Across the room, Annoura watched the Tairen Soul kiss his peasant-bride's hand and escort her around the palace ballroom as if she were the Queen of Queens.

Already, many of Celieria's best had begun softening towards her, thanks to Dorian's infuriating surprise announcement. Lords who might have remained hostile to a foreign king and his unacceptable bride would not risk insulting one of the Great Houses. Who would have guessed Dorian could ever arrange such a coup, let alone arrange it so swiftly? And he'd not once said a word to her about it!

Furious, Annoura snatched a glass of pinalle from a passing waiter and took a long, satisfying sip of the chilled alcohol. Heady warmth followed the sweet, cool flavors of the wine, and she regarded Dorian's two prize bulls over the rim of her wineglass Barrial's participation in this farce didn't surprise her much. He fancied himself an everyman's lord: the sort who would happily roll back his sleeves and toil in the dirt alongside his men. He'd toss out the offer just to prove his willingness to accept a person on merit rather than position. As if that were somehow an asset. She hadn't forgotten how quickly he'd jumped to the Fey's defense in Council yesterday. Only Teleos and Dorian were bigger Fey-lovers.

But Morvel … the way he bragged on the purity of his noble House, you'd think each thimbleful of seed that spewed from his loins was worth a fifty-weight in gold. How in the name of all the gods had Dorian convinced Albuthnas Morvel even to consider merging his highly pedigreed bloodlines with a woodcarver's whelp?

Somehow, some way, Dorian had managed it. If it had been for any other purpose, she'd be luminous with pride, ebullient with the proof of her royal husband's irrefutable power. But not for this. As always, he stirred himself most not on behalf of his own family, his own wife, but for those gods- cursed, soul-scorching Fey.

Annoura downed the rest of her wine in one angry gulp, then shuddered a little as the warmth washed over her in waves. She'd have to be careful. She hadn't eaten much today, and the deceptively sweet blue wine would quickly go to her head.

Wouldn't it be amusing if the girl got drunk and made a fool of herself? From nowhere, the memory of Jiarine's wicked laughter popped into Annoura's head.

She stared at the empty glass in her hand. A small blue drop of liquid still clung to the rim. She scooped it up with a diamond-dusted fingertip and licked it slowly from her skin as she watched Rain Tairen Soul squiring his woodcarver's daughter from one group of nobles to another, watched the obsequious smiles and the fawning that had already begun.

The dinner gong rang. Annoura handed her glass to a passing servant, forced a serene smile to her face, and offered her hand to Dorian. Together, shining like stars beneath the palace chandeliers, they led their guests to dinner in the banquet hall adjoining the ballroom and took up their seats at the head table.

As they waited for their guests to be seated, she called the wine steward responsible for serving the head table to her side. He was a discreet man, one she'd brought with her years ago from Capellas. "Do be sure to keep the Feyreisa's wineglass full," she murmured to him. "And when keflee is served, brew her a special cup from my private stock. Use the new blend in the purple silk bag." She smiled sweetly. "I wouldn't want to offer anything but the best to the Fey's new queen."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sing and dance the razor's edge, men.

Weave your magic fierce and strong.

Let your steel drink deep of blood, Fey.

Loose the tairen in your souls.

—Call to Battle, a Fey Warrior's Song

As the night deepened over Norban, Wilmus Able, pubkeeper of the Hound and Boar, stood behind his bar, deftly drying the last of the day's freshly washed shot glasses and humming the tune of an old Fey warrior's song he'd learned as a boy.

"Hmm hmm hm hmmm hmm…. loose the tairen in your souls. Yah!" With a grin, he tossed several of the shot glasses in the air and began juggling them just like the Fey warriors he'd worshipped in boyhood used to juggle their razor-sharp blades. The glasses went up smoothly and stayed up as his hands remembered the long-ago rhythm.

Ah, Light! The visit by those two Fey today had stirred up a host of memories he'd all but lost. Hard times, but good ones. Some of the best days of his life. How could he have forgotten those years, his youthful love of the Fey? He added a fifth and sixth glass to the four already flying in great loops above his rapidly moving hands, and grinned proudly. "Eh, now, Wilmus, old man. You haven't lost your touch.' Deed you haven't.”

Behind him, the hinges of the front door squeaked as someone entered the pub. Drat that Mary Betts, Wilmus thought with a spurt of irritation, embarrassed to be caught juggling. Useless girl never remembered to lock up after leaving. "Sorry," he called. He kept his eyes on the airborne glasses, catching the first four as they descended and setting them on the counter. "We're closed.”

Silence answered. A draught of chill air swirled around him. He frowned in confusion as his breath fogged before him. Oddest damn thing. He caught the fifth shot glass out of the air and flicked a glance at the mirror hung over the bar. His face went white.

"Light save me." The sixth glass dropped past his nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor at his feet.

Mother and Daughter moons rose over the treetops of Great- wood Forest. Their dual brightness illuminated Carthage Road so clearly, Sian and Torel didn't need to rely on Fey vision as they loped down the rutted dirt track.