Her attention was elsewhere, however. She was not prepared for this kind of life, and was beginning to founder. She had been taken away from all that she had ever known, had been joined by Fate to someone she loved but who had no choice but to accept her into his life. She was being hunted by the same enemy that had driven her from her home, an enemy that wanted her death. And now, when she badly needed surcease, she was met with suspicion and hostility.
Her self-control, her personal sovereignty, was being eroded. She felt her will fraying like a rope forced to carry more than it could bear. Cruelly, inexorably, her attention was becoming focused with increasing clarity on an unthinkable outcome . . . she began to see that she might break. Madness threatened the background of her thoughts like the beating of dark wings, and she had no defense against it save her sorely abused will.
The food she was given in the kitchens may as well have been ashes and sand. She ate mechanically, trying not to be distracted by the worried glances she was receiving from her husband and friends. She welcomed the distraction of leaving the table, of accompanying Anest, Dorain, and Brogan through narrow corridors and up several flights of stairs. They came at last to the armoury and were greeted there by an aged veteran who introduced himself as Celedhan, the weaponsmaster. The old elf raised his white eyebrows when he saw Lily, and stared at her with eyes that were pale blue. There was no hostility in his gaze; if anything, his expression was slightly bemused.