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“You’ve hardly touched your food, either of you. Is there something wrong with it? I pride myself in my ability to serve a Mortal dish at every meal.”

Leala Al’ Lyre dipped her spoon into the big pot hanging over the fire and lifted it to her lips, her brow drawn tight in concern.

“There is nothing wrong with the bounty you’ve served us, madam,” Patrick said, and downed two bites in quick succession.

“I think it’s exhaustion more than anything else,” Syrie said. “From our journey here.”

No point in explaining that Leala’s version of Mortal food in no way resembled anything Syrie would consider edible. No doubt Patrick suffered from the same complaint.

“Or nerves,” Leala said, her face breaking into a relieved smile as she laid her spoon on the table. “There’s so much distress in our world at the moment. So much uncertainty. My poor Dallyn only picks at his food when he comes home for a visit. Too much on his mind to simply relax and enjoy a meal.” She sat down in her chair and took a bite from her own bowl before her brow furrowed and she looked up again. “You’re not here to add to my boy’s distress, are you?”

A perfect opportunity to change the subject if ever Syrie had heard one.

“That is not our intent. Do you have any idea when your son might arrive?”

Leala shook her head, and rose to ladle seconds into Patrick’s bowl. Fortunately, their hostess was too preoccupied with serving to notice the look of resignation on Patrick’s face as he set about the task of being a good guest by eating more of the bitter mush they’d been served.

“He should be here anytime now, my dear, any time. It depends, of course, on his ability to slip away from the palace unseen. Such troubled times we live in.”

Syrie refrained from pointing out to her hostess that most times in Wyddecol had been troubled in one way or another. The Fae had gone from one internal power struggle to another with only short periods of relative peace in between.

“Eat up,” their hostess said cheerfully, apparently satisfied with Syrie’s disclaimer. “There’s plenty more. Are you ready for seconds, my dear? I’ve made a huge pot.”

Syrie was saved from having to find an appropriate refusal by the door opening and a young man slipping inside.

“Dallyn, my sweet boy, you’ve arrived just in time to eat with us,” his mother exclaimed, jumping up from her seat to scurry over to him. Rising up onto her tiptoes, she pulled his head down so that she could kiss his cheek before turning a happy face to her guests. “This is my son, Dallyn Al’ Lyre, Captain in the Guard of the Realm of Faerie.”

“I doubt your guests are in need of a recitation of my rank and honors, Mother,” the young man said, a fond expression lighting his eyes as he placed a hand on the shoulder of their small, rotund hostess. “Especially not in light of your message as to who has sent them here.”

“Oh, you’re right, of course, my dear,” his mother said, patting his hand before hurrying over to her still-bubbling pot. “Shall I fill a bowl for you? You can eat while you all get to know one another.”

“I think not, Mother,” Dallyn said. “As a matter of fact, I think I’d prefer my new friends and I adjourn to the stables for our visit. Won’t you join me?”

“But surely you’d all be more comfortable in—” Leala began.

“I’d enjoy a tour of yer fine stables,” Patrick interrupted, rising from his chair to join Dallyn at the door. “I’ve heard much about the quality of yer horseflesh here in Wyddecol.”

“Men,” Syrie said with an apologetic smile aimed toward Leala before she followed after the two, who had walked out into the night.

Inside the stable, Dallyn stopped and lit a lantern hanging by the door. With a flourish, he removed his cloak to spread it over a bale of hay before offering Syrie a seat.

“Let us be clear on this from the beginning,” he said, looking from one of them to the other. “My mother is not to be involved in any of this in any way. I know from her message who you both are, and, under the circumstances, I have a very good idea of what you have come to ask of me. But, should anything go wrong, I will not have her endangered. Is this clear?”

“Completely,” Patrick said. “We would have it no other way.”

“Good,” Dallyn said. “My assumption is that you have come to rescue the Goddess. Have you a plan of any sort?”

Patrick took a step back, positioning himself behind the bale on which Syrie sat, making it clear which of them would be answering. With no more than a raised eyebrow, Dallyn shifted his penetrating gaze to her.

“A plan,” she said. “Of a sort, yes.”

“Perhaps you would care to enlighten me with a few details of what specific sort you have in mind, milady. Before I offer up lives for your disposal.”

