Queen of Song and Souls (2 page)

Just like her sisters, Lillis and Lorelle, who'd been lost in the Faering Mists during the battle of Teleon.

"Please, my lady. Save him. Please, save my Aartys. He's all I’ve got left." The mother of the dying child stood sobbing beside the table, her eyes swollen and red rimmed, chapped hands twisting the hem of the blood-soaked apron tied around her waist. Her desperation and grief-induced terror pounded at Ellysetta’s empathic senses like hammer blows.

Not that a few more hammer blows made much difference in the emotional din swirling around the scarlet healing tents that had been erected on the mist- and rainbow-filled plazas of Upper Orest. As always when a battle raged nearby, the sheer numbers of wounded and dying warriors made it impossible for the dozen scarlet-veiled
shei'dalin
healers to weave peace upon them all Not even the roar of the great Kiyera's Veil waterfalls could drown out the screams of pain and pleas for mercy.

"I’ll do my best, Jonna," Ellysetta vowed. She wanted to promise to save Aartys, but the last weeks here on Celieria's war-torn northern border had taught her too well. Death, once a stranger, had become an all-too-familiar acquaintance.

Ellysetta looked up and met Jonna's eyes over the boy's limp body. The weeping mortal woman was one of the hearth witches who tended the wounded and dying. She knew death as intimately as Ellysetta now did, but that didn't stop her from fighting against it with every ounce of strength she possessed—or from begging for a salvation she knew was beyond the capabilities of all mortal healers... and all but one of the Fey
shei'dalins.

Ellysetta bit her lip. Aartys shouldn't be here on her table— and she couldn't help feeling partly to blame. After all, if not for her, the Fey might never have engaged their ancient enemy in this new Mage War. If not for Ellysetta, her truemate. Rainier vel'En Daris, would never have blown his golden horn this morning to call his Fey warriors and the mortal men of Orest to battle. And if he'd never blown that blast, the sound would never have spurred Jonna's young son to snatch up his dead father's sword and rush to fight alongside the men of Orest and his heroes, the immortal Shining Folk of the Fading Lands.

Yet those things
had
happened. And now, here they were, a child maimed and dying, his mother weeping and pleading for his life, both utterly dependent on Ellysetta and her magic to snatch his life from the jaws of death.

"Hold his hand, Jonna," Ellysetta commanded. "Feed him your strength. Call to him. Don't stop until I tell you." And then, though she shouldn't have vowed it, she did: "If there's any way to save Aartys, I will."

"Oh, my lady." Jonna's lips trembled and tears flooded her eyes. "Oh, thank you, my lady.
Thank you."

She started to come around the table, but Ellysetta stopped her. "Hold his hand, Jonna." The command came out more curtly than usual. She didn't want this woman kneeling at her feet, kissing her hem as other Celierians had done when pleading for her to save a loved one. She wasn't a goddess to be worshiped.

Teska, Jonna. Please," she urged more gently. "Hold your son's hand. There isn't much time." And because there truly wasn't, she infused the words with a spider-silk-thin filament of compulsion, woven from shining lavender Spirit magic.

Jonna instantly snatched up her son's hand.

"And pray, my friend," Ellysetta said, adding silently.
For all
our sakes.

The words to the Bright Lord's devotion tumbled from the mortal healer's lips.

Ellysetta flicked a glance at the tall, grim Fey warrior standing near the corner of her healing table.

Without a word, Gaelen vel Serranis stepped forward to lay a hand upon her shoulder. Crackling energy flooded her veins as the most infamous of the five bloodsworn warriors of her quintet surrendered his immense power for her use. The sort of healing she was about to do would take more than her own vast stores of power, and though usually a
shei'dalin
would rely on her truemate to supplement her strength, Rain was on the battlefield, where the king of the Fey belonged, rather than at her side.

