"Well, our apologies for his regret, but tell him we will make our way to Elvia once we've been to Danael. Celieria needs allies willing to fight at her side, and time is of the essence.” Navahele was on the other side of the continent. If they traveled there first, there would be little hope of Danae aid reaching Celieria before the Eld attacked.

"We Saw your intent, but Lord Hawksheart bids you come now, without delay. We will escort you safely to Navahele. Lord Hawksheart will summon the Danae to meet you there once his business with you is concluded." Farsight lifted his hand and several hundred more Elves emerged from the a rounding vegetation, bows in hand.

Rain regarded the small army of Elves. Mad though he was becoming, he wasn't a foot. That show of force meant Hawksheart's request was a command, and one he was prepared to enforce. Rain closed his eyes against an instinctive surge of anger. He'd never taken well to commands of that sort, even without Rage and bond madness urging him to rebel. "As you insist," he growled. "We will accompany you to Navahele."

"A wise decision," Farsight agreed. He stood. "If you and your mate will come with us. The rest of your warriors may await your return here."

His eyes flashed. "Unacceptable." A change of travel plans he might accept, but he would not let the Elves endanger Ellysetta. "The weaves of my shei’tani’s lu’tan help protect her from the influence of the Mage when she sleeps. Surely you and Hawksheart already know this. We go nowhere without them."

Fanor considered it, then nodded. "Very well Your mate's dreams will be safe from the Mage once we enter Elvia, but until then, the lu’tan may accompany us. Only her quintet may cross our borders, however," he added. "Deep Woods is home to too many wild creatures who would consider the presence of so many unfamiliar Fey warriors an act of aggression. Blood would be shed."

Rain bowed his head. So long as Ellysetta was safe, he wouldn't push his fragile control enough to argue. "Bas’ka. We are agreed."

Fanor spread his hands. "Then let us depart."

Celieria ~ Celieria City

"Why must you go yourself?" Queen Annoura paced the luxurious confines of Dorian's private chambers, glaring at him as his valet strapped and buckled him into the burnished steel plate and mail of his armor in order to check the fit. Dorian had just informed her that he would personally be riding out with his army tomorrow to defend the northern border against Eld. "What can you do in the north that the border lords cannot?"

Dorian cast her a sharp glance. "I can lead as the monarch of this kingdom. I can defend my people—as every ancestor who ever wore Celieria's crown always has."

"It's ridiculous!" She threw up her hands, then planted them on her hips. "You could be killed! And then where will Celieria be?”

"In good hands. Your son is not incompetent, madam. He is young, but he's been well trained, and my advisers are honorable men who will guide him true."

"Yet he is heading into danger as well—by your command. It's insanity!"

"It is war, Annoura." Dorian closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly taming his emotions. "Dori is as safe as I can make him—and I pray the gods will watch over him— but he understands that Celieria needs us now, no matter the cost to ourselves. You should be proud of our son, Annoura. He will make a fine king."

"And what of this son?" Annoura wrapped her arms around her still-flat belly. "Should he grow up an orphan simply because his father abandoned him to chase some fool notion of honor and glory?” She still hadn't forgiven Dorian for once more choosing the Fey over her—or having them check her for Mage Marks without her knowledge. She doubted she ever would.

Dorian lifted his chin while his manservant strapped into place the metal neck guard that would protect his vulnerable throat from enemy blades and arrows. "Defense of those entrusted to my care is not foolish glory-hounding, Annoura."

"Am I not entrusted to your care? Yet you leave me on a whim to fight a senseless war started by your Fey kin." She stamped a foot. There would be no war if it were not for them!"

Dorian held up a hand. "Marten," he said to his valet, "please excuse us. The queen and I need a few chimes of privacy."

The valet bowed smoothly. "Your Majesty." He turned and bowed just as smoothly to Annoura. "Your Majesty."

When he was gone and the door was closed behind him, Dorian lifted his hand. A faint glow lightened his palms, and Annoura knew he was spinning a privacy weave around the room. Dorian wasn't a master of magic by any means, but the blood of Marikah vol Serranis, his ancestor Dorian I's wife and queen, was strong enough that even after a thousand years, her mortal descendants still possessed third- and fourth-level talents in certain magical branches. Dorian's weave could be pierced by any master of magic, but it was effective enough against the eavesdropping ears of his mortal subjects.

When the glow around Dorian's hand faded, he turned to her. His hazel eyes—which once had regarded her with such dazzling warmth and love that she'd felt like the most cherished woman in the world—now pierced her with cool reserve.

The Fey did not start this war, Annoura, but Celieria will finish it." He spoke each word in a clipped voice. "The Eld declared war on my kingdom. Without warning—with the ink on their trade agreement offer still damp and their ambassador's heels barely clear of Celierian soil—they invaded my kingdom, slaughtered thousands of my subjects, and laid waste to two of my cities in an unprovoked act of aggression. And now—" He clamped his lips shut, spun abruptly away, and marched to the window.