On a mission for the Wizard Enclave, Orielle ventures into the Wilding, a strange frontier filled with magical creatures.
There she discovers sprites and wraiths, gobbers and wyre.
All view her as prey.
Never adept with magic, she allies with Grim, a swordsman who wields elemental power. With him as guide and guard, she heads for Iscleft Haven, hoping to renew the alliance between the Enclave and the Haven.
But a wyre pack pursues them. The wolf shifters are thralls of a sorceress, an enemy of the Enclave. Her foul sorcery enables them to transform without the pull of the Moon. And the sorceress steals gobbers from Lady Bone, a Dark Fae creature called a Crygy, queen of the Wild Hunt, whose riders neither live nor die.
Can Orielle and Grim reach the Haven without falling to the wyre and the gobbers? Or must they bind themselves to Lady Bone and ride the Wild Hunt as the newly chosen of a Crygy?
*To Wield the Wind* is the first novella in the Spells of Air trilogy, all set in the Fae Mark’d World.
Read a portion of the first chapter below.
LINKS for Purchase ::
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Box Set of the Trilogy Spells of Air in ebook and paperback
Orielle guided the dapple-grey gelding along the narrow trail traversing the steep slope of the mountain.
Lights winked in the trees ahead, like the spectrum glints in her mother’s diamond pendant, a gift for the spell she’d worked for the king.
She reined in the horse to watch the dancing lights. On the trek to this height, she’d seen the rainbow-colored lights a few times. The old man who had warned her of the Wilding said that she would see strange things, but this strangeness was beautiful. The lights flitted among the autumn-changed leaves. A cluster darted in and out, winking in unison. Light reflected from sun-glinted water moved randomly. These lights had a fascinating pattern.
Ghost snorted. Orielle patted his neck. At the light tap of palm to horsehide, the lights flashed then blinked away. She sighed and hoped the glints would return.
“Sprites,” she told Ghost. “Flower-lights.” She remembered reading the description while she studied in the archivist’s tower. Old Rombrey wouldn’t let students carry the thick tome out of his tower, and her tutors required that she con information from its multiple pages. For hours she’d perched on a stool and shivered in the stony room, far removed from the brazier that the old man kept near his table. Before today’s flower-lights, she’d thought that old book contained nothing more than myths. Before she ventured into the Wilding, she should have had another dip into the Creatures of the Hinterlands. She hadn’t bothered to read the chapter about dragons.
She hoped she didn’t encounter dragons.
The sprites were not the first odd things she’d encountered since entering the Wilding that verged the Shifting Lands. She wanted to see them again.
She hoped she did not see another stunted creature like the one that had invaded her campsite last night.
Enclave-raised, with never a toe ventured beyond the settled lands, Orielle had compassed her world with mundane and powered, wizard against sorcerer, Rhoghieri against wyre. Wizard-trained, she came into the border lands to renew the Enclave pact with the Rhoghieri. She expected mountain cats and vipers, bears and hornets, not the stunted creature that tried to drag away her food bag while she slept. Ghost had woken her. When she sprang up, the thing abandoned its prize and scuttled into the darkness.
When her heart stopped racing, she paced her wards, designed to keep her safe from mundane and the evils of Frost Clime.
Her wards weren’t damaged.
Where the creature had crossed, the ward spells remained linked, limning golden when she checked their strength.
Orielle spent the rest of the night watching for more trouble.
These glinting lights were the second oddity. They looked too pretty to be dangerous. The claws that had punctured the thick hide of her food bag would be lethal.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have volunteered when Adorée backed out,” she told the horse. His ears flicked forward. Safe in Mont Nouris, her wizard trials appointed a year away, Orielle had itched for adventure. Her sister hadn’t given a reason for changing her mind about the ArchClans’ request to go to Iscleft Haven. Orielle snatched at the opportunity before someone else did.
“Too late to back out now, Ghost. Come on.”
When the grey horse refused to move forward, she dug in her heels. Iron-shod hooves remained firmly planted. His ears flicked forward.
Orielle sat back and stared at the trees with their riot of changing leaves, red and orange and bronzy, colors so rich she wished she knew the name of the trees. She hadn’t excelled at flora and fauna.
The leaves shivered at a vagrant wind’s touch. The sprites had vanished. Nothing moved under the trees’ canopy. The well-traveled path she followed, pointed out by the Lowland farmer who had warned of the Wilding’s dangers, maintained its easy route along the slope and into the trees. The path worked up and down until it reached the rocky escarp that towered above the trees.
There, at the rocks, the path switched back and forth to climb the slope, just as it had cut on itself as it began the climb from the valley.
If a mundane creature menaced, Ghost would snort a warning. He had neighed last night. Whatever lurked was neither mundane nor stunted creature with stubby talons.
No birds chirped or flitted about. No little mammals scurried along the limbs or scratched at the roots.
She wished she had Fire or Water, to spook whatever lurked. She wielded Air, and that not as well as she wished.
The bulk of the mountain loomed above the rocky escarp. Once she achieved the crest, she would overlook the Wilding, land untrammeled by civilization, inhabited only by magic users. Far east glimmered the Shifting Lands. Far north was an off-shoot of Faeron, and farther north the forests and tundra of Ultima Thule.
Orielle wanted to achieve the crest by sunset. Did a creature lurked on the escarp? Did it wait to leap upon her and Ghost? Or did it plan to rush them when they started the upward trail? Spook the horse, and she and Ghost would fall hundreds of feet to the valley.
For a solid week she had listened to one Lowland farmer after another tell of ogres lurking in the boulders, hiding in caves, and creeping through trees. Orielle shivered with the children while the wives bustled about and old folk smoked the ubiquitous puff pipe, saying “aye” at dark times in the stories.
Now that she’d seen sprites and that creature, she couldn’t dismiss those warnings as stories to keep the little ones from wandering off.
Ogres. Trolls. Wyre? Shape-shifting wyre, sent by the sorcerers of Frost Clime to block the way to Iscleft Haven. Wyre and sorcerers, waiting for Orielle to ride into their trap.
Imagination would doom her one day.
Trained to alert to sorcery, Ghost had warned her of last night’s unnatural creature. The mundane didn’t affect him. Loud noises would, like the soldiers who had drilled in the well square of the last town of the Lowlands.
Outcasts lurked on the fringes. She hadn’t kept her mission to the Haven secret. She was a young woman traveling alone; easy prey, the lawless would think. She had more than enough power for them.
Orielle put her heels into Ghost as she clucked. He snorted but started obediently.
A dark shape slunk from one tree trunk to the next.
She reined in Ghost. Once again she peered at the shadow-draped trail. Once again she spotted nothing and no one.
Stripping off her riding gloves, she tucked them into her saddle bags. Then she started the horse forward.
When they passed close to the first tree, his ears flicked. He snorted at the third tree. He balked when the trees surrounded him.
She could still see nothing and no one. After peering around, Orielle lifted her hand. Golden magic limned her fingers, both warning and threat. “Come out and play,” she offered. She tried to breathe slowly, deeply. A vagrant wind cooled her cheeks.
For several breaths nothing moved. Then a tall figure separated from the tree that had hidden his wide shoulders. Even in the shadows, his blond hair glistened as it fell over his bare shoulders. Slanted eyebrows slashed together over eyes as blue as the sky. His features were sharply boned in a narrow face. A golden pelt covered his broad chest. He wore only leather breeches, with no shirt and no boots on his bare feet.
And he stood on his toes. Yellowed claws dripped from his fingers.
Wyre. Partially shifted. Real trouble, for wizardry had little defense against a shifted wyre.
“Good morrow,” she told him.
He grinned, a flash of white fangs that were sharp and scary. “Playtime.” And he leaped for her.
Ghost chose to rear. Orielle lost her seat and slid back. She landed on her feet, sheer luck. The drop jarred her, scared her. She stumbled sideways.
And into something. Something that loomed higher than her.
A tree? A wyre! No. Hands had caught her. They shoved her backward. Panic flashed over her then winked out when she realized the man wasn’t a shifted wyre. He wasn’t a wyre at all. And he stood between her and the wyre.
Ghost tore the reins free of clawed hands. He bounded away. His white tail flashed as he thundered through the trees.
The wyre didn’t look at the lost horse. He ignored Orielle. His narrowed eyes rimmed gold as he scanned the man, brown hair, brown leathers, brown boots, shining sword. Then the wyre grinned. “Rho.”
“Wyre,” the man retorted. With the steely blade between them, he lifted one hand.
The wyre flew back. He thudded into a tree trunk. Red leaves scattered over him. Claws scratched the ground, then he scrambled up. Those gold-rimmed eyes flickered to Orielle. He grinned, sick anticipation stretching his lips. “Don’t leave, pretty wizard.”
