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.
“And now what?” she pressed.
Dorian shoved aside the delicate lace curtain to gaze out over his kingdom. “And now it is time to show the Eld that Celieria is not so easy a mark. I do not forget their equally outrageous attack on the Grand Cathedral or the murder of Greatfather Tivrest and Father Bellamy. Such treachery will not go unanswered.”
Annoura took a breath. Long had it been since she’d seen him looking so fierce, so stern and determined. “Dorian, stop and think this through. Celieria has lived in peace with Eld for the last three hundred years. They wanted to further that peace until Rain Tairen Soul returned to the world. We have no reason to believe the Eld would ever have attacked us if it were not for the Fey. Now, once more, Celieria is caught in the center of a war between magical races. Our best and only hope is to remain neutral—let the Eld and the Fey destroy one another. Celieria’s involvement can only end in our destruction.”
His brows drew together and his lips compressed in a sure sign of rising temper. “Your senseless dislike of the Fey has impaired your judgment, Annoura. The Eld did not attack the Fading Lands. They attacked Celieria. My kingdom. It pains me that you would ever think I should allow their murderous aggression to go unanswered.”
Seeing that spark of genuine anger in his eyes, she backtracked quickly. “You’re right, Dorian. If the Eld attack Celieria again, they should be met with force. But why must you be the one to lead our armies along the borders? Surely the border lords can see to our northern defenses without you there to guide them.” She moved forward, reaching for his arms. Fingertips met hard steel. She reached for his hands, but he stepped back. “I love you. Can you not understand that I don’t want to see you hurt—or worse, killed? I want you here, safe, with me. With our baby.”
He made a sharp, slashing gesture. “Stop, Annoura. It’s not love of me that drives you; it’s hatred of the Fey. Do you think I haven’t noticed all the little ways you’ve been testing me these last months? Trying to make me choose between my kin-ties to the Fey and my love of you. I’ve had enough. The Fey are my blood kin—but more than that, they are this country’s staunchest ally. The sooner you accept that, the better for all concerned.”
“Dorian—”
“This discussion is over. I leave for the borders at twelve bells tomorrow. I am Dorian the Tenth of Celieria. It’s long past time I began to live up to the honorable name of my forebears.” He waved his hand to dispel the privacy weave and called, “Marten!”
The door opened, and Dorian’s valet stepped inside. “Your Majesty?”
“The queen is leaving. See her out; then come finish getting me strapped into this thing.”
Annoura stood there, trembling with a mix of despair, fury, and disbelief over the way Dorian was dismissing her from his presence—as if she were a mere courtier whose company had grown wearisome. She wanted to cry out for him to love her again, but pride wouldn’t let her beg—especially not in front of a servant.
She’d loved him more than she’d ever thought herself capable of loving anyone. And for a Capellan princess raised in a lion’s den of deceit, intrigue, and political maneuvering, the sheer vulnerability of forming such a strong emotional attachment had been one of the most terrifying—albeit exhilarating—experiences of her life.
And Dorian had betrayed her.
She’d loved him, given him everything, but he’d chosen his Fey kin over her, and now he was cutting her out of his heart.
Annoura drew herself up, locking her emotions—such weak, useless things—behind a curtain of steely self-control. Her expression hardened into the impassively regal mask she had spent a lifetime perfecting.
“Your Majesty,” she responded. Her tone was pure silk but without a drop of inflection. She sank into a flawless full court curtsy, so deep her forehead nearly touched the floor, then rose with smooth grace in an elegant rustle of silk and starched lace. “May the gods watch over you in the north and see you safely home again. And may victory be yours, my king.”
His eyes flickered then—an awareness that some threshold had been crossed, and that things between them would never be the same. “Annoura…”
She waited in silence, cool and composed, her hands clasped lightly at her waist.
His brows furrowed. For a moment, she thought she saw a slight softening in his demeanor, but then his jaw clenched and he looked down on the pretext of adjusting the buckles holding his chest plate in place. “Never mind. I will see you again before I depart.”
Annoura’s last flicker of hope winked out. Strange how quietly even great love could die.
“Of course, Sire.” She inclined her head and turned to leave. Marten started towards the door with her, but she waved him away. “Go to His Majesty, Marten. I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself out.”
Head high, emotions trapped in a tight web of discipline and pride, she walked the short distance down the corridors of Celieria’s royal palace from Dorian’s suite of rooms to her own. Never had the walk seemed longer.
