Chapter One
Streams of light shone through the immense windows. Windows flanked by heavy green curtains with golden vines—showcasing the royal colors gracing the high walls of the Hall of the Ancestors. Great white, marble pillars rose from the ground, reaching far above in an unending ascent. Vibrant green vines grew as if from nowhere, wrapping themselves about the columns and up the walls. Tiny white, star-shaped flowers dotted the foliage.
Large frescos lined the hall, depicting the rise of the Elven gods, and the fall of Hath’Raal, god of rebellion and chaos, at the hands of his fellow deities. The bold colors and abstract brushstrokes typical of Elven artistry.
Flintathriël Eliowën, Crown Prince of Thril-Garëw, Flint to his friends, strode with purpose through the halls of the Crystal Palace—named for the gleaming crystal spires that topped the castle towers. His bare feet fell heavy on the marbled floor in his haste. Sairalindë hated it when he was late—even more so with their bonding looming on the horizon.
And he was definitely late.
“Whitey!”
“Falannas!” Flintathriël cursed, muttering the vulgar profanity under his breath. He halted his steps and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. It was not that white…
“Whitey! You got a minute.”
His eyes narrowed, he hated that name, and it really was not…Lathai! Who was he kidding? It was white.
He watched the dwarf hurry toward him, his face beet red behind the bushy black beard, and his arms full of schematics. One set of blueprints fell from the pile, and Flintathriël bent to retrieve the lost papers, handing it back to his friend with a tight smile, barely glancing at the crudely drawn arrowheads on the parchment.
The dwarves had lost a brilliant engineer when they cast out Roggar Stonefist ten-years-ago for being too forward thinking. The elves had made great advances in that small amount of time. Giant war machines, Roggar called “trebuchets,” faster ships, and Flintathriël’s sister, Faëlwyn’s, personal favorite, Roggar’s recipe for black powder.
“I am late. Make this quick!” he snapped, folding his arms across his chest.
“Late for that woman of yours, eh, elf?” The dwarf sniggered, elbowing him in the ribs.
“Jealous?” Flintathriël smirked, raising a single brow.
“By the stone, no! Your druidess is too buttoned up for my liking. I like ’em feisty, with some meat on ’em, like that red head mage friend of yours. She blushes to the tips of those ridiculous pointed ears you people have when I—”
“Wait, are you meaning to tell me your bedding Myriani?”
“Sure am,” Roggar stated proudly, stroking his luxuriant growth. “What can I say? The elven lasses love a man with a beard—What is so funny?”
Flintathriël was doubled over in mirth.
“I tried to take the wench years ago…said I was not her type…I guess that was a slight understatement.” Flintathriël forced out between his laughter.
Roggar started to laugh along with his friend. Comparing dwarves and elves was like comparing night and day.
“I guess she held out for a better man, Whitey. You will just have to stick to bedding that twig of yours.” Roggar slapped his friend on the back.
“Na’fen—”
“Must you use those fancy elf words Whitey? Puts a fellow off,” Roggar interrupted, grinning from ear to ear. “Speak common would you?”
Flintathriël chuckled. “Very well, my friend. The likelihood of that happening is diminishing by the second the longer I linger with you. Now, what have you got for me?”
He was so late.
****
Raised voices echoed through the shrine. The ancient stone gods, Amithril, Carath, and Earil—earth, sea and sky—frowned their disapproval.
“Sairalindë, I would be only too happy to take over your duties. Your training was cut short after your father’s death, after all.” The necromancer’s words were as smooth as silk, but his intentions were anything but pure. He was a viper, coiled and ready, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Her eyes narrowed, and her knuckles whitened, as her hands gripped the shrine’s altar. Intense blue eyes, as cold as ice, watched her, unblinking.
“What with you set to bond with my nephew come summers end, surely you will need some time, and when the time comes to produce an heir…” He let his words hang in the still air.
Sairalindë remained incredulous, focusing her gaze on the stone statue of Ildaer’lor, Guardian of the Veil, lest her anger get the better of her. She had accepted her position as High Druidess six months’ past—upon her father’s death. She was young but well trained. Cëladyn had tried to sway his brother, King Ehrendil, against her taking the position. Claiming she was not ready to assume the responsibilities. No matter that she had been training since she was eight-years-old for the role.
Cëladyn was a power hungry leech.
“Are you implying, that unlike my predecessors, I will be unable to perform my duties whilst a wife and mother?”
“No. I—”
“Am I not performing the duties of High Druidess to your satisfaction, Cëladyn?”
“Of course, ema’asha.”
She gritted her teeth. Ema’asha indeed! How dare he call her a child!
“But your father would want me to help you.”
