"That was breathtaking," Ellysetta said in the ensuing silence. "I think if I ever heard the Lightmaidens of Adelis sing their glorias, they would sound just like that."

"No matter what else one may say about the Elves, no one can deny the beauty of their song," Rain agreed.

Fanor bowed. "Alaneth. Thank you for your compliments. One of the highest aims of all Elves is to perfect our song."

"And yet you did not sing."

The Elf smiled. "I stand as your host this night. Elvish hospitality forbids me to sing a song you could not also join."

"Lord Hawksheart will not be joining us, then?" she asked.

"He rarely takes time away from studying the Dance. He will meet with you after you dine. For now, be bids you enjoy the peace and splendor of Navahele."

All around the forest city, as the rosy warmth of day faded to the dark of night, the soft lights of the damia began to glow, replacing the dying sunlight with a silvery blue beauty, as if the city had been dipped in starlight and moonbeams. Glittering night birds joined a host of smaller, tiny phosphorescent insects that darted amongst the leaves, branches, and vines of the city, until all the city sparkled with magical beauty.

"Come." Fanor gestured for the Fey to take their seats at the table and partake of the feast that had been prepared for them.

Celieria ~ South of Greatwood

Talisa diSebourne stood in the small, cramped, shadow-filled room of a small posting inn built on the southern fringe of Celieria's Greatwood forest and stared in growing horror at the tidy double bed tucked against the wall.

Since leaving Celieria City seven days ago, she'd managed to avoid sharing a marital bed with Colum, claiming first a severe travel sickness, then a mysterious ailment that left her vomiting for several days (if her lady's maid had noted the scent of the gallberry steeped in Talisa's morning tea, she'd kept her silence), then the genuine affliction of her woman's time (thank the Bright Lord for his mercy). But now her excuses had come to an end.

Candle lamps cast a flickering golden glow around the room. The inn's goodwife had rushed to freshen the pillows with a new stuffing of sage and sweet balsam before her noble guests Lord diSebourne and his bride retired for the night.

Upon learning the two were recently wed, the kindly good-wife had done her best to turn the small room into a bridal bower. In addition to the fragrant herbs she'd used to stuff the bed, the well-meaning woman had set out nuptial bouquets of fragrant Brightheart, slender twigs of an evergreen shrub whose soft, pale green needles exuded a divine aroma, mixed with scented wildflowers like the tender Love's Song, pale pink Blushing Bride, and soft blue Evermore. She'd even laid out a plate of sweetmeats and a bottle of her best pinalle, chilling in a small pewter bucket filled with precious ice chips. "To wish the happy couple joy," she'd said with a smile as she'd backed out of the room and left them alone.

Her kindly efforts had only rubbed salt in the open wounds scoring Talisa's heart.

Talisa clasped her hands together at her waist, her fingers surreptitiously clutching the edges of her robe with tense desperation as she turned to the man she'd wed. "Colum, please. I just need a little more time."

He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. 'Time? I doubt there's enough time in all the world to make you want me again instead of him. Not that you ever did."

"Colum..."

"I'm not a fool, Talisa. You wed me on the day of your twenty-fifth birthday because the one you really wanted never came. And I accepted that, because I knew if you gave me a chance, I could make you happy." His voice cracked on the last word. He caught himself quickly, lips pressing together in a thin, bloodless line.

"Oh, Colum." She stepped towards him, hands outstretched in instinctive sympathy. He'd been her friend long before he'd been her husband, always a tad too prideful and arrogant, thanks to his father's predilection for the trappings of power and nobility, but dear to her nonetheless. He was the boy who'd spent his summers running with her brothers across the rolling hills outside of Kreppes on their families' neighboring country estates. The lad who'd blushingly offered her a bouquet of wilted Evermore by the banks of the Heras River. The man who'd proposed on her seventeenth birthday, then waited patiently another eight years for her acceptance.

Now, he was the husband who flinched from her sympathy and stepped back to avoid her touch. "I love you." The declaration was spat from his lips, more accusation than vow. "Do you know how many women have begged me to say that to them?"

She withdrew her hands. “Then perhaps you should have. Colum, I was never less than honest with you."

He laughed bitterly. "Of course you weren't. You're far too noble to mislead a man with sweet lies. But not too noble to marry a man you don't love to spare your family shame."

It was her turn to flinch. The barb stung because it was so despicably true, but that didn't stop her from exclaiming in outrage, "How dare you throw that in my face, Colum? You not only knew my reasons for accepting your suit, you counted on them to convince me to say yes. Don't bemoan the bitterness of the bargain when you set the terms!"

As soon as the sharp words flew off her tongue, she wished she could have called them back. Colum's temper had an ugly edge, and though he was usually careful to hide the worst of it from her, she knew better than to prod him into a rage.

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing her by the upper arms and shaking her so hard the pins in her hair fell out and her curls tumbled around her shoulders and down her back. "I bargained for a wife, not some Fey's whore who'll take my name and title, then lock her legs against me. You want to talk about bargains?" He shook her again. "You made a bargain, too, Lady diSebourne. Before your family, a priest, and half the nobles of the northern lands, you swore an oath to be my wife, and by the gods you are going to honor your word."