Trailer for *Weave a Wizardry Web*

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What is *Weave a Wizardry Web*?

 Twisted magic. Foul sorcery. Dark corruption.

Weave a Wizardry Web

Frost Clime threatens the Wizard Enclave. Sorcerers and their servants, shape-shifting wyre, have stolen into the city of Tres Lucerna, home to the Enclave.

Alstera is the greatest of the young wizards in the Enclave; she’s treated like the least.

She’s desperate to join the war against Frost Clime, but the chief wizards refuse. Denied her wish, Alstera explores other ways to increase power.

A Fae disguised in glamour courts her aunt Camisse … but for what purpose? Does Camisee have latent power that the Fae will control? Will a forbidden linkage unlock her magic?

And what of Alstera’s cousins, who have joined an outland wizard’s circle? They dabble in twisted magic.

Danger walks the streets of Tres Lucerna, yet the chief wizards refuse to acknowledge it. Rumors fly … of a taboo nexus of power, of vile blood spells, and of enemy shape-shifters in the heart of the Wizard Enclave.

Then wizards are murdered.

A grim future awaits any wizard lured into forbidden magic.

And a grimmer death awaits wizards caught by the shifters.

Can Alstera escape the spidery lure of corrupted magic? Or will she become the enemy Frost Clime’s next target?

A dark fantasy of twisted magic, Weave a Wizardry Web by Remi Black is first in the Fae Mark’d Wizard series. Dream a Deadly Dream and Sing a Graveyard Song continue the series.

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Meet Camisse, 2nd protagonist of *Weave a Wizardry Web*

 Recently recalled from her command post at Chanerro Pass, Camisse thinks she is little better than a Naught. In a family of wizards, with her niece Alstera considered the greatest wizard of her generation, Camisse serves the Enclave with leadership skills and sword skills rather than wizardry.

Yet someone wants to remove her from her command post.

And someone else wants to remove her from life.

Who could it be?

And what of the outland wizard she met? Where does he "fit" in the Enclave? Why has the Pater Drakon concerned himself with Pearroc Seale?

Excerpt ~ 

Camisse crossed the thick carpet, hoping her boots left no sandy trail. The woven carpet was a gift from the king himself, she remembered.

She bent and pressed dry lips to her mother’s papery thin cheek. As she straightened, she saw in Letheina a fragility she had not expected. Her mother looked shrunken. Her flesh looked peeled from beneath her skin. The ArchClan’s eyes, though, retained their steely cut.

“Sit, my daughter.”

“Ma mère,” she warned and indicated her dusty breeches.

“If you ruin the upholstery, it can be replaced.”

Camisse sat. She saw her mother’s hands shake. How old was Letheina? Eight and seventy? As a child of her mother’s later child-bearing years, Camisse had always viewed her as old. Now she looked truly aged.

Raigeis sat to the right, the place that he’d taken while still in his teens. Camisse had welcomed her appointment to the border—terrified of change, awkward with command, but glad to escaped her brother’s tyranny.

Letheina rested her arms on the damask-covered arms of her high-backed chair and clutched the wood that formed the downward curve to the seat. “You do not look as if you spent the morning sparring. Or that you rode six days from the border to here. Or that you were engaged in a battle against sorcerers and wyre when Raigeis’ sons arrived with my message.”

My secret stash of energy, she wanted to retort, but whimsy had little place in her clan. “I’ve rested two days, ma mère. I am resilient. How long before I return to Chanerro?”

“So eager to return?” Raigeis selected a pastry from the nearly empty platter. “Have you not missed our entertainments? Theatre? Concerts? Dances? You once claimed them important.” His bite into the pastry left a smear of cream on his lip. He wiped it with his thumb.

The more unsettled she became, the easier it was to avoid whimsy. “The importance that I claimed was only in looking after my niece and my nephew, both of whom I have yet to see since my return. You assured me they would be well cared for.”

“Do you suggest that we neglected them?”

“No.” She twisted a little then settled, not wanting to give Raigeis more ammunition. “I would like to see them, but I am told—several times—that they have duties they must perform. No one, however, will tell me what these duties are. I ask a few minutes only, but they are busy. At Chanerro, we do not have soirées and multi-course dinners with dancing and iced pastries with our tea. Are these entertainments their duties?”

“Of course not.” Letheina scowled. “Romert has duties at the palace. I am surprised you did not see him yesterday. Alstera works on a project for my brother. They both will attend tonight’s reception. If that is an acceptable time for you.”

“When Allard and Ferrant arrived at Chanerro, they said my return was a necessity. This is my third day back. Am I to hear the reason for my recall? We were considering an attack on Verrein Snows, the tower we lost a half-century ago. The Drakon’s eldest brother died there. He would be pleased to see the keep returned to us.”

Letheina’s nails dug into the blue damask. “Why do you speak of the Drakon?”

In the past she had never managed to keep private any of her activities and meetings with people outside the clan. She did not try now. “He was at the practice ring this morning.”

“You met him there?”

Her mother’s intensity warned Camisse to have care with her words. “I encountered him there, along with his outlander protégé Pearroc Seale. Ruidri Talenn introduced me to the Drakon’s comeis, who is his brother. I did hope to mention Verrein Snows to him; I saw it not a month ago. It is still a mighty citadel. We did not speak long enough to bring it up, however.” Had she eased their suspicions?

The ArchClan’s nails no longer scratched the wood. “I am pleased you remembered Verrein Snows’ connection to the Enclave. It should be returned to our control. When you take it, will you move the bulk of the border guards to that fortress?”

Raigeis’ twin sons had hinted that she would not return to Chanerro. Letheina’s question sounded as if she would. Camisse shared her plan and hoped she would be allowed to fulfill it. “Only if we can also take the Verrein Dale. Although the citadel looks strong, it can be cut off in winter. Verrein Dale would give us two outposts, each supporting the other. And then we will have moved the border back to the line we once held for two hundred years.”

“That would please the king.” She shifted as if the next words were difficult. “The reports we receive greatly please the king, especially with the failures at Iscleft in recent weeks. You have led our forces well.”