Inside her suite, the Dazzles of her inner court were lounging about, sharing titillating gossip and nibbling on sweetmeats. They all rose and dropped into curtsies and deep bows when she entered, and uttered a chorus of respectful greetings. “Your Majesty.”
“Ladies. Sers.” Her voice didn’t quaver in the least. She took pride in that. The accomplishment was no mean feat. “Please leave me. I am weary and need to rest. I am not to be disturbed. Is that understood?” With the news of her pregnancy, she knew none of them would think her request odd.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.” The ladies and young lordlings of her court bowed and curtsied some more as they exited her rooms.
Jiarine Montevero was the last to leave. “Your Majesty? Shall I call the physician?”
What cure was there for a broken heart? “Thank you, Jiarine, but no. I’ll be fine. All I need is a few bells of undisturbed rest. Tomorrow the court sees off His Majesty and our army. I have informed my guards that I am not to be disturbed by anyone for any reason. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. That will be all.” Though she kept her tone gracious, the dismissal was unmistakable.
Jiarine curtsied. “Of course. Rest well, Your Majesty. And please send for me if there is anything at all you need.”
“Yes, thank you.” Annoura turned on her heel and waved Lady Montevero away. The tears she’d vowed not to shed were burning her eyes, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold out. Especially in the face of Jiarine’s sincere concern.
She stood stiffly until she heard the click of her parlor door closing, and then the dam burst. The tears of a lifetime came pouring out in great, racking heaves.
Outside the door of the queen’s chambers, Jiarine’s steps faltered at the anguished sounds filtering through the heavy door. She considered turning back, but the Queen’s Guard had already moved to block the door, and their expressions made it clear they intended to enforce the queen’s command for privacy.
Awareness tickled the back of her neck like a chill wind, and she turned to find the Primage Gethen Nour—she could never think of him as Lord Bolor—standing in the hallway. He met Jiarine’s gaze, then turned and walked with casual purpose down the hall to one of the small parlors where courtiers often gathered while awaiting the queen’s pleasure. No sooner had he entered than half a dozen young ladies exited the same room.
Jiarine steeled her nerves and forced herself to walk towards the parlor. Her heels clapped a measured beat on the marble tiles.
The moment she entered the room, Master Nour caught her by the elbow and dragged her into the corner, out of sight of any passersby.
“Well?” he snapped.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I never had the chance to ask her.” For days now, he’d been pressing her to arrange a private audience with the queen, but Annoura had rebuffed each of her attempts. “As soon as she returned from the king, she dismissed her entire court. She is crying like I’ve never heard her cry before.” Jiarine marveled at the unexpected surge of sympathy she felt for Annoura, then stifled it quickly and marshaled her thoughts before Master Nour decided to pry into her mind.
He placed a hand on her throat and tightened his fingers ever so slightly. “This does not please me, Jiarine. You’ve had five days to arrange for the queen to meet me alone, away from her guards, yet at every turn, you have some reason why you cannot give me what I want. I begin to think you are deliberately thwarting my will.” His fingers tightened more. “Your time is up, Jiarine. We will give her a bell or two to calm herself; then you will take me to her. You will make up some excuse to get us past the guards.”
She bit her lip. She hated him—hated him—and though she was too afraid of his wrath to deliberately thwart him, she hadn’t pushed as hard as she otherwise might when the queen repeatedly refused to grant him an audience. Still, if he pressed tonight, he would fail—and fail badly—and she would pay the price.
Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Lord Bolor, you do not understand the queen’s moods. Believe me when I tell you that would be a mistake. If I defy her command, she will dismiss me from her service.”
He moved closer, crowding her back against the wall. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and fit. If it weren’t for the calculating look in his eyes and the hint of cruelty in the set of his lips, he would be truly handsome. He stroked a finger gently along her jaw. The tender gesture made her stiffen in fear. His eyes were icy cold, as was the sibilant whisper that sliced across her nerves like a serrated blade.
“If you defy my command, I will punish you much more severely than that.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed. If she worshiped the gods, she would have prayed to them now, but she had turned her back on them long ago. “My lord, please. I’m not defying you. I’m trying to help you. If you press her now, you will ruin everything. She could well dismiss us both from court in a fit of pique. Tomorrow, when she is calmer, I will arrange for you to meet her—without her guards, and away from the Fey and the palace wards.”
Master Nour’s eyes narrowed, and she knew her last remark hit its mark. He’d been complaining all week about how the Fey were making a total nuisance of themselves, spinning detection spells upon almost every fingerspan of the palace so that the barest hint of strong magic set off alarms and brought guards running. He had even taken to meeting his umagi outside the palace walls to avoid detection when he spun his will upon them.