The Rhoghieri’s hand came up again.
The wyre laughed then dove behind a tree.
And disappeared.
While she gawked, the Rhoghieri grabbed her hand. “This way.” He headed back, towing her along.
“But—my horse—.”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t acknowledge her protest. They passed the sunny spot where Ghost had stopped before.
On the switchback to the lower trail, Orielle lost her footing and began sliding. The Rho’s strong grip kept her upright. Her free hand scraped over rock and sedgy grass. The stiff riding boots kept her ankles from rolling off roots and rocks that skittered under her. When she stumbled again, he kept her from tumbling downslope, but he used her momentum to leave the well-worn trail. They rushed downward several feet, then he tugged her along as he climbed higher and higher.
When he stopped, she fetched into him. “Oof.” She grabbed his arm to steady herself.
Sun dazzled her eyes, so she looked down and away.
They stood on a thready trail, ribbony compared to the path she had followed. The trail coursed the mountain’s flank. Behind him, grass gave way to boulders. Below them, far below them—the wyre stood on the wider path. Clawed hands rested on his hips. The sun gleamed on his sweat-slick skin.
He grinned. “Come out and play,” he shouted her words.
Wind whooshed down the slope. It blasted over the wyre. He tumbled backward, down the slope.
She nearly came off her feet when the Rhoghieri jerked her forward. “Don’t stop.”
Celebrate as Remi Black begins a year-Plus Salute to a 10th Anniversary
We’re Celebrating Weave a Wizardry Web,
first in the Fae Mark’d Wizard series.
As a salute to the start of her publishing journey, back in 2017, Remi Black is offering the entire first novel in the series, chapters by chapters through the months. It’s her 9th year going into the 10th year. Woohoo!
First in the Series
Here you will find the first three chapters of the epic novel of battles between wizards & sorcerers and Fae & shape-shifting Wyre.
Come back next month on the 10th to read the next installment. These monthly installments will continue to August of 2027.
First Novel Published, Third Novel Written … and still a fantastic story
of the wizard Alstera and her aunt Camisse–always disparaged for having little power,
of the sorcerer Sanglier setting a trap for the wizards in the very heart of the Wizard Enclave,
of Pearroc Seale, a glamoured Fae sent to the Wizard Enclave to trick the wizards into renewing the alliance with Faeron,
of deceitful wyres like Arctos intent on spilling as much wizard blood as possible,
and of Faone, a Naught desperate to matter in a family of powerful wizards.
Now, Celebrate with the 1st Installment.
Weave a Wizardry Web
I
Pearroc Ciele poured Fae power into the wizard spell. No Fae could wield power like a wizard. In the past few weeks, the Drakon taught him how to mask the Fae elemental draw. Now, his spells looked like any wizard of the Enclave.
As the spell flashed lightning bright, he recognized the weakness that shattered through the spell.
“If you are to pass yourself off as a wizard during the Trials, you must defend as a wizard would, not as a Fae would.”
The Drakon’s dry voice reminded Pearroc that he still had much to learn.
He twisted his shoulders. The aged man never missed a point when teaching wizardry. After the trek across the combined city of Tres Lucerna, the Drakon was too weak to rise from the chair provided by the arena master. Yet his black eyes snapped onto a flaw, and his quick mind decoded the reason for that flaw. For a Fae spell to masquerade as wizardry, Pearroc had to twist the elemental power through a glamor. Most wizards would miss the glamour hidden by the swirling energies. Pater Drakon never missed it.
He had trained with the Drakon since his springtime arrival. With the league of sorcerers and wyre increasing in strength, the Fae Maorketh knew the alliance of Fae and wizardry had to improve. A Blade for the Fae queen, Pearroc expected an easy mission: convince the Enclave that no real difference existed between Fae and wizard. He sought out the Enclave clan leader known to argue for a stronger Fae alliance. Yet his arrogance hadn’t prepared him for the Drakon’s lessons. At times, Pearroc fumbled like a child. He didn’t regret his apprenticeship to the master wizard, yet High Summer had arrived, and still he trained.
So he worked the spell again.
“A visible improvement,” the old wizard judged.
Fae sparked power from a tangible element. Easiest to draw was Air, for it surrounded everything. Earth came next, whether dirt or rock or anything once rooted in the earth and nourished from the mother. Only traveling the ocean put Earth out of reach, and Fae who journeyed by ship always carried a reserve vial. A desert made working with Water difficult, but sources for water could be found. Fire was hardest to spark power, for it required an open flame.
With the element providing the energy, Fae built spells drawn from the element. Wizards and sorcerers needed nothing to spark power, for they drew on their own—and could be drained. They died then, without even a lifespark to fuel their own bodies. Pearroc never quite understood how Rhoghieri and Wyre worked spells. The Rho used the elements, yet they’d withdrawn so completely from any alliance that even the long-lived of the Fae had no memory of their spells. Lady Moon controlled the Wyre’s changing. Sorcerers could manipulate the shifters’ changes, yet they needed constant power. They used the forbidden as their source, the blood spells and the thralldom of mind-enslaved wielders.
Pearroc’s wizard-shaped power required a tangible element to initiate his spells. He missed the ease of Fae wielding. He understood his mission’s importance, though. He would not falter.
The sudden clash of steel against steel jerked his head around. Power sparked at his fingertips.
“Stand down,” the Drakon said. “It’s a practice arena. Are you expecting someone to assassinate me?”
Pearroc lowered his hands, but power glowed at his fingertips. “You are a clan patriarch and a council elder. Your enemies hate your support of Faeron. The Maorketh considers you a valuable ally. Your Fae comeis, a Blade who will protect you against all, has not returned. He should not be your errand boy. Bring a page for that.”
“I would if I trusted any page to keep secrets. A Blade bound to me will keep all my secrets. You surprise me, Seale,” he added, giving Pearroc’s Fae name the human pronunciation. “You do expect my assassination.”
Pearroc stopped scanning the balcony seats beside their box. He dismissed the duelists in the practice ring. “Why are you surprised?”
“I am valuable, even though this old body fails.” Drakon grinned. Light glittered in those black eyes. “We aged are always pleased when we are valued. I am not pleased you considered me worthy of assassination.”
“Your comeis is not—.”
“Huron Talenn will return in a few minutes. His errand serves me and Faeron. How often can we combine two errands into one? This time we can, for the person he will bring to me the person who can give us the alliance we need.” Drakon shifted on the uncushioned wooden seat. “You have a greater problem, Seale. Fae power skirrs through your spell. I can clearly see it. If I can see, others will.”
“It is a Fae defense,” Pearroc admitted, “but no wizard at the Trials will recognize it. Few wizards of this generation have fought beside the Fae against a common enemy.”
“They will recognize it if they fought at the outposts, side by side with Fae against Frost Clime. The person you are to meet will recognize it.”
Ah, a hint about this mysterious person. Who is this man? Who can guarantee a greater alliance? Pearroc dipped his fingers into Pater Drakon’s glass, stealing the water in the wine to work another little spell. He tossed the power in his hand, like a child’s ball, as he considered how to strip away the Fae glow that brightened the spell. “The Maorketh herself built the glamour around me. She decided my narrative. A home that borders Faeron. Parents who hired Fae tutors when my powers manifested. A journey to the Enclave to train with wizards. And the Fae edge to my spells results from those Fae tutors.”
“It’s still folly to reveal it after a season of training.” Drakon glanced again at the practice ring. As a great wizard, he had never needed to wield a sword, and duelling and practice matches held no interest. Yet he remained focused on the opponents in the arena. For that reason, Pearroc studied them.
The old man refused to abandon his warning. “If my fellow councilors do not know your spells are edged with Fae glow, the Fae comeis will know.”
“No comeis will not reveal it. They are bound to clan leaders, yes, but their first loyalty is to the Maorketh Alaisa. Your comeis will agree on this with me.”
“It is a mad plan: a Fae masquerading as a wizard, to pass the Trials and become a voice in the Enclave. I cannot believe your queen agreed to it. I cannot believe I agreed to it.”
“Who else would have?”
“No one,” the aged man retorted, “more evidence of this madness. And I see more and more difficulties as we near the Trials. My fellow Sages may not see the Fae skirr, but the ArchClan might send a representative. That representative could see the skirr.”
“It would take a powerful wizard, someone who wielded more than two elements with ease.”
“Someone like Alstera, yes. The ArchClan’s granddaughter, who has nothing to do but wait for her next order.”
