FIONA AND CONOR rode in silence through the mist-shadowed night. A silver slice of moon and a spattering of diamond stars faintly revealed their path, which skirted south of the stony hill upon which Raven Castle perched. With every step of her pony, every crunch of a branch and breath of the wind, Fiona stiffened, imagining the duke’s men in hiding, about to pounce.
But the night was still and cold and empty, save for the naked trees, the wild creatures that rustled unseen in the brush, and the careening thoughts that raced through her mind.
She thought of Gil, locked in a hidden room high in the castle. How frightened he must feel, how alone. Her heart clenched painfully. They’d get him out, they had to get him out.
She thought of Ariel and the magic mirror, of Hynda and Sir Henry, of the life she had lived at Bitterbloom Cottage—all of it now in jeopardy, everything she and Hynda and Sir Henry had worked for all these years—and a desperate determination swept over her.
She thought of something else too—the man riding behind her in the opalescent moonlight. Conor of Wor-thane, who had stormed into her life only a short time ago, and who now dominated it. Her destiny and his were bound together, their fates and Gilroyd’s linked. He had become a part of her life in so many ways in such a short time and now . . . there was that kiss. That powerful, soul-shaking, impossibly tender kiss, which she would never forget to the end of her days.
She had kissed only Reynaud before tonight, and at the time it had all been new and exciting and flattering, and she had thought the kiss wonderful.
But this kiss had been more than wonderful. More than exciting. It was like dancing where before one had merely walked. It was like tasting the sun and the moon when one had only eaten dust.
This man who had kissed her in the cottage had stirred her as Reynaud never had. Somehow or other, without her ever realizing it, he had laid siege to her heart.
But she was certain that for him the kiss had been only an impulse, a moment’s pleasure. He was a worldly man, a brilliant warrior, the duke of a thriving kingdom, and when this mission tonight was over, if they were triumphant, he and Gil would ride away to Grithain and she would go on without them. Without both of them.
So she had better learn to live with that knowledge and to deal with the challenge before her. Gil’s life and future were all that mattered, she told herself. If she allowed herself to be distracted by foolish thoughts and romantic wishes, she would be putting Gil’s life and her own in even graver danger.
She rode on, chilled and agitated, as the night wind rose like a great transparent ghost, whipping about her. She and Conor didn’t speak a word until they had ridden a mile beyond the castle and found the secret cave along the cliffs of Urbagran, the cave Hynda had shown her long ago. They left their horses at its mouth, and as Conor lit a torch, she whispered to him to follow her.
But even as she turned her head to warn him that the cave roof was low, her foot slipped on the slick rock. He grabbed her arm just in time to keep her from falling.
“Careful.” His arm slid around her waist. “Are you all right?”
“Yes—thank you. I’m not usually so clumsy—I’m just so worried. What if we’re too late?” she gulped. “What if the duke has already—?”
“Don’t think about it. Never consider failure. When you look ahead, think only of success.”
His words steadied her. He was a soldier above all else, she remembered, gazing up at the strong contours of his face. Conor of Wor-thane, the fiercest warrior in five kingdoms. And he was speaking as one now.
You would do well to listen, Fiona told herself, and forced all her doubts and fears from her mind.
“I’ll remember that,” she said softly, and stepped deeper into the cave.
The rock floor was damp and uneven beneath their feet, the air dank as they followed the winding tunnel in silence. Fiona thought of Conor’s troop of men, led by Dagnur. They were traveling a different route, more than a mile to the north of the castle. It was a more circuitous route to a hidden passage Fiona had described that was wide enough for them to lead their horses into and that would enable them to emerge within the bailey, bypassing the castle moat and gate.
Hynda had learned all the secret routes years ago when she’d been brought in to tend to dungeon prisoners without the duke’s knowledge. The passageway was guarded, it was true, and while Hynda had used a sleep-and-forget potion to get past them, today Dagnur and the soldiers would overcome the guards by a combination of force and surprise, and fight their way inside the castle.
