Queen of Song and Souls
Page 68
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Ellysetta felt the old demons of guilt and remorse that had haunted Rain for centuries rise up and sink their teeth into him once more. She laid a hand on his arm, offering what peace she could, knowing it was nowhere near enough.
"Sieks'ta, Fanor, son of Sparhawk," he said in a gravelly voice. "There is nothing I can do to repay your loss. If I could take back that day, I would."
"I think I believe that now." Fanor drew in a deep breath.
"When I touched that weave you spun for my father, I felt his presence in a way I never have before, it was as if you'd spun a bit of his soul into your weave. And perhaps you did." Bittersweet emotion shone in the shadowed depths of his eyes—a sort of melancholy acceptance and a fragile sense of peace, as if some lifelong wound had finally begun to heal. "Perhaps, Rainier Feyreisen, those who perished to your flame did not die so utterly as I have always believed. Their Light did not return to the Source, it's true, but I think perhaps at least some part of it still lives ... in you."
Rain's gaze fell. “The gods will it should be so," he said in a low voice.
The Elf drew up his knees and rested his arms atop them. "I never wanted to forgive you for what you did—not even after I stood in your weaves at the Lake of Glass and felt my father for the first time in a thousand years—but I should have done so long ago."
"The resentment you harbored is understandable. You were a child who lost his father to my flame."
"And you were a Fey called to do a terrible deed because that was what the Dance required," Fanor countered. "I should not have blamed you for fulfilling the will of the gods. All Elves know those who call a Song in the Dance rarely have a choice of the tune. It's what they do afterward that reveals their true measure." He shook his head. "Anio, I clung to my anger out of grief, and I think you cling to your guilt from the same. Perhaps it is time for both of us to forgive what you did."
Rain closed his eyes and leaned his head against the thick, ribbed trunk of the fireoak tree at his back. "Some things are not so easy to forgive."
"Perhaps not, but I do forgive you. If you truly do carry what remains of my father's Light, then I am glad His was a bright soul, and something of him deserves to live on."
"Something of him already does, Fanor," Ellysetta said softly, her hand resting upon Rain's shoulder. "In you." The moment the Elf had said those three magical words, "I forgive you," she'd felt a portion of Rain's terrible pain ease. For that alone, she felt herself warm to Fanor.
"Of course." The softening of Fanor's expression faded and he was once again all Elf, inscrutable and mysterious. He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. "We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Chapter twelve
My daughters, don’t crave a myth.
That shines out of reach as the pale moon above.
Don't dream of eternal golden chains;
Ours are sweet years of love.
Fey sing of strange wondrous bonds,
being woven, they whisper, by fate’s terrible hand.
Ours is the grace of choice, honor of vow.
The precious gift of time we spend.
To the Daughters of Celieria, a poem
By Lady Denna Miron, Celierian poet
Celieria ~ Old Castle Prison
Great Lord Sebourne scowled with bad temper and held out his arms as his valet slipped a sumptuous, gold-embroidered waistcoat over the freshly ironed and perfumed silk tunic. The Great Sun had risen, signaling the end to his five days of incarceration in the west tower of Old Castle Prison. The prison master of Old Castle would arrive soon to set him free, but Lord Sebourne was determined not to set foot outside this cell looking anything less than his most powerful and resplendent self. No trumped-up incarceration was going to bring this Great Lord of Celieria to heel; and, by the gods, that spineless puppet of a king and his cadre of bootlicking Fey lovers would soon know it!
In anticipation of his pending release, his valet had arrived well before sunrise to bathe, shave, oil, and powder the Great Lord to pampered perfection. And now, as the Great Sun began its morning ascent into the sky, Lord Sebourne donned his finest court garb: silks, satins, rich and exotic furs, heavy gold rings set with radiant jewels.
"This Great Lord of Celieria is no man's lackey," he muttered irascibly as his valet finished buttoning the waistcoat and tugged a heavy gold-link belt into place around his waist. Each link was set with a jewel the size of a hen's egg.
"No, my lord," the valet agreed in a placid voice. Nimble fingers snapped the golden belt clasp closed.
Sebourne turned his head to stare out the window. The sun was nearly touching the silhouetted rooftops of the city, but there was a chill in the air. Winter was definitely on its way. The chill grew colder, and he frowned at his valet. "Did you leave a window open in the other room after my bath?" Prison this might be, but even Dorian had known better than to incarcerate a Great Lord of Celieria in some tiny little cell with no privacy. In addition to the main room, there was a small, private bedchamber and garderobe. "There's a draft.''
"My lord?" The servant glanced up from his work with a puzzled frown, "No, my lord. The windows are all firmly shut, and it's warm as springtime in here."
"Nonsense. Springtime? In what country—the ice wastes of the Pale?” Lord Sebourne harrumphed. "Put another log on the fire to cut the chill."