Pearroc shrugged, but a frisson of warning traveled up his spine. He had met Alstera, proud granddaughter of the ArchClan Letheina. Powerful and arrogant, she wielded all four elements. A handful of Enclave wizards also did so, but her power blasted theirs into mere wisps. Rumor claimed that she dabbled in the challenging fifth element, the Chaos that few Fae could tap. Yes, that wizard would indeed see the skirr that fragmented his spells.
Chilling with a hint of autumn, a breeze skirled around the ring and gusted through the balconies. It disturbed only the few spectators. Drakon, in his sheltered box, tucked his heavy cloak closer.
Pearroc conceded Drakon’s wisdom with a formal bow, a deeper one than Fae courtesy demanded. “I will repress the Fae in my spells. We have years invested in the Maorketh’s plan. I will not cause its failure.”
The aged man’s eyes glittered. Once more he looked at the practice ring. “Forgive an old man’s worries. The nearer your trial draws, the greater my concerns. For your queen’s mad plan to succeed, we need more than my orthodox training. When you construct spells, your understanding is a Fae’s understanding of the spell’s foundations. You need to consider a wizard’s basic understanding of the spell.”
Pearroc glanced at the duelists who kept drawing his mentor’s attention. Then he scanned the other spectators of the sandy arena. What aid is he planning? “You train me more than adequately for the Trials.”
He laughed. The sound turned into a cough that he muffled in the wool of his cloak, and Pearroc thought again of the shorter lives of mortal men. Aged, his body failing, the Drakon had insisted on touring the entire arena before they came to his balcony box.
When the spasm passed, he leaned his head against the chair’s high back and breathed.
“Do you know what you are doing with this, Pater?” He used the title as if he were a member of the Drakon’s clan. “Only yesterday the healer warned against unnecessary exertion.”
Those black, black eyes opened and bored into him. “I deem this very necessary. How else will you meet without the ArchClan’s court watching every move? Even if you dropped a Shield over your conversation, a few have practiced lip-reading. No, you must meet today. Time grows short. And I hear rumors.” His eyes rolled to the sanded practice ring. “There she is.”
The cane-wielding duelists had departed. Five new people had entered, one of them a woman.
Pearroc huffed. In his two months here, he’d discovered many city women affecting sword-play. Even a few wizards pretended devotion to the bladed art. The Drakon had promised someone who could help increase the alliance between Fae and wizardry. Disappointment colored his question. “Another woman pretending to be a warrior?”
“Not pretending. She is. Watch.”
As the new duelists prepared, he studied the woman. Her first youth had passed, yet she retained the litheness of a young woman. Plaited dark hair trailed down her back, a stark rope against her white linen shirt. Long legs were encased in deerskin, the same garb as the men, and Pearroc admired their length and shape. When she turned, he saw the patrician bones that sharpened her face. Her swan’s neck would display rich jewels to advantage. What was a noble doing at the common practice arena?
She said something, and the three of the men chuckled. He recognized two as house guards for the ArchClan Letheina. The other two were Fae comeis bound to clan leaders. One was Vatar Regnant, bound to Pater duCian. The other—Pearroc looked closely—was the ArchClan’s comeis, Ruidri Talenn de Ysagrael, brother to Drakon’s comeis. He was the one shedding belt and scabbard. The woman handed her shoulder harness to Regnant. That pricked his interest more than her noble features. Fae did not pretend interest in human duels. Fae did not spar against human opponents. Fae quickness proved too deadly.
They used edged steel, not wooden canes. “Is she a fool? Ruidri Talenn will take no pity on a human woman. He will kill her. Or maim her. A woman can’t match strength against a man, especially a honed Blade.”
The Drakon chuckled. “Watch.”
Someone shouted, and the cane-wielding duelists dropped their practice and ran from the sandy arena.
The first flurry of blows rang into the seats. Testing moves, strength and agility and skill. Then Ruidri smiled and pressed an attack.
Pearroc expected her to miss a parry, to stumble as she gave ground, to drop onto the sand, bleeding from a dozen cuts of the Fae’s blade.
Her sword glinted with sunlight. She deflected Ruidri’s sword through the rapid pattern taught to Fae student of edged combat. Ruidri’s grin widened. Pearroc knew that grin, having crossed blades with the elder Fae years ago, before he left Faeron and crossed to the human world on the Maorketh’s orders.
The comeis changed the pattern. This time the woman grinned. Her defense didn’t depend on strength. Her blade slid along Ruidri’s or deflected it. Fae women learned these tricks. But this woman was no student. Her skill exceeded anything he’d see from humans.
Ruidri gave ground to her spell-quick attack. She didn’t step around the comeis; she flowed around him. She fought like a Fae. Her blade, though, lacked the flashing energy that would have charged it in battle. The Fae’s sword also remained energy-free. He said something that had her laughing, the sound ringing across the clash of swords.
Their sparring changed again. The comeis increased to Fae speed. Pearroc held his breath, both fascinated and horrified. A human could not match Fae quickness, and she gave ground. Even so, she anticipated his thrusts. Those she could not guard, she melted away from. Those she could not deflect, she turned into throwing Ruidri off-step.
He fell back. Lightning fast, she came after—only to stop on her toes when Vatar spoke.
Her chest heaved. Sweat slicked her linen shirt while Ruidri merely gleamed with exertion. He spoke again then held his hand up in a Fae-to-Fae salute. And she returned it.
“Who is she?” Pearroc demanded.
“Impressive, isn’t she? A pity they did not magic their blades. I have heard that lightning crackles along the blades. I have always wanted to see that.”
He didn’t look away from the woman. “How is she possible? A human with Fae training in edged combat. Support her sword with magic is a Fae skill. Who is she? How do I not know her? How have I not heard of her?”
“For the past fifteen years she has commanded Chanerro Pass.”
“Who is she?” he repeated. This time his words were a demand.
“She is good, isn’t she?” Drakon croaked the words then started coughing.
The woman heard and turned to look. She located the box. Eyes as black as Drakon’s stared up. Ruidri Talenn and Vatar Regnant looked as well, then Ruidri Talenn spoke. As Pearroc bent over his mentor, offering the magic-infused wine, he saw the woman shake her head. Vatar Regnant stepped closer, adding comments of his own.
The magicked water eased the coughing spasm. Drakon looked shrunken inside his voluminous cloak.
“Where is your comeis? Huron Talenn should be here by now.”
“An errand, I told you. Don’t press. I can breathe again.”
“You shouldn’t be out, Pater. The air is too chill.”
“Humor an old man a little longer. Let me enjoy the last of High Summer. I am dying, but I am not on my death bed. Ha! You didn’t protest.”
“Penthia said seven weeks, perhaps eight.”
“My own magic said that. The body decays, not the mind.”
He gestured to the practice ring. “Who is she? Why do you point her out to me?”
“The one who should be clan leader after I die. She is my daughter.”
Blades were trained from childhood to hide their emotions. Pearroc concealed his shock, but his thoughts staggered for several seconds.
The Drakon had no children, none that he acknowledged. His second in command, Magister Brandt, was a nephew. In a clan filled with his bloodline, he had no direct heir. Yet he claimed this woman, who wielded a sword with Fae-taught skill. A woman who must also be a wizard. Clan leaders could only be wizards. The Enclave only bestowed that title on those who passed the wizard trials. The heart of Pearroc’s whole mission was to be accepted as a wizard then reveal that he was Fae.
As fast as a Blade. A leader of an outpost fighting Frost Clime. A wizard. And a guarantee to increase the alliance of Fae and wizards. Who was this woman?
He stared at the ring, but the woman and the two comeis and the woman had left.
“Who is she? This woman is not in your house. She commands Chanerro, and I know that person has not visited Tres Lucerna for years. How can she become clan leader after you? You speak an impossibility. Who is she, Drakon?”
A clawed hand gripped the wool cloak. “She is no more impossible than a Fae passing the Wizard Trials,” he retorted. “She is no stranger to the Enclave. She is the daughter of the ArchClan Letheina. Water and Air instead of our Fire.”
That stilled his racing thoughts. Daughter of the ArchClan. Child of the Drakon. And Letheina now had no love for Drakon. ArchClan Letheina hated the Fae, for her son had disappeared beyond the border and never returned. How could a daughter of hers be willing to speak for a stronger alliance? He kept his response to the greatest obstacle. “The ArchClan has no love for Clan Drakon.”
Drakon laughed then wheezed. This attack passed quickly. “An understatement, Pearroc. Camisse does not know that I am her father.”
“Lady Camisse? Her power is—.” He stopped before he offended. He’d heard stories about the ArchClan’s family, of the great deeds of her sons and daughters, of the abundance of power in many of the second and third generations. He’d also the pitying remarks about the handful deemed Naughts, lacking any power to spark the least spell. Rumors claimed Camisse was little more than a Naught. That explained her focus on sword-fighting.