“Very well. You will bring the queen to me.” He leaned closer, crowding her against the wall and pressing his lips to her ear. “Tomorrow, umagi, and do not fail me again, or I promise you will spend your last hours of life screaming for mercy.” His fingers lightly caressed her jaw.
The pointed clearing of a throat behind them made Nour freeze. He straightened and turned to glare at the small, exquisitely garbed Master of Graces standing in the corridor not half a man length away.
Jiarine could have kissed Gaspare Fellows. Never had she found him so welcome a sight.
The same could not be said of Master Fellows. He was looking at the pair of them as if he’d found Nour’s hand on her breast instead of her jaw.
“Lady Montevero. Lord Bolor.” Disapproval crackled in each syllable of their names. As the arbiter of all things fashionable and mannerly in the court, Master Fellows held the unique position of being able to dictate propriety to all but the most powerful courtiers. It was a responsibility he took quite to heart.
“Master Fellows.” Jiarine forced a smile. “How delightful to see you. And how is your precious Love doing today?”
The Master of Graces was clad in expertly tailored forest green satin breeches and waistcoat with an amber-lined demicape slung rakishly across one shoulder. A small, fluffy white cat wearing a matching diamond-studded green satin ribbon sat perched on his other shoulder like a Sorrelian sea captain’s talking bird. The feline looked at Master Nour and hissed, her thick fur standing up on end.
“Love!” Master Fellows scolded. “That’s quite enough.” But the kitten would not be soothed or silenced. She hissed again and swatted extended claws in Nour’s direction. Master Fellows apologized. “I do beg your pardon, Lord Bolor, Lady Montevero. I don’t know what’s gotten into my little Love. She’s been quite beside herself lately.”
The Primage’s eyes narrowed.
Alarmed, Jiarine smoothly inserted herself between the two men. Despite Master Fellows’s ofttimes pretentious ways, she’d always held a secret admiration for him. He was a self-made man, and even though she knew he did not approve of her, he nonetheless always treated her with impeccable courtesy.
With a winning smile, she clasped Master Fellows’s elbow and steered him out of harm’s way. “Master Fellows, I’m actually quite glad to see you. I’m planning a small tea to welcome one of the queen’s newest Dazzles to court, and I wanted to ask your opinion on the matter of the table linens. Lady Zillina insists that I must use satin, but that strikes me as entirely too formal for an afternoon tea. Am I in the wrong?”
As she and Master Fellows turned the corner, Jiarine risked a final glance over her shoulder. Master Nour was gone.
Southern Celieria
Elves were exceptional runners by mortal standards, but they didn’t hold a candle to the Fey. At a warrior’s run, the Fey could have crossed the five hundred miles of southeastern Celierian farmland in three days. With the Elves slowing them down, it took them the better part of five.
They made camp their last night in Celieria beside a small stream, where the thick, arching branches of a fireoak tree would provide shelter.
“If one of the Fire masters will build a flame,” Fanor Farsight said, “there are fish in that stream. I’ll sing us up a few for supper.” Not waiting for their response, he walked to the mossy edge of the stream and lay on the bank.
“I’ll just get that fire, shall I?” Tajik muttered with a scowl as curiosity sent the other Fey wandering over to the stream’s edge.
“Watch this,” Rain murmured to Ellysetta as they joined the others near the stream.
Fanor put one hand in the cold, clear water and sang a hypnotic Elvish tune. Within a chime, a fat river trout swam into his hands, its sides gleaming with flashes of gold and green scales. Fanor’s fingers closed about the fish and flipped it up, out of the stream.
Gaelen caught the airborne fish with swift, instinctive Fey reflexes.
“Still it, but do not kill it,” Fanor advised, and Gaelen spun a simple weave to calm the flopping creature.
Fanor sang to the stream four more times, and four more fish swam into his grasp to be flipped up into the waiting hands of the Fey.
Fanor rose to his feet and stood before the Fey. He sang another soft, achingly beautiful song, each note ringing with pure, perfect pitch. Then he closed his eyes, splayed one hand, and tiny globes of white light shot from his fingertips and enveloped each fish. When the light and the last notes of his song faded, it was clear the fish were dead.
“What did you do just then?” Ellysetta asked. The Elves had hunted small game each night when they made camp, but this was the first time she’d watched one actually catch and kill his prey. The others had simply shown up with meat already prepared for roasting.