Praise surprised her. She couldn’t completely control her pleasure. She knew the tribute hadn’t come from her mother. Letheina had always been chary with any praise. Camisse had spent her childhood and youth striving to win her mother’s approval. Command had taught her to look for inner rewards. When she learned that trick, when she learned how to convince the Fae to trust wizards, the first successes followed. They had setbacks, but rising morale won as many battles as good strategy and steady supplies did.

“I am pleased to serve,” she said then added the question she had vowed not to speak. “If you are satisfied with my leadership, why did you send Allard and Ferrant to replace me?”

Letheina’s chin jerked, as if she blocked a look at her son. “You are not replaced. The twins merely stand in your stead until your return.”

“That is not what Allard implied.” She looked squarely at Raigeis, father of the twins. “Allard gave me the impression that I would not return.”

“Of course you will return,” her mother repeated, “likely by the end of this month.”

Yet Raigeis shielded his eyes and reached for another cream pastry.

“It is difficult to balance wizard, Fae, and military,” Camisse pointed out. “This recall, at this time, it cam disrupt that fragile web. Chanerro is successful because we work together. Iscleft is not successful. The commander there lets the wizards run the strategy. If the balance we worked so hard to build is broken, the web will fall apart. We will lose all we have regained. I would return sooner than the end of the month.”

“You will return when the ArchClan no longer needs you,” her brother snapped, asserting his magister authority.

“If I do not return,” she carefully kept a neutral tone,” my captains may revolt. Allard offended the Fae captain within the first hour, and the wizard captain by nightfall. They may have orders to replace me, but I left Captain Symonys of Bronchet Clan in charge. He has battle experience. Forgive me, brother, but your sons do not, and they speak incautiously.”

“You had no right—.”

“She has every right,” Letheina snapped. “She commands the post. We have gained much in the years I have required her to command Chanerro. She will return to that command. Allard wanted a posting, and you sent him with his brother to learn. He understood that the posting was temporary. In hindsight, perhaps we should have sent a veteran captain.”

Watching Raigeis swallow an argument against his mother, Camisse asked, “Or was Allard assured that his appointment would become permanent?”

Her brother reared back. He glared at her, and she gave a little nod. Yes, she understood him very well, too well.

“The ArchClan must approve any permanent posting.” He sounded hidebound.

“Oh, be quiet, Raigeis.” Their mother’s patience had thinned. “You tried to manipulate the situation, and you have been found out. Go. Scry a message to your sons. And then check on the preparations for this evening’s reception.”

“All is going as planned.”

“Go, Raigeis.”

He stared at his mother then stood, giving Camisse another glare. He didn’t stomp from the room, but his stiff walk exhibited anger. He shut the door carefully behind him.

Letheina looked at Camisse. “Would that there were spyholes in this room. He would stand there until you leave.”

“I will not say anything to you that I will not say to his face.”

“Nevertheless, shield our conversation. I wish to speak of things that I do not want him to hear.”

If Raigeis had done the shielding, it would have collapsed when he left. Camisse obeyed. Her magic ran easily for these shallow spells; it was the deeper spells that she struggled with. Aware of her mother’s critical gaze, she built the wards quickly, having had much practice in the last decade and a half. Plans for battle never succeeded if stray ears could hear.

. ~ . ~ . ~ .

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Free Glimpse: *Weave a Wizardry Web*

Here's the first chapter of Weave a Wizardry Web, 

introducing the Wizard Enclave 

and the Lucent Fae in the series, Pearroc Seale

Why has Pearroc assumed the glamour of a wizard? What is his goal?

Chapter 1

Pearroc Ciele poured Fae power into the newly learned wizard spell.  Even as it flashed lightning bright, he recognized the weakness that shattered through the spell.

“If you are to pass yourself off as a wizard during the Trials, you must defend as a wizard would, not as a Fae would."

He twisted his shoulders.  The aged man never missed a point when teaching wizardry.  He might be too weary to rise from the chair provided by the arena master, but his black eyes snapped onto a flaw and his quick mind decoded the reason for that flaw.  Fae spell contorted to look like wizardry:  most wizards would miss the foundation hidden by the swirling energies.  Pater Drakon never missed it.

Sine Pearroc’s springtime arrival, Drakon had trained him.  Pearroc had selected the aged man, one of the few clan leaders who supported Faeron.  A Blade sent in secret to the wizards by his queen the Maorketh Alaisa, he fumbled like a child at some lessons.  He didn’t regret his apprenticeship to the master wizard, but it was High Summer, and still he trained.

The old wizard had a point.  The Fae sparked power from the tangible element:  a flame for Fire, soil for Earth, and on to Air and Water.  Then they built the spell based on the power borrowed from the element.s  Wizards needed nothing to spark power;  it came from their essence.  Though Pearroc wielded wizard-shaped power, he still needed a tangible element to initiate his spells.  And as he fought to twist his spells to match to wizardry, he often dropped back to the easy Fae wielding.

The sudden clash of steel against steel jerked his head around.  Power sparked at his fingertips.

“Stand down,” the Drakon clan leader said.  “It’s a practice arena.  Are you expecting someone to assassinate me?”

Pearroc lowered his hands, but power still flashed at his fingertips.  “You are a clan patriarch and a council elder.  You have enemies because you so strongly support Faeron.  The Maorketh considers you a valuable ally.  And your comeis has not returned.”

“You do expected my assassination.”

Pearroc stopped scanning the balcony seats beside their box.  He dismissed the duelists in the practice ring.  “Are you surprised?”

“I am pleased that I am considered so valuable, even though my body is failing.”  Drakon grinned.  Light glittered in those black eyes.  “We aged are always pleased when we are valued.  I am not pleased you considered me worthy of assassination.”

“Your comeis is not—.”

“Huron Talenn will return in a few minutes.  He is on an errand for Faeron and for me.  How often can we combine two errands into one?  This time we can, for the person he needs to confer with is also the person I want you to meet.”  Drakon shifted on the uncushioned wooden seat.  “You, however, have a greater problem.  “Fae power skirrs through your spell.  I can clearly see it.  If I can see, others will.”

“It is a Fae defense,” Pearroc admitted, “but no wizard at the Trials will recognize it.  Few wizards of this generation have fought beside the Fae against a common enemy.”