“Do not presume to know what my father would want!” she snapped, her words dripping with venom. How dare he mention her father? She had her suspicions about her father’s premature demise, and Cëladyn was at the heart of them. He would not be above eliminating the competition for his own gain. He was the king’s younger brother and had no hope of succeeding the throne—even if his eldest brother had died without a legitimate heir, Flintathriël’s father had always been next in line to the throne.
“You fell out with him years ago, did you not? From what I understand, he disagreed with your foray into death magic. And considering the legions of dead that march upon our lands, I would have to agree.”
Cëladyn’s jaw tightened only slightly, keeping his cool mask of indifference securely in place.
“You speak of things you could not possibly comprehend.”
“You were seeking the Book of Souls. The very tome rumored to have belonged to Hath’Raal himself!”
“People will always fear that which they do not understand,” Cëladyn answered coolly. His lips curled in a stiff smile that did not reach his eyes.
Sairalindë’s stomach churned at the very notion of Cëladyn laying his filthy paws on the book. It was said to contain the darkest of the god’s blood rituals.
“My apologies, Sairalindë, I will take my leave. Sae’lihn ema’asha.”
She tightly clenched her fists. Even his goodbye dripped with disrespect.
****
Cëladyn swept elegantly from the room. His jaw set, lips pressed into a grim line, and the watchful stone eyes of the gods followed him through the door. The nosy little bitch was starting to become a real problem. Just like her father. He could only hope his nephew would keep her belly full with babes once they bonded. No matter what she claimed, she was hardly the type to neglect her children for duty’s sake.
He exhaled sharply. Her father had been thwarting his plans for years. Cëladyn also knew Sairalindë suspected him of murder, though she would never say so without proof.
And Cëladyn was nothing if not meticulous.
His whole life he had worked harder than most for everything he had. Bowing and scraping for favor from his parents and siblings alike. His brothers had been everything he was not, had trained as warriors, earning constant praise and recognition from their parents. Cëladyn however, as the youngest, had to find his own path, forever lurking in his brothers’ shadows. He was a scholar—smarter than both his brothers, but he was no warrior. He had been reminded of this fact each time they stalked him like prey in one of their mock hunts, earning himself a thrashing by their hands and the disapproving glares from his father for not being like them. He despised his brothers, his eldest, Aranel, especially. Cëladyn would never forgive the fact Aranel had stolen the one and only thing Cëladyn had ever cared about.
Soniia.
He had loved her once above everything else. For her alone he would have set aside his blinding ambition for power. But Aranel, as his king, had stolen her from him, not because he loved her, but simply because he could. She had died birthing his brother’s bastard. A daughter that should have been his. In his mind’s eye, he could see the past so clearly…
****
Cëladyn stepped into the room, and the stench of stale air and vomit assaulted his nostrils. His stomach heaved in protest, and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth. Why could she possibly want to see him? Had they not said everything that needed to be said? She had left him, chosen his brother, borne Aranel’s bastard. What else was there left to say?
“Cëladyn? You came.” A tentative smile tugged at the corner of Soniia’s lips. Her voice sounded hoarse, not the sweet lyrical sound he used to know. She lay in bed, and her face waxed drawn and pale. Golden hair rested slick on her brow which was creased as though in pain. One arm was slung across her abdomen.
She had given birth.
Soniia reached out to him, her hand shaking, and her body much thinner than the last time he saw her. Cëladyn stood rooted to the spot, refusing to take another step into the room. He pressed his lips into a thin line, narrowing his gaze upon his former lover with cold indifference.
“What do you want, Soniia? I am a busy man.”
She dropped her outstretched hand, her smile faltered, and then faded completely. Her lips trembled, and gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. He almost fell for her woeful act. Instead, he turned from her with a growl.
“Cëladyn, please?”
“What?” He snarled, spinning, losing his calm, anger bubbling to the surface as he stalked toward her bed. “What could you possibly want from me, Soniia?”
She winced at the sharpness of his tone. He had never spoken to her such, even when she told him she was leaving him.
“To tell you how sorry I am.”
“’Tis a little late for that now.”
“I need you to know.” She gasped, curling up in pain, her pale face growing a shade lighter. And Cëladyn noticed for the first time the fine layer of sweat beading her brow, the way she was gritting her teeth. She had a fever.
“Soniia?”
“I never wanted to hurt you. We—”
“No!”
“One does not simply say no to a king, Cëladyn.”
“And where is your beloved Aranel now? Why is he not here congratulating you?”
“He has not been by for months. Since I told him I carried his child.”
Cëladyn ground his teeth and clenched his fist. It was so like his brother, to cast her aside like a broken toy once he tired of her. He opened his mouth to speak when the door opened suddenly, and a woman appeared with a tiny bundle in her arms. Soniia perked up, gasping in pain as she reached for the babe.