He smiled at her puzzlement. “We are all connected, Ellysetta Erimea. You and I. Every rock, plant, and animal. We all spring from the same Source, and to that Source we all return. These fish came when I asked, so I thanked them for offering their bodies to nourish ours and sent their Light back to the gods.”
He stepped across the springy grass to the fire now blazing in a circle of river rocks at Tajik’s feet. The Fey deftly gutted, scaled, and spitted the fish over Tajik’s flames, and Fanor disposed of the offal by burying it at the base of a tree and singing another Elvish song. “What part of their bodies we consume will now become part of ours, and what we do not consume will become part of the earth. And so they are not gone. They are merely transformed.”
Ellysetta found herself disturbed by the idea that Fanor’s fish had willingly delivered themselves up to be slain and eaten. When Bel offered her a chunk of steaming fish on a broad leaf, she thought squeamishness might rob her of her appetite, but the first whiff of hot food made her belly rumble. Hunger overrode any pretense of delicate sensibilities. She tucked a bite into her mouth and closed her eyes in bliss as the succulent, flavorful fish practically dissolved on her tongue. Her eyes flashed open again almost instantly.
Fanor smiled. “Life is meant to be savored, Ellysetta Erimea. And death is not without purpose.” His smile faded. “Most of the time, at least. There are some deaths that are simply an end, with no hope of renewal and no return of life to its Source.” His glance, gone suddenly shadowed and brooding, shifted to rest on Rain. “Death by tairen flame, for instance,” he added in a low voice.
The Fey all went still as stone. Ellysetta saw the grim mask snap into place on Rain’s face, hiding the sudden swell of guilt and self-loathing that seared him. His emotions were still so raw, his discipline so fragile, since the night of the Eld attack.
She frowned at Fanor and opened her mouth to defend her truemate, her fingers feathering across the back of his hand in the lightest of touches.
«Bas’ka, shei’tani,» Rain said privately. «It’s all right. You don’t need to keep protecting me.»
She bit her lip and fell silent. She had been protecting him since the Eld attack, hovering around him like a mother tairen with one kit. He’d been getting stronger by the day, meditating each time they stopped to rest, using his magic only sparingly, constantly performing mental exercises to restore and strengthen his internal barriers. But she couldn’t forget the sight of his face soaked in blood, or his eyes filled with horror and fear that he might once more have committed an unspeakable act.
“Aiyah,” Rain told Fanor. “Death by tairen flame is an end from which there is no return. Mage Fire is another.”
“Perhaps Tairen Souls and Mages are more alike than the Fey care to consider,” Fanor suggested.
Gil reached for his Fey’cha. Tajik grabbed his wrist. “Don’t be a fool, Gil.” His gaze never left Fanor. “The Elf is merely testing us.”
“Elves have their own fair share of blood on their hands,” Ellysetta said. They were all on their feet now. “I’ve read the histories. Elvish armies slaughtered hundreds of thousands in the Feraz and Demon wars.”
“Bayas, but none who die at Elven hands are truly gone. They all return to the Light, to be born again into this world.”
“Then perhaps that is why the gods created Tairen Souls—because some evil is so foul it should be wiped from all existence.” She would not let Fanor Farsight impugn Rain even obliquely without challenge.
But Fanor was through with subtleties. “As it was at Eadmond’s Field?” His gaze pierced Rain as deeply as an arrow shot from an Elf bow. “Did all the souls who perished there deserve to have their Light extinguished for all time?”
Rain absorbed the blow with only a small flinch, but inside, where Fanor could not see, Ellysetta knew his soul howled in pain. His lashes fell to hide the shame burning in his eyes. “You know they did not. My act was a crime so great, only the gods could grant me forgiveness.”
“And is that why you returned to the Lake of Glass to spin memorial weaves for those who died there?”
Rain looked up again in surprise.
“Bayas,” the Elf confirmed. “I Saw the weaves you spun at Eadmond’s Field, so I went there before journeying to meet you.” The Elf tilted his head to one side, a quizzical expression on his face, as if he were trying to solve the puzzle that was Rain. “Why did you do it? Did you think a few memories woven in Spirit could atone for the innocent lives lost to your flame? Did you hope such a gesture of compassion would make the gods look more kindly upon you and your mate? Or make the children of those immortals who fell less likely to seek vengeance now that you have returned to the world?”
“I did it because it needed to be done.”