“They will recognize it if they fought at the outposts, side by side with Fae against Frost Clime.”

Pearroc dipped his fingers into the pater’s glass, stealing the water in the wine to work another  He tossed the power in his hand, like a child’s ball, as he considered how to strip away the Fae glow that brightened the spell.  “The Maorketh herself built the glamour around me.  She decided my narrative :  My home is to border Faeron.  My parents hired Fae tutors when my powers manifested.  Enclave wizards would not come so far from Mont Nouris.  That training is the reason my spells have the Fae edge rather than orthodox Enclave training.”

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little spell.

“It’s still folly to reveal it.”  Drakon glanced again at the practice ring.  As a great wizard, he had no interest in sword-fighting, but the opponents in the arena still drew his attention.  And for that reason, they drew another look from Pearroc.  “Even if my fellow councilors do not know your spells are edged with Fae glow, their Fae comeis will know.”

“The comeis will not reveal it.  They are bound to clan leaders, yes, but their first loyalty is to the Maorketh Alaisa.  Your comeis will agree on this with me.”

“It is a mad plan:  a Fae masquerading as a wizard, to pass the Trials and become a voice in the Enclave.  I cannot believe your queen agreed to it.  I cannot believe I agreed to it.”

“Who else would have?”

“No one,” the aged man retorted, “more evidence of its madness.  And I see more and more difficulties as we near the Trials.  My fellow Sages may not see the Fae skirr, but the ArchClans might send a representative.  That representative could see the skirr.”

“It would take a puissant wizard.”

“Someone like Alstera, yes.”

Pearroc had met the ArchClans Letheina’s granddaughter.  Puissant, brilliant, and arrogant, Alstera wielded all four elements.  He’d heard rumors that she dabbled in the challenging fifth, the Chaos that few Fae could tap.  She would indeed see the skirr that fragmented his spells.

Chilling with a hint of autumn, a wind skirled around the ring and gusted through the balconies.  It disturbed only the few spectators.  Drakon, in his sheltered box, tucked his heavy cloak closer.

Pearroc conceded Drakon’s wisdom with a formal bow, a deeper one than Fae courtesy demanded.  “I will repress the Fae in my spells.  We have years invested in the Maorketh’s plan.  I will not cause its failure.”

The aged man’s eyes glittered.  Once more he looked at the practice ring.  “Forgive an old man’s worries.  The nearer your trial draws, the greater my concerns.  For your queen’s madness to succeed, we must enlist more aid than my orthodox training.  When you construct spells, your understanding is a Fae’s understanding of the spell’s foundations.  You need to consider a wizard’s basic understanding of the spell.”

Pearroc glanced at the duelists who kept drawing his mentor’s attention.  Then he scanned the other spectators of the sandy arena.  What aid is he planning?  “You train me more than adequately for the Trials.”

He laughed.  The sound turned into a cough he muffled in the wool of his cloak, and Pearroc thought again of the shorter lives of mortal men.  The clan’s healer had warned Drakon only yesterday against exertion.  Today he insisted on touring the entire arena before they came to his balcony box.

When the spasm passed, he leaned his head against the high chair-back and breathed.

“Do you know what you are doing with this?  The healer—.”

Those black, black eyes opened and bored into hi,.  “You have someone to meet.”  His eyes rolled to the sanded practice ring.  “There she is.”

The cane-wielding duelists had departed.  Five new people had entered, one of them a woman.

Pearroc huffed.  In his two months here, he’d discovered many city women affecting sword-play.  Disappointment colored his question.  “Another woman pretending to be a sword?”

“Not pretending.  She is.  Watch.”

As the new duelists prepared, he studied the woman.  Her youth had passed but not many years ago.  Her plaited dark hair looked stark against the white linen shirt.  Long legs were encased in deerskin, same as the men, and Pearroc admired their length and shape.  When she turned, he saw the patrician bones that sharpened her face.  Her swan’s neck would display rich jewels to advantage.  What was a noble doing at the common practice arena?

She said something that had three of the men chuckling.  He recognized two as house guards for the ArchClans Letheina.  The other two were Fae comeis bound to clan leaders.  One was Vatar Regnant, bound to Pater duCian.  The other—Pearroc looked closely—was the ArchClans’ comeis, Ruidri Talenn de Ysagrael, brother to Drakon’s comeis.  He was the one shedding belt and scabbard, as the woman shed her shoulder harness.  That pricked his interest more than her noble features.  Fae did not spar against human opponents.  Fae quickness proved too deadly.

They used edged steel, not wooden canes.  With a shocked inhalation, Pearroc turned completely toward the arena—and heard Drakon chuckle.

“Is she a fool?  Ruidri Talenn will take no pity on her.”

“Watch.”

The first flurry of blows rang into the seats.  Testing moves, strength and agility and skill.  Then Ruidri smiled and pressed an attack.

He expected her to miss a parry, to stumble as she gave ground, to drop onto the sand, bleeding from a dozen cuts of the Fae’s blade.

“He’ll kill her.  Or maim her.  A woman can’t match strength against a man.”

Her sword glinted with sunlight.  She met Ruidri’s sword, deflected it through a rapid pattern taught to every student of edged combat.  Ruidri’s grin widened.  Pearroc knew that grin, having crossed blades with the elder Fae years ago, before he left Faeron and crossed to the human world on the Maorketh’s orders.

The comeis changed the pattern.  This time the woman grinned.  Her defense didn’t depend on strength.  Her blade slid along Ruidri’s or deflected it.  Fae women learned these tricks.  But this woman was no student.  Her skill exceeded anything he’d see from humans.

Ruidri gave ground to her attack.  She didn’t step around the comeis;  she flowed around him.  Her blade was spell-quick.  It lacked the flashing energy that would have charged it in battle.  The Fae’s sword also remained energy-free.  He said something that had her laughing, the sound ringing across the clash of swords and the grunts of the cane-using duelists.

Their sparring changed again.  The comeis increased to Fae speed.  Pearroc held his breath, both fascinated and horrified.  The woman couldn’t match his quickness and gave ground.  Even so, she anticipated his thrusts.  The ones she couldn’t guard against, she melted away from.  The ones she didn’t deflect, she turned into throwing Ruidri off-step.

