her. "I am not so weak that I cannot spin a simple weave," he said. «
Nor
so
far gone I would
let an Elf provide a shei'tan’s service
to
my mate.»

She rolled her eyes at his territorialism. To Fanor, she said, "You keep calling me Ellysetta Erimea. What does it mean?”

"Erimea is the Elvish name for the star Celierians call Selena."

Her brows drew together in faint alarm. "Selena?” Selena was a seasonal star that appeared low on the horizon just before the first day of Seledos, the winter month dedicated to the God of Darkness, and shone in the sky throughout that ill-favored month when the golden bells of daylight were the shortest of the year. "Why would you call me that?”

"
It is what we Elves have always named you. Why does this alarm you?"

"Because Selena is the winter star Celierians call 'Shadows Light,' and they don't mean it kindly. Children born when Selena shines in the sky are considered touched by Shadow. They say those born beneath Selena when the moons are new will be haunted by Darkness all of their lives." Dear gods ... was it possible she had been born on such a night? Was that why the Elves had named her after such an ill-favored star?

Fanor muttered something in Elvish. She didn't understand the words, but the tone sounded uncomplimentary. "If Celierians believe that, they are fools. Erimea is the brightest light in the winter sky. We Elves call her Hope's Light, the star that shines brightest when the world is at its darkest."

Ellysetta glanced uncertainly at Rain.

He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
«Las, shei'tani. Nei
siad. Don't be afraid. Much as I
dislike
the Elves, when it comes to matters of omens and stars, I'll take their word over
mortal
superstition any day.
»

When she continued to frown, Rain said, "Enough talking. Time to sleep."

Fanor took the hint. He bowed and rejoined his men on the other side of camp. Rain patted the space beside him. He'd shed the hard plates of his golden war steel and chain mail and lay in the scarlet padded-silk tunic he wore underneath.

With a sigh, Ellysetta knelt beside him and nestled in his arms, resting her head on his chest. The steady beat of his heart sounded softly in her ear. He gestured and the quintet spun their shielding weaves to protect Ellysetta from her Mage-haunted dreams. Rain added his own five-fold weave to theirs.

"Rain," she scolded again. "You promised you would conserve your strength. Fanor said a single five-fold weave would be enough to shield my dreams in Elvia."

"If one is good, then two are better." He traced the curve of her lips with one finger. "Humor me, Ellysetta. It pains me to see the fear in your eyes when you wake. To know that I cannot protect you from what haunts you."

She pressed a kiss into his palm. "You are with me. That is protection enough."

"I will always be with you."
«Even
should I
die.»

Ellysetta frowned at him. "Really, Rain. You need to stop talking that way." She shook her head. "Or, rather, thinking that way. You keep thinking about dying, as if you've already accepted it as your late, and I don't like it."

A faint flush colored his cheeks. "
Sieks'ta
,
shei'tani.
I didn't realize I'd said it so you could hear."

"Well, you did, and you shouldn't," She propped herself up on an elbow and regarded him earnestly. "The gods listen, Rain. Put a thought out there often enough, and they'll think it's what you want."

"Death is not what I want, Ellysetta. Believe me, even if that's what the gods have in store for me, I won't go without a fight."

"You won't go at all," she corrected fiercely. "I won't let you. I'll fight every demon in the Well of Souls if I have to."

To that, he merely smiled and said, "Come here,
kem'feyreisa
shanis."

She resisted his efforts to pull her close. "I mean it, Rain." He could call her his fierce Feyreisa all he wanted, but she wouldn't be diverted.

"I know,
kem'san.
I have seen you do it, remember? Now, come here and let me hold you. It's time to sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day."

With a sigh, she turned on her side, and he spooned his body around hers. One arm draped across her waist. She snuggled back into his warmth. He'd shed his blades and steel, but the body beneath was nearly as hard as the shell of armor, his long, lean form honed by centuries of training and discipline. Silky, fragrant skin, shining silver in the darkness, was his body's only softness. The realization comforted her. It was almost as if he were her armor, her living shield against the Darkness that hunted her.

She looked into the Elvian night sky, where silvery stars winked and shimmered against the black velvet of night. Soon, for that one month of the year, when the days were their shortest and nights their longest, Selena—Erimea—would appear, a fierce light gleaming low on the horizon, the brightest star in the darkest winter sky.

But which, she wondered, was the true name of that star? Was it Selena, Shadow's Light, a dreaded and fearful harbinger of the Dark, as the Celierians believed? Or was it Erimea, Hope's Light, the Bright Lord's promise that even in a world grown cold and dark, his Light would still shine triumphant?

