Her heart beat faster as anxiety bloomed in her belly. «How do you think the Mists will react to my Mage Marks?»

Rain hesitated, then said, «You are the Feyreisa and a Tairen Soul. The Mists will realize that.»

Her stomach lurched. She heard the evasion in his voice. «But you aren't certain, are you?»

His ears twitched, and a small jet of flame seared the air before them. «That is why we are flying through rather than walking. Just hold tight to the saddle. I will get us through as quickly as I can.»

The last of the Fey below disappeared into the Faering Mist.

Rain banked a final time, then flew directly towards the shimmering veil of magic. Anything else Ellysetta might have said caught in her throat. The thick fog of the Mists dominated her visual field, endless white, ever-shifting, glimmering with rainbow lights.

She leaned over the front of the saddle and threaded her hands deep into Rain's tairen pelt, clutching tightly, needing the contact. «Rain.»

«I am with you, Ellysetta.»

She had one last split second, time enough only for a swift, frightened gasp of air, and then they plunged into the Mists.

Chapter four

A hidden land, forbidden land, beyond the Faering Mists.

A people gone except in song, beyond the Faering Mists.

Where magics spun and great work's done, beyond the Faering Mists.

Where Fey still dwell behind the spell that is the Faering Mists.

"Beyond the Faering Mists," from the collection Laments for the Fey, by Avian of Celieria

The Faering Mists were not what Gaelen expected. Over the years, when he'd been dahl'reisen, he'd come to the Garreval on several occasions, intending to close his eyes, walk in, and let the Mists do what they would to him, but he'd never actually been able to bring himself to dip so much as the toe of his boot in. He didn't know whether it was cowardice or pride that kept him from it, and he'd never cared to examine his reasons too closely, half-afraid of the answer he might find.

His first few steps into the Mists were as bold as any he'd ever taken, and it would have surprised most of the Fey to know how much it cost him to keep that façade of bravado intact. His nerves were shaking so badly, his guts felt like quivering jelly. To his undying shame, his sister sensed his fear. Just before she and Dax plunged into the Mists, Marissya turned her head to smile back at him and whisper on a private thread, «Do not fear, kem'jeto. A lost son of the Fey has returned. The Mists will welcome you and rejoice.»

Then the Mists had swallowed her up, and it was his turn to take the plunge. Walking next to him, Belliard vel Jelani had looked every bit as grim as Gaelen felt. The Fey's face had gone stony, and his eyes were dark, burning cobalt stars. Vel Jelani was no untried chadin fresh from his first levels in the Cha Baruk. Gaelen girded himself for terror.

To his surprise, the terror never came. Instead, as he took the first dozen blind steps into the mist-filled pass, a sense of overwhelming peace suffused him. It wrapped him in a shining cocoon of warm whiteness, soft and fragrant, as if he were a child once more and his long-dead mother, Briessa v'En Serranis, held him cradled in her arms.

"Mela?" he whispered, lifting his face to the whiteness. "Are you here?" Logically, he knew it couldn't be true. His parents had died one hundred years before the Mage Wars began, slain by Feraz as they returned to the Fading Lands after visiting Marikah and the first King Dorian to celebrate the birth of their son.

Was this how the Mists led intruders astray? Not through terror but through wistful memories of better times? The lure was a strong one. Long had it been since Gaelen last knew peace. He shook off the beckoning warmth and forced himself to concentrate.

Picture our home as you remember it, Marissya had advised him. You cannot trust your senses in the Mists, so let that memory be your guide.

He thought of the gleaming white towers and golden spires of Dharsa, of the great, towering volcanoes of the Feyls, of the waving golden grasses of the Plains of Corunn. The home he'd always loved, lost to him these last thousand years. Mela, your son returns.

He walked. He did not know for how long, but gradually, the dense fog began to thin. A light shone before him, bright and beckoning, and he could make out the figures of Marissya and Dax striding across the ground at a confident pace. Marissya's presence was like a shining beacon, and all around her, the thick vapors were naught but barest wisps of white mist, as if the magic knew and welcomed her. Gaelen glanced to his side. He could see Bel now, walking beside him just an arm's length away.

The grim look on Bel's face was gone, replaced by astonishment. Catching Gaelen's eyes on him, Bel shook his head and said, "It has never been so easy to cross the Mists before."

"We are through?"

"Through the worst of it, aiyah. This lighter mist will fade in less than a tairen length."

"I was expecting something far different," Gaelen said.

"As was I," Bel echoed. "Usually when the Mists spit me out on the other side, Marissya must come to my aid." Even as he spoke, they heard a sharp cry, quickly muffled, from somewhere in the dense fog behind them.

Gaelen cast a glance over his shoulder and saw a line of ten Fey emerge from the thicker whiteness. Each one of them looked shaken, and two were trembling so much their brothers had to help steady them.

"I don't understand," Gaelen said. "Why them and not me?"

Bel gave a soft, wondering laugh. "The Feyreisa. She restored our souls."