Fiona had to stoop as she passed beneath the low roof of the tunnel and glancing back, she saw that Conor, much taller than she, was bent nearly double. But he made no complaint and moved not only with swiftness but with surprising stealth for a man of his size. She knew he must still be in pain—the healing broth could not yet have perfectly restored him from all of his injuries—but in the golden light of the torch he looked fit and grim and resolute as they went deeper and deeper into the cave tunnel, following it for an entire mile back to the castle, beneath the gate and the moat and the courtyard, into the heart of the hill itself, emerging at last into an even smaller tunnel, which ended at a thick iron door.
“Beyond this is the storeroom. It is alongside the dungeon,” she whispered. Just then, voices boomed from the other side of the door, and she pressed her hands to her lips. Conor froze for an instant, then his free hand shot downward to the hilt of his sword.
From the other side, a voice could be heard barking orders, but she could not hear what was said. Another voice, harsh and guttural, replied.
“It could be the guards changing places, or something being carried from the storeroom,” Conor whispered in her ear. “Move back where it’s wider. We’ll wait until they’re gone.”
So they edged back fifty paces. Conor spread his cloak on the ground, and they sat, side by side, listening to the faint voices ahead, as the torchlight danced over the glinting rock walls.
Once Fiona saw, to her dismay, the tail of a rat disappearing back the way they had come. The rat made her think of Tidbit, who had disappeared during the fight in the cottage. She wondered if she would ever see her again, if she would ever go home to Bitterbloom Cottage. Then she reminded herself to think of victory, to think of Gil being rescued and taken to Grithain, to safety.
“Did you care greatly for him?”
Conor’s voice was low but clear in the darkness.
“You mean Gil?” she whispered. “Yes, I care for him with all my—”
“Not Gil. Reynaud.” He spoke shortly. “You were most concerned about his welfare.”
Startled, she met his gaze in the flickering darkness. Flames seemed to flash in the cool green depths of his eyes. His mouth looked tense. Could it be he was jealous? Of Reynaud?
Dazedly, she shook her head. “N-no, I don’t care for Reynaud at all. Why should I? He was among those who helped to capture Gil, he is a traitor to Grithain—”
“But he courted you at one time. And you apparently received his attentions willingly.” His eyes were shuttered now. Unfathomable. “So you must have cared for him. You also made me spare him.”
This was true. Since Reynaud had been sent as a prisoner to the camp Dagnur had set up, if the mission to free Gil succeeded, it was the new king of Grithain who would decide his fate.
“I am a healer, Conor. I don’t like to see anyone hurt, much less killed. I know violence is necessary in times of war—which perhaps this is, but . . .”
“It was more than that. There was once something between you. Do you still have those feelings for him?”
“No.” Amazingly, it was true. She had felt nothing toward Reynaud but bitterness and disappointment for a long time. And now she felt only contempt.
“I thought I cared for him once—or, at least, that I might come to care for him. But he wasn’t the man I thought he was. And he didn’t care for me. Not enough, anyway,” she added darkly. “The moment Duke Borlis flicked his little finger at Reynaud and instructed him to stay away from me, Reynaud obeyed without a second thought.”
“He’s an undeserving bootlicker,” Conor muttered. “An idiotic fool. You deserve far better, angel—a man who is worthy of you, who will take care of you.”
“I’ve never needed a man to take care of me,” she replied with dignity. “I only want a man who will love me.” Her words were quietly spoken in the dank tunnel. “A man I can love. And one day,” she added, as lightly as she could, “I hope to find him.”
Conor stared at her in the darkness, as the flickering torchlight illuminated her creamy skin and the silver glow of her eyes. There was that word again. Love. He pitied her for wishing for something so elusive, something he didn’t believe in any more than he believed that snakes could fly. Beyond the door, the sound of raised voices continued, and he spoke softly, feeling obligated to warn her.
“I learned a long time ago not to wish for the impossible, angel. Finding love in this world is more than any sensible human being should hope for,” he said.
She looked stunned. Dismayed. “You don’t believe . . . in love?” she gasped.
He laughed. “Love is nothing but a myth—a made-up tale like those describing the unicorns of old—or sea monsters or moon-elves.” He shook his head. “I saw nothing resembling love in the keep where I grew up, and certainly not upon any battlefield, or in any home or castle I have visited. I have seen people scraping by, tolerating one another, conspiring against each other, and fighting one another to the death—but love—”
He leaned back against the wall of the tunnel. “Never have I seen love.”