And which, she wondered, would she be?

chapter fourteen

A flick,
of wrists, a seldom miss.

A deadly
song, the Dance goes on.

So learn it well, this warrior's spell.

For
a killing blade,

Means
many lives saved.

Dance of Knives,
a warrior's poem

by the chatok Remal v'En Alathir

Celieria ~ Celieria City

Lord Bolor was meeting with the young lieutenant again—the one with the unfortunate birthmark on his face.

Gaspare Fellows hung back in the shadowy corner of the Spear and Shield pub across from the army barracks and kept his eye on the two men. He had to admit Bolor was a genius to arrange his meeting here, in the middle of a bustling pub at lunchtime. It was so open, so crowded, who would believe a Mage of Eld would arrange an assignation with one of his minions in such a public spot?

Assuming, of course, that Lord Bolor actually
was
an Elden Mage.

For four days, Gaspare had surreptitiously followed Lord Bolor about the city. He'd watched the nobleman meet with a variety of individuals, from rabble-rousing pamphleteers and bully boys to shopkeepers, wealthy merchants, and lords of the realm, and even on one occasion a priest in the Church of Light. That was the problem: Most of the individuals seemed to be normal, ordinary people going on about their normal, ordinary lives. Several were decidedly unsavory, but then, many a fine lord had been known to utilize the services of such men.

And since most of Lord Dolor's actual meetings had taken place behind closed doors or in locations not conducive to eavesdropping, Gaspare still had no proof that Lord Bolor was anything more than a nobleman with an eclectic collection of acquaintances.

This second meeting with the lieutenant in the king's army was Gaspare's best chance to discover what Lord Bolor was up to. Patting the kitten-size bulge in the leather courier's pouch at his hip, he began to stealthily work his way across the crowded pub. He'd nearly reached the table where Lord Bolor and the lieutenant were sitting when Love let out a terrible screech and began to squirm and claw like a mad thing inside her pouch. Lord Bolor turned so suddenly Gaspare had to dive behind a wooden support beam to avoid being seen.

When he gathered up the nerve to peer around the comer of the beam. Lord Bolor and the lieutenant were heading for the exit. He flipped open the flap of his leather pouch and scowled down at the fairy white face of his disgruntled pet. "For shame, Love. You'll get us caught if you keep that up!"

Blue eyes blinked with feline innocence. "Mrowwwr?" Her soft head butted against his hand, begging for a chin scratch. With a sigh, he obliged, then fished a treat from his coat pocket and held it out so she could nibble it from his fingers.

"Spoiled puss," he chided with a fond smile, "Now be good, hmm?" He gave her head a final scratch and closed the pouch flap again.

Lord Bolor and his friend passed through the pub door. Gaspare darted after them. The lieutenant appeared to be heading back to the barracks, while Lord Bolor had turned left and was walking down the cobbled street towards the wharf.

Gaspare waited for him to turn the corner, then followed. He kept his distance, but even so, once or twice when Lord Bolor paused or turned his head, Gaspare had to flatten himself against the side of a building or dodge into an alleyway to avoid being seen. Love, fortunately, kept her silence.

He turned down one of the narrow side streets leading to the wharf, and his steps slowed. He frowned at the empty street. Lord Bolor had turned down this street, he was sure of it, but the narrow, cobbled way was empty. He turned around, searching the dank, shadowy corners of the buildings that lined either side of the street, but there was no sign of Lord Bolor.

Had the man realized he was being followed and sped up in an effort to lose his pursuer?

Gaspare jogged towards the far end of the street, hoping to catch sight of his quarry there, but Love began to hiss and then to screech in protest. The sides of the leather courier's pouch bulged and writhed. Near the end of the street, just a stone's throw from the Velpin River, he paused to flip open the flap of Love's carrying pouch and hissed, "Quiet, Love! He'll hear you!"

A cold, familiar voice said, 'Too late" and Gaspare spun around in shock. His eyes went wide. The breath rushed from his lungs in a sudden, painful rush as ice stabbed into his belly and ripped its way up to his chest.

The empty air of the alleyway shimmered with faint sparkles of light, and the figure of Lord Bolor became visible. His eyes were bottomless wells of darkness that glittered with malevolent red lights. The corner of his mouth curled in a sneer. "Did your mother never tell you. Master Fellows, that curiosity killed the cat?"

Impaled to the hilt on a blade clutched in Lord Bolor's hand, Gaspare couldn't twitch a muscle. He could literally feel his blood and his soul being sucked out of him, as if the blade in his belly were some evil, ravenous leech.