Beside Rain, Ellysetta bristled. “He suffered more torment than any one person ever should for what he did,” she told the Elf with a scowl. “And he survived, with Light still shining bright in his soul.” Her hands curled into fists. Her mate had once shared the merest fraction of his torment with her, and that small taste had nearly shattered her. She would not stand idly by while anyone—let alone this…this Elf!—criticized him. “He has already earned his forgiveness. The gods found him worthy, as have the tairen. So you will not judge him, Fanor Farsight. You haven’t the right.”
“Las, shei’tani.” To the Elf, he said, “I cannot undo what was done. That is a torment I will carry with me forever. But what I did at the Lake of Glass, I did because I wanted to make certain those who fell were not forgotten.”
Farsight eyed Rain thoughtfully. “Elvish Sight shows events clearly, but emotions are more difficult to ascertain. I did not See your remorse,” he admitted. “Nor how bright your mate truly is.” He glanced at Ellysetta. “No wonder the Shadow lies so dark upon her. It fights hard to extinguish its greatest foe.”
Rain’s spine stiffened and sudden aggression emanated from him like waves of heat from a volcano. “Watch your words, Elf,” he commanded. “My shei’tani is bright and shining and I will not tolerate anyone saying otherwise.”
“I meant no insult,” Farsight said mildly. “It was a true observation, one that does your mate credit.” His golden-brown skin shone with a rich luster in the evening light, making the translucent green of his eyes all the more vivid. “And you, Tairen Soul, are different from what you once were. You have learned humility and regret. You truly are learning to be a king rather than just the madman who scorched the world…and slew my father.”
“Your father?” Ellysetta repeated. Her brows furrowed as fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. Elves…Eadmond’s Field…Fanor…She drew a breath. “You are Fanor…son of Pallas Sparhawk.” Her hand caught Rain’s. «The Elf bowmaster who fell at Eadmond’s Field…the one for whom you created that first memorial on the lake…Rain, Fanor is the young son who filled his last memories.»
“Does my mate speak true?” Rain asked.
The Elf inclined his head. “Bayas, Pallas Sparhawk was my father. I had seen but three winters when he fell to your flame. I had few memories of him…until I visited the Lake of Glass, where I met him again and felt his love for me and for my mother.” The Elf’s lashes lowered to hide his eyes.
Ellysetta felt the old demons of guilt and remorse that had haunted Rain for centuries rise up and sink their teeth into him once more. She laid a hand on his arm, offering what peace she could, knowing it was nowhere near enough.
“Sieks’ta, Fanor, son of Sparhawk,” he said in a gravelly voice. “There is nothing I can do to repay your loss. If I could take back that day, I would.”
“I think I believe that now.” Fanor drew in a deep breath. “When I touched that weave you spun for my father, I felt his presence in a way I never have before. It was as if you’d spun a bit of his soul into your weave. And perhaps you did.” Bittersweet emotion shone in the shadowed depths of his eyes—a sort of melancholy acceptance and a fragile sense of peace, as if some lifelong wound had finally begun to heal. “Perhaps, Rainier Feyreisen, those who perished to your flame did not die so utterly as I have always believed. Their Light did not return to the Source, it’s true, but I think perhaps at least some part of it still lives…in you.”
Rain’s gaze fell. “The gods will it should be so,” he said in a low voice.
The Elf drew up his knees and rested his arms atop them. “I never wanted to forgive you for what you did—not even after I stood in your weaves at the Lake of Glass and felt my father for the first time in a thousand years—but I should have done so long ago.”
“The resentment you harbored is understandable. You were a child who lost his father to my flame.”
“And you were a Fey called to do a terrible deed because that was what the Dance required,” Fanor countered. “I should not have blamed you for fulfilling the will of the gods. All Elves know those who call a Song in the Dance rarely have a choice of the tune. It’s what they do afterward that reveals their true measure.” He shook his head. “Anio, I clung to my anger out of grief, and I think you cling to your guilt from the same. Perhaps it is time for both of us to forgive what you did.”
Rain closed his eyes and leaned his head against the thick, ribbed trunk of the fireoak tree at his back. “Some things are not so easy to forgive.”
“Perhaps not, but I do forgive you. If you truly do carry what remains of my father’s Light, then I am glad. His was a bright soul, and something of him deserves to live on.”
“Something of him already does, Fanor,” Ellysetta said softly, her hand resting upon Rain’s shoulder. “In you.” The moment the Elf had said those three magical words, “I forgive you,” she’d felt a portion of Rain’s terrible pain ease. For that alone, she felt herself warm to Fanor.
“Of course.” The softening of Fanor’s expression faded and he was once again all Elf, inscrutable and mysterious. He rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “We should sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”