He turned from her as she brought the child to her breast, the nurse leaving mother and baby to themselves. He had hardened his heart against her long ago. Had she ever truly loved him? Or had he just been a means to get close to his brother? He had never been able to bring himself to ask the questions. Yet something now chipped away at the stone that had closed around his heart, making way for a new wave of pain and hurt.
“Cëladyn? Would you like to see?” Her voice rang hopeful, holding a trace of joy and wonderment, and her chest rose and fell rapidly with her increasing breaths.
After all this time, she still commanded his heart, and he found himself drawn to her bedside against his better judgment. He looked down at the infant wriggling in her mother’s arms. A mop of golden hair adorned her crown and wide gray eyes stared intently back at him.
“She looks just like you, Soniia.” He breathed in, all anger and hurt fleeing his body. His eyes met hers, and he wondered how Aranel could cast her off so easily.
Unable to stop himself, he brought his palm to cup her cool cheek and smiled gently. “The baby is beautiful. My brother is a fool.”
The tears she had been holding streamed down her cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumb.
“She should have been yours. We should have been a family. Oh, Cëladyn, I…”
“Hush now, Soniia. Perhaps we still can be.” He leaned forward and kissed her damp brow.
She lurched, gasping in pain, thrusting the wiggling child into his arms, clasping both arms across her stomach, crying out. Cëladyn pulled back the covers, horrified at the blood-soaked sheets hidden beneath.
“Soniia! How long have you been bleeding like this?”
“Some bleeding…is normal…Cëladyn.” She gasped between hurried breaths, as she curled in on herself.
“Some, yes, but not this much. How long?”
“I do not know…”
He watched helplessly, gripping her hand tightly in his, pushing tendrils of healing magic into her.
“Soniia, please.” His heart pounded in his chest, fear and panic near choking him as he begged her to live. The baby cried harder in his arms.
He felt it, the moment his magic slammed up against that invisible wall, the spell rebounding as the magic failed. The force of it crashed back into him, and Cëladyn swore he felt his bones rattle as the shockwaves jolted through him. The breath knocked from his lungs.
All his power and he could not heal her.
The baby wailed louder.
He sucked in ragged breaths, and tears slid down his cheeks as realization pressed in from all sides. Cëladyn felt his heart being torn from his chest. She was leaving him for the second time in his life. It was too late to help her. He could do little more than make her journey into death less painful.
“Take care of her Cëladyn…na’vahla.”
And he was left cradling the squalling infant in his arms. Her final words echoing through his mind. After all this time, she had still used her favored endearment for him.
My Love.
****
Cëladyn brushed the memory away. That moment had defined him. He had vowed then and there to rob his brother of everything he held dear, even his kingdom—if it took the rest of his life.
He now spied Flintathriël striding down the hall.
The boy was just like his father, Ehrendil. Prideful, selfish, arrogant, and cocky beyond belief. Cëladyn had to resist the urge to smack the smirk off the young man’s face every time he saw him. He was surprised Flintathriël had the discipline to pursue the Nuvian. His father had certainly never had what it took to join the elite warrior class.
He gave his nephew a curt nod as he passed, and the young man just smiled.
Cëladyn rounded the corner and stalked out through the high arched door and strode through the courtyard. At least Sairalindë would not be able to stop his latest venture. He pulled a sheaf of parchment from inside his cloak, narrowed eyes flicking over the hastily scribbled notes. In his hands he held the location of the Book of Souls. The druidess had yet to put the pieces of fractured information to good use, likely she had not yet figured out what she held in her hands.
But it was only a matter of time, and he had to act quickly. He re-entered the palace on the other side of the courtyard, climbing the spiraling staircase to his quarters, flinging the door open and kicking it shut behind him. With a flourish of his wrist, candles sprang to life. Cëladyn marched over to his desk and slid into the chair. He took ink to parchment, wording a detailed list of instructions, leaving it unsigned lest it be intercepted.
He brought the pages to his lips and gently blew on the wet ink. Satisfied it was dry, he carefully folded the letter. Picking up a stick of black wax, he held it to the flickering candle flame before pressing it to the vellum—sealing his words inside.
Rising from his chair, he swiftly crossed the room, and pushed back the shutters of the window.
“Come, my pet.”
A falcon swooped in through the window and perched on the back of a wicker chair. “I have another for you to deliver.” The bird watched with sharp, predatory eyes while Cëladyn stroked its feathers and fastened the note to its leg. Once finished, he whistled, and the falcon obliged, sidestepping from its perch.
“Fly swiftly my friend.” Cëladyn lifted his arm, and the falcon traded the chair for his arm. He launched the bird through the open window, watching with a steady gaze as it disappeared into the sky.
