Crown of Crystal Flame (4 page)

“There’s not a doubt in my mind. The Mage we Truth-spoke said the attack would come this week. If the Eld have been watching our buildup here at Kreppes, it’s possible they may choose a different place to cross the river, but let us wait at least this week before we assume our information is wrong.”

Dorian considered the request, then gave a curt nod. “Very well. We wait. But if there is no sign of attack within the week, I will have no choice but to redeploy my armies. There are other locations of greater strategic importance than Kreppes.”

“Agreed,” Rain said. “And I will send my warriors wherever you need us most. Until then, I think it best to continue our preparations for battle. As we learned in Teleon and Orest, just because we can’t see the armies of Eld doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

“I will inform the generals to give you whatever assistance you require.”

Rain started to leave, then paused. “And Dorian? For what it’s worth, if I had to do it over, I would tell you about Adrial. You are right. I did you a disservice by keeping that truth from you.”

Celieria’s king—the mortal descendant of an ancient Fey line—nodded without turning. Rain left him there, standing on the ramparts, solemn and solitary, morning sunlight glinting on his crown, the bright Celierian blue of his cape snapping in the wind.

In a small tent in the heart of the allied encampment, Ellysetta sat beside Rowan vel Arquinas, holding his hand and sharing his grief over Adrial’s death. Tears spilled, unchecked, down her face. Adrial and Rowan both had served on her first quintet, back in Celieria City, before she’d known she was Fey, in a time when all their lives had been happier and more carefree.

Since the day she just met them, the brothers, Rowan and Adrial, had done everything together. And though to mortals, the seventy-year difference between Rowan’s age and his brother’s might have seemed insurmountable, by Fey standards they were practically twins. They’d even looked alike, both black-haired, brown-eyed, full of mischief and laughter. Rowan, especially, had an almost tairen-fondness for playing pranks.

The Fey who sat beside Ellysetta now was a shadow of his former self. All the happiness, the laughter, the mischievous glint in his dark eyes was gone. In its place lay a cloud of such overwhelming grief she didn’t know how he could even move.

“I failed him,” he whispered, his voice cracked and broken by all the helpless tears he’d shed.

“Oh,
nei.”
Her chin trembled on a sudden swell of emotion. She wrapped her arms around him as if comforting a child. ‘Nei, Rowan,
nei, kem’ajian.
You didn’t. He would never want you to say that—not even to think it.”

“But I did. My
mela
told me to look over him. To keep him safe. And I didn’t.”

Ellysetta didn’t mean to pry, but with her arms around Rowan and her empathic senses so enmeshed with his, she couldn’t block out the vivid, memory of the day Rowan’s mother had placed the precious, squirming little Adrial in his arms for the first time.

“Rowan, my son, meet your brother, Adrial,” she’d said.

And Rowan had oh-so-carefully held his brother and gazed down at him in awestruck wonder. Baby Adrial’s bright, inquisitive brown eyes had been wide open and sparkling with hints of what would become great magic. A tiny, waving hand had caught the tip of Rowan’s finger and curled around it in a tight fist. In that touch flowed a warm, bright haze of wordless emotion: security, trust, and most of all, perfect innocent joy. Rowan had been little more than a Fey youth himself—the blood of his first battle had yet to wet his steel—but with that first touch of radiant, untarnished innocence, he had known he would suffer any fate, pay any price, sell his soul to the Dark Lord himself, if it meant he could keep his brother safe.

Yet here he stood, still alive, and Adrial was gone. Rowan had failed him. Failed the promise he’d made to their mother to always keep his brother safe.

Tears gathered in Rowan’s eyes and spilled over in a flood. Harsh sobs racked his warrior’s body. He could have taken a sword to the chest with naught but a brief gasp, but this loss ripped his vulnerable Fey heart to shreds.

Holding him, sharing his pain, Ellysetta wept, too. He needed to grieve, so she grieved with him. Sharing his memories, sharing his torment, taking it into her soul and giving him back what small measure of peace he would accept. She stayed with him, soothing him, singing to him, weeping with him, until together they had drained enough of his sorrow that he could sink into the much-needed peace of the sleep she wove on him.