Suddenly he became aware of the stricken expression in her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said hastily. “If that’s what you want, I hope you find it someday.”
“I . . . wish the same for you.”
“Thanks, but don’t waste your wishes on me. Love was never in my past, and it’s not a part of my future. Battle, perhaps, and power, maybe, and a great deal of hard work to make the kingdoms one under the new king, but love—no.”
“You’ll . . . never marry, then?” Fiona asked in a low tone.
“I didn’t say that.” He shrugged. “Marriage is different. It’s something that is arranged, a practical matter. That I can understand. When the proper time comes, I’ll take a wife, a convenient one, as my father did before me—as my mother did when she married the third Duke of Wor-thane—”
He broke off, holding up a hand. “Wait. Listen.”
She did as he asked, hearing the faint drip of water somewhere and . . . nothing else. The voices beyond the door had ceased. It was time, time to find Gil and get him out of Raven Castle.
But she wanted to hear more, to know why Conor didn’t believe in love, never sought it, never even hoped for it. She was ashamed that at a moment like this she was remembering the gentleness of his kiss and realizing there must never be another between them.
Enough, she thought, swallowing her sadness, though her heart felt like it had been sliced in two. The time has come to think of Gil. Only of Gil.
“We must go now,” she whispered and scrambled to her knees.
He helped her up, and they made their way quickly back down the corridor to the iron door.
“I don’t hear anything,” Fiona breathed as she leaned close to the door. But in her head she still heard his words. Don’t waste your wishes on me.
He nodded and held the torch aloft as she searched for the key concealed in a crevice of rock beside the door. Finding it, she brushed her fingertips methodically back and forth across the door until she felt the small indentation where the hidden key fit.
A moment later, Conor put his shoulder to the door and eased it forward. It gave a slight creak, which made Fiona’s heart stop. But only darkness greeted them. The storeroom was deserted.
“The stairs are this way,” Fiona whispered as they slipped out of the small room packed with sacks of grain and wheat, but Conor moved instead toward the doorway leading to the dungeon.
“A moment,” he said. “There is something I need to see.”
Mystified and uneasy, she followed him into the dungeon corridor, her skin prickling in horror as the smells and sounds and putrid dankness of the place assailed her senses. The rows of cells, the moans of men—if only she could bring her medicines and tend to them.
Suddenly she realized that Conor was striding along the corridor, glancing quickly into each cell.
There were no guards at this time of night, thank heavens, what with the prisoners securely locked in, but what was he doing?
“Badger.”
“My lord!”
A man in a cell halfway down the corridor stuck his bony arm through the bars, and Conor grasped it in warm greeting.
“Now to get you out of here,” he muttered.
“There, near the staircase—a hook. The keys to all the cells are on it, my lord—”
Even before he’d finished speaking, Fiona spotted the thick ring of keys and snatched it from the hook. She hurried down the corridor to Conor and watched in silence as he used the key to unlock the cell.
“This is one of my most trusted men-at-arms. He had been sending me reports on Borlis for months, and then suddenly they stopped. I knew he’d either been caught and killed, or imprisoned.”
A gaunt man whose face was almost completely obscured by a dirty brown beard nodded at her, then slipped out of the cell as Conor pushed the door open.
“The duke holds Prince Branden prisoner in this castle.” Conor spoke quickly and in a low tone. “We’re going to free him now. Unlock all the cells and lead these men out of here. Fight with whatever you can. These men deserve a chance at freedom and whatever distraction they cause in escaping will aid us.”
“Right.” Badger nodded. He looked weak and frail, and Fiona could only wonder if he would even have the strength to climb the stairs. But when she saw the determined gleam in his hooded eyes, she knew that he, like Conor, would find the strength.
“Before you go, my lord, you should know that the duchess has been confined to her chamber for months now,” he said in a wheezy voice. “She discovered that Borlis planned to betray King Mortimer and she tried to get word to the high king. There’s no love in that marriage—matter of fact, I think the duchess hates Borlis almost as much as she fears him. He stopped her message from going through, and she has been a prisoner of her husband since that day.”
“Soon she will be a widow and will no longer have to fear him,” Conor said darkly, handing Badger the torch.