The servant was clearly disbelieving, but nonetheless he murmured, "Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord," and rose to put another log on the fire blazing in the hearth.
"Sieks'ta, Fanor, son of Sparhawk," he said in a gravelly voice. "There is nothing I can do to repay your loss. If I could take back that day, I would."
"I think I believe that now." Fanor drew in a deep breath.
"When I touched that weave you spun for my father, I felt his presence in a way I never have before, it was as if you'd spun a bit of his soul into your weave. And perhaps you did." Bittersweet emotion shone in the shadowed depths of his eyes—a sort of melancholy acceptance and a fragile sense of peace, as if some lifelong wound had finally begun to heal. "Perhaps, Rainier Feyreisen, those who perished to your flame did not die so utterly as I have always believed. Their Light did not return to the Source, it's true, but I think perhaps at least some part of it still lives ... in you."
Rain's gaze fell. “The gods will it should be so," he said in a low voice.
The Elf drew up his knees and rested his arms atop them. "I never wanted to forgive you for what you did—not even after I stood in your weaves at the Lake of Glass and felt my father for the first time in a thousand years—but I should have done so long ago."
"The resentment you harbored is understandable. You were a child who lost his father to my flame."
"And you were a Fey called to do a terrible deed because that was what the Dance required," Fanor countered. "I should not have blamed you for fulfilling the will of the gods. All Elves know those who call a Song in the Dance rarely have a choice of the tune. It's what they do afterward that reveals their true measure." He shook his head. "Anio, I clung to my anger out of grief, and I think you cling to your guilt from the same. Perhaps it is time for both of us to forgive what you did."
Rain closed his eyes and leaned his head against the thick, ribbed trunk of the fireoak tree at his back. "Some things are not so easy to forgive."
"Perhaps not, but I do forgive you. If you truly do carry what remains of my father's Light, then I am glad His was a bright soul, and something of him deserves to live on."
"Something of him already does, Fanor," Ellysetta said softly, her hand resting upon Rain's shoulder. "In you." The moment the Elf had said those three magical words, "I forgive you," she'd felt a portion of Rain's terrible pain ease. For that alone, she felt herself warm to Fanor.
"Of course." The softening of Fanor's expression faded and he was once again all Elf, inscrutable and mysterious. He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. "We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."
Chapter twelve
My daughters, don’t crave a myth.
That shines out of reach as the pale moon above.
Don't dream of eternal golden chains;
Ours are sweet years of love.
Fey sing of strange wondrous bonds,
being woven, they whisper, by fate’s terrible hand.
Ours is the grace of choice, honor of vow.
The precious gift of time we spend.
To the Daughters of Celieria, a poem
By Lady Denna Miron, Celierian poet
Celieria ~ Old Castle Prison
Great Lord Sebourne scowled with bad temper and held out his arms as his valet slipped a sumptuous, gold-embroidered waistcoat over the freshly ironed and perfumed silk tunic. The Great Sun had risen, signaling the end to his five days of incarceration in the west tower of Old Castle Prison. The prison master of Old Castle would arrive soon to set him free, but Lord Sebourne was determined not to set foot outside this cell looking anything less than his most powerful and resplendent self. No trumped-up incarceration was going to bring this Great Lord of Celieria to heel; and, by the gods, that spineless puppet of a king and his cadre of bootlicking Fey lovers would soon know it!
In anticipation of his pending release, his valet had arrived well before sunrise to bathe, shave, oil, and powder the Great Lord to pampered perfection. And now, as the Great Sun began its morning ascent into the sky, Lord Sebourne donned his finest court garb: silks, satins, rich and exotic furs, heavy gold rings set with radiant jewels.
"This Great Lord of Celieria is no man's lackey," he muttered irascibly as his valet finished buttoning the waistcoat and tugged a heavy gold-link belt into place around his waist. Each link was set with a jewel the size of a hen's egg.
"No, my lord," the valet agreed in a placid voice. Nimble fingers snapped the golden belt clasp closed.
Sebourne turned his head to stare out the window. The sun was nearly touching the silhouetted rooftops of the city, but there was a chill in the air. Winter was definitely on its way. The chill grew colder, and he frowned at his valet. "Did you leave a window open in the other room after my bath?" Prison this might be, but even Dorian had known better than to incarcerate a Great Lord of Celieria in some tiny little cell with no privacy. In addition to the main room, there was a small, private bedchamber and garderobe. "There's a draft.''
"My lord?" The servant glanced up from his work with a puzzled frown, "No, my lord. The windows are all firmly shut, and it's warm as springtime in here."
"Nonsense. Springtime? In what country—the ice wastes of the Pale?” Lord Sebourne harrumphed. "Put another log on the fire to cut the chill."
The servant was clearly disbelieving, but nonetheless he murmured, "Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord," and rose to put another log on the fire blazing in the hearth.
