Lord's Fall

SEVEN

The undercurrents that swirled around Ferion, Beluviel and Calondir were stifling. Pia received the distinct impression that the three of them exchanged an intense storm of telepathic words while she faced the High Lord’s ageless, closed expression. Meeting his cool, Powerful gaze was one of the more challenging things she’d done since, well, since she’d argued with Dragos in the middle of the night.

Suddenly the pressure from the last two days, hell, the last seven months, welled up, and it had to go somewhere outside of her body or she would combust. She cast about mentally . . . where, where . . . but in the end, there was really only one place for it to go.

She said in Eva’s head, I’m in so far over my head in so many ways, I don’t even know where shore is anymore.

Steady on, Tinker Bell, Eva said calmly. Man shits like anybody else do.

She did not just hear that. Her poise, having already grown precarious, splintered. She bent sharply at the waist and leaned her hands on her knees. Vaguely she was aware of a ripple of reaction passing through the others.

A strong, brown hand curled around her bicep and gripped her hard. “There’s no need to be alarmed,” Eva said crisply. “She just isn’t much of a rider. She has been suffering from a leg cramp, that’s all.”

Captain Psycho’s speech was polished, educated, and her grammar beautifully correct. And damn that woman, she could lie. Pia’s truthsense insisted on Eva’s sincerity.

“Yes, I’m all right,” Pia said hoarsely. She kept it simple, not even attempting to match Eva’s duplicity. “My apologies.” She told Eva, You’re pure fucking evil, and I hate you passionately.

I know, my bitch goddess too hot for some to handle, Eva said. Even in her telepathic voice, she sounded complacent.

SHUT UP.

Opposite Eva, Beluviel took Pia’s other arm for support as she straightened. The consort’s wide gaze was warm with concern. Beluviel asked, “Are you able to walk?”

“Yes, thank you,” Pia said.

“Other issues need my attention,” Calondir said. “I’ll take my leave now.”

Pia saw everything she had worked for slipping through her fingers as the High Lord turned away.

Anger sparked. Sure, an upcoming visit from Numenlaurians must be hugely important, but the Elves had invited her first, dammit.

She said, “Sir.”

Calondir paused to look back at her, one eyebrow raised in imperious inquiry.

In the end, she spoke as plainly as she had several months ago when she had first addressed him. “I know you are very busy, and you have a great deal on your mind. That is why I was so honored at your invitation. I’ve made it my priority to visit despite the distance and the important developments occurring in my own demesne.” She knew the original invitation had come from Beluviel, but just as Dragos had to agree to the visit, Calondir had to have put his stamp of approval on it, and she couldn’t afford to let him wriggle out of granting her an audience. People in the Wyr demesne needed for her to succeed at reestablishing trade agreements. She finished, “I hope you might find time for a short talk.”

He regarded her unsmilingly, then inclined his head. “Thank you for your effort in making the journey. I appreciate your dedication and hope you have a restful evening. Good night.”

Argh, that was it? No promise to talk later? Just a dismissal? What the fuck? Pia’s lips tightened as Calondir turned his back to her again and walked away.

She looked at Beluviel. The consort stared after Calondir, her posture stiff. “Ferion and Linwe,” said the consort, “would you kindly show Pia and her people to their rooms?”

“Of course,” Ferion said immediately.

Pia looked around to discover who Linwe was. She found the blue-haired Elven girl standing just behind the consort. The girl bounced a little on the balls of her toes. After Calondir’s Powerful, mature presence and tension-filled greeting, Linwe’s blue-tipped hair seemed cheerfully barbaric. The sight lifted Pia’s spirits quite unreasonably.

Beluviel said to Pia, “Please don’t hesitate to tell either Ferion or Linwe if there is anything that you or your group requires. Perhaps if you are interested, one of them can show you around tomorrow. In the meantime I will say good evening as well.”

After the warmth and support Beluviel had shown over the last two days, her abrupt departure on top of Calondir’s rebuff felt like a slap in the face. Pia didn’t know if she was angry or just confused. She did know she didn’t trust herself to speak. She gave the consort a curt nod.