Fiona touched his arm. “We must hurry. I am afraid for Gil. Please—”
He turned to her. “We’re going now. Are you prepared for whatever will come?”
She nodded, her stomach churning. There would be bloodshed, suffering, fighting—but at the end of it, she prayed, they would find Gil, unharmed. And Conor would still be alive at her side.
“Yes, let us go,” she whispered urgently.
Conor took her arm and they ran for the stairs, even as the freed prisoner began moving from cell to cell, unlocking the doors as the inmates stirred and cried and shouted.
They ran up the stairs, knowing that at any moment a horde of others would follow.
Fiona’s heart leapt into her throat as a heavyset guard who’d been lifting a mug of ale to his lips saw them and set down his mug with a clang, even as with his other arm he drew his sword.
Before he could swing it, or shout, Conor ran him through.
“Don’t look,” he ordered Fiona as he pulled her past the falling man.
They pounded along the corridor and reached an alcove leading to the great hall. “The staircase going to the upper chambers is that way!” she gasped, pointing to their left, and they hurried past the great hall, swarming with soldiers and servants, and started up a narrow torchlit stair.
Halfway up, they met another guard—at the same instant that a commotion sounded below. Fiona pressed herself against the wall as Conor and the guard met in a clash of swords and bodies. The guard let out a shout, others answered, and then she closed her eyes as Conor’s sword plunged into his chest and the man tumbled past both of them, down the steps. Dead.
“Hurry!” Conor seized her arm and dragged her with him, even as the sound of boots thumping and swords ringing and men’s frantic shouts filled the castle, top to bottom.
When they reached the landing, Fiona dashed toward a curtained alcove. “Quick—in here.”
He disappeared behind the curtain just as the landing swarmed with men.
Someone was giving orders. “You three check above, the rest of you search belowstairs. Find them now—or the duke will have all our heads!” the harsh voice shouted.
Trembling, she held her breath as the sounds of men running thundered past, seeming perilously close beyond the curtain. At her side, Conor towered over her, one arm around her shoulder as he too waited for the rushing guards to pass. Where his hand touched her shoulder, she felt a tingling heat. What was wrong with her? Even in these dire circumstances, she was so intensely aware of him, when she should have been aware only of their danger.
Yet danger or no, his hand upon her, his strong body next to hers, comforted her. She wasn’t alone in her quest to save Gil—Conor was with her, and together they could do anything.
Where that thought came from, she had no explanation—and no time to ponder, for the sounds of shouting and fighting grew more distant and Conor pushed the curtain aside and stepped out.
In the dim light she saw his face—and for the first time she saw the strain beginning to show. By all rights the man ought to be still resting in bed, healing broth or no. Much as it had helped him, it was not a complete cure, and he had no business fighting at this stage of his recovery. And yet, gazing worriedly into that hard, handsome face, she knew that through sheer will he would allow no injury to slow him down.
“Which way?” he asked, and she drew him toward another small corridor, even narrower than the others.
“The private staircase to the upper chambers of the duke and duchess are at the end of this corridor,” she whispered, pointing. “Hynda and I tended to the duchess once when she had a fainting spell and the seneschal brought us this way.”
The staircase widened unexpectedly at the end of the narrow corridor and was lit with torches. Quickly, they ran up the steps and found themselves outside the private apartments of the duke and duchess.
“There—that’s the duke’s chamber.”
Conor entered first, his sword at the ready, but the vast and ornate chamber was empty save for the silk-draped bed, the velvet chairs and golden candlesticks, the blazing hearth and intricate tapestries adorning the walls.
Fiona dashed to the wall opposite the hearth, and her fingers flew over the stone, searching for a lever or an indentation, however small, something that would hint as to the location of the hidden chamber. Conor joined her, and together they inspected the wall, scanning and touching the smooth blocks, lifting the jewel-colored tapestry, looking for the way to open the wall of stone.
“If Reynaud was lying—” Conor growled.
“Here!” Fiona’s hand paused on the wall just at the edge of the tapestry. “There is a notch here, very small. It’s in the shape of a star—”
But before she could explore further, or press the star shape, a voice behind her made both of them freeze.
“Ah, intruders in the duke’s apartment. He will be most displeased. Turn around, and touch nothing, or these guards will cut you down.”
