The candles flickered, and with one final word of prayer and thanks, he blew them out and waved the aromatic smoke from the extinguished wicks over his face and bare skin, closing his eyes and filling his lungs with the warm fragrance.

He'd performed a similar ritual in his youth, before he'd marched out to war. Then, the smoke and faerilas had filled him with a sense of peace and purpose. He'd been so young back then, so unaware of the true horrors war could bring.

Now he knew better. Now he knew how damning even victory could be.

He approached the alcove that held the armor of the king, then stopped. The moment he donned the golden steel, the Fading Lands would be at war and there would be no turning back until the Eld surrendered or the light of the Fey was extinguished.

He could almost hear Johr's voice, full of hard edges and fierce challenge: You think you have the right, Fey? Are you certain?

He recalled the day Johr had donned the armor. He'd summoned all the Tairen Souls of the Fading Lands into this room to bear witness. There were twenty of them then, ranging in age from Rain's own youthful two hundred years to Johr's almost sixteen hundred. Rain had stood in the same spot he was now, his body trembling with a mix of excitement, dread, and anticipation. Gaelen vel Serranis had just wreaked his dark vengeance upon the Eld, and the world had gone mad.

He and his brothers had watched Johr strip away his leathers and steel. They'd sung with him the songs of prayer and purification as he'd cleansed himself in the waters of the Source and lit the sacred candles as Rain had just done. Magic—Johr's own great tairen power—had swirled around him, draping his nakedness in great, blinding swaths of light as he stepped resolutely toward the alcove where the king's armor awaited.

"You think being king is about power?" Johr had asked them. He'd stood so tall, his shoulders broad, his face carved from stone. His eyes had whirled tairen-bright, pupil-less, their normal brown transformed to glowing amber that burned like molten steel. "Power is nothing. Kingship is about choices. Hard, bloody, damnable choices. One day, any one of you may be the Feyreisen. When the time comes for you to make those decisions, will you be wise enough to make the right one?" His searing eyes had scorched them. "Think long and hard, my brother-kin. We are creatures born for killing, but war is a poison draft. No matter why you drink it, the cup holds death—and not just for your enemies. So be sure—be soul-scorching sure of two things before you take the smallest sip: first, that you have no better alternative, and second…"

His voice had trailed off. He lowered his head as though the effort to keep himself standing tall was too great.

"And second?" asked one of the younger Tairen Souls, a Fey barely older than Rain.

Johr drew a breath. Slowly, he lifted his head and drew his shoulders back, square and strong once more. "And second, be sure that once you tilt the cup, you are Fey enough to drain it though its poison rots your flesh, lays waste your lands, and leaves everyone you love writhing in bitter anguish."

His power had blazed, and the armor in the alcove had dissolved, re-forming on the king's body, fitted to him as though the steel had been forged to his form. He'd stood there for one last, silent moment, a shining Fey prince clad in black, scarlet, and gold, his eyes as bleak and grim as Rain had ever seen them. "To war, my brothers." Johr lowered the battle helm upon his head. "To victory or death."

"To victory or death!" they'd cried.

And so the Mage Wars had begun.

Now, standing alone in the king's armory on the brink of a second Mage War, Rain found Johr's ringed name symbol on one of the black leather plates. "If you can hear me, Johr Feyreisen," he murmured, rubbing a thumb across the sigil of the previous Fey king, "guide me now as you did when I first found my wings."

When Rain emerged from the king's armory and stepped into the Hall of Tairen, Bel and Gaelen were waiting. Bel glanced at Rain's plain black leathers and silvery steel, but all he said was, "The warriors have gathered."

Gaelen's ice blue eyes narrowed. "You still believe this can end in any way but one?"

Rain adjusted his meicha belts. "Nei, I am not so big a fool."

"Then why this?" Gaelen's hands spread to indicate Rain's old leathers.

"War is coming—I know that is as inevitable as it was a thousand years ago—but the moment the Eld see the Feyreisen's golden war steel on the ramparts of Orest, the first battle will begin. Let us position our men, secure our allies, and plan our defenses before throwing down the gauntlet." When Gaelen continued to look askance, he sighed. "If all I do is buy time for Ellysetta to save the tairen, that will be enough."

"Enough for what?"

Bel answered for him. "Hope."

All of Dharsa came out to see the warriors off, and tears mingled with the voices raised in exultant song. Though Rain wore no golden steel, no one in Dharsa believed the departing Fey would return before open war began. And most still remembered how few had returned the last time the Fey strode off to war.

Garbed in flowing purple silks and flanked by Bel, Gaelen, and Steli, Ellysetta stood on a garland-draped platform and watched the column of Fey warriors march past, Rain at the lead. She sang with the other Fey, her voice rising pure and sweet, and on a private weave of Spirit, she called, «Be safe, kem'san. Come back to me.»

Just before he rounded the corner and marched out of view, he turned toward her. «I will see you soon, shei'tani.»