Wrenfir flashes Or’myr another wicked, black-lipped grin. “Looks like I’m no longer the biggest outlier in this family.”

“No, I think you’re the ‘normal’ one now,” Or’myr drawls back, not taking his dazed-looking eyes off me. “Raz’zor has aligned himself with the Wyvernguard. He’s stationed at a military base in Northern Noilaan.”

I nod, clarity descending. “I felt his red fire coming from the north.” I turn to find Fain scrutinizing me, a slight smile on his lips, as if considering me in a more expansive light.

“Do you think Yvan could be found,” I ask, “through our fire bond?”

Fain hesitates. “It’s unlikely. The Lazra’thil fire bond of Western Wyvernkin is intensely private magic. If you were Wyvern, you’d be able to trace Yvan Guryev, if he is, indeed, alive. But since you are not Lazra’thil, you can’t locate him from your end.”

“He could be tracing me as we speak,” I offer.

“He could,” Fain allows, hesitating as a grave look enters his eyes. “If it’s Yvan you’re truly sensing and not some echo of his power.”

Echoing out after he was murdered, he means.

My hope falters for a moment, but then rebellion sparks, burning hot against the horrific thought.

“We must hope that Raz’zor is intelligent enough to not lead the Vu Trin straight to you,” Fain cautions.

“The Xishlon festival will be her friend,” my aunt Li’ra says, her Uriskal inflection lilting and lovely. “It will hide her well.”

“I was told about the festival by the refugees I met in the Dyoi Forest,” I mention.

“It’s the Noi people’s biggest festival,” Li’ra tells me, her purple-lashed amethyst eyes sparkling. “One of Noilaan’s thirteen lunar celebrations, this one honoring the Goddess Vo’s love incarnation on the night of the Lavender Moon.”

I recall little Tibryl’s enthusiasm as she told me about Noilaan’s purple moon. “Does the moon truly turn lavender?”

“It does,” Li’ra answers with a smile.

“An astronomical occurrence that happens once a year,” Or’myr explains. “For one night the moon and stars are aligned in such a way that they reflect the light of the purple Xishlon star. The occurrence casts a mood over Noilaan that pulls people’s focus toward love of all kinds—romance, friendship, family ties. Scatters people’s wits a bit if they try to think on anything else too closely. And luck would have it that the Xishlon holiday is the day after tomorrow.”

“Xishlon is a ridiculous holiday,” Wrenfir spits out, his spider-leg-edged mouth twisting with obvious disdain. “The Noi run around decorating everything with heart-shaped flower wreathes and runic moon orbs, professing their love and kissing each other.”

Or’myr grins at this. “It’s also the perfect time to evade Vu Trin notice. The soldiers who haven’t deployed west yet will be caught up in the moon’s thrall.”