Slowly, Conor and Fiona turned to face two brawny guards wearing the crimson and gold of Urbagran. Their swords were drawn, ready to strike, but they were waiting, waiting for orders from the scraggly-bearded figure who had spoken, a squat, slit-eyed creature that Fiona recognized with a chill of dread.
“Kilvorn, counselor to the duke,” she said in a low tone to Conor, and the old magician with the blood of the druids in his veins smiled malevolently through thin gray lips.
“Duke Borlis will be especially pleased to entertain you in his chamber, lady. But not so this man. I know who you are, trespasser, you are the bastard of Wor-thane. So you are not dead after all.”
“No, but you will be soon.” Conor’s voice was colder, calmer than a winter sea. “Take us to Prince Branden if you wish a chance to spare your pathetic life.”
“Threatening a magician whose powers could turn you into dust is most unwise.”
“Wait, Kilvorn. Do not strike him down just yet,” a new voice broke in. The Duke of Borlis himself strode into the chamber. “I want to know how this comes to be, that the Duke of Wor-thane still lives.”
Despite the fact that shouts and commotion still rang through the castle, Duke Borlis and his counselor both appeared unruffled and focused only on the intruders. From their expressions, Fiona realized with a sinking heart that they felt no threat to the success of their plans, despite the uprising from the dungeon, despite finding Conor alive.
And why should they? she thought in despair. We are only two and we are trapped.
“I live because your soldiers did not finish the job.” Conor met the duke’s stare with deadly calm. “There was still life and breath in me when they left me to die in the snow.”
“And dear Fiona, our own healer, used her skills to save you,” the duke sneered, and now his gaze shifted, boring solely into Fiona. The glint in his eyes filled her with fear.
But she spoke steadily. “Yes, I saved his life. And I would do it again.”
“You disappoint me, Fiona,” he said softly. “And worse, you lied to me. When I visited you at your cottage and heard that sound, it wasn’t your stupid cat at all, was it? It was this man hiding in the other room, recovering from his injuries. You lied to me, and you betrayed me. And not only me—you have betrayed Urbagran. You’re going to regret that.”
“You are the betrayer. You betrayed your own cousin—the high king.”
“The high king is dead.” Borlis smiled. “And now Grithain’s fate is in my hands.”
“Open this door and release the prince, or you’ll bring down the wrath not only of Grithain but of Wor-thane and its allies against you.” Conor started toward him, but the two soldiers instantly jumped before the duke and Kilvorn, crossing their swords to bar Conor’s path.
“You want the boy dead as much as I do,” Borlis snarled. “Only you wish to be the one to step into his place. That will never happen.” He spoke to his men, his words sharp and rapid.
“Leave the woman be, for now. But kill the man—here, now, before my eyes. It’s time to be rid of Conor of Wor-thane once and for all.”
“No!” Fiona cried, as the men advanced. She darted forward, arms outstretched, to bar them from Conor, but he swiftly grabbed her and thrust her behind him, then sprang to meet the challenge. There was a blur of bodies and a clash of swords as Conor parried their dual thrusts, and in a lightning stroke his sword drew blood from the arm of one man, even as he sent the other’s sword skidding across the floor.
As another soldier burst into the room to help, Fiona plunged her hand into the pocket of her cloak and seized the packet of freezing powder still hidden there from the night she’d rescued Conor. An instant later she was flinging a fine thimbleful of the stuff over the soldiers and then over the duke and his counselor. The moment the powder touched their skin, each of them froze in place, unable to move even a muscle, not even to twitch their eyes to one side or the other.
“Quick, we must get Gil out,” she cried as Conor spun toward her. “The effects of the powder last only a few moments!”
She reached the stone wall an instant before Conor and swiftly found the star-shaped indentation again. Pressing it, she held her breath. Suddenly an invisible door within the wall shifted, splitting free of the stone, rolling inward with a resounding creak.
And there in a narrow chamber lit by a single torch, Gil sat upon a pallet on the floor, looking scared.
The moment the door opened and he saw Fiona and Conor, he scrambled to his feet, relief flooding his serious young face.
“I knew you’d come, Lady Fiona! But how did you ever find me?” he cried, rushing toward them.