He fell back.  Lightning fast, she came after—only to stop on her toes when Vatar spoke.

Her chest heaved.  Sweat slicked her linen shirt while Ruidri merely gleamed with exertion.  He spoke again then held his hand up in a Fae-to-Fae salute.  And she returned it.

“Who is she?” Pearroc demanded.

“Impressive, isn’t she?  A pity they did not magic their blades.  I have heard that lightning crackles along the blades.  I have always wanted to see that.”

He didn’t look away from the woman.  “How is she possible?  A human with Fae-training in edged combat.  To support her sword with magic, that is another Fae skill.  How do I not know her?”

“For the past fifteen years she has commanded Chanerro Pass.”

“Who is she?”

“She is good, isn’t she?”  Drakon croaked the words then started coughing.

The woman heard and turned to look.  She located the box.  Eyes as black as Drakon’s stared up.  Ruidri Talenn and Vatar Regnant looked as well, then Ruidri Talenn spoke to her.  As Pearroc bent over his mentor, offering magic-infused water, he saw the woman shake her head.  Vatar Regnant stepped closer, adding comments of his own.

The magicked water eased the coughing spasm.  Drakon looked shrunken inside his voluminous cloak.

“Where is your comeis?  Huron Talenn should be here by now.”

“An errand, I told you.  Don’t press.  I can breathe again.”

“You shouldn’t be out, Pater.  The air is too chill.”

“Humor an old man a little longer.  Let me enjoy the last of High Summer.  I am dying, but I am not on my death bed.  Ha!  You didn’t protest.”

“Penthia said seven weeks, perhaps eight.”

“My own magic said that.  The body decays, not the mind.”

He straightened.  He gestured to the practice ring.  “Who is she?  Why do you point her out to me?”

“My daughter.  She should be clan leader after me.”

Fae trained to shield their emotions.  Pearroc hid his shock.  He had already embarrassed himself enough with surprise.  Drakon had no acknowledged children.  Magister Brandt was his nephew.  In a clan filled with his bloodline, he had no direct heir.  Pearroc glanced into the ring, but the two comeis and the woman had left.

“A wizard not in your house, not even in Tres Lucerna for years.  Clan leader after you?  Not possible, Lord Drakon.”

A clawed hand gripped the wool cloak.  “Not more impossible than a Fae passing the Wizard Trials,” he retorted.  “She is no stranger to the Enclave.  She is ArchClans Letheina’s daughter, Water and Air instead of our Fire.”

“The ArchClans has no love for Clan Drakon.”

Drakon laughed then wheezed, but the attack passed quickly.  “An understatement, Pearroc.  Camisse does not know that I am her father.”

“Lady Camisse?  Commander at Chanerro Pass?  Her power is—.”  He stopped before he offended.

“A wizard unworthy of the rank?”  The aged man admitted to the slur Pearroc had dammed.  “Rumors claimed she passed the Trials only because her mother was ArchClans.  They say she commands at Chanerro only because her mother pushed the posting.  But she redeemed herself there:  she keeps the wizards and the Fae working together.  All that is true.  Except that her mother helped her pass the Trials.  That was my doing.”

He gaped at his mentor.  “A clan leader cannot have weak power.”

“She doesn’t have weak power.  She has the puissance;  she can’t draw it up.  Not with the spells that she was taught.”

“Enclave teaching failed?”

Drakon didn’t answer.

And Pearroc understood the problem.  Puissant but unable to access her power.  Taught spells for Air and Water, her mother’s elements, while her basic element that would kindle all her spells might be Fire, her father’s element.  Her tutors misidentified her powers.  The ArchClans controlled all of her clan and reached fingers reaching into other clans.  She would not have accidentally misidentified the powers of her own child.  “You’re suggesting the ArchClans crippled her daughter’s power.”

“I suggest nothing.”  He spat onto the box’s rough planking.  “I say it.  At the Trials, Camisse only knew spells for the elements of her clan.  She struggled with those spells—but she can work them.  Without great puissance, that wouldn’t be possible.  The girl never learned Fire.  That is a deliberate choice by her tutors.  If she had learned Fire and wielded it with ease, her parentage would have been suspect.  My fellow councilors on the Trials banc agreed with me.  Perrault suspected shackles on her power.”

“You don’t know—.”

“I know Letheina.”  Venom rimed the words.  “It was a political move to lure me to her bed.  It was a political move to cripple her daughter’s power.  It was a political move to shuffle her off to the border and keep her there, out of sight and hopefully forgotten.  But Camisse is too successful in her command.  Now they have recalled her and sent Raigeis’ fool sons in her place.”

Pearroc stared at the practice ring, but he didn’t see or hear the sparring there.  The enmity between ArchClans and Drakon was known even in Faeron.  Was Camisse the reason it had sparked?  “The girl would have sparked fire when first she came into her power.  How could they hide that from her?”

“All that matters is that they crippled her, restricted who had access to her, built lies all around her, used her to raise her nephew and her niece, then all but exiled her.  I had hoped her time at the border would give her doubts.”

“If she can fight like that,” he mused aloud, “and edge her blade with magic—.”

“Exactly.  Pearroc, I want you to teach her to wield Fire.”

He jerked around.  His mentor nodded.  Knowing the difficulties, the old man still asked this of him.  “You are old in manipulation, Pater.  What happens if I refuse?”

“My daughter remains a crippled wizard.”

Pearroc winced.

“Brandt will succeed me.  His voice is not strong.  He will not stand against the ArchClans and her magister.  They oppose more ties between the Enclave and Faeron.  And your Maorketh’s mad plan to have a Fae be declared a wizard will be for naught.”

“You set a clever trap, Pater.”

‘Until three days ago I had no idea that Camisse would be recalled from the border.  She is the linchpin.”

“You had to have hoped.”

He smiled, a wicked twist that revealed his manipulations.

“You are as wily and ruthless as the dragons you are named for.”

“Experience gives me wiliness;  approaching death gives me ruthlessness.  This is necessity, Pearroc.  You must start training her soon.  Tomorrow is not soon enough.”