Whispers hinted that she’d passed the Wizard Trials by cheating, that only interference from the ArchClan herself ensured that Camisse gained the rank.
Did the Drakon want him to learn how to cheat through the Trials?
“I have heard,” the old man admitted, his voice dry. “They call her a wizard unworthy of the rank. The rumors spread far beyond her wizardry. They claim that she commands at Chanerro only because her mother pushed the posting with the king. But that is a lie easily disproved. The king himself wishes to keep Camisse in command there. She maintains a close alliance between wizards and Fae against Frost Clime. The king openly wishes for another like Camisse to appoint to Iscleft.”
“The rumors say that she is little more than a Naught.”
“True. I have heard that repeatedly, as well as the claim that her mother helped her pass the Trials. That claim is wrong. I ensured that she passed, no one else.”
Even as he goggled at the Drakon’s admission of subverting the Trials, he fastened on the major problem. “A clan leader cannot have weak power. Forgive me, Pater, but a Naught cannot rule a clan. A Naught cannot increase the alliance between Fae and Enclave. She is a hindrance, not a help.”
“Here is the greatest secret about Camisse. She doesn’t have weak power. She has greater power than Letheina herself. Yet she cannot wield it. Not with the spells she was taught.”
“Enclave teaching failed?”
Drakon didn’t answer.
Powerful but not able to wield that power. He began to see the problem. Drakon used Fire. Letheina’s clan wielded Air and Water, with the other elements occasionally sparking up. Camisse’s niece Alstera wielded all four elements.
Pearroc could not immediately recall the Enclave politics when this woman would have been conceived. The Drakon had clashed with several other clans for decades, however. Daughter of Letheina and Drakon, not of Letheina and her husband. Camisse would be shifted to the fringes of her family for the contrary politics alone—if her parentage were known. A fraught situation for any child, for the Enclave had a virtuous bent that extended to their relationships. That virtue kept them adhered to the tenets of wizardry, the creed that kept them from straying into the forbidden powers wielded by sorcery.
If her parentage were not known … . The clan tutors would teach only the powers Camisse would have inherited from her mother, the elements of Air and Water. If her inheritance was Fire, her father’s element, her spells would sputter out, like fire doused with water.
Had her tutors misidentified her powers? The ArchClan controlled all of her clan and reached fingers into other clans. She would not have accidentally misidentified the powers of her own child.
“You’re suggesting the ArchClan crippled her daughter’s power.”
“I suggest nothing.” He spat onto the box’s rough planking. “I say it. At the Trials, Camisse only knew spells for the elements of her clan. She struggled with those spells—but she can work them. Without great power, no wielder can work the spells of contrary elements. The girl never learned Fire. That is a deliberate choice by her tutors. She didn’t learn Fire because then her parentage would have been suspect. My fellow councilors on the Trials banc agreed with me. Perrault was first to suspect shackles on her power. When I confessed the past liaison, he believed it. His vote controlled the outcome.”
“Did you speak with Camisse? Have you ever spoken to her?”
“Not in private. Only at court. Only when she gives briefings about Chanerro Pass on her rare returns to the capitol.”
“Then you have no proof—.”
“I know Letheina.” Venom rimed the words. “When she lured me to her bed, she did so to gain political power. She knew the vote for the next ArchClan would come. She wanted my vote. Old fool that I was, even then, I gave her my vote. I did not expect her to cripple her own daughter’s power. I believe that was another political move, to shuffle her into direct service to the king. Letheina has done that with her grandson, Alstera’s brother. Off at the border, she kept Camisse dangled on the family hook and out of sight of the rest of the Enclave, hopefully forgotten. But Camisse is too successful in her command. Now they have recalled her and sent Raigeis’ fool sons in her place.”
Pearroc stared at the arena, but he didn’t see or hear the cane-wielding duellists who had returned to their practice. The enmity between ArchClan and Drakon was known even in Faeron. Was Camisse the reason it had sparked? “The girl would have sparked fire when first she came into her power. How could they hide that from her?”
“All that matters is that they crippled her, restricted who had access to her, built lies all around her, used her to raise her nephew and her niece, then all but exiled her. I had hoped her time at the border would give her doubts.”
“If she can fight like that,” he mused aloud, “and edge her blade with magic—.”
“Exactly. Pearroc, I want you to teach her to wield Fire.”
He jerked around. His mentor nodded. Knowing the difficulties, the old man still asked this of him. “You are old in manipulation, Pater. What happens if I refuse?”
“My daughter remains a crippled wizard.”
Pearroc winced.
“Brandt will succeed me. His voice is not strong. He will not stand against the ArchClan and her magister. They oppose more ties between the Enclave and Faeron. And your Maorketh’s mad plan to have a Fae be declared a wizard will be for naught.”
“You set a clever trap, Pater.”
‘Until three days ago I had no idea that Camisse would be recalled from the border. She is the linchpin that we needed.”
“You had to have hoped.”
He smiled, a wicked twist that revealed his manipulations.
“You are as wily and ruthless as the dragons you are named for.”
“Experience gives me wiliness. Approaching death gives me ruthlessness. This is necessity, Pearroc. You must start training her soon. Today, if possible. Yesterday is not soon enough.”
“What do you suggest?”
He snorted. “I leave that to you. If I am not mistaken, you will fulfill more than your queen’s mad command. I saw the way you watched her.”
That comment embarrassed him. He hid his emotions, his physical reactions, but the aged man understood Fae behaviors. He didn’t look for the obvious and human signs. He counted the minutes of Pearroc’s focus. Saying “she is your daughter” did not disprove Drakon’s claim, so he added, “She is a sword. Lethal beauty.”
“And beautiful death makes me ruthless.”
Pearroc pictured Lady Camisse, turning her lithe body to counter Ruidri’s ringing sword. “She is known for her support of Fae at Chanerro. Do you think she will stand with the Fae against her mother?”
“The ArchClan argued against more Fae inside Enclave walls. She argued against the bond with a comeis. She argued against adding Fae warriors to the king’s forces. She appointed Camisse to Chanerro Pass, probably hoping that experiment would fail—only to see her daughter regain outpost after outpost while Iscleft barely holds against Frost Clime.”
Pearroc arched an eyebrow. “You tell me this, but I do not need to be convinced. Lady Camisse is the one who must accept that she’s Fire and not Air and Water.”
The door to their balcony box opened. “Pater Drakon,” a man said.
Without looking around, the aged man nodded. “Enter Huron. Bring the others.”
The comeis bonded to Drakon entered. A Blade loyal first to the Maorketh, he left Faeron on her command to be bonded to a clan leader of the Wizard Enclave. His pledge forced his obedience in all but one thing to a clan leader. That one thing was his tie to Faeron, through his queen, far distant in mundane miles but seconds away if he drew all his power and step through the veil.
Huron Talenn was luckier than other comeis, for his oath was to a Pater friendly to Fae. The other Blades sent to the Enclave found divided loyalties difficult. A handful of Blades had the bitter shame of requesting new service. One of those had served the ArchClan. His replacement was of the same sept as Huron Talenn. Ruidri Talenn de Ysagrael, brother to the queen’s first brother, Tiraz Talenn de Ysagrael, a proud man in a difficult service … but Pearroc remembered how the Fae had smiled at Camisse.
Blades pledged their weapons to the Maorketh. They formed the Fae army. First defense, though, was far beyond the borders of Faeron. Blades ventured into the frontiers to confront the Kyrgy, dark Fae who warped the elements. They crept through shadows to discover information. They bound themselves to the mundane to build alliances.
And they hid themselves among humans, pretending to be wizards, in a wild hope to prove to the Enclave that wizardry needed allies.
None would know the torment of a Fae, though, sent far from the tranquil evergreen of Faeron into the corrupt dissolution caused by human greed and pride, lust and hatred, the worst sins that few rose above.
Pearroc cast off his morbid thoughts. He was too much among humans. Before he’d entered the mundane world, he had pitied Draiven Bourne de Fanault for requesting that his binding to the ArchClan be severed. Now he understood. And he prayed that he remained faithful to his pledge to the Maorketh.
The men who entered behind Huron Talenn lacked the glamour that hid Pearroc’s Fae appearance. Their straightness of carriage came more from the slightly longer length of their torso and limbs. Long hair, worn loose unless they were fighting, increased the visual illusion of length. Blades wore long tabards over Fae-spun silk and leather breeches, tall boots of soft hide, in the colors of the forest by choice. Their swords were in shoulder harnesses, but a dozen more edged weapons were tucked away for easy access.
