Ishbel’s body jerked, and her hands half raised.
Dark bruises appeared about her throat.
Ravenna. Maximilian almost panicked. He knew instantly what it was—Ravenna had managed to follow Ishbel deep into the Weeper—but he had no idea what to do. To touch Ishbel could be catastrophic.
StarDrifter had started forward, but Garth held him back.
“Don’t touch her,” Garth said. “Don’t touch her!”
“Oh gods, Ishbel,” Maximilian murmured. He was on one knee before her, one hand partly extended. Ishbel…
Ishbel’s breath wheezed in her throat, and then, suddenly, just as Maximilian thought he could not bear it any longer, her entire body relaxed, her breathing grew easy, and the bruises about her throat, although they did not vanish entirely, became far less marked.
Maximilian’s shoulders slumped in relief, and he allowed his hand to rest on Ishbel’s knee, knowing instinctively that his touch would no longer disturb her.
“Maxel,” Garth said, his voice tight. “Look at the Weeper.”
It was icing over.
There was a battle going on behind her, but Ishbel ignored it. Any further distraction and she knew she’d lose her focus.
She followed the voice, now almost a soft litany in her mind—Ishbel, Ishbel, Ishbel—like a pathway. The sorceries still twisted about her, the pain and despair and terror still battered at her, but the man’s voice tolled like a temple bell on a snowy night.
All she had to do was to concentrate on his voice.
Then, suddenly, horrifically, death seethed down behind her.
Maximilian cried out, jerking to one side as Ishbel’s face and body spattered with blood.
In an instant Garth was at his side, one hand grabbing at Maximilian’s shoulder. “It isn’t her blood, Maxel. It isn’t her blood!”
Maximilian forced himself to look at Ishbel, sure he would see her slack in death, despite what Garth had said.
But Ishbel wasn’t dead. Instead, she wore a faint smile on her face.
Death surged up behind her, then as suddenly receded, and Ishbel was free. She fled down the path, following the light of the man’s voice.
“Ishbel? You must be able to hear me audibly now. Can you see my hand?”
“Yes, yes, I can see it. Where is Ravenna?”
“Too far behind now to catch you.”
“Venetia?”
“She is dead. I am sorry. Come, take my hand.”
“She saved my life.”
“Yes, she did. Ishbel. Come, come, take my hand.”
Then, suddenly, there it was, and Ishbel reached out and took it in both of hers.
Everyone in Maximilian’s command tent jumped and cried out in surprise as the bronze statue in Ishbel’s hands suddenly exploded into thousands of tiny pieces.
Maximilian grabbed at Ishbel, pulling her head against his shoulder and shielding her face from the flying shards of metal. He closed his own eyes and turned his face aside, hoping everyone inside the tent would escape the flying shrapnel. Several of the shards caught one of his cheeks, causing some minor scratches, but when he opened his eyes again he saw that no one had suffered any serious injuries by the disintegrating bronze statue.
He blinked, using his free hand to brush some of the debris out of his hair, and looked about, expecting to see…well, someone extra.
There was no one.
Very carefully, Maximilian looked at Ishbel. She was breathing easily, but was not conscious. Garth raised an eyebrow at Maximilian, then laid a hand on one of hers at Maximilian’s nod.
“She is all right, Maxel,” Garth said. “For the moment she is in a deep sleep—a reaction against where she has been, and the effort it took. My guess is that she will sleep for several hours at least.”
“Thank you,” Maximilian said. “Salome, Garth, can you look after her for the moment?”
Then he rose, and left the tent.