The front door opened. Dajan vel Rhiadi, the Fey who stood guard at the Baristani front door each day, entered, his arms laden with more packages that had been inspected by the Fey.

"On the table with those others until we make more room in the parlor," Lauriana rapped out. She stood, arms crossed over her chest, glowering, while Dajan did as he was told, then lectured the bewildered man soundly about the importance of following her precise directions for handling the wedding gifts.

«Trouble comes, General. »

Gaelen vel Serranis groaned as the persistent thread of Spirit penetrated his consciousness. Alternating fever and chills had left him weak as a babe, while his numerous wounds and the sel'dor embedded in his flesh reminded him of their presence with waves of pain that pounded him mercilessly.

«Report.» It was all he could do to form and send even that one word on Spirit, and gathering energy enough to send it spinning out into the world felt like spikes driving into his brain. Of all the magics, Spirit was the most difficult to weave while sel'dor-pierced. Earth ran a close second, followed by Fire, then Air and Water.

«Eld troops are moving along the border.» The information came from Farel vel Torras, Gaelen's chief lieutenant and most trusted friend, if it could be said that dahl'reisen trusted or befriended anyone.

«Invasion?» This time, the pain of weaving Spirit was so intense, Gaelen couldn't completely choke back his scream. He fell back against the rotting leaves of the rultshart's den, panting. The sel'dor shrapnel still buried in his flesh burned like live coals.

«Possibly.» There was a brief pause, and then, «They're building up along the western borders. »

Closest to the Fading Lands. Which implied that whatever the Eld were planning, it involved an attack on the Fey.

Rain Tairen Soul was in Celieria City. And so was Gaelen's sister, Marissya.

And the High Mage's daughter was with them.

Farel must warn the Fey-both of the serpent coiling on their doorstep and the one hiding in their midst. He must send dahl'reisen to slay the Eld demon's get before she could pass through the Faering Mists and unleash her father's evil.

Gaelen knew it was a terrible risk. Rain would die the moment his claimed mate was slain-no Fey, not even Rain Tairen Soul, could survive his truemate's death-and nothing would give the Eld a greater advantage than the death of the last Tairen Soul. But what choice did Gaelen have? Once the High Mage's daughter passed through the Faering Mists, her father could use her to strike deep at the very heart of the Fading Lands, and the dahl'reisen would be helpless to stop him. The Fey would be destroyed. Marissya would die.

Bracing himself, Gaelen summoned his remaining strength and once more threw himself against the sel'dor-spawned razors that slashed him as he tried to send the command. This time, not even his tremendous will could conquer the agony. His weave dissolved even as it formed. Despite centuries of training and experience, he screamed. It was a raw, sharp-edged roar of sound. As much fury and desperation as it was pain.

He fell back against the rotting leaves, panting and clinging feebly to consciousness as agony swept over him in dizzying, debilitating waves.

He wanted to curse and rail, but he dared not let even that much of his precious, rapidly dwindling supply of energy escape. His mind was already racing to find another solution. Evaluate, adapt, execute. Fey warriors were trained to think on their feet, to find ways around seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

Without Gaelen's command, the dahl'reisen would do as they had done for the last thousand years-protect the Fey from a distance-but none would communicate with the Fey directly, and none would dare approach Celieria so long as Marissya was there. Since he couldn't weave Spirit to issue the command, he would have to go in person. He would have to be the one to ensure the High Mage's spawn never set a single cursed foot in the Fading Lands.

But first he had to find the strength to get up.

Ah, gods, he hurt. His body had nothing left to give him. Nothing but excruciating pain, a heart full of dahl'reisen hate, and the memories of a time when he'd walked the Bright Path, not the Dark.

Get up, Fey. Warriors don't lie sniveling on the ground just because they're hurt. Do you think the Mages will give you time to recoup your strength? They'll slaughter you where you lie and piss in your skull. Get up, boy! In his mind, he could still hear the fierce, harsh bark of his chatok, the great Shannisorran v'En Celay, shouting at the young chadin Gaelen. How many times in those long years of training had the great Shan, Lord Death, pushed him beyond endurance? Pain is life, boy. Fey warriors eat pain for breakfast. We breathe it. We embrace it. We jag' it on a cold night just to keep warm. Get up, boy! Get up, scorch you!

Gaelen staggered to his feet.

His wounds shrieked. Agony roared up his limbs, immolating him with its fiery wrath. He bared his teeth and swallowed the tortured scream that fought for release, turning it inwards and feeding the energy back into his body. Fey ate pain for breakfast. Fey embraced it. Fey breathed it in and jaffed it on a cold night just to keep warm.

What are you, chadin? Shout it out! Let me hear you!

I-I. am ... Warrior!

I .... am ... Fey!

Or, rather, once he had been.

Clutching his side, Gaelen forced himself to walk. His steps were shambling at first, each shuffling motion detonating a fireburst of pain all over his body as cauterized flesh ripped open and shrapnel shifted within torn muscle, but soon the individual pains numbed to a single, dull agony, and that he could control. Shambling steps accelerated to a long stride, then a moderate jog. The pace was a far cry from his normal land-eating run, and his feet fell heavily on the earth, but it was forward progress.