“What do you suggest?”

He snorted.  “I leave that to you.  If I am not mistaken, you will fulfill more than your queen’s mad command.  I saw the way you watched her.”

That comment embarrassed him.  He hid his emotions, his physical reactions, but the aged man understood Fae behaviors.  He didn’t look for the obvious and human signs.  He counted the minutes of Pearroc’s focus.  Saying “she is your daughter” did not disprove Drakon’s claim, so he added, “She is a sword.  Lethal beauty.”

“And death makes me ruthless.”

Pearroc stared at the ring, but he pictured Lady Camisse, turning her lithe body to counter Ruidri’s ringing sword.  “She is known for her support of Fae at Chanerro.  Do you think she will stand with the Fae against her mother?”

“The ArchClans argued against more Fae inside Enclave walls.  She argued against the bond with a comeis.  She argued against adding Fae warriors to the king’s forces.  She appointed Camisse to Chanerro Pass, probably hoping that experiment would fail—only to see her daughter regain outpost after outpost while Iscleft barely holds against Frost Clime.”

Pearroc arched an eyebrow.  “You tell me this, but I do not need to be convinced.  Lady Camisse is the one who must accept that she’s Fire and not Air and Water.”

The door to their balcony box opened.  “Pater Drakon,” a man said.

Without looking around, the aged man nodded.  “Enter Huron.  Bring the others.”

The comeis bonded to Drakon entered.  He bowed to the clan leader.  “Lord Drakon, Comeis Vatar Regnant would speak with Commander Camisse of Letheina House in your presence, a private consultation needing a Council witness.”

“I will be honored to oversee this consultation.  Please admit the commander and your fellow comeis.”

Huron Talenn retreated, leaving Pearroc to wonder what wiliness the Drakon patriarch had in play.

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A Shape-Shifter in *Weave a Wizardry Web*

Meet Arctos

A shape-shifter enslaved to a sorcerer of Frost Clime, 

Sent into the heart of the Enclave to kill Wizards

Arctos knew he had not many words, but the few he had angered the pack’s Prime. For all their truth, the Prime would view any report as a challenge from a wyre he had not picked for this dangerous mission into the heart of wizardry.

He must give the report. He would not flinch from it. Nor would he flinch from the Prime’s anger. He was Secunde, second male of this cobbled together pack. And if the sorcerer Sanglier was present when he reported, all to the good. The sorcerer would not let an unjust punishment happen. If punishment were deserved—Arctos shivered. He had seen the results. He had tended the wounds, helped to speed the healing. But he would not avoid his job. He was not afraid, not of the Prime. Of Sanglier, sometimes, but the sorcerer would not risk the wyre pack assigned to him for his protection as they infiltrated the Enclave.

Arctos sniffed a wizard and veered a little away. Active wizardry made his hair stand on end. Instinct demanded that he shift and rend and kill, but the sorcerer’s first command to the pack had been to attract no attention. Blazing afternoon was no time for exposing the wyre. Here in the Enclave, only secret kills of Fae and wizards were allowed. Arctos had growled at that edict. Killing was not attracting attention; it was destroying an enemy. He would obey, though. He had earned his position for this mission. Since he represented his home pack, he would not dishonor his blood.

Last night should have been time for sweet deaths, but another opportunity was missed. Arctos could not comment on that either. His own blood Prime accepted criticism. Since leaving his pack, he had had to swallow words aplenty. Now in the Enclave, in the city of three, Tres Lucerna, he still could not kill enemies.

The house taken by the pack looked like others on the street: a peeling door, windows curtained on the living floors and boarded up on the attic and street and cellar floors. He bounded up the steps and tried not to hesitate as he entered. The ward-spells were wizard-worked, and they jolted every time he crossed them. Hibissi, least of the wyre, would not cross the wards. She had not left the house since they’d arrived just before last Moon-Bright.

Sanglier worked both wizardry and sorcery. Once again, as he did once a day, Arctos wished he were back assaulting the border at Iscleft. Those battles were clearer; their purpose, purer. Stalking wizardry on its own hearth entailed subterfuge his wolf rebelled against.

“Been where?” the Septimus guarding the door snapped.

Brutish Pannoth’s home pack had a long slavery to sorcerers while Arctos’ pack had only recently allied to Frost Clime. The seventh wyre lacked the words and courtesies other wyre had learned. He knew pack law, but he wanted every infraction corrected with red blood.

Arctos drew up and flexed his claws. Seventh brother did not deserve an answer. “Am I missed?”

“Not yet,” he grudged.

Sanglier had taken the largest of the first floor rooms as his own. There the pack gathered when they’d finished their duties and chores. This late in the morning, the wyre would have finished training and would now act like human servants. The master sorcerer, would only now be waking up. Arctos paused, considering his news, then nodded and entered without knocking.

The curtains over the dingy windows were flung back, evidence that Sanglier was awake. He sat propped on pillows, sipping the steaming tea that he claimed was necessity but which had every wyre twitching his nose. The prime Martel stood by the bed. A flick of his eyes acknowledged Arctos’ entrance. Terce and Quintus waited at the foot of the four-posted bed. Last night’s failure belonged to the Terce. Arctos decided his report should be after, and he padded to a station beside the windows.

Only then did he see the two females kneeling beside the bed. They were bent forward, hands extended toward Martel’s feet. Their foreheads were pressed to the planks, their rumps in the air. Terce and the females were the reasons that last night’s attack on a Fae had failed. Only the females, though, were bound. Was Terce not to take his punishment?

Then Arctos saw the entwined black and red ropes. He hid his wince. Punishment was coming.

He wanted to leave, but the rules of this house were to honor the punishment with presence. Only Prime or Sanglier could dismiss a pack member from watching a punishment. Arctos must not turn his head and look out the grimy window. He kept a grimace from twisting his features, but he knew anger burned in his eyes. Last night would not have failed if the Prime had done his duty instead of wooing that flighty powerless Naught.

Sanglier set aside his tea.

Martel flinched. Ah, words had already been spoken. And the Prime had taken the brunt. Arctos regretted not hearing that.