When she finally emerged from Rowan’s tent, Rain was there, waiting. Wordlessly, he opened his arms, and with a fresh spill of tears, she fell into them.

“Oh, Rain.” She closed her eyes and clung tight to him as if she could absorb some measure of his strength. And perhaps she did. He was her rock, her haven in the storm, and it was to his soul, his love, that she’d anchored all the happiness left in her life.

If anything ever happened to him… The mere thought made her shudder.

Eld ~ Boura Maur

The Tairen Soul and his mate were in Kreppes.

An unexpected thrill of anticipation curled in the High Mage Vadim Maur’s belly when he received the news from his assistant, Primage Zev, one of the handful of Mages who had been with Vadim since their earliest days as Novice greens. Of all the Mages now living, Zev was the one Vadim mistrusted least. He was an experienced Primage who knew his limitations—one of which was a lesser command of Azrahn than Vadim possessed.

“How many tairen are with them?” he asked.

“Just the Tairen Soul, Most High.”

“Elves?”

“No sign of them.”

Fezai Madia had been bragging that the harrying tactics of her Feraz on Elvia’s southern border were keeping Hawksheart and his minions occupied. Perhaps she was right, after all.

“Primage Soros?”

“Awaiting your orders, Most High.”

“Excellent.” Vadim rose from behind his desk and stretched, enjoying the youthful tug and pull of supple muscles in his new, virile body. Gethen Nour, the Primage whose body Vadim Maur now inhabited, had tended his form well. Pity he had not been so conscientious about tending his work. “Zev, old friend, it’s time to prepare for conquest.”

“Yes, Most High.”

“Come with me.” Vadim strode from his office, and Zev hurried close behind. Purple robes and blue swept over black stone as the two Mages ascended to the uppermost level of Boura Fell. There, in a large room fitted with skylights that traveled up through more than four tairen lengths of rock to the forest floor above, a hundred Feraz, recently come from Koderas, had assembled. On the far side of the room, brightly garbed
fezaros,
Feraz cavalry, crooned to their caged
zaretas,
the swift tawny cats of their desert land that they rode into battle. Nearer to the door, twenty Feraz witches sent by their leader, Fezai Madia, amused themselves by trying to ensnare the Mages and soldiers Vadim had set to guard them.

When the witches caught sight of Vadim, six of the sloeeyed beauties headed his way, hips swaying, bright silk veils fluttering, ankle bells jingling an exotic invitation with each step. They surrounded him and trailed silken, perfumed hands over his chest, his arms, his back. The air around him grew heavy, warm and sweet and intoxicating.

“At last, they have sent us a handsome one.”

“Look at his hands. Such strong hands.” Smaller, feminine palms brushed perfumed skin in a simulated caress. Breasts rubbed against his arm. Moist lips skimmed across his neck, his jaw, his ears.

“Are you so strong everywhere,
zaro
?” Nimble fingers darted under his robes and reached for the fastenings of the silk trousers he wore beneath.

In his old body, Vadim had been mostly immune to the seductive enchantments of Feraz witch women, but the lust surging through his new, youthful body as the witches worked their wiles made it clear that was no longer the case. And it gave him a new understanding of Gethen Nour, the Primage who had inhabited this body before Vadim. He’d always despised Nour’s endless carnal indulgences—a powerful Mage controlled his urges; he did not let his urges control him—but if this ravenous hunger was a force Nour had constantly battled, no wonder he’d given in so often.

Now, however, was
not
the time to surrender to such urges. What the Mages did with Azrahn—enslaving the souls of the weak—Feraz witches achieved through seduction. When a man surrendered to the sensual spell of a Feraz witch, she could bind him to her will, enslave him with her touch, her scent, her body, until he would rip his own flesh apart to please her.

With more effort than he cared to acknowledge, Vadim suppressed the lust screaming through his veins and caught the wrist of the witch unfastening his trousers.

“Enough,” he said. “In a battle of power with me, my dear, you would not like the outcome. Ask your Fezai Madia what happened to the last witch who tried to bend Vadim Maur to her will.”

The witch in his grip went still, and most of the sultry promise blanked from her beautiful face, leaving a look of wary suspicion. “You are
Chazah
Maur?”

“I am.”

