“Millions,” Rain answered flatly. “And you?”

“Not so many as that. But enough to leave me with this.” He touched the scar on his neck and cheek. “Strange, is it not, that I should be the one banished.”

“We suffer and survive our sufferings as the gods see fit.”

“Ah, of course. The will of the gods.” He tired of pricking Rain’s honor. “You will tend your mate, Feyreisen. We who are the Brotherhood of Shadows do not touch Fey women. She will be safe enough, but with your permission we will weave Spirit upon her to keep her from waking. In her current condition, our proximity would be too harsh a torment for her to bear.”

Knowing he had little chance, Rain agreed, and one of the dahl’reisen spun a dense Spirit weave over Ellysetta. Rain watched closely to be sure there was nothing in the weave but patterns to make her sleep.

“Once we reach our village, we will remove your shackles,” the dahl’reisen leader said as the other man finished the weave and stepped away. “There are women with healing talent who will see to you both. We will—” His voice broke off. He lifted his head with sudden alertness, his shadowed green eyes growing darker. “More Mages have arrived. Blue robes, by the feel of them—and many of them. We must cross the river quickly.”

Only then did Rain scent Azrahn on the wind, so faint he might never have detected it without the dahl’reisen’s drawing attention to it.

“The Eld are using the Well of Souls to travel,” Rain told the dahl’reisen leader. “They’ve planted white stones throughout these woods to open portals to the Well at will.”

“The chemar,” the scarred warrior murmured. “Aiyah, they are a disturbing new development. The Eld only recently began using them, and they stink of witchcraft. We have destroyed all those between our position and the river. But we appreciate the warning.”

Rain eyed the other man with speculation and an unsettling sense of confusion. Dahl’reisen walked the Shadowed Path. They were corrupt and untrustworthy… and yet there was something about this man… “Do you have a name?”

The dahl’reisen’s eyes flickered with surprise. Fey did not ask dahl’reisen their names. Dahl’reisen were the dead—nei, worse than the dead, they were the dishonored.

“I am Farel.”

Celieria ~ Orest

The sky over Orest was on fire. The screams of tairen and dragons rent the air. Great jets of searing flame and smoke boiled like demonic thunderclouds, turning the sky a sickly orange. Hundred-fold weaves kept the flames from burning most of the city, but the ramparts of lower Orest were scorched, parts of the stone walks littered with the seared rubble of bowcannon and the smoldering heaps of ash that had once been men. Two dozen bowcannon were still operational, surrounded by thickets of dense, protective weaves that the Fey opened to let the cannoneers fire, then sealed again once the shot was off.

The tairen darted in and out of the Faering Mists using the magical barrier for cover, soaring out to launch an attack and draw the fire of the dragons so the cannoneers could load and launch their ice shot, which exploded on the slick, superheated dragon scales like water dropped in a vat of hot grease. Three of the great beasts had fallen, their broken, bloody carcasses draped over the city’s walls and rooftops, but the victory had not come cheaply.

“My Lord Teleos! Look!” One of the general’s aides pointed to the east. An army was marching towards Orest, banners waving the familiar blue and gold of Celieria and an equally familiar gold gryphon on a field of red. “It’s Lord Polwyr!”

Teleos fixed Fey eyes on the approaching army, and the tension in his gut didn’t ease until he saw the familiar face of his neighbor and friend, Griffet Polwyr, heading up the column, riding his favorite white warhorse. “Thank the Bright Lord. He must have seen our signal fires. Quickly! Open the eastern gates and wave him in. Tell the cannoneers keep those dragons off him while his men cross the field.”

Eld ~ The Heras River

A fog had moved in, blanketing the Heras in thick whiteness. Long black barges emerged from the mist as the dahl’reisen band approached the banks of the river. Dark sails snapped in an unnatural wind, and the shallow boats skimmed rapidly across the swirling current, steered by an unseen hand. Along the Eld shores, dahl’reisen slipped like shadows through the trees, their numbers—nearly five hundred strong—moving swift and silent.

Still holding Ellysetta, Rain struggled to keep up, and his steps fell heavily on the ground. With more Mages advancing rapidly on their heels, Farel had barely taken the time to strike the chains off the manacles clamped to Rain’s ankles so he could run rather than hobble to the river’s shore. His gait was awkward, the barbs from the sel’dor missiles shredding his flesh with every step. His body poured constant energy to heal the muscles even as they ripped against the barb’s sharp edges, and the pain was so consuming, he’d had to separate his mind from his body.

As they hurried down the steep hillside to the water’s edge, the black boats beached themselves on Eld soil. The dahl’reisen leapt aboard without pause and pushed off.

Rain had to admire the practiced economy of motion. These dahl’reisen moved like a swift, honed blade, each man acting as a seamless part of the whole. Even without their impressive invisibility weaves, they could no doubt strike without warning and disappear before anyone could summon a defense.

He clambered aboard the last boat and took the seat Farel indicated. Ellysetta’s head lolled back against his arm, her bright hair spilling down to the boat bottom in a fall of wild spirals. Her lips were parted, her breath whispering through in shallow gasps. Around him, dahl’reisen cast furtive glances filled with curiosity and longing and envy. How long had it been since they’d seen a Fey woman? Since they’d stood even half a league from one?