“The two at the bottom can decide it by pack law. The Elders entrusted me with fifteen wyre, Martel. Fifteen. A female sickened and nearly died on the journey. The first Decimus died in a lone attack not sanctioned by me. Now we have lost another male. Thirteen left, of fifteen, and we have barely begun our mission. I am not pleased, Martel.”

“My lord Sanglier—.”

He waved his hand. The Prime’s muzzle snapped shut. The sorcerer looked at Arctos. “Secunde, you wanted to protest last evening. I saw you bite back the words when Martel was appointing those who would go out. You said nothing.”

“I question not the Prime, my lord Sanglier.”

“Wisdom. And not the first wisdom you should have spoken but did not. What would you have done differently?”

“I question not the Prime, my lord.”

“I order you to answer, Secunde. Keep them down, Prime,” for the first female had lifted her head.

Martel growled. Clemayya cringed and dropped her head with a thunk.

“Secunde?”

His stomach dropped, but he said the words, trying to explain them for the sorcerer who understood Pack rank and status but had never bothered to learn how the fifteen loaned to him had worked out their positions in this patched-up pack. “She did not obey Terce. He had lead, by your word, but Clemayya will not obey a wyre beneath her, my lord. She and Egil are litter mates. Egil follows her, not Terce. Prime leads, always, male or female. Prime Clemayya can fight, yes, but she doesn’t plan. She is rash.”

“That can be good.”

“Not attacking a Fae, my lord Sanglier.”

“You forget, Secunde.” In her anger, the first female straightened up to glare at the Secunde. “We have killed two wizards here, and I was on both hunts. You were not.”

“Martel, I told you to keep her head down.”

“Regrets, my lord.” He pushed her back down.

“Stand on it. You heard me,” he snapped. “Put your foot on her head.”

“My lord, she is the Prime female.”

“Put your foot on her head, Martel, or I will fix her in place with a spell. She makes me waste power on her, and she will stay in that position for two days and three nights.”

The Prime cringed but obeyed. His foot rested on her head. She growled. And Arctos saw that he obeyed in form only. The shift in Martel’s core betrayed that he rested no weight on that foot.

“Quartos is dead.” Sanglier folded the bedcovers back, as calm as if he did not speak of death and blood. He plucked at the ties of his bronze-colored nightshirt. “Octavus is wounded. Healed by me, but he needs a hand of days before he can fight without ripping open my work. Terce will not lead again, not in this house.”

“I thank you, my lord Sanglier,” the third whispered. His gaze remained on the floor.

“Do not thank me yet, Terce. I have not decided your punishment.” The wyre blanched. “What else, Secunde?”

“My lord, I have said all.”

He snorted. “You’ve not said half of it. Why should they not have attacked a Fae? They have killed two wizards.”

Arctos slanted his gaze away from the Prime, not wanting to offer any challenge. The time for that would come, but not with Terce in the room. Terce had challenged three times; three times he lost. Sanglier might want to punish him for last night’s failure, but Terce could almost taste pack leadership. He would challenge again. Arctos would not attack Prime when Terce would attack his back. If Terce did not attack during the battle, he would attack, when the winner was exhausted and bleedy. Terce hungered for the pack leadership.

“Why ask Secunde?” Terce growled. “He’s got no special knowledge.”

“But he does,” Sanglier said, his voice as silky as his nightshirt. “He fought at Iscleft for six years before his Prime recalled him for the in-gathering. He’s fought Fae and wizards trained for battle. Martel has. Quartos had. So had Decimus. Experience all of you should have had, but the Elders in their wisdom thought four with experience were enough. The rest of you must be taught.”

“We killed two wizards here,” Terce argued, and Arctos remembered that Terce had supported Clemayya’s plan. He smelled of her sometimes, when Martel had to be with the Enclave-born Naught that Sanglier had brought in.

“Not two wizards,” the Prime countered. “A wizard in name only and an adept.”

Clemayya heaved, but Martel shifted to hold her down. Jhennanni whimpered.

“You lied to us,” Terce snarled.

“Not a lie,” Martel snapped. “I pointed them out as targets. You obeyed. This is proof you know nothing about fighting wizardry. We will increase our training. Secunde will teach you specifically, Terce.”

“No,” Sanglier said, reminding them that the human sorcerer was dominant in this pack. “Prime will teach Terce and Septimus and Nones while Secunde will teach Quintus, Sextus and Octavus. They in turn will teach the women. And still I have not decided punishment. It should be ... fitting.” He looked down at the women. “We are lucky to have heard no hue and cry for wyre inside the walls. We are lucky no wards have caught you. Did you shift to fight the Fae?”

Quintus shook his head. “We attacked with swords and daggers.”

“You should have shifted,” the sorcerer spat.

For the first time, Arctos wanted to snarl. At last night’s dinner, the Secunde sorcerer had warned them not to shift outside the house. From the grimaces of the Prime and Terce, they shared his anger. Again he wanted away from the Enclave. He wanted to return to his homeland. He could shift there and run for miles. He could hunt at will and howl at the moon and stars. He was not hemmed about by Fae and wizards. For the first time, he wished he had not won his place in this pack controlled by a sorcerer, a man who could change Pack law with a word, and his wyre must obey.

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Meet Alstera, the Fae Mark'd Wizard

 

Greatest of the young Wizards in the Enclave, Allowed to do the Least

Alstera is desperate to join the war against the sorcerers and shape-shifting wyre of Frost Clime, but the chief wizards refuse. Denied her wish, Alstera explores other ways to increase power.

Rumors of the forbidden linkage to increase power tempt her, 

but wizards who explore the forbidden Nexus are punished.

As her friend Nevil is.

Meet Alstera.

An Excerpt from Chapter 10

Alstera did not escape the reception as easily as she wished.

Trapped in conversation with a courtier her brother had introduced, she listened to his rattle about the prince’s newest pursuits and watched Camisse and Faone slip away. After the courtier, her brother’s fiancée waylaid her. A facile smile welcomed Lucrece, and soon Alstera’s ears filled with lace and beading and tulle and silk. They debated the rival merits of ribbons over ruffles until Lucrece had decided for ice-blue ribbons to complement her silvery wedding gown. She promised to attend a fitting for her attendant’s gown in three days’ time.

