arm, his finger pointing at the tall fae stranger.
“Kyriakos,” he cried again, “call off your hounds!”
It had been many years since Soran set eyes on a Noxaur fae. He’d almost forgotten what strange and awe-inspiring beings they were. The specimen now standing on his beach was certainly impressive. Massive shoulders, flashing eyes, a mouth cruelly curved in a smile that was simultaneously amused and displeased.
The fae lord turned that smile upon Soran and raised one eyebrow in mild surprise.
Soran strode swiftly across the beach, refusing to betray hesitation or fear. He knew how the fae worked. They watched for the faintest trace of weakness to exploit. If he moved too carefully, it would be read as trepidation, a trait despised among fae nobility. He must brazen this out, threaten far more force than he could actually muster.
“Ah!” said the fae. He made no effort to speak above the wind, but his mellifluous voice carried effortlessly to Soran’s ears like the thrum of a deep bass string. “A mortal. How quaint. Tell me, how is it you know my name?”
Soran halted and drew himself up straight. Instinct told him to salute, to bow, to make some form of obeisance. But that was a mortal instinct and one he hated, one he had long fought to suppress. He would not grovel to the fae.
“It is well known that Lord Kyriakos of Ninthalor governs this territory of Noxaur beneath the shadow of the Twin Peaks,” he said, meeting the fae’s eyes without blinking. “It is also known that he is forbidden from stepping foot beyond his lands by order of King Maeral Noxaur himself.”
“Indeed,” the lord responded with placid indifference. “But it would seem your island has floated into my waters. Which makes you the invader and not I.” He smiled a catlike smile of subtle viciousness. “Tell me your name, mortal, and I may yet choose to treat you as a guest rather than an enemy.”
Soran knew better than to give his name to a fae, and he could see by the look in Kyriakos’s eye that he fully expected a refusal. Yet, if he wasn’t careful, the fae lord might declare him discourteous and use it as an excuse to mount a full attack. His shadowy subjects standing on the beach behind him and lining the decks of his three boats looked ready for a fight. There were far too many of them for Soran’s sadly depleted flock of wyverns to handle.
He drew himself up straighter than before. “I am a Miphato of the Evenspire, a mortal mage,” he said. “And this is Roseward Isle. No doubt you have heard of it even from within the bounds of your internment.”
The fae’s nostrils flared slightly. “Roseward,” he said slowly, almost purring the name. “Yes, I have heard of the mortal island cut loose from its world and set adrift on our Hinter Sea. You are under a curse, are you not, mortal mage?”
“I am cursed by King Lodírhal Aurelis,” Soran responded. The words were bitter on his tongue, but he spoke them as a protection. “I am serving the sentence imposed by the crown of Aurelis for my crimes against Eledria.”
Teeth flashed in a brief grimace, the only betrayal of feeling the fae offered. He could not provoke Lodírhal without bringing the wrath of Aurelis down on his head. His own king would make no move to protect him.
For some moments they stood in a tense, contemplative silence. Then Kyriakos waved one hand in a calculatedly dismissive gesture. “I have no interest in Lodírhal’s games,” he said. “I merely wished to investigate this intrusion upon my shores. And now, mortal mage, you owe me restitution.”
Soran’s jaw tensed. “I owe you nothing, great lord.”
“Do you not? I presume these spell creatures are of your own contrivance.” The fae indicated the sky above them where the wyverns circled in ominous watchfulness. “They smell of mortal magic. And you are the only mortal mage present, I trust.”
Soran nodded slowly.
“It would seem,” the fae continued, “your little spell beasts have amused themselves by shredding one of my hounds limb from limb.” As he spoke, he dropped his hand to rest on the head of one of the five remaining monsters. They had crept back in around their master, a formidable pack of skullars, ugly and putrid and utterly loyal. They regarded Soran out of dark eye sockets from which gleamed pinpoints of red light.
Soran swallowed carefully, wetting his dry throat, and steadily met the fae lord’s