Pounding bootheels on the cobbles and the sound of shouting voices told him it was time to go. Nour snatched up his Mage blade, pulled the hood of his cloak up over his face, and ran into the alley.

He couldn't go back to the palace with his face in shreds, so he headed for the boardinghouse near the wharf district. He would hole up there while he summoned a hearth witch to repair his face, changed out of these blood-soiled clothes, and tried to find a way to turn the murder of Gaspare Fellows to his best advantage.

He hadn't thought to plant a Fey blade at the scene to throw suspicion on the Fey or dahl'reisen, and he couldn't very well go back now to leave one. But perhaps he could still sow the seeds of doubt in Annoura's mind. Perhaps this was just the foothold he needed to gain her trust. After all, when it came to politics, didn't most leaders follow the ancient Merellian maxim: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend"?

The scorched scent of Mage Fire still hung in the air when the Fey arrived at the riverside, but of the Mage who'd spawned that Fire, there was no sign. The warriors searched the roads, alleys, and buildings in a three-block radius, but they couldn't even find a witness who had seen what happened. The Mage had covered his tracks too well.

"Well, my brothers, he was here, without a doubt, but he's gone now." llian vel Taranis stood near the top of the stone steps leading to the river landing where boats could moor.

A feline howl rose up from the stairwell, followed by the sound of claws scrabbling on stone. A small white cat shot out of the stairwell like an Elf bolt and raced down the street.

llian would have dismissed the animal as one of the many feral cats that prowled the wharf except for the distinctive flash of Celierian blue around its neck. A bow. A blue satin bow, to be precise.

White cat. Blue bow. Bad temper.

What in the Bright Lord's name was Master Fellows's spoiled princess of a cat doing alone by the city wharf?

"Vel Mera, catch that cat!" he cried to the warrior standing in the white kitten's path.

Rorin vel Mera flung a net of Earth magic around the cat, and the kitten went into a frenzy, hissing, spitting, and clawing like a mad thing.

"Scorch me," Rorin muttered. "This little beast can Rage like a tairen."

"You frightened her." llian frowned at his blade brother, then knelt beside the terrified cat and attempted to soothe it. "Here, now, kit. Here, now. Las. Las. Well not harm you." He reached for the kitten and got four bleeding furrows across the back of his hand for his trouble. He persisted despite the wounding, and a few chimes later, he rose to his feet, Master Fellows's white kitten clutched to his chest.

"You think Master Fellows could be our Mage?” Rorin asked. The Master of Graces had made a nuisance of himself with stories of Mages attempting to harm the queen, and though the Fey had dutifully investigated his every claim, they'd found nothing to substantiate his fears.

Ilian held up his unscratched hand—the one now smeared with the still-damp blood spattering the white kitten's fur. "I think it's more likely Master Fellows was following his Mage, hoping to find evidence enough that we would believe him. And from the looks of it, he got caught." With a sinking sensation in his stomach, he said, "Let's search the river. If the Mage Fire didn't get him, he might have jumped for it."

They fanned out and began searching, calling more Fey to aid them.

Ten chimes later, they found him, two tairen lengths downstream, tucked into a culvert that fed the runoff from the city's storm drains into the Velpin. He was soaked in his own blood and hovering on the cusp of death.

Elvia ~ Elfwood

The Fey and their Elvian escort stopped to rest and eat at midday. After a quick meal, Ellysetta's quintet gathered off to one side to practice their swordplay. Ellysetta watched them, laughing as Gaelen amused himself by taunting his brothers and trying to goad them into foolish attacks.

"That was so slow, vel Sibboreh, it was nearly decrepit. An old mortal could move faster than that."

Tajik was too smart to take the bait. He just laughed evilly, flipped back his red plaits, and said, "Aiyah, and you should know, vel Serranis. You'd already seen well beyond your first five hundred years before I was even a glow in my gepa's eye."

"Ha!" Meicha scimitars drawn, Gaelen suddenly lunged for Tajik. The former commander of the Fey's eastern army brought his own weapons up to block, and twisted lithely out of the way, then spun around to attack Gaelen's unprotected back. Anticipating the move, Gaelen ducked, rolled, and came up with his blades in a blocking position so that Tajik's swords landed harmlessly on gleaming steel.

"Not bad for an old Fey," Tajik told him with a grin.

"You should know," Gaelen retorted. "As you are one yourself."

Ellysetta laughed at the verbal skirmish. Their taunting exchanges had begun to lose the curt hostility that had marred their relationship. She had started to hope that Tajik's initial distrust of Gaelen might even eventually change from grudging admiration to cautious friendship as Gaelen continued to teach the others the weaves and battle skills he'd perfected during his centuries as a dahl'reisen.

A short distance away, Rijonn, Bel, and Gil practiced hitting distant targets with their Fey'cha, striving to achieve the blurring speed with which Gaelen could so effortlessly launch his own daggers.

Ellysetta watched them and within a few chimes found her hands reaching for her own Fey'cha. "Can you teach me how to do that?" she asked.