“Ice-blue again,” Lucrece promised. “You are right. Ribbons are much better, and the ice blue is appropriate since I am allying to Clan Letheina after the wedding.”

“I cannot wait to see the design for your wedding gown.”

“As long as you say nothing to your brother.”

“I might steer Romert to select ice-blue for his robe. You should be the only person wearing silver and white. Ice crystals in summer.”

“The perfect décor for the reception. I am so glad we talked. I rarely have an opportunity to see you. Does your great-uncle keep you so focused on the deeper studies?”

Alstera rolled her eyes. “He finds gaps in my earlier training.”

“Romert has said that you and he raced each other through your earliest lessons. What could you have missed?”

“I have no idea, but if Rombrey insists that I re-learn it, then re-learn it I shall.”

“He must want you to be the repository of all things magical, as he is.”

Living in that enclosed tower, consulted but rarely venturing forth—the walls closed in so tightly Alstera couldn’t breathe. “I cannot. I refuse.”

“Someone must replace him in due time. How old is Rombrey?”

“Seventy. Still younger than our ArchClan.”

Lucrece looked rueful. “Yes, she is older. Do you think the ArchClan’s age is the reason your aunt Camisse was recalled?”

She might be her brother’s fiancée, but until she married him, Lucrece remained d’Aulnois clan. Alstera didn’t gossip about the clan to someone outside the clan.

And they spoke with no Shield.

“Lucrece.”

Her name in that tone was warning enough for the young woman, more evidence that she was a great partner for Romert. “I know I should not have asked that.”

And Alstera could not help asking for herself. “Is that what Romert thinks?”

She stepped closer. “He spoke in confidence. I did not intend to mention it, only—.”

“I see that I need to take afternoon tea with my brother and you.”

“When have you time from your studies? Perhaps after your fitting?”

At Alstera’s nod, Lucrece smiled brilliantly. She wasn’t pretty until she smiled, and Alstera—who often wondered about her brother’s choice of wife—realized yet again that Romert saw more than most gave him credit for, the ‘most’ being Raigeis. Lucrece was only an adept. Her family had no real standing in d’Aulnois clan. She didn’t attract attention. Yet she had quick wits. Her innate kindness was a rare commodity in Clan Letheina. And had probably attracted Romert first. As court liaison, he had learned to look past the way the Enclave measured people.

“I will tell Romert. Hopefully, this is far enough in advance that he can avoid court duties for an afternoon.” She gave Alstera a spontaneous hug. “Until then, Alstera.”

She infused joy in her response before Lucrece flitted away.

Then her smile dropped, and a frown creased her brow.

Alstera hadn’t considered her own future after Letheina died and the clan chose a new leader. After excelling at her Trials, she had expected a celebration. Letheina had merely announced that she would continue her studies with Rombrey. The plan allowed Alstera to pursue her own interests, so she obediently followed the order. Rombrey let swing her from subject to subject or delve so deeply she passed even his understanding—until last Yule, she realized. His watch on her interests had sharpened then. His orders to re-learn the accepted tenets and the forbidden spells had started then.

Her friends had taken so many different paths. A few were contracted for their magical skills to cities and countries far beyond Mont Nouris. Several were stationed to border outposts and fought Frost Clime. A handful—like her brother—were attached to the Enclave legation to the palace. Many of those had wedded and were building a family.

She had drifted. She realized it, now. Her freedom was only a glass cage. She could see out, but she didn’t go beyond the Enclave’s walls. Her liaisons with various men were approved, but she could hear Letheina and Raigeis and even Rombrey poking gentle fun at the men. Their mockery persuaded her to move to someone new. Researching spells amused her, but she never did anything significant with those spells. She had wanted to win her grandmother’s approval by seeking methods to increase a wizard’s puissance; instead, she had been played at the end of a line. A line that her great-uncle had jerked several times in the past weeks.

Did Rombrey prepare her to replace him? Romert must think so, or Lucrece wouldn’t have mentioned it?

She pressed her fingers to the frown, but she could not smooth the lines away. She did not want to sit in a tower, imparting information to new wizards, training the best with deeper spells, emerging when the ArchClan or the Aged Sages needed facts about the past or about power. Gods, how boring.

Had Letheina planned years ago for Alstera to take Rombrey’s place as the sage for the entire Enclave?

How little her grandmother knew her.

Or cared about her.

She turned, and as she turned, a hand grasped her arm. She felt a Shield descend. Power sparkled in her fingers at this presumption—then died as she saw who had grabbed her.

“Lord Crispin.”

He dropped his hold. “They’ve arrested Nevil.”

She looked up at her friend’s father and didn’t know what to say. “Yes. I discovered it this morning.” She did not mention her eavesdropping.

“They have him in a cell at Moot Hall. They won’t let me visit him.”

“Oh, Crispin.”

“You know what he was engaged in, don’t you?”

“He sought a method to increase our puissance, to defeat Frost Clime.”

“And Dragon Rising.”

Even with the Shield up, she worried about his open statement of Dragon Rising. No one mentioned the dragons openly. Banished to the Wastes after Dragon Dark centuries upon centuries ago, the dragons were more legend than history.

Sweat beaded Crispin’s brow. “Nevil was seeking information about the Nexus, the very linkage that the Fae have urged the Enclave to resume since the first comeis was bound to the ArchClan. He wasn’t stealing power from anyone. He would have been better served to have gone to the Wastes and reported back.”

“If he survived.”

“Nevil would survive. I know my son.” He glared at the dais where the ArchClan still sat, a queen in state. “She will never admit Dragon Rising, will she?”

“Crispin—.”

His gaze pinned her, squirming like a bug in a child’s insect box. “Nevil said once that you are also investigating how to increase power. In her own house! How have you kept it secret? Or do they know and turn a blind eye to you while they imprison my son?”

She lied. She didn’t know what else to do. “I gave up my investigations into that. It led nowhere helpful. Nevil should have admitted that once he discovered the only method was the forbidden Nexus.”

