Rain absorbed the entire scene in an instant and launched himself at Adrial. A five-fold weave spun from his fingers, knocking the venomous blades to the ground and melting them to harmless slag even as Rain slammed into Adrial. They landed hard on the marble floor. Adrial's collarbone snapped and he grunted in pain, but Rain still pinned him with both muscle and magic. Fey warriors were taught from early adolescence to fight through pain, through debilitating and even mortal wounds, to keep fighting until their hearts no longer beat.

A sudden driving pain and shrieking roar in his ears made Rain gasp, and he almost lost his hold on Adrial. When had the younger man learned to do that? Quickly Rain wove a block, tight threads of Spirit barricading his mind from illusionary and mental attack.

Immediately Adrial struck again.

The air around Rain thickened, and a breathless feeling invaded his lungs. Adrial was weaving the oxygen out of the air around his king. Rain narrowed his eyes and growled a warning. "Careful, Fey, or you'll make me do something you'll greatly regret." He rebuffed Adrial's weave with a firm, steady push of his own. It wasn't an easy task. The Fey's mastery of Air was as strong as Rain's own, perhaps even stronger since Adrial had spent his years honing his primary talent while Rain had worked to master five. But despite that mastery, Adrial was wounded, his concentration scattered by the recent shei’tanitsa claiming.

Gaelen groaned. His head was pounding and he couldn't be sure if the most recent fall had knocked him unconscious or merely dazed him. He opened his eyes and stared up at the narrow slice of starlit sky visible between the hulking buildings on either side of the dark alley. The twin stars of the Great Serpent constellation still shone almost directly overhead. He'd been merely dazed, then.

He took a breath and wished he hadn't. Something was rotting in the darkness, and it wasn't just him. He rolled over onto his hands and knees. A soft, bloated lump squished beneath one palm. All at once, his stomach revolted and his body convulsed in wracking heaves.

The spasms passed, the agony slowly faded, and his head drooped down between trembling shoulders. He panted in deep, uneven gasps.

If the Eld could see him now ... the Dark Lord, weak as a babe, puking his guts up in a rank little alley. That would give those soul-twisted Mages a good laugh.

Gaelen started to wipe his mouth, then thought better of it when he caught wind of the better-to-remain-nameless muck coating his hands.

Gods, this was ridiculous. Pathetic. When he found the High Mage's daughter, his stench would bring her guards down or him long before he got within range of attack.

He rose to his feet, wobbled, and slapped a hand against the dark wall to steady himself. His feet shuffled forward and he staggered out of the alleyway into the dimly lit streets of one of Celieria's lower-class districts. Keeping to the shadows, he made slow progress through the narrow, winding streets. Old memories and instinct would have steered him towards the royal palace and Marissya, but he resisted the temptation of seeing his sister one last time. She was in the palace under guard of her chakor and close to a hundred Fey. In his current state, there was no way he would reach her alive to issue a warning. Nei, his first task must be to slay the High Mage's spawn.

He stretched out his senses, seeking the pull of Fey magic, the natural affinity that drew him to others of his kind. He sensed the concentration of the Fey in the palace, and another concentration in a humbler district of the city. Gaelen turned and staggered towards the West End, clinging to walls, forcing his feet to move step after dragging step.

He followed his senses into the heart of the West End until he reached a barrier that shone to his eyes with a faint lavender glow. Spirit weave. He examined the weave, recognizing the redirection pattern meant to keep unwanted mortals out. Beyond the barrier, he saw a faint lavender glow on a rooftop, then another atop a building just across the street. Fey warriors, cloaked in Spirit to hide them from mortal eyes. Guarding something. Guarding someone.

He stepped back into the shadows and marshaled his strength, managing a loose weave to hide his presence from them. It wasn't a strong weave-the sel'dor shrapnel in his body prevented that-but it was enough to make their eyes skim past him without seeing unless they knew just where to look.

Leaning back against a brick wall, he considered his options. He detected some fifty or more Fey guarding the small house. He was so weak, he would never survive a direct assault on the Fey. He patted the pocket of his torn and bloodstained tunic, feeling the bulge of the two sorreisu kiyr he'd removed from the dead Fey. They'd died, presumably, in the service of the Tairen Soul's mate, which would have forged some small tie to her. He would use that to draw her out, away from her guards, and then strike. But where?

A cool, fresh scent teased his nostrils. Water, clean and pure. The Velpin. Sudden thirst overwhelmed him. The river's magic-purified waters would cleanse him and soothe the worst of his wounds. The Fey magic permeating the Velpin's depths would revitalize his flagging strength. He would draw the woman to him there. He lurched to the left and shuffled painfully down a tiny side street, out of the path of the warriors and towards the cool renewal of the river.

Ellysetta wrapped her arms around her waist and tipped her head back to look up at the square of starlit sky that shone down through the crowded buildings. Dizziness assailed her, and her vision blurred. A second set of stars seemed to superimpose themselves over the first, wavering. She smelled something rank, something awful.

Sudden nausea gripped her, and she fell to her knees, retching violently in the grass beneath her mother's carefully tended orange tree.