Ellysetta closed her eyes, shut out the world, and gathered her magic. Power came to her call, a dazzling golden-white brightness the Fey called
shei'dalin's
love, a healing gift Ellysetta Baristani wielded with a strength the world had not seen since the dawn of the First Age,

Against her closed lids, the pulsating vibrancy of Fey vision replaced physical sight, darkness teeming with the glowing threads of energy that made up all life and substance. Her consciousness traveled down the blinding-bright conduits of her arms, into Aartys's dying body, then sank deeper. Moving with swift purpose, she followed the threads of her healing weave and descended into the Well of Souls, the blackness that lay beyond and beneath the physical world, the home of demons and the unborn and the dead waiting for .passage into their next life.

There, she could see the fading light of Aartys's soul as he sank into the long, silent dark of the Well. When his light disappeared, he would be lost. Determined not to let that happen, she plunged after him, her presence a dazzling incandescence that lit the shadowy world of the Well like a golden-white sun.

«
Aartys.
»
She wove Spirit, the mystic magic of thought and illusion, hoping to make him feel his mother's grief and fill him with an urgent need to return to her.
“Fight, Aartys. Fight
to
live
.” Death, ultimately, was like drowning. Once the initial terror passed, the dying embraced the numbness and simply let themselves fall, like wrecked ships sinking to the bottom of the sea. «
Do not surrender
.
Reach for my Light. Let
me bring you back to your mother. She needs you. She will be lost without you.»

Her weave was strong, her command of Spirit as exceptional as her command of the potent healing magic of the Fey. Yet still he fell.

So tired, his fading spirit whispered.
Tell Mam I
... His voice trailed off and the pale light of his soul began to sputter.

«Aarrtys!
»
Ellysetta dove after him. The threads of her weave stretched to the breaking point as she followed him deep into the Well, deeper than any other healer dared to go, deeper than she should have gone without Rain to anchor her.

«
Take my magic
,
kem'falla,
»
Gaelen said.
«
Use
what
you
need, and quickly.
You
have been gone from yourself too long. »

«
Aiyah.
»
She seized the magic Gaelen had offered for her use—the dark black threads of magic that throbbed with red sparks. Azrahn, the forbidden soul magic.

Ellysetta worked quickly, reluctant to put Gaelen at risk by making him hold his weave for more than a chime or two. Though Gaelen considered the chance to save Fey lives well worth the risk of wielding Azrahn, they both knew how dangerous the magic was. She plaited the cool, dark threads of his Azrahn into her flows of
shei'dalin's
love, weaving the strands of icy shadow and warm, healing light together.

The new weave—amplified by her powers as well as Gaelen's own—let her descend much farther into the Well. But as deep as she went, Aartys remained out of reach.

«Enough,
kem'falla
.
»
Gaelen said. «We're out
of time
.
»

«
Just a
little
farther
.
»

«Nei. You've been gone from yourself too long. If you cannot save the boy now, you must let him go. Your life is too important
to risk so needlessly
.
»

Anger bubbled up inside her.
«
Needlessly!
»

«You know what I mean.»

«
Every
life is precious,
Gaelen
.
»
She'd held too many dying men in her arms, comforted too many stricken loved ones, seen her own mother beheaded by the E1d. She could not bear the thought of one more lost, wasted life—especially not this beautiful boy, whose bright eyes and sunny smile reminded her of her own young sisters.

Nei
, she could not—
would not
—lose another soul today. Not to magic, not to war, and not to the thrice-flamed Well of Souls!

Cold whispered through her veins. Azrahn surged up from the great, deep source inside her, summoned by her anger. An almost sentient eagerness pressed against her will, as if the Azrahn inside her
wanted
her to weave it,
wanted
her to embrace its dark, forbidden power.

For her, giving in to that temptation would come with a terrible price. She bore four Mage Marks, placed upon her by the High Mage of Eld, and each time she spun Azrahn, she risked receiving another one. Two more and her soul, her consciousness, her entire being, would be his to command.

Still, the lure was tremendous. Gaelen's threads didn't contain a fraction of the power her own did. She could weave just a little ... just enough to save the boy. Perhaps she could even spin it quickly enough that the High Mage wouldn't have time to sense it and Mark her again.