Fiona seized his hands, knelt and risked a precious few seconds in a hug. “I’ll explain later, Gil. Come, we must run! Follow Conor!”
But as they bolted from the hidden chamber back into the duke’s bedroom, Fiona suddenly doubled over. Pain ripped through her like a thousand blades driving through her flesh, slicing her bones. Bright red spots swam before her eyes, and she sank to her knees with a cry of agony that pierced Conor like an arrow.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” He knelt beside her, his arms enfolding her as she looked at him in stricken silence, her eyes glazed with the pain.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only gasp as agony slashed through her, tearing at her insides, consuming her in a blast of fire. Red-hot torment engulfed her, ate at her, and the world was a sickly black maze made up of pain and more pain . . .
“Take Gil . . . go,” she finally managed to gasp aloud, her face whiter than a skeleton’s bones. “There’s no . . . time . . . Get him . . . away . . .”
“We’re not leaving you.” Conor cradled her close, terror and helplessness engulfing him. Her suffering was horrible to behold. And he didn’t know how to help her. There was no mark on her, nothing he could see, but he was losing her. She was slipping away.
“Don’t leave us,” Gil shouted, and Conor knew he too saw the life being squeezed from her. His voice quavered, “Tell us how to help you!”
Her body trembled and she could no longer speak, for the pain had paralyzed her tongue.
“We have to help her,” Gil cried in panic, grabbing Conor’s arm. “Please! How do we help her?”
“You cannot help her, either of you.” They both looked up to see Kilvorn struggling to emerge from the freezing spell. His powers aided him in defying it. For even as the duke remained frozen, the magician was able to move his lips and his wand, and Conor saw him tilting it ever so slightly in Fiona’s direction, casting the spell. Then as Conor watched, the wand shifted toward Gil.
“It’s a death spell,” the old magician hissed. “Too late. It cannot be broken.”
Conor dove for him like a hawk and grabbed the wand, tossing it to the floor with one hand, while with the other he seized the magician by the throat.
“Gilroyd, are you all right?” he called, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes,” the boy shouted, “But Lady Fiona . . . I think she’s dying!”
Conor’s hands shook. “Reverse the spell!”
Rage and fear surged through him as the duke and the guards began to stir, some of them now able to blink, to flex their shoulders, wiggle their fingertips. It would be only a matter of moments before the effects of the freezing powder wore off. Before Fiona lay dead . . .
“Reverse it!”
“I won’t,” the magician croaked out as Conor tightened his grip on the man’s throat. “I can’t . . . only magic can break the spell . . . even if you kill me, it won’t . . . reverse . . .”
“Then you reverse it!”
“Never . . . never . . . Guards, seize this man!” the magician shouted as his arms suddenly regained their power and he began trying to push Conor away.
Suddenly two more soldiers charged into the room, and Conor saw that they were his own men. But instead of relief he felt only despair. Fiona was dying—dying a horrible death filled with pain—and there was nothing he could do for her.
He wasn’t accustomed to feeling helpless. Or to feeling . . . what? This deep, terrifying fear, this sense of loss. He couldn’t lose her—not this gentle, sensuous beauty with the spirit of a warrior and the touch of a healer.
Her face was frozen in torment, her skin waxy and cold, whiter than the snow within the Dark Forest. His heart wrenched, and something broke, something he’d never felt before snapped inside him.
No! a voice deep in his soul shouted. No, she can’t die. I can’t lose her.
“Put the spell on me instead,” he demanded hoarsely. “Damn you, transfer it to me!”
Kilvorn’s eyes glittered black. “Her death will hurt you far more than your own!” he chortled, even as Conor’s hands tightened like chains around his throat.
I’m going to lose her, Conor thought in raging black despair. He couldn’t stop this, any more than he could stop his own heart from rending in two. She was going to die.
At that moment a black cat darted into the chamber in a blur of gleaming dark fur. Its eyes glistened in the torchlight as it circled wildly through the chamber now filled with people, dashing among Borlis’s guards and Conor’s men, and the boy who knelt by Fiona, watching her agonized face in despair.
“Tidbit,” the boy gasped as the cat rushed past him, running in circles, darting here and there.
Suddenly, without warning, the cat sprang straight at the magician. Conor flinched backward as the cat’s claws embedded themselves in Kilvorn’s face, and a moment later the cat dropped to the ground and dashed toward Fiona and the boy, its tail swishing.