Ruidri Talenn had loosened his hair after his bout with Lady Camisse, and it flowed like honey-gold water. His eyes had a sharper tilt at the corners than the othe Fae. Pearroc remembered breaking Ruidri’s nose when they were beginning their training, but where a human’s nose would have flattened or grown a bump, his nose had healed as if no injury had ever occurred. His gaze flashed to Pearroc, acknowledging him with the slightest crinkling around his eyes, then he bowed with the others as Huron introduced them to the Drakon.
“Lord Drakon, Comeis Vatar Regnant would speak with Commander Camisse of Letheina House in your presence, a private consultation needing a Council witness.”
Ah, the Blades had anticipated Lady Camisse’s refusal to enter the Drakon’s presence. Drakon constantly blocked the ArchClan’s will. A daughter might not willingly agree to meeting him, so the Fae had used subterfuge and requested a formal meeting, which required oversight by a member of the Council of Five. What would they use as the purpose of the meeting?
“I am honored to oversee this consultation.”
The Drakon’s quick response proved his participation in this wily scheme.
II
At Huron Talenn stepped outside the box to usher in the lady Camisse, the Drakon murmured to Pearroc. “You must meet my daughter before you can begin her training in Fire. Her first days here, she is hemmed about by her family. Yesterday she attended the king at the palace. Here at the arena, only here, can you meet Lady Camisse without someone reporting to the ArchClan.”
He spotted the swift glances of Ruidri Talenn and Vatar Regnant. They knew of the meeting but not the Drakon’s true purpose in causing it. “Anyone in the practice arena—.”
“No. Not this morning.”
Pearroc tilted his head. “How many threads did you spin out for this meeting, Drakon?”
“How many do you think I spun out?
A second knock forestalled any answer. Taking a position to the shadowed side of the box, Pearroc braced his feet wide and clasped his hands behind his back.
Huron Talenn entered then stepped aside for the lady Camisse.
Lady Camisse. Commander of Chanerro Pass. Daughter of the ArchClan. Wizard of the Enclave. Even though she was sweaty from the practice bout in the arena, every inch of her fulfilled those descriptions. Her stance had a Fae’s rigid correctness, probably because she faced the long-time enemy of her mother, never knowing that enemy was also her father. Her long bones enabled her to mimic the Fae fighting style. That swan’s neck also evoked Fae stature. No Fae, though, had those black eyes and black hair.
She stopped only an ell’s length inside the door. Huron Talenn passed her to a shield-side stance beside the Drakon. As Ruidri Talenn shut the door firmly, she glanced back and accepted his position at her back. Comeis to her mother, she must consider that he would protect her as well.
Proof, Pearroc realized, that she understood nothing about the Fae bond between clan leader and Blade. and stationed himself there. No one could freely enter or exit.
Vatar Regnant stood beside Ruidri Talenn.
Camisse walked to railing prevented those in the box from tumbling down to the arena. When she turned, the sunshine behind her placed her face in shadow. Another thing she did not understand, that only the humans would not see her expressions. And she mistook the humans in the box, for she must wish to hide her reactions from the Drakon and from Pearroc—and he was not human.
Her gaze flashed over Pearroc, half-hidden by shadows, then she focused on Drakon. She curtsied, as formal as if she wore bejeweled silk and starched wire-lace instead of a leather jack and trousers.
The aged man smiled. “An elegant action in a reception hall, Commander, but we are informal here.”
“I would not offend the Drakon.”
Her husky voice and her actions struck dual chords in Pearroc, piquing more than his intellectual interest. She didn’t have the hard steel that a border commander gained. He liked that warm voice. He liked that she did not shove her commander status on those around her. Commanders ranked equal to clan leaders, with the same influence and the same vote in Enclave business. She deserved to meet Drakon as an equal, but she offered him the greater position.
She had inherited the old man’s wiliness. Pearroc struggled with the deception of his glamour, for Fae didn’t actively lie. He admired her seeming ease in meeting an opponent of her clan. The only clue was a slight constriction around her eyes.
“I congratulate the first successful commander of Chanerro Pass.”
“I am honored, Drakon, but other commanders also have successes.”
“Not in a half-century and none like yours. Were you to be given Rhoghieri allies and enough troops and supplies, we might suppress Frost Clime for a half-century. Will you ask the Council for that, my child?”
Pearroc watched closely, but she didn’t react to that naming. The comeis stood still, hands clasped before them, watching with Fae stoicism. He remembered that he was supposed to be acting human and smiled when again she glanced at him.
Lady Camisse shrugged off the question. “Battles are won with more than troops and supplies. The alliance of wizard and Fae is crucial—but I should not speak of any forthcoming plans for Chanerro.”
“You worry that someone here will send word to a sorcerer?”
“No, Pater Drakon. My nature is to be overly cautious. I have a full day. I must soon return home.”
“Do you worry that someone will report our conversation to the ArchClan?”
This time she winced. “I will not refuse an invitation from any clan leader.”
“Even so, Pearroc, drop a Shield over our conversation.” When the heavy energy settled over them, Drakon leaned forward and spoke a harder truth. “Your mother has no liking for me. Your brother Raigeis, her magister, actively works against me. Do you foresee difficulties in speaking with me?”
“Were I not to speak with you, I would miss your charming compliments,” she said lightly, her gaze flicking to Pearroc then back to Drakon. “Your comeis and Vatar said they wished to speak privately with me. I agreed.”
“Without knowing I would be here?”
“Since you are here, giving us this space, I will not request that we speak elsewhere.” Then she removed the implied slight with an impish grin. She flicked another glance at Pearroc. “But I would know this other witness to our words?”
“Ah, forgive me. My protégé Pearroc Seale of Petrosse. He is here for the Wizard Trials.”
“Petrosse? I think I know of that land. Doesn’t it share a border with Faeron?”
In truth, Petrosse was part of Faeron. The Enclave, far and far away from the country of Mont Nouris, never inquired how far the borders of Faeron had spread. “You know of my home?” Pearroc countered with his own question since Fae could not directly lie.
“Yes. A conversation for later, perhaps? You have been in Tres Lucerna long?”
“Drakon sponsors my acceptance into the Enclave. I came the first of Best Summer. The Trials remain before me.”
She shuddered. “I wish you well of them. May you fly through.” She glanced at the three comeis. “I am long past the age to account for my time, but my brother Raigeis conveniently thinks me a child. Vatar Regnant, you wished to speak privately. May I guess your purpose? You wish me to intervene on behalf of the Fae. May I assume that you wish the ArchClan to remove the limits on the number of Fae in Tres Lucerna?”
Vatar dipped his head. “You run before us, Commander. That is our request.”
“My voice is a single chirp in the chorus of clan leaders, Vatar. It carries no additional weight. The ArchClan does not spoil her youngest daughter.”
Pearroc thought those words would end this meeting. If she were hide-bound Enclave, at one with her mother’s views, the meeting would have concluded before it began. Then she surprised him by offering direction.
“Vatar, you and the other comeis would be better served to win the voices of the Council of Five. The Sages carry overriding weight, and you have three of them in open support of Faeron. And perhaps even a fourth.”
“Three,” Drakon said. “Perrault ages, I die, and d’Aulnois remains steadfast. But Brantimor will step in next, and he supports Letheina. Metallin sways with the wind.”
“And Galfrons? Does he still keep half his stones hidden?”
“He does.”
“Why do you say you are dying?”
“My healer says it. I can feel it.”
“I do not ask if magicks have been attempted. You are a patriarch. You would not so easily cede to Death. Yet healers have been wrong.”
“I feel death creeping on me,” Drakon repeated.
She nodded. Chewed her lip. “How old is Brandt? He is still your magister, isn’t he?”
“He is seven years too young to be appointed to the Council of Five. And the Aged Sages would never accept a succeeding clan leader of Drakon get onto the Council.”
“Who is after Brantimor? Bronchet? He supports Faeron.”
“Are you supporting assassination, my child?” He grinned as he said it, ghoul’s delight, and Pearroc remembered the old man’s claim of ruthlessness.
She grinned as well, her dark eyes twinkling. “I am no assassin, Pater Drakon. I am too clumsy.” Her gaze swept Pearroc, leaning tall and silent on the banister, then continued to the three comeis. “The limits on the Fae are for Tres Lucerna only. How many Fae have entered the countryside? How many with a glamour are inside the walls?”
They shared a glance. “We know names.”