Yes ...
yes, just a little, and quickly. Such a small
thing
.
Surely he
would miss it.

The siren's call whispered in her ear. Dimly, she heard someone say her name, as if calling from far away, but the voice was soon silenced. Forbidden power throbbed in her veins, and all around her, the darkness of the Well of Souls pulsed to the same beat. Her ears filled with muted susurrations, a rhythmic ebbing and flowing, as if she were a child in the womb, listening to the blood rushing through her mother's veins. The sound was hypnotic ... entrancing....

She reached for her Azrahn, let its cold sweetness fill her.

«
Ellysetta
!» A furious and all-too-familiar voice roared her name. Power rushed into her body, and deep within the Well, her Light flared like an exploding sun.

The jolt sent her weave spearing wildly into the Well, so deep it passed the fading light that was Aartys's soul. Stunned, she had just enough time and presence of mind to close her weave around Aartys and cling tight before her soul was yanked from the Well and slammed back into her own body. The shining brilliance of Fey vision faded to darkness. The tranquility of the Well gave way to a murmur of voices, muted as of men in pain, the smells of blood and sweat and suffering. Her eyes fluttered as her senses gradually returned to her body.

She was clutched in a hot, hard, golden embrace, but neither that nor the blazing heat of two burning purple suns glaring down upon her could stop the icy shivers racking her frame. She blinked up into the achingly beautiful, utterly furious face of her truemate. "Rain, I—"

His eyes flared tairen-bright. Pupils and whites disappeared, saving only spark-filled whirls of lavender that glowed so bright they could have lit a dark room. "Do. Not. Speak," His nostrils flared, and even the long, inky black strands of his hair crackled with scarcely contained energy. "Just... be silent." He was so angry, his temper bordered on Rage, the wild, ferociously lethal fury of the Fey.

A choked sound snagged her attention. "Aartys!" she cried. Powerful arms encased in heavy, golden, tairen-forged steel tightened their grip around her and held her fast, "Is alive and does not need your help."

She turned her head, but she couldn't see the boy. Scarlet-veiled
shei'dalins
surrounded the table where he lay, and the glow of concentrated healing magic shone so bright even mortal eyes could see it.
"Beylah sallan,"
she breathed.

That remark was the feather that broke the tairen's back, Rain plunked her on her feet, gripped her arms, and gave her a shake strong enough to rattle her teeth. "Thank the gods?
Thank the gods?"
His Rage blazed so hot, flames nearly shot from his head. "Thank Gaelen for having the belated sense to call me when he realized what was happening." He shook her again. "Idiot! Ninnywit! Reckless, rack-headed dim-skull! How many times are you going to put yourself in such danger?"

Her brows snapped together. "Me?” she shot back. "That's a bit of the sword calling the dagger sharp, don't you think?" She yanked herself out of his grasp and returned his glare with her own. "Do I berate you for all the risks you take in battle?”

He drew himself up to his full height, and with his golden war steel adding significant breadth to his already broad shoulders, he loomed over her. "Don't try to turn this on me. I am the Defender of the Fey, and we are at war. It is my duty to lead our warriors in battle."

"And I am a
shei'dalin,”
she retorted. "The most powerful healer we have. It is my duty to save every life I can!"

"Not at the risk of your own! You were about to weave Azrahn, Ellysetta! Despite the danger—despite your sworn oath never to weave it again unless we both agreed."

The pain in his voice—even more than the frightening truth of his words—deflated her defensive ire. She had made a vow and nearly betrayed it—nearly betrayed him. Her shoulders slumped and she lifted a shaking hand to her face.

He was right, but before she could admit it and apologize, Jonna gave a short cry. Rain and Ellysetta both turned to the table where Aartys lay. The
shei’dalins
had extinguished their weaves and were already departing. The boy was sitting up, the gaping wound in his chest gone without a trace, even the dried blood and grime of war washed away by
shei’dalin
magic. His mother had her arms wrapped tight around him, and her shoulders heaved with sobs of relief and joy.