When he was done, Brodson stood there, dazed and swaying. Powerful magic swirled in the Primage's hands, and Brodson's face began to shift like a lump of potter's clay. The partially flattened nose was reshaped, the lips grew thinner, the jaw less square. Brodson's brown hair grew long and straight and paled to yellow-blond. His stocky body shrank to wiry leanness. When Nour's weave was complete, nothing remained of Den except his pale blue eyes staring out from the dead cook's face. The cook's eyes had been a different shade, but there was no help for that. Though the Elden transformation magic could change every other aspect of a person's appearance, the eyes always stayed the same.

"Here." Nour handed Brodson an amber amulet. "Wear this. It will give you some protection against Fey mind weaves and allow me to hear your thoughts and observations so that I am kept apprised of your progress. Any other form of communication would be too risky. And here." Nour pressed his index finger hard against Brodson's left temple and murmured a Feraz witchspell that left the umagi trembling. "If you do run into the Fey, whisper the command I just gave you. It will wipe out your own memories for three bells, and leave only the cook's."

Brodson nodded, lifting his new hands to his newly formed face.

"Quickly," Nour snapped. "Put on his clothes and get back to the caravan."

Den stripped the body, shivering at the bloodless wound that split the skin of the dead man's chest. The Mage's black blade had plunged into the cook's heart, and not one drop of blood had spilled. The crystal in the pommel of Nour's wavy black dagger was now shimmering with red lights.

A bell later, clad in the dead man's clothes, Den was in the back of the cook wagon, secreting the bag of chemar stones Master Nour had given him in the small trunk that held the cook's personal belongings.

When he stepped back, a loud screech and a scratch on his ankle made him curse. "Jaffing hells!" he yelped, and turned with a scowl to discover that he had stepped on the tail of a nursing mother cat, who was curled up in a nest of cloth with a litter of kittens. A memory floated to the surface of Den's mind: the cat was the cook's mouser, Florrie.

Den's eyes narrowed when Florrie hissed and took another swipe at his ankle. The kittens, as if sensing their mother's distress, began mewing. Loudly. Den bent down, intending to grab the nest box and toss the cat and her kittens out the back of the wagon, when memories of his own flashed: his sister cooing like a daft looby over every fuzzy, big-eyed kitten she ever came across. He hesitated, struck by an idea.

If Ellie Baristani's sisters were anything like his own, what better lure to bring them close than a litter of kittens?

"But you," he warned, jabbing a finger at Florrie. "Scratch me again, and I'll put you in a sack and drop you in the nearest river."

Den crawled out of the wagon and circled 'round to climb up to the driver's box, waving at the members of Darramon's party who called greetings to him. Not one of them seemed to realize he was not the cook, and twenty chimes later, reins in hand, Den was driving along the cobbled roads, following Lord Darramon's caravan as it headed west out of Celieria City.

The Fading Lands ~ Dharsa

The next weeks passed in a blur. Gaelen and the other chatok spent the first five days evaluating the skills of every warrior, pressing them beyond the challenges of Ro Faer and Ro Chakai. The tests continued day and night, as each warrior demonstrated his sword mastery, his power and skill in each branch of magic, even his knowledge of military strategy and tactics. The strongest Fey in each field of expertise became the chadins Gaelen taught personally. Gaelen's tests were often brutal. Some of the physical combat maneuvers and swordplay resulted in broken bones and bloody wounds, particularly in the first few days of training on a new move. The warriors checked their red Fey'cha in the Academy's weapons room before assembling in the training ground each day, but apart from that they fought with bare blades, and plenty of them.

"Do you think the Eld fight with sticks?" Gaelen snapped when anyone complained. "Be grateful there are no sel'dor arrows in the Fading Lands. I'd shoot you full of them, then demand you fight with the barbs in your flesh, just so you wouldn't be caught unprepared in a real fight."

When their efforts did not meet his exacting standards, he would grab the offending warriors by their tunics, thrust his face right into theirs, and snarl, "Why do you think there's no banishment for blood spilled on Academy grounds? Fight like you mean it, Fey. Fight like your life depends on it, because when you face the Eld in battle, I assure you, it will."

More than one Fey gave back as good as—and occasionally better than—they got, and Gaelen spent as much time on his back, bruised and bloody, as he did on his feet ordering the Fey to prove their mettle. He took the battering without complaint, allowing the shei'dalins to heal him only when his wounds were so grievous they impeded his ability to fight.

"It is no less than I expected, and much less than I deserve," he told Ellysetta quietly after the shei'dalins healed four broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, and a sword thrust that had gone completely through the muscles of his thigh. "I walked the Shadowed Path. I betrayed my honor and my oath as a warrior of the Fey. Let them punish me for my shame. As long as they keep learning so they can better protect you and Marissya, I can bear what price they would have me pay."

Gil, Tajik, Rijonn, and Bel assisted him in those first training lessons, and despite their initial misgivings, the Academy's chatok observed with an interest that soon developed into active participation. Before the end of the second week, the chatok had mastered Gaelen's invisibility weaves and several of his other techniques, and began assisting in training the others.