“Personally know, I think that means. So, dozens more likely walk the streets.” Her grin remained impish. “Take no offense, Vatar Regnant. You forget that I command the Fae at Chanerro. Fae tell no lies, but I have learned you are very careful with your truths. That infuriates the wizards, especially when I appreciate Fae honesty more than wizard shadings of the facts. And I miss Draiven Kiern and Bregan Ciele. They trusted me enough to tell me all the truth.” Although the comeis had no obvious change of expression, she knew enough to catch the slight reaction in theirs. “You knew these two? They served as my seconds at Chanerro. The best of allies.”
Vatar gave a single nod, that minimalist Fae gesture. “Bregan Ciele was known to us all. The Draiven Kiern was a relative of our queen.”
“The Maorketh. Draiven did not tell me of his kinship. I suspected something when the honor guard arrived through the underpaths to take his body to Faeron. He was my shield in battle. I do miss him.”
“That you won their trust speaks highly of you, Lady Camisse.”
“No. We still confront the same problem, Vatar. My voice carries no weight with the ArchClan.”
Huron Talenn took a step away from Drakon. Pearroc wondered if Lady Camisse knew that single step meant Huron, bonded to the clan leader, did not speak with Drakon’s approval. “We do not ask for the Fae alone, Lady Camisse. The population of Tres Lucerna, even inside Enclave walls, does not comprehend the danger. The strange attacks that the city guards have reported are by wyre.”
“Yes, I heard this. All reports of wyre should be investigated. Should be. I know they have not been. At Chanerro, I learned the worth of Fae against wyre. Yet my mother will not believe that more Fae inside Enclave walls will translate into more safety. Her suspicion is old and deeply rooted. Two of my kin are lost to Faeron. My brother Romert and a cousin Ivers. You know this, surely. The Maorketh answers nothing to our queries. Since Fae do not lie, that is an admission. We have family, missing in Faeron, and the Maorketh refuses to answer. This angers my family, especially my mother. Romert is her first-born.”
“Yet you bear us no grudge, Commander. You reward our fighters with positions of leadership. You honor our dead for their sacrifice.”
Her mouth twisted, and Pearroc felt the wrench of strong emotion. From Vatar’s flinch, he knew the comeis had also felt the backlash. Their queen’s spells guarded them against much of human emotion. Yet they had lowered their guard for this meeting.
And she knew. “My apologies. The emotions that my memories evoke are sometimes difficult to control.”
When the wave of anguish abated, Huron said softly, “The death of a Fae pains you.”
“Draiven Kiern was a great friend. My first friend at Chanerro. I do miss him. He is one of the reasons that I trust you, no matter the circumstance. You will tell me the truth as you see it, and I will give you that same honesty in return. And I cannot help you. I regret this, good sirs, for I value our alliance.”
“To increase the number of Fae inside the walls,” Drakon suddenly inserted, “would more Fae be willing to bond with wizards?”
The three comeis shared a glance. Huron looked at Pearroc, and Camisse’s brow contracted. Would she add up all the little betraying looks and comments during this meeting and realize that he was a glamoured Fae? Or had she missed just enough to keep him hidden?
An intense prickling warned of a magicked watcher. With the Shield, only someone in the box could hear, but some humans read lips. Pearroc glared along his shoulder at the arena. The duelists continued their practice. No one in the balcony seating focused on this box. To find the watcher, he touched power to his fingers. And he would earn the Drakon’s nod, for he kept the wizard-way of working a spell to the fore.
Huron Talenn answered his pater’s question. “More Fae bonded to more wizards would be acceptable if the bonds were temporary and not unto death, as our bond is, Drakon. The bond is … difficult. Humans claim honor, but few abide by it. Blades give their life to honor, to the queen. She rules in all, neither black nor white but true. Humans are … not this way.”
“Is it that oppressive, Huron?”
Vatar saw the power limning Pearroc’s fingertips. He jutted his chin and gave the slightest nod to the right. Camisse saw nothing. She watched Huron’s attempt to answer a question about a bond that his service to the Maorketh required him to accept. His personal feelings mattered not at all.
“You know the terms,” Huron said. “We are linked through the elemental magic we share, Pater. You may draw upon our power; we may not draw upon yours.”
Her distaste evident, “It is servitude,” Camisse snapped. “A willing servitude at the ArchClan’s request and your queen’s acceptance. Thralldom.”
“Not thralldom, for we had a choice in the bond. We have a choice to end the bond. We even have a choice to obey a clan leader’s order or not—or take his head if we judge him evil. The Maorketh did not command us; she asked.”
“Even so,” she warned, “Drakon, even so. Do not suggest additional bonding to any other member of a clan, not even a magister. I would rather glamoured Fae walked inside our walls.”
“You are not opposed to glamoured Fae?” Pearroc asked. He had nearly had the watcher scanned, then her admonition distracted him. He waited for the prickled warning of scrutiny to return.
“It is a restriction on Fae power that can be lifted at will. Yes, I prefer it to the bond.”
And he wondered how she had come to understand the slavery of the bond.
The old man bowed his head. “Huron Talenn de Ysagrael, your willingness to bond honors and humbles me.”
Huron bowed. “The Ysagrael Tiraz is first brother to our Maorketh. My sept gives two to the bond. Ruidri Talenn is my bloodkin. We serve the Maorketh in all things.”
Vatar bowed. “I am a Regnant de Chardyss, third brother to the Maorketh. My cousin Tolki Thettis is bound to the Mater Charanaise. We have a long memory. The Maorketh has our first bond. We serve Enclave second. The commander may call on us at will.”
She bowed. “You honor me, Vatar Regnant de Chardyss, Blade of the Thettis Harte.”
That she knew the sept’s name spoke of an even closer connection than commander to the Fae at Chanerro Pass. And she had guessed that uncounted Fae walked in the Enclave, with more throughout Tres Lucerna. The Blades must re-evaluate their reading of this woman.
Especially since the Drakon claimed that she was his daughter and that her training had warped her use of power.
She bowed her farewell of Drakon. “Do not believe your healers, Pater Drakon. You need a new interest, something to set your eyes beyond the next days and weeks.”
In his turn, he warned, “Have a care, Lady Camisse. Someone might believe this old opponent of Clan Letheina matters to you.” Black eyes looked into black eyes, and he smiled. “
“Opponents help us see ourselves clearly. Without the Draken, Clan Letheina is blind.”
“I age, Camisse. My body wearies.”
“You have good years yet, old dragon. Perrault has ten years on you. Outlive him. He will be most perturbed.”
He snorted. “Were it that easy. Pearroc, escort the commander to the stairs. I would say a word more to Vatar and Ruidri.”
Pearroc dropped his Shield spell. The watcher waited, he knew, but without direct scrutiny, he would not spot the man. He swept an arm for her to precede him. She nodded at the comeis before she left. She was several strides beyond the door when he caught up.
She fastened the leather jerkin that she’d left on the railing overlooking the archery gallery.
“I enjoyed watching your bout with Ruidri Talenn de Ysagrael. The Fae choose their opponents wisely. At first, I thought he countered you because he owed a debt.”
“The Fae do not fall into such situations.”
“Unless it is required through the bond.”
She stopped cold. Her glare carried flashes of energy. Perhaps she was Fire’s daughter. “Has that happened? Is it happening?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
They reached the head of the stairs. She faced him. “Rumors?” When he hesitated, she hissed. “You will tell me.”
He flinched. She did not know he was Fae. The glamour might muffle her emotions, but they were still strong. How did she broadcast so strongly? Or did some other connection help him receive her emotions? “Ruidri Talenn will tell you better than I can.”
“He will or you will, and it will not happen again.”
“Commander, my family have allied to the Fae for generations. Your fierce defense of them pleases me.”
“What is this? You are Petrosse, I remember. Your people have allied with the Fae for generations? Tell me more.”
“We are neighbors and allies.” He indicated the stairs and started down. She followed. “My father sent me into Faeron for training when I first sparked power.” Here was his chance to introduce the Drakon’s request. He told the practiced story with a light touch. If her own power had ever sparked, she would feel the echoes. And perhaps he would feel her emotions at the memory. “My older brother became angry at me. I cannot remember the reason. I do remember that he pushed me, and I fell and bloodied my nose. And then he laughed. He laughed harder when I swore at him. I jumped to my feet and hit at him—only Fire enveloped my fist. I nearly burned him.”
Her breath caught. He sensed a remnant memory, tattered, as if it had been ripped away.
“I remember the smell of burning. His clothes caught fire.”
Her memory strengthened. He felt it, then the edges fell away. “What happened next?” she asked, her voice breathy.
“I threw water on him.”
“And your father sent you into Faeron.”
“They taught me well. When I came home, I had Fae tutors to teach more advanced spells as well as swordwork.”
