HE TORE THE CRYSTAL from Sira’s hands, flung it against stone, heard it fracture. Others grabbed the one who’d done this, pulled her away.
For her safety.
Sira gasped, convulsed. He took her in his arms, called to her, sent with all his might. As well throw himself against stone. Her mind was impenetrable. Morgan buried his face in her too-limp hair, tried to think what to do. There were Clan with knowledge, here. Clan who might help. His rational mind accepted the possibility.
His heart rejected it. They’d done this. They couldn’t be trusted.
Movement.
Her hair first. It quivered gently back to life, rose in a silken cloud. He drew back as Sira’s eyes opened.
She blinked at him. “It’s all right.”
How could she—?
“It is,” gently but as if annoyed. She pushed and Morgan realized how tightly he’d held her.
He eased his grip, readied himself. Whatever had been in the crystal, he’d kill it.
His moment came! Sira dropped her shields. “I’d like you to meet—”
Morgan drove himself along their link, heedless of any pain caused or felt. Prepared himself for a quick and deadly strike, to rid them of . . .
Hello.
. . . he found himself standing in the M’hir.
To him, it appeared an unending beach, the sand beneath his feet at times soft and warm, at times rock hard or frozen. The ocean to either side could be wild and storm-chased, clouds filling the sky close enough to sweep him away, or filled with swells.
Or rarely, as now, smooth as glass, reflecting a featureless darkness.
He wasn’t alone.
A figure stood a few steps away, bathed in golden light.
The light came from behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Sira, her glow resting like dawn on what wasn’t a horizon but closer, the warmth of their link the greatest of joys.
And vulnerability. You’re not a baby, he accused, facing the intruder, holding disgust between them like a blade.
No faces here, nothing real. Still, amusement trickled between them. I am. And am not. You are not M’hiray.
It wasn’t a question, but he found himself answering. I’m Human.
Ah.
Was that satisfaction? Morgan took a step, or tried. The M’hir refused to accommodate and held him in place. You’re dead.
I am, she agreed. And am not. It was my choice not to follow my beloved.
Such loss filled him with those words that only the warmth at his back kept Morgan from fleeing the M’hir and that dreadful voice. How could you? he/Sira asked, united in their horror. Why would you?
Sadness became resolve. As it strengthened, as it grew into something deeper and primal, waves pounded against the shore and sand shifted under Morgan’s feet.
To protect those who stayed behind.
He fell, her WILL a wave cresting high above him, blotting out the false sky and all light.
THE M’HIRAY MUST NOT RETURN.