Beluviel hesitated, dark gaze searching Pia’s expression. Then the consort said telepathically, Forgive me for bringing you all this way only to abandon you this evening. The emissary from Numenlaur arrived this afternoon, several days earlier than expected, and their mission is one of some urgency. Calondir and I are needed elsewhere at the moment.

The emissary was already here? No wonder Calondir looked less than thrilled at her arrival. This trip was rapidly going from bad to worse.

I understand, Pia said, because in the end there was nothing else she could say.

I will be in touch. Rest well. Beluviel brushed her cheek with cool lips and followed in Calondir’s footsteps, her long stride rapid.

Pia bit back her impatience. It had been another long, frustrating day. Her back ached like a bastard, and no matter how much she wanted it, she couldn’t expect an instant resolution to any of the issues that had brought her here. At the rate things were going, she might not even get a chance to talk with Calondir at all.

At least this meant she could go to bed soon, right?

That thought did not exactly put her in a more cheerful mood. She and Dragos had too much unresolved between them. But the interminable day was nearly over, which meant she could hope to get on a better footing with him. Missing him had turned into a deep ache, only now she didn’t just miss his physical presence. She also desperately, fiercely missed their lack of rapport.

She turned to Ferion, who regarded her with a faint smile. “Lady, please forgive our preoccupation with other matters,” he said. “Your visit deserves better than this. It is good to see you again.”

Somewhat mollified, she said, “Hello, Ferion. How are you?”

“I am well, thank you,” he said. “Although I will always regret that you did not come to stay with us last summer.”

Her returning smile was wry. Ferion had led the party that had responded to her distress call when Dragos had crossed the Elven border without permission and had broken his treaties with them. The Elves had shot Dragos with a poisoned arrow, and then someone had told Urien, the Dark Fae King, what had happened.

A lot of bad things had come out of that. She and Dragos had been kidnapped, beaten and nearly killed. But a lot of good had come out of it too, like the first time she and Dragos had made love. They would probably never know which Elf had been Urien’s informant, and so much had happened since then that the information had become irrelevant. Urien was dead, and whatever alliances or loyalties any Elf might have had to him were dead also.

“All of that is water under the bridge now,” she told Ferion.

If he heard the double message in that statement, he didn’t show it. With a polite gesture, he invited her to walk with him, and Linwe and the rest followed.

It had been impossible for Pia to get a sense of how large the house really was when she had been looking at it from below. The reflective outside walls had messed with her sense of depth perception, as her mind kept insisting that she looked at sky and trees.

Inside, Ferion led the group down halls of flagstone, carved granite and wood, and they made several turns, which indicated that the house was very large indeed. Finally he stopped and opened a door that led to a spacious, gorgeously appointed apartment that had a central common room with a large fireplace and several couches, a couple of bathrooms and three bedrooms.

Since two of the psychos would be awake at any given time, the others could double up in two of the bedrooms. The rooms had rich, dark hardwood furniture and gleaming floors, handwoven rugs and intricately sewn tapestries with ocean and woodland scenes populated with fantastical creatures. The largest tapestry hung on the inside wall and depicted several Elves on one of their historic, sleek ocean-faring ships. One of the figures was a male with a long braid of dark hair, apparently Calondir, who held a gold cup. While the cup was relatively small in comparison to the rest of the scene, the gold thread gleamed brightly against the deep, rich colors used throughout the rest of the tapestry, drawing the eye immediately to it.

The outside wall of the apartment had large windows that overlooked the moonlit river and the Wood above the waterfall. She went to look out.

Ferion followed her. The Elf stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back, as they gazed at the beautiful scene. She glanced at him, and the resemblance to Calondir struck her all over again. The two males had to be related to each other in some way. They could be father and son. If they were, she wondered if Beluviel was Ferion’s mother. Given the coolness she had seen between Beluviel and Calondir, anything was possible.

The Power that Ferion carried indicated that he might even be old enough to remember the Elven war in the far-distant past. She wondered what he made of the Numenlaurian’s visit, but she could not quite bring herself to ask.

She said to him telepathically, I would count it as a great favor if we did not discuss my mother in front of others. I don’t know if you have heard, but I’ve not publicly revealed my Wyr form.

He looked at her quickly and bowed. Lady, I would be honored to keep that in confidence.

Thank you.

Aloud, he said, “I will see to it that supper is brought up shortly. Is there anything else that you require?”

“Everything is beautiful,” she told him.

He bowed again with that touch of Old World charm, excused himself and left. Linwe left with him, and the Wyr were alone for the first time that day.

Eva set the others to inspecting the apartment then she joined Pia by the window. She said, “The man had a point. I’ve seen better welcomes.”

Pia grimaced. “Beluviel told me telepathically that the emissary arrived this afternoon. Apparently they’re several days earlier than expected.”

Eva pursed her lips. “Well, that complicates things.”

“Yes, it does,” Pia said grimly.

Calondir and Beluviel might have invited her first, but the gods only knew how long it had been since they had seen Elves from Numenlaur. In contrast, they had only seen seven months of border tensions with the Wyr demesne. To people of their immense age, seven months must seem like nothing more than a passing moment.

But the trade embargo had to have hurt the Elven demesne as much as it did the Wyr. They had held out and made their statement successfully. Wouldn’t they be just as relieved to let it go as the Wyr would?

She felt like her mind was spinning from one thing to the next. It seemed like she did nothing but move from one pitfall to another. She couldn’t wait to see Dragos tonight and to put things right between them. Then maybe she could turn things around tomorrow and make something good come out of this damn trip.

The others made short work of thoroughly inspecting the apartment. Pia claimed the first bedroom they cleared, shut the door, stripped off her dirty clothes and staggered into the bathroom to take a long, warm bath.

Her Wyr healing abilities, along with the soothing soaps and water, soon eased the aches and pains of the day away but left her exhausted. As she climbed out of the bath, Eva knocked and brought in a tray laden with strange, delicious foods. Pia stuffed herself, shoved the tray outside the bedroom door afterward, climbed into the soft comfortable bed and was out before her head hit the pillow.

Despite her quick plummet into sleep she tossed and turned. Several times she came partly awake, frustrated and searching. She couldn’t find the right connection. Every time she reached for Dragos, all she could see was a male with green eyes. He held out his hand and beckoned to her, but it was much too dark where he stood. Every time she saw him, she shuddered and turned away.

Then she came awake in a rush.

Disoriented, she thrust out of bed and went to the window. The sky was growing lighter. It was early in the morning, and she hadn’t dreamed of Dragos.

They hadn’t dreamed.

Panic throbbed like a migraine at her temples. She strode to the door and snatched it open. James and Andrea were talking quietly, keeping watch in the common room. Both came to their feet at her appearance.

James put a hand on his sword. He asked, “Everything all right?”

“No,” she said. “Get Eva.”

“I’m here,” Eva said from one of the other doorways. She was barefoot but otherwise dressed in black cargo pants and an army green T-shirt that fit snugly against her lean torso. She strode across the room quickly, black eyes sharp. “What up, princess?”

She said to Eva in a low voice, “Dragos has been casting spells so that he and I can dream together, and I didn’t dream last night. Something’s wrong.”

And she couldn’t make a simple, goddamn phone call to see if he was all right.

Eva’s gaze had widened as she talked. “Okay,” the captain said. “Let’s talk it through. Has he ever had problems dream casting before?”

“We’ve only done it together a couple of times,” Pia said. She rubbed her mouth and tried to get in control of her panic, to force herself to think logically. “The Power in the Wood interferes with phone calls. Maybe it can disrupt Dragos’s spell.”

“He’s Powerful as shit and older than dirt,” Eva said, her voice steady and not unkind. “Rather than something happening to him, it’s much more likely that the Wood interfered with his spell, don’t you think?”

Suddenly Pia grew calm. “That makes sense, but he doesn’t know that, and last night was important. We had things to discuss.”

What would Dragos do now?

He would be doing the same thing that she was doing, working his way through the possible reasons for their missed connection. She had the advantage. She knew he went to bed safe in his home territory, whereas to him, she was deep in the heart of enemy territory.

Would he watch and wait for word? If he didn’t—if the Elves discovered that he had crossed the Elven border again without permission, she didn’t think there was anything she could say then that would repair the treaties, and they might not be able to avoid war. The Elves had been quite clear: they would treat any further trespass from him as an act of invasion.

She said, “We need to send someone out and hope they get out of the Wood in time to make a phone call before Dragos decides to come in after us.”

Eva’s eyebrows rose. “Sounds like we better get someone out fast.”

Throwing their bed against the wall hadn’t done anything to improve Dragos’s mood. He knew Pia felt stressed about the trip, and he had no intention of arguing via text messages, but he was utterly furious with her.

How dared she rebuke him, leave their dream and turn off her cell phone? How dared she bring up that old issue of servants and employees, and throw Rune in his face?

Did he not allow her to do as she wished in most things?

How dare she disobey him?

Yeah, he heard that.

He tossed the king-sized bed back into place, showered, dressed in black fatigues and a thin, black silk sweater, and left the Tower.

Another heavy day of fighting was scheduled for that day, so the bouts started at five A.M. Despite the early beginning, all the seats were filled. Tension had ratcheted up. One hundred and twelve contestants would start the day. By tonight there would be fifty-six.

When Dragos arrived at the mobile office, he told Kris and his other assistants, “Find somewhere else to work today.”

None of them asked questions. They took one look at his expression and scattered, leaving him to prowl the supersuite and fume in isolation.

All the sentinels were scheduled for early combat. By some trick of chance, none of them had yet drawn Quentin Caeravorn as an opponent. Aryal, Grym and Bayne had cycled through their fights already, and now Constantine was on the floor.

Con was brawny and blond, as were all the gryphons. He was also what his fellow gryphon Bayne liked to call a “man slut.” It was a testament to Constantine’s actual skill set that he was so effective at his job while remaining so aggressively promiscuous, because from what Dragos heard, Con never got a full night’s sleep.

His current opponent in the arena was one of the gargoyles, and both contestants had shifted into their Wyr form for the fight. The gargoyle had morphed from a mild-looking man into a seven-foot winged monster, with a demonic face, huge batlike wings and a tough, stony gray body.

Their fight caught even the raging dragon’s attention. Dragos paused at the window to watch.

A human would have had a difficult time following the fight without the benefit of instant replay and slowing the action down, but Dragos had no trouble at all making out every detail.

Con was not Graydon. He had broken one of the gargoyle’s legs and a wing, and now, catlike, he played with the guy, letting him get close and then batting at him with a giant paw. Constantine was just plain nasty in a fight, whether he was in gryphon or human form. The gargoyle was done for, but apparently he was too stupid or stubborn to quit.

Dragos shook his head and turned away.

He had been an autocrat for so very long, and he was utterly used to absolute rule. Then Pia came along. She coaxed his arrogance into laughing and charmed him into easing up, giving in. He had convinced himself he was growing more tolerant in indulging her wishes, but the brutal truth was tolerance and indulgence were simply other forms of the autocrat.

Pia had said, The real point I’m trying to make is that I have no idea how to be your partner.

More brutal truth: he had no idea how to be her partner either, or anybody’s partner, for that matter.

She was always going to be a softer personality than he, immensely younger and less experienced. More peaceful. And yet here she was his best teacher again, for she had already shown him how she could bend to his will when he needed it. That, he realized, involved a profound kind of trust in him.

Now he had to learn how to bend to her will when she needed it.

Not tolerate, allow or indulge. Really bend, despite his mood, the circumstances or his temper. As old, strong willed and entrenched in the habit of power as he was, this was a lesson he might have to relearn over and over again.

But Pia also had to learn, there would only be so far he could bend. He was simply too dominant. They were in uncharted territory, and he did not know how far he could go. Plus he had been on edge for months, ever since the economy had taken such a serious downturn, Tiago and Rune had followed their mates and left him and the other sentinels running at full throttle, and the Oracle had made her uninvited, impromptu prophecy last summer that hung in front of Dragos like a mushroom cloud.

He would never forget the strange, dry voice that had come through the Oracle’s Power, or the quiet way it had spoken and what it had said.

It had spoken of stars dying in agony, and the nature of evil, of Light and Dark as creatures, and Lord Death himself having forgotten he was a fraction of the whole.

“I am not form but Form,” the voice had claimed, “a prime indivisible. All these things were set in motion at the beginning, along with the laws of the universe and of Time itself. The gods formed at the moment of creation, as did the Great Beast, as did Hunger, as did Birth along with Finality, and I am the Bringer of the End of Days. . . .”

Which, when it came right down to it, was insane gibberish. It made no fucking sense, and his atavistic reaction to it was just as nonsensical. But every time he thought of that voice he remembered the Power in it, and the hair at the back of his neck raised and the dragon clawed its way to the surface and looked for war.

But it had not targeted Dragos specifically. It had only mentioned him. In a way the real significance was not what had been said but that the prophecy had come to him, and when he and Pia had consulted with the Oracle a second time, the Oracle had said the events might not surface for months or even years.

They could not live their lives in fear. He would not. When Pia brought up the possibility of visiting with the Elves, he listened, eventually. Just as the Elves had intended, the trade embargo had caused damage, and it was time to explore ways to end it.

Not only that, but Pia and Dragos were natural lightning rods. There was always going to be some kind of shit happening, because some kind of spotlight was always going to be trained on them, and they lived eventful lives. If any shit happened while they were separated, they would deal with it.

And so he tolerated, allowed and indulged.

Gods damn it. The hardest thing to break was a habit, and the attitude crept in when he wasn’t looking. When all was said and done his behavior had been boorish and typical. He . . . owed her an apology.

And how strange it was, to recognize how he had grown to need someone after being autonomous for so very long.

He counted the time until he could go to bed and cast the dream spell. Then he counted the time as he waited, and she didn’t come, and she didn’t come.

Dawn bled a pale, colorless light over the eastern sky, cold and bleak as death. When he rose he did so silently, full of cunning, for the world he inhabited was filled with prophecy and predators. The dragon was not a safe creature at the best of times, and that was true especially now that he was without his mate.

He had questions and he needed answers, and while those answers could be found within the forbidden Elven Wood, there was a quicker and more efficient way he could get them, another place he could go that was much closer to home.

He called Bayne and made some arrangements.

Then he went on the hunt.

He found his prey easily within the hour. She wore a classic black two-piece suit, four-inch heels and another sleek chignon, but Dragos remembered another image of her from an age long past, wearing armor, covered in blood and screaming at the sky as he soared overhead, her face twisted with rage and hate.

The early morning was still dark gray and bitingly cold, and huge mounds of dirty snow were piled everywhere, but like Dragos, the Elven tribunal Councillor did not bother with an overcoat. She stepped out of the front doors of the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue followed by two attendants.

If the Elf had seen him coming, she would have tried to find some way to avoid him, so he had not given her the opportunity.

Dragos could cloak himself so completely while he was in dragon form that a mouse could run over his talons and never know it. Usually he did not bother with casting such a strong spell, but he did this time. He cloaked himself while standing on the street curb and added a small, subtle aversion spell so that pedestrians somehow avoided the spot where he stood, until the Elven Councillor reached a spot just a few feet away.

Dragos said, “Sidhiel.”

She screamed and spun, her sophisticated poise shattered, and there was his old adversary again. Despite their designer clothing and their urban setting, and the laws and traditions they had surrounded themselves with, civilization remained the thinnest of veneers after all.