They stepped off the last stairs and walked into the coolness of the tunnel that lead to the outer rings. “You had Fae teachers. Why come to the Enclave?”
“No matter how many spells I work or how much power I fling around, I will not be called wizard without Enclave approval.”
“And the Drakon prepares you for the Wizard Trials?”
“He appoints members of his clan to test me. Magister Brandt puts up with me. Hillier is more helpful. Osmara is the strongest, a true challenge.” He grinned. “I am singed to my soul after a session with her. They have told me what to expect, but I wouldn’t mind another perspective.”
“I squeezed through my Trials. The ArchClan is my mother. It would not do for her child to fail the Trials.”
“Drakon disagrees. He said you have a deep well of power. He said Pater Perrrault agreed. You barely skimmed the surface of your power during the tests.”
“He said that? He was one of my examiners, but he scowled so fiercely—. What else did he say?”
Step by step, he hooked her into the Drakon’s plan. “He thought your training at fault.”
They emerged from the tunnel. Pearroc caught her sleeve and held her back as runners came toward them. When the last one passed, he shifted his grip to her elbow and escorted her past the last wall and toward the gate.
“How can my training be at fault? My own family trained me.” She bit her lip.
Truly hooked. Time to lure her in. He had set her to thinking, considering, wondering—especially with that tattered memory brought back to the fore. He glanced back. Aye, Ruidri Talenn followed, unhurried, although his speed picked up when Pearroc spotted him.
He dropped his hold and stepped back. “A pleasure to meet you, Commander Camisse.”
She started. Her brow constricted. Then manners steadied her. “And you, Pearroc Seale. All good fortune with your Trials.”
“My thanks. I would like to hear of your experience.”
“I do not—.”
“Take pity on a Petrossi far from home. May I send a message to you at Clan Letheina? We could talk over a dinner.”
“I do not think—.”
“I will be careful that my message is not associated with Clan Drakon. A pity that is necessary. Here is Ruidri Talenn. Good day, Lady Camisse.” He backed away before she could say ‘no’.
“Seale,” Ruidri said, only he said it “Ciele”. Not listening for the difference, Camisse gave Pearroc a shake of her head. Ruidri’s eyes contracted minutely, then he nodded.
Pearroc turned his back and headed for the tunnel. He had given her three things to consider as well as the rumors about Fae coerced by the bond. And the comeis would not need to remind her of Vatar’s petition as he escorted her back to Clan Letheina.
He reckoned her commander self would sleep no easier than her Camisse self.
III
Arctos knew he had not many words, but the few he had angered the pack’s Prime. For all their truth, the Prime would view any report as a challenge from a wyre he had not picked for this dangerous mission into the heart of wizardry.
He must give the report. He would not flinch from it. Nor would he flinch from the Prime’s anger. He was Secunde, second male of this cobbled together pack. And if the sorcerer Sanglier was present when he reported, all to the good. The sorcerer would not let an unjust punishment happen. If punishment were deserved—Arctos shivered. He had seen the results. He had tended the wounds, helped to speed the healing. But he would not avoid his job. He was not afraid, not of the Prime. Of Sanglier, sometimes, but the sorcerer would not risk the wyre pack assigned to him for his protection as they infiltrated the Enclave.
Arctos sniffed a wizard and veered a little away. Active wizardry made his hair stand on end. Instinct demanded that he shift and rend and kill, but the sorcerer’s first command to the pack had been to attract no attention. Blazing afternoon was no time for exposing the wyre. Here in the Enclave, only secret kills of Fae and wizards were allowed. Arctos had growled at that edict. Killing was not attracting attention; it was destroying an enemy. He would obey, though. He had earned his position for this mission. Since he represented his home pack, he would not dishonor his blood.
Last night should have been time for sweet deaths, but another opportunity was missed. Arctos could not comment on that either. His own blood Prime accepted criticism. Since leaving his pack, he had had to swallow words aplenty. Now in the Enclave, in the city of three, Tres Lucerna, he still could not kill enemies.
The house taken by the pack looked like others on the street: a peeling door, windows curtained on the living floors and boarded up on the attic and street and cellar floors. He bounded up the steps and tried not to hesitate as he entered. The ward-spells were wizard-worked, and they jolted every time he crossed them. Hibissi, least of the wyre, would not cross the wards. She had not left the house since they’d arrived just before last Moon-Bright.
Sanglier worked both wizardry and sorcery. Once again, as he did once a day, Arctos wished he were back assaulting the border at Iscleft. Those battles were clearer; their purpose, purer. Stalking wizardry on its own hearth entailed subterfuge his wolf rebelled against.
“Been where?” the Septimus guarding the door snapped. Brutish Pannoth’s home pack had a long slavery to sorcerers while Arctos’ pack had only recently allied to Frost Clime. The seventh wyre lacked the words and courtesies other wyre had learned. He knew pack law, but he wanted every infraction corrected with red blood.
Arctos drew up and flexed his claws. Seventh brother did not deserve an answer. “Am I missed?”
“Not yet,” he grudged.
Sanglier had taken the largest of the first floor rooms as his own. There the pack gathered when they’d finished their duties and chores. This late in the morning, the wyre would have finished training and would now act like human servants. The master sorcerer, would only now be waking up. Arctos paused, considering his news, then nodded and entered without knocking.
The curtains over the dingy windows were flung back, evidence that Sanglier was awake. He sat propped on pillows, sipping the steaming tea that he claimed was necessity but which had every wyre twitching his nose. The prime Martel stood by the bed. A flick of his eyes acknowledged Arctos’ entrance. Terce and Quintus waited at the foot of the four-posted bed. Last night’s failure belonged to the Terce. Arctos decided his report should be after, and he padded to a station beside the windows.
Only then did he see the two females kneeling beside the bed. They were bent forward, hands extended toward Martel’s feet. Their foreheads were pressed to the planks, their rumps in the air. Terce and the females were the reasons that last night’s attack on a Fae had failed. Only the females, though, were bound. Was Terce not to take his punishment?
Then Arctos saw the entwined black and red ropes. He hid his wince. Punishment was coming.
He wanted to leave, but the rules of this house were to honor the punishment with presence. Only Prime or Sanglier could dismiss a pack member from watching a punishment. Arctos must not turn his head and look out the grimy window. He kept a grimace from twisting his features, but he knew anger burned in his eyes. Last night would not have failed if the Prime had done his duty instead of wooing that flighty powerless Naught.
Sanglier set aside his tea.
Martel flinched. Ah, words had already been spoken. And the Prime had taken the brunt. Arctos regretted not hearing that.
“The two at the bottom can decide it by pack law. The Elders entrusted me with fifteen wyre, Martel. Fifteen. A female sickened and nearly died on the journey. The first Decimus died in a lone attack not sanctioned by me. Now we have lost another male. Thirteen left, of fifteen, and we have barely begun our mission. I am not pleased, Martel.”
“My lord Sanglier—.”
He waved his hand. The Prime’s muzzle snapped shut. The sorcerer looked at Arctos. “Secunde, you wanted to protest last evening. I saw you bite back the words when Martel was appointing those who would go out. You said nothing.”
“I question not the Prime, my lord Sanglier.”
“Wisdom. And not the first wisdom you should have spoken but did not. What would you have done differently?”
“I question not the Prime, my lord.”
“I order you to answer, Secunde. Keep them down, Prime,” for the first female had lifted her head.
Martel growled. Clemayya cringed and dropped her head with a thunk.
“Secunde?”
His stomach dropped, but he said the words, trying to explain them for the sorcerer who understood Pack rank and status but had never bothered to learn how the fifteen loaned to him had worked out their positions in this patched-up pack. “She did not obey Terce. He had lead, by your word, but Clemayya will not obey a wyre beneath her, my lord. She and Egil are litter mates. Egil follows her, not Terce. Prime leads, always, male or female. Prime Clemayya can fight, yes, but she doesn’t plan. She is rash.”
“That can be good.”
“Not attacking a Fae, my lord Sanglier.”
“You forget, Secunde.” In her anger, the first female straightened up to glare at the Secunde. “We have killed two wizards here, and I was on both hunts. You were not.”
“Martel, I told you to keep her head down.”
“Regrets, my lord.” He pushed her back down.
“Stand on it. You heard me,” he snapped. “Put your foot on her head.”
“My lord, she is the Prime female.”
“Put your foot on her head, Martel, or I will fix her in place with a spell. She makes me waste power on her, and she will stay in that position for two days and three nights.”
The Prime cringed but obeyed. His foot rested on her head. She growled. And Arctos saw that he obeyed in form only. The shift in Martel’s core betrayed that he rested no weight on that foot.
