“Call to her, Rain,” Jisera urged. “You share the strongest bond. Perhaps she will respond better to you than she has to the rest of us.”

Rain nodded and leaned closer to Ellysetta. Closing his eyes, he began to call to her along the threads of their bond. Behind him, her head once more poking in under the side of the tent, her blue eyes whirling and glowing like stars, Steli added her voice to his.

Three bells later, Rain’s hope was beginning to falter. In addition to the calls of a shei’tan to his mate, the calls of Ellysetta’s lu’tan, and the calls of the shei’dalin, he and Steli had tried every tairen song they could think of. Rain’s song. Steli’s song. Pride song, kin song, mate song, mother song. Nothing had worked. Nothing had roused even the slightest response.

“Do not lose hope,” Jisera said. “The Feyreisa is stronger than any shei’dalin I’ve ever known. To kill a Mharog.” She shook her head. The top layer of her hair was plaited in a net of tiny black braids, joined together with tiny gold and crystal beads that shimmered in the candlelight. “No other shei’dalin could have survived it.”

“She is a Tairen Soul,” Rain said, his eyes closed, his head resting on Ellysetta’s hip.

“With a heart as bright and as strong as the sun,” Tajik added in low voice. “In that respect, she is much like my—” His voice broke off abruptly, and Rain opened his eyes in time to see him glance at Gil, who casually shifted to take the heel of his boot off Tajik’s toe.

The seven of them—Ellysetta, Rain, and all five warriors of her primary quintet—had sworn a Fey oath to Galad Hawksheart not to reveal the truths they’d discovered in Elvia. And though they would each willingly have foresworn their oaths and broken their honor in order to rally the Fey and rescue Shan and Elfeya, the urgency of this war had stopped them. Hawksheart’s secret remained unspoken, and their Fey oaths remained intact.

“Like your what, Tajik?” Jisera asked.

Tajik cast a defiant glower at Gil and completed his remark, “Like my sister. The Feyreisa’s courage and strength remind me of my sister, Elfeya.”

Rain saw Gil’s tense shoulder relax. Tajik both told the truth and yet honored his oath to Hawksheart. Fey loved passionately, and mourned deeply, even centuries after the loss of a loved one, so Jisera would not think it odd in the least that Tajik’s sister remained in his thoughts.

She reached out to grasp Tajik’s hand. Golden light glowed about their clasped hands and her eyes took on an amber glow as she wove peace on Tajik. “I never knew Elfeya-falla, but if she was anything like the Feyreisa, then she was very special indeed.”

More special than Jisera knew. More special than any of them had suspected before Hawksheart’s revelations.

Rain wondered bitterly what Tenn v’En Eilan, the leader of the Massan, would do when he found out that Ellysetta, the woman Tenn had reviled and cast out of the protection of the Fading Lands, was the daughter of the greatest warrior and most renowned shei’dalin born in the last fifty thousand years—perhaps longer. Rain’s Rage flared at the memory of Tenn’s betrayal and the way he’d intentionally laid a trap to catch Ellysetta weaving Azrahn so he could banish her. He’d known about her Mage Marks, known what terrible danger she’d be in outside the safety of the Faering Mists. And still, Tenn had done it.

The Shadar horn burned as it drained the heat from Rain’s veins and dulled the sharp edge of his Rage.

In his hand, Ellysetta’s fingers twitched again.

Rain stared at the slender fingers with sudden suspicion. Her hand was motionless once more, but he had not imagined the small flinch.

“The Shadar horn consumed the poison of the Mharog blade that struck me, correct?” he asked.

“Aiyah,” Jisera confirmed. “So the hearth witch, Sheyl, informed me.”

“Then is it not possible the horn’s magic could cure what ails Ellysetta as well?”

Jisera frowned at him. It didn’t take a Spirit weave to know what he was thinking—or to see how those thoughts alarmed her. “The horn is the only thing keeping you from madness.”

“So cut it in half. Use half for me, half for Ellysetta.”

“We don’t know that half a horn is any use at all.”

“We don’t know that it isn’t,” he countered. “Hawksheart gave the Shadar horn to me for a reason. I doubt that reason was so I could live to go mad when Ellysetta dies. If Ellysetta doesn’t recover, I’m dead anyway. This, at least, gives us a chance.”

Jisera crossed her arms. Slight and sweet though she appeared, she was also stubborn as a rock. And she’d never been one to take unnecessary risks—especially when it came to the safety of the lives in her care. “It’s too dangerous, Rain.”

He sighed and ran his good hand through his hair. “Jisera, war is here, and I’m the Tairen Soul. If I don’t fight, the Eld will win. I can’t fight with this strapped to my arm.” Rain gestured to the bulky horn strapped to his arm. “And I can’t fight with my mate hovering on the cusp of death. You’re going to have to graft the Shadar horn to my bones anyways. So why not start by grafting just half and giving the rest to Ellysetta?”

“Even if we tried that, there’s no guarantee the horn will help her.”

“It better, because we’ve tried everything else.”

Jisera set her jaw. Then after a look at the other shei’dalins—and, Rain suspected, a private word with them—Eimar’s mate gave a curt nod. “Bas’ka. We’ll need a table. And you’ll need to agree to be strapped down and rendered unconscious. I don’t want you Raging on us while we’re trying to do this.”