“But I was told
Chazah
Maur was an old man. Not one so young and”—her gaze swept over him
—“dazoor.”
His lip curled. Like most of the Feraz language,
dazoor
was a word with many meanings. When applied to an object, like a house, it meant sturdy, well built for its purpose. When applied to a man, it meant much the same thing, but considering that Feraz witches considered men good for only two things—muscles and mating—the connotation translated to something more like “strong and mountable.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my new form, Fezaiina, but rest assured, I am the same Mage—with the same power—as before. So I suggest you and your sisters save your seductions for the Celierians and the Fey. I need my men and my Mages clearheaded and under my control. I will not take it kindly if I find you’ve interfered with that.”

“Zim, Chazah.”
The witch lowered her lashes and inclined her head. “As you command.”

“Good. Now give me an update on the potion you have been working on. Is it ready?”

“The potion has been tested and approved by your Primage Grule in Koderas,” the witch said. “My sisters and I are waiting on the rest of our supplies, then we can begin preparing the potion in the quantities you require.”

“How long will that take?”

“Once we receive what we need? Three days,
Chazah.”
Then, because no Feraz witch could help herself for long, the Fezaiina trailed a hand across his shoulder. “Time enough for other things, hmm?”

He caught her wrist again and this time wrenched it hard enough that the sultry seduction in her eyes became a dangerous glitter. “Do not press me. I will see that you get what you need. You see that you do what you’ve promised.” He thrust her away from him.

The Fezaiina rubbed her wrist and regarded him from beneath her lashes.
“Zim, Chazah.”

“Watch them,” Vadim told Zev when they exited the room. “Make sure no one goes near those women without first being warded against Feraz witchspells. And don’t let the same men guard them more than once.”

“Yes, Most High.”

“Be sure they get what they need for their potion. I want twenty barrels of the stuff in four days’ time.” “Yes, Most High.”

“And see to it our friend Lord Death gets well fed. I want him strong and healthy by the end of next week. I have a feeling I’ll be needing him soon.”

Zev bowed without question. “Of course, Most High. I’ll see to it immediately.”

When the call came for the feeding of Lord Death, the High Mage’s oldest and most treasured prisoner, the
umagi
Melliandra made sure she was the one chosen. A full week had passed since Lord Death had nearly slain the High Mage, and though she’d practically had to tie herself to the wall to keep from going to him, she’d deliberately stayed away until now. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself by constantly being first in line to tend the most powerful prisoner in Boura Fell. The Mistress of Kitchens would get suspicious, and Melliandra’s careful, quiet plans for freedom would be ruined.

Tray in hand, Melliandra hurried down the winding stairs to the lowest level of Boura Fell and down to the last door at the end of the long, dark corridor. There, behind a
sel’dor
reinforced door, inside a narrow cage forged of floor-to-ceiling spiked
sel’dor
rods, his body pierced and manacled and weighted down by more
sel’dor
than any other prisoner had ever survived—and
still
guarded twenty-four bells a day—Shannisorran v’En Celay, Lord Death, the greatest Fey warrior ever born, lay captive.

He remained hidden in the shadows in the corner of his cage when she entered. She knew why—and it wasn’t the same reason
umagi
darted for cover when a Mage approached, or tunnel rats fled when a torch drew near. Lord Death didn’t hide in the shadows because he was afraid. He lurked there because he was a predator, blending into his surroundings as he stalked potential prey and calculated the probabilities of a successful attack.

She should have feared him. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t except that she needed him.

“They tell me you haven’t been eating.” She set the tray down and pushed it towards the cell bars. She hadn’t been able to hide her surprise when the Mistress of Kitchens put an enormous, steaming bowl on the tray and commanded that Lord Death must consume every drop. The usual fare for prisoners was cold, fatted porridge, leftovers from
umagi
meals. Today, however, the food on the tray was a savory stew, thick broth swimming with plump grains, chunks of real meat (which did not look like or smell like tunnel rat), mushrooms, and chopped tuberoots. Melliandra had never had fare so rich. She’d never even been this close to such a feast. Her stomach growled loudly, something it had been doing since the moment she picked up the tray.

“Sounds like you need the food more than I.” Lord Death’s low voice rasped from the darkness.