She nodded at the tapestry-that-lived. “Perhaps they should save themselves,” she said. She raised a hand. “Peace, friend. You can make no argument that will reconcile Tamsin to the loss of her lord to war.”

But in the council, the Faery Knight stood alone in the soft light on the dais, in his red clothes of leather and spidersilk. He spread his hands for silence, a gesture so evocative that all those in the hall fell silent, the boglins and the marsh trolls and the Golden Bears, the wardens and the irks and the men.

“Tomorrow we march to war,” he said. The hall was silent. Not a fly buzzed, not a moth moved on silent wings.

“We do not march to conquer. We will fight only to protect our friends. Speed will be our armour, and silence our shield.” He spread his arms wide and a glowing vision of the hills at the foot of the western Adnacrags appeared as if seen from a great height.

“West of Lissen Carak is the wall,” he said. “It runs north to south here in the foothills.” He pointed to the towers on the wall. “We will need to pass the wall here. There is a royal garrison, which we will destroy.” He smiled, showing his fangs. “We have never believed that this land belonged to the so-called King of Alba anyway.”

Some of the Jacks roared their approval. Others looked troubled.

“Once we pass the wall, we will have to move quickly. Several clanss of bears are moving toward us, and we must cover them and protect them.”

“Where’s Thorn?” bellowed a warden. She was Mogon’s niece, Tremog. Her blue and white crest stood almost erect on her head.

Tapio nodded. “It is safe to call him by name here,” he said, and he exchanged a glance with a tall, thin, dark-haired man who sat on a chair on the dais. “Although once we march, I ask that no member of our alliance mention his name. We wish to pass the outer wards of Alba undetected, and his spies are everywhere.” He glanced again at the dark-haired man, who rose.

He spread his hands and spoke in a soft voice that nonetheless carried to every corner of the hall.

“Thorn is now marching to the siege of Ticondaga,” he said. “Today he fought a battle on the road his slaves have made. The Earl of Westwall ambushed the sorcerer. Unfortunately, Thorn now has good professional military advice, and the earl’s success was limited. Tomorrow, at the latest, he will invest the fortress.”

“Will we fight him?” Tremog asked.

The dark-headed man looked to Tapio, who shrugged. “It is very difficult to see when too many Powers become entangled,” he said with brutal honesty. “We lack the numbers or the hardihood or the sorcery to engage his main army in open battle, but if he chooses to fight us, we will be like coyotes at his heels.”