Likely the young captain wouldn’t be impressed with her should she actually tell him she had only the vaguest idea of what they needed to do. Once again a regret pierced through her heart that she hadn’t gone to her friend Nalindria first. Nally would have understood Syrie’s need to act and would have helped her talk through her ideas until they came up with a plan of action together, as they had so many times in the past.

But she hadn’t. She’d done exactly as Orabilis had recommended and now here she sat, facing this stranger. This close she could see he wasn’t quite as young as she might have originally determined. His bearing, however, was the epitome of the typical overbearing male Fae. Tall, muscular, with long blond hair pulled back into a strap, he was what any female would consider more than a little handsome. Nothing compared to her Patrick, of course.

Dallyn’s eyes were fixed upon her, his face blanked of any emotion so that she had no idea whether he planned to help or to turn her over to the High Council. Studying the Fae before her, she determined that playing her cards close to the chest would be her best move until she trusted him more.

“Perhaps a few details,” she agreed, adopting a superior air to match his. “We need men and information before we can proceed.”

Dallyn nodded. “What information is it that you seek?”

Syrie faced a moment of truth. To move forward, she would have to trust Dallyn. At least a little. Without that step she would not be able to access what she needed to continue. Trust meant risking her life and Patrick’s, but she could see no other way.

As if he’d read her mind, Patrick placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a gentle, reassuring move that helped her decide.

“We must gather a force to oppose the High Council. The three of us could hardly hope to accomplish much on our own. And before I finalize any plan, I need information. I need to know where and how the Goddess is being kept. I need details on the movements of the High Council. Details on their loyal forces and what sorts of opposition we might face. Most important of all, I need details on what sorts of support we might find.”

Dallyn continued to nod. “Support is strong for the Goddess. She has been good to the people of Wyddecol and they see little enough need for change. Especially not in this fashion. It is all too reminiscent of the troubles with the Nuadians.”

“Are they behind this takeover?”

“I have no proof of that. Yet,” Dallyn answered. “But the possibility exists. Reynalia’s own brother was exiled in the last round of troubles and rumor has it that he has made himself a prominent figure within the group of Nuadians.”

“Perhaps it’s no more than ambition run rampant in the family,” Patrick said.

“Perhaps,” Dallyn agreed. “Or not. Still, it is for that reason that I am unwilling to put my mother’s safety at risk. You’ll forgive me if I tell you that you are unwelcome here. You are free to stay the night. But on the morrow I will send a friend of mine, a fellow officer, who will take you to a small cabin where you can stay comfortably while we prepare for what is to come.”

“I understand completely,” Syrie said, rising to stand. “And we will say nothing of this to your mother. Only that we have enjoyed her hospitality and must return home.”

“Excellent,” Dallyn said, reclaiming his cloak. “Darnee Al’ Oryn will wait for you just inside the trees to the north at noon. She will accompany you to the new location.”

“Thank you for your help,” Patrick said, extending a hand to Dallyn.

The Fae accepted the gesture with a slight bow. “I will come to you there tomorrow after dark with news of anything I can find.”

With another bow and a kiss to Syrie’s hand, the captain disappeared out the door and into the night.

“So that’s it, then,” Patrick said, holding the door open for Syrie. “It has begun.”

Syrie slipped her hand into Patrick’s grasp, stopping just before they entered the house. There was so much left unsaid between them but, for some reason, now didn’t feel like the right time to delve into any of it. Any of it save Patrick’s safety.

“There’s still time for you to go back to the glen. You can wait there with Orabilis. Make sure she’s safe until I return for you.”

If she was able to return.

Patrick snorted, tightening his grip on her hand and pulling her into his embrace. “Like that old witch needs my protection. More likely those men ringing the perimeter of the glen need protection from her.”

He had a point. A Fae of her age and power had very little to fear anywhere.

“You’ll stay with me, then,” she said, knowing it was not a question. “Even though this may well be your last chance to leave safely.”

Again he snorted, though more quietly this time. “My place is with you, Syrie. If it’s safe enough for you, it’s safe enough for me.”

The kisses he showered on her cheek and down her neck could easily have led to something more if not for the scraping sound that warned someone was opening the door. By the time Leala’s face appeared in the opening, Patrick had resumed his spot next to the door to hold it open for Syrie to enter as if nothing at all had happened.

Regrettably, this was yet one more thing between them that would have to wait.