“Bannon! Cerlissa! Oh, I’m so happy to see you both!” The baby Cerlissa chewed her fingers and laughed in delight. Bannon, however, regarded Ellysetta with no hint of recognition in his solemn blue eyes. But of course, she looked like a stranger to him. He’d only known Ellie, the woodcarver’s daughter, never Ellysetta, the Fey shei’dalin.

She spun a quick Spirit weave, transforming in an instant to the plain mortal Ellie Baristani she’d been when they’d known her. “It’s me, dearling,” she told him. “It’s Auntie Ellie.” She knelt before him and held out her arms. “Auntie Ellie, Bannon. Don’t you remember?”

When he still looked confused, she reached into the pocket of her apron where she’d always kept a little treat for him when she went to see Selianne. She pretended to gasp in surprise, “Oh! What do I have here in my pocket?” Another quick weave spun from her fingertips, and she pulled her hand out to brandish a tiny, painted wooden horse just like the ones she used to coax her father into carving for Bannon.

The little horse and the once-familiar custom of Auntie Ellie’s magical pocket of treasures sparked a memory. A tiny smile curved the boy’s lips, revealing a mouthful of pearly baby teeth. He reached for the horse and fell into her arms to give her a kiss, and say, “Thank you, Auntie Ellie,” as he had so many times before.

Her arms closed around him, holding him tight, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that welled up at the sound of his sweet voice. “Oh, Bannon.” She cupped the back of his head in one palm and stroked her fingers through his baby-fine hair. Holding him again was almost like having Selianne back. She didn’t want to let him go, and even when she set him down so she could take Cerlissa in her arms, she kept stroking Bannon’s back and hair.

She wanted to keep them with her. She wanted to take them with her now. But they’d been taken in by a couple who’d lost their own child… and she and Rain were headed back to war—with no guarantee that either of them would survive it.

No matter how much she ached to keep Selianne’s children with her forever, this was where they belonged. So she held them and smiled her brightest, despite the threat of burning tears, trying to squeeze months of love into a handful of chimes.

Watching her, Rain’s heart swelled with a mix of love and sorrow. She would be an exceptional mother. Even in the guise of her mortal self, the joyous warmth of his shei’tani’s deep capacity for love shone bright as a star. She deserved children—far more of them than even shei’tanitsa matepairs ever had. And once she forged the last thread of their bond to complete their shei’tanitsa union, he would do everything in his power to see that Amarynth bloomed eternally in her footsteps.

“Sheyl,” he murmured, as his shei’tani cuddled her friend’s children. “You said you had a favor to ask of us.”

“I’m sure you’ve already guessed, Tairen Soul.” Sheyl clasped her hand at her waist. “The world grows more dangerous every day. War has begun, and it will only get worse. The dahl’reisen will fight to defend the Fading Lands as they have these many past centuries, and our village will be left vulnerable. Will you grant safe harbor to our women and children while our men fight the Eld?”

“Aiyah.” There was no hesitation, no other possible response. “You cannot weave Azrahn within our borders, of course. And the Mists will not permit the dahl’reisen to enter, but your women and children—even your men who are not dahl’reisen—will be welcomed with joy.”

“And will you give me your Fey oath on that—and vow that we will all be free to leave again—even the children?”

“Of course.”

“Then I have one last secret to show you.”

Sheyl led the way to the back of the nursery and opened a door to a smaller adjoining room. Several young children were gathered round a short table, squishing lumps of clay into shapes with their small fingers.

“Muri,” Sheyl called. “Come here, kitling. There are some people I want you to meet.”

“Sheyl! Sheyl!” One of the children, a chubby toddler with bright blue eyes and masses of dark ringlets ran forward, her little arms extended.

A smile softened Sheyl’s face, and she knelt to scoop up the child. “Hello, dearling.”

“Look what Muri made.” The girl held up a piece of dough shaped in a lumpy, four-legged mass. “Horsie!”

“That’s lovely, kitling. Your mother will be so proud of you.” Still holding the child, Sheyl turned to Ellysetta and Rain. “This is Murialisa.”

“Oooh.” The child stared at Ellysetta. “Bright, pretty lady.”

“Yes, she is very bright, isn’t she, kitling.”

Rain stared at the little girl in shock. There was no mistaking the Fey glow in the child’s eyes and the slender Fey delicacy just revealing itself in her childish features. “The father… cannot be dahl’reisen?” Girl children were not born outside the bonds of shei’tanitsa. And yet he was staring at a child, a girl, in whose veins ran not some mild form of magic but the shining light of strong Fey blood.

“No,” Sheyl confirmed. “Muri’s father was born in this village, but his father before him was dahl’reisen.” She kissed Murialisa’s round cheek and set her down. “Go back to your play, kitling.” When the child was once again industriously molding clay dough into animal shapes, Sheyl murmured quietly, “Murialisa’s grandfather was killed by the Mages seventy years ago. Her father truemated eight years ago with a village woman from the borders of Lord Barrial’s lands.”