Blood dripped from the magician’s flesh and he shrieked in agony. “No—no!”
It was then that Conor saw the glitter of a crystal shard in the magician’s lined and sunken cheek. Black blood poured from the tiny wound the shard had caused.
And even as the blood poured from the scratch, Fiona’s pain began to ebb. She caught her breath, and a shudder went through her.
Within the blackness that still claimed her, she saw a beam of golden light, shimmering like a torch at the mouth of a cave. And an image—no, two images, side by side, blurred together. Ariel, all silver and sheer, and Hynda, in flowing robes brown as the earth.
Her heart leapt toward them.
“No, child. Not yet. Go back,” Ariel murmured.
“It isn’t your time, Fiona.” Hynda shook her head.
Fiona felt herself floating toward them. Leaving the pain behind. But as she went closer, they retreated, their hands before them, as if pushing her away.
“Go back,” they insisted. “Back, back,” they chanted in unison.
The light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. With a moan, Fiona opened her eyes. Her vision cleared almost instantly, and the pain seemed to drain from her in a whoosh.
She saw Gil peering frantically into her face, then she saw Conor, stooping to lift her, his skin ashen with fear. She spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“It’s gone. Whatever it was . . . it’s gone.”
The magician, however, sank to his knees, even as Duke Borlis regained the full use of his limbs—and his voice.
“Get up!” Borlis ordered the slit-eyed old man, who reached up to the crystal and plucked it from his cheek. “What is that? What is wrong with you?”
“The crystal . . . ball. Ariel’s damned crystal ball . . .”
“I smashed it—it’s gone.”
“One shard remained. The cat . . . has found it . . . magic . . . Ariel . . . has killed me.”
“Are you telling me that there was enough of Ariel’s magic in that one shard of glass from the ball to do this to you?” the duke roared. “Kilvorn, for years you drained her of her power. How could one shard do this?”
“She made the crystal when she was young . . . strong . . . now she must have some power left . . . if only a little. How . . . I don’t know . . . she ignited it . . . the power in the ball . . . it is destroying me.”
The duke turned furiously to his guards, now fully recovered, and watching the magician fade into nothing but a thin, gray, mistlike specter before their eyes.
“Forget him! Seize them! Kill them all now—all three, the woman, the boy, and the bastard of Wor-thane!”
But even as Conor’s men leapt forward to protect their duke, Dagnur and several others of his troop rushed into the chamber. Seeing his men outnumbered and about to be outfought, the duke suddenly shoved his own soldiers toward the enemy and used the opportunity to bolt from the room.
“Dagnur, after the duke!” Conor commanded, and the red-haired warrior charged from the chamber in pursuit.
“He must be caught . . .” Fiona whispered, her voice weak. “If he escapes he will always be a danger . . . to Gil . . . Don’t stay . . . on my account . . . Go . . .”
“I’m not leaving you—either one of you,” Conor vowed. He gathered her closer, cradling her against his chest. The battle erupting between his men and the duke’s shifted to the corridor as Urbagran’s soldiers also sought to escape, and the three of them found themselves suddenly alone in the duke’s chamber, save for the slowly shrinking, fading specter of the magician.
“Can we go home now?” Gil asked, drawing a deep breath. “I want to see if Wynn is all right.”
“Wynn will be fine . . . and so will you,” Fiona murmured. “Gil, there’s something we have to tell you. Something you need to know . . . now.” But suddenly she felt very tired. Kilvorn’s spell had nearly killed her . . . and though the pain was now gone, it was difficult to keep her eyes open. She felt weak, so very weak.
She felt herself slipping away, as if she were going under in a deep, endless blue sea.
Peaceful. Very peaceful. The last thing she saw as she sank beneath the surface of still water was Conor. He was speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear him any longer. His lips were moving, his eyes intense and frantic, but she couldn’t hear . . . couldn’t see . . . couldn’t speak . . .
“Nooooo!” His voice reached her from a long way off . . . and then she was gone, sinking, sinking, to the place where the moon dropped off the end of the earth, to the sea of silence at the farthest, deepest corners of midnight.
And the world above was no more.