Annoura knew that stance. Intractability wasn't far behind. And Dorian, when he dug in his heels, was impossible to budge. Time for a change of tactics.

She crossed the room to his side and laid a hand on his arm, tugged gently but insistently until he turned to face her. His expression was closed, hazel eyes distant. She framed his face in both hands and gazed up with a look of compassion and sympathy, stroking the hair at his temples with gentle fingers.

"Dorian," she said softly, "beloved, heart of my heart, I know this is difficult for you. I know how much you love them—Lady Marissya, Lord Dax, even the warriors who accompany them each year." He'd told her so many times, and she'd seen the reverence in his eyes whenever he spoke of the shei'dalin. In the first years of their marriage, before she felt secure in her husband's affections, Annoura had actually been jealous of the effect Marissya had on him. Her hands grew tense for a moment before she forced them to continue their gentle stroking. "But the Tairen Soul is a stranger to us, a dangerous one at that. Celieria is entrusted to your keeping, my love. You must do what's right for us, regardless of what the Fey want.”

"That is what I'm doing, Annoura.”

"I know," she soothed. "I know. But the people—and the Lords of the Council—must be made to see it also. And up until now, all they've seen is you giving in to the Tairen Soul's demands. You broke a lawful betrothal on his behalf. You've allowed him to install a common peasant as his queen and ordered our court to dance attendance on her.”

Dorian's expression, which had begun to soften, went suddenly cold and distant. He pulled her hands away from his face and stepped back several paces to fix her with a hard look. "You've just overplayed your hand, my dear. This isn't about me and my perceived strength or weakness. This is about you. He's wounded your pride, and you can't stand it.”

"Dorian!" Annoura gasped in unfeigned shock. He'd never spoken to her in such a manner. "You know me better than that!”

"I do know you, my love. You are the reason my heart beats in my chest, but I am just as acquainted with your weaknesses as I am your strengths.”

His jaw had tightened. His lips had thinned to an implacable line. Annoura could have screamed in frustration. The familiar expression was the one she'd been trying to avoid: intractability. This was Dorian the King, an immovable rock of authority and command.

"Like it or not, my dear, the Fey are my kin. But even were that not the case, their centuries of service, friendship, and goodwill to Celieria would compel me to consider the concerns of their king with all due respect and grave attention." Each word was fired from his mouth like a bolt from a crossbow. Sharp, clipped, unyielding. "I will afford him the opportunity to make his case to the Council. I will make every effort to smooth his way and encourage the lords to give him a full and fair hearing. And as injurious to your pride as it may be, I will welcome the Tairen Soul's mate as his queen, regardless of her humble birth—and so will you. For in the eyes of the Fey, a queen is exactly what Ellysetta Baristani is. She is a bright and shining light born to bring peace to their king's heart. And I am Fey enough to understand that, even if you cannot.”

"Dorian!" Annoura wanted to wail and gnash her teeth.

"Go tend to your business, Annoura. Leave me to tend mine." He stepped around her, avoiding her outstretched hands, and took his seat.

She stood there in impotent frustration as he reached for his spectacles, thrust them into place, and picked up the parchment he'd been reading before her arrival. The pamphlets she'd brought fluttered to the floor. The illustration of the puppet king and squeaking mouse queen stared up at her in silent mockery.

"Close the door when you leave," Dorian instructed without looking up.

Her hands clenched in fists. She would not be made the fool. She would not be mocked and dismissed—not by the pamphleteers, not by the common rabble who gobbled up their insulting leaflets, not by Dorian, and especially not by the Fey or some woodcarver's slut.

She was Annoura, Queen of Celieria.

If Dorian would not stand up to the Fey, she would do it herself. As long as she had breath in her body, the Fey would not usurp the power of Celieria's throne or force their will upon Celieria's people without a fight. And one way or another, she would put that upstart peasant Ellysetta Baristani in her place.

In Celieria City's West End, having replaced the distinctive trappings of Captain Batay with the unremarkable garb of a simple merchant, Kolis Manza stood amidst the throngs of curiosity seekers gathered across the street from the Baristani family home. Test her magic, his master had said. Find a way.

Determined not to fail, Kolis had not taken his rest last night, but had instead spent several bells poring over book after book of spells and charms from the High Mage's private library. While many spells could force a response from even latent magic, few could do so while penetrating Fey shields and remaining undetected by watchful Fey warriors. Luckily, the Master's long association with the Feraz witchfolk had borne useful fruit, and in an old, handwritten text of Feraz witchspells tested on the High Mage's pets over the years, Kolis had found what he was looking for.

He put his hand in his coat pocket and grasped the small wax talis he'd prepared last night in Eld. The spell was so simple, its uses had been long overlooked by serious scholars of magecraft: a simple pressure spell designed to gradually amplify emotion and elicit a magical response, targeted at Ellysetta Baristani by one of the strands of hair Den Brodson had so helpfully produced this morning.