“Quartos is dead.” Sanglier folded the bedcovers back, as calm as if he did not speak of death and blood. He plucked at the ties of his bronze-colored nightshirt. “Octavus is wounded. Healed by me, but he needs a hand of days before he can fight without ripping open my work. Terce will not lead again, not in this house.”
“I thank you, my lord Sanglier,” the third whispered. His gaze remained on the floor.
“Do not thank me yet, Terce. I have not decided your punishment.” The wyre blanched. “What else, Secunde?”
“My lord, I have said all.”
He snorted. “You’ve not said half of it. Why should they not have attacked a Fae? They have killed two wizards.”
Arctos slanted his gaze away from the Prime, not wanting to offer any challenge. The time for that would come, but not with Terce in the room. Terce had challenged three times; three times he lost. Sanglier might want to punish him for last night’s failure, but Terce could almost taste pack leadership. He would challenge again. Arctos would not attack Prime when Terce would attack his back. If Terce did not attack during the battle, he would attack, when the winner was exhausted and bleedy. Terce hungered for the pack leadership.
“Why ask Secunde?” Terce growled. “He’s got no special knowledge.”
“But he does,” Sanglier said, his voice as silky as his nightshirt. “He fought at Iscleft for six years before his Prime recalled him for the in-gathering. He’s fought Fae and wizards trained for battle. Martel has. Quartos had. So had Decimus. Experience all of you should have had, but the Elders in their wisdom thought four with experience were enough. The rest of you must be taught.”
“We killed two wizards here,” Terce argued, and Arctos remembered that Terce had supported Clemayya’s plan. He smelled of her sometimes, when Martel had to be with the Enclave-born Naught that Sanglier had brought in.
“Not two wizards,” the Prime countered. “A wizard in name only and an adept.”
Clemayya heaved, but Martel shifted to hold her down. Jhennanni whimpered.
“You lied to us,” Terce snarled.
“Not a lie,” Martel snapped. “I pointed them out as targets. You obeyed. This is proof you know nothing about fighting wizardry. We will increase our training. Secunde will teach you specifically, Terce.”
“No,” Sanglier said, reminding them that the human sorcerer was dominant in this pack. “Prime will teach Terce and Septimus and Nones while Secunde will teach Quintus, Sextus and Octavus. They in turn will teach the women. And still I have not decided punishment. It should be … fitting.” He looked down at the women. “We are lucky to have heard no hue and cry for wyre inside the walls. We are lucky no wards have caught you. Did you shift to fight the Fae?”
Quintus shook his head. “We attacked with swords and daggers.”
“You should have shifted,” the sorcerer spat.
For the first time, Arctos wanted to snarl. At last night’s dinner, the Secunde sorcerer had warned them not to shift outside the house. From the grimaces of the Prime and Terce, they shared his anger. Again he wanted away from the Enclave. He wanted to return to his homeland. He could shift there and run for miles. He could hunt at will and howl at the moon and stars. He was not hemmed about by Fae and wizards. For the first time, he wished he had not won his place in this pack controlled by a sorcerer, a man who could change Pack law with a word, and his wyre must obey.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
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Spring is bursting forth, birds are twittering around,
… and allergies have started.
Time for April Book Birthdays!
discover with one click!
Who doesn’t want chocolate cake? Image free from Wikimedia Commons, see alt text for attribution
On April 1st ~ Writing Craft!
Discovering Your Writing
The epic journey for all writers is discovering the many areas of our writing craft.
Characters.
Plot.
Branding.
Sentence Craft.
A ready-reference to build your writing career. Designed for writers at any skill level.
One-click link for the book description, trailer, and purchase.
April 5 ~ Fantasy!
Spells of Air
On a mission for the Wizard Enclave, Orielle ventures into the Wilding, a strange frontier filled with magical creatures. There she discovers sprites and wraiths, gobbers and wyre, and the mysterious Dark Fae called the Kyrgy.
All view her as prey.
What can you expect from this trilogy? Elemental magic. Dangerous Dark Fae allies. Treacherous shape-shifted. A twisted sorceress.
This book bundles the three novellas, To Wield the Wind, To Charm the Wind, and To Curse the Wyre.
Amazon has the ebook and paperback options. Worldwide is ebook only.
What can possibly go wrong in an idyll? Arson uncovers a baffling murder from the past.
When Agatha’s lover abandoned her years ago, she poured herself into her family’s property, Helmes Farm. Mismanaged by three stewards, the estate suffers financial trouble. Agatha needs someone honest to help.
Jess Carter evaded arrest for smuggling. The smuggler’s fence offers him a job at Helmes Farm. When Agatha hires Jess as her new steward, his loyalties are divided.
Then hatred burns into a fire in the night. The arson reveals an old murder. The vanished fiancé didn’t leave—he was murdered.
Who is the arsonist? Who is the murderer? Are the arsonist and the murderer the same person? Or have two people been poisoned by hatred?
Troubles past and present swirl around destructive hatred in this twisty romantic mystery.
Conrad Hoppock works with the Bow Street Runners to locate a French master spy. His search sends him undercover in a firm of solicitors.
Phinney Darracott wants justice for the murders of her sister and brother-in-law. Clues lead her to a firm of London solicitors. Disguised as a cleaning maid, Phinney prowls for the evidence. There she encounters Conrad.
Then the lawyer at the center of the tangle of clues is shot dead while they watch from hiding.
Will Phinney and Conrad discover the connection between past and present murders ~ or will they face two bullets?
The icy mountains hold danger and death but not in the way
that the Fae Mark’d wizard Alstera expects in Sing a Graveyard Song.
Suspicious villagers, justice-seeking pursuers, and foul sorcery
are nothing compared to a blood-drinking monster.
Icy mountains hold danger and death.
The wizard Alstera continues her quest to restore access to her bound powers. A nightmare of foul sorcery gives her an opportunity. She tracks the evil to a snow-smothered village deep in the mountains.
A vengeful woman crafts spells based in sorcery. To fulfill her revenge, she re-animated a corpse, turning the dead man into a death-walker.
When Alstera and her friend Raul arrive, the suspicious villagers don’t trust them. Too many have died mysteriously, victims to a monster that don’t dare name.
Alstera is shocked when she discovers the sorcery re-animated a corpse. Walking Death drinks blood to retain a semblance of life. But to fight the death-walker, she must once more rely on primitive and forbidden blood-magic.
This battle will not be easy. She can’t find the sorcerer. She can’t find the death-walker. And a wizard from the Enclave is in close pursuit.
She knows the Enclave wizard comes to discover if she is keeping the wizard tenets or if she is crossing the tenuous barrier that separates wizardry from sorcery. Every time she uses blood-magic is a mark against her.
With only a small portion of her powers freed, not enough against the death-walker, can Alstera wield blood-magic to defeat a blood-spelled monster?
How many lives will the death walker take before Alstera finds the way to destroy it?
The dark fantasy Sing a Graveyard Song continues the grim story of twisted magic and foul sorcery and Alstera, walking the silvery thread that separates them. Third in the Fae Mark’d Wizard series, Grave follows Weave a Wizardry Web and Dream a Deadly Dream. Although each novel is a complete story, readers will have a richer experience if they read all three in order.
Torrent of Evil ~ the first novella in the trilogy Spells of Water
Death. That was the omen that the crows and ravens brought to Inkeri.
Deep in the desert Idros Ahdreide, men had lost their lives in battle against a strange evil. A half-Fae wielder, Inkeri ventures to investigate.
Rhodren, baron of the Bois Argent, is commanded by his king to investigate the disappearance of two troops and a caravan, lost at the abandoned citadel of the Archais, deep in the desert. Yet when he and his men reach the border, a flock of crows and ravens attack.
Surviving that attack, Rhodren and his men are then confronted by slavering panthers. Inkeri comes to their aid.
Idros Ahdreide has predators aplenty, all willing to feast on the wariest of travelers. What enemy marshals these dangers? What evil lurks at the Archais?
Will a wielder of elemental Water and a leader of mortal men discover the truth without becoming prey for the desert predators?
To Curse the Wyre ~ the concluding Novella in the trilogy Spells of Air
Hunter. Hunted. Who is who?
Ebook only. Part of the Spells of Air series, featuring the not-wizard Oriella and the mercenary Rhoghieri named Grim.
When your goal is publication, Discovering Your Novel is the guidebook to help you overcome the Sisyphean task of first word to publication. With the goal of completing a novel in 52 weeks, this guidebook can be self-paced or tracked week by week for persistent success.
Book 4 of the Think like a Pro Writer series & the first book in the Discovering Writing Craft series.