“Nevil discovered—the people he trusted lied. They claimed he worked the Nexus. He didn’t. My son wouldn’t touch the forbidden. I have heard, though, of another method.”

“What other method?”

“Do you think I’ll tell you? I’ll find myself in a cell alongside my son when you report it to your uncle the magister.”

“I didn’t report Nevil to my uncle, Crispin. Or to anyone else. We talked, last spring, about our defeats by Frost Clime. Not about Dragon Rising. It was after all those wizards were killed at Iscleft.” The older man nodded, remembering, matching what she said to what his son must have told him. “We have no defense against wyre, and they were fools to confront them without backing by the Fae and their swords. That’s when we talked of it, Crispin. Both of us thought a linkage would work. I wish he’d given up when I did,” she lied again, hoping the truth that preceded it would bolster the lie. “Did Nevil find a linkage before his arrest?”

“Not Nevil, no. I heard of it last week, after that wizard was killed. And that’s another problem your grandmother and your uncle are ignoring. Two killed, here inside Enclave walls. A wizard and an adept. By wyre.”

“We have no proof of the wyre. My uncle says so.”

“Your uncle says so,” he mocked.

“What have you heard?”

“I won’t answer that. I can’t. I will say this: don’t go out on a moon-turn night, Alstera, not without a swordsman to guard you. My family will have heavy protection, I promise you.”

“Crispin—.” But he had left her nothing to say except, “My thanks for the warning.”

“Heed it, Alstera.”

“I will. Can you tell me anything more of this other method?”

“I know nothing. Nothing definite. And your uncle will only want what’s definite.”

“I don’t run to my uncle. Ask Nevil; he knows.”

“I would if I could,” he retorted, and once again she saw the pain in his eyes. “They won’t let me talk to my own son.”

She brushed her hand down his arm. “Then know this: My uncle thinks nothing good of me or of anyone except his own children.”

He laughed. “That’s ripe, it is, since his daughter—.” Then he clamped his mouth shut.

“Was Malinde your source?”

He relented. “No. Briella.”

“My cousin Briella? Raigeis’ daughter? She is a minor adept.”

“A minor adept, the very ones who are desperate to unlock their powers.”

Startled at words so similar to Faone’s, Alstera gaped.

“Yes, they think their powers are locked.”

“How can their powers be locked? They are trained in all the elements. They are tested in all the elements. Their tutors would have to collude somehow.”

“I do not know that. Konarr said—.”

Konarr was a d’Aulnois adept, courting Briella while Raigeis frowned. But Briella was six years past her Trials. She would never be more than a clumsy adept. Raigeis, therefore, had not forbade the couple’s attachment. “I thought Briella was your source.”

“Konarr told me what Briella was doing, after Nevil was arrested. He wanted to warn me, but Nevil wasn’t using the method he described.”

“Tell me.”

She felt Crispin test his Shield’s strength. Even though it felt intact to her, the man backed off his earlier candor. “I have said too much. Talk to Briella.”

“If you want me to intervene on Nevil’s behalf—.”

“Can you? Did you not just say that your uncle thinks nothing good of you?”

“I can tell Rombrey. His word holds weight with his sister. What do you know of this method to unlock puissance?”

“They are channeling power in their own lifesparks.”

“Lifesparks? That sounds like blood spells, Crispin. That is also forbidden.”

“Not blood spells. I do not know the particulars. Konarr did not. Briella didn’t—couldn’t show him. But this method allowed her to channel power she didn’t know she had.”

“How can Briella have power that she cannot wield?”

“Talk to Briella. She is in your own house. If she’ll talk to you. She has no reason to share her information with the greatest wizard in the Enclave. And talk to your great-uncle Rombrey. You are right; the ArchClan will listen to her brother. She has certainly not listened to my mater Charanaise,” he added bitterly.

“Crispin.” Yet what could she say?

“No more.” He dropped the Shield and walked away even as she reached to stop him.

People flowed past while Alstera tried to sort thought all he had said—and not said.

I will go with Faone. I’ll go alone if I must. I will meet this outlander Sanglier and discover how he has so impressed her. Sanglier’s lies about a training designed to cripple wielders of power had to be stopped.

And she needed access to Nevil. If the Enclave guards had instructions to prevent visits from his family, they would block her visit as well. Unless she had approval from the ArchClan herself or one of the Aged Sages, who decided the fate of those who broke the tenets or meddled with the forbidden.

Perrault’s magisters kept a tight grip on his visitors. The Drakon had no liking for Clan Letheina. Of the remaining three Aged Sages, the only one who might bend the no-visitors edict for her would be Galfrons. Her grandmother would be an easier approach.

Would she taint Rombrey’s approach on Nevil’s behalf if she made her request tonight?

Could she even guarantee that Rombrey would intercede for Nevil?

What a coil.

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*Weave a Wizardry Web*

 Twisted magic. Foul sorcery. Dark corruption.

Weave a Wizardry Web

Frost Clime threatens the Wizard Enclave. Sorcerers and their servants, shape-shifting wyre, have stolen into the city of Tres Lucerna, home to the Enclave.

Alstera is the greatest of the young wizards in the Enclave; she’s treated like the least.

She’s desperate to join the war against Frost Clime, but the chief wizards refuse. Denied her wish, Alstera explores other ways to increase power.

A Fae disguised in glamour courts her aunt Camisse … but for what purpose? Does Camisee have latent power that the Fae will control? Will a forbidden linkage unlock her magic?

And what of Alstera’s cousins, who have joined an outland wizard’s circle? They dabble in twisted magic.

Danger walks the streets of Tres Lucerna, yet the chief wizards refuse to acknowledge it. Rumors fly … of a taboo nexus of power, of vile blood spells, and of enemy shape-shifters in the heart of the Wizard Enclave.

Then wizards are murdered.

A grim future awaits any wizard lured into forbidden magic.

And a grimmer death awaits wizards caught by the shifters.

Can Alstera escape the spidery lure of corrupted magic? Or will she become the shifters’ next target?

A dark fantasy of twisted magic, Weave a Wizardry Web by Remi Black is first in the Fae Mark’d Wizard series. Dream a Deadly Dream and Sing a Graveyard Song continue the series.

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