Queen of Song and Souls by C L Wilson

Author:C L Wilson [Wilson, C. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-03-18T09:34:03+00:00

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.

Just before the valet reached the fireplace, he stopped in his tracks and stood there,

motionless. "Brom?" Lord Sebourne stared at the valet. "What's the matter with you,

man?"

Before he could say